The Next Best Thing (Gideon's Cove #2)(40)

Doral-Anne glances at me from underneath her too-long bangs, then decides I’m not worth watching. She goes into her windup, and I’m off. My helmet flies off as I sprint toward second, each step a joy, the thrill of stealing electrifying my legs. Ethan doesn’t even see me, but I slide anyway, just as his glove comes down.

“Out!” says Christopher. “Sorry, Luce.”

“Excuse me?” I pant, standing up, my foot securely on base.

“You’re out,” he says.

“I am?” Openmouthed, I look at Ethan, who raises his eyebrows and grins that elvish smile. He holds up his glove, and sure enough, the ball is right there.

“You weren’t even close,” he says. “Buddy.” He winks.

“Can we keep playing, or is the princess going to stay there forever?” Doral-Anne calls.

With no other option, still shocked that I was, for the first time ever, tagged out on a steal, I trudge back to the dugout.

Bunny’s loses, 9-2. Worse, Ethan offers to buy drinks for both sides, so everyone will be heading to Lenny’s for a postgame analysis.

“Tough loss,” Fred Busey says, panting a bit with the effort of walking the ten yards or so from the bleachers.

“You’re telling me,” I say, forcing a smile. Truthfully I’m stunned at how badly I played. Three measly strikeouts. On base only once, and that because of an error. And caught stealing…jeepers.

Most of those heading for the bar do it logically…by cutting through Ellington Park. Which would mean also going through the cemetery. Which we all know I’m not willing to do.

“Shall we grab a drink?” asks Fred.

“Sure,” I say. I can have a drink with Fred. He’s a nice guy. Besides, Ethan’s just chitchattering away to Doral-Anne. And you know what else? I’m going to walk through the cemetery. Because it’s time for me to stop being a dope when it comes to that. I should be able to take care of Jimmy’s grave as a good widow should. The Mirabellis are moving—their goodbye party is just around the corner, and the very thought causes my heart to clench. So yes, I should get over this issue of mine. Should be able to walk through the cemetery. But that doesn’t mean I have to walk fast, either.

Indeed, everyone else on the team trickles past us. Fred can’t move too quickly, and that’s fine with me, because I need a little time to shore up my courage. I try to follow Fred’s tale of his recent divorce, his eight-year-old daughter, but the cemetery looms in front of me like the gaping maw of a shark. I make the appropriate noises, but my heart starts to clatter as we approach the end of the park…and the entrance to the cemetery.

We’re getting closer. I’m a little out of breath. And why can’t I hear Fred? Is he still talking? Lips are still moving…A buzz fills my ears, and my hands are slick with sweat. Up ahead, well into the cemetery, I can see Ethan’s back, Mirabelli over a number 12. He’s walking with Doral-Anne, laughing, unaware of my distress. If only he’d turn, see me, help me out…Please, Ethan. My psychic cry fails to hit its target. Ethan and Doral-Anne disappear around the bend.

“Um…Fred?” I say, and my voice cracks. We’re just outside the stone pillars now.

“Yeah?” He looks up at me, his brows coming together.

“I…can we…um…” I’m having a hard time getting enough air, my chest bucking up and down erratically. Oh, jeepers, I’m going to faint.

“Are you okay? Want to sit down?” Fred, also panting though not for the same reasons, takes my elbow in his pudgy hand and leads me to a rock. I sit down with all the grace of a dying hippo. Dropping my head between my knees, I try to relax, try to let the breeze push air into my lungs. Everything’s gonna be all right…everything’s gonna be all right.

“Lucy? Should I call someone…911?” Fred asked, patting my shoulder.

I shake my head. The panic subsides like the outgoing tide, bit by bit. I don’t have to go in the cemetery. No one will know. Nice Fred won’t mind, I can already tell.

“My husband’s buried in there,” I whisper, and oh, it sounds so sad. Tears spring to my eyes, and I scrub them away, almost irritated. I should be able to say these things without crying by now.

“I’m so sorry,” Fred murmurs.

“Maybe we can just go around?” I ask. “I’m sorry, I know it doesn’t make sense—”

“It doesn’t have to,” Fred says. “Of course we can go around. Whenever you’re ready.”

And so, feeling like an ass, I get up and take twenty minutes longer than necessary to get to Lenny’s Pub.

“Hey, Luce!” a few of my Bunny’s teammates chorus. Ellen Ripling is sucking down a piña colada, flirting shamelessly with Leeland Huckabee. Tom Malloy, our first baseman, looks half plastered already, which is par for the course…the man just cannot hold his liquor, and I make a mental note to get his keys. Carly Espinosa, responsible for both our team’s runs with a homer in the ninth, is on her cell phone. Roxanne, the surly waitress, growls at patrons to hurry up and order as she slaps down drinks.

And Ethan is yucking it up with Doral-Anne.

“What would you like to drink?” Fred asks.

“Oh, um…I’ll have a…whatever you’re having,” I say, my mind temporarily blank. I indulge in a guilty and relieved sigh when he turns his back.