Belle Pointe

“Considering my own fascination for the Delta and its culture,” Franklin said, “it puzzles me how someone with Buck’s heritage could stay away for years, even with the exciting career he chose.”

“Maybe his career is exactly the reason,” Beatrice said. “He’s bound to be thinking about what he’ll do when it’s over, so I don’t think it’s unreasonable that he’ll want to spend more time here. I know John Whitaker expected Buck would eventually wind up farming at Belle Pointe. When he was a boy, he had a real connection to the land, far more than his brother, Pearce.”

She gave Beatrice a surprised look. “You knew Buck then?”

“I knew of him,” she said, smiling. “Remember, Tallulah’s a small town and I’ve been here all my life. Actually, I went to school with Victoria.” When Franklin stopped at the only traffic light on the square, she waved at two elderly women crossing the street. “We were classmates, but we didn’t socialize much and never at all after Victoria married John. My goodness, I remember the buzz when John surprised everyone and picked a local girl to marry.”

“It sounds like a storybook romance,” Anne said, fascinated at this glimpse of Buck’s parents. She was dying to know more. From the start, she’d been curious about her mother-in-law, but in their rare visits she’d found Victoria to be a very private individual, almost severely so. And although Buck talked about Belle Pointe and his childhood, he rarely said much about his parents.

Franklin eased away from the light. “Like I said, folks always figured Buck would come back to his roots one day.”

“Well, looks like folks were wrong,” she said as Franklin negotiated the square.

“Speaking of John Whitaker,” Franklin said, as if picking up a thread of conversation, “I met him when I came down in 1971 with that PBS crew. He was a real Mississippi aristocrat. I recall us getting into a discussion of the literary influence of Faulkner and Hemingway and other great Southern writers.”

“He gets into those discussions frequently if he can find any takers,” Beatrice said, with a wink at Anne.

Franklin cleared his throat loudly. “Well, it was right up my alley, that discussion. I’ve always regretted not having a chance to know John a lot better. His death a few years later was a great loss to this town.”

“Buck was in his senior year of college when it happened,” Anne said. “He was devastated. It was so sudden.”

“Yes, indeed.” Franklin slowed for another stop sign. “At the time, your mother and I were still in Boston, of course.” He glanced over and smiled at Beatrice. “I never dreamed then that I’d wind up here.”

“That makes two of us,” Anne said dryly.

“Surprised you, didn’t I?” he said, chuckling.

“On a scale of one to ten?” she asked. “Only about ten and a half.”

“If we want to talk of surprises, how about the one where my daughter wound up married to John Whitaker’s son?” Shaking his head, he added, “Now there was a whirlwind courtship if ever there was one.”

“He warned me that I didn’t know Buck well enough,” Anne said to Beatrice.

Franklin braked as a pickup backed out of a parking space in front of the Piggly Wiggly. “Well, isn’t that what fathers do?”

Anne, fighting a smile, put a finger to her temple. “I believe you said something like, ‘Marry in haste, repent at leisure.’”

Beatrice made a face. “Not very original, was it?”

“Fathers don’t have to be original,” Franklin said sagely.

“And apparently they have one set of rules for offspring and another for themselves,” Anne said, still teasing him. “What if I’d said the same thing when you suddenly retired and moved here, then while I was still trying to catch my breath over that, you announced you were marrying again?”

Franklin reached for his wife’s hand, brought it up and kissed it. “I’d have done the same thing you did,” he said, still smiling. “I’d have ignored you.”

Watching them, Anne realized how right her father’s decision had been to marry Beatrice. They seemed so much in love. And yet, shock had been her first reaction when, shortly after the death of her mother, Franklin suddenly retired from his job at a major newspaper in New England and moved to Mississippi to edit the town’s small weekly Tallulah Spectator. Anne had worried he was having a midlife crisis. Buck, with a shrug, said she should be relieved that Franklin’s crisis prompted only a job change rather than falling for some big-breasted gold digger. But even Buck was taken by surprise when Franklin called a year later and said he intended to marry a Tallulah woman. Fortunately, on meeting Beatrice, Anne had been instantly reassured.

“Were you serious when you said you needed a journalist at the Spectator?” she asked Franklin as they cleared the town square.

“As a heart attack,” he quickly replied.

“I’m rusty,” she warned him. “I’ve worked only sporadically since marrying Buck. I don’t know if I can meet the Spectator’s high standards.”

Franklin met her eyes in the rearview mirror. “You must be joking. Your career was on the upswing when you were able to pursue it. Even if you weren’t my daughter, I’d consider a journalist with your talent and credentials an asset to the Spectator.”

Anne flushed at the warmth of her father’s approval and, again, found herself on the verge of tears. Oddly, at the same time, underneath her emotional reaction was a sense of the rightness of what she was doing…and a stir of anticipation at the prospect of working again. She’d been too long without any true purpose in her life other than fulfilling her role as wife of the Jacks’ star pitcher. She realized that her stepmother was watching her with a gentle smile on her face.

“Don’t look now, Franklin,” Beatrice said, “but I think you’ve just hired a reporter.”

The Marshes’ house was a classic Victorian built at the turn of the century. Franklin had bought it upon arriving in Tallulah and, although it was in good shape, he’d set about restoring many of its original features with as much attention to detail as he put in his books and articles. Anne had seen it only once—when she came for the wedding. She wondered about its history now. Who’d built it? Who’d had children and raised them here? Who had lived and loved and died here?

“I love your house,” Anne told them as she climbed out of the car.

“So do I.” Beatrice stood gazing at it fondly.

Franklin looked up after retrieving her luggage from the trunk of the car. “Ask her if she has any special reason for loving it.”

“It once belonged to my family,” Beatrice said, linking her arm with Anne’s to walk with her to the front door. “Four generations of Joneses, for what it’s worth,” she added.

“Oh, that’s wonderful!” Anne cried, genuinely thrilled. “I was just thinking about the people who’d lived here, imagining births and deaths and marriages. Now I can find out from my very own stepmother.” She gave Beatrice a little hug. “How neat is that?”

“Bea is full of Tallulah history,” Franklin said, pulling up the rear with Anne’s luggage. “And she’s probably dying to share it with you. But I have first dibs. For this reason. I can’t see Buck letting you stay away all that long. With his injury and enforced downtime and the season just opening, he’ll be in a very unsettled frame of mind. He’ll want his wife nearby.”

What Buck wanted did not concern her at the moment, but Anne didn’t comment. She knew people often regretted saying things to others while in the throes of a personal crisis. Somehow, it didn’t seem fair to Buck when he wasn’t around to defend himself.

Beatrice seemed to sense her struggle to come up with a vague reply. “We’ll both have lots of time for talking,” she said, sweeping her over the threshold. Once inside, she turned and spoke softly. “Welcome to our home, Anne.”

The woman was really a sweetheart, Anne thought. No wonder Franklin had fallen head over heels for her.

“And now,” Beatrice said brightly, “what we need is tea. Franklin, if you’ll take Anne’s luggage to her room, I’ll brew some of that nice Darjeeling.” She turned to Anne. “I think I recall from your last visit that you’re partial to Darjeeling.”

“I am and thank you. I’d love it.” As her father disappeared up the stairs, Anne followed Beatrice to the kitchen and found it stamped with her stepmother’s warm personality. The walls were painted a buttery cream and the cabinets were a soft off-white. In the middle of the room was a polished oak pedestal table with four chairs set for tea. It was difficult to decide which was older, the table and chairs or the delicate china.

“You’ve made lots of changes in the house since Dad bought it,” she said, admiring the room. “It was nice before, but now it’s wonderful.”

“We make a nice team,” Beatrice said, her gaze following Anne’s. “I’m not quite such a stickler for detail as your father, but I think I do have an eye for style. Franklin had furnished the house with antiques, but they were arranged without much style.” She touched Anne’s shoulder, gently urging her to sit. “Here, let me pour the tea. There’s sugar and lemon…and if you like it, cream.”

“No, it’s fine just like this.” Holding the cup with both hands, she closed her eyes and inhaled the bracing aroma before sipping cautiously. When she looked up, she found Beatrice watching her with a faint smile.

“There’s just something about tea, don’t you think?”

Anne nodded. “Yes, I do. It’s so…comforting.” She set her cup down with hands that weren’t quite steady. “I don’t know why I keep tearing up like this,” she said, her voice rising with emotion. “Ordinarily, I never cry. Just do me a favor and ignore it, please.”

“I would hardly call your present circumstances ordinary,” Beatrice said gently. “You’re dealing with two emotional crises, trouble in your marriage and a miscarriage. You’re entitled to tear up. In fact, you’re entitled to cry your heart out. In your shoes I know I would.”

Anne studied the tea swirling in her cup. “I’m still having trouble believing all that’s happened. If you’d asked me last week where I’d be and what I would be thinking, it wouldn’t be here and I wouldn’t be contemplating a divorce.”

“Is it that serious, Anne? I know absolutely nothing about your personal life and I won’t presume to make any judgments. I will only say that you’ve gone through an emotional upheaval with your miscarriage. Are you sure you want to end your marriage as well?”

“I’m not sure at all,” Anne said with a sigh as her cell phone rang. Although there was nothing intrusive about her stepmother’s remarks, Anne wasn’t ready to confide in anyone that Buck hadn’t wanted their baby and now that she’d miscarried, was probably relieved that their lifestyle was unchanged. It made him seem insensitive and selfish. She found she didn’t want Beatrice—or her father—thinking of Buck that way.

Checking the caller ID, she saw that it was Buck calling. Feeling Beatrice watching, she let it ring and ring without answering, then turned it off. “It’s Buck. I don’t want to talk to him.”

“Oh, Anne…”

“He’ll keep trying. He’s as tenacious as a bulldog.” She crammed the phone in a deep pocket of her purse. “I told him I needed time to think, time away from him. So when I don’t answer my cell, he’ll try calling your number. I’m not taking his calls, Beatrice. I’d appreciate it if you would simply tell him that.”

“If you’re sure…”

Seeking to change the subject, Anne said, “I’m looking forward to a tour of your shop. I never got a chance to drop in when we came for your wedding, but a lot of people had nice things to say about it at the reception.”

It took a moment, but Beatrice rallied. “I love my shop,” she said, offering Anne cookies on a small platter. “I was critical of Frank furnishing this house in a hodgepodge way, but when you visit my shop, you’ll see what real hodgepodge means.”

Anne managed a smile. She was still a little shaky after refusing to talk to Buck. “Is that how you describe it?”

“It’s not only how folks around here see it because I have such a wide array of things, but I named it Bea’s Hodge-Podge.”

“What does a wide array include?”

“Well, let’s see…” Nibbling at a cookie, Beatrice brushed at a few crumbs on the table. “I’m partial to local artists, so there’s a good selection of handcrafted pottery and quite a bit of jewelry—all signed pieces. A couple of local artisans make hand-dipped candles and soap for me. Oh, and linens. I have some really lovely linens, napkins, tablecloths, pillowcases.”

“I thought your place was a bookstore.”

“Oh, did I forget to mention books?” Beatrice poured herself more tea. “Yes, in fact, fully half my space is devoted to books.” She touched her lips with a napkin. “See what I mean by a hodgepodge?”

“I can’t wait to see it.”

“Well, fortunately for you, it’s too late today.” Beatrice stood and began collecting their empty cups. “Because you must be tired. I know air travel just wipes me out. And after all you’ve been through, you’ll want to rest for a while before we have dinner, which will be something light. Does that sound about right?”

“It sounds just perfect. Thank you.” If it meant going out, she would have skipped eating altogether. As it was, she didn’t know if she could manage to swallow food.

Beatrice looked up as Franklin appeared. “Did you put Anne’s luggage in her room?”

“I did.” He helped himself to cookies. “Yummy. Just what I need to hold me over until dinner.”

Beatrice gave him a playful tap on his wrist. “Just what you don’t need, you mean.” She looked at Anne. “Do you have as wicked a sweet tooth as this guy? In spite of the fact that he never gains an ounce, I can’t keep sweets in the house because as soon as they appear, he gobbles them up.”

“It’s not natural to go without a cookie now and then,” Franklin said. “Isn’t that right, Annie-girl?”

“You and Buck should get together,” Anne said. “He can’t pass up anything loaded with sugar.”

“Well, then,” Franklin said, munching happily, “since it looks like I’m outnumbered here, the sooner he shows up, the better.”

Anne turned, heading for the stairs. If her dad was counting on Buck to show up to balance the numbers, he was in for a disappointment. Buck might be determined to talk to her on the phone, but the last place he wanted to be was in Tallulah.

Four

Buck peered through the keyhole on the door and recognized Monk Frederick, then swore when he saw Steve Grissom standing beside him. Although he counted Monk as one of his best friends, he knew he didn’t come in friendship if he was with Grissom. Instead, he’d be wearing his Jacks management hat. Dropping his head with a tired groan, Buck debated whether or not to ignore them until they went away. But even if they left, they’d try again tomorrow and the day after that. Sooner or later, he’d have to let them in and hear them out.

“Can I get y’all a beer?” he asked after ushering them into the den.

“Nothing for me.” Grissom was known to be a teetotaler.

“Same here, Buck,” Monk said with a nod at the crutches Buck was using. “Take a load off. You don’t need to be walking around on that knee.”

“It’s okay.” But he shuffled over to a recliner and after placing his crutches where he could grab them in a hurry, he carefully sat down. “I take it this isn’t a social call,” he said.

In Grissom’s line of work, crabby and ailing athletes were a given, so he spoke in a tone meant to soothe. “Just checking on how you’re doing, Buck. With a concussion, you can’t be too careful. In fact, after I look at that knee and have a chance to judge the extent of your injury, I’m thinking of recommending a trainer around the clock for you.” He hardly paused at Buck’s muffled oath. “That way, there would be less chance of you doing further damage if you should fall or…” he paused, cleared his throat, “I mean, with Anne having left, it’s risky to be alone with that kind of injury.”

Buck shot Monk an accusing look. “How is it that folks know I’m alone?”

Monk’s big shoulders rose in a shrug. “Not from me and not from Marcie, so be cool. You ought to know that you’re too big a celebrity to have any privacy, Buck. Anybody could have seen Anne at the airport—without you. Words gets around.”

“Shit.” He turned his head and gazed out the window.

“So—” Grissom was on his feet now. “You don’t object to me taking a look, do you?”

As much as Buck longed to, refusing was not an option. He was an owned asset of the Jacks and Grissom was here to inspect their property, after which he would report back to Gus Schrader about whether or not a multimillion-dollar investment was going south. Buck did his best not to wince as Grissom poked and probed and prodded. Then, as he pressed a certain spot, Buck nearly came up out of the chair.

“Holy shit, Steve!”

“That’s where I’d inject steroid ordinarily,” Grissom muttered, unmoved by Buck’s agony. Frowning in thought, he rose and stood with his arms crossed. “Steroid would be only a short-term solution, of course, but in the long run…no, I don’t think so.”

“Short term sounds good to me,” Buck said, shaken at the thought of an extended leave of absence. “I’ll worry about long-term stuff later.”

Grissom gave a stiff smile. “Fortunately, Buck, that decision isn’t up to you.”

Buck had been miserable before the two men showed up at his front door, but he was ten times worse after they were gone. He was shaken by Steve’s stubborn refusal to do a quick fix. In spite of everything Buck could think of to argue otherwise, he’d hung tough. Steve’s official report would land on Schrader’s desk within the hour. With the season starting soon, sitting out could mean the death of his career.

He accepted that Jacks’ management worried over their investment and were concerned for his rehabilitation, but he discounted everything else they said now that he knew they were recommending an extended leave of absence to get him on his feet again. It sounded like a kiss-off. No doubt about it, unless he made a startling recovery, his career was in jeopardy.

He reached for the handle on the side of the recliner and pulled up to a sitting position. Just that small movement triggered searing pain that went hot and deep. With his teeth set, he groped for his crutches and painfully managed to get on his feet. For a second, the room spun, reminding him that he’d also suffered a concussion.

Propped on his crutches with his vision blurred and his knee throbbing, he made his way cautiously out of the den and across the vast foyer, splendid in Italian marble, heading for the kitchen. By the time he reached the butler’s pantry, he was sweating and feeling a little sick. He’d been injured many times, but mostly stayed away from painkillers. But this time, between the knee and the concussion, he’d been desperate for relief and it was telling on him now.

At the pantry he stood thinking. He wasn’t washed up yet, by God. A few weeks favoring his knee and he’d pick up where he left off…provided they didn’t put him out to pasture as Steve Grissom might recommend and as the powers that be might sanction. Grissom was not known for his creativity as regards rehab, so any plan he devised would be traditional, slow to achieve results and in the end, possibly not particularly successful.

Head hanging low, Buck faced facts. He hadn’t survived in the cutthroat world of professional baseball by just sitting back and accepting what a couple of so-called experts said. If he’d done that, he would have quit before he was twenty-five years old. Nearly ten years in the minors had taught him a thing or two about survival. Hell, being raised by his cold-hearted mother had taught him a thing or two about survival. Balanced on the crutches, he opened the door to the pantry.

Using one of his crutches, he snagged the leg of a stool and, moving cautiously, climbed a couple of rungs until he could reach the topmost shelf where he stored liquor, purchased by the case. Fumbling behind a case of Dewar’s, he found a small box containing a vial of a clear substance and a syringe. Stepping down from the stool, he stood for a moment with his head pressed back against a shelf loaded with bottles of champagne. He took several long, deep breaths until the pain subsided to a bearable level.

A few minutes later—still sweating like a pig—he made his way out of the pantry, through the kitchen and the huge foyer to the den and finally to his recliner. This time, he simply dropped his crutches to the floor without caring whether he would be able to reach them if needed and sank into the chair. He was whipped.

A long, long three minutes passed. Then, with shaking hands, he fumbled at the seal on the box. No way he’d be able to inject his knee until he could hold the syringe steady, he thought. But he had the vial out now and he’d watched the procedure enough in the hands of other athletes to know what to do and how to do it. By the time he had the syringe filled with the powerful steroid, he was calm.

Fortunately, he wasn’t wearing jeans, but pajama bottoms, which had been a gift from Anne at Christmas. Since he always slept buck naked, when he’d opened the box on Christmas morning and saw what was inside, they’d both laughed at the absurdity.

“Wear them just once…for me,” she’d teased that day. “I have a reason.”

“Such as?” Suspicious, but he’d played along.

“Since you always have so much fun taking mine off,” she said, smiling and kissing him at the same time, “I thought I’d try the same thing.”

What would Anne think if she saw him now?

He quickly banished his wife from his thoughts and ripped the side seam of the pajamas all the way up to the knee. Steve’s exam and the trek to the kitchen and back hadn’t done good things for the injury. Gingerly feeling it up, Buck found the spot he thought would be about right and took a calming breath. Holding it, he pushed the needle into the spot and blinked rapidly at the pain. Slowly and carefully, he injected the drug.

For a minute, he was caught in a blankness of thought and time. Anne’s face floated before him. She looked so sad. Was she still crying for the baby, he wondered, or was it because of what he’d just done? What had he done, he asked himself as tears welled in his eyes. With sudden and profound shame, he flung the needle across the room and bowed his head in his hands.

In spite of the many opportunities he’d had over the years, he had never used chemicals to enhance his performance on the mound or for any other reason. It was cheating, pure and simple. How had he reached such a low that he turned his back on every honorable standard he’d prided himself on from the time he first held a baseball in his hand while his father smiled at him proudly? The game was sacred to him. The ethics of play were sacred. What did it say about him that staying in the game was so vital to him that he’d not hesitated before shooting up if it meant he’d play again?

A sudden deep, agonizing need for Anne welled up in him. Jesus, she would be horrified over what he’d just done. Using the fingers of both hands, he wiped his cheeks and let his gaze move to a photo of the two of them when they’d been married only a few months. Anne was leaning into Buck who was Mr. Cool in sunglasses, a crooked smile and shirtless, while she laughed and raked at strands of her dark hair whipping in the wind. No sunglasses, so you could see her eyes, those incredible, beautiful turquoise-blue eyes. God, he missed her. He hadn’t realized how empty the house was without her. Or how long the nights could be. Or how desperate he was to hear her voice. A dozen calls and she still refused to talk to him. He was flat-out scared that he’d hurt her so much she might never forgive him.

It came to him then that he needed to get his life in order. Still reclined in his chair, he considered what that entailed. First of all, he needed to win his wife back, but he could hardly do that if she was in another state and wouldn’t even talk to him. Next, he needed to get back in shape enough to play baseball. In time, the concussion would take care of itself, but the knee was a problem. The chemical he’d just injected was only a temporary fix. A lengthy physical therapy plan was vital. He sat up in the chair. But who said that it had to be done here? There were physical therapists all over the planet, even in Mississippi.