Caught by You (26 page)

“Sorry, bro. Her loss.” T.J. clapped a hand on his shoulder. “You should do what Solo did—­take a vow. Worked for him—­he has women fighting over him.”

“Does it count if it's not an actual vow? If I'm just celibate because that's the way it worked out?”

“No.” Stark signaled for another round. “That just means you're a loser.”

Bieberman's face crumpled, and Mike directed a scowl at the big slugger. Did he have to kick the guy when he was down?

“Don't worry about it,” Trevor continued. “I'm going to let you follow me around and learn a thing or two.”

Though the rest of the crew scoffed loudly, Bieberman brightened. “Awesome possum.”

Trevor held up a warning finger. “First thing, don't say ‘awesome possum.' Or ‘easy peasy,' or anything goofy like that. Don't talk about Deepak Chopra or the statistical likelihood of a curveball hitting the inside corner. Don't jabber on about—­”

A brunette with dark skin, a streak of purple in her hair, and a diamond stud in one nostril swiveled her barstool in their direction. “Did someone mention Deepak Chopra? OMG, I love him. Have you seen his new DVD?”

For a spellbound moment, the Catfish all gazed at this vision of beauty, who looked like she'd come to the Roadhouse straight from a yoga class. Mike held his breath. Trevor had been the one to mention Deepak Chopra; the next move was his. Bieberman was blinking rapidly, as if he could barely believe his eyes—­or maybe his eyelids were spasming.

With a sigh that held a large dose of regret, Trevor clapped a hand on Bieberman's back and guided him forward. “Hello, gorgeous woman. Meet Jim Leiberman, shortstop, boy genius, and philosopher extraordinaire. Leiberman, meet a beautiful stranger who wants to talk about Deepak Chopra. Now go. Both of you. We have on-­base percentages and beer brands to discuss.”

“I'll drink to that.” Mike raised his bottle and everyone toasted as Leiberman and the brunette began throwing around words like “universal consciousness” and “inner power.” “Stark, let me ask you something. Why do you act like an asshole ninety percent of the time, when you're maybe not so bad after all?”

“Maybe?” Trevor's crystal-­green eyes glittered, while Dwight Conner propped a brotherly arm on Stark's shoulder.

“A little something you should know about Stark.” Conner grinned. “Whatever you think you know about him, think again. The dude's like a master spy. He oughta work for the CIA or something. Always thinking. Always plotting. Not a bad guy to have around if you're in a jam.”

Trevor raised an eyebrow, took a swig from his Shiner, but said nothing.

“Huh.” Mike eyed him with new respect. “Well, here's to you, Stark. May they keep falling where they ain't.” After more clinking of bottles, another question occurred to him. “The armbands. Whose idea was that?”

The guys exchanged glances.

“Why?” T.J. asked. “Were you okay with it?”

“It was cool. Yeah, really cool. I never got to say it because of how the game played out, but yeah. Meant a lot.”

T.J. jerked his chin toward Dwight Conner. “All his idea. Came in with the armbands and handed them out before you showed up.”

Mike swung toward the outfielder. “You did it?”

“I had a brother who died,” Conner explained, his usual smile slipping. “Got in with a bad crowd. DUI. Nothing I could do. I know how it feels, man.”

They all shared a moment of silence for Dwight's lost brother. Mike felt the presence of Joey so strongly and sweetly he nearly cried right there in the Roadhouse.

The Catfish might be just temporary teammates who might or might not join him in San Diego someday . . . but at that moment, they felt like brothers.

At nine the next morning, Donna nervously followed her new lawyer, a very sharp black woman named Gloria Gaynor—­yes, after the singer, she'd informed Donna—­into Judge Quinn's courtroom. The first thing Ms. Gaynor had done was file for a new judge, but no ruling had yet come down on that. In the meantime, the process had been allowed to continue.

Harvey and Bonita sat on the other side of the aisle, holding hands.
Gag.
Even though they'd decided to postpone their wedding until the court case was settled, obviously they were still working the “stable ­couple” angle. This made Donna's flash engagement look even worse, of course. Ms. Gaynor had instructed her to talk about Mike as little as possible in the hopes that the judge would forget the whole embarrassing thing had ever happened.

Everyone rose to their feet as Judge Quinn entered. He wore a black robe and a stern expression to go with his iron-­gray hair. Early on, Donna had tried a mild joke on him, but had quickly learned the man had no sense of humor, at least when he was on the bench. Amid a general shuffling of feet and scraping of chair legs on the floor, he sat behind the big desk at the front of the courtroom and flipped open his ledger.

“Bailiff?”

The bailiff, a large Hispanic man with a tattoo circling his arm, brought him the docket. Donna's right foot danced with impatience and her stomach did a slow burn.
Just get on with it
. Get Zack back. Get Zack back.

The judge gave a dry little cough and flipped through a few pages of legal documents. “In the matter of Zackary Hannigan, Donna MacIntyre versus Harvey Hannigan, I've unfortunately had to revise my decision due to ever-­changing circumstances. This case has garnered more attention than most child custody cases that don't involve a religious or controversial element. Then again, we don't usually have baseball players getting involved, or newspapers writing articles. This has made it more difficult to come to a fair decision.”

He fixed Donna with a stern look, but she lifted her chin, refusing to be cowed. Of course she'd try everything possible to win Zack back.

“Although I'm sure the end of your engagement was difficult,” the judge said dryly, “I welcomed the relief from the media attention. Finally, I'd be able to assess the situation objectively, as it is, rather than trying to discern the reality through the cloud of gossip. I saw a mother who very much loves her child, and who has taken solid steps to provide a good home. The natural presumption that a child belongs with his mother seemed well-­supported. On the other hand, I saw little evidence to back up the father's contention that the mother's past irresponsibility disqualified her from taking her natural place in the child's life. I reviewed testimony provided by the father regarding her hospitalization for depression, and it seemed clear that it was an isolated incident caused by her pregnancy.”

Donna cast a sidelong look at Harvey, who toyed with the edge of the table, looking shamefaced.
Ha! You sold me out for nothing, Harv.

The judge continued. “In addition, the Hannigans have expressed the desire for the boy's parents to take responsibility for his care, now that they're both more mature.”

Ms. Gaynor squeezed her hand and the tension in the courtroom rose another degree. Donna's heart leaped into her throat.
This was it
. She was about to get Zack back.

“Then last night I turned on my television to find the very mother whose case I'm about to decide making a national spectacle of herself. Prancing around a baseball field with a hose. Forcing the first forfeit of a game in Catfish history. Consorting with the very same player she was formerly engaged to, the one who created the inappropriate atmosphere that already caused so many problems. And I had to ask myself, can Donna MacIntyre really be trusted to offer Zackary the kind of stable life he's accustomed to? In this case, it's not a question of taking a mother's son away from her, since she hasn't been his principal caretaker. It's a question of whether she can provide a better environment than the one she herself designated as best for him when he was a newborn.”

His grim gaze traveled across the faces arrayed before him. Donna knew that hers was frozen. She couldn't move a muscle. If she did, she'd collapse into a ball of dust.

“And so, with a heavy heart, I must rule that Zackary Hannigan remain with his paternal grandparents. All parties will begin a transition period moving toward full custody by Harvey Hannigan. This phase-­in will happen over the next year. Donna MacIntyre will retain visitation rights at the discretion of the custodial parent, but is welcome to re-­petition the court should her circumstances change.”

Ms. Gaynor shot to her feet. “Your Honor, if your opinion is based on one incident, surely you should give us a chance to explain that incident.”

“That will not be helpful or necessary. My ruling is final. Bailiff, who's next?”

Blood pounded in Donna's ears, a roar that got louder and louder until she couldn't hear, couldn't see, couldn't speak. Things were happening around her, ­people getting up, shuffling down the aisle, putting papers in briefcases, touching her shoulder, murmuring things in her ear, lifting her to her feet, guiding her forward, but she was barely conscious of any of it.

She'd lost. Lost Zack. Lost everything.

 

Chapter 26

T
HE NEXT MORNING
Mike tried calling Donna again. No answer. Was she trying to avoid him? That didn't seem like Donna's style. She was much more likely to rip into him. He tried her a few more times throughout the morning while he took care of some business related to his call-­up. Talked to his agent, notified his landlord, talked to the travel coordinator at the Friars . . . and called his father, something he hadn't done since their falling out.

“Dad. It's Mike. Just wanted to let you know that I've been called up to the Friars. There's going to be a Solo behind home plate in Friar Stadium. I'm going to send you and Mama tickets, if you want to come.”

Pietro Solo might have been an ornery old patriarch, but he was also Italian, which in this case meant a gush of emotion and family pride. When Mike hung up, he had to blink away tears.

Damn, this was getting to be a habit.

By the afternoon, when he still hadn't heard from Donna, he hopped in his car and sped over to her apartment. Her tiny Kia was parked at the curb out front. Home, but not returning his calls. Bad sign. But he probably deserved that, since he hadn't returned her “I love you” when it counted. He loped to the door and rapped on it.

“Donna! Are you in there? It's me, Mike. I really need to talk to you.”

No answer.

“Angela's gone. Will you please listen to me? Give me a chance to explain?”

Still no answer. He pounded on the door.

“I'm not leaving until you talk to me. And that's going to cause a huge problem for the Friars because they want me in San Diego on Thursday. Please, Donna, just open the door.”

Finally it swung open. Mike took a shocked step back and nearly stumbled down the staircase.

It was Donna . . . and yet not Donna. No spirit shone from her eyes, no expression animated her face. Her shoulders slumped forward, her head drooped. She looked as if all the life had evaporated out of her—­like the inland Salton Sea, where nothing remained but salt. “San Diego?”

“I got the Call.”

“Congratulations.” But the word was flat, with no joy or even interest behind it. No dimple flashed . . . definitely no hug or kiss.

“What's wrong?”

She turned away. He followed her inside, which seemed to make no difference to her one way or the other. When she reached her couch, she curled onto it like a baby kitten and pulled a woven cotton blanket over her head.

“Nothing.” Her muffled voice barely reached him. “Just go away.”

“I'm not going anywhere.” Carefully, he sat on the edge of the couch. “Not until you tell me what's going on.” Something told him this went beyond their relationship. “Is it Zack? Did something happen?” Sudden horror seized him. “Is Zack okay? At least tell me that.”

“Zack's—­” She couldn't finish the sentence at first. Then, under his patient questioning, the story spilled out in heartbroken bits and pieces. By the end of it, he was pacing around her living room, practically bouncing off the walls, his head about ready to explode. “This is my fault, Donna. I got into it with Yazmer. I got the game forfeited. None of that was your doing. How could the judge make you pay for my fuckup? I'm going to talk to him. I'll take the blame, I'll do whatever it takes.”

She inched the blanket down her head, so her forehead and a strand of tangled red peeked through. “Mike Solo to the rescue? I don't think you can fix this.”

God, even her voice sounded different. So hopeless. “When's the last time you ate, Donna?”

She dragged the blanket back into place. “Go away.”

He crouched down next to her. “Honey, how are you supposed to fight this if you don't keep your energy up?”

“Go away.”

“I already said I'm not going anywhere, so you can stop saying that. We have to figure out a strategy. What does your lawyer say? I'll call her right now. What's her number?”

“Mike.” She shoved the blankets off her and scrambled to a sitting position. For the first time, a bit of her old fire came back. “You don't understand anything. I'm not going to fight it. The judge made his decision, and I'm not going to waste everyone's time and money trying to change it.”

“But what about Zack?”

She plunged back under the blanket, stuffing it against her ears as if to block him out. But that flash of the old fiery Donna filled him with determination. No way was he going to let her disappear into some kind of pit of despair. He tugged at the blanket. “Come on, Donna. Talk to me. What about Zack?”

When she still said nothing, he rocked her body back and forth with a hand on her shoulder.

“What about Get Zack Back? Have you forgotten about that?”

“What about it?” She cried passionately, yanking the covers off her again. “I was wrong. Zack's better off with them. The judge is right. They're
all
right. I don't deserve to have him. I'm irresponsible, I don't take things seriously, I'm too impulsive, I don't think before I speak, I don't plan things out. What kind of person aims a hose at a baseball field and doesn't think that it
might get wet
?”

A sound escaped him that might have been a laugh, if he hadn't been so caught up in her torrent of words. “The kind of person who was trying to stop a fight—­”

She shoved at him. “Don't try to defend me. I don't deserve it. I don't deserve Zack. I'll keep seeing him whenever they let me, but he needs better parents than me. I want what's best for Zack. They were right all along, all of them, and I've been an idiot, thinking I could be a good mom.”

“Oh really? Bonita was right? Bonita's better than you? A better mom for Zack?”

Red flashed across her cheeks like a bullfighter's cape. He watched the struggle play across her features, wishing he could help, but knowing it was something she had to work out herself. “Maybe she is,” she said eventually in a thin, strained voice. “She's . . . organized.”

“Yeah. Very organized. She'll get him to all his appointments on time. Donna, you're talking about Zack here. Fun, bouncy Zack. He's practically a human beach ball. Do you really want Bonita raising him?”

“He'll be with Harvey too.”

“Yeah. Harvey. I'm pretty sure Bonita picks his underwear for him and decides how short to trim his nose hairs. Come on, Donna. Get over yourself.”

Whoops. In the next second he realized that was the wrong thing to say. “
Get over myself?
That's your big advice?” She kicked out a foot at him. “Get off my couch. Get out of my apartment.”

He managed to evade her foot but landed on his ass on the floor. “Donna, I'm sorry, that came out wrong. I didn't mean it the way it sounded.”

“I know what you meant.” She scrambled off the couch while he struggled to regain his feet. “You meant that I should fight back. Do something. Toughen up.”

Using his catcher's thigh muscles to their best advantage, he finally managed to spring to his feet, only to back away before the force of her approach.

“I've had to be tough my whole life, Mike, and look where it's gotten me. I'm done being tough. I'm done fighting. I want to lie on my couch and cry my eyes out the way I deserve.”

His back hit the front door of her apartment. “Donna, I used stupid words, but my basic point is, this isn't really about you. It's about Zack. And you know as well as I do that he needs you.”

“I don't know that. I thought I did, but I was wrong. Ask my so-­called family. Ask anyone in Kilby. They'll all tell you the same thing. Donna MacIntyre is unfit to be a mother.”

She elbowed him aside—­her strength astonished him—­and yanked the door open. “Go away.”

“Just listen—­”

“
Go away
.”

“Donna—­” Somehow he was outside, standing on her landing, and the door was closing in his face. And he hadn't even said what he came to say. “I love you,” he managed before the door swung shut.

Slam
.

He stood on her landing for a long moment, feeling the heat of embarrassment roll through him in waves. What sort of god-­awful moment was that to say something so important?

He should leave. He wasn't helping matters, and he'd just made an utter ass of himself. But he couldn't seem to make his feet move. He needed to be here, near Donna. He needed to convince her how much he loved her . . .

She opened the door a crack. “What did you just say?”

“I love you. I meant it. I want to help you. Be here for you.”

An expression of utter desolation twisted her face, or at least the part of it he could see through the crack in the door. Her eyelids lowered, then lifted again, revealing reddened, hopeless eyes. All her spirit—­every speck—­had been extinguished. “Horrible timing, Solo. I . . . can't. I just can't. Now leave me alone. Please.”

Mike left. He had to. He wanted to tear something apart—­anything—­and he didn't want it to be something connected to Donna. He drove to the Roadhouse, where a few mid-­afternoon drinkers were straggling in. After ordering a Lone Star, he sat on a stool and nursed it for a time. He didn't really want to get drunk; mostly he wanted a fight and was half hoping some obligingly nasty members of the Wade family would drop in.

They didn't. Instead, he passed the time thinking about Donna, her bright spirit, her fierce grief. He thought about Joey, gone from him forever. There was death, and then there was living death, and that's what he'd seen on Donna's face. He thought of Crush's words, and Angela's, and his so-­called Superhero Complex. He was no superhero. Nothing he did or could have done would have saved Joey.

But Donna . . . that inner voice was screaming at him loud and clear. There was no way on this earth he was going to stand by and watch Donna disappear from sheer grief. An idea flashed across his mind, then vanished. He needed to think. He needed his comfort zone, the place where he did all his best thinking.

He needed home plate.

He placed a coaster on the bar top, then arranged four more in a rough approximation of home plate. There, that was better. He conjured the adrenaline of a game, the alertness he experienced when he went into his crouch, the single-­minded focus. Donna's whole story rushed back to him.

1. The possibly corrupt judge.

2. The ruthlessness of the Wades.

3. The superhero that he wasn't.

4. The kind of man he really wanted to be.

And there it was. A plan.

He placed a phone call to Crush Taylor and explained what he needed. Crush promised to get back to him.

He gestured to the bartender, whom he recognized from the night of the infamous brawl. “Todd, right? You're a friend of Donna MacIntyre, aren't you?”

“Of course. Went to high school with her.” Todd narrowed his eyes suspiciously. “If you're looking for trouble, I can't help you.”

“I'm not. I'm looking for her father. Do you know where his shop is?”

“Why?”

“Is it top secret information?” At Todd's frown, he passed a hand over his face. “Sorry, dude. Rough day. I need to talk to him about Donna.”

Todd swiped some dirty glasses off the bar and piled them in the dishwasher. “You're probably going to the wrong man. He never seemed like he knew she existed.”

“Yeah. I picked up on that. Seriously, I'm not looking to hurt Donna. I want to help her, if she'll let me.”

Todd gave him directions to Mac's Automotive Repairs, with one last warning to be good to Donna. Thinking that Donna had a lot more support than she realized, Mike drove to her father's shop. Exactly as she'd described him, Mac was lying on his back on a creeper under a gray Saab. Only his legs, from the knees down, were visible. Mike crouched down and spoke into the dark undercarriage of the Saab.

“Mike Solo here. Just want to let you know that I love Donna and intend to get our wedding back on track, if she'll have me. And also—­your daughter's in trouble. She's gotten a raw deal, and we need to do something about it.”

One knee bent up, and slowly Mac emerged from underneath the car. “What are you talking about?”

“Righting a wrong.”

The older man rubbed his forehead, leaving a streak of grease. To be honest, Mike couldn't see much resemblance between this low-­key man and the ball of energy that was Donna. “Might make trouble with my wife.”

“Not sure I can help you there.”

“Yah. Well . . . just tell me when and where. I'll be there.” Mac gave him a little finger salute, then resumed his position on the creeper and slid under the car. Mike had to smile. If that's what passed for a talk in the MacIntyre family, they could learn a few things from the Solos.

On his way out of Mac's shop, Mike got a text from Crush.
Used my in with the mayor to get you a meeting with the judge. Be there in fifteen minutes. He can give you five.
Be careful. He's known as a hard-­ass and he doesn
't suffer fools.

Five minutes. Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, what could he do in five minutes? Well, it would have to be enough. He remembered very well what Donna had said about Judge Quinn. That the Wades held something over him, something they used to make him do what they wanted. Donna had also mentioned that he was unmarried, with no kids, and no possible way of sympathizing with her situation.

Mike could do that math. He had a feeling he knew where the judge was coming from—­or at least close enough to empathize.

He raced into Quinn's chambers with seconds to spare. The judge, gray-­haired and immaculate, wearing his black robe like a full-­body frown, barely glanced up from the papers he was reviewing. “As I told Mayor Trent, I have very little time, so don't waste it,” he greeted Mike in his scratchy, buzz-­saw voice.