The Truth About Tara (3 page)

Her mom sucked in a breath through her teeth. “I volunteered you, too.”

“You what?”

“Before you say anything else, hear me out.” Her mother talked so fast her words tripped over each other. “You know how hard it is to find a camp for children like Danny. This one’s a gift from God, being that it’s new and fifteen miles away in Cape Charles. There are only ten children signed up, but they still need lots of volunteer counselors. With your background, why, you’re perfect. So I filled out the paperwork for both of us.”

Tara could have predicted the next answer, but asked the question, anyway. “When is this camp?”

“It starts Monday and goes for two weeks. But you don’t have to be there all day, every day.” Her mother worried her bottom lip with her teeth. “Orientation’s at seven o’clock tonight. Now you see why I had to rush on over here and tell you?”

Tara sighed. “You could have told me before today.”

“I know, honey. I should have,” her mom said. “I was so excited for Danny when I heard about the camp that I didn’t think. And you will be able to get time off here and there to do all those other things you do.”

Tara worked at some businesses in the summer on an as-needed basis to help out friends and keep busy, but in order to volunteer at the camp she’d have to cancel the kayaking trip she’d impulsively booked. But then, Tara hadn’t shared her plans with her mother yet.

“Oh, please, Tara.” Her mother laid a hand on Tara’s arm. “Say you’re not mad.”

Tara should have been more irritated than she was. She might have been if the trip had excited her more. But the bottom line was that her mom’s kind heart was in the right place.

“How can I be angry?” Tara asked. “Like you said, you’re only thinking of Danny.”

Her mom’s lips curved upward, relief evident in her smile. She touched Tara’s hand, her blue eyes sparkling. “I am so darn lucky to have a daughter as wonderful as you.”

Tara was the one who was lucky.

After losing her husband and her oldest child when Tara was a baby, her mom had showered all her love and attention on Tara.

Not for a single second of her childhood had Tara doubted she was loved. Mom had been there every step of the way: volunteering to be homeroom mother, sitting in the stands at her athletic events, chairing the all-night grad party committee, chaperoning the prom.

And because a handsome stranger had spun a wild tale, Tara had been prepared to ask her mother for proof that they belonged together.

So what if beneath the hair dye Tara’s natural color was the same golden-brown as Hayley Cooper’s would be? And there could be plenty of explanations for why Tara had never seen baby photos of herself.

As for the flashes Tara sometimes got of a woman shaking her and yelling that she should stop crying, the woman could be anybody. Or nobody. Maybe she was simply the stuff of nightmares.

“I love you, too, Mom,” Tara said.

Her mother beamed and ran a gentle hand over Tara’s cheek the way she’d done so many times before.

You don’t want to believe your mother could have abducted a child,
a little voice inside Tara’s head insisted.

True enough.

It was a moot point. As far as Tara was concerned, the absurd matter was closed.

The only person who had ever raised the possibility that Tara hadn’t been born a Greer was a stranger passing through town. When Jack DiMarco left Wawpaney, he’d taken the question with him.

CHAPTER TWO

T
ANGIER
I
SLAND
WAS
A
THROWBACK
,
a tiny slice of land in the Chesapeake Bay with nothing near it but crab shanties on stilts and miles of water. The teacher in Wawpaney who looked so much like the age progression of Hayley Cooper seemed very far away. So did civilization as Jack had come to know it. If not for the tour guides who greeted the ferry from Onancock, Jack imagined Tangier hadn’t changed much in hundreds of years. The guides stood in front of golf carts, which according to the ferry captain was the main method of transportation on the island aside from walking. The boat had been about a third full, which apparently was typical for a weekday before summer kicked in. The other passengers, all of them dragging suitcases, went directly to carts. Jack hung back.

“Ten dollars for a tour of the island,” a short middle-aged woman, wearing a straw hat, called to Jack. She had the same formal English accent as the ferry captain, which supposedly didn’t sound much different than the way Tangier residents had spoken in the 1600s.

“How much to take me to the Marsh Harbor B and B?” Jack asked.

“The same.” The woman smiled at him, revealing a gold front tooth. She swept a hand toward her golf cart.

Why not?
Jack thought. He hopped in, resting his large cardboard folder on his lap.

“Do you have any bags?” the woman asked.

Jack tapped the folder. “This is all I need.”

The woman nodded and joined Jack in the cart, pressing her foot down on the accelerator. The canopy over the cart provided welcome relief from the blazing June sun that made the day feel warmer than eighty degrees.

The cart crawled ahead more slowly than the posted fifteen-miles-per-hour speed limit down a quiet, narrow street leading away from the dock. People wandered from shop to shop. None of them seemed to be in a hurry.

“This is Main Street,” the guide said, pride evident in her voice. A few restaurants shared space with a place to rent bikes and a smattering of gift shops, one of which proclaimed Tangier The Soft Crab Capital of the World. There wasn’t a fast-food chain or department store in sight. In the distance, a church steeple pointed to the sky.

“Legend has it that Tangier Island was settled in the middle of the 1680s by the Crockett family. No relation to Davy,” she said in her accented English. “This was after Captain John Smith discovered Tangier in 1608. Not counting the tourists, we have about seven hundred residents, most of them watermen.”

After a few blocks, she veered the golf cart off the main thoroughfare onto an equally narrow street. She chatted about the island’s eclectic mix of styles while they passed Victorian cottages that were next door to double-wide trailers. A few homes had weathered gravestones in their front yards.

Jack breathed in the earthy smell of the marsh. He wasn’t in Tangier as a tourist, but the guide had aroused his curiosity. “How big is the island?”

“Three miles long, one-and-a-half miles wide.” She turned the golf cart down another street that had a partial view of the bay. “We have room for some churches, a few grocery stores, a school, a health center and not much else. Even in the high season, we’re not crowded. Exactly how we like it.”

She pulled up in front of a large yellow clapboard house with turn-of-the-century Victorian architecture and a steeply pitched white roof. A wide porch wrapped around the house.

“Here we are,” she said.

If Jack had known exactly how close the dock was to the B and B, he would have skipped the golf cart and set off on foot. But then, he would have missed the nuggets of information about Tangier.

He pulled out his wallet and withdrew enough money for her fee plus a healthy tip. “Thanks for the ride.”

“I hope you have a wonderful time here on our little piece of paradise,” she said, puttering away with a wave of her hand.

The house had none of the trappings of tourism except the Marsh Harbor B and B sign suspended from one of the porch railings. Jack climbed the three wooden steps leading to the front door, stopping abruptly when he noticed a gently swaying hammock occupied by a man with white hair. Could it be? Jack narrowed his eyes. Yes, it was Robert Reese.

Although they’d never been introduced, Jack recognized the other man from his website photo. Not many guys sported a full head of prematurely white hair before they were forty years old.

Jack strode forward, the soles of his sturdy sport sandals clapping against the wooden slats of the porch. “Dr. Reese?”

The man rested his book against his stomach spine first. It was a mystery Jack recognized as one of the blockbuster hits of the year. He looked up at Jack with a quizzical expression, as though Jack presented a bigger puzzle than the book.

“You are Dr. Robert Reese, aren’t you?” Jack asked.

The other man scrunched up his brow, contorting his regular features. “I’m sorry. Do I know you?”

Jack stuck out his hand. “Jack DiMarco.”

Reese took it, a wary look in his eyes. “Refresh my memory.”

“The pitcher with the torn labrum,” Jack said. “We spoke a few days ago. You said you were on your way here, that the only people you’d be seeing in the next three weeks were on Tangier.”

Reese swung his legs over the side of the hammock and stood up. His book slid off his lap, falling to the porch floor with a loud thunk. Several inches shorter than Jack, he carried himself with the confident air of a successful man. “I remember now. Don’t tell me you took that as an invitation?”

Jack wasn’t about to admit he realized Reese had been brushing him off. He inhaled the scent of island flowers before answering. “I tried to call ahead to let you know when I was coming, but I couldn’t get through to your cell.”

“There’s no cell phone reception on the island,” Reese said, then stopped. “Wait. You never did tell me how you got my number.”

Where there’s a will,
Jack thought,
there’s a way.
He’d called in a favor from a former teammate who’d become golf buddies with Reese after the doctor operated on his shoulder.

“Does it matter?” Jack asked.

“I suppose not.” Reese bent and picked up his book. “So, tell me. Why exactly are you here?”

“My goal is to play ball again. To achieve it, I need to be operated on by somebody who’s tops in the field.” Jack omitted the fact that the team doctor of the Owensboro Mud Dogs had advised against surgery, leading to the team releasing Jack. “Lots of people say you’re the best.”

“Are you trying to flatter me?” Reese asked.

“That depends.” Jack cocked his head. “Is it working?”

Reese ran a hand through his white hair. “The reason I vacation on Tangier, that anybody vacations here, is to get away from it all. I should tell you to leave me alone.”

“But?” Jack asked, starting to hope.

“But vanity is a weakness of mine,” Reese finished. “You understand I can’t do the surgery on the island?”

“I just want to get it scheduled. The sooner, the better,” Jack said.

Reese walked over to one of two large wicker chairs on the porch and sat down. Jack took the other seat.

“Tell me how the injury happened,” he said.

“About a year ago I collided with a base runner and broke my collarbone.” Jack stated the barest facts when there was so much more to the story.

“I thought you tore your labrum,” Reese said.

“I didn’t know the labrum was torn until the collarbone healed. The MRI I had a month ago confirmed it.” Jack held up his cardboard folder. “I brought my films, present and past.”

“You do understand I need a computer to look at those,” Reese said, making no attempt to take the films. “Wait a minute. What do you mean, past?”

“I’ve had two rotator-cuff surgeries.”

“And you want to go through surgery a third time?” The tail end of Reese’s question rose.

“If it means I can pitch at a competitive level again, hell, yeah.”

“Stand up and show me your range of motion,” Reese said.

Jack raised his arms over his head. The right one touched his ear. The left one came close.

“Not bad after a rotator-cuff injury,” Reese said, “especially considering you have that tear.”

“Tears,” Jack corrected. “There is no one big tear, just a number of smaller ones.”

Reese stroked his chin. “How old are you, Jack?”

“Thirty-one.”

Reese whistled. “Too bad I didn’t know about the other surgeries or I could have saved you a trip. A third surgery won’t get you where you want to be.”

“How can you say that without looking at my films?”

“I don’t need to see them,” Reese said. “The labrum is collagen based. It can’t be strengthened.”

“People have surgeries to repair their labrums all the time,” Jack argued.

“Yes, they do. But if they’re athletes who use an overhead motion, like a pitcher, it’s highly unlikely that surgery will yield the desired result,” Reese said. “My advice is to go with rehab to strengthen your shoulder muscles and increase flexibility.”

“Does rehab ever work?” Jack asked.

“Depends on how aggressive the rehab is,” Reese said. “I know of a swimmer with a mild tear who came back to compete in the Olympics. But he was ten years younger than you.”

“I’m tough,” Jack said. “I’ve already rebounded from two surgeries. I can rehab with the best of them.”

“That may be true, but you’ve got to understand how far-fetched it is to think you’ll improve to the point where you can pitch at a major league level.” Reese’s pronouncement was distressingly close to what the Owensboro team doctor had said. “Let me give you a piece of advice, Jack. Find something else to do with your life.”

Later that afternoon, after an hour-long ferry ride under the unrelenting sun, Jack arrived back at the dock at Onancock. It was larger and more tourist oriented than some of the other small towns and quaint villages that dotted the finger of land that made up the Eastern Shore of Virginia, with a prominent downtown and several hotels and B and Bs. He walked the block into town to find a place to eat. His head hurt from thinking about what the specialist had said.

Find something else to do with your life.

“Like hell,” he said aloud.

He’d been working toward pitching in the major leagues since he was a boy. He’d gotten there three times, twice as a September call-up and once as a roster player. Because of the injuries, however, his big-league stat line was meager: three games, four total innings. He refused to believe the dream was over.

He walked past a gift shop and an insurance office before coming to a storefront that looked more like a house than a business. Real estate listings plastered the front window. He slowed, then stopped. The sign above the door said the Realtor dealt in rentals as well as sales, not only in Onancock, but throughout the Eastern Shore.

Jack thought about the Olympic swimmer who’d returned to his previous form. He’d take bets that the swimmer didn’t have sisters who popped in on him whenever they felt like it and parents who kept telling him that life didn’t end when athletic careers did.

No, the swimmer had probably rehabbed somewhere peaceful and tranquil where he could devote his energy to healing. Somewhere like the Eastern Shore.

Jack pushed through the door of the Realtor’s office. The woman at the reception desk looked up, a smile on her face. “Can I help you?”

“You sure can,” he said. “I need to get away from it all.”

* * *

T
HE
SALTY
BREEZE
BLEW
over the rustic outdoor patio of the restaurant, one of the few establishments near Wawpaney with a water view. This view was of a shimmering bay that eventually led to the Atlantic Ocean. The sight didn’t have its usual soothing effect on Tara. No surprise. Mary Dee Larson was gazing at her as though Tara had just bitten the head off a seagull.

“You can’t be serious!” Mary Dee exclaimed. “That kayaking trip sounded amazing. How could you cancel it?”

Tara popped a coconut shrimp into her mouth and washed it down with some of her happy-hour margarita. Strawberry, her favorite flavor. She intended to enjoy it. Most of the Eastern Shore’s hundreds of miles of coastline was bordered by salt marshes, not restaurants. They’d been lucky to snag a table in a prime location. This marked the first Friday after school had been let out for the summer and the place was full, mostly with tourists. Even so, the atmosphere was laid-back. Visitors came to the Eastern Shore for a quiet getaway, usually at a
B and B with a semiprivate beach on the bay. The eastern side of the peninsula was largely bordered by marshland and waterways that led to the secluded barrier islands. The hordes of tourists were an hour north in Ocean City, Maryland, and an hour south in Virginia Beach.

“Canceling was surprisingly easy,” Tara said. “I got all but fifty dollars back from my deposit, and the airline gave me a flight credit.”

Mary Dee set her own margarita glass down on the table with a clink. She thrust out her glossy red lower lip that matched her red blouse. “That’s not what I meant and you know it. That trip would have been great for you.”

Tara wasn’t sure she agreed. Since none of their other friends were kayakers, Mary Dee had persuaded Tara to check out an organization that set up outdoor excursions for singles. The closest kayak trip was on the Snake River in Wyoming. The more Tara thought about it, however, the less attractive the trip seemed.

“I probably would have gotten cold feet, anyway,” Tara said. “I mean, why should I go all the way to Wyoming when I can kayak here?”

“For adventure,” Mary Dee said.

“And can you imagine the kind of guys who sign up for those sorts of trips?” Tara continued as though she hadn’t heard her. “They’re probably out for sex.”

“So what? Some sex would do you good.” She nodded in the direction of four guys they’d known in high school who were across the patio hoisting beers and singing. Tara had dated two of them. “You seem to have already ruled out every man around here.”