Chapter 13
Nick leaned back in his chair and focused on his notepad. He wasn’t much of an artist, but he could draw a little, and he’d spent more time sketching Merry’s image over the last weeks than was probably healthy. He could never get her dimple quite right, or the shape of her eyes.
“Nick, are you paying attention to me?” Phoebe’s voice huffed through the speaker on his cell phone.
He stared at the image he had drawn and labeled himself a pathetic loser. With a snort, he tore the sheet from the pad, crumpled it, and tossed it in the trashcan beside his desk.
“Nick?”
Puffing out a sigh, he tapped the speaker function off and put the phone to his ear. “I’m sorry about missing the deadline. I’ll have the completed manuscript to you by the end of the week, no excuses. Gotta go, Phoebe. I’ll talk to you later.”
The phone landed back on his desk with a clatter. He walked to the floor-to-ceiling windows of his high-rise apartment, peering out at the gray city landscape. Rain, sleet, and snow had pelted Chicago for two days, and he’d holed up. He had knocked out his weekly sports column and submitted it to his editor days ago, with the plan to finish up the Pirates book he’d begun while at the Casa Blanca resort in December. Instead, he’d spent his time sprawled on the couch in old sweats alternating his TV viewing between The History Channel and reruns of ’70s cop shows, sustaining himself on a diet of frozen pizza and canned soup. Every so often he’d surf the net—he liked reading Merry’s blog—and wondered what would be a suitable amount of time to respect her “never again” edict before doing his damnedest to change her mind.
The sky spit snow now, delivering a different shade of gray-on-gray, layering more gloom on the backend of a long and chilly afternoon. He closed his eyes and imagined himself standing on the patio of the villa, recreated in his mind the brilliance of lightning illuminating the Gulf, the soft patter of rain on sandy ground, palm trees swaying in the wind and wet to add a moody percussion. If he concentrated, he could catch the scent of salt in the air, the spicy aroma of tropical foliage. One thought further brought him the subtle scent of warm vanilla—
Idiot.
He opened his eyes, took in the glass and steel, the snow. Why the hell was he still here when the paradise of Mimosa Key awaited him?
Nick turned from the window and scanned his apartment. He wasn’t much of a decorator. The place was comfortable with the usual accoutrements, and an old girlfriend whose name he no longer remembered had helped him choose decent furniture and accent pieces, but as far as he could see, there was nothing here that wouldn’t look better in a beach house.
He narrowed his eyes. It was time for a change.
He returned to his desk and grabbed the notepad, this time jotting ideas, things to be done, preparations to be made. A timeline. He’d have Phoebe contact the editor of the Mimosa Times-Gazette—no, I’ll do it myself, make it personal—to see if they could use his services as a sports writer, someone local to promote the Barefoot Bay Bucks. He’d work for peanuts—hell, maybe even for free, because it would be fun. It would give him a foothold in the community, bring a sense of belonging to write about the hometown boys. He could still maintain his national syndicated column, no problem. There would be no conflict, and his celebrity, such as it was, should make him appealing to the local paper as a part-timer.
He called the Casa Blanca and reserved the villa for earliest availability—a recent cancelation gave him four weeks beginning smack in the middle of February. Four weeks was long enough for him to find a place to live on Mimosa Key, even if he had to rent while he looked for a place to buy. And he’d drop by to see Ruth Canton as long as he was there. He’d visited the old woman a few times after Merry had left, and she’d given him good advice . . .
“I’m confused,” Ruth had said, staring at him with a laser gaze. “Did you lie to her or not?”
“It’s complicated,” Nick said. “There was something I should have told her but didn’t, because I signed a contract that makes it illegal for me to tell her, or anyone else. In spite of that, I planned to tell her anyway, but she found out before I had a chance. And I did tell her, sort of, with a tweet.”
Ruth narrowed her stare. “A what?”
“A tweet. It’s—”
“Never mind.” She waved her hand. “Sounds like you screwed up.”
Nick sighed.
“Listen up,” Ruth said. “I’ve got something you don’t: a pair of X chromosomes. That means I know more about Merry’s thought process than you do.” Ruth tapped her temple with her index finger. “I know something else, too. She’s in love with you, but she needs to grieve the loss of that and beat herself up for being dumb enough to fall for a jerk like you in the first place.”
“Well, thanks, Ruth. That’s depressing and not real helpful.”
“Oh, listen, if I were forty years younger, I wouldn’t care how much of a jerk you are.” The old woman laughed and patted his arm. “You’re missing the key words. She loves you—that much was plain to see, every time she looked at you—and that love is still in her heart. It might be buried under a ton of angry steel, but it’s there. You need to crack through it.”
“How am I supposed to do that? If I reach out to her, she’ll make public the thing I kept from her, the thing that cannot be made public.”
“Will she? You don’t think she’s trustworthy?”
“That’s not what I said. The problem is that now that she knows, she’s holding the threat of disclosure over my head as a way to keep me from contacting her.”
Ruth chuckled. “Smart girl. But you know, if she’s an honorable person, then she won’t give up your secret, no matter what she said in anger. So what it really comes down to is, do you believe she’s honorable?”
“I think so,” Nick said, and Ruth gave him a look. “I mean, yes. Yes. She is honorable, no question. You said I have to break through her steel. How do you suggest I do that?”
“Easy,” Ruth said, holding his gaze with her sharp eyes. “Stop being a jerk.”
***
“Wait, what?” Phoebe said. “You want what?”
Nick shifted the cell phone from his right hand to his left and talked while he surfed TV channels.
“You heard me. I want out of the contract. I need to be able to talk about Scurvy Rickets.”
“Nick, that isn’t going to happen. Scurvy is a mystery man, and it’s good for marketing.”
“We had a good run, but keeping it a secret has outlived its usefulness. It’s time to unmask me as Scurvy Rickets—right now, when we’re still riding the wave of social media publicity. If we let the cat out of the bag, I can cross promote. I can’t do that now, and it’s a waste of resources.”
“But Nick—”
“Talk to the powers that be. Please. And consider that after the truth is out, every time someone on ESPN or at any sports function asks me how it’s going as Scurvy Rickets, it will be a promo we don’t have now with a demographic we can’t touch otherwise. Also, think about book signings. Maybe more dads will come if they think they can ask me sports questions. We can meld the two somehow, make it a big marketing thing.”
He’d pulled that last one out of his ass, but the silence from Phoebe’s end told him she was mulling the possibilities.
“Once we tell the world I’m Scurvy Rickets, I’ll write a public apology—as myself—to Merry Sunjoy for everything that happened last year. Pirates fans need to know that Merry Sunjoy was not on board but kept her cool anyway, and Faeries fans need to know that Scurvy isn’t a total asshat. I’d like to mend those fences. It’s time.”
More silence from Phoebe had Nick wondering if the call had dropped, but a faint glass-on-glass tink came through the phone, so he waited.
“You,” she said, “are the reason I’m out of vodka.” Her trademark sigh blew through the phone. “I’ll make a few phone calls. You may be right about the timing of this thing and opening a new demographic. A lot of dads out there might be curious. As to your grand apology, you want to tell me what’s really driving that?”
“She didn’t know, Phoebe,” he said. “Merry had no idea her agent was pushing our social media argument.”
“There’s no question that Walter should have talked to her, gotten a green light,” Phoebe said. “But it isn’t our fault he didn’t. Anyway, it’s all over now, right? She never responded to your final tweet which—honestly, Nick, what was that all about? If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were telling the world that you’re in love with her. But then, I’m a Princess Bride fan, so—”
“Well, you’re a smart lady to have figured that out. I’m sure you’re not the only one who did. Unfortunately, Merry Sunjoy was unmoved.”
Silence greeted him for a second time while she digested what he had admitted.
“I’m sorry, Nick. I had no idea. Maybe she didn’t know what your comment meant,” Phoebe said.
“She knew. Anyway, I need to apologize, and it needs to be public. So please do this for me, and I’ll buy you a whole case of Tito’s.”
“My favorite vodka!” she said, and Nick heard her smile through the phone. “You’ve got a deal, but no promises. Hey, how’s your weather there? Still nasty?”
Nick looked from the television to the gray darkness beyond the window. A few weeks from now he’d be at the villa, and if all went as he hoped, he’d have a nice apology out in the world and Merry’s steel would be breached. It was a start. After that, who knew?
“Yes, the weather is nasty, but I’m seeing silver linings,” Nick said, staring at the falling snow that had prompted his decision to make radical changes. “Those silver linings and rainbows are out there if you look, Phoebe. I learned that from Merry Sunjoy and the Foundling Faeries.”
“Aw, geez. Now you’re getting all mushy on me, Brubaker.”
“Lady,” he said with a heartfelt sigh, “you have no idea.”