The ball hit the catcher’s mitt a half a second before Nick’s foot touched home plate. The umpire called him out.
Nick’s father came out of the stands, swearing and gesturing, while Nick shouted abuse at the umpire, yelling that he’d been safe and that the umpire was a “stupid, blind old man.”
Savannah groaned and resisted an impulse to hide her face in her hands.
How were they supposed to teach these children good sportsmanship—not to mention basic courtesy— when parents behaved this way?
She felt Kit’s arm slide around her waist. And, while it felt wonderful—warm, supportive, encouraging— she was quite sure that everyone in the park had noticed his action and would be speculating about just what was going on between Savannah McBride and Christopher Pace.
MIRANDA CAJOLED Kit into following them home for ice cream after the game. Ignoring Savannah’s ambivalence, Kit cheerfully agreed.
Ernestine had already gone to bed. She must really have been tired, Savannah thought, hoping Ernestine wasn’t coming down with another respiratory infection. Still, it was rather nice not to have her mother’s perceptive eyes on them as she and Kit and the twins gathered around the kitchen table with glasses of soda and bowls of butter-pecan ice cream.
“This is great,” Kit said, digging in enthusiastically. “Do you always celebrate your team’s victories like this, Michael?”
Michael shrugged. “I guess.”
“Kit played baseball in high school and college,” Miranda announced, beaming with self-importance. “He was going to be a professional ballplayer, but he decided to be a famous writer instead.”
Kit chuckled. “I decided to be a writer because I enjoy telling stories. I wasn’t really expecting the fame.”
“You’re definitely famous,” Miranda insisted. “It’s so cool that you have movies made out of your books. Like Stephen King and Michael Crichton and…and…” She fumbled for another name.
“Tolstoy,” Kit supplied roguishly.
Miranda frowned. “What did he write?”
“War and Peace,” Savannah murmured.
“Oh. Was Bruce Willis in that one?”
Savannah swallowed a groan.
Kit grinned. “No. That must have been a different
“one.” “I bet you were a really good ballplayer,” Michael said wistfully. “I stink.”
“I don’t know. I think you have real potential. You just need some pointers,” Kit answered, his expression kind. “Would you like to throw the ball around with me tomorrow afternoon? And we could work on your hitting, too. It’s supposed to be a nice day.”
Michael’s eyes widened. “Hey, you bet. That would be cool. Thanks, Mr. Pace.”
“Sounds like fun,” Kit assured him. “And call me Kit, okay? Mr. Pace sounds too formal.”
He glanced at Savannah. “Maybe your mom will take the outfield.”
Michael hooted. “Mom never played ball. She was always a cheerleader, weren’t you, Mom?”
Savannah grimaced. “Yes, I’m afraid so. Finish your ice cream, Michael. It’s starting to melt.”
Her son shoveled an enormous spoonful into his mouth. He’d hardly swallowed it before he spoke again. “I guess Mr. Whitley told that stupid umpire off, huh?”
A heavy silence fell in the kitchen.
Savannah felt Kit’s gaze on her when she cleared her throat. “Mr. Whitley was wrong to cause a scene because he disagreed with the umpire’s call. And Nick’s language and attitude were both reprehensible. I would hope that I’ve taught you better manners than either of them displayed this evening, Michael.”
Michael scowled. “Hey, he deserved it, Mom. The guy’d been making lousy calls all through the game. And Nick was safe by a mile. He and his dad both said so.”
“The umpire called him out,” Savannah repeated stubbornily. “And I believe that he was. But, regardless, the umpire’s call is final and a good sportsman accepts the calls graciously.”