Fireside by Susan Wiggs (autobiographies to read .TXT) 📕

mother had been concerned that a child in the house might be too noisy and rambunctious for the other guests. “So, Mr. Crutcher,” Kim said, “is he always this quiet?”

“Yeah, so far, he’s been real quiet.”

So far, she thought. So far as what?

“My name’s Bo,” the guy said.

She took a moment to study him. He was handsome in such an unconventional way—lanky and long-haired, with soulful eyes and a gentle smile. At the same time, there was something hurting and mysterious about this guy.

“Bo,” she said, trying out the name. “Like Beau Bridges? Or Beau as in Beauford, or Beauregard?”

“Ma’am, I can barely pronounce Beauregard.”

“Then how about Bo, as in…Peep?”

His grin widened. Yet at the same time, it was guarded, revealing little. “That’s a good one. My mama wadn’t a real good speller.”

“And what about you? Are you a good speller?”

“I’m good at a lot of things.”

“Like being polite in the airport?”

“That’s not one of the things. Now, making friends with a pretty woman—I’m usually good at that.”

“Wonderful. My own personal airport Lothario is moving in.”

“Who?”

“Lothario. A literary reference.”

“I’ll take it as a compliment.” He grinned.

She liked his smile, and she hated that she liked his smile. “You seem easily amused.”

“Just trying to figure out how to explain to a girl like you—”

“A girl like me. And what kind of girl would that be?”

He shrugged. “Dunno. The kind who doesn’t know many guys named after country songs.”

“You’re named after a country song?”

“‘Mr. Bojangles.’ My full name’s Bojangles T. Crutcher.” He looked apologetic. “Used to embarrass the heck out of me when I was a kid. It’s an okay song, but carrying that name around has been a burden all my life. Mama had a thing for Jerry Jeff Walker. She loved his songs so much that she had his initials, JJW, tattooed in the small of her back.”

Kim kept her face composed. “She must be quite a fan.”

“She changed her own name, Gertrude, to ‘Trudy,’ which is also a song of his. I got a brother named Stoney, too.”

“Another Jerry Jeff Walker number,” she guessed.

“That’s right. It’s from a song about a wine-drinking mystic. I’ll play it for you sometime.”

“So are you a musician?”

“I play bass, and sometimes pedal slide guitar. Strictly an amateur, though,” he said. “And don’t worry, I’ll practice with the headphones on, I swear.”

“And where do you work?” she asked. A fair question. She was new at this boardinghouse business, but surely she should ask it.

“I’ve been pitching for the Hornets here in Avalon. Tending bar at the Hilltop Tavern in the off-season when I can’t afford to go south for the winter. Come spring, I’ll be training with the Yankees, trying to get a spot on their top-forty roster.”

“The Yankees,” she repeated, feeling a sinking sensation in her stomach. “As in the New York Yankees?”

“Yes, ma’am. It’s been a long time coming. I was at November tryouts down in Florida, same as I am every year. And I figure every year, I’m going to get the same song and dance—no room on the roster. This year, there was an opening on their pitching staff.”

Kim felt queasy. A bass player she could handle. A tall guy with long hair and blue eyes—she could deal with that, too. But an athlete? A major leaguer? It was a nightmare. After the Lloyd fiasco, she didn’t want a thing to do with athletes in any way, shape or form, ever again. And here was one expecting to move into the house where she lived. She must be cursed. What god had she angered? What karmic boundary had she crossed?

His smile faded as he stared at her. “You all right?”

“Um, yes. Why do you ask?”

“You look a little green around the gills. I usually get a different reaction when I tell people I’m going to pitch for the Yankees. Or at least, accused of being delusional.”

She swallowed hard. “No, I believe you. It must be very exciting.”

“No sh—er, yeah, it is.” As though he couldn’t help himself, he smiled again.

Under different circumstances, this would be an auspicious meeting—a media relations expert and a newly minted major-league player. And—she couldn’t help herself—it was in her nature to assess a guy like this. The first thing that struck her was that, for a rookie, he was long in the tooth. Judging by his looks and the age of his son, Bo Crutcher was in his late twenties or early thirties. Already, she caught herself speculating about him—what was his story? In spite of herself, she thought about his image. If this was true and not some fantasy, then this guy needed some serious work.

She had a sixth sense about what it took to make it in sports. Talent was only the beginning. Pro athletes today were packaged, and everything had to be in that package. Talent—of course. But there were other elements crucial to an athlete’s success. His determination and heart. His looks and personality, the way he presented himself. Especially when it came to the Yankees. During the season, at any given time there might be fifty members of the press in the clubhouse, and only a couple of areas were off-limits. A guy’s public persona was extremely crucial. This guy—Bo Crutcher—there was something about that lion’s mane of hair, that face…she had a hard time looking away from him. Then she caught herself noticing the icy clarity of his blue eyes, and the shape of his mouth and—

Kim made herself quit speculating. This guy wasn’t even close to ready. She wondered if he knew that. She wondered why she cared. She felt a flare of irrational anger at her mother, who had gone to the market, leaving Kim in charge. Penelope had told her the newcomer would be a “nice young man and his son” who had come on Dino’s recommendation. But never in her most lunatic moments had Kim imagined it could be a a professional athlete. She tended not to connect “nice” with “professional athlete.” Sure, there were