Читать книгу Out of His League - Cathryn Parry - Страница 11

CHAPTER THREE

JON DIDN’T LET Brooke accompany him in the elevator up to his penthouse, and he remembered to ask for everything back that he’d given her to hold for him: wallet, keys, medallion. He wanted no excuses for her to contact him later under pretext of forgotten belongings. The sooner he was back to focusing on his baseball career and in the care of Max alone, the better off he would be.

Once in his apartment, he crashed on his pillow and slept off the aftereffects of the surgery. He woke at midafternoon, his mouth dry and his finger throbbing with pain, but he refused to take the painkillers the doctor had insisted he leave the hospital with. Instead, he swallowed two acetaminophen tablets with a huge glass of water, before falling back into bed and lapsing into a sleep that felt like a coma. He didn’t wake again until his phone rang.

“Yeah?” he mumbled into the mouthpiece.

“Jon Farell? This is Dr. Morgan from Wellness Hospital.”

“Yes.” Jon sat up, his heart pounding. He held the phone between his ear and his shoulder while he groped for a pen and pad of paper in the drawer by his bed. He didn’t want to miss anything the surgeon said. “Go ahead,” he said, pulling off the cap to the marker with his teeth.

“We expedited the lab work for you. The tumor is benign. Cancer-free.”

The pen cap fell from Jon’s mouth and bounced off the pad of paper. Thank God. Thank God, thank God, thank God.

“Thank you,” Jon said to the doctor, once he was breathing normally again. “I appreciate your taking the time to call me.”

He also appreciated that they’d rushed his test through the system. Another advantage of playing for a big-market sports team.

“I’ll see you next week at your checkup,” Dr. Morgan said on the other end of the line. “We’ll remove your stitches then. Until that time, follow the directions the nurses sent you home with. If you have any questions, you can call me at this number.”

“Will do.” Jon disconnected the call and felt the smile spread over his face. For the first time in weeks, the worry he’d been carrying with him lifted.

He’d told no one about the growth on his finger. He couldn’t, because the season had been still underway, and the Captains were in the hunt for a playoff berth. And then when it officially ended, he’d made an appointment and, less than a week later, was in surgery. He hadn’t told his dad, because he didn’t want to worry him about the cancer scare. Ditto with his brothers.

Jon took care of them, not the other way around.

The only reason Brooke had been with him at the hospital was because at the pre-op checkup, the doctors had insisted he designate a person who would escort him home after the procedure. Of course, he’d called Max. It was Jon’s agent’s job to keep the team informed as to his medical status, but whether Max had done so or not, Jon wasn’t certain. The season was over, and Jon was no longer in day-to-day contact with the general manager and team staff. Things were loose....

They were worse than loose. Jon’s contract was up, and he needed the Captains to offer him a new one. That had been step two, after step one—get his tumor taken care of. Max had warned him to be cautious about discussing injuries or medical issues when he had a contract to re-sign.

Now, especially, Jon wanted to shout his good news about the cancer-free diagnosis to the world, but it just wasn’t possible. He wished, at least, he could tell Dr. LaValley.

She’s waiting for news about her nephew.

Mentally, he smacked himself. He had met the nephew in the recovery room, and it hadn’t even occurred to Jon that the kid was in the same boat he was. What kind of guy was he?

It’s time to get serious.

He strode into the bathroom and took the world’s fastest shower, his nonpitching hand—his cancer-free hand—sticking out the side of the curtain so it wouldn’t get wet. There was probably stuff he needed to take care of in regard to changing the bandage, but he didn’t have time to read the instructions the hospital had given him along with a bunch of bandages and tubes of ointment. He would worry about that when he returned home. For now, he gingerly threw on fresh jeans, a T-shirt and a pair of loafers—seeing as he couldn’t tie shoelaces with one of his fingers bandaged—and grabbed his SUV keys, wallet and phone.

It was dark outside. He’d slept the whole damn day. Some of that was the anesthesia and painkillers wearing off, some of it was just sheer exhaustion from a week of private worry.

He called down to valet parking and had Josh bring his Ford Expedition around front to the curb for him. Jon attempted to put on his medallion, but gave up trying to work the clasp and instead shoved it into his front pocket.

On the way downstairs, he called Max again. As before, the call went straight to voice mail. He shut off his phone without leaving a message.

He’d deal with his agent later.

For now, he was driving to Medford to see how a little kid with a cancer scare, like him, was doing.

And, oh yeah, sign him the autographs he’d promised.

* * *

ELIZABETH PUT HER hands over her ears. Her chest felt constricted and her pulse was elevated. Her living room, usually her sanctuary, blared with jarring music from an overloud children’s cartoon. Her nephew bounced on the couch and hummed to himself. “Brandon, please turn down the television so I can hear myself think.”

The boy gazed back at her with a wide-eyed look that made Elizabeth feel guilty. His mom was staying at an alcohol treatment center in town—unbeknownst to him, thank goodness—and she’d asked Elizabeth to take care of the boy for the next twelve hours. Elizabeth wanted to help them, she truly did.

“It’s only for one night,” Ashley had said. “Brandon loves sleepovers.”

With that, Elizabeth had driven Brandon from the hospital to his house, two towns over, to pick up an overnight bag, and then she’d dropped off Ashley’s small dog with one of her coworkers at the beauty salon Ashley worked at. Brandon had chattered and fidgeted nonstop, playing with the radio dials, and when she’d asked him to stop with the radio, he’d fiddled with her cell phone. She had felt so overwhelmed she’d ended up giving in. She just didn’t know what to do with a young boy in her busy life. Not even for one night.

In no universe would Elizabeth ever be called a nurturer. She was the absolute wrong person to have an active eight-year-old boy spend the night with in her small condominium.

“Brandon, please,” she asked.

Blinking, he took the remote and turned down the volume exactly one notch.

“Thank you.” She sighed.

“Auntie, what’s for dinner?” He jumped back on the couch and put his feet up on her formerly pristine cushions.

“I...don’t know.” She stared as Brandon kicked off one sneaker with a thump to the floor. Then his other sneaker dropped onto the magazines on her table.

Her favorite magazines.

She closed her eyes. She was so not cut out for babysitting young boys. This was going to be a long night. And she didn’t have a bed for her nephew, or even a guest bedroom—just her office. She didn’t have a toothbrush for him, either, and he had announced that he’d forgotten his, halfway up the stairway to her condominium unit.

Add that to the shopping list.

She turned back to her dilemma in the kitchen.

Every can of soup and package of cereal was emptied from her cupboard and spread out on her countertop. She had found nothing in her pantry or refrigerator that her nephew could eat.

This was her fault. She’d been so flustered over the fact that her sister had expected Brandon to stay with her—on one night’s notice—that’d she’d forgotten to stop at the supermarket. It was clear she needed to journey outside and brave traffic again. But there was no way she could leave an eight-year-old unattended. What to do?

She needed a babysitter, that’s what she needed.

Sighing, she crossed to the bulletin board where she’d tacked a slip of paper with the scribbled phone number for Mrs. Ham, the widow who lived in a condominium apartment downstairs. Elizabeth hated to ask people for favors—but the elderly lady was the only neighbor Elizabeth knew by name. Mrs. Ham walked with a cane, made it a point to talk to everybody and was home most of the time. Elizabeth remembered her talking about raising two boys, now grown and married and living in other states. Maybe she wouldn’t mind watching Brandon for fifteen minutes in her apartment while Elizabeth ran out to the store.

Before she could agonize over the decision, she made the call. Quickly, like ripping a bandage off a cut.

Mrs. Ham picked up on the first ring.

“Hello, this is Dr. Elizabeth LaValley from upstairs,” she said all in one breath. “I’m wondering if I could ask you a favor for tonight.”

“Tonight?” Mrs. Ham rasped. “It’s not a good time.” A television set blared in the background. “I’m watching the Eastern Series playoffs.”

“The...?” Elizabeth had no idea what the elderly lady was talking about.

“Auntie!” Brandon called from the living room.

“Excuse me for a moment, Mrs. Ham.” Elizabeth covered the phone. “Brandon, please, I am on the phone.”

Her nephew picked up the pillow from her couch and tossed it into the air. “Who are you talking to?”

“A babysitter. Put your shoes on, please, you’re going downstairs for a few minutes to watch the, uh, Eastern Series playoffs while I go out to the store.”

“But I can’t go downstairs.” Brandon sat up with an urgent look on his face. “I have to stay here. In your house.”

“You can’t stay here without me.” Elizabeth continued to cover the phone. “You’re eight years old.”

“But I need to. Just in case.”

“Just in case of what?”

And then the buzzer from the lobby rang. Elizabeth blinked, the meaning not registering at first. People did not visit her. She worked long hours, and the short amount of time that she spent at home she kept to herself.

Brandon perked up. “Can I answer the door?”

“No, I’ll do it.” She uncovered the phone and lifted it to her ear, intending to beg Mrs. Ham to watch the boy for just a few minutes, but it slipped from Elizabeth’s fingers and clattered to the counter. When she picked the phone up, she saw that she’d turned it off by mistake.

“Auntie!” Brandon nagged.

This was why she lived alone. To keep to herself. Oh, God, she felt like weeping. How was she supposed to manage sharing her time when she was just so greedy for privacy?

It couldn’t get any worse.

Her nephew tugged on her shirt. “I think it might be Jon Farell at the door.”

Jon? Her patient from the morning, with the beautiful blue eyes?

“I asked him to come,” Brandon said softly.

But it couldn’t be. It just could not be.

* * *

JON WAITED IN THE LOBBY, wondering if Lizzy was home. But at last he heard her voice answer from the intercom:

“Yes?” She sounded frazzled. In the background, the Scooby-Doo theme song played on a television set, a blast from his past.

That made him smile. “Hi, Dr. LaValley. It’s Jon Farell. Ah...I hope it’s okay, but Brandon asked me to stop by. I’m dropping off the autograph I promised him.”

“Jon! Jon! I knew you would come!”

A buzzer sounded, and Jon was on his way upstairs. She waited for him in the hallway before an open door, the light from an apartment shining behind her. Also behind her was Brandon, bouncing from side to side in his stocking feet, and wearing the huge grin of a typical, energetic eight-year-old glad to see his sports hero.

Jon felt relieved. The kid really didn’t look sick with cancer. Maybe he was okay?

Lizzy closed the door behind her so she was in the hall alone with Jon. “You should not have come,” she said to him in a low voice. Her face was pale. For the first time it occurred to him that this wasn’t a good idea to stop by unannounced.

“Sorry.” He held out a game ball he’d grabbed from his car for her nephew. He gave Lizzy his best “Mr. Helpful, I’m a Good Guy” smile, but she didn’t seem to be buying it. He shrugged. “I promised Brandon. The ball is from my last start of the season, against Toronto. We won.”

But New York had won their game, too, so the Captains hadn’t made a wild-card slot into the play-offs. Still, Jon had done his part, and Brandon, numbers kid that he was, should appreciate Jon’s stats from that outing.

“When did my nephew give you my private address?” she asked, not taking the baseball he offered. Her arms were crossed, and she was rubbing them, as if worried.

“Ah...Brandon and I talked in the recovery room. He asked me to stop by tonight to deliver an autograph for him.”

Her eyes grew huge. “Brandon was in the recovery room?”

“It’s okay, Lizzy. Lots of local kids are baseball fans. He probably just heard I was in the hospital, and he came to check it out. I’d have done it, too, at his age.”

“I did not give you permission to come to my house, and do not call me Lizzy.”

He gazed down at her. Why this woman intrigued him so much, he had no idea. She was buttoned up so tight—or in her case, zipped up, with a gray fitted turtleneck sweatshirt that went right up to her chin. He couldn’t help staring at that zipper pull, swinging back and forth from the force of her flustered breathing, and then he looked at her mouth.

Bow-shaped lips, without a speck of gloss or lipstick on them. They weren’t all plumped up, either. They were good, old-fashioned naked lips, and he would love to—

“Jon Farell!”

His gaze jerked to her face.

“Are you even listening to me?” she asked.

“Yes.” And she had said his name correctly, so that was a good sign. He smiled at her again.

Before she could react, pounding started on the other side of the door. Lizzy put her head in her hands.

“Let Jon Farell in, Auntie!” Brandon yelled.

“It’s okay,” he said to Lizzy. “I’ll give him the autograph I promised, then I’ll leave.”

“I don’t want you inside with us,” she hissed. “You can give the ball to him in the hallway, out here.”

“Sure.” He shrugged. “If that’s what you want.”

“It is what I want.”

“Auntie!” came Brandon’s muffled yell.

She seemed to cringe. “And furthermore,” she whispered to Jon, “you’ll tell no one you’ve been here, do you understand? I am a private person, and I find your public lifestyle abhorrent.”

Abhorrent, that was a big word just to say she didn’t like it.

“You don’t have to worry about me,” he said gently. “I won’t tell anyone I was here. And it’s not like I’m Brad Pitt. I don’t have paparazzi tailing after me everywhere.”

She still didn’t seem mollified. “I value my independence.”

And then she opened the door a crack and said to Brandon, “Please watch your TV program and be patient. Just give us a moment.”

There was her problem—she was too formal and too much of an adult with the kid.

She turned back to Jon, her gaze narrowed. “I do not want my name associated with a public person, do you understand?” Again, that whispering, as if he were a criminal at her door.

“I will honor your rules.” He crossed his arms now, to match her stance. “Remember though, you were the one who left me a coded message. In the recovery room. And your instincts were right. The lab called me already—it’s not cancer.”

Her breath expelled. “That’s...good.” She was nibbling those naked lips again, just like this morning. “That’s very good.” Her expression had softened.

“What about you?” he asked in a low voice. “Have you heard about Brandon?”

“No.” She sighed. “But I’ll be shocked if the test results aren’t favorable.”

“Why do you say that?”

She let out a breath, and her eyes darted from his face to his chest. She was starting to open up now ever so slowly, and it was fascinating to watch.

“It turned out my sister was being overly dramatic in thinking the cancer was recurring,” she said.

“Wow. That’s gotta be hard for Brandon.”

“He doesn’t suspect anything. He thinks it’s just a sleepover.” Again, that frown.

He squinted at her. “And you’re not comfortable with that?”

“I’m used to living alone.”

“Auntie!” Brandon was through being patient; he resumed his hammering on the door.

A door opened farther down the hallway. A head popped out.

Jon blocked Elizabeth from view by standing with his back to the curious neighbor. “You should let Brandon out to see me before the neighbors come over to investigate,” he pointed out.

She looked horrified. “Get inside,” she hissed. “Quickly.”

He’d never met a woman like her. Jon was willing to bet she didn’t know many of her neighbors. Holding out his hand, indicating she lead, he followed her inside. He liked the view of her in her street clothes rather than her hospital scrubs. This was the real Lizzy that she hid from the public. He appreciated seeing it.

Inside her apartment—smaller and homier than his, with lower ceilings instead of wide-open windows, and curtains drawn tight—he could see straight away that she’d been in the process of foraging up a meal in the kitchen. The wall cabinets were open, and cans of soup—he saw one labeled chicken noodle—were spread over the counter. An empty pot sat on the stovetop.

Brandon came up behind him, clasped Jon’s elbow and clung to him. Jon stiffened. Not cool, Brandon, he almost said.

“You can give him his autograph,” Lizzy remarked, “but then you have to leave. I need to run out to the store to grab us something for dinner.”

Her mobile phone rang and, flustered, Lizzy excused herself to go answer it.

Jon stared from Lizzy—in the kitchen whispering into the phone—to Brandon.

Maybe the boy just didn’t like chicken noodle soup. His own younger brothers were finicky eaters; one of them had consumed nothing but peanut butter sandwiches until he hit school age. Jon smiled at Brandon and took the boy’s hand. He thought again about telling the kid that it was a bad idea to grab a pitcher’s throwing arm—sort of like tugging on Superman’s cape—but given the kid’s and his aunt’s riled-up emotions, he figured he would let it go. The kid had been through enough. “I brought over the autograph you asked me for. Plus a game ball from my last start of the season.”

Brandon brightened. “That was your Toronto game!”

“It was.”

“I watched the whole thing on TV! My mom let me stay up late.”

“Are you behaving for your aunt tonight?”

Brandon scratched his head. “I’m hungry.”

Jon sat on the couch and motioned for the boy to sit beside him. He noticed a half-written grocery list on the coffee table. Lizzy obviously wasn’t used to having people drop by her house unexpectedly, like he was. She probably didn’t cook much for herself, either—too many long hours at her job. He could certainly relate.

Lizzy was still murmuring into her phone, in a low voice. She was flustered and out of her element with her nephew and him in the house. While she spoke on the phone, she glanced nervously at them, then opened her refrigerator and stared inside.

Jon smiled quietly at Brandon. His experience bringing up rambunctious younger brothers had taught him that if he acted calm, they were more likely to follow his lead and act calm, too.

“So you’re staying here for the night?” he asked Brandon.

The child nodded. “Do you want to see my room?”

“In a minute. For now, I’m wondering why you’re not in your pajamas. It’s pretty late. Do you have school tomorrow?”

Brandon brightened. “I didn’t go today, but Auntie is driving me tomorrow. I’m going to tell everybody I met you.”

“You can do that. But you know, it would really make me happy if you made things easy on your aunt. She works hard. Did you know she took care of a problem with my catching hand today?” Jon held up his bandage.

The kid looked awestruck. Jon’s wound did look impressive, all wrapped up like Frankenstein’s finger. It throbbed, too, but he was going to overlook that for now.

“It’s important you sit still and not bump it,” he told Brandon. “That way it will heal properly. Do you think you can do that?”

Brandon’s eyes widened. “Are you on the D.L?”

Disabled list. Jon smiled to himself. Yeah, this kid was a baseball fan. “I wish. That would mean the season wasn’t over for us yet.”

“I wish the season wasn’t over yet, too. Because then you could get tickets for us. We could sit in the players’ box and watch you pitch, couldn’t we? We could be on TV.”

“Ah...” The kid was a live wire, that was for sure. Jon stood and motioned for Brandon to follow. Jon would do this small act to help her, and then he would leave. Now that he knew Brandon was probably okay, he was feeling much better. “Let’s get you into your pajamas so you can eat dinner and go right to bed afterward for your aunt. Does your mom like you to take a bath at night, or do you do that in the morning?”

“I take a shower in the morning,” Brandon said. “But I don’t have my toothbrush with me. I forgot it.”

“We’ll add one to your aunt’s shopping list. What kind of toothpaste do you like?”

“The blue kind.”

“What’s that? Bubble-gum flavor?”

“Excuse me, Mr. Farell, but the five minutes is over and you’re going to have to leave now.”

He and Brandon stopped talking and stared over at Lizzy.

You’re in my bathroom, she mouthed to Jon, obviously annoyed.

Yeah, he was. But if anybody needed help with the boy, she did. Maybe it was time she removed that bug she carried up her butt.

Slowly, Jon straightened to his full height. “Brandon’s going to get into his pajamas for you, and I’m gonna take your shopping list and grab us all something for dinner. Then I’ll get out of your hair. Is that okay with you?”

She pulled him angrily aside, out of earshot from Brandon. He got that he was overstepping his bounds, and that she was probably going to throw him out the door, into the hallway.

Still, he rather enjoyed the feeling of her palm, curled into a fistful of fabric from his T-shirt and pulling him around the corner into her...bedroom.

It was Spartan. Too Spartan. A plain cotton comforter, beige walls, miniblinds. Not a throw pillow in sight. No television. No comforts or interesting things to look at. Certainly no silk ties, lubricant or sex toys...

“I,” she said, jabbing a finger to his chest, “can take care of my own nephew. Alone.”

“Yeah, I’m sure you can. All I’m doing is helping you.”

“Auntie?” Brandon said, standing plaintively in the doorway.

“In a minute, Brandon. The adults are busy having a conversation.” She shut the door.

He raised a brow at her. “I’m not up for it tonight, Lizzy. I’m still under the weather from all that anesthesia you pumped into my system this morning.”

She gasped. Her face went bright red.

He winked at her. “Kidding. I never sleep with women on the first date, much less women with kids. It sets a bad example.”

“He is my nephew!”

Interesting reaction. She wasn’t denying him access to her bed, just correcting his misstatement about son versus nephew. He would remember that.

“Yep, got it,” he said. “Never in front of the kids.”

She shook her head, obviously flustered. He loved seeing her with her hair messed up like that. He was willing to bet that in her starched-up world, people didn’t tease her. They didn’t come into her house and help her. And they certainly never made it over the threshold into her bedroom.

She ran her hands through her glossy hair. She really was a natural beauty. Lots of players had wives or girlfriends from the television reporting or modeling worlds—typically brassy women who, when all decked out and made-up, were eye-catching and flashy.

That wasn’t Lizzy. He was taken by an urge to draw her close to him. But...that would be a huge mistake.

Don’t push it, something told him. Get too close to her, and she’ll throw you out for good.

He didn’t want her to throw him out. So he hung back, waiting. Kept his hands glued to his side. Didn’t say a word. Let her know that he wasn’t a threat to her.

Finally, a sigh shuddered out of her. “Look, Jon, I have a downstairs neighbor who brings in my deliveries sometimes so they don’t get lost,” she said, like a confession. “She is elderly and doesn’t walk well, so she’s usually at home. I called and asked her to watch Brandon for me while I ran out to the store, but she just called back and said she doesn’t want him down there, bothering her, because she’s watching the baseball game. She doesn’t want to come up here and watch him, either, even if he’s waiting quietly in my bedroom, because I don’t have an HD television.”

“Seriously?”

“I know.” She rolled her eyes. “Who needs high-definition television to watch baseball?”

“Maybe she has a crush on the pitcher.”

A noise burst out of Lizzy, something between a giggle and a snort. She clamped her hand over her mouth, but it was too late.

Aha. So his studious, buttoned-up anesthesiologist had a fun streak in her after all. It was just buried, layers and layers deep.

“Give me your shopping list,” he said gently. “I’ll take care of it. It’s not a big deal.”

“It is to me. I don’t want you buying things for us. And also...” Lizzy gestured to his bandaged hand. “Did you not read your postoperative instructions? You aren’t supposed to be driving, not with the medication you’re on. I won’t be responsible for that.”

“I’m not on medication,” he said quietly. “Just acetaminophen.”

Her mouth dropped open. “Then you’re in pain.”

Maybe, a little bit.

He shrugged. “It doesn’t matter. I don’t want to chance messing with my health by taking heavy drugs like that. My body is how I make my living.”

She rolled her eyes again.

He grinned at her. “Lizzy?” he said, at the same time that Brandon whined plaintively through the door, “Auntie?”

Jon opened the door. Brandon was dressed in Superman pajamas. “Excellent job,” Jon said to him. “I’d like to reward you for that.”

Brandon beamed at him. Before Lizzy could say another word, Jon pulled his wallet from his back pocket and tossed it on the bed. He pulled out his phone, too. “My team’s owner sits on your hospital board. Go ahead and call her assistant, she’ll vouch for me. Then go out and shop for as long as you need to—I’ll wait here with Brandon.”

“Yesss!” Brandon pumped his fist and did some kind of rap dance around the bedroom.

Lizzy glowered at Jon. Yeah, he’d pay for making the kid part of their negotiations.

“How do I know you’re not a pedophile?” she asked in a low voice. “Perfectly respectable-looking football coaches have been found to be abusive to children. If there is one thing we’ve learned, it’s that we can’t trust somebody else vouching for our kids’ caretakers just because they have a prestigious job.”

Uh, she had a point. A twisted point, but then again, these could be twisted times.

He turned on his phone and called up the video interface. “In that case, we’ll use my phone like a nannycam. You can go about your shopping and still see everything Brandon and I are doing.”

“You’re crazy. I am not going to let you stay in my home, Mr. Farell. I’m a private person.”

“And I’m a public guy. I have a lot to lose, too, if you were ever to come out with allegations against me.”

That made her pause. “Why?” she asked finally. “Why do you care so much about helping us?”

Damned if he knew. His finger was throbbing again, he was tired, and well... “I’m hungry.”

He walked over to Brandon, who said, “I’m hungry, too.”

“Then this is what we’ll do, kid. While your aunt is out shopping, we’ll have quiet time together, under her supervision. So get one of your books and show me how well you read.”

“I don’t have any books,” Brandon said.

“You have books at home,” Lizzy corrected him.

“No,” Brandon said. “I don’t.”

He and Lizzy both seemed to still at the same time.

Then she seemed to snap. Scowling, she stomped toward her closet. “Fine.” She reached for a plastic box on the top shelf. “I have books.” Lifting off the lid, she rummaged inside before handing Brandon a hardcover kid’s book.

A very old, very worn-out copy of Curious George Goes to the Hospital.

A lump formed in his throat.

He’d read that story many times to his brothers, many nights when they were left alone that one, hard year.

He looked at Lizzy, locked gazes with her.

It was strange, but he could swear she was thinking the same thing.

“This is what we’ll do,” she said, shaking her head, suddenly straight and crisp again, no sign of apprehension in her root-beer-colored eyes. “Both of you will go down to Mrs. Ham’s apartment. While she watches baseball and ogles the real, live baseball-playing pitcher sitting in her living room, the two of you can read your book. And the minute I return, Jon can go home.”