Be My Baby Tonight (5 page)

“Don’t forget number three. Because we aren’t
getting any younger, remember?”

“Hey, an argument is an argument. I gave it a
shot, but I’ll take it back if you want.”

She slammed the drawer shut. “Yeah, I want.
Take it back.”

“Taken back. I’m not getting any younger.
You, however, are close to jailbait. I’m just lucky nobody carts me
off to the pokey, being here with such a lovely young thing.”

“Don’t overdo it, Trehan, we graduated in the
same class,” she said, then sighed. “Okay. I’m hearing your
reasons. We’re friends, we’ve known each other forever, and you’re
right, neither one of us is getting any younger. And we had...
we... We made love,” she ended in a rush.

“Wrong. We made some damn fantastic love,
Suze. I don’t know about you, but I think I heard fireworks going
off.”

I... I wouldn’t know. It... It’s not like I
have a whole lot to compare you with...”

He leaned close, whispered in her ear, “Trust
me, I’m good. I’m very, very good.”

“Trust Me Trehan,” she said, stepping away
from him. “Oh, yes, I remember now. Last time I heard that one I
think I ended up letting you borrow my mom’s car. You drove it into
a ditch, and I was grounded for a month.”

“We won’t drive; we’ll take a jet to Vegas.
I’ll charter one.”

She sat down on the edge of the bed, looked
up at him. “You’re serious, aren’t you? I mean, you’re really
serious.”

Tim had a quick flash of himself lying on his
hack, all his wind knocked out of him after Sanchez had come
barreling into him, full force, in yesterday’s game. It was only a
matter of time before that one out of three happened, until he fell
victim to his own superstition, or to the Trehan curse. Who cared
what it was called. He just cared that he believed it, that one of
those three things had to happen to him.

“I’m serious, yes. Marry me, Suze. You’ve
been my pal forever. You’ve always come through for me in a pinch.
I... I need you.”

She looked at him for a long time, long
enough for him to feel the guilt begin to seep into his bones, take
up residence.

But was what he was doing so bad?

She’d always had a thing for him. He’d always
known that, and she’d admitted it to him last night.

And he liked her. He’d always liked Suze.
Good old Suze. Now good old Suze was a grown woman, and man, had
she grown up great.

They would be okay. She liked baseball. He
loved baseball. She loved him. He liked her.

It could work. It
would
work.

As long as he didn’t tell her the truth.

“Suze? Please?” he asked, going down on one
knee.

“Oh, get up,” she said, heading for the
bathroom once more. “And you’d better order us both some breakfast.
I hate airplane food.”

“You got it,” he called after her,
high-fiving an imaginary hand as he headed for the telephone. Sam
was going to bust a gut, but he’d get over it.

His manager would get over it the minute Tim
“the Tiger” Trehan started hitting them into the bleachers
again.

Holy cow!

— Phil Rizzuto,

Yankees announcer

“Would you care for a glass of wine, Ms.
Trent?”

Suzanna tore her gaze away from the
bluer-than-blue skies and poofy, whiter-than-white clouds outside
the small porthole window and looked at the stewardess, one of the
two on this chartered flight.

What was the plural of stewardess? Oh, yeah,
that old joke from her dad’s favorite comedian, Shelly Berman: “the
plural of steward-ess is steward-ii.”

Except they weren’t steward-ii anymore. They
were flight attendants. Probably trained in CPR and antiterrorism
tactics, and braver than she’d ever be.

Shame this one, who probably spoke three
languages and could efficiently employ the Heimlich maneuver while
serving dinner to two other people, couldn’t seem to recognize a
hangover when she saw one.

“Um, no thanks,” Suzanna said, hiding behind
her dark sunglasses.

“No? How about a soft drink?”

“Uh-uh, thanks.”

“Beer?”

“God, no,” Suzanna said, then did her best to
smile. Poor woman. Two attendants, two passengers; one of them
sprawled out over two seats, sound asleep.
The woman has got to
be bored out of her skull.
“But if you have some water and a
couple of Tylenol?”

“Certainly, Ms. Trent,” the attendant said
happily, and walked off in her sensible two-inch heels and
marvelously well-cut navy blue suit.

This plane had to be costing Tim the earth,
and maybe even a sizable down payment on the moon. Pilot, copilot,
two attendants, and seats enough for at least fifteen people.

How nice for him to not have to worry about
things like money. Not that she sat up nights worrying about bills
herself. Still, her money, piled next to Tim’s money, would look
like the proverbial molehill next to his mountain.

Was that going to be a problem for her? No,
she didn’t think so.

“Oh, thank you,” Suzanna said, accepting the
glass of ice water and a small packet of Tylenol from the
attendant. “You’re a lifesaver. Tell me, when do we land?”

The attendant looked at the watch strapped to
her wrist. “About ninety minutes more, Ms. Trent. Would you like me
to bring you another pillow? A blanket?”

“No, that’s okay. I think I’m going to go
prod Mr. Trehan with a stick. It’ll help pass the time.”

The attendant blinked, then grinned. “He’s
been
asleep
almost since we took off, hasn’t he? Big game
yesterday, I guess. I heard the pilot and copilot talking about it.
Fourteen innings?”

“At least that,” Suzanna said weakly,
remembering the “innings” she and Tim had put in
after
the
game was over.

Suzanna watched the attendant walk toward the
front of the small jet once more, then released her seat belt and
headed to the back, where Tim was curled up on a wider seat, a
fuzzy blue blanket draped over him.

“Tucked you in, did they?” she asked quietly,
sitting clown on one of the facing seats.

She looked at him, his head on a small
pillow, his hands tucked up near his chin, his long legs bent to
fit on the seat now that the center armrest had been pushed out of
the way.

The sleep of the innocent. Whoever had
written that line surely had never met Tim Trehan.

Married. He said they were going to be
married as soon as the plane set down in Las Vegas.

And she’d said yes.

And, much as she wished she could tell
herself otherwise, she had been sober when she’d said it.

She was sober now. Her headache had even
begun to fade, so that she couldn’t say she wasn’t thinking
clearly.

Clearly, she was
nuts,
running a close
second to
pathetic.

God, look at him. His dark blond hair mussed,
and yet sexy as hell. That lighter blond streak making her fingers
itch to run through his hair.

Once, a million years ago, he’d fallen asleep
on her bedroom floor, after half a night spent cramming for their
trig final.

She’d gone downstairs to get them each
another soda, and when she’d come back, there he was, curled up
much the same as he was now, out cold.

She’d sat on the edge of her bed and watched
him sleep, watched him until it was nearly dawn, then finally woke
him and slipped him out of the house before her parents could wake
up and have a cow.

Have a cow?
Where had that come from?
She had regressed to high school speak.

Okay, so it went quite well with her
resurrected high school crush, didn’t it?

Except she was a grown-up now. Tim might
still be playing ball, playing at life, but she was a grown-up. She
had a responsible job. More than a job, a profession. What did Tim
have? His face on a baseball card, that was what Tim had.

They had had fun last night.
Before
they went up to her room. Talking, laughing over old times.

But it had been ten years, almost eleven. Did
they have anything in common anymore, other than their
memories?

And
some really great sex,
a small
part of her brain, the lascivious part obviously, reminded her.

But, as Tim had said, and had clearly meant,
neither of them was getting any younger. He must really be ready to
settle down, and he had decided to settle down with her.

It was a dream, all her dreams, come
true.

“Oh, God,” she said, burying her face in her
hands. “Am I about to make the biggest mistake in my life?”

* * *

Tim tilted his head slightly, smiled into
Suzanna’s face. “Hi, Mrs. Trehan,” he said, then gave her a hug as
the little old lady in the purple dress and matching hair cried
“Weeee!”
and threw confetti at them.

“Can we get out of here now?” Suzanna asked,
and Tim realized that she was shaking and seemed close to
tears.

“Sure, Suze. Let’s go.”

He slipped an arm around her shoulders and
led her out of the small chapel with all the white latticework on
the walls, festooned with plastic flowers, and through an archway
of white balloons, out into the hot Las Vegas sunshine.

“Pretty creepy, huh?” he said apologetically,
looking back at the square white clapboard building with the
makeshift steeple on top. “Sorry we couldn’t wait for the chapel at
one of the casinos; but I’ve got to be back in Philly by tomorrow
morning or Sam’ll murder me, and then he’d fail his anger
management class.”

“I understand,” she said, quickly slipping
into the long, black rented limousine ahead of him as the uniformed
driver held open the door for them. “Are we going straight back to
the airport from here?”

He slid in beside her, planted a kiss on her
nose. “Suze, we landed, we hit the courthouse, then the chapel of
the damned, or whatever that place is called. Before we leave I
want to get something great to eat, and then maybe we can hit one
of the casinos. Sam made me promise I’d put twenty on number twelve
for him. That’s roulette, Suze.”

“I know it’s roulette,” she told him, sinking
lower in the seat. “And I could eat, I suppose.”

“Great,” Tim said, knowing he wasn’t quite
playing the role of attentive bridegroom. But it had just hit him.
He was married. Cripes. Married.

To good old Suze.

“Steak?”

He frowned at her. “Oh, steak. Yeah, sure. I
could eat a steak.”

“Good, because suddenly I’m starving.” She
leaned forward, knocked on the glass separating them from the
driver. “Steak and the nearest casino, in that order, or together,
if you can manage it?”

The driver grinned at her. “Yes, ma’am. And
may I say, ma’am, congratulations. Nice work. Tim Trehan. Man,
that’s cool.”

Suzanna sat back once more, her expression,
to Tim’s mind anyway, rather mulish.

“What’s the matter?”

“What’s the matter?” she repeated. “I’ll tell
you what’s the matter. The groom is supposed to be congratulated,
and the bride offered best wishes.
You,
Tim, are supposed to
be the lucky one because
you’ve
got
me
.”

“Yeah, all right. I wasn’t listening. What
did he say?”

“He congratulated me; that’s what he did.
Nice work, he said. Like you’re some huge fish I landed with my
rusty reel and a couple of wiggly worms. Is that what everyone’s
going to think?”

“Prickly,” Tim said, slipping his arm around
her once more. “I forgot that about you, Suze. You could get really
prickly. I married you because I wanted to, and that’s what I’ll
tell anyone who asks.”

She slightly lifted her chin as she closed
her eyes. “People are going to ask, aren’t they? Reporters. Fans.
Jack.”

Tim nearly knocked the top of Suzanna’s head
off as he jumped forward in the seat. “Oh, cripes. Jack. I didn’t
tell him. Or Mort.”

“Who’s Mort?” Suzanna asked, rubbing at the
back of her head.

“My agent,” Tim said, reaching for his cell
phone and hitting number two on the speed dial, Mort’s private
number. “Mort will handle everything, the publicity, all that junk.
And he’ll go ballistic if someone calls him to ask about our
marriage and he doesn’t know about it. I mean, he’ll blow
a—
Mort!
Hey, hi. It’s Tim. Yeah, I know you know my voice.
Look, Mort, I’ve kind of got something to tell you.”

The limousine pulled under a canopy of sorts
and stopped. Suzanna got out when the back door opened, and Tim
followed, still listening to Mort tell him about an endorsement
deal he was working on, one that would feature both Tim and Jack
and a huge four-by-four pickup truck.

He covered the phone for a moment, told the
driver to wait somewhere for them, then trotted after Suzanna, who
had already stepped inside the casino. The loud casino. Bells
ringing, people yelling, music playing, kids running for a big gift
shop right next to the front doors. “Mort? You still there? Suze!
Suze, wait for me.”

“Suze? What’s a Suze?” Mort asked from behind
his desk in his office in New York. Tim could see him there: pudgy
five-foot, nine-inch frame stuffed in some modern leather chair,
his Ferragamos propped on the desk top, either rubbing hair
restorer into his scalp or hiding that scalp beneath one of his
many toupees, his black bean eyes somewhat squinted as he listened
to Tim. That was Mort “More and More” Moore.

“Here’s the thing, Mort,” Tim said quickly.
“I got married a couple of minutes ago.”

Then he waited for the explosion.

“You
what?”
Tim imagined Mort’s feet
swinging down off the desk top as his agent hopped to his feet,
tried to force himself through the telephone wires so he could
strangle his client. “And you didn’t tell me? Where are you? I can
have press and cameras there in five minutes. No, no press. Not if
I’m not there. Just cameras.”