Snow Melts in Spring (6 page)

TEN

GIL WRESTLED WITH UNEASE AS HE EXITED THE BARN THIRTY MINUTES later. The doc said there was no cause for alarm over the fact that Dusty wasn’t eating, but he noted her concern. She’d inserted another IV to treat the gelding with electrolytes. He wondered if colic might be an issue.

Dusty looked thin, but he’d been in a near-fatal accident and had undergone five hours of surgery. The horse would eat when he got hungry, right? Gil shook his head. Did he trust the doc or not?

In football, nearly everything hinged on numbers and odds. He considered Dusty’s odds of getting better.

Sixty percent?

Better than half, but not good, given those were the same chances San Francisco had of beating Green Bay in the play-offs. Gil figured blind trust would have to prevail over common sense this time.

Driving to Emporia, Gil went over possible scenarios of what he might say when he met the hospitalized boy and his parents. He knew little about Dillon Marshall’s injuries but heard the boy was in intensive care. Upon his arrival, he went straight to the receptionist and asked for directions.

When Gil saw the boy through the window, he shrank back, his heart in his throat. He would never understand the senselessness of drunk driving. The boy lay immobile in the hospital bed, his head bandaged. A man in a rumpled shirt came to the door where Gil stood and reached out his hand.

“I’m Dillon’s father.” His fatigue lifted slightly into a forced grin. “Nice to meet you, Mr. McCray. I heard you were home, though I never expected you to visit.”

Gil tucked the gift he’d brought under his arm and gripped the man’s hand in a firm shake, hoping to convey his earnest regret. “I’m sorry about your boy.”

“We’re sorry about your horse. I understand he’s still alive.”

Gil nodded. “He’s a fighter. Apparently, your son is too.”

The father’s bloodshot eyes glistened, and Gil looked away.

“Dillon suffered from cerebral bleeding that resulted in a stroke,” the man said. “His speech is impaired, and he’s paralyzed from the waist down. We figure when your horse hit the car windshield, Dillon lost control and smashed into a rock culvert.”

A woman came to the man’s side and placed her hand on his arm. “The doctors say our son may never walk again.” She wiped her tears with a tissue, then blew her nose.

Gil stared through the window at the boy. “Does he know about his friend?”

The father nodded. “The funeral’s tomorrow. He wants to go, but there’s no way . . .”

“May I see him?” At his question, the man opened the door for Gil.

The room smelled like disinfectant, a stench he’d grown to despise. He’d been in enough hospitals to last a lifetime, both to visit those who were ill and for his own football injuries. This time was no different. The medicinal odor and confined space made him claustrophobic, made him wish for fresh air.

White bandages hid Dillon’s face.

“Hi, there.” Gil offered the signed football he’d brought and laid it on the covers. “I understand you’re the one who ran into my horse the other night.”

The boy’s lashes blinked and his head moved ever so slightly.

“I’m Gil McCray, quarterback for the 49ers. I’ve been banged up pretty bad from my time on the field, but I think you’ve beaten me, hands down. Are you in much pain?”

Again, the head nodded.

An IV and various clear tubes trickled medicine into the teen. “They probably have you doped up pretty well, and that’s a good thing, believe me.” Gil smiled, growing uncomfortable despite the many times he’d visited kids in hospitals. Even his work with the foundation, which sponsored anti-drinking-and-driving campaigns in schools throughout the nation couldn’t prepare him for the one-on-one talks with kids. Never easy, but especially difficult this time.

He sat in the chair next to the bed and grabbed the football, wanting a familiar object to give him courage to say what needed to be said.

“I’m sorry about your friend.” Gil stared at the bandaged boy, concentrated on the sterile dressings rather than the inner wounds. “I know what it’s like to lose someone you care about. When I was your age, I lost my brother. He died in a vehicle accident the same way your friend did. He’d been drinking, and it cost him his life.”

Gil clutched the football with both hands and squeezed it until his fingers turned white. “His accident’s haunted me for a lot of years. I don’t want to preach, but I hope you understand the magnitude of what’s happened. Your friend died, but God’s given you another chance . . .”

THAT EVENING AFTER SUPPER, GIL LOUNGED ON THE SOFA, HIS FEET propped on the coffee table. His dad sat across the room in his recliner, the television remote in hand.

“How is the Marshall boy doing? Jake said you went to see him in the hospital.”

Gil’s lips scrunched together as he stared at his leather loafers. “Not good. He’s alive, but he doesn’t have much to look forward to. Won’t be scoring any touchdowns, that’s for sure.”

“Or roping any calves?”

Gil glanced at his dad and wondered if the jibe was intentional. “The doctors aren’t giving him much hope to walk again.” He shook his head, sickened by what the boy and his family had to deal with, besides the legal repercussions of drunk driving.

“Do you ever think about Frank?” Gil knew the answer already. How could his father not, when surrounded by the memories? Everywhere Gil looked, Frank or his mama appeared . . . in photographs, china plates, or even a smell. In the last few hours, he’d detected his mother’s scent three or four times, as though it hid in the wallpaper or upholstery and refused to leave.

His dad nodded, his wrinkles more apparent than before. “Mostly when I sit around with nothing to do. That’s when the mind works the hardest.”

Gil understood his father’s dilemma. He’d felt the same when he’d been unable to play ball after he had knee surgery three years ago. There were few things worse than being laid up in bed.

He studied the room and noticed the heavy drapes with their sheer panels, the stained glass lamps, and the dainty doilies his mother made for the furniture. Nothing seemed to have changed since he was a boy, except for his dad’s big screen television complete with an outside satellite dish. Then he noticed the chess set next to his mother’s curio cabinet. “Do you still play?”

Not waiting for a reply, Gil strode across the wool area rug to grab the marble board and pieces. He placed them on the coffee table and began lining up the pawns. “Feel like getting beat in a game of chess — for old time’s sake?”

His father lowered the television volume and tucked the remote inside his flannel shirt pocket. “Don’t suppose there’s much chance of that, but I’m willing if you are.”

Gil grinned, ready to show his dad he’d learned a thing or two in the years he’d been away. He was no longer the dumb teenager who didn’t have a clue about the rules of the king and his lady.

His dad made the first move, the queen’s knight to her right.

As Gil inched one of his black pawns forward, a knock sounded on the front door.

“May I come in?” Dr. Evans peeked inside, and Gil noted her hair hung loose, not braided, this time. Pretty.

“Make yourself at home.” His father waved her in from his recliner. “Gil’s challenged me to a game of chess. Thinks he’s going to whip my butt.”

A huge smile formed on Mattie’s face, and her eyes danced with laughter. “Maybe you’d like a snack while you play. I brought your favorite cookies.” She laid a foil-covered plate on the coffee table and sat beside Gil on the couch.

Gil watched as she removed the silver wrapper to reveal little white cookies sprinkled with cinnamon and sugar. Picture-perfect in size and form, like their maker. He caught the trail of fresh air as Mattie slipped out of her coat and laid it on her lap.

His dad moved his pawn, then reached over and snatched two cookies from the plate. He offered one to Gil. “She makes them the way your mama used to. Chewy and good by themselves, but best with a cup of cold milk.”

Mattie laughed. “Is that a hint?”

“Naw.” His father’s smile revealed even more wrinkles in his tough skin. “What brings you out this way?”

The woman fidgeted with her hands, small hands that looked cold. Gil advanced another pawn.

“I went to visit the Thornton family and took them some cookies. Pretty sad over there.” Her face sobered as she stared at the chessboard.

“I imagine so.” His dad broke his queen out of the line and captured Gil’s bishop.

Gil swore under his breath. Dumb move on his part, he’d left his bishop wide open. How could he concentrate with the two of them gabbing? “I think I’ll get us some milk.”

“Ha, didn’t think I was paying attention, did ya?” His father chuckled and slapped his hand on his knee. The laughter soon turned into a fit of coughing.

Mattie went to his side and patted his back. “You should take it easy. All this excitement will wear you out.” She exchanged a look of caution with Gil before he headed to the kitchen.

What did the doc think — that he was trying to make his old man sick? Gil poured himself a cup of milk and downed it in four gulps. All he’d wanted was to have a nice evening with his father. Maybe start to make amends, but then Mattie Evans shows up with a plate of homemade cookies, her hair down, and smelling like sunshine in June. What was she doing here this time of night, anyway?

Prepared to find out, Gil poured two more drinks for his dad and their guest, then returned to the living room. He stopped mid-stride in the doorway.

The young woman sat on the arm of his dad’s recliner, their hands clasped and voices hushed as though sharing an intimate moment.

Gil cleared his throat and marched in with the milk. “Tell me if I’m wrong, but Dr. Evans, shouldn’t you be at the clinic taking care of my horse?”

ELEVEN

MATTIE LOOKED UP, SURPRISED BY THE QUESTION. SHE RELEASED John’s warm hands and stood. “Actually, I just bid your father good night. I wanted to tell you that Dusty is doing better. The electrolytes seemed to give him a little more energy.” Her voice remained steady. She refused to show Gil how much he’d upset her by his insinuating remark.

The man towered above her, but didn’t budge. Neither did she.

“I’m glad he’s showing progress. All the more reason for you to be there, to monitor his improvement.”

Mattie wanted to stomp on the man’s foot or punch him in the chin. She crossed her arms in front of her chest and stared him down instead. What was his problem, anyway? This morning, he’d been kind and helpful, bringing her biscuits. Now this?

“I’m a licensed veterinarian, but I’m not chained to my clinic twenty-four hours a day. Every once in a while, I do come up for air, shop for groceries, even visit friends if I choose.”

“Whoa, now.” John set his glass of milk on the coffee table, and she noticed how his hand shook. “I’m sure Gil’s not questioning your ethics.”

“No, but it does make me wonder about your recent losses,” Gil said. “Perhaps if you spent more time at your business instead of offering everyone snickerdoodles, you’d have a few more patients to care for.”

The jab went straight to her heart and pierced it. Gil’s words made her want to fall on her knees and weep . . . or growl and strangle someone . . . someone with a big head to match his large, athletic body.

“My presence obviously bothers you, so I’ll head out.” Mattie strained to keep her lips from trembling as she offered John a polite smile. She turned to scowl at the younger McCray. “Enjoy your cookies — and your game of chess.” She reached for the shiny black bishop that marked John’s progress and Gil’s imminent defeat and shoved it into the pompous man’s hand. With any luck, the old fellow would skunk his son in three moves.

“You know you’re always welcome in my home,” John called out when Mattie reached the front door. “This snot-nosed son of mine will be gone tomorrow, so you won’t have to tolerate his nonsense next time.”

His words sang in the foyer and brought a smile to her face. She waved good-bye, but Gil stood stiff as a soldier, like a defender of the king’s castle or something. It made her want to laugh.

The man didn’t have a clue what he was protecting, let alone whom.

GIL LEANED AGAINST THE SEAT OF THE PASSENGER PLANE AND STARED out the window at the clouds below. Jake had driven him to the airport in Wichita, and as they left Diamond Falls, they’d waited on Jimmy Thornton’s funeral procession. Among the many vehicles in the caravan, he’d noticed Dr. Evan’s white pickup. She’d apparently taken time off to attend the memorial service.

What had possessed him to harangue the doc the night before — to the point of embarrassing his father, and his father’s guest? He couldn’t say, except that it had practically knocked him off his feet to see Mattie and his dad holding hands. Earlier, she’d laughed when he’d admitted his suspicions about their relationship. Now he questioned her sincerity. Could the doc be after his father’s land? Or was she an honest-to-goodness friend? He hadn’t met many women like her, who seemed to care about the people around her — in this case, the entire community of Diamond Falls. But he’d known plenty who were hot one minute and cold the next, and it usually meant trouble.

Gil looked down at the sports magazine he’d picked up in the airport terminal and saw Green Bay’s quarterback plastered on the front page. He set his jaw and felt the ache in his gut. It was time to get on with life. Trouble was, after fifteen years in the NFL that might prove hard to do.

TEN DAYS LATER, GIL ENTERED THE COACH’S SAN FRANCISCO OFFICE and handed him a folded piece of paper. “How many more of these documents do I have to sign?”

The man’s smile revealed crooked teeth. “That’s the last of them, if you’re sure you want to go through with this.”

A moment’s hesitation struck Gil before he nodded. “It’s time to give someone else a shot at the game. I had my chance.”

“The fans will remember you, don’t worry. Your numbers are right up there with Young and Montana.” The cheerfulness faded in his eyes. “I’ve scheduled one more news conference with reporters later this afternoon and then you’re free to go.”

His coach leaned over his desk and picked up a wood-framed photograph of the 49ers in their early years. “Nowadays, it’s hard to find players with staying power. You’re the last from the old team, who cared more about the game and the team you played for than the money you made. The boys and I are going to miss you.”

“You’ll probably see me in the announcer’s box one of these days and then you’ll sing a different tune.”

The man laughed and stood from behind his desk. “With you at the microphone, I know we’ll be in trouble.” He squeezed Gil’s shoulder with affection. “What will you do now?”

Gil stared at the oak bookcase in his coach’s office, at the many pictures of his team through the years. “I’m not sure. Spend more time with the foundation — maybe buy a ranch up north.”

“Why not take some time off and visit your dad? Repair the damage done after all these years.”

“I just came from there. I’m not sure I want to go back so soon.”

His coach reached into his pocket and pulled out a silver watch. He played with the chain between his thick fingers. “Here, I want you to have this.” The gray-haired man pressed the timepiece into Gil’s palm. “My first coach gave it to me when I was a boy. You’ve been like a son to me. I guess it’s time to hand it down.”

Uncomfortable with the emotional display, Gil shook his head. “I can’t take your watch, Coach. You’ll never arrive to practice on time if I do.” He slapped his coach on the forearm in an effort to lighten the mood.

The man glared at him. Gil had witnessed that determined look often enough to know not to argue. “My dad gave it to me, now I’m turning it over to you. Don’t lose it. It keeps good time . . . but remember, even the steadiest of us old-timers will stop running one day.”

Coach always did have a way with words. Gil gripped the watch with his fingers and felt the smooth metal beneath his touch. “Thanks, Coach. I won’t forget.”

After lunch, Gil’s secretary greeted him as he entered the fifth-floor office space where he ran his private foundation.

“Welcome home, Mr. McCray.” The young blonde straightened in her chair, her posture perfect, and her nails a shade of dark pink that matched her lipstick.

“Is everyone here for the meeting?” he asked as he passed her desk.

She smiled and handed him a folder. “The last one slipped in about two minutes before you arrived.”

“Good.” Gil took the document from her. He appreciated punctuality in his board members. “Hold any calls for the next few hours and don’t schedule me for anything this afternoon. Seems I have an appointment with some reporters.”

He moved down the hall to the conference room. The second he opened the door, the flurry of conversation halted.

“Good afternoon, everyone. Nothing like a few traffic jams and the smell of exhaust to welcome a person back to the city.” He raised his eyebrows, and they chuckled in return. Prepared to go to work, he removed his gray tweed jacket. “Show me what you’ve done while I’ve been gone.”

For the next sixty minutes, Gil and his five board members discussed possible contributions, as they did every month. At the end of the session, a stack of paperwork sat in front of Gil on the table to review. His role as financier and overseer of the Gil McCray Foundation had been made possible through his football career. Thankfully, he’d built sizeable investments during that time, and he hoped to continue the foundation in the years to come.

He took the folders to his office and reviewed the possible donations — all victims of drunk drivers. About halfway through the pile, the afternoon sun beamed through the spacious windows and bounced rays of light against his desk. Distracted, his gaze settled on the football propped there, and his heart sank at the realization.

He wasn’t going to play anymore.

His football career was over.

Too restless to work, Gil walked to the front desk and laid an envelope in front of the secretary.

“Here’s a case I’m interested in. Have Jonathan investigate the report and see if it meets our specifications.”

“And if it does?”

“You know what to do.” Gil pulled his jacket on and straightened his knit collar. “What do you think? Do I look okay for my last appointment with the press?”

The young woman offered a smile and pulled a red necktie from her bottom drawer. She held it out for him, but he declined.

“You know better than that. Ties are reserved for game day.”

Gil sauntered out of the office to the elevator, and only then did he allow his smile to fade. No more ties for him. No more game days. What would he do with his life now?