Turnabout's Fair Play (12 page)

Finally around three o’clock, he’d picked up his netbook from the bedside table and reread the most recent post from his favorite writer on the website. Then he’d gone into total fanboy mode and written an e-mail to the writer. At least sending it through the website protected his identity. All the writer would see would be his username, something that no one in real life would ever connect with him.

The ball came back to him, but not before the red team—wearing flapping red smocks over their T-shirts and shorts—scored two runs and the girl who’d just kicked landed on third base.

A little boy—probably no more than four years old—came up to home base. Jamie hunkered down and pitched a slow roller toward him—and then had to dive out of the way to keep from being smashed in the face when the kid kicked the ball harder than his little body should have been able to.

Jamie rolled onto his side and sat up, laughing and cheering along with the moms lining the side of the blacktop—a slab of asphalt just large enough for a half basketball court or the infield for a game of kickball.

Having dozed only fitfully after reading, he’d woken up with a headache and considered begging off helping with the cookout today. Now he was happy he hadn’t.

A few dark clouds had rolled across the sky earlier today, but other than that, they couldn’t have ordered up a more perfect Memorial Day. Bright sun, warm but not hot, slight breeze. Laughing kids. Cheering moms. And a bunch of senior adults bringing more food than everyone here could possibly eat in four or five sittings.

Perfect. Just what he needed to get his mind off himself and his own issues.

A dinner bell clanged.

“Okay, kids, that’s the end of the game.” He stood and tucked the ball under his arm.

The kids chorused their regret and begged to be allowed to continue the game after lunch, gathering around him and keeping him from escaping until he agreed. “Fine. After lunch, after you’ve had at least half an hour to digest your food—because I’m not cleaning up behind anyone who gets out here too early and pukes—we’ll keep playing if that’s what you want to do.”

The amoeba around him cheered and, like a tidal wave, pushed him toward the food tables. His mouth watered at the charred aroma of grilled hamburgers and hot dogs. He helped a few of the smallest ones—who could barely see over the edge of the tables bearing all the food—fix their plates and then sent them over to the low plastic picnic tables under the trees beside the blacktop.

“You looked like you were having fun.” Cookie handed him an empty plate.

He leaned over and kissed her cheek. “I was. They’re great kids.”

“Jamie, I’d like to introduce you to someone who’s been visiting my Sunday school class.” Cookie stepped aside, and a tall, broad-shouldered man stepped forward. “This is Kirby McNeill.”

Jamie shifted the plate to his left hand and shook the older gentleman’s hand. McNeill? Surely he wasn’t…But McNeill was a fairly common last name, wasn’t it? “It’s nice to meet you, Mr. McNeill.”

Cookie picked up a bottle of water and tried to wrap her gnarled fingers around the cap.

Jamie tucked his still-empty plate under his arm. “Here, let me do that for you.”

With a grateful smile, his grandmother handed him the bottle, which he easily opened for her and handed back.

Before fixing his own plate, Jamie stood back and observed the food line, stepping in several times—to help one lady pour her iced tea, since her hands shook so badly she threatened to baptize the entire drink table with it; to help one of the most wizened men with a pair of tongs that had an industrial-strength spring in them and were hard to use; to lend an extra hand to someone else trying to get to a table across the grass with her food plate, cup, and dessert plate intact.

Once everyone but the ladies who were serving and the two men still at the grill turning out the last hamburger patties and hot dogs had gotten their plates and sat down to start eating, Jamie finally turned to get his lunch. Several of the dishes he’d wanted to try now stood empty, but that was okay—plenty of food still remained.

He piled his plate high then joined the little kids at one of the low plastic picnic tables—sitting in the grass at the end of it instead of risking overbalancing it with his weight.

He’d barely finished his lettuce-wrapped hamburger and started on his bunless hot dog when the kids began pestering him to play kickball again.

“How long did I tell you we needed to wait?” He looked around at the small crowd of kids.

“Half an hour,” one of the older ones answered. “But what are we supposed to do until then?”

“You could help clean up,” Jamie suggested.

Groans echoed all around him, just as expected.

“Why don’t you play hide-and-seek or even just go lie down in the grass and close your eyes for a few minutes?”

The idea that he might want them to take a nap dispersed them quicker than cockroaches when the lights came on. He finished eating and then rose to help with the cleanup—starting with the mess the kids left behind.

Several of the senior ladies bustled around, pulling the butcher paper up around the plates, napkins, and cups left on the tables. He watched them carefully from the corner of his eye, just to make sure no one was becoming overexerted.

And then it happened. A lady who looked like she might be the oldest one there put her hand to her forehead and swooned, crumpling to the grass.

Jamie dropped the wad of trash he had in his arms and ran to her, dropping to his knees beside her. He wanted to help the woman but wasn’t certain how. He looked around for a shock of familiar red hair. “Cookie! Cookie!”

His grandmother appeared at his side. “What happened?” She touched the woman’s cheeks and forehead. “Burning up.” She touched her fingertips to the lady’s throat. “Pulse is rapid. Breathing is shallow and rapid. Heat stroke. Jamie, do you think you can carry her inside?”

He lifted the tiny woman in his arms and followed Cookie inside the shelter’s common room.

“Put her there.” Cookie indicated a sofa, and Jamie eased the lady down onto it.

“What can I do to help?” Mr. McNeill hovered behind Cookie.

She turned to look over her shoulder at him. “I need cool, wet cloths—damp, not soaked.”

Mr. McNeill gave a terse nod and went off in search of someone to direct him to the supplies he needed.

“Jamie, call 911.”

He’d already pulled his phone out in preparation to do just that. Once the ambulance had been dispatched, Jamie stayed on the line with the operator and relayed the woman’s vitals as Cookie called them out. Pulse, respirations, temperature—the facility director had brought a thermometer with her—and that the victim was reporting dizziness and exhibiting slight confusion.

The paramedics arrived and got the lady onto a gurney with an oxygen mask and an IV before taking her out to the ambulance. Another member of the senior adult group had called the woman’s daughter to meet her at the hospital.

“Praise the Lord you were here, Maureen. You may have saved her life.” Kirby McNeill laid a large hand on Cookie’s shoulder.

Cookie blushed and shrugged. “Anyone else could have done the same.” Though she tried to sound casual and nonchalant, Jamie could hear the tremor in her voice.

He pulled her into a hug. “No, Cookie, not anyone else could have done the same. I wouldn’t have known what to do.” He didn’t let go of her until her trembling stopped.

“Your grandson is right.” Kirby nodded his head emphatically. “All I could think to do was pray. And while I know that’s always the right thing to do, it’s not always the most helpful thing to do. You knew exactly what she needed.”

Cookie stepped back from Jamie and patted her hair to make sure it hadn’t been mussed from his hug. He hid his smile. “I may have retired almost twenty years ago, but forty years of nursing isn’t easily forgotten.” She reached up and patted Jamie’s cheek then smiled at Mr. McNeill. “And I had some wonderful assistants. Thank you. I couldn’t have done it without the two of you.”

The excitement over, everyone finished cleaning up and headed home. Jamie had to promise Cookie he’d stop by for dinner one night this week before she’d let him leave.

On the drive home, he kept running the scenario through his mind. What if Cookie hadn’t been there? He wouldn’t have known what to do—and he hadn’t even thought to pray, as Kirby McNeill said he had.

But the satisfaction of seeing the old woman sit up and start to talk to them after he’d been sure she was dying, of knowing that he’d had some hand in helping her recover—was this what had drawn Danny to nursing? That sense of fulfillment, of accomplishment in knowing he’d had a direct impact on helping someone else?

Maybe he should give the idea some more thought. Perhaps, maybe, just a little bit, even pray about it?

Chapter 8

A
small foam basketball bounced off Jamie’s left cheek.

“Sorry, Boss.” Ainslee scurried over from her desk to pick up the projectile. “Just a little game of horse before the day gets started.”

Darrell and the two graphic designers stood beside Ainslee’s desk. All of them early for work the day after a holiday—and the first day after learning they were losing their jobs?

Jamie set his black canvas briefcase down inside the door to his office, turned, and crossed his arms. “What’s going on?”

Wade swished his head to flip his blond hair out of his eyes and took the ball from Ainslee. “What do you mean, Boss?”

“I mean you’re all here early. And you’re all wearing jeans.” He uncrossed his arms and pushed his blazer back to rest his hands on his hips.

“We’re just here because we have to be.” Wade came up on his toes when he shot the ball across the large common room toward the hoop on his office door. It bounced off the rim and rolled back to him.

“Besides”—Ainslee picked up a small plastic football with an advertiser’s logo on the side—“what’s Armando going to do—fire us for wearing jeans our last week of work?” She lobbed the football at Jamie.

It hit the center of his chest and fell to the floor. He looked down at it, scowling. Why hadn’t he thought to wear jeans today?

Oh yeah, because he might actually have a potential client to meet with. “Just don’t forget that there’s work to do this week.”

“Yeah, like trying to find another job.”

He heard Ainslee’s muttered words just before he latched his office door closed. But he couldn’t worry about the team—
his
team, whether he’d been promoted to director or not—right now. He picked up his bag and carried it to his desk. From the outside pocket he pulled out a business card, took a deep breath, and dialed the cell phone number on it.

“Cole Samuels.”

“Good morning, Cole. Jamie O’Connor here.” He flipped his planner open. “Calling to see if you know your availability this week so we can set up that meeting we talked about.”

“Oh, yeah, yeah. Hang on just a sec. Amy Joy wrote everything down for me.” The sound of rustling paper came through the phone. “Here it is. Let’s see…. Thursday at ten in the morning.”

Jamie waited a moment, but Cole didn’t give any other time options. “Okay. Um…I’ll have to call Flannery and let her know. I’m not sure about her schedule, but I imagine she can work around this.”

“Great. How do I get to your office?”

His
office? Jamie hadn’t thought about that. This was his idea, something he’d come up with on his own, not for the Gregg Agency—or whatever the new name of it was now. But if he had Cole come here, Armando would get wind of it because no one in this office could keep a confidence. “I think we’ll be meeting at the Lindsley House offices. And since I’ve never been there myself, I’ll have to get directions from Flannery and e-mail them to you.”

“That would be fantastic. I’ll see you at ten Thursday morning then.”

After Jamie hung up, he rested his face on his desk blotter. Why hadn’t he called Flannery first and found out her schedule and made sure it would be okay to meet at her place?

The damage now done, he needed to face the consequences. He sat up and picked up the phone to call Flannery…but didn’t have her phone number. All right, then. He’d send her an e-mail.

No, he didn’t have her e-mail address, either. He considered another face-plant on the desk, but he had work to do. Shedding his jacket, which he draped across the back of his ugly but ergonomic chair, he emerged from his office—into a heated basketball game between Ainslee, Darrell, and Wade.

Wade and Ainslee actually seemed to be playing more of a game of keep-away from the much shorter Darrell.

Well, that just wasn’t fair. Jamie jumped into the fracas and stole the ball as Ainslee threw it toward Wade. He passed it low to Darrell, who floated an over-the-head hook shot into the basket. The two graphic designers, sitting with their backs turned to their oversized computer screens, cheered for each of the two teams—though not so loudly that their voices would carry down the hall to disturb others.

Like the previous department director, Jamie believed in the efficacy of physical activity to stimulate creativity. Or as a way to procrastinate from doing paperwork or other tedious tasks they wanted to avoid for as long as possible.