The Good Wife(81)
* * *
He did come back for a third morning in a row, but he seated himself at the counter instead of waiting for a booth.
The counter was Lauren’s, and she could have sworn by his expression that he knew it.
“Coffee?” she asked, greeting him and sliding the menu toward him.
“Juice,” he said, and didn’t bother with the menu, pushing it back. “What’s your special today?”
Her hands went to her hips. “You didn’t like the waffles yesterday.”
“I did.”
“No, you told Bette to tell me they were fine.” Her eyes held his, her expression reproving. “And we already established that fine is not fine, and then you added that the waffles could be improved if we toasted the pecans more.”
He smiled. “Just a smidge more.”
She considered him a long moment. “You were right.” Lauren reached for his menu, tapped it on the counter. “I tried the pecans. They definitely needed to be toasted more.”
“Just a smidge.” The edges of his lips curved up again. He wasn’t a kid. He was a man, had to be mid to late thirties, and when he smiled, creases formed at his eyes and mouth, making him even more beautiful.
Amazing how just that tiny smile could make her pulse quicken. And Lauren considered herself impervious to men, which made this one man doubly dangerous. “You know your food,” she said.
“I know Southern food,” he corrected.
“You’re from Louisiana?”
“New Orleans.”
She noticed he said it more like “Naw’lens.” “Our special is eggs Sardou.”
“Can I get it with a side of grits?”
Something in her shifted yet again, and she felt a sharp dart of pain in her chest, near her heart. “Absolutely.”
* * *
It was on the fourth morning that Lauren found out who he was. It was early still, not even six A.M., but Phyllis had the sports section from the Oakland Tribune, and she put it on the counter and spread it open.
“I was right,” she said, pointing to an article. “He is a baseball player. He’s new with the A’s.”
“What’s his name?” Bob, the cook, called, from the kitchen.
“Boone Walker,” Phyllis answered. “He’s a DH. Designated hitter—”
“I know what a DH is,” Bob retorted loudly.
Phyllis ignored him, tapping the black-and-white photo and caption. “Only been with the team a week and he’s already making the headlines.”
Lauren glanced over Phyllis’s shoulder to read the headline: VETERAN BOONE WALKER’S BAT MAKES BIG IMPRESSION. “Nice,” she said.
“I told you,” Bette said, moving in closer to get a better look. “I knew he was a professional athlete.”
“You said football. I said baseball.” Phyllis nodded for emphasis. “I knew it from those legs.”
“But neither of you knows anything about him,” Bob said. “I do. I’ve got some of his cards. He used to be with Houston. Before that, he spent four years with the Reds and a year in Seattle.”
“That’s a lot of moves,” Lauren said.
“That’s because teams were fighting over him,” Bob added, looking under the warmer. “He used to really hit the ball—”
“Sounds like he can still really hit the ball,” Phyllis interjected.
Bob didn’t like being interrupted and glared at Phyllis. “But he’s old now. Not making what he used to, and Walker was one of those guys who, back in the early nineties, was earning four or five million a year. That’s good money.”
The door opened and customers walked in, effectively curtailing the conversation. But four hours later, when Boone Walker entered the café, the staff all paused, looked at him, aware now of just who he was.
“Morning,” Boone said, taking a seat at the counter.
“Morning,” Lauren answered, hating that she suddenly felt nervous. It shouldn’t matter that he was with the A’s and a baseball player.
But it did. She didn’t like baseball, didn’t like the players, didn’t like anything to do with the sport.
Blake had played baseball, but it hadn’t been by her choice. She’d never suggested it to him; in fact, she’d done everything in her power to keep him away from the game, signing him up for soccer and swimming, but when he’d heard that friends in his preschool class were playing T-ball, he’d insisted he play, too.
Blake was a natural, too. There wasn’t a sport he couldn’t play, and by the time he reached high school, he was getting some serious looks from scouts.
Those who were in the know said Blake had a chance to make it in professional baseball.