Stephanie Evanovich: The Sweet Spot

“I need a reservation for tonight,” a gravelly voice barked into the phone. The caller was either on a cell phone with a bad connection or had a mouthful of marbles.

“Of course, sir. What time are you looking for?”

“Seven,” he said impatiently, and Amanda pictured him running to catch a subway.

“Let me make sure I have that available,” she told him, trying to buy time while she booted up the computer at the podium a few feet away. She moved the phone to the other side of her head, forgetting it was a war zone, and her hair crackled near her ear.

“Trust me, sweetheart, you have a table available.”

“Sir?” She didn’t know what to be more offended by, his use of the word sweetheart or the underlying threat that she’d better be able to seat him. She came to the conclusion that he was just some arrogant blowhard who was sitting with his feet on his desk, overlooking the water with a fat stogie in his mouth.

“A superstar is having dinner at your restaurant; you don’t want to make him wait.”

“All of our guests at the Cold Creek are VIPs, Mr.—?”

“Maybe I should speak to the owner?” he said, cutting her off. She thought she heard more spit squish out of the end of his cigar.

“I am the owner. My name is Amanda Cole. To whom do I have the pleasure of speaking?”

“Don’t seat us someplace high traffic like near the front. He’s not there to be an advertisement. You’ll get your photo op.”

It sounded so scathing, as if she were some sort of a bistro whore looking to make a buck, as if she would be interested in taking a picture with him in the first place. Supreme Court justices and past presidents dined at the Cold Creek without incident. “Mr. Whatever-Your-Name-Is, I’m concerned not only for the comfort of our guests, but the safety of my staff. And we have had some high-profile guests in the past. Several are regulars.”

“Yeah, yeah, I heard that. That’s why I’m calling. But, lady, you never had anyone this big,” he said with an air of superiority that was nothing short of skin-crawling. At least he had upgraded her to “lady.”

If he wasn’t being such a total jackass, she might have taken him more seriously. “Would you like to tell me who he is so that I might inform security?” she said with overt sarcasm. He could either take being spoken to in kind or start to ream her out and she would hang up on him and he could dine elsewhere, bad business or not.

There was a pause and she thought he may have hung up on her first. But then he said, “No. Better you don’t know till he gets there. Someone tips off TMZ and the night’s a bust. And he brings his own security.”

“Will they be joining you for dinner?”

His laugh was particularly smarmy. “They’re not paid to eat.”

So he wasn’t only rude, he was also a tyrant. “That’s fine, sir, they can stand guard with mine.” Only hers were imaginary. She no longer cared if the computer was ready. It was a Wednesday, when they were rarely fully booked, and this man and his famous guest seemed intent on dining there. He was probably going to be more aggravation than anything else, even if he was only half as self-important as his representative. “You’re all set, dinner for two at seven. Would you like to leave me a name or is there a code word or what?”

There was another pause, and once again Amanda was given the false hope that he might have hung up, saving her from a night of inconvenient distractions at the very least. But then she heard him on the other end; the noise he made sounded like a snort.

“You’re spunky, kid,” he told her. “Name under Alan Shaw. I’ll be there at six fifty. I don’t like to wait, either. And make sure there are good steaks on hand, he’s a meat eater.”

There was no mistaking the disconnection this time. A security-conscious carnivore with popelike status was joining her for dinner tonight. One who had an obnoxious toady. She pulled the phone away from her ear, turned it off, and wiped the watered-down bird residue off it with the sleeve of her shirt before setting it down on the bar. She noted the time on the now fully booted-up computer, which opened to the day’s reservation page. They were completely booked for seven. She had forgotten about the art house theater opening a few blocks away. Strike three. Her day officially went bust at 2:02 P.M. That was fast, and on a day that had started off so well. When would she learn to keep thoughts of perfection out of her head?

Amanda took a look over at Eric and Nicki. When the telephone exchange had started taking a turn for the testy, they’d stopped what they were doing to watch, waiting to see if their usually competent boss was about to unravel. Amanda picked her purse up off the bar.

“Can you two hold down the fort for a couple hours?” she asked, more out of courtesy than concern, while fishing out her keys.

“Sure,” they said in unison. Then Nicki added, “Where are you going?”

“I’m using a mulligan and starting the day over,” Amanda said over her shoulder as she headed for the door. She wasn’t sure it was going to help.

CHASE TOOK A moment to appreciate the clear blue sky just before putting on his batting helmet. He loved the first home-day games of the season, before the humidity kicked in and the sun was so high at game time the ball was difficult to spot. Not to mention, crowds were much more forgiving and optimistic in April and May. When they were being baked in ninety-degree sun for two and half hours, unless the division title was already all sewn up, fans expected a win, and even then, they could be cranky.

But even in the dog days of summer, Chase Walker rarely needed to be forgiven. He had done his part since the day he put on the uniform as a rookie four years ago, a regular on the all-star roster. One of those years he’d won the home-run derby. He was what sportscasters referred to as “one of those naturally gifted corn-fed boys out of Iowa,” all of which were true. He could always make it as a farmer, but he’d learned early on that as long as he kept hitting balls over outfield walls, he wouldn’t have to. Luckily, the balls and the walls cooperated. The same could be said of his speed and agility. Given his size, neither was expected of him, but he worked on both anyway. He’d earned two gold gloves for the effort.

He walked out onto the field and, picking up a weighted donut, slid it down the end of the bat before stepping into the on-deck circle. He started haphazardly swinging to get the feel, and thought about Julie Harrison’s five-year-old son, whom he’d signed a baseball for two hours earlier. Damn, that kid was cute.

Chase watched Baltimore’s pitcher a moment. Brandon Howard didn’t have a bad start; he had struck Chase out his first time up. But his curveball was coming in high and his slider had started breaking just short of the plate. His fastball had never been anything to write home about. If Troy Miller noticed it, too, he’d be working a walk and would load the bases. With the Miller’s count going to 2–0, chances were he did.

Chase went back to reflecting on Julie, playing with his batting gloves, oblivious to the twenty-five thousand people around him. It was such a nice surprise when she showed up at the stadium during warm-ups. Eight years had changed her from a rebellious teenager to a graceful woman. When she’d called out to him from the row above the dugout, he recognized her right away. Some women just said his name differently. He had security bring Julie and her family onto the edge of the field, where Chase met her son, Milo, and Greg, her Marine Corps sergeant husband. Greg was tall, clean-cut, and sturdy with a firm handshake and good posture. Chase thanked Greg for his service, immediately offered them seats in his luxury box, and then signed the ball for Milo, all the while musing he wasn’t the least bit surprised that Julie had ended up with a military man. Julie had a thing for discipline. But then again, so did he.