Joe Feeney, a thirtyish janitor at the local junior high school, made his way to their seats, blocking their view of the action just getting started on the field.
“I want to talk to you after the game, okay?” he demanded of Kit. “Someplace private. See, I got this idea for a movie. You got the connections, I got the story. It’ll be a blockbuster, make us both a fortune.”
Kit’s friendly smile didn’t waver. “Thank you for offering me the opportunity, but I’m already under contract for several more screenplays.”
“Hey, man, I’m serious. You do not want to pass this up. Just look over my notes, okay?”
“Thank you, but I’ll have to pass. Good luck marketing your idea on your own.”
Joe seemed inclined to argue, but someone asked him loudly to move, since he was blocking the view of the game. With a grumble, he ambled away, shaking his head in exasperation that Kit had passed up such a fantastic opportunity.
A woman with too much flesh stuffed into a tank top and stretch shorts slid onto the bench in front of them, her mostly bare back only an inch or so from Kit’s knees. She had a great deal of hair that had once been dyed yellow-blond, but now had three inches of darker roots showing. Blue eye shadow, false eyelashes, a heavy dose of rouge, and bright red lipstick completed her look.
“Hi, Savannah,” she drawled, looking over her shoulder from beneath her half pound of lashes.
“Hi, Treva.” Despite the other woman’s characteristic flamboyance, Savannah had grown to like her during the years they’d been watching their sons play on the same team.
Treva turned her eyes to Kit. “Who’s your cute friend?”
As if she didn’t know.
Trying to emulate Kit’s patience with stupid questions, Savannah held onto her smile. “Treva Blacldock, this is Christopher Pace.”
Treva held out a hand tipped with two-inch-long artificial nails. They were painted a bright scarlet and had little gold accessories glued to them, making them look so lethal that Savannah couldn’t fault Kit for hesitating a moment before gingerly shaking Treva’s hand.
“Isn’t that your Billy about to step up to bat?” Savannah asked Treva, who looked inclined to crawl right into Kit’s lap.
Distracted, Treva turned to face the field. “Come on, Billy. Knock that puppy outta’ the park!” she yelled through her cupped hands.
“What did I tell you?” Savannah asked Kit in a whisper. “People around here aren’t accustomed to having celebrities among them.”
He only smiled. “I’m used to it. Stop fretting.”
“I am not—”
The crowd surged to its feet, cheering as Billy slammed the ball out into left field, the first hit of the game. Treva pumped her fist and yelled, “Woof, woof, Billy. Way to go!”
A cluster of teenage girls sitting together at one side of the bleachers began to chant, “Go, Bil-ly, Go, Bil-ly.”
Kit laughed and shouted, “Good hit, Billy.”
Treva sent him a look of approval over her chubby shoulder.
Savannah almost sighed. How could Kit look so darned comfortable here when it should be obvious to everyone that he was completely out of place?
During the remainder of the game, the attention of the crowd seemed to be almost equally divided between the action on the field and Kit.
A reporter for the local weekly newspaper wanted to interview him. Kit promised to give the man a call the next afternoon for a telephone interview, which seemed to more than satisfy the young journalist who rarely—if ever—had the opportunity to interview nationally known subjects.
A burly man in a faded T-shirt and a cap advertising farming equipment stopped by with his hands full of hot dogs and soft drinks from the concession stand. “Just wanted to tell you that I really like your books,” he said to Kit.
“Thank you.”
“I was laid up in the hospital after I hurt my leg balin’ hay last fall. My wife brought me a couple of your books, even though I ain’t much of a reader. They kept me from going crazy with boredom. Now I read every one of yours that comes out”
Kit seemed genuinely touched by the plainspoken man’s simple praise. “I’m glad my books gave you some pleasure during your ordeal. That’s the reason I write them—to entertain.”
“Well, keep ‘em coming,” the farmer said gruffly. “I’ll keep buying ‘em.”