Wedding Homerun in Loveland, Ohio Read online

  © 2012 by Cathy Liggett

  Print ISBN 978-1-61626-738-4

  eBook Editions:

  Adobe Digital Edition (.epub) 978-1-60742-053-8

  Kindle and MobiPocket Edition (.prc) 978-1-60742-035-4

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted for commercial purposes, except for brief quotations in printed reviews, without written permission of the publisher.

  Scripture taken from the HOLY BIBLE, NEW INTERNATIONAL VERSION®. NIV®.

  Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984, 2011 by Biblica, Inc.™ Used by permission.

  All rights reserved worldwide.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any similarity to actual people, organizations, and/or events is purely coincidental.

  Cover design: Faceout Studio, www.faceoutstudio.com

  Published by Barbour Publishing, Inc., P.O. Box 719, Uhrichsville, Ohio 44683, www.barbourbooks.com

  Our mission is to publish and distribute inspirational products offering exceptional value and biblical encouragement to the masses.

  Printed in the United States of America.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  About the Author

  Dedication

  To all those in my community who have

  inspired this book and blessed my life …

  I know who you are—and God does too!

  Chapter 1

  If this lightning and thunder doesn’t stop soon—Megan O’Donnell’s entire body stiffened with tension as she tried to see through the quarter-sized raindrops pummeling the windshield of her SUV. She’d had just about enough of the teeming rain and the nerve-shattering booms that shook her mid-sized car.

  More than once it crossed her mind to jump right out into the downpour, shake her fists at the dim, menacing evening sky, and make it stop. Make the skies calm again. As if she could. As if she could really control the weather and the heavens.

  But … she would if she could. She’d do that for Sammy, knowing how frightened the claps of thunder and slashes of lightning made him. She’d do anything for her six-year-old guy. Because that’s what moms did, right? Anything and everything they could.

  “How are you doing, honey?”

  Loosening her death grip on the steering wheel, she reached into the back passenger seat with her right hand, patting his knee where it hung out from under his army-green cargo shorts. “You okay?”

  “ ’Kay.”

  Sammy barely had the syllable out of his mouth when another jolting round of thunder surprised them. Megan jumped, her hand flying back to the steering wheel, working to steady the car against the beating rain. But, of course, Sammy didn’t jump, didn’t react much—not in an overtly physical way. Not in a way that most people would notice.

  But then, he didn’t have control over his body like most people did. Still … that didn’t mean he wasn’t scared. And she didn’t have to turn around and touch him to know his already uncooperative limbs had grown even more rigid with fright. She knew it. She could sense his tension from where she sat in the driver’s seat. Could hear the fear in his quivering voice.

  “Lau.”

  “Yes, it was loud, wasn’t it, honey?” Gripping the steering wheel tightly, with all her might, she worked to hide her own unease with words that sounded loose and light. “Even louder than Grandpa’s snoring.” She forced a soft chuckle she wasn’t really feeling at the moment.

  Flicking on her turn signal, she started to make a right turn off Route 22 onto Columbia, but didn’t make it around the corner before a semi flew by in the lane next to her, deluging the left side of her car with sprays of rainwater. She flinched involuntarily as if the water had splashed straight through the window.

  “You’re being brave, Sammy.”

  “Bray?”

  “Yes, brave. You’re my brave guy.”

  Wishing her car had a rudder or at least four-wheel drive, she cautiously made the turn, making her way through a half-foot-deep puddle. The rain-soaked road grew darker and narrower the farther she drove from the intersection. Water gushed like miniature rapids in the gullies at the sides of the road. Broken-off twigs lay scattered on the lawns of the ranch-style homes and all over the street, too, resembling a gargantuan game of pick-up sticks. Luckily, the debris couldn’t camouflage the winding road she knew so well and had been driving on since she’d first gotten her license as a teenager.

  Still, what a night to be out, backtracking all over Loveland.

  But promises were promises—and she’d told Sammy days ago that, yes, they could get a bite to eat at Paxton’s Grill before her meeting that night. Even though, logistically, it wasn’t a sound idea at all. Not when she’d had to leave work in downtown Loveland, go past their house to pick him up at after-school care on Route 22 and 3 then drive back by their house again to go to Paxton’s right in the heart of town. After dinner, of course, she’d have to repeat her steps pretty much the same way, driving north from town to drop off Sammy at home so Mrs. Biddle could watch him for the evening, before turning south again to go to the high school where she’d be holding her meeting.

  No, none of it made sense. Except for the fact that Paxton’s french fries were Sammy’s favorite, and she was quite fond of them herself. And honestly, munching on the best fries in town seemed oddly comforting at the moment—no matter how much driving it entailed.

  It had been a day and a half at the clinic, with one physical therapy session after another. Record high temperatures the past few days hinted that summer was in the wings, creating as much havoc in the way of twisted ankles, bad knees, and pained shoulders as the first weeks of spring had. And if the day hadn’t been challenging enough, she was anxious the evening might be even more so. Never having facilitated a meeting before, she’d been nervous all day long. No, that wasn’t true. All week long was more like it.

  “Music, Maw-mee?” Sammy’s voice, barely audible over the racket from the rain, quavered some as he made his request.

  “No problem, honey.” She clicked on the radio, already tuned in to his favorite station. Nothing soothed him like country music, and she felt bad she’d been too preoccupied with her own anxieties not to think of it sooner. But there were so many questions—“what-ifs”—plaguing her mind about her All-Stars Sports Day meeting.

  As in, what if no one responded to the flyers she’d put up around town? What if the only people at the meeting were the girls she knew from downtown Loveland—like her longtime friend Janey from Sweet Sensations Bakery or Maria from Miss Annabella’s Tea Parlor? Or what if, considering the weather, the two of them didn’t even show up and it was just—her?

  On the other hand, what if the high school cafeteria was buzzing with volunteers? And there were more people there than she’d imagined? Would she really know how to organize more than a dozen volunteers or so?

  She’d been so worried about it all she’d barely slept the night before. And she
’d brought a change of clothes to work, hoping a more professional look would help ease her jitters. Slipping out of her work uniform—khakis and a black polo—she’d donned a pair of neatly pressed navy capris, a crisp white three-quarter-sleeve blouse with a sash that tied at the side, and a pair of navy heels. The heels were painfully pointy; she’d bought them on sale the season before. But still, standing before the mirror in the clinic’s restroom, she felt the look said “take charge.” And she would try her best to do just that—for Sammy’s sake and for the other kids like him. She’d gut her way through the experience like she did everything else. And no one would be the wiser.

  Hopefully.

  Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. No. Good evening, friends. Or. It’s so good to see everyone here this evening. Better. You know … Pause. For a long time it’s been a dream of mine to organize an All-Stars Sports Day event especially for our special-needs kids and—

  “There ye’?” Between the ending of a Blake Shelton song and the first sweet notes of a Carrie Underwood tune, Sammy spoke up from the backseat again.

  “Are you hungry?”

  “Hun-gey.”

  “Well, we’re almost there. Here we go—down the hill and over the bridge that crosses the water.”

  Gazing out the window, she looked to see if the river was as high as she imagined it might be. It seemed the closer they got to their destination, the more the rain was actually starting to let up some, now just a slow, steady rhythm. Even so, the river water surged and swirled still turbulent and dangerous looking. “Hey Sammy, you remember the river that cuts through town, don’t you? The Little Miami River?”

  “Li’l?”

  “Yes, little. Not big. Little.” She’d gotten used to describing things to Sammy outside the car window. Things that he could’ve seen for himself if only he could reposition his body to sit up high, or stretch, or lift himself to press his nose against the glass like other kids might.

  “Now we’re passing the bike rental shop,” she added, doing her best to keep her voice upbeat. “No riders on the bike trail tonight though, huh?”

  “No bike riders.”

  “And there’s Scoops. We love that place, don’t we?”

  The mention of the ice cream parlor must’ve made Sammy’s mouth water even more.

  “Paxton?”

  “Oh yes. There it is. Paxton’s Grill. Just a few blocks away. I can see the round yellow-and-red neon sign.” Her foot hovered over the brake pedal. “Maybe Allie will be working.”

  “Like Allie.”

  “I know. She loves you, too.”

  “Justin an’ Carrie love me?”

  “Yes, and Justin and Carrie.”

  Justin and Carrie, Allie’s kids, were like a brother and sister to Sammy—just like Allie had always been to her. She and Allie had practically shared infant seats together. At least, that’s the way their moms liked to tell it, and their moms knew all about sister-like friendships. Laura O’Donnell and Pamela Matthews had shared one since they were young girls. And these days, the empty-nest moms were more than friends—they were the owners of one of Loveland’s most successful businesses, the We Do! Wedding Planners. The pair had also garnered a well-deserved reputation for doing a bit of matchmaking on the side.

  Turning on her blinker, Megan tapped the brake, creeping the car to a halt, wistfully wishing Allie would be hosting tonight. Allie helped her husband as much as she could since they’d taken over Paxton’s Grill from Greg’s parents the year before, leaving little time for socializing these days. It would be such a treat to see her even if they only had a moment to catch up.

  “Okay, Samster. Here we are. All I have to do is make a left turn so we can park in the community lot and—”

  Before she could finish the sentence, an old-model pickup truck swerved toward their SUV, barreling down West Loveland Avenue from the opposite direction. Wasn’t it going to stop? Slow down? Wasn’t the driver going to notice? Do something?

  She froze, trying to think. Turn left? Right?

  Her fingers gripped the vinyl-covered steering wheel, and she yanked it hard. Not even sure what she was doing—except for following some unfathomable gut instinct—she veered the car to the right, putting herself at risk while protecting Sammy’s side of the car, in case of impact.

  Closing her eyes tight, she prayed with all her might, listening to the moaning, groaning, screeching truck brakes. Coming closer. And closer still. Until finally there was silence. The frightening noise stopped.

  But her hands were still shaking. Her heart still racing. Anger fueled by fear, she hopped out of the car and began ranting.

  MacNeill Hattaway jumped out of the rust-fringed pickup truck, slamming the creaking door behind him.

  That was close. Way too close!

  He’d decided to drive his uncle’s rattletrap thinking it’d be less showy and conspicuous than his red Corvette, but water-slick roads or not, the thing really just wasn’t safe. He couldn’t—wouldn’t—do it again. Not when he couldn’t trust the brakes, and not when the questionable steering locked up without a moment’s notice.

  Of course, it hadn’t helped that a deer had lunged across the road in front of him at the same time he’d turned the truck off Route 48 and onto West Loveland. Still, he’d almost gotten himself killed and all because he’d had a craving for a burger from Paxton’s before meeting up with a friend later that evening.

  Even worse, he’d almost maimed another driver—a woman—who had every right to be standing in the street screaming uncontrollably at him.

  Not that he wasn’t accustomed to people screaming at him.

  Actually he was fairly used to it, being that it was pretty much a part of his job. As a pro pitcher, he’d heard way more than his share of fevered remarks from the Tristate Hawks’ fans over the years—both good and bad—all depending on how precisely he could get an orange-sized ball to cross over a seventeen-inch plate from a little over sixty feet away, preferably at a speed of ninety miles an hour or so.

  Sometimes he managed to do that handily. Other times, he couldn’t do it to save his life, his ego, or his ears from the deafening cries of disgust from the stands.

  So, yeah, he was used to people yelling all right.

  But he could tell the woman wasn’t used to it—or at least she wasn’t used to being the one doing the yelling. Instead of flailing arms, hers were crossed over her chest, hugging her petite body. And her voice sort of trembled as it got louder, as if it was usually softer, more controlled, and not used to such extremes.

  “What were you thinking? You could have killed us. All of us!”

  At least she was kind enough to include him in the mix, he noticed.

  “Hey, I’m sorry, miss. I really am. I’m sure I scared you to—”

  “To death. Yes! You certainly did scare me to death.” She shoved a tendril of dark, wet hair back from her forehead, attempting to tuck it into her ponytail. Letting more of her face show … a really nice, pretty face, he could tell that much even through the drizzle. “Do you always drive like that?”

  “Do I what? Well, no. I mean, actually there was a deer. A deer that came out of nowhere, leaping across the road. I tried to swerve away, but then”—he pointed to his uncle’s truck, ready to explain about the apparently lousy brakes and major lack of steering, but she cut him off.

  “Do you know I have a child in my car?”

  “A kid? You do? Is he—is she—all right?”

  “He. Yes, he’s all right. But you frightened him. That’s for sure. As if he wasn’t already scared enough from the storm.”

  Oh, great! A new infraction to add to his list. Frightening children without even meaning to.

  “You scared my Sammy.” She suddenly pounced closer, right in his face, as if mentioning her son’s name had given her a surge of adrenaline, a boost of courage.

  Mac couldn’t help but think she reminded him of the geese that had taken up residence around the pond out at his uncle�
��s farm. The mother geese—squawking, hissing, protecting their young at all costs. Ready to chase off an intruder—or go beak-to-toe, if they had to, with anything—or anyone—that got too near.

  Of course, unlike the geese, Mac didn’t mind the woman getting close. So close he’d caught a whiff of her sweet-smelling perfume. The fragrance wrapped around his head, overriding the competing scents of the rain-cresting river and his running truck engine. And even if her words were harsh, and deservedly so, there was an underlying sweetness about her he detected right away.

  “You could’ve really hurt him.” She jabbed a pointed finger in the air, nearly into his shoulder. “You could’ve killed him, and—and, are you a parent, Mr.—”

  “The name’s MacNeill.”

  “Mr. Neil, are you—”

  “No, it’s MacNeill,” he corrected, enunciating slowly. Of course, as soon as he did, he wondered why he even cared.

  “That’s what I said. Mr. Neil.”

  “No, my first name is—”

  “Whatever!” She planted her hands on her hips. “Are you a parent?”

  “A parent?” What was the woman getting at? He scratched his forehead, protected from the drizzling rain by the bill of his baseball cap.

  Unbelievably, her voice got shriller. “Yes. Are you?”

  “No, but I—I mean …” Was not being a parent supposed to make him a total monster? Insensitive to children and their safety? Is that what she was implying?

  “Well, Mr. Neil, you should learn to drive like you’re one.”

  “MacNeill.” He repeated his name again, this time grinding it out, his jaw tightening. So that had been what she was getting at. Which pretty much irritated him to no end. Who was she to make such a jibe? Mother Teresa?

  Sure, maybe in the past he’d been reckless in a lot of ways. He’d used his celebrity status inappropriately—for his own good and for illicit pleasures. And yeah, he’d driven many cars many times too fast and too often under the influence. No doubt the tabloids had had plenty to write about him over the years because he’d given them plenty of material. But he could tell she didn’t even recognize him as the baseball player most everyone else knew him as. She had no clue as to who he was … where he’d been and where he was now in his life.