“Do what?”
“I really think you should reconsider.”
“Why?”
“Because I know what you did.”
Her heart skipped a beat then felt like it had gone a full stop. He knew what exactly?
“Ah, you didn’t think I’d find out or piece it together? I’m smarter than I look.” Thomas turned to the window, his reflection catching the shadows of his tensing jaw and narrowing eyes. “My ledger, I know you took it. And I’ll simply ask for it back and forget all about your thievery—if you give me my one request. If you can’t, then I will be forced to go to the police about your sticky fingers.”
This was the thanks she got for saving his life, a terrible choice to make: Another night in the slammer, or another night with Thomas Cook? It seemed like both options were unequivocally a dead end.
Chapter 21
For the first time in her life, Sam appreciated a crowd. She was grateful for the 30,000 bodies crammed into Forbes Field’s stadium seating. Happy for the loud yells of fanatics heckling the other team—Sam couldn’t for the life of her remember their mascot, only that she was rooting for the players dressed in black and yellow—thundering in her ears. Approving of the sweaty stench of overzealous enthusiasm soaked into the #17 Dock Ellis baseball jersey Thomas had handed her when he picked her up in his Rolls Royce Silver Shadow, then instructed her to wear over her blouse. Because as long as the sounds drowned out Thomas Cook, she could avoid the conversation he was so eager to have.
Shoving a mouth full of crackerjack that Thomas insisted she eat during American’s favorite pastime, Sam watched as the player whose number she wore pitched a ball over the home plate.
At this point Sam had picked up on the basics, like the endless length of each inning, the long wait to get three outs, and how infrequent the players got runs. How anyone enjoyed stretching out an entire evening to fill nine of these innings was baffling.
“Isn’t this great? That’s Dock Ellis, one of the greatest pitchers of all time,” Thomas explained as the din of the stadium died out momentarily. “Last week he pitched a no-hitter against the Padres. Someone said he was on LSD at the time, but who cares, right? I’ll take a no-hitter any way it comes!”
Sam didn’t know what a no-hitter was, and she was about to ask, just to avoid the inevitable dreaded relationship conversation. But Thomas shifted gears, lurching her into unwanted territory.
“So I know you’re as eager to discuss this as I am,” Thomas went on, oblivious to the painful wince wrinkling Sam’s brow. “I think it’s time.”
“Time for what?” Sam dared to ask.
“Time for us to, you know”—he paused, then crowded her with the thought he had been antsy to bring up all evening—“make-it-official,” he rushed to say.
Sam’s forced grin hung crooked and stiff. “But I don’t even know you, Thomas.”
“Sure you do. Haven’t you read the papers? They’re always talking about me.”
“Not the real you.”
“Okay. What do you want to know?”
In the six innings Sam had suffered through, they had talked about almost everything—her column, his new drug, her house pony, his housekeeper, even their shared dislike of creamed corn. There was only one obvious exception to the conversational rotation: their relationship status.
It hadn’t been intentional—not at first, anyway, as Thomas tirelessly educated Sam on the art of baseball, which Sam felt held as much art as Thomas’s spoken poetry. But by the seventh inning stretch it became clear it was now or never.
It’s not to say that Sam wasn’t mildly intrigued by the Dr. Thomas Cook. Who wouldn’t want to wade into the shallow end of the self-made millionaire’s childhood and meet the cast responsible for creating him—perhaps a brilliant but misunderstood mother. Or a competitive brother who drove him to work harder. Maybe even an eccentric wealthy benefactor who funded medical school. But the topic of family was intimate, and Sam barricaded off intimacy like it belonged in the polio isolation ward.
Sam had already dipped a toe in and detected that Thomas tried desperately to hide his Boston accent, and someone in his family encouraged the arts—even if it was poorly written spontaneous poetry. But other than the obvious symptoms of a child who grew up constantly being told how wonderful he was, she had no desire to wander in too far.
“Tell me something you’ve never told anyone else,” Sam suggested. “Something real. Personal.”
Thomas knew this could be dangerous, sharing something so private with a woman who could later use it against him. She had stolen his ledger, after all, and he still didn’t know why. But something about Sam felt honest. Safe.
“Hm. Okay. You ever heard of Clark Stanley?”
Sam thought for a moment. “The snake oil salesman?”
“The one and only.”
“You’re related to the Rattlesnake King?”
Thomas chuckled. “Oh, no, but my grandfather is the reason Stanley became the Rattlesnake King. It was my grandfather, a Boston druggist, who helped Stanley market his tincture as a painkilling snake oil, and distributed it to drugstores all over the country. After word got out that it was just turpentine and mineral oil, my grandfather lost his job and my family became the laughingstock of Boston. It’s why my father moved us to Pittsburgh, because our family became a pariah and we needed a fresh start.”
“Is that why you went into medicine—real medicine, that is? As a way to save face?”
