Fast Courting (3 page)

Nia smiled warmly. “Thanks. You’re good for
my
ego, Priscilla. I’m going to need your bolstering through
this
one!”

“Listen, if it’s bothering you, why don’t you get to work on it early? I mean, I know that you’ve got two months to write the story, but if you think that it may hang over your head, why not get it over with?”

Nia took a deep breath, held it, then exhaled. “You may be right about that. I suppose that once I get into it, it won’t be so bad.”

“That’s the spirit!” Her friend beamed, then sobered quickly as Nia shot her a pointed look.

“Don’t get too enthused, Priscilla, or I may just let
you
take over for me. Bill would never know the difference.”

But the other woman knew the threat was an empty one. “Oh, he’d know! I haven’t quite got your flair. That’s all there is to it.” This time, mixed in with admiration was a touch of relief, and that Nia
could
appreciate. When she would have ribbed her friend about it, her telephone beeped. Even its gentle sound had been prescribed by Bruce McHale as an antidote to the stereotypical chaos of the publishing world.

As it happened, it was the art department seeking information for sketches to accompany an article on the revival of the process of old-fashioned quilting. Nia hadn’t written the article herself; rather, she’d edited the work of one of the newer staff writers. With the copy set now, it was simply a matter of deciding on the “accessorizing.”

Of her own choice, Nia had researched the history behind each of the five patterns chosen for illustration; she’d found it to be fascinating. Even now, as she talked with the art director, she was easily engrossed. One day, she’d vowed, she would write a book on the arts and crafts of colonial America and their tie-in with the colonial personality. But
that
was for another time, a time when she had greater leisure and less need to exhaust herself in the day-today world of work. Now, the busy pace suited her, as did the unending variety of her job. All told, she spent less time brooding about David Phillips and the life they might have had than she would have done at a job with more regular hours. The excitement of
Eastern Edge
was right up her alley—despite occasional setbacks such as she’d had that morning.

It was that very setback which she pondered when, the matter settled and the conversation ended, she hung up the phone. Priscilla had gone back to her own work, leaving a legacy of advice. Nia considered that advice as she rocked back in her chair with an eye on the calendar. Perhaps Priscilla was right. Perhaps it
was
better to get it over with. In those childhood days of clean-your-plate-now, Nia, hadn’t she always eaten the liver first?

Pen in one hand, phone book in the other, she lifted the receiver. If nothing more, she would make the initial overtures to each of her targeted subjects. A short introductory interview might be helpful in giving her direction, in letting her know with what she was dealing. To date, this was her most distasteful assignment. Gritting her teeth, she got to it.

One week later, her teeth were still gritted. Of the five “most eligible easterners” on her list, four had been reached and had graciously, if somewhat reluctantly, agreed to an initial meeting. Those four were Trent, Reiss, Kiley and Wallis-Wright. She had been surprised at their graciousness, quite frankly startled at their reluctance. It seemed that her preconceptions might have been overjudgmental; each man seemed as wary of her as she was of him. No, the cause of her clenched jaw had little to do with the four she’d contacted. It was the fifth who rankled her.

Strahan. Daniel Strahan. “Eligible,” yet elusive. “Available,” yet nowhere to be found. Christopher Daly had assured her that the Breakers were home for two weeks of near-nightly games, with the heat of the season in sight. Yet none of her calls were returned, not the slightest acknowledgment made of her efforts to reach the head coach. She had even gone so far as to switch on the television the night before—to assure herself that there was, indeed, a man named Strahan at the Breakers’ helm. Sure enough, standing absorbed at the sidelines, so the commentator said, was the coach. From the camera’s distant perspective he was an indistinct figure in a shirt and tie, casual blazer, darker-shaded slacks, with a headful of thick, dark hair. That was Strahan, all right; she was up enough on faces in the news to recognize him quickly. In the next instant, she had flipped the switch and darkened the screen. Basketball was
not
her thing!

Reaching for the phone, she frowned in response to those memories she’d rather not face. Her finger punched at the buttons of the number she now knew by heart. The switchboard operator’s sing-song “Weston Arena…May I help you?” could as easily have been a recording and a broken one at that, for the number of times she’d heard it.

“Daniel Strahan, please.” She spoke evenly, curbing her annoyance for the sake of civility, drumming her fingernails on the laminated desk surface in frustration.

“One moment, please.” Click. Hold. Hold. Hold. “I’m sorry. Mr. Strahan doesn’t seem to be in his office. Would you care to leave a message?”

Sighing at the expected, Nia responded, “This is Antonia Phillips from
Eastern Edge
. I’ve been trying to reach Mr. Strahan for the better part of a week. My messages have never been returned. He
does
pick them up, doesn’t he?”

“Oh, yes, miss.”

“Is he
in
the building?”

“I couldn’t tell you that for sure.” Couldn’t? Or wouldn’t? The end result was the same.

“Do you know of any time that I
might
reach him there?”

“Hold, please.” Click. Hold. Hold. Hold. At last the faceless voice returned. “A practice is scheduled here tomorrow morning from ten to twelve-thirty. You might be able to catch him at either end.”

Progress. At least Nia now knew he’d be in the building then. “Thank you. I
will
try tomorrow. Oh…perhaps you could leave a message that I called again. That’s Phillips, P-H-I—”

“I have it, Ms. Phillips.” For the first time, there was a hint of humanity in the sound. “Unless, that is, it’s changed since yesterday… ?” And humor.

Nia couldn’t suppress a small smile. It wasn’t this woman’s fault that Daniel Strahan lacked the common courtesy to return her calls. “No, it’s the same. Thank you.” It was only after she hung up that she looked at her calendar. Kiley. Landover Building, Worcester. Ten.

So it was that, at eleven-thirty the next morning, she found herself on the Mass Turnpike headed east, back from Worcester to Boston. Weston was roughly forty-five minutes away en route; the turnpike exit was no more than three minutes from the arena itself.

Her mind wandering, Nia recalled the hullabaloo surrounding the stadium’s construction ten years before. She had been a sophomore at Radcliffe then and had just met David. He, for one, was ebullient in anticipation of a new sports showcase. Others were not as enthused. The local residents feared the regular and repeated invasion of an unruly army of sports fans. The sports fans themselves temporarily resisted their peremptory ousting from downtown Boston. The entrepreneurial interests spoke of free access, easy parking, increased capacity, greater profits…and won.

She and David were a regular twosome by the time ground had been broken in March of that year. By May, when they broached the topic of marriage to her parents, construction was under way. By June, the site was a mad array of steel and concrete in action, while Nia carried on weekly long-distance arguments with her parents in attempts to convince them that she loved David, that their fifteen-year age difference was inconsequential, that her marriage would not disrupt her education. By July, when they eloped, the outline of the arena had begun to take shape. There were the inevitable delays, the complications and hints of cost overruns that plagued the project; through it all, their fledgling marriage reflected similar growing pains. It wasn’t, however, until October of the following year, well after Nia and David celebrated their first wedding anniversary, that he covered the gala opening and the maiden game played by the Breakers in this, their new home.

A tractor-trailer passed on the right, then veered into the middle lane directly in front of Nia, tearing her thoughts from past to present as she hit her horn. Slowing to let the truck move away, she was grateful for the distance and the return of wide open space on all sides, and let her thoughts drift to her current assignment.

Paul Kiley had been a pleasant surprise. He had seen her right on time, had been polite and relaxed once she had explained her objectives, which she, in turn, was able to do with an astounding degree of conviction considering her original reluctance. What she had planned as a thirty-minute introductory interview had swelled into an hour and a half. Kiley had given her the time, excusing himself only to take the occasional phone call that came through. The interview had flowed; both of them had sensed its smoothness and run with it. For Nia’s part, she had, indeed, begun to get a feel for the man and his lifestyle. He’d given her food for thought, plenty to research before she met him a second, and most likely final, time. It hadn’t been half as bad as she had expected.

Weston. The sign was suddenly before her as though out of the blue, evoking a purely reflexive tremor from within. It was nearly twelve-ten. If the switchboard operator was correct, Strahan would be occupied by team practice for another twenty minutes. If she was lucky enough to avoid any traffic, she might just make it into Boston and to her telephone in time to catch him before he left the arena. But if she missed him again…and if he continued to slam-dunk her messages into his wastebasket…

With a flick of her head to shake her hair back from her forehead, she took the Weston exit, paid her toll, and headed for the arena. She was so close; it was too good an opportunity to miss. After all, she would have to come out here to interview him
some
day.

In defense against bitter memories, Nia concentrated on what she knew about Daniel Strahan. It was, in fact, very little. He had been a Breaker great, a star in his playing days. During the four years that he’d been head coach of the team, its record had steadily improved. This year the Breakers were headed for the playoffs. It was impossible to live in Boston and
not
know that, even allowing for her distaste of the sport. The daily papers were filled with the jubilant word, which ranked up there with politics, foreign affairs and the economy on the front page.

The parking lot was mammoth. Nia pulled into a free space near the arena, shifted and turned off the ignition, then sat. Surely there was something else she knew about Daniel Strahan, some little tidbit deep back in her memory bank. Nothing. But why? With the gaggle of dirt-hungry reporters who covered each game and conducted those infamous pregame and postgame interviews, certainly the man’s life was an open book. Why did she know nothing?

As she stepped from her car and locked the door she had second thoughts about this drop-in visit. Usually she was better prepared; even in Kiley’s case, she had studied a preliminary bio. Granted, she hadn’t planned on confronting Daniel Strahan today. Perhaps he’d even manage to evade her now.

Her violet gaze, wide and uneasy, took in the imposing arc of the arena’s structure, sending a chill through her.
This
was why she knew nothing about Daniel Strahan; everything about basketball in general, and this place in particular, made her uncomfortable. Had it not been for Bill Austen and his supposedly brilliant idea she wouldn’t be here now. For that matter, had Daniel Strahan the social grace to return even one of her calls, she would not have felt at such a distinct disadvantage. What if he actually
refused
to see her? That would be downright unpleasant. On the other hand, she smiled at the clever thought, such a reception could be just enough to convince Bill to find another “eligible easterner,” freeing her from the world of basketball once more.

Bolstered by this vague hope, Nia entered the Arena and looked around. Despite the hundreds and hundreds of hours her ex-husband had spent in the building, this was her very first visit. Though she had picked up David many a time outside, she had never ventured within. Strangely, she felt as if she were at the scene of a crime. It seemed perfectly in keeping when a uniformed security guard stopped her.

“Looking for someone?” he asked blandly.

“Uh, yes. I’m here to see Daniel Strahan.” She spoke with the confidence of her professional position.

“He’s busy.”

“I know. There’s a practice that should be over soon. I’m early.” In some situations Nia would have instantly identified herself as being with the magazine. Here, intuition held her back. Security guards were often more like bodyguards; if this one had an aversion to press people, he’d never allow her entrance.

“Does he know you’re here?” the guard asked, his gaze narrowed in suspicion.

Nia bluffed. “I’ve left him several messages.”

“You a friend?”

Unwilling to lie, she offered a simultaneous smile and a shrug, letting her slightly provocative head-tilt suggest what it would. It did.

“Ah. Girlfriend. About time.” To her astonishment, he seemed utterly satisfied. Turning, he pointed toward a ramp. “Go on over there, make a left through those doors and up the steps. You can watch.”

Watch basketball practice? There was little she wouldn’t rather do. She nearly blurted out as much on impulse. Then it occurred to her that to argue might mean antagonizing the guard. It would be wiser to suffer through the last of the practice, then ask directions to Strahan’s office.

With a polite nod and a smile of appreciation, she did as the guard had suggested, soon finding herself low in the stands opposite the side of the floor where the team seemed centered. Sliding as unobtrusively as possible into the nearest seat, she opened her notebook, determined to ignore the ongoing practice in protest against the game and what it had done to her life.