The Truth About Tara. Darlene Gardner

look at those,” Reese said, making no attempt to take the films. “Wait a minute. What do you mean, past?”

      “I’ve had two rotator-cuff surgeries.”

      “And you want to go through surgery a third time?” The tail end of Reese’s question rose.

      “If it means I can pitch at a competitive level again, hell, yeah.”

      “Stand up and show me your range of motion,” Reese said.

      Jack raised his arms over his head. The right one touched his ear. The left one came close.

      “Not bad after a rotator-cuff injury,” Reese said, “especially considering you have that tear.”

      “Tears,” Jack corrected. “There is no one big tear, just a number of smaller ones.”

      Reese stroked his chin. “How old are you, Jack?”

      “Thirty-one.”

      Reese whistled. “Too bad I didn’t know about the other surgeries or I could have saved you a trip. A third surgery won’t get you where you want to be.”

      “How can you say that without looking at my films?”

      “I don’t need to see them,” Reese said. “The labrum is collagen based. It can’t be strengthened.”

      “People have surgeries to repair their labrums all the time,” Jack argued.

      “Yes, they do. But if they’re athletes who use an overhead motion, like a pitcher, it’s highly unlikely that surgery will yield the desired result,” Reese said. “My advice is to go with rehab to strengthen your shoulder muscles and increase flexibility.”

      “Does rehab ever work?” Jack asked.

      “Depends on how aggressive the rehab is,” Reese said. “I know of a swimmer with a mild tear who came back to compete in the Olympics. But he was ten years younger than you.”

      “I’m tough,” Jack said. “I’ve already rebounded from two surgeries. I can rehab with the best of them.”

      “That may be true, but you’ve got to understand how far-fetched it is to think you’ll improve to the point where you can pitch at a major league level.” Reese’s pronouncement was distressingly close to what the Owensboro team doctor had said. “Let me give you a piece of advice, Jack. Find something else to do with your life.”

      Later that afternoon, after an hour-long ferry ride under the unrelenting sun, Jack arrived back at the dock at Onancock. It was larger and more tourist oriented than some of the other small towns and quaint villages that dotted the finger of land that made up the Eastern Shore of Virginia, with a prominent downtown and several hotels and B and Bs. He walked the block into town to find a place to eat. His head hurt from thinking about what the specialist had said.

      Find something else to do with your life.

      “Like hell,” he said aloud.

      He’d been working toward pitching in the major leagues since he was a boy. He’d gotten there three times, twice as a September call-up and once as a roster player. Because of the injuries, however, his big-league stat line was meager: three games, four total innings. He refused to believe the dream was over.

      He walked past a gift shop and an insurance office before coming to a storefront that looked more like a house than a business. Real estate listings plastered the front window. He slowed, then stopped. The sign above the door said the Realtor dealt in rentals as well as sales, not only in Onancock, but throughout the Eastern Shore.

      Jack thought about the Olympic swimmer who’d returned to his previous form. He’d take bets that the swimmer didn’t have sisters who popped in on him whenever they felt like it and parents who kept telling him that life didn’t end when athletic careers did.

      No, the swimmer had probably rehabbed somewhere peaceful and tranquil where he could devote his energy to healing. Somewhere like the Eastern Shore.

      Jack pushed through the door of the Realtor’s office. The woman at the reception desk looked up, a smile on her face. “Can I help you?”

      “You sure can,” he said. “I need to get away from it all.”

      * * *

      THE SALTY BREEZE BLEW over the rustic outdoor patio of the restaurant, one of the few establishments near Wawpaney with a water view. This view was of a shimmering bay that eventually led to the Atlantic Ocean. The sight didn’t have its usual soothing effect on Tara. No surprise. Mary Dee Larson was gazing at her as though Tara had just bitten the head off a seagull.

      “You can’t be serious!” Mary Dee exclaimed. “That kayaking trip sounded amazing. How could you cancel it?”

      Tara popped a coconut shrimp into her mouth and washed it down with some of her happy-hour margarita. Strawberry, her favorite flavor. She intended to enjoy it. Most of the Eastern Shore’s hundreds of miles of coastline was bordered by salt marshes, not restaurants. They’d been lucky to snag a table in a prime location. This marked the first Friday after school had been let out for the summer and the place was full, mostly with tourists. Even so, the atmosphere was laid-back. Visitors came to the Eastern Shore for a quiet getaway, usually at a

      B and B with a semiprivate beach on the bay. The eastern side of the peninsula was largely bordered by marshland and waterways that led to the secluded barrier islands. The hordes of tourists were an hour north in Ocean City, Maryland, and an hour south in Virginia Beach.

      “Canceling was surprisingly easy,” Tara said. “I got all but fifty dollars back from my deposit, and the airline gave me a flight credit.”

      Mary Dee set her own margarita glass down on the table with a clink. She thrust out her glossy red lower lip that matched her red blouse. “That’s not what I meant and you know it. That trip would have been great for you.”

      Tara wasn’t sure she agreed. Since none of their other friends were kayakers, Mary Dee had persuaded Tara to check out an organization that set up outdoor excursions for singles. The closest kayak trip was on the Snake River in Wyoming. The more Tara thought about it, however, the less attractive the trip seemed.

      “I probably would have gotten cold feet, anyway,” Tara said. “I mean, why should I go all the way to Wyoming when I can kayak here?”

      “For adventure,” Mary Dee said.

      “And can you imagine the kind of guys who sign up for those sorts of trips?” Tara continued as though she hadn’t heard her. “They’re probably out for sex.”

      “So what? Some sex would do you good.” She nodded in the direction of four guys they’d known in high school who were across the patio hoisting beers and singing. Tara had dated two of them. “You seem to have already ruled out every man around here.”

      “The timing is bad, too,” Tara said, ignoring her friend’s comment. She gazed out into the bay, where the sun was sinking below the horizon in a blaze of red and yellow. “I don’t know what I was thinking when I made the reservation, with the anniversary coming up on Tuesday.”

      Tara had been friends with Mary Dee long enough that she didn’t need to explain the significance of the date. The other woman was well aware that was when Tara’s father and sister had died.

      “You weren’t planning to leave until Wednesday,” Mary Dee pointed out. “And I thought your mother was going to treat the anniversary like any other day this year.”

      “I’m not entirely sure she can do it,” Tara said. “She might need me to—”

      “How about what you need?” Mary Dee interrupted. “They’ve been gone thirty years, Tara, but you’re here and you’re alive. When was the last time you did anything for yourself?”

      Tara watched the last of the sun disappear before she answered. “I ran five miles last night and had a yogurt smoothie for breakfast