For Another Day (One Strike Away Book 2) Read online

  FOR ANOTHER DAY

  ● ● ●

  ONE STRIKE AWAY BOOK TWO

  ● ● ●

  MARY J. WILLIAMS

  Copyright © 2017 by Mary J. Williams.

  All Rights Reserved. No part of this publication may be copied, reproduced in any format, by any means, electronic or otherwise, without prior consent from the Copyright owner and publisher of this book.

  First Ebook Printing, 2017

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Writing isn't easy. But I love every second. A blank screen isn't the enemy. It is the opportunity to create new friends and take them on amazing adventures and life-changing journeys. I feel blessed to spend my days weaving tales that are unique—because I made them.

  Billionaires. Songwriters. Artists. Actors. Directors. Stuntmen. Football players. They fill the pages and become dear friends I hope you will want to revisit again and again.

  Thank you for jumping into my books and coming along for the journey.

  HOW TO GET IN TOUCH

  Please visit me at these sites, sign up for my newsletter or leave a message.

  http://www.maryjwilliams.net/

  https://www.facebook.com/maryjwilliamsauthor/?ref=hl

  https://twitter.com/maryjwilliams05

  https://www.pinterest.com/maryj0675/

  https://www.instagram.com/2015romance/

  https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/5648619.Mary_J_Williams

  MORE BOOKS BY MARY J. WILLIAMS

  Harper Falls Series

  If I Loved You

  If Tomorrow Never Comes

  If You Only Knew

  If I Had You (Christmas in Harper Falls)

  Hollywood Legends Series

  Dreaming with a Broken Heart

  Dreaming with My Eyes Wide Open

  Dreaming Again

  Dreaming of a White Christmas

  (Caleb and Callie's story)

  One Pass Away Series

  After the Rain

  After All These Years

  After the Fire

  Hart of Rock and Roll

  Flowers on the Wall

  Flowers and Cages

  Flowers are Red

  Flowers for Zoe

  One Strike Away

  For a Little While

  WITH ONE MORE LOOK AT YOU

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  HOW TO GET IN TOUCH

  MORE BOOKS BY MARY J. WILLIAMS

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  EPILOGUE

  AFTER THE RAIN

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER ONE

  AFTER ALL THESE YEARS

  PROLOGUE

  AFTER THE FIRE

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER ONE

  DREAMING WITH MY EYES WIDE OPEN

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER ONE

  DREAMING OF YOUR LOVE

  PROLOGUE

  IF I LOVED YOU

  PROLOGUE

  FLOWERS FOR ZOE

  PROLOGUE

  PROLOGUE

  ● ≈ ● ≈ ●

  NICK SANDERS WAS four years old the first time he died.

  He died again just after he turned seven. And once more during his ninth summer.

  While each was a bloodless, pain-free death. The kind without a body. No autopsy. And no burial. Inevitably, each experience left an indelible mark.

  As Nick sorted through the ratty cardboard box his mother had stuffed into the back of the spacious walk-in closet, he wondered why she would hold onto anything from those days.

  Scrambling for work that barely paid the rent on a studio apartment in a building that any day could—should—be condemned. A place where crackheads lay sprawled in the stairwells soaked in their own urine, the remnants of vomit crusted on their chins.

  Why would she want to remember a time when they were always hungry? When the only clothes on their backs came from the charity box at the local mission? When she would hold him, thinking he was asleep, and weep in despair?

  A situation that forced her to fake her own son's death. Three times.

  Nick had cried the first time his mother sent him to stay with her friend on the other side of their Los Angeles neighborhood.

  "I'll come back for you," Annie had promised, wiping the tears from his cheeks. She pried his arms from around her neck, kissing his forehead. "I need you here so I can make our lives better. Remember? Another day."

  Annie Sanders clung to the idea like a drowning woman clutching at the smallest piece of driftwood, hoping she could stay afloat until help came. Don't worry about a month from now. Or a week. Survive for another day.

  Annie told the neighborhood church that her little boy had died. She had nobody to lean on and desperately wanted to go home to be with her family. The next day, she had three hundred dollars in her pocket.

  Of course, staying in that neighborhood was impossible. Annie collected Nick, moving them to another crappy apartment in another crappy part of town. The scam worked twice more.

  The next time, Nick didn't cry. Or the next. A little older. Wise beyond his years. He understood why his mother took money that wasn't rightfully hers. But he made himself a promise. One day, he would take care of her. He would move her to a nicer place. Buy her anything she wanted. She would never again have to lie to put food on the table.

  Nick had kept that promise. Baseball—his ability to play the game at a high level—turned out to be their salvation. When he signed his minor-league contract right out of high school, every dime went to his mother.

  As Nick's fortunes increased—fast, but never fast enough—he made certain Annie Sanders reaped the benefits. His teammates bought themselves fancy cars and expensive toys.

  Gladly, Nick took care of the woman who had taken care of him. Not because he felt obligated or in her debt. Because he loved her.

  No matter what, Annie had never missed a game from the first time he laced up a pair of cleats. Though she refused to move north after he received his first big payday—thanks to the Seattle Cyclones—she continued to follow his every at bat.

  They had survived. Together. The money was great—Nick enjoyed every perk that being a baseball superstar afforded him. But the best part was the pride in his mother's eyes when he handed her the keys to her new home.

  A townhouse in Venice, California.

  Annie had protested, but Nick knew she enjoyed decorating every inch of the place. He hired her a housekeeper. Bought her a car. And made certain all the bills were sent to him. Her days of struggle and hardship were over.

  Nick's biggest fan, the only thing that could have kept Annie Sanders from watching her son play in his first World Series was the late-stage cancer that ravaged her body.

  But the television in her room had been tuned to the games. Every inning. Every pitch. Through sheer will, she lived to watch the Cyclones take the championship. Two days later, she was gone.

  The hole left by his mother's passing could never be filled. Nick's only consolation was that he had been there to hold her hand as she took her last breath.

  "Why, Mom?" Nick muttere
d, finding nothing in the box of any value—sentimental or otherwise.

  "Maybe she forgot the thing was there," Spencer Kraig said, picking up a pile of clothes earmarked for the Goodwill.

  "Makes sense," Travis Forsythe agreed. "I can't tell what's in half the boxes gathering dust in my attic."

  Nick shook his head. "Mom never lost track of anything. If she kept something, she had a reason."

  "We're through. Do you want to take a few minutes?"

  "No. This was Mom's house, not mine. Without her, the place feels like nothing but empty rooms."

  Nick didn't know how he would have gotten through the past week without Spencer and Travis. More than his teammates, they were the best friends a man could ask for. The death of his mother hit Nick hard. He knew the day was coming. She had been sick for almost a year, an aggressive form of cancer moving from her breasts, riddling her body.

  Treatment after treatment failed until the question was no longer if, but when.

  Given a choice, Nick would have forgone any kind of memorial service. But Annie Sanders made some good friends since moving here. A luxury she hadn't allowed herself before.

  The women's club made the arrangements. Nick attended out of respect for them. Spencer and Travis at his side. Damn good friends.

  His mother made her wishes clear. She didn't want a lot of fuss. And she didn't want to be stuck in a casket six feet under.

  "Sprinkle my ashes someplace peaceful," Annie told Nick. "On a hill. Where spring flowers bloom."

  Nick would find his mother's hill. Later. When the numbness had worn off.

  Except for her most personal items, clearing out his mother's home hadn't been something Nick wanted to do. He left that to some highly recommended professionals. They left her clothing neatly folded on the stripped-down bed. The furniture was headed to auction—proceeds going to a women's shelter.

  All that was left was the cardboard box. And memories. So many memories. The good, the bad, and even the ugly. Now that his mother was gone, he wouldn't have parted with a single one.

  "I love you, Mom."

  With what felt like a fist clenching Nick's heart, he quietly closed the front door.

  CHAPTER ONE

  ● ≈ ● ≈ ●

  ONE WEEK LATER

  NICK SWIRLED THE ice in the plastic glass, diluting the brown liquid that the stewardess tried to pass off as whiskey. Maybe. If he were desperate.

  But Nick wasn't much of a boozer.

  In his younger days, he never had the time, money, or inclination to imbibe beyond the occasional beer. During his fast rise through the minor leagues, he stuck mostly to soft drinks.

  Nick's first real taste of whiskey came courtesy of Ross Burton. After signing a contract for more money than he ever thought possible, he and the Cyclones' owner sealed the deal with a handshake and a glass of what Ross called mother's milk.

  After tasting the good stuff—smooth, perfectly aged whiskey the color of deep, rich caramel—how could he be expected to settle for less? Nick spent the first two decades of his life scraping at the bottom of the barrel. Now that he could afford to travel first class, that was exactly what he did. All the way.

  Nick frowned at this drink. Too bad first class didn't always live up to the billing.

  "We land in about an hour." Not as picky as Nick, Travis drained what was left of the liquid in his glass. Straight tequila. "A night on the town in New York."

  "Then you head to South Carolina."

  "And you to Maine." Travis stretched his long legs—booze aside, the room in first class was worth the price. "Sure you don't want some company?"

  "Because you're worried about me? Or…" Lips quirked, Nick shot his friend an inquiring look. "Are you trying to put off a certain meeting with a certain woman?"

  Travis shrugged. "My shit can wait."

  "Mine is hardly time sensitive."

  "Maybe not. But you don't know what you'll find. You should have taken Spencer up on his offer."

  "I don't need Yoda to hold my hand," Nick said with more humor than animosity. "Besides, he had more important things to worry about."

  "What worry?" Travis laughed. "He's getting married, not trekking up Mt. Everest."

  In Nick's opinion, marriage was the more daunting proposition. But if Spencer was happy—ecstatic was more like it—so was he.

  "I'll be fine."

  "You look like you haven't slept in days."

  Nick had slept. Fitfully. That damn box—or rather what he found inside—preyed on his mind. Deciding to make this trip helped. Or that's what he kept telling himself.

  Damn that cryptic letter. Though Nick refused to damn his mother, for one of the few times in his life, he was angry with her. Genuinely pissed. The words on that single page had opened old wounds he had thought long healed and forgotten.

  Leo,

  I used to put dear before your name but finally realized my mistake. You don't care about me. You never did. Lies. One after another. Repeated over and over again. Young and foolish, I desperately wanted to believe. Older and wiser, I now know better.

  But you and I are no longer important. Please. I can't tell you what needs to be said in a letter. Call me. I'm barely hanging on, Leo. I don't know how much longer I can live this way. You're my last hope.

  Annie

  Nick had read the letter over and over, the words burned into his brain. His mother had enclosed her current phone number and address. He recognized the location. They lived there for about six months the year he turned eight.

  The envelope, never opened, was stamped with a big, red RETURN TO SENDER. But Nick could easily read his mother's handwriting.

  Leonard Cartwright. Jasper, Maine.

  Question piled upon question. Who was this Leonard Cartwright? Could he be Nick's father? How many times had she written him? What had he said? Or had all the letters come back unopened?

  Nick's mother wasn't here to provide him with answers. Another jarring reminder that Annie Sanders was gone. Forever.

  "Promise me one thing," Travis said. "Call if you need me. For any reason."

  Nick nodded. "That goes both ways."

  "I'm headed to redneck territory." Travis grimaced, a trace of a long left behind Southern accent sneaking into his voice. "A place I had hoped to never see again. In and out with as little fuss as necessary."

  Sounded like a good plan. Nick was looking for some answers. The less time he spent in Jasper, Maine, the better.

  "Bermuda is just a skip and a jump away."

  Travis perked up. "Warm sandy beaches. Cold drinks."

  "And hot women in tiny bikinis. A cabana on the water. Three days. Four at the most." Nick smiled, fist bumping Travis. Finally, something to look forward to. "I'll meet you in paradise."

  CHAPTER TWO

  ● ≈ ● ≈ ●

  A CITY KID through and through, Nick had spent some time in small towns during his minor-league days. However, back then, he was always passing through, not settling in to stay. Eyes focused on taking the next step toward the big time, he socialized with his teammates but made few lasting connections with the town's residents.

  The women were plentiful. Though a trifle desperate and less polished than the ones Nick ran with these days. Like the players they sought out, the ladies of the minor leagues looked for an upgrade. Latching onto a professional athlete was their way of moving up the ladder and a better life.

  Nick had his fun, but he made sure fun was as far as things went. When he left town, the only baggage he carried was the kind he could sling over one shoulder. Drama free. Woman free. And most important, disease free.

  Crazy in this day and age, but Nick knew of many a young man who let a good time get in the way of common sense. No glove, no love. Words to live by.

  As Nick drove past the sign welcoming him to Jasper, Maine—Home of the State Champion Soaring Eagles—he wondered what he would find. Peyton Place, Pleasant
ville, or something in between?

  Parking the rented SUV, Nick looked up and down the row of sidewalk-fronted businesses. Nice, he thought. Neat and clean. Not exactly bustling, but at just a little after nine, the hour was still early.

  Sliding from the driver's seat, Nick zipped up his jacket. November in Maine was a damn sight colder than Seattle, though not as cold as he had expected. Reaching into the cab, he flipped open the glove compartment. What do you know? He chuckled. Gloves.

  "There you are!"

  Out of the corner of his eye, Nick caught a flash of blond hair covered by a dark knit hat. Though bundled in a thick, shapeless, cable-knit sweater, he had no problem determining the whirlwind to be of the female variety. A flash of bright blue eyes rimmed by dark lashes and full lips naturally the color of ripe raspberries.

  Not pretty, Nick's radar took note. Pretty was forgettable. Something about this woman made him look twice. Then, look again. She, on the other hand, didn't show the slightest personal interest. Grabbing Nick by the wrist, she tried to tug him toward…?

  Nick had no idea of her intended destination. Though she had a surprisingly strong grip, he easily resisted her efforts.

  "Come on!" Huffing, she pulled with all her might—to no avail. "Damn it. Do you need a tip just to move your ass off the sidewalk? What is this world coming to? Fine. Wait here."

  Amused—add curious—Nick leaned against the side of his vehicle and did as she commanded. He waited. Perhaps he could mine a little pleasure from this trip after all.

  Bursting from the storefront, as fast on her feet as when she entered, Nick cocked his head to the side, imagining the curves he would find under that all-encompassing sweater. The hem hit her about mid-thigh of a pair of long, shapely legs. Encouraging.

  "Here." Taking Nick's hand, she slapped a bill into his palm. "If that isn't enough, too bad. Get your ass in there and unclog the sink."

  A twenty? Not bad. Nick wasn't so far removed from poverty that he scoffed at money no matter the amount.