BURGERSCOOT

Theodore Meets Marci

Theodore Williams stood in line at the public library when he realized the librarian who would most likely help him was the wrong librarian. Theodore asked the person behind him if he wanted to take his place in line. As it turned out, he still ended up with the wrong librarian. The librarian gladly checked out the book for him and politely told him that if he didn’t want to wait, he could use the self-checkout computer near the front door.

He sat in a chair near the checkout, flipping through the pages of his newly checked-out book, but he might as well have closed his eyes. Patience had served Theodore well on the mound; here, it gave him an excuse to linger without admitting—even to himself—that he was nervous. He listened for the librarian he was interested in until he heard her name: Marci. He wondered if it was short for the beautiful Italian name Marcella. She looked Italian: olive skin, dark hair, and dark eyes, probably brown.

This wasn’t Theodore’s neighborhood library; it was over eight miles away. He had been passing through when the brightly colored building caught his eye, and he stopped only to check out a book. Seeing Marci changed the errand into a challenge. He trusted his instincts, even when prudence suggested otherwise, and now he felt he had to meet her.

As the line thinned, Marci swiveled in her chair, grabbed a few books from a cart behind her, and headed to the fiction section. Theodore followed her into the stacks, trying to look casual. She started when she turned and found an attractive, well-dressed man smiling right behind her. Her surprise hardened briefly into professional caution before she composed herself.

“May I help you?”

Theodore smiled back and said he had a question about this book; he showed her the cover of “Podcasting 101: A Complete Reference Guide to All Things Podcasting,” which he had just checked out.

Theodore handed the book to Marci, who accepted it and whispered, “Let’s see.” She turned her back to Theodore, raised the book so he could see the whole page, and explained what all the elements on the first few printed pages were. Theodore, nearly a foot taller than Marci, leaned over, not too interested in what she was whispering, but listening to her elementary-school delivery and taking in her scent: a woody floral fragrance with warm sandalwood, the curve in her long neck, and the way her elegant fingers almost made love to the pages of the book she was holding.

When she rested her hand on the title page, she said to the ex-ball player, “This is the title page.” Theodore gently closed the book, brushed a couple of those wonderful fingers, and pointed to the cover. “Isn’t this the title page?” Marci looked up at him, smiled, then said, “No, that’s just the dust jacket.” Then, moving back to the page she was on, she said in a gentle correcting tone, “This is the title page. What we’re looking for is on the other side of the Title Page, the copyright page. Here it is. This should have the information you are looking for.” She handed him the book, open to the copyright page. “Is that what you are looking for, sir?”

When she finished, she turned around and noticed how close he was. He immediately backed up and apologized. Marci smiled again. Theodore put up his hands in surrender. “I’m sorry. I find you very attractive, but I don’t mean to be so forward.” He asked if she knew anything about broadcasting books; she looked up, smiled, and said, “Not really, but let me see if the computer can help you.” She still had two books to reshelve. She walked over to a computer, scanned her ID badge, and typed until she reached the information page. She said, “Well, here’s a list of different titles and the different types of media they are on. Is there anything else I can help you with?” Theodore wanted so badly to say, “Yes, your phone number,” but that would be way too forward and way too early.

“No, but thank you,” Theodore said with a smile, taking the book and closing it. He walked out of the library before his confidence tempted him to push harder. For once, leaving without what he wanted felt less like defeat and more like strategy.

Why Not Just Ted?

A week had passed since Theodore and Marci met in the library stacks, but on a Saturday afternoon, as Marci left the library, she saw Theodore leaning against her white Toyota Prius.

“May I help you with something, Mr. Williams?”

“A cup of coffee. I want to buy you a cup of coffee.”

“I really need to be getting home, Mr. Williams.”

“Theodore. And how do you know my last name?”

Marci abruptly stopped. “Lara—the librarian who checked out your book—took a shine to you. It appears you returned it the next morning.”

“What can I say? I’m a speed reader. Anyway, I hope she doesn’t mind that you’re the one I’m asking out for coffee, and good for you that you remembered my name.”

“It’s a common surname, Mr. Williams. And are you preventing me from entering my car?”

“No, Marci, I’m holding the door for you until you unlock it.”

“What a gentleman,” Marci said with irony, unlocking her car door and letting Theodore open it for her.

“Anyway, tonight is not good; my parents are expecting me.”

“Oh, special occasion?”

“No, I live with them.”

Theodore found it strange that a woman in her forties still lived with her parents. Yet the careful way she spoke made him suspect there was more to the arrangement than dependence, and curiosity joined attraction as a reason not to give up.

“Would you be available tomorrow?”

“No, Mr. Williams. I attend Mass with my parents and spend the rest of Sunday at home.”

“Okay, well, you’re off on Monday as well, I’m assuming—at least the library is closed. May I take you out for coffee on Monday? We could meet at a coffee shop of your choosing, whenever you want.”

Marci looked across the busy street and started her car. “You’re not going to let this go, are you, Mr. Williams?”

“No, you’re too beautiful to let go that easily.”

Marci smiled, caught between flattery and embarrassment. She disliked how easily his attention unsettled her, but she also disliked the thought of never seeing him again. “Do you know where Pisano’s Diner is?”

“I can find it.”

“I’ll be there at 3:00 p.m., an hour before the dinner rush. At 4:00 p.m., you’ll need to leave, unless you are going to buy something off the dinner menu—I wait tables until the restaurant closes for the night. Try to be on time, Mr. Williams. I can give you only an hour.”

“Wow, are your parents ex-military?”

“No, I do my parents’ books, and they have a very thin profit margin, so I need the booth cleared for any potential dinner customers, Mr. Williams.”

“Okay, I’ll be there on time.”

Theodore waved goodbye as Marci drove away in her white Prius.

When she turned onto Stockton Blvd, he walked to his dark green BMW and drove home.

At 3:54 p.m. on Monday, Marci pulled into the diner’s dilapidated parking lot. Theodore was leaning against his BMW, looking at his Rolex. By the time she got to the diner’s front door, Theodore had opened it for her. As she walked past him, he said, “You’re close to cutting into my time, Miss Pisano,” with a smile.

“How did you know that’s my last name?”

“Wild guess,” Theodore said, rapping his knuckles on the glass front door that read “Pisano’s Diner.”

They sat in a booth near the front door. Marci had told Theodore that coming in early would somehow burden the family place, but the restaurant was empty except for a couple in a back booth and an older man at the counter reading the newspaper.

Marci called for her father, who was staring dumbfounded at Theodore, and asked for two cups of coffee.

Mrs. Pisano walked by briskly and said she would pour coffee for their daughter and her guest.

Theodore and Marci started with pleasantries; Marci was a little more formal and stiff than Theodore. At one point, Theodore saw Mr. Pisano walking slowly toward him. Mrs. Pisano sarcastically exclaimed to her husband, “Sure, Enzo, I can take orders, pour coffee, and play the cook; why don’t you gawk at our daughter’s gentleman caller as long as you like!” Mr. Pisano didn’t hear his wife. Anyway, no one needed service except Marci and Theodore at the moment.

“I know you!”

“Daddy, this is—”

“Theodore Williams, you don’t think I wouldn’t know one of the National League’s greatest pitchers in the last decade?!”

Marci shot a stare at Theodore.

“Uh-oh, what do you know, I’ve been found out! It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Pisano. Nice place you’ve got here, sir.” Theodore was being very generous. Pisano’s Diner had seen better days. From the asphalt in the parking lot to the upholstery on the booths and counter stools, and the worn tables and countertops, everything needed work or replacement. He wondered what the kitchen and bathrooms looked like.

“What happened to you after you left the Atlanta Braves and the majors?”

“Well, when Tommy John didn’t help the arm, I tried to develop a knuckleball.”

“No, no!” Mr. Pisano urged, shaking a hand in front of him as if to bat away the evil idea.

“Well,” Theodore chuckled at Enzo Pisano’s theatrical response, “my people told me, baseball didn’t want any more knucklers—”

“Well, of course!”

“Ha, ha, ha!” Theodore couldn’t suppress his amusement at Mr. Pisano’s passion. “So, they gave me what the business world calls a ‘golden handshake.’ I would have preferred a bionic right arm, but beggars can’t be choosers, I suppose. Now I get a pension, plus the money my broker wisely invested from my last multimillion-dollar contract and the final signing bonus. Personally, Mr. Pisano, I’d rather play ball and live off a minor leaguer’s salary and Top Ramen, but what are you going to do?”

Mr. Pisano and Theodore talked baseball for the next five minutes until Mrs. Pisano had enough and sent her husband back to the kitchen.

Marci sat in shock as Theodore and her father talked. The man pursuing her was not only attractive and well-dressed but wealthy and—at least to her father—famous. Each revelation widened the distance she already felt between her safe life and the unpredictable world Theo represented.

“So, you are some kind of superstar,” Marci said with a touch of distaste.

“Probably never a ‘superstar,’ just a well-known starter, but that was then. I was forced into retirement due to a bad wing. These days I’m a mediocre color commentator for the Sacramento River Cats and what looks like an absolute loser of a podcaster, at least that’s what the numbers suggest. I am very sweet on a librarian, though I don’t think she likes me much.”

“Well, my father loves you, and that means something, I guess.”

“I doubt he loves me. I’m trying to date his daughter, and that’s not going so well.”

The talk of dating made Marci nervous. Theo’s charm was easier to manage when she could turn it into a joke, so she deflected. “Hey, what’s with the name Theodore? It’s so formal and stuffy for someone who dresses so flashy, drives a BMW, and wears what looks like expensive jewelry and an expensive watch. Why not Ted?”

“No!” shouted someone from the kitchen. Turns out Mr. Pisano had been listening the whole time. “There’s only one Ted Williams, and Theodore Williams is no Ted Williams!”

Theodore smiled, waved Mr. Pisano off, and asked Marci, “Do you know who Ted Williams is?”

Theodore answered his own question: “He is possibly the greatest hitter in baseball history. As a kid and through college, I lived in Ted Williams’ immense shadow. This was back when my mother liked calling me Ted or Teddy, which I hated even more. To this day, Ted Williams holds records that feel more like monuments: the last batter to hit over .400 in a season, the all-time highest on-base percentage, the most walks drawn, and more. He also wrote a handbook on hitting that still holds up today.”

“You know there are other nicknames for Theodore—”

“Yeah, most people who know me call me Theo.”

“Well, there you go. Why didn’t you tell me that up front?”

“You seemed pretty set on calling me Mr. Williams.”

Marci bowed her head, smiling. Using the familiar name felt like giving him more ground than she intended, yet she wanted to. “I guess I’ll call you Theo.”

“There you go!” Theodore said with a big smile and open arms.

The conversation became lighter now. They talked about his old life in Atlanta and growing up in Sacramento, Marci’s childhood in Queens, and how her parents opened this restaurant twenty years ago.

The conversation lightened, and Theo felt a small victory when she called him Theo. Still, patience had never been his strongest virtue. He dropped the big question: “So, what are the chances Marci will go out to dinner with Theo?”

Marci’s countenance suddenly grew darker. “I don’t think that is possible, Mr. Williams.”

Theo sat up and looked over her at Mr. and Mrs. Pisano, who were staring at their daughter. Mrs. Pisano walked over quickly and said, “What if we invite Mr. Williams for dinner at our place, Marci?”

Marci felt cornered, and her body language showed it: her shoulders drew inward, and the warmth left her face. Wanting Theo’s company did not make choosing it feel safe.

Theo recognized the retreat in Marci’s posture. Winning had once meant pressing an advantage, but with her, it meant knowing when to stop. He pulled out a business card and slid it over, saying, “Maybe that’s up for Marci to decide, but let me give you all the time you need to discuss it.”

Theo bent his head down to stress he was now speaking to Marci alone, “Marci, it is absolutely no rush. Call me when you’ve had time to think it over. Just give me a call; I promise I won’t press you for an answer.”

Then, getting out of the booth, Theo said, “Mr. and Mrs. Pisano, thank you for the coffee; you have a nice restaurant.”

“Marci,” Theo said, bending over and gently taking her hand but not kissing it. “I enjoyed getting to know you a little better.”

As he left the restaurant, he turned and asked if Mr. Pisano had ever collected baseball memorabilia. Mr. Pisano excitedly said yes. “I’ll ship some items to this address you might like.”

“Grazie, Mr. Theo!”

“You’re welcome. You folks have a nice evening.”

As Theo drove home, he wondered again why Marci was so decorous, almost prudish. The women he knew had never been such homebodies or so deferential, like someone from a Jane Austen or Charlotte Brontë novel. Her reserve frustrated him because it denied him the easy confidence he usually relied on. He concluded that her parents were overly protective—but why? If this dinner ever happened, it would be his first chaperoned date since he was fifteen, and this woman was around forty. Even so, beneath his impatience was the uncomfortable realization that he cared more about earning her trust than preserving his pride.

Theo and Marci Are Chaperoned

Three weeks later, on a Monday night, Theo found himself in the clean, albeit humble home of the Pisanos in Oak Park. He toured the small house, including Marci’s room. He was relieved it didn’t look like Laura Wingfield’s in “The Glass Menagerie,” or heavily Catholic, with rosary beads, statuettes of St. Francis and Mother Mary, and a print of a bloodied Jesus, but then he realized it was a librarian’s bedroom. He was impressed by how many books Marci had, though the bookcases were old, worn, and mismatched, and the books looked like library books, most likely bought at library-clearance prices.

They had a well-made Italian dinner, if not with fancy ingredients. Theo remembered what Marci had said a month ago in the library parking lot. Still, the Pisanos knew how to use spices to make the meal taste special.

Mr. and Mrs. Pisano stayed mostly quiet, letting Marci and Theo talk, but Theo felt like they were in a fishbowl. He drew her parents into the conversation to ease the awkwardness, only to realize that Marci was now on the outside looking in. Her silence bothered him; he had come to know her, not to perform for an audience.

On a second date a week later, at Theo’s suggestion, they all made pizza or “a pie,” as Mr. Pisano called it. It was a better “date” than the first—all four people worked together, with Mr. Pisano naturally taking the lead. The pizza was a little disappointing, a little too doughy because of the old conventional oven.

Afterward, they moved to the family room and watched “Anyone But You.” When the film ended, Marci walked Theo out to his car, and they both got into it. Marci was interested in the car but not impressed. Theo started with the car and its amenities, then slowly eased into more personal matters. Theo commented that Marci’s parents seemed to be taking turns looking out the window. Theo decided it was time to broach the topic of why Marci’s parents were so protective of her. Marci answered abruptly, “I need to go in. Thank you so much for the company tonight, Theo,” kissed him chastely on the cheek, jumped out of the car, and ran into the house without looking back.

Theo sat in his car for about three minutes, trying to understand what had happened. Neither Mr. nor Mrs. Pisano was looking through the window anymore. Marci had performed an impressive Usain Bolt and was now in the house, maybe crying on her bed, who knows. He started the car and slowly pulled out of the driveway, hoping Marci—or even one of her parents—would run out and offer something more illuminating. Nobody came. He placed his phone screen-up on the passenger seat, as if he could conjure a call or text from her. Pride told him to stop chasing someone who would not explain herself; concern told him her fear had little to do with him. He thought she could call right then and tell him never to contact her again, and at least he would have closure. It was getting to that point.

The First Time They Dated Unchaperoned

Another week passed. Theo hadn’t tried to call Marci or her parents. He was playing with the idea of letting her go, but when her name appeared on his phone screen, he answered before the second ring.

“Hello, Marci. How are you?”

“I need to see you. Can we meet at the Temple coffee shop on S Street, near where you live?”

“Yes. I can be there in fifteen minutes.”

“Good, I’m pulling into the parking lot right now.”

Twenty minutes later, they were in the service line at Temple Roasters, where Theo tried to make small talk about how it was his favorite local coffee joint and how her father should get his coffee and espresso beans from Temple. After pointing out that the beans were far too expensive for her parents’ place, Marci stayed quiet.

When they both got their drinks, Marci led Theo into the corner where they could have as much privacy as a busy place like Temple allowed.

“I owe you an apology,” Marci said. She kept both hands around her cup, using its warmth to steady them. “You asked a reasonable question last time you were at my house, and I ran away.”

“You don’t owe me anything,” Theo said tiredly. “But I would like to understand what happened to you. You’re a 40-year-old woman—”

“45,” Marci corrected.

“Okay, you’re a 45-year-old woman, and in some ways, you live like you’re a teenager: you live with your two able-bodied parents, you go on chaperoned dates, your parents guard you like you’re the Hope Diamond. I’m sorry if I am hurting your feelings. I’m not going to lie to you, Marci. I want you; I have never been in this situation since I had acne, a learner’s permit, and a horrible crush on my high school science partner. Besides, how do you know where I live?”

Marci began to tear up and put her head in her hands. Shame arrived before the explanation, as it always did. “My father asked me at work for your address a week ago, and I looked it up and told him.”

“Are you kidding me? Marci, this is all sounding pathological.”

“Please don’t tell anyone; I could lose my job.”

“Why, did your Dad want to know where I live?”

“He was just trying to protect me.”

“So, you looked up my account information in the library system, you told your Dad the address, and he did some recon work. Well, your secret is safe with me. What was he trying to find—it’s just a house. Does he think I might abduct you, tie you up in my basement?”

“No, no! My father says it’s a very nice house.”

Theo sat in silence, occasionally looking around the café for anyone who might have heard or seen Marci crying. He thought, “That was a lousy answer to my question,” and concluded that this might be the last straw. Compassion pulled him toward her, while self-preservation urged him away. For every answer Marci gave, he had three more questions, and she would most likely stonewall him. He couldn’t decide whether her secrecy meant she distrusted him or had never learned to trust anyone.

As they left Temple and Theo walked Marci to her car, the clouds were coming in fast. The forecast called for a storm around midnight, but Theo felt like it could hit in an hour.

“Marci, I need you to be safe on the road and go straight home. The big storm that was supposed to land here in about three or four hours looks like it’s going to happen a lot sooner.”

Theo opened the door for Marci, and for the first time since they met, she hugged him. It wasn’t flirtation but surrender, as if she knew this was goodbye and could say in the embrace what she couldn’t say aloud. He could feel her quaking against his chest and his shirt becoming damp.

Theo bent down and told Marci to gather herself before she drove, but not to wait too long in the parking lot. Then Theo kissed Marci on the forehead and told her to drive safely.

The Night of the Storm

Ninety minutes later, the storm hit. Theo spent the following hour getting his house ready for a power outage. He had just finished wiping down the kitchen counter after making a cold sandwich when he heard a knock at the door. “Who would be calling at this hour during the storm? Damn, I need to fix that leaky gutter; it must be dousing the person,” Theo thought.

When he opened the front door, Marci stood woefully underdressed for the storm, especially on his wet porch. The sight frightened him more than he wanted to show: whatever had driven her there was stronger than her instinct for safety.

“Marci, come on in!” he yelled, gesticulating with his left arm.

“I don’t think I can do this,” Marci shouted back. “I can’t do this!”

“What, have a conversation during a thunderstorm, you on my porch with a leaky gutter, me inside dry as a bone? Yeah, I don’t think you will last very long. Please come in; you’re soaking wet. Didn’t you go straight home like I strongly suggested?”

“I’ve been driving around,” Marci said, screaming. “I don’t think I can have a relationship with you!”

“We already have one. Please come in and dry off. I’ll make you some coffee.”

“I can’t date you!”

“Can’t or won’t?”

“Please!”

“Just come in, and we can talk about it.”

Marci was miserable and finally relented, but after two steps into Theo’s house, she stopped behind the now-closed front door. Crossing the threshold seemed to cost her more courage than the drive through the storm. She reached for irritation because it felt safer than fear. “I need to use your bathroom. Hopefully, it isn’t as leaky as your front porch.”

While leading Marci into one of his bathrooms, he thought, “Was that just lip from Marci Pisano? That’s an improvement!” Theo gave her towels and an Atlanta Braves T-shirt, too large for her small frame, with his name and number on it.

“Dry off with these towels, place your underwear and socks outside the door, and I will throw them in the dryer as long as we have electricity. When they are dry, I will give them to you. You can wear them and the T-shirt, and we’ll wait for the rest of your clothes to finish drying. In the meantime, I’ll make you something hot, and we’ll talk about this problem you have.”

Theo heard her huff and smiled as he leaned against the doorframe. A few minutes later, Marci cracked the door open and sheepishly handed Theo her underwear and socks.

“Okay, great, I’m putting these in the dryer right now. Should I set the dryer to a specific setting for these?”

“Hot as hell. I don’t know. Dry them like you’re drying your clothes.” Theo grinned. Through her frustration, Theo saw a different woman. Theo rather liked it. He walked to the laundry room, dropped the three items in the dryer, and started the machine. “Twenty minutes ought to do it.”

Theo headed back toward the hall bathroom. When Marci emerged, she faced him in the hallway wearing only his oversized Atlanta Braves warm-up T-shirt, his old number 80 hanging over her small frame. Attraction flickered through him, then faded when he saw her expression and realized she felt exposed, not alluring. For an instant, he imagined the easy intimacy of the life he had once expected in Atlanta—a healthy arm, a promising future, a girlfriend comfortable in his home. Marci’s embarrassment and humiliation shattered the fantasy, leaving him ashamed that he had mistaken proximity for trust.

“Would you please get me something else to wear?” Marci shouted with a cracked voice as she crumpled to the floor.

Theo ran to her, knelt, and hugged her. “I’m sorry, Marci. I guess I triggered something, didn’t I? Please forgive me.”

Marci said nothing and simply cried. She accepted his arms, though her shoulders remained stiff, as if one part of her wanted comfort while another still prepared to escape.

Slowly, Theo slid against the wall with Marci until they were both on the hallway floor, then pulled Marci tighter into his arms. “You know I would never harm or objectify you. I love you, Marciella.”

Theo wasn’t sure where the word “love” came from. The last two times he had been with Marci, he had nearly ended the relationship. Yet beneath his frustration, he recognized something stubborn and unfamiliar: he no longer wanted merely to win her affection; he wanted to become someone she could feel safe with.

“Who did this to you, Marciella?” he finally asked.

“I was molested when I was 10 years old.”

Theo held her tighter and said, “That explains a lot.”

Marci cried until exhaustion overtook her. When she began to snore, Theo smiled—not because anything was funny, but because the ordinary sound reassured him that she could finally rest. He picked her up, placed her in the guest-room bed, and tucked her in.

Theo marveled at how loud a small woman could snore, then smiled. When Marci’s clothes finished drying, he folded them and placed them on the guest-room dresser. In the front room, he found Marci’s bag with her phone inside, showing multiple calls from her parents. He called the Pisanos, told them what happened and that she was safe, and asked them to give her a few hours to rest before calling again. Mrs. Pisano reluctantly agreed.

The Morning After the Storm

Afterward, Theo lay on his couch with his head facing the bedroom entrance and tried to relax, dozing off for a couple of hours.

Sometime in the early hours, Theo heard Marci talking on her phone. After the brief conversation, he heard her leave the room, then stop, startled, when she saw Theo on the couch.

“Are you okay, sweetie?”

“My father’s on the way here to pick me up.”

“Okay, do you want me to follow you two in your car?”

“Oh.” Silence followed.

“Did you forget how you got here last night?”

Marci covered her face and began to cry.

Theo stood and hugged her. “It’s all right; you were upset last night. Why don’t you give me your keys, and I’ll drive your car home when your Dad picks you up?” He kept his voice practical, sensing she’d accept kindness more easily if it came disguised as a plan.

Marci reluctantly handed Theo her keys.

“Do you want a cup of coffee? I have to-go cups with lids?”

“No, thank you,” she answered, smiling as she wiped away her last tears.

“Yeah, I know, I’ve got everything—a BMW and to-go cups,” Theo said, smiling back.

“How about a piece of toast?”

“No, thank you, Theo. I’m alright.”

Theo slowly turned her around and sat her down on his couch, then knelt in front of her, minding the front window for headlights coming up his driveway.

“I want to give you a gift, and I don’t want you to deny me this. In a short while, I’m going to send you and your parents an envelope containing the business cards of therapists in the area.” Marci started to shake her head. Theo understood that money was the only help he knew how to offer without demanding emotional access in return. “Choose the one you feel comfortable with. They’re all female experts in the field you need help with. The therapy will be on my dime—no strings attached.”

Marci continued to shake her head.

“Please accept this as a gift from me to you and your parents.”

As Mr. Pisano’s headlights flashed across his kitchen and front room, Theo held Marci’s head between his hands. “This isn’t a scented candle you receive for Christmas from your reading group friend—you don’t turn down or chuck this kind of a gift.”

Theo followed Mr. Pisano and Marci home. There he asked to speak to Mr. Pisano alone in the Pisanos’ driveway. Mr. Pisano asked Marci to go into the house. Theo then told Mr. Pisano what happened last night and this morning, including his offer. He stressed to Mr. Pisano that his daughter’s health was more important than the money it would take to help her.

“Try to remember, Mr. Pisano, the money spent on Marci’s health is only a drop in the bucket as far as my bank balances go.”

“You are an honorable man,” Mr. Pisano said to Theo.

The two men shook hands.

A Year After the Storm

During the first few months following the storm, Theodore worked as a color commentator for the Sacramento River Cats until his contract was canceled. The loss bruised the competitive pride he rarely admitted still governed him. His podcast improved slightly when he brought on a funny partner who injected humor and a more youthful voice into his otherwise boring shows. Sharing the microphone didn’t come naturally, but it made him a better listener. His publicist also landed important baseball personalities for the platform, giving the show a much-needed boost in popularity and advertising revenue.

He recorded in his basement, which he had turned into a respectable podcast studio. After what he and his partner considered a successful show, he thought about the book that had helped him—the one he had checked out from the library where he and Marci met. He had ended up with the book but not Marci. The irony no longer amused him; success felt thin when no one he cared about was waiting upstairs.

One day, while he was going over his bills at the kitchen counter and drinking a beer, he saw Mr. Pisano walk up the porch. When he answered the door, Mr. Pisano, nearly in tears, shouted that Marci had stopped going to therapy.

Though Theo no longer considered it his business, he said he would call the office that regularly withdrew payments from his account. Mr. Pisano thanked Theo, walked back to his car, and drove away.

Theo stood where, a year ago, he had begged Marci to come in from the rain. Now he felt pulled back into the vortex that was Marcella Pisano. This time, however, he would try something different.

Theo drove to the library where they first met.

When he walked in, Marci was alone at the desk. Gone was the schoolmarm dress. In its place was an attractive blouse, a necklace that accented her olive skin, and matching earrings. The change was subtle, but Theo noticed something more important than the clothes: she occupied the space without seeming to apologize for being seen. He approached the checkout desk, placed his hands on it, leaned over, and spoke. “How are you, Marcella Pisano?”

Marci, still a little intimidated by Theo’s looks and forwardness, recoiled from old habit. This time she caught herself, leaned in, and smiled. “Much better, Mr. Williams.”

“No Theo, huh? That’s okay. I’ll take Mr. Williams any day, if it comes with that beautiful smile. I was hoping I could meet you for coffee when the library closes. Don’t worry, I’m not trying to pick you up. I just had a few questions—nothing intimidating, I swear.”

Marci smiled and said, “Why don’t we meet at that Temple place you like? I can meet you there around 6:30 tonight.”

They agreed on the time and place, but halfway there, Theo got a text from Marci: “On second thought, let’s meet at your place, same time.” Theo agreed. The invitation was unexpectedly forward for Marci, yet he resisted interpreting it for her. If the past year had taught him anything, it was to let her name what she wanted in her own time.

When Theo pulled into his driveway, Marci was parked on the street, leaning against her Prius and holding what looked like carry-on luggage with both hands.

Theo got out of his car, walked over to Marci, and asked, “Where are you going with the suitcase?”

“I’m spending the night with an ex-ball player who is now a popular podcaster.”

“Oh, really now.”

“Yep!”

“You know, us podcasters are a dime a dozen.”

“Not this one. See, I’m in love with this podcaster, and that makes him special.”

Theo stared at her, all his practiced charm gone. For years, he had known what to do when a batter stepped into the box, when a microphone went live, or when a room expected him to be Theodore Williams. But Marci had arrived with a suitcase and three quiet words that left him defenseless.

“You love me?” he asked.

Marci lifted her chin. Her hands still gripped the suitcase, but her voice did not tremble. “I have for a long time. I was afraid that loving you meant losing control of my life. Therapy helped me understand that fear had already been controlling it.”

Theo stepped closer, then stopped far enough away to let her choose. “And spending the night?”

“It means I want to stay with you tonight.” A smile touched her mouth. “It does not mean you get to make any assumptions, Mr. Williams.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it, Miss Pisano.”

He reached for the suitcase, but Marci held on. For a second, they stood with one hand each on the handle, neither willing to let go.

“I carried it this far,” she said.

Theo released the handle. “Then I’ll carry something else. Your purse? Your library card? Emotional baggage?”

Marci smiled. “You can open the door.”

“Now that,” Theo said, walking ahead of her, “I know how to do.”

At the porch, Marci paused beneath the gutter he had finally repaired. The night was clear, but Theo remembered her standing in that same place a year earlier, soaked and terrified, unable to cross the threshold. This time she climbed the steps without hesitation.

Theo opened the front door and waited. Marci set down the suitcase, took his face between her hands, and kissed him. Nothing about it was chaste or hurried, but when she drew back, Theo searched her eyes before touching her.

“Is this all right?” he whispered.

“Yes, Theo.” She kissed him again, then rested her forehead against his chest. “But first I have to call my parents.”

Theo laughed softly. “Some things never change.”

“Some things should,” Marci said. “Some things shouldn’t.”

She picked up her suitcase and walked inside. Theo followed, closing the door against a cloudless night. On the table near the entry lay a copy of Podcasting 101: A Complete Reference Guide to All Things Podcasting, which he’d checked out the day they met. Marci noticed it, smiled, and ran her fingers across the cover.

“You know,” she said, “that still isn’t the title page.”

Theo drew her gently into his arms. “I know. I just needed an excuse to talk to the right librarian.”