'It's necessary,' she muttered but couldn't quite bring herself to drop the blossom back in the box. 'How are you? I wasn't sure you'd be in.'
'I got in about half an hour ago. They cut us down five to two. I went oh for three.'
'Oh.' She frowned, not quite sure what she was supposed to say. 'I'm sorry.'
'I didn't seem to have any rhythm-it'll pass.' Before the play-offs, he added silently. ''I thought of you, maybe too much.'
Brooke felt an odd twist of pleasure that was difficult to pass off. 'I wouldn't want to be responsible for a slump, particularly when I remember some of the remedies.' His chuckle sounded faint and weary. 'Are you tired?'
'A bit. You'd think with the division wrapped up we'd glide through this last series. Last night we went eleven innings.'
'I know.' She could have bitten off her tongue.
'I caught the highlights on the late news,' she said breezily. 'I'll let you sleep, then. I just wanted to thank you.'
Her inadvertent admission had his lips twitching, but he didn't bother to open his eyes. With them closed, he had no trouble bringing her face into focus. 'Will I see you when I get back?'
'Of course. We'll be shooting the first segment on Friday, so-''
'Brooke,' he interrupted firmly, quietly. 'Will I see you when I get back?''
She hesitated, then looked down at the mass of pink-and-white hibiscus on her desk. 'Yes,' she heard herself saying. Pressing the flower to her cheek, she sighed. 'I think I'm going to make a very big mistake.'
'Good. I'll see you Friday.'
'The trick to being a good director, Brooke had always thought, was to be precise without being too technical, brisk without losing sympathy, then to split yourself up into several small parts so that you could be everywhere at once. It was a knack she had developed early on-on the job-without the formalized training of many of her colleagues. Perhaps because she had worked so many of the other aspects of filming, from timing a script to setting the lights to mixing sound, she was fiercely precise. Nothing escaped her eye. Because she knew actors were often overworked and insecure, she had never quite lost her sympathy for them even when she was ready to rage at a consistently flubbed line. Her early experience at waiting tables had taught her the trick of moving fast enough to all but be two places at once.
On a set or in a studio, she had complete self-confidence. Her control was usually unquestioned because it came naturally. She never thought about being in charge or felt the need to remind others of it; she simply was in charge.
With a copy of the script in one hand, she supervised the final adjustments on the lights and reflectors.
The ball diamond, she had noted immediately, had an entirely different feel at home plate than it had from the stands. It was like being on an island, cupped amid the high mountain of seats, with the tall green wall skirting the back. The distance from plate to fence seemed even more formidable from this perspective. Brooke wondered how men with sticks in their hands could continually hit a moving ball over that last obstacle. She could smell the grass, freshly trimmed, the dusty scent of dirt that had dried in the sun and a whiff of E.J.'s blatantly macho cologne. 'Give me a reading,' she ordered the lighting director as she glanced up at the thick clouds in the sky. 'I want a sunny afternoon.'
'You got it.' The lights were focused as Brooke stepped behind camera one to check for shadows on the plate.
Parks loitered at the tunnel entrance a moment, watching her. This was a different woman from the one whom he had treated to tacos-different still from the one he had held in his arms at the de Marco party. Her hair was trained back in one long braid, nothing like the flowing, gypsylike mane he was used to seeing. She wore jeans that were white at the stress points, a plain T-shirt the color of scrambled eggs, dusty tennis shoes and winking sapphires at her ears. But it wasn't her hairstyle or the apparel that denoted the difference. It was the assurance. He'd seen it before, but each time it had been underlying. Now she sparked with it, gesturing, ordering while men and women set about giving her exactly what she demanded. No one questioned her. And, he considered, it was patently obvious that she wouldn't have permitted it.
Grimacing, he tugged at the sleeve of the thin silk shirt he wore. Who the hell would play ball in an outfit like this? he wondered with a glance at the creaseless cream slacks. The rules of this game were hers, he reminded himself, then stepped into the light. ' 'Bigelow, get these cables secure before somebody breaks a leg. Libby, see if you can scrounge up some ice water, we're going to need it. Okay, where's…' Turning at that moment, Brooke spotted Parks. 'Oh, there you are.' If she felt any personal pleasure at seeing him, she hid it well, Parks thought wryly as she turned to shout an order at her assistant. 'I'm going to want you to stand at the plate so we can check the lighting and camera angles.'
Without a word, Parks complied. You might as well get used to it, he told himself. You've got yourself locked into hawking somebody else's clothes for the next two years. He stuffed his hands in his pockets, cursed Lee briefly and stood in the batter's box. Someone stuck a light meter next to his face.
'You gonna wipe out the Valiants in the playoffs?' ' the technician demanded.
'That's the plan,' Parks returned easily. 'I've got fifty bucks on it.'
This time Parks grinned. 'I'll try to keep that in mind.'
'Derrick.' Brooke gave the technician a jerk of her head to send him on his way as she approached Parks. 'Okay, this is the easy part,' she began. 'No dialogue, and you're doing what you're best at.'
'What's that?'
Brooke lifted a brow at the loaded question but continued smoothly. ' 'Swinging a bat. Since the pitching coach has agreed to throw you a few, you should feel comfortable.'
'Ever stood in the box without a helmet?' he countered.
'It wouldn't go with your outfit,' she said mildly.
She gave him a deliberately slow study-eyes sweeping up, then down, then back up again. 'And it looks good.'
'I like yours, too.' His smile was quick and dangerous. 'I'm going to like unbinding your hair.'
'Makeup!' she called abruptly. 'Give him a dusting, he's going to glow.'
'Wait a minute,' Parks began, deftly catching the wrist of the woman with the powder.
'No sweating on camera,' Brooke drawled, pleased with his reaction. 'All I want you to do is what you usually do when you're in uniform. Take your regular stance,' she continued. 'A couple of those test swings. After you hit the ball, I want one of those grins before you toss the bat aside.'
'What grins?' Reluctantly, Parks released the makeup artist's wrist and suffered the powder. With humor dancing in her eyes, Brooke gave him a singularly sweet smile. ' 'One of those boy-on-the beach grins. Quick, lots of teeth, crinkles at the corners of the eyes.'
He narrowed them dangerously. 'I'm going to get you for this.'
'Try to keep the strikes to a minimum,' she went on blithely. 'Every strike's a take. You don't have to hit it out of the park, just look like you have. Got it?'
'Yeah, I got it.' Annoyed, he nodded to the pitching coach as he walked by.
'You look real cute, Jones.'
'Just try to get it near the plate,' Parks retorted. 'Do I get a bat?' he demanded of Brooke. 'Or do I just pretend?'
For an answer, Brooke turned and shouted to her assistant. 'Let's have the bat, E.J., are you set? Just roll the film-no sweeps, no pans, no close-ups. Remember, we're selling the clothes.'
'This is aluminum.'
Distracted, Brooke turned back to Parks. 'What?' 'This bat is aluminum.'
When he held it out, Brooke automatically took it from him. 'Yes, it appears to be.' As she started to pass it back to him, Parks shook his head.
'I use wood. A two seventy-seven A.'
She started to come back with a curt remark, then stopped herself. If she was accustomed to anything, it was temperament. 'Get Mr. Jones the bat he prefers,' she told her assistant, tossing the first one to him. 'Anything else?'
For a moment, he regarded her keenly. 'Does everybody jump when you say?'
