No Easy Catch (Carmen Sisters) Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  In loving memory...

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Epilogue

  Book Club Discussion Questions

  A Preview of Book Two in The Carmen Sisters

  About the Author

  Publisher’s Note:

  This novel is a work of fiction. References to real events, organizations, or places are used in a fictional context. Any resemblances to actual persons, living or dead, are entirely coincidental.

  All Scripture quotations are taken from the King James Version of the Holy Bible.

  No Easy Catch

  The Carmen Sisters ~ Book One

  Pat Simmons

  P.O. Box 1077

  Florissant, MO 63031

  [email protected]

  The author is represented by MacGregor Literary, Inc., of Hillsboro, Oregon.

  ISBN: 978-1-62911-009-7

  eBook ISBN: 978-1-62911-033-2

  Printed in the United States of America

  © 2014 by Pat Simmons

  Whitaker House

  1030 Hunt Valley Circle

  New Kensington, PA 15068

  www.whitakerhouse.com

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Simmons, Pat, 1959-

  No easy catch / by Pat Simmons.

  pages cm—(The Carmen Sisters ; book 1)

  ISBN: 978-1-62911-009-7 (alk. paper)– ISBN: 978-1-62911-033-2 (eBook)

  I. Title.

  PS3619.I56125N64 2014

  813'.6—dc23 2014000599

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical—including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system—without permission in writing from the publisher. Please direct your inquiries to [email protected].

  This book has been digitally produced in a standard specification in order to ensure its availability.

  In loving memory of Francis Ronald “Rahn” Ramey, 1955–2013.

  ***

  Whew. I was stunned when I got the news that Rahn had passed away in June 2013. It’s hard to say good-bye to a childhood friend, especially one whom I considered my big brother throughout my teenage years. How could my family have known, way back when I was in high school, that the same Rahn (aka Ronald) who hung out at our house, providing never-ending comedic relief, would go on to do great things? You never know a person’s potential—never. Yet he suffered an illness unknown to me and died so young. Although it had been a while since I had seen Rahn do standup comedy, I was proud of him. Thank God for sending Rahn our way, with his charisma and unique sense of humor. He will be missed for years to come, but at least I have the memories.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  A special thanks to readers who have supported me throughout the years and to the many book clubs, bookstores, and libraries that have promoted my work.

  Thanks also to:

  Agent Amanda Luedeke at MacGregor Literary Agency.

  Christine Whitaker at Whitaker House, for giving me the opportunity to tell the Carmen sisters’ stories.

  Authors Tia McCollors, Lisa Watson, and Vanessa Miller, who always checked in to make sure I met deadline. If folks only knew… Shout-out to Philly author Marlene Banks.

  My Jersey Guilty captain, Mia Harris, for the epilogue.

  Author Maurice Gray, for setting the record straight about the Charlie Brown baseball team…tee-hee.

  My son, Jared, who has been a St. Louis Cardinals fan since he could walk.

  My amateur assistant and hubby, Kerry, for giving me space to talk to my characters. I love and appreciate you.

  My lovely daughter, Simi.

  Bethesda Temple Church, and Bishop James A. Johnson and First Lady Juana Johnson—thank you for being shepherds for Christ. I love you, Bishop!

  The descendants of Minerva Jordan Wade; Marshall Cole and Laura Brown; Joseph and Nellie Palmer Wafford Brown; Thomas Carter and Love Ann Shepard; Ned and Priscilla Brownlee; John Wilkinson and Artie Jamison/Charlotte Jamison; and others who were tracked down on the 1800s censuses and other documents; and my in-laws: Simmonses, Sinkfields, Crofts, Sturdivants, Stricklands, Downers…and the list goes on.

  Jesus said unto him, If thou canst believe, all things are possible to him that believeth. And straightway the father of the child cried out, and said with tears, Lord, I believe; help thou mine unbelief.

  —Mark 9:23–24

  1

  St. Louis Cardinals baseball outfielder Rahn Maxwell had made some wrong turns in life—women and money, to name a few—but this wrong turn could prove deadly if the pair of blinding headlights racing toward him in his rearview mirror didn’t slow down.

  He had just left a nightclub in downtown St. Louis, where he had met some friends. A construction sign had instructed him to detour off Interstate 64, and now his GPS attempted to recalculate. The darkness around him was thick as fog.

  “Turn around when possible,” his GPS kept advising, as if it sensed danger.

  That would be a good idea, but at the moment, he had a more pressing issue. Since there wasn’t time for Rahn to get out of harm’s way, with a car speeding behind him, he braced for impact. Seconds later, the anticipated crash never occurred. An old Camaro shrieked to a halt alongside his pearl gray Mercedes-Benz G550 SUV, blocking his exit. Rahn experienced a bad gut feeling.

  The front passenger window of the car descended, and a dark-skinned man wearing dark glasses snarled at him. Brandishing some type of machine gun, he ordered Rahn to lower his window. Great! And he had just declined the dealer’s recommendation of armor-plated protection for his luxury vehicle. Now, Rahn wished he had followed his advice. How come hindsight couldn’t be foresight?

  Watching the gunman’s movements, Rahn counted down the seconds until his life would end. He hadn’t reached thirty-five, the age he planned to announce his retirement. Judging from the looks of things, his short-lived career was about to stop at twenty-seven. God, I can’t go down like this. Please help me. Rahn had too many wrongs he needed to right, people to whom he needed to say his last good-byes, and babies he needed to kiss.

  Exceeding his father’s numerous awards in baseball would be the biggest missed opportunity. Even collecting a pension didn’t sound too far-fetched at the moment. An induction in the Hall of Fame would be a plus, too. Now, all that seemed trivial.

  All of a sudden, the driver of the Camaro jumped out. He appeared taller than Rahn’s six-foot-three-inch frame. “Nice ride,” he said, pointing his ow
n gun at him.

  Against the eerie backdrop of night, the man’s fair complexion gave him the illusion of a ghost face with rows of silver chains weighing down his body. His bling shone like a neon light. “How about letting us take it for a test drive?” He grinned, revealing a gap in his bottom teeth.

  Was the trigger-happy dude asking permission? Did Rahn really have a choice?

  “You’re moving too slow, man.” Agitated, the gunman hustled closer to the vehicle as Rahn calculated the speed needed to back up without a bullet hitting its target. “Your life or your ride,” he demanded.

  Keep breathing, hands down, Rahn thought, more afraid at the moment than he could ever recall being.

  “The fear of the Lord is a fountain of life, to depart from the snares of death.” Proverbs 14:27 came to him as a whisper, as if God Himself was a passenger in his car.

  The Scriptures never seemed like a lifeline until it was too late. As Rahn was about to plead for his life, his assailant bucked, his demeanor shifting to uncertainty.

  “Hey, man—aren’t you Rahn Maxwell?” He bobbed his head. “Yep, you are. All right, now. Whaz up, man? I remember that game against the Dodgers when the bases were loaded. I put a lot of money on that game. Man, oh man, when you cleared the bases with your two-run homer, it was cool.” He snickered as if he was watching an instant replay.

  Rahn was about to be murdered, and the man wanted to talk baseball? Rahn could barely recall his name, let alone the specifics of a game from last season.

  This is your plan of escape, came the mental nudge from God.

  Right. He took the cue. “Yep, couldn’t let the Cubs gain ground—the Dodgers…the Dodgers.” Stay with the conversation, Maxwell, his mind warned him. He swallowed, still on guard.

  “Hey, y’all, it’s Rahn Maxwell,” the gunman shouted to his accomplices in the car. “Check him out.” He still held his weapon erect.

  Two thugs jumped out of the backseat. Scarves covered their heads, and bling drenched their bodies, which showcased tattoos splattered across their chests and arms.

  Outgunned and outnumbered, Rahn pleaded with Jesus, Lord, if You get me out of this, I’ll clean up my act—promise. Did he just make a vow? That left him no choice but to make good on it—not give lip service, as he had in the past.

  One of the men rushed to his window and squinted at him, as if to verify his identity. He displayed a mouth full of gold-capped teeth. “A’wight, you won that game against the Dodgers with your two-run homer.”

  “Grand slam, fool,” another one corrected him.

  Actually, it had been a two-run homer, but who was Rahn to contradict a man with a gun?

  The first gunman interrupted their impending argument. “Shut up, both of you!” He turned to Rahn. “Uh, could I have your autograph?”

  What? Refusing to show that he was dumbfounded, Rahn obliged and put his John Hancock on the piece of paper he was handed. His captors-turned-fans admired his signature.

  “A’wight.” The head mugger patted the hood of Rahn’s SUV and waved him back, as if he was a patrol officer allowing Rahn to cross the border. “We’ll move so you can make a U-turn.”

  One of the accomplices nodded, then jumped in the car and backed it out of the way.

  “Okay, take a right at the corner, and you’ll be back on the highway. Be safe.”

  Really? “Thanks.” Attentively, Rahn did as he was instructed. Once he was on the interstate, he tested his Benz’s horsepower, surpassing the speed limit. He wasn’t concerned about crashing or being arrested. He had escaped impending death. Either way, he was still breathing.

  Thirty minutes later, Rahn turned down the narrow two-lane road to the gated community he called home. His strength seemed to drain from his body as he pressed the garage door opener. “I’m alive. I’m alive.” As soon as he pulled inside and parked, Rahn rested his forehead on the steering wheel. Despite his natural strength, he felt faint. “Thank You, Jesus,” he whispered before turning off the motor. Willing his legs to move, Rahn somehow slid out of the driver’s seat, then steadied himself.

  His heart continued to pound thunderously against his chest as he entered his house through the kitchen. He deactivated his alarm system. Now safely behind locked doors, Rahn scanned the familiar surroundings. He had never been so scared in his life.

  Reaching for his cordless phone, Rahn fumbled with it until he had a grip. He punched in 9-1-1—something he should have done while speeding down the interstate. Rahn stuttered, speaking in broken sentences; Ebonics or even a foreign language might have slipped in before he was able to go into vivid details.

  “Sir, I’ll send an officer to take your statement,” the frustrated dispatcher finally told him.

  What? He huffed. He had sweated through the recap, only to have to suffer through it again. “Fine.”

  By the time the police—two of them—arrived, Rahn’s mind had drawn a blank. This time weapons flashed before his eyes and he described the AK-47s better than he could the gunmen’s faces. “When they recognized me, all they wanted to talk about was baseball and my autograph. The next thing I knew, one guy directed me out of their ambush. I never looked back….”

  The questions continued for another twenty minutes. Finally, the shorter of the two officers advised him they would be in touch, and then he and his partner left. Alone with his thoughts, Rahn showered until the water chilled.

  With no appetite or interest in television, Rahn collapsed on his bed. Although his body was tired, his mind was in extra innings. He continued to wrestle with the reality that God had spared his life. Maybe it had all been a dream.

  ***

  “This is the most exciting weekend I’ve had since moving here,” Shae Carmen told her younger sister Brecee.

  “I thought a surprise visit would cheer you up.” Dr. Sabrece “Brecee” Carmen had flown in from Houston, where she was completing her residency in pediatrics. It was almost midnight, and the sisters had just ordered dessert at a busy, posh restaurant tucked away near the Central West End.

  Thank God for family. And thanks to her parents, Annette and Saul Carmen, for giving her three sisters: Stacy, Shari, and Brecee. After a painful breakup, Shae had quit her first job out of college, at a Nebraska TV station, and taken the first offer she’d gotten, at KMMD-TV in St. Louis, which had turned out to be a blessing. Not only was she a reporter in a major market, but she had added “weekend news anchor” to her résumé. Professionally, she had rebounded; personally, however, she was still struggling to pick up the pieces.

  As far as Shae was concerned, three months hadn’t been enough time to come to grips with the church scandal of a lifetime—her own. She was twenty-six years old, not a naive sweet sixteen. She was adamant about never dating again, even if it meant a lifestyle of singleness. She had church and family to fill in the void.

  Shae relaxed in her seat at the booth. From the whispers and pointing of the other patrons, she knew some of them had recognized her from the ten o’clock newscast she’d recently anchored. That was preferable to the gossip and label of “home wrecker.” She sighed and leaned forward. “You know, I still can’t believe I was the other woman.”

  Brecee jabbed her finger at her. “You were never the other woman. She was.”

  “She was his wife.” Shae shook her head. “I wanted to slide under the pew when that woman stood in front of the entire congregation and testified how her husband had patiently brought her back to the Lord. Alex never said anything to me about being married, separated, or divorced. Where were the church busybodies when I needed them to put a buzz in my ear?”

  Brecee twisted her lips in disgust. “That two-timing married lowlife was leading you to believe you were the love of his life, pretending that God was the head of his life. Puh-lease. He was nothing more than a devil’s decoy, a slimy church predator, conniving to deceive the saints.”

  Brecee’s rant was as fervent as if she was the injured party. It would have been comical, if it w
asn’t for the fact that it was Shae’s miniseries that was playing out. Growing up, the sisters had often been mistaken for twins because of their uncanny resemblance. However, when it came to their personalities, they were as different as powdery snow and hail. Shae was soft-spoken when she wasn’t in front of the camera. Brecee, one year younger, was known for her unbridled tongue—a bad trait for a child of God, and she knew it.

  “I can’t believe I ranked at the top of my journalism class for investigative reporting.” Why hadn’t the stellar education given her the foresight in other areas? She cringed. Her gross error in judgment didn’t bode well for her credibility as a television reporter. Her oath to uncover the truth, follow up on leads, and expose corruption had been compromised, just like her dignity.

  If a boyfriend could deceive her and lie about being married, how would she know if a suspect, victim, or politician she was interviewing was telling the truth? How could she have been so clueless and so wrong about Alex’s character? Before that fiasco, Shae had never second-guessed herself.

  “Let that past hurt go.” Brecee waved her hand as if she were swatting a fly. “Consider your East Pekin, South Pekin, or Whatever Pekin, Nebraska, experience as part of a well-rounded education on life outside the classroom.”

  Shae tapped her nails on the table. She had heard her sister say it all before.

  “Look at the blessing that followed after what that trouser snake did. After you resigned from that overworked and underpaid reporter job, it took you only a month to land a better one. I call that checkmating the devil.”

  “Yeah.” Shae curled her lips into a smile. Professionally, she had done well. However, her reputation had been blemished. It was hard to regain respect after a person’s character was vilified in the public eye, even in a small town.

  “You know what?” Brecee stole a flirtatious glance at a server as he swaggered past their table, then met Shae’s gaze again, her face serious. “I think it was the power of suggestion that made you vulnerable.”

  “Huh?”

  “Mother Stillwell got in your head, which allowed Alex to get inside your heart. She planted a seed with her whole ‘Get that hope chest ready, sugar—your blessing ain’t far away.’” Brecee’s imitation of the eighty-something great-grandmother from their home church in Philly was spot-on, down to the crooked finger-pointing.