When I booked the corner table at the white-tablecloth restaurant called Top of the Hub I was expecting exactly what they said on their website.
New England’s Best View. Wonderful Everytime, Breathtaking Anytime. Soaring 52 floors above the Back Bay, Top of the Hub’s award winning cuisine, service and ambiance of comfortable sophistication blend with the serenity of Boston’s best skyline views to deliver a truly one-of-a-kind dining experience.
Well, they were right. I definitely have New England’s, and the world’s for that matter, best view.
But it wasn’t outside the window.
It was sitting right next to me.
My wife and my first child which is inside her beautiful belly.
But I certainly hadn’t expected a “view” of some stranger coming up to our table. I don’t like other men approaching my wife the way this young man did.
“I am,” she says.
“Can I help you?” I say giving him a look that lets him know I am not fucking around. I can go feral really quick, especially when I’m with my pregnant wife and we’re eating. You don’t come between a man and his meal, and you sure as hell don’t come between a man and his woman. Especially not this one. “And it’s Mrs., not Ms…and you’re looking at the Mr” I say.
“I’m very, very sorry to bother you, sir and Mrs.,” he says. I know I’m a public figure and I love my city so I try and stay calm and give this young man one chance to say what he’s got to say, even though I feel my fist balling up on top of the table.
This better be good.
“I study journalism at Boston University and I just want to say I’ve heard about all the Pulitzer Prize winners that have come from there, but I’ve never…I’ve never actually met one.”
“I’m not a…” Gracie begins before she turns and looks at me her eyes opening wide as she realizes what month it is.
My fist loosens and my attack reflex dissipates slightly as goosebumps cover my body after I see my wife’s arms covered with them at the realization at what this young man is saying.
“I’m watching the live stream right now. It’s on my phone if you want to see for yourself.”
He hands his phone to my wife. And she looks at it.
“You inspired me to study journalism,” he says. “After your story about,” he turns and looks at me, “Mr. McGregor. Sorry again to bother you and your family during dinner, sir.”
I don’t say anything. I don’t like it, but the kid’s got manners and manners and respect get you far in this city…even if I am more than perturbed.
Gracie hands the phone back to the young man and looks back at me.
I take her face in my hands and kiss her hard right on the lips.
“Oh my god,” she says.
“You did it,” I say.
“We did it,” she says.
I wrap her up in a hug and hold her upper body as tight as I can, being careful to leave room at our stomach area, where I place my hand on hers.
“He kicked,” I say. “He’s jumping for joy for his mom’s victory.”
“Oh my god, Gavin,” she says. “Are you really gonna make all my dreams come true?”
“You’re damn right I am.”
She grabs my face and kisses me again.
“Sorry, can I maybe get a picture,” the young man says.
I turn and look at Gracie and her eyebrows raise as she makes a small repetitive clapping motion with her hands.
I stand and hold out my hand. He nervously places his phone in my hand and I walk around to the other side of the table.
I put the phone in front of my face and prepare to take the shot.
The young man leans in close and he puts his arm out around my wife, but leaves a good foot of space between her and his hand and arm.
I lower the camera from my face level to my chest level, shaking my head.
“Sorry,” he says and he quickly puts both hands behinds his back, holding one in the other.
No way this guy is going to pose like he’s trying to claim my wife, let alone take a picture of it. Not to mention ask me to take the picture myself!
I should break him in half right now just for trying, but I know he’s just nervous and excited and I know my wife is over the moon happy right now too.
It’s her first public sighting and the first fan picture she’s taken. I know there are going to be a lot more so we both have to practice, myself included.
I’ll never let another man put his arm around my wife, but I will let anyone who respects and admires her pose for a picture with her, if it’s okay with her.
This is her moment after all. Not mine. Although every moment is really ours. We are an inseparable team.
I snap the photo and the young man thanks us profusely before asking for a selfie with me.
Just before he goes to take the pic I see Gracie out of the corner of my eye motioning that I should put my arm around him in something of a reversal of roles that he just tried.
She almost gets me to laugh out loud, but I manage to keep it in until he goes back to his table.
I motion to our waiter and he quickly comes to our table.
“Yes, sir?”
“How many bottles of champagne do you have in stock?”
“Which brand, sir?”
“The good stuff.”
“Quite a few.”
“A glass for everyone,” he says.
“But sir, we’re at complete capacity this evening. All one hundred and forty-five seats in the restaurant, plus the one hundred and ninety seats in the lounge, and we have a corporate event on the skywalk observatory with over one thousand people at the moment.”
“Then it looks like you’re going to walk out of here when your shift ends with one hell of a tip.”
“Yes, sir!” the waiter says literally running from our table back to the kitchen.
Once he pushes through the doors I swear I can hear him shout out something indecipherable, and that makes no sense, out of sheer joy.
A few minutes later the stunned guests are asking the many waiters why they’re receiving a flute of champagne. All the eyes make their way towards our table.
“Oh it’s her,” some people say.
“It’s the champ,” some others say, but each time someone looks to me I just slyly move my hand to my chest and point to my wife.
Just as the waiter serves the last flute I raise mine in a toast.
Suddenly a little boy wanders up to our table. He can’t be more than seven or eight years old. He’s holding some little book and a pencil.
“Whatcha got there, buddy?” I ask.
He looks at me inquisitively and I’m expecting him to ask for an autograph. Suddenly he walks around the table and to my wife and says. “I like to write my stories in this book. I want to be a writer one day. One like you. Can you please sign my book?”
Every single woman in the place practically falls out of her chair as the boy says it loud enough that the microphone, which I didn’t notice behind me, picked up his words. Apparently the waiter sensed I wanted to make a speech or at least had a few words to share so he grabbed a microphone.
I look out and see all the men offering their women handkerchiefs and then look back to see my wife sign her name in his little book.
And my wife is also crying.
“I told you you’d never cry as long as I lived,” I say.
“They’re tears of joy,” she says. “You sure? If you want…you know I still know how to throw a punch,” I say completely joking which makes the crowd bust out laughing.
The little boy takes his signed book and comes around the table back to me.
“I know how to fight too,” he says. “You better watch out.”
I pull my hands back, showing him my palms. “I’m sorry, man.”
“Being smart and being tough aren’t mutually exclusive you know.”
“Mutually exclusive? Where did you learn a fifty-cent word like that?”
“The story about you. I read it. All of it. I had to read it a few times, but I eventually figured it all out.”
“I’d say you’ve got life pretty well figured out too, buddy,” I say rubbing the top of his head.
He quickly grabs my wrist and spins around trying to twist my arm much to the delight of the crowd.
I pretend like he’s got me in a lot of pain and I tap the table three times signaling I’m “tapping out” or “quitting” our fight.
“See, you’re not so tough,” he says and walks proudly back to his seat to absolute roars of laughter from the crowd who then start clapping followed by a standing ovation.
I stand myself and waive away the microphone. I can project my voice with the best of them.
I take my wife’s hand and help her out of her seat, her due date only a couple months away.
“I can’t wait to have one of those,” she says.
“I can’t wait to have ten of them,” I say much to the delight of the crowd.
I take my wife’s hand and raise my champagne flute with my other.
“Thank you for sharing in this very special moment with us. And I know in today’s day and age things get posted to the Internet quicker than I can sit back down, so I just want to say that when I say ‘you’ I mean the entire city of Boston. We love you all and we thank you. To the city’s latest Pulitzer Prize winner,” I say. “To Gracie!”
“To Gracie!” everyone says and we all take a sip of champagne, except her. She gives it a sniff and throws it over her shoulder.
I can’t help but laugh.
I give her a big ol’ kiss and wrap her up in my arms.
“Kiss! Kiss! Kiss!” the crowd chants as they tap their flutes with their silverware.
“They must have missed our first one,” I say quietly in her ear.
“Better for us,” she says.
“I couldn’t agree more.”
“Let’s give them what they want then,” she says as we share this incredible moment.
“Which just so happens to be exactly what I want,” I say.
“Me too,” she says. “Me too.”
And our lips lock fifty-two feet above the Charles River, which winds its way through the city behind us.
The city which we love, and where we love each other.
Just two crazy Southie kids with those passionate Irish genes running wild inside us.
While we celebrate our love and success knowing our greatest success lies in front of us…and inside her.
My wife. My life. And soon to be the mother of our first child.
She’s my everything. And she’s mine and mine alone. She belongs to this possessive Irishman and no one else.
Forever.
EXTENDED EPILOGUE
Gracie
Ten years later
“Look, mom. A rose,” our daughter Roisin, pronounced ro-sheen, says.
“Just like you!” I say.
She’s bent over at the waist looking at it intently. When she hears my words her back straightens up and she smiles.
The name Roisin literally means little rose. It’s been used in Ireland since way back in the sixteenth century. There was a period when Irish patriotic poetry and songs were outlawed in the country so Irish bands would disguise their nationalistic verses and love songs. In doing so they’d sing bout the Roisin Dubh, or “Dark Rosaleen,” as a poetic symbol for their country.
We heard the name and we just fell in love with it and had to name our first little girl “little rose,” which is exactly what she’s like to us and our family.
“Be carefully, Roisin. It has thorns,” our son, and first-born child, Oisin says. In Irish mythology Oisin, pronounced o-sheen, was a poet-hero and the son of the legendary warrior Fionn MacCool and the goddess Side. Since his father is most certainly a legendary warrior, and Gavin always refers to me as his “Goddess Gracie,” the name was also one we saw and knew was the perfect fit instantly.
Roisin looks at the rose and then runs over to Oisin, standing behind him with her hands on his back as if to say “protect me.”
And just like his father, that’s exactly what Oisin has been doing since the minute his siblings were born.
There’s Oisin, who’s ten. And then came along Roisin, who’s eight.
After those two my husband and I really focused on building out two charity centers. One that focused on self-defense and another that focused on reading and writing. Juggling the both of them was time consuming to say the least, but incredibly rewarding.
But nothing can compare to the rewards our family brings us and the joy they provide.
I love my kids more than anything…except maybe Gavin. Of course it’s not a competition, but it’s just amazing to feel so much love in our home.
Since Gavin retired he also spends a ton of time with the kids, and at the self-defense gym…where our older two kids often like to hang out.
And then after we got our two charity centers running smoothly along came, Ciaran, pronounced kee-ran, and Ciara, pronounced kee-ra.
Yeah, we kind of had our kids in two waves and named them pretty similarly.
Considering we’re both “G” names it made sense to give the kids names that matched too…or at least we liked the idea.
And this weekend in the Blue Hills Reservation, located across six thousand beautiful acres in Norfolk County, Massachusetts, is the first time we’ve brought five-year-old Ciaran and four-year-old Ciara along with us.
And I immediately regret the decision the second I see what lies in front of us up the trail.
Gavin places his arm out and then behind him as he lowers it to his waist.
Just thirty yards in front is a big brown bear!
The bear suddenly stands up on his hind legs and roars.
Not to be outdone Gavin puts his hands over his head and roars right back!
And as crazy as it sounds, Gavin’s roar is deeper, more resonant, and actually more terrifying…if I didn’t see the discrepancy in height and weight.
I slowly and calmly make my way toward my children just like any “protective mama bear” would. But just as I get in-between them and the bear, Oisin gets in front of me and puts his hands on his hips before he mimics his dad and raises his hands and roars at the bear too.
The bear comes down on all fours and Gavin looks straight up at the sky and roars continuously for what must be a full twenty seconds as his head moves in figure eights like a man possessed.
The bear takes one look at that and turns and walks in the other direction.
Gavin steps backward towards us.
“Everyone…sloooowly in the G-wagon,” he says and all of us get into our Mercedes SUV.
Except for Gavin who quickly dismantles our tent and gathers all our things and piles it into the back in what must be record time.
But he does it so smoothly and calmly and without showing an ounce of fear.
And I know it’s not an act. If anything he’s angry, which I can confirm from his body language when he jumps in and we drive away.
“Dad, where did that bear come from,” Oisin says from the front passenger seat which is his on family trips like this. I sit in the back with the kids.
“They’re moving east, buddy. They’re getting pushed out of their habitat so they’re getting closer to living nearby people.”
“What if he would have attacked us.”
“He wouldn’t,” Gavin says. “I would never let that happen.”
And his words aren’t just macho bravado either. I saw the massive can of pepper spray designed for bears that he had strapped to his waist this entire weekend. There’s nothing he won’t do to protect his family.
“So is the weekend over?” Oisin says.
“We were going to pack up after that last hike anyways, buddy, so we’re just leaving a few hours early.”
“Can we do something else before we have to go to bed for school?”
“I’ve got a special surprise for y
ou all tonight,” Gavin says.
I don’t even know what he’s talking about.
“What’s the surprise, dad?”
“If I tell you then it won’t be a surprise now will it?”
Possessive Boston Irish American MMA Fighter: An Older Man Younger Woman Romance (A Man Who Knows What He Wants Book 77) Page 9