by Bryan Mooney
“No, it was just dinner and dancing.” Then he added playfully, “Hey, you had your chance. I asked you to join us, but you blew it, my dear. Great food, music, and dancing. Everything you could possibly want.”
She laughed. Their conversation seemed so natural, so familiar. “It sounds like fun.”
“They have it every night—dinner, music, and dancing. You want to join me tomorrow night?”
Her laughing stopped. There was silence on the phone, and a light rain began to fall on the car windshield. Silence.
“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have pressed you,” he said apologetically.
“It’s all right.”
“How about just dinner? You and me? Wherever you want. You choose.”
“No, Bob. I don’t think so. I would really like to . . . I just don’t think it’s such a good idea. Okay?” As much as she wanted to see him again, she just could not . . .
“I understand.” There was that awkward silence again as they both looked for something to say. Finally Bob asked her, “But on a different subject, I wanted to mention something to you. One of my customers came into the store today and gave me two box-seat tickets to the Friday show at the Kravis Center for Puccini’s Madama Butterfly.” He had taken great pains to learn the correct pronunciation of the opera. He heard her gasp, and he knew he had her. He waited for it all to sink in before continuing, “I hate to throw them away. So I thought of you, thinking maybe you . . . and a friend, could use them? And at no charge, a gift from one friend to another. I just hate to see them go to waste.”
“Madama Butterfly? Wow, it’s my favorite.”
“Great, I’ll just drop the tickets by your office or the house, wherever you prefer.” There was silence on the other end of the line for what seemed like centuries. Don’t say a word, Robert. Don’t . . . don’t. He could almost hear the wheels spinning inside her head, then she finally asked, “Are you busy Friday night? Would you like to go . . . with me? To see the opera? Madama Butterfly.”
He hated the theater but was willing to learn to like it. Hell, if he could learn to eat brussels sprouts, he could learn to love anything. “Well, if you like, I’d be happy to accompany you. Sure, why not? It would be fun.”
“But only on the condition that you let me buy you dinner . . . to thank you for the tickets.”
“No, the tickets were a gift from a customer. No charge. How about I pick you up, say . . . six o’clock?”
“Perfect. See you then. And Bob . . . thanks a lot. That was very sweet of you to think of me.”
He ended the call, grinning, and opened the car door. The rain was coming down harder, but he didn’t care. He danced around in a circle and jumped for joy, clicking his heels in the process. Around and around he danced, singing an old Scottish drinking song. From the open front door, Ryan and Eian stood watching their crazy older brother.
Eian shouted, “Come out of the rain, bro! You’ll get sick.”
When he finally stopped his rain dance and came inside, they both asked, “What’s this all about?”
“I just spent two hundred bucks on theater tickets,” he said as he passed by them on his way to find a towel and dry off. “Best two hundred dollars I’ve ever spent! I’m taking Coleen to the opera! Can you believe it?”
They looked at each other. It was too late, they both thought—he was already crazy in the head.
Robert was happy and not afraid to show it. He was going to the opera . . . with Coleen! He knew he was crazy. He hated spending money, and he hated the opera. Yes, he hated it, but there was something else, something more. He realized he was falling in love with her.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Mickey Thompson had just finished a three-hour meeting with his top executives and was on his way back to his office as he discreetly checked his cell phone—no message from Mary Kate. At his office he heard his executive assistant, Bashir, say, pointing to the phone, “Sir, it’s for you.”
“Who is it?” he asked as he made his way to his desk.
The patient Bashir waited behind him at a respectful distance. He lowered his head but did not say anything. Bashir was from Nepal and had a long history with the family. It was his job to serve and protect Mickey, his young charge. He had saved his life one night from a wandering cobra in their tent outside Kathmandu and now was his lifelong aide and protector.
Mickey waited.
“Line four,” he finally told him.
He knew immediately who it was. His father.
“Hold all my calls, unless it’s my fiancée.”
He drew in a deep breath, ready for the firestorm. “Morning, Angus.”
“Don’t you goddamn ‘Good morning’ me, you ingrate. Why is it that I have to hear about your disastrous meeting with Rumpe from his goddamn interview with the New York tabloids?”
Mickey could tell he was furious, but his father had always told him that Florida was his operation to run as he saw fit, and that was exactly what he intended to do.
“What the hell were you thinking?” his father shouted.
“I was thinking that we don’t need Rumpe’s name to make this project a success.”
“Are you daft, boy?”
“Father, he brings nothing to the table, not even money.”
“Well, my boy, the big banks like him; they make money from him.”
“And they lose money with him when he goes bankrupt. Everybody loses with him. All he was offering was his name, and demanding a twenty percent cut off the top line for that privilege. Nothing else. Father, I met with him out of respect because you asked me to see him. If you want someone else to run the operations down here in Florida, then so be it.” There was silence on the line between the two hardheaded men.
“No, son, I don’t want to replace you . . . yet.” He stopped talking, then said, “Kill you, yes, but replace my golden-haired protégé—no. But after you sign the contract to begin this project, I want you to take some time off. Not a lot of time, mind you, just some time to clear your head. You’ve been working way too hard, and I think it’s starting to addle your brain.”
“Like father, like son. I’ll take some time off after the wedding. Not right away, but . . .” Silence. “Are you coming to the wedding?” he ventured to ask his father one more time.
Once again, silence. “No. I need to be in Australia to negotiate a big deal there.”
“Angus, anybody can do that for you.”
“Then maybe I should have you go there and take care of it for me?”
“That’s not what I meant. I would like you and Mother to come our wedding. It would mean the world to me and to Mary Kate to have you there.”
“She’s a goddamn Macgregor, and I’ll not be—”
Mickey’s blood boiled to hear those words. “That’s my future wife you’re talking about, Angus. I’ll mind you to keep a civil tongue in your mouth when talking about her.”
“Damn them. See, they bring out the worst in me.”
“Like me?”
The conversation degenerated into its usual pattern, as it had ever since Angus had learned about the upcoming wedding.
“Like our children will be, your grandchildren?”
“She’s pregnant?” he screamed. “Is that what the rush is for you to get married?”
“No, sir, she’s not pregnant. But where does this vendetta, this hatred, stop? And when?” Frustrated, he said, “I’m sorry, I must go. Good-bye, Father.” He hung up the phone. He felt bad and angry at the same time. He loved his father, but his wedding had become a sore point between the two of them. And he had heard nothing from his mother.
As if by instinct, Bashir appeared through the door, slowly opening it before quietly closing it behind him.
Mickey looked up and already knew what he was going to say.
“He’s your father; always remember that,” whispered the diminutive man from Nepal, standing by the door, as always, on guard.
Mickey looked up to correct him. “
Adopted father.”
Bashir remained calm but determined when he spoke. “Young one, when your father died, Angus chose you when no one else would. Nobody! He chose to be your father, your family, and beyond that—to honor your parents . . . he let you keep your family name. Angus Campbell gave you a great honor. Never forget that.”
Bashir was direct and to the point, as usual. Always the teacher.
“You’re right.” He was ashamed. He picked up the phone and dialed his father.
“Angus? This is Mickey.”
“I know who the hell this is. What do you want now?”
“I forgot to tell you something . . . I love you, Dad. That’s all. Good-bye.” He knew then, in his heart, what he had to do.
He hung up the phone and did not hear his father reply, “I love you too, son.” But Angus still wasn’t coming to the wedding. Never! The bride’s family were Macgregors, and that would never change. The Campbell and Macgregor clans had been at war with one another for more than four hundred years. Of all the lasses in the world, why . . . why in God’s good name did he choose a Macgregor to marry? Damn him, damn him to hell, and damn that cursed woman.
Chapter Twenty-Three
“Angus, what did Mickey want on the phone?” asked his wife, Claret Campbell.
He mumbled something from the other room as he walked away.
She raised her voice. “Angus Macleod Campbell, don’t you walk away from me when I’m talking to you, and don’t you dare mumble to me. What did my son want on the phone? I heard you two shouting. What’s wrong?”
He never liked to argue with his wife.
She shouted again, “Angus!”
He returned to the room, his face still red with anger. He tried to bluster his way out of the conversation. “Ah, woman, if you really must know . . . he’s wantin’ to know if we’re comin’ to his wedding. Aye, there, now you know. Are you satisfied?”
She set aside her knitting and asked, “And why would he be asking that now? Of course were going to our son’s wedding.” There was no response from her husband of forty-four years.
Her shrewd eyes narrowed, focusing all her attention on him. “You mailed back that invitation RSVP that I gave you . . . now didn’t you?” she asked. Her lips tightened.
“Well . . . I had something important come up at the office at the same time as the wedding. A deal in Australia that’s very good for the company. Worth a lot of money. So . . .”
“Angus Campbell,” she shouted, now on her feet, wagging her finger at him, so close her face was nearly touching his, “you pick up that phone and you call your son and you tell him once and for all that we’re coming to the wedding. And you do it now.”
His chest puffed, his face crimson as he bellowed in return, “Nay, woman. I’ll not be attending no Macgregor’s wedding. And that’s the end of this talk.”
“Is that what this is all about? Some old Scottish feud that’s five hundred years old? Is that it?”
He looked down. “Aye.”
She picked up her knitting tools, tucked them under her arm, and, before she left, slowly turned to face him. “Angus, you have always been one headstrong, bullheaded Scotsman. But this . . . this is beyond that. This is mean, and I don’t understand it—you’re not a mean man. Not the Angus Campbell I married.” She whispered, “I’m ashamed of you, Angus Campbell, for the first time in my life. Ashamed to call myself a Campbell.”
She came closer to him, then touched his cheek. “Dear heart, marriage is tough enough for two people to live and work their way through life. It is something you must work at, each and every day, day after day. You’re only making it tougher for our son to find the happiness he deserves.” She sighed and, with a sense of resignation, said, “If you don’t want to go to your son’s wedding and risk not seeing your only grandchildren, then so be it. I can’t force you. But I’m going . . . either with you or without you. Good night.”
For the first time in their marriage, they went to bed angry at each other, with issues still unresolved. She wouldn’t let him see her tears, no, never. But she ached for a resolution. She loved each of them and wanted both to be happy. Damn stubborn Scotsmen. Both of them.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Eian had called twice to make sure the grass on his Delray vacant lot had been cut and trimmed and the trash removed. The property manager had assured him that it was taken care of, but Eian had received a notice from the city that it would take legal action if the grass and trash situations were not addressed. What a pain. He decided to drive by on his way home, just to make sure everything was done. The lot was much more convenient to drive to from Ryan’s house than from where he had been living before.
He drove to Delray, turned onto Clinton, and saw for himself that the lot had indeed been cut, weeded, and cleaned up. He made a mental note to make sure the management company kept it that way. He sat in the car watching some neighborhood kids play baseball on the now-cleared lot and thought back to when he and his brothers had done the exact same thing so many years earlier at home. Those had been fun times. Great times. No, those had been the best times of his life. Hanging out with his brothers, playing baseball just for the fun of it. Before college, before the big leagues, before making the big money, just playing baseball for the sheer fun of playing, and throwing a baseball.
Eian decided to watch the boys awhile and got out of his car. He watched them throw, catch, hit the ball, and field the hits.
“Great catch!” he shouted without thinking, causing the group of boys to look in his direction. He clapped, and they smiled but kept on playing, stealing short glances in his direction. Finally, the tallest one in the group conferred with the catcher and set his bat down on an old piece of cardboard that served as home base to approach him.
“You’re Eian Macgregor, aren’t you, sir?”
“Yep, guilty as charged. Watching you guys play ball just now brought back memories of when my brothers and I were kids and we used to play in a small field down the street from our house. We had some great times.”
“Really?”
“You bet. You guys keep playing this way and you’ll make it to the big leagues when you get older and get out of college.”
“Hummph. College is for idiots,” said the tall one, now surrounded by the eight other boys.
“Oh, you think so?”
“Yes . . . sir.”
“Well, let me tell you, college is the best place to get not only a top-notch education but also some of the best baseball practice in the world.” They looked at him as if he were speaking a foreign language.
“Come on, you guys know that the pro scouts come to all the big schools searching for talent, and if they like what they see, they’ll ask you to try out. Then one day that phone call comes, just when you least expect it. Somebody says on the other end of the line, ‘Hey, kid, we got a spot for you. Be here tomorrow.’ If you do well, they’ll put you into their AA league to get you ready for the big leagues. And you’re off. But it all starts right here, on that little patch of ground.” He pointed to the makeshift baseball field behind them as he walked toward the car. “Practice, practice, and more practice. Remember that,” he said as he opened the car door.
“That’s it? That’s all the advice you can give to us, is to practice?” said their leader, sounding disappointed.
He started to lecture the headstrong kid, but instead he took off his suit jacket and threw it inside the car and, pointing to him, said, “Grab the boxes from the trunk of the car and let’s pass ’em around to everybody. Then let’s play some baseball.”
They all yelled in delight.
He passed out the gloves, bats, and balls from the boxes in his office so that they all had a baseball glove and a ball. Some of it was too large for the smaller ones, but they did not seem to mind. They had a baseball glove—a major-league glove!
He stayed for two hours, working with them, showing them the right way to hold the bat and throw the ball. He showed t
hem how to catch a fly ball or a line drive. He showed them where to position themselves on the field. He hit them some short pop-up balls and a couple of line drives, and had them make throws to the first baseman, then to the catcher at home plate.
They were not bad, he thought to himself, as their impromptu game was soon halted due to darkness.
“You guys are pretty good,” he said as they all gathered around him in a small circle.
“Mr. Macgregor, I’m Miguel Hernandez,” the tall one began, “and I want to apologize for spouting off to you earlier. I’m sorry. I was out of line. I think I’m speaking for all the guys: it was really super of you to do this for us today, and we all really appreciate everything you did. I’m just sorry it had to end.” He stuck out his hand to shake Eian’s.
“You’re welcome, Miguel. I’m sorry too. This was fun. Have a good night.” They slowly started putting the gloves and balls back into the boxes. Eian watched them. “Hey, guys, keep the gear. Use it and enjoy it.” He stopped and looked at them. “Tell you what: I’ll be here Saturday morning at eight a.m. for anyone who wants to come back and practice.”
Miguel smiled a huge grin, tucking his newfound glove into his jeans, and said, “Really? Anyone? We have some other friends who usually play with us, but they couldn’t come today. Is it okay if they join us Saturday?”
“Sure, why not?”
“There’s only one problem. We usually get chased off this field by the property manager. The owner of this property doesn’t like us playing here.”
“Really? Don’t worry about it. I’ll take care of it.”
“But, Mr. Macgregor . . .”
“Miguel, I own the property,” he said with a knowing grin. “Go home so your mom won’t worry about you.”
Driving home that night to his brother’s house, he had a good feeling. He wanted to play some baseball with his brothers, just like the good old days. He felt good. Yes, he felt very good.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Mary Kate called Robin again at the Delray Dunes hotel to see if Calley had checked in to the hotel or called. Nothing. The police had told her they had been to Calley’s house many times, but she had again refused to file charges against her husband. Mary Kate was determined to file her own charges against him for assaulting her in the stairway. He could not go around attacking people as he had, she said to herself, rubbing her still-sore ribs.