Twenty Hours in Boston

by Priscilla Darcy

  * * *

  Scheherazade Tales Romance E-Novels

  www.scheherazadetales.com

  Copyright ©2005 by Stacey Lantagne

  First published in 2005, 2005

  * * *

  NOTICE: This work is copyrighted. It is licensed only for use by the original purchaser. Making copies of this work or distributing it to any unauthorized person by any means, including without limit email, floppy disk, file transfer, paper print out, or any other method constitutes a violation of International copyright law and subjects the violator to severe fines or imprisonment.

  * * *

  TWENTY HOURS IN BOSTON

  by

  Priscilla Darcy

  Copyright 2005 Stacey Lantagne

  Scheherazade Tales Romance E-Novels

  scheherazadetales.com

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information and storage retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author's imagination, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.

  2005 Scheherazade Tales Romance E-Novels scheherazadetales.com

  Dedication:

  For the rest of Red Sox Nation.

  I'd never make it through if I didn't know you were going through it, too.

  And especially for my personal support group.

  TWENTY HOURS IN BOSTON

  Chapter One

  All we know for sure is that the Red Sox have decided they have a chance to win the World Series in 2003.

  —Dan Shaughnessy, Boston Globe July 30, 2003

  October 16, 2003

  At three p.m., Aubrey Thomas arrived at JFK airport in a spectacular mood. She'd managed to duck out of her job at the museum just in time to catch the flight to Boston. She was sick of the Times. She was sick of the Yankees. She was sick of all their smug self-entitlement. But she was practically giddy with the anticipation of a good baseball game that night—and the fact that she would be in Boston to enjoy it, surrounded by people who felt the same as she did.

  At three-fifteen p.m., as the plane taxied into the air and she leaned back in the seat, ready to embark on her twenty-hour jaunt of triumph in Boston, she smiled and relaxed. Imagine that, she thought. A Red Sox fan totally relaxed.

  For the first time in her life, she was actually feeling good about a baseball game instead of sick to her stomach. And she was going to be in Boston for the celebration.

  Life, she thought, couldn't really get any better.

  * * * *

  "No!” snapped Gray Delamonte. “I'm out of here. I should have been out of here twenty minutes ago.” He glanced at his watch as the elevator doors swooshed open. Late. He was late, late, late. He was going to miss his flight if he was much later.

  "But, Gray,” said his assistant Danny, holding out an open folder.

  Gray purposely avoided contact with whatever document was contained in the folder and stepped out of the elevator. “No,” he said again. “I'm only going to be gone twenty hours. That can wait. It can all wait, Danny. Doug can handle things for twenty hours."

  Danny looked doubtful, and Gray decided not to admit he was also a little dubious. But his mother had said that his kid brother needed someone to believe in him. Maybe she was right. And Gray wanted to be in Boston, with people who understood. Just this once, he was going to be selfish. Doug could handle things. And if Doug couldn't handle things, then he didn't know what to do with the kid.

  "Doug will handle this,” he said again, trying to duck out of the casino before anyone could recognize him.

  "Have fun, Mr. Delamonte!” someone called to him.

  Gray looked up. They were passing by the sports book, where he'd placed the bet he always placed in March: Red Sox to win the World Series. Good odds this year. He might actually collect. And then he'd placed even more money on them to win the A.L.C.S. Looking pretty good to collect that, too.

  He grinned. “Get my money ready."

  "Feeling pretty confident?"

  Gray scoffed. “Pedro will have those pretty boys crying for mercy."

  Danny frowned. “Did you place a bet?"

  Against house rules. But then Gray had never really paid attention to that particular rule. “Absolutely not. Doug will handle things."

  "Gray—"

  "You have my cell phone number. And you know what I should hear when you call my cell phone and I pick it up? I should hear you saying to me, ‘Gray, the hotel's gone up in flames.’ Because that is the only thing that would justify your calling me tonight, right?"

  "Gray, the casino returns—"

  "Can wait twenty hours, Danny. If you want, you can call to congratulate me, too, because I will be smoking this great cigar right here—” Gray patted his coat, feeling the expensive cigar settled comfortably in his inside pocket. “And celebrating with the rest of Red Sox Nation. It will be, Daniel, a joyous occasion. I might even weep."

  "Tears of joy?” Danny drawled as they stepped outside into the glaring sunlight.

  Gray pulled out his sunglasses and put them on. “Yes,” he said sternly. “Tears of joy. Nothing's going wrong tonight. Not with the Red Sox. Not with Doug. And if something does go wrong with Doug...” He shrugged. “There's nothing to running this casino, Danny. You and I know that. You can run it without me. I give you carte blanche for the next twenty hours. When I get back, we'll deal with the casino returns, I promise.” The limo came up. Gray looked at his watch again. “I really have to go, Danny."

  "All right. Have a good time. I hope."

  "I will have a good time. I'll check in before the game.” With that, Gray swung into the limo. Danny looked glum, standing there with his folder.

  Folders could wait. The Red Sox couldn't.

  Gray Delamonte, eternal pessimist, was whistling.

  * * * *

  She purposely took the T from the airport. The whole point of coming to Boston was to be with the rest of Red Sox Nation. And the best part of baseball in Boston was the all-encompassing nature of it. The people on the T were talking baseball. Everyone was talking baseball. The city was abuzz, giddy with the taste of triumph, riding a sense of destiny. She was so glad she'd come.

  The room was small, certainly not worth the money she'd paid for it, but it was in Kenmore Square. Walking distance to Fenway Park. Already Lansdowne Street was flooded with people staking out seats at the bars.

  The actual game was being played in Yankee Stadium and tickets were, of course, impossible to get. That didn't matter. Aubrey had come to Boston just to be near others of her own persuasion. She didn't need a ticket to the game to enjoy this night. She'd be one of those sitting on a bar stool, glued to one of the numerous television sets scattered at strategic places around the bar, surrounded by people who spoke her language. She was in Red Sox Nation, a natural citizen come home again.

  It was a bit too early yet for her to start drinking, so Aubrey bought the Globe, returned to her room and devoured the baseball news. Lovely Boston spin. Oh, she hated New York, she thought on a sigh. Never mind that she lived and worked there. She'd never be a Yankees fan. Never.

  Boston was her spiritual baseball home.

  At dusk, she dug through her small overnight bag for the vital item to seal that declaration: her “Yankees Suck” t-shirt. It was faded and battered from way too many years of wear and tear to be any kind of fashion statement—but it was lucky for the Red Sox. The first time she'd worn it, to her first Red Sox-Yankees game, Manny Ramirez h
ad tapped a game-winning single in the tenth off the invincible Mariano Rivera.

  So what if it hadn't seemed to bring any other special luck since then? One never knew. And, with the Red Sox, one took all the luck one could possibly get.

  She finished her outfit with a Red Sox cap, grabbed her leather coat, and headed out.

  High above her head but still in plain view from the street, the Citgo sign glowed vibrantly, reminding her of all the gleeful nights she'd spent at Fenway Park, and also of all the other nights she'd spent in New York, watching that same Citgo sign on television and wishing she was seeing it in person.

  The street was packed and the crowd was already rowdy with natural exuberance. They randomly shouted and applauded each other, as if so thrilled with all of humanity that they just had to express their thanks.

  Grinning, Aubrey walked to the Cask ‘n’ Flagon bar, perched on the corner of Lansdowne Street, right in the shadow of the Green Monster, famous as a meeting place for Red Sox fans.

  She wanted to be absolutely surrounded by them.

  * * * *

  Gray Delamonte felt the draining effect of jetlag, so to shake it off he stood for a few seconds under an ice-cold shower. And then he started the transformation from Chairman of the Board of Bienvenue Inc. to Red Sox fan.

  The slightly faded jersey honored Nixon, Gray's favorite underappreciated player. Gray preferred him to the better-known players. Not that anyone was underappreciated anymore on this particular team. Gray had been wearing Nixon's jersey when he had hit the home run to keep them in the A.L.D.S. That particular game had seemed to take twenty years off Gray's life. He estimated that, altogether, this particular October had taken so many years off his life that he was due to die next year.

  Which was fine by him, if the Red Sox won this year.

  He found the ragged, beloved baseball cap, tugged it over his hair, patted inside his suit jacket for the expensive celebratory cigar and tucked it into the pocket of the leather coat he pulled on. Then he left the presidential suite and went downstairs.

  He'd done the obligatory looking-over of the hotel. He was hoping that no one would recognize him without his Chairman of the Board costume. No such luck. The employees all smiled at him and told him to have a good time.

  Gray could have had a limo at a snap of his fingers. Or he could have called a cab. Or he could have got on the T at Arlington. Instead, he walked, soaking in the atmosphere. The cigar began to weigh more heavily in his pocket. He was jinxing things, he thought wildly. He really was jinxing things. Carrying around a celebratory cigar was just tempting the baseball gods to show him who was really boss.

  He threw away the cigar and felt immediately better.

  It was a long walk. He probably should have taken the T. There was too much time to think about all that could go wrong.

  Pedro. Yes. Everyone thought Pedro was God. He wasn't so sure about that one. But surely Pedro was better than David Wells. Surely the baseball gods were smiling on them. Of all the Yankee pitchers to have to face in the last game, David Wells was a blessing.

  Gray was a Red Sox fan. A nervous Red Sox fan. But he couldn't shake the idea that, on paper at least, they had this game won. And that, in all those intangibles that weren't statistics but that—in baseball, at least—could be so much more important, they were simply the better team. For maybe the first time in a long time, they were really the better team.

  They were the better team. And he'd got rid of the cigar. What more did the damn baseball gods want?

  * * * *

  Aubrey drank Sam Adams and talked baseball with anyone and everyone around her. So good to talk baseball with Bostonians, people who knew baseball, who breathed it, lived it, year-round.

  She could say names like Pedro and Nomar and Manny and Trot and not have to explain which Pedro, Nomar, Manny, Trot. Were there any others?

  She could say they had no running game, and the constant backfiring of the hit-and-runs should be getting through to Grady by now. And the people in the bar nodded their heads and then brought up Johnny Damon, their only running game, and, gosh, did you see him collide with Walker in that Oakland game? Did you see him send the thumb's up to the crowd?

  "When you watched him go down, did you think, well, here we go. Luck's held far too long.” The man next to her wasn't really asking the question. He was stating the fact. Naturally she had thought that. She was a Red Sox fan. They had all been thinking that.

  So she didn't bother to answer that particular question. “But then you've got to think,” she remarked philosophically, rolling the Sam Adams bottle in her hands, “why? Why all this luck, if we aren't meant for it this year? I mean, look at the way this team's been winning games!"

  "They've been doing it all year,” the friendly stranger pointed out.

  "Right. I keep writing them off and writing them off. For the first time since I became a Red Sox fan, I think I'm actually selling them short."

  He chuckled. “When did you become a Red Sox fan?"

  "When I was conceived."

  "Ah. You've never been happy in your life, then."

  "Not truly, no,” she agreed. “I'm a fourth-generation Red Sox fan. You're not?"

  "No. But I came to it as a boy. My stepfather indoctrinated me."

  "Ah.” Her gaze flickered up to his cap, faded almost into gray. If she didn't know the font of the Boston Red Sox “B,” she might not have known it was a Red Sox cap. “And did he give you that cap?"

  "As a matter of fact, it was his. He's dead now. I thought he'd want his cap to be there the day the Red Sox get back into the World Series."

  She uttered a cautionary squeak. “You're jinxing things."

  "Sorry. I've been doing it all night. It's my fault if Pedro self-destructs out there."

  She leaned forward, intent on this question, because she'd been wanting to ask it all night. “Do you trust Pedro?"

  He snorted. “Not as far as I can throw him."

  She held out her hand in approval. “I'm Aubrey."

  He smiled. “Gray,” he said, shaking her hand.

  "That's an unusual name."

  "So is Aubrey."

  She smiled back. “Fair enough. Do you live in Boston?"

  He shook his head. “Flew in for the game."

  She looked delighted. “Me too!"

  "Where do you live?"

  "New York."

  He choked on the sip of beer he'd been taking, then said solemnly, “Wow. I'm sorry."

  "I know. It's hell."

  "I can only imagine. Jack,” he called to the bartender, who looked up instantly. “Bring the lady another beer. She needs it. She's from New York."

  A chorus of boos shot through the bar. Aubrey ducked her head, feeling the blush stinging her cheeks. “Shh!"

  "Oh, come on. They'll be buying you beers all night.” He winked.

  She grinned. She grabbed the beer. She took a sip. And she suddenly felt a little awkward.

  He was a Red Sox fan. He was also movie star handsome. She hadn't really noticed until he'd winked. She'd been so focused on the impending game, on the baseball buzz ... and she'd just discovered that the man next to her had the sort of looks that usually meant she would never have had the nerve to approach him.

  She looked back at him. He was watching the pre-game analysis, and she wondered if this meant their conversation was over.

  Then Gray said, “What do you think about Bret Boone commentating? I mean, what, there were no baseball players available who weren't related to a Yankee player?"

  Relieved, Aubrey fell easily back into the pleasant flow of the conversation. “What do you think about baseball players commentating in general?"

  "Totally not necessary,” he answered firmly.

  "Where are you from?"

  "You mean originally? Or where did I fly in from?"

  "Both.” She sipped her beer.

  "Originally Atlanta."

  "And where did you fly in from?"

&n
bsp; "Uh ... Better you not know. You'll laugh at me."

  "Laugh at you? For where you live?"

  "I live in Las Vegas.” He said it with the air of a man admitting he also wore ladies’ lingerie in his free time.

  "Huh. You don't look like the type."

  "What type is that?"

  "Well, you don't much look like Elvis."

  "Ha, ha."

  "Why does a Boston Red Sox fan live in Las Vegas?"

  "Business,” he said. “It's convenient for work."

  Vaguely she could hear the national anthem being sung on television. Distracted, she looked away from him, watching the bald eagle flying high over Yankee Stadium.

  "So here we go,” she said.

  "Here we go,” he agreed.

  "I'm going to be sick,” she decided.

  * * * *

  The little pixie next to him was matching him beer for beer—which meant he really ought to stop buying them for her. Surely it was far too much for her to be drinking. He'd give good odds that she weighed less than a hundred pounds.

  But it was seventh inning stretch time. Pedro was marching through the Yankees. The Red Sox had chipped out a lead, against Mike Mussina instead of David Wells, who'd left after the first inning complaining of something. Gray thought Mussina was the harder pitcher to face, but they were nine outs away from the World Series. And the petite redhead next to him talked good baseball.

  He lifted his hand to gesture lazily at the bartender for another round, listening as Aubrey said, “Playing with broken ribs. That was my favorite Paul O'Neill story. Playing with broken ribs. And people really seriously believe that this team isn't allied with the devil?"

  "You're right about Paul O'Neill,” he allowed, sliding her another beer.

  "Thanks,” she said, taking it from him.

  "But who would you pick now?"

  "Now?"

  "As the most evil member of the Yankees."

  "Who's your choice?"

  "Derek Jeter."

  "Derek Jeter!"

  "Yes. And like every other female on the face of the earth, even the most self-respecting Red-Sox-loving ones of them, you're going to tell me I'm mistaken."