Twenty Hours in Boston

by Priscilla Darcy

"You're not looking too happy there, sweetheart. I promise you'll enjoy yourself.” He pressed the proper button on the microwave. “Why don't you go see what it is?"

  She frowned for a second longer, watching the microwave come to life, and decided maybe he was right. She wasn't sure she liked surprises. But she decided to be game about this one and headed into the media room and pressed play as she had been told, and then settled on the soft dark suede couch. The temperature was a bit chilly, especially after the pleasantness of the night outside, so she pulled the convenient blanket off the back of the couch and cuddled into it, watching a few seconds of snow on the television.

  The snow devolved into a shot of Fenway Park, resplendent on a golden afternoon. And lacking any Green Monster seats. A baseball game, she thought, but an old baseball game. The commentators were talking about the Yankees-Red Sox match-up and suddenly Derek Jeter was on the screen, being vigorously booed as he ran wind sprints in the outfield.

  "Are you cold?” Gray asked, finding her wrapped in the blanket as he came in.

  "What is this?” she countered instead, moving instinctively when he nudged her aside to make room for himself.

  "It's a Red Sox-Yankee game."

  "Well, I figured that much out.” She twisted against him to reach for the popcorn.

  "It's a good Red Sox-Yankee game."

  "Unlike the one we met at,” she commented sourly.

  "Hush. Never speak of it."

  "It's an old Red Sox-Yankee game."

  "Nomar looks like a babe in arms,” remarked Gray, engaging in a brief silent quarrel with Aubrey over control of the popcorn.

  "But why this Red Sox-Yankee game?"

  "Well, I like this game because of the endless hope it communicates to Red Sox fans everywhere. Because in this game Manny Ramirez hit a game-winning single in the tenth inning off—"

  "Mariano Rivera,” she finished. “I was at this game."

  "I know,” he said nonchalantly.

  She turned to look at him in surprise. “How do you know?"

  "Went digging around in your past."

  She was open-mouthed and speechless, not sure whether to be indignantly offended or strangely flattered.

  "Relax, would you?” He grinned at her. “You told me you were at this game."

  "When did I tell you that?"

  "The night we met."

  "I told you I was at this game?"

  "Yes,” he affirmed.

  She did not remember having told him that, but she did not suppose he was lying about it. After all, how else would he know about it? And she was really quite devastatingly charmed to find that he had remembered it. After all, at that point, there had been no thought that they would ever spend more than a few hours watching a baseball game together.

  And he had remembered.

  She was silent, leaning against him, listening to his breaths, watching the baseball game without even seeing it, because she was strangely terrified of how comfortable she was. How warm and peaceful and happy.

  "Are you cold?” he asked her again. “You never answered me."

  "What?” she asked in surprise, because being cold was the farthest thing from her mind. The blanket was cozy. Gray was hot.

  "Cold,” he repeated.

  "No,” she answered, and took a deep breath and tried just to let herself enjoy the whole moment. “No, I'm not cold at all."

  * * * *

  It was, on the whole, a simply divine night. The baseball game was fun. As fun as she'd remembered it being when she was there in person watching it, and more fun because Gray was there to share it with, and that made everything better.

  When the game was over, he, in a mock-romantic gesture, carried her to his bed and made typically fantastic love to her, and then, as if determined to make up for the drowse that had enveloped him the night before, pronounced himself ready for ice cream.

  And so she had found herself dressed only in the shirt she'd taken off him, perched on his kitchen counter, watching him make them hot fudge sundaes, which they ate on his bed, feeling giddy as teenagers. Then there were a few brief—and for her disastrous—bouts on the video games that she figured out were hidden in the television in the armoire at the foot of his bed.

  And then suddenly, just like that, she was seized with the desire to paint him. The thought of painting him practically had her mouth watering. She took a few seconds to pull a little more clothing on before dashing out of his room to run to hers, returning with a limited palette of watercolors and a small easel.

  And so it was she found herself sitting on the floor of Gray Delamonte's bedroom at four o'clock in the morning, dipping her brush into a glass of water and frowning at the limiting amount of paint she'd been able to transport.

  Gray, feeling vaguely ridiculous at having been artificially posed against a sumptuous pile of pillows, watched her in something like bemusement. “Tell me about your family,” he said.

  She looked up from the canvas, looking startled that he had spoken. “What?"

  "Your family. I don't know anything about your family. Do you have any brothers and sisters?"

  "I have four brothers,” she answered, carefully dabbing paint onto the canvas. “All older."

  "Four brothers? How is it you didn't turn out like Sophie, only doubly so?"

  "In what way,” she inquired, watching her paintbrush closely, “do you think I'm not like Sophie?"

  "Well, you're not ... spoiled. Manipulative. Selfish."

  "All brothers think their baby sisters are spoiled, manipulative, and selfish.” Aubrey quirked a smile up at him. “And you say these things about her now, but you melt at her feet if she needs you."

  "Right. Like I said. Manipulative."

  Still smiling, Aubrey blended some deep red for the background of her watercolor. “My brothers are pretty close in age to me. I was bruised and battered growing up."

  "Tomboy, were you.” It wasn't quite a question, so she didn't answer. “Is that where the baseball comes in?"

  "Naturally. And also, unlike you, I grew up in Maine. Heart of Red Sox country. You breathe the Red Sox in the summer. It's the topic you broach with strangers."

  "Maine, huh?"

  She nodded. “Stop moving. You're destroying my perspective."

  He hadn't realized he was moving at all. “Oh. Where does the art come in?"

  "I honestly don't know.” She tipped her head at her painting, looking adorably intrigued by it. “My father's a doctor, and my mother has a graduate degree in English. And I have always been able to paint. When I was little, I would paint seascapes and sell them to the tourists."

  "Why aren't you still doing that? Surely you could make a pretty decent living in Maine doing that."

  "Have you ever been to Maine?"

  "No, actually,” he confessed.

  "People who like Vegas aren't usually people who also like Maine."

  "I'm sure Maine is lovely."

  "Maine is lovely. But it's very ... insulated. The winters are ... Well, they make you kind of anti-social. And I wanted to see things, do things. I couldn't spend my whole life in a tiny little tourist town in Maine. My parents encouraged all of us to venture out in the world to try our fortunes."

  "So you went to New York."

  "Yes. And then to Paris for a too short amount of time. And then back to New York."

  "Why back to New York?"

  "Paul was in New York,” she answered—which was the truth, although it sounded like a stupid reason. “He was able to get me a great job as a curator."

  "A curator? And you painted on the side?"

  She frowned at her painting. Really, Gray's picture of her was so skewed. As far as he was concerned, she was a painter. Nobody who really knew her would consider her to be such. “I didn't really paint at all. I mean, I painted as a hobby. I never really thought about selling the paintings."

  "Why not?"

  She shrugged. “I didn't think they were good enough."

 
He let a moment of silence pass, decided she would rather drop the subject, and simply said mildly, “And now you're getting a million dollars just for one of your paintings. My, how things have changed."

  She smiled at him. “Turn your head."

  "What?"

  "I'm trying to paint you, remember? Turn your head, to the left, that's it. No, don't look at me."

  "What am I looking at?"

  "You're gazing inspirationally off into the distance."

  "Well, if that doesn't sound ridiculous..."

  "It's going to turn out nice. You'll like it. Tell me about Hugh."

  "I've told you about Hugh."

  "Was he married before he married your mother?"

  "No. Confirmed bachelor."

  "And what made him marry your mother?"

  A slight smile passed over Gray's face and Aubrey tried to capture the moment, dabbing quickly, feverishly. “He always said it was love at first sight. She was a maid, you know. In his Atlanta hotel. He happened by the hotel and he caught sight of her and he said that he knew at that moment what he'd been waiting his whole life for."

  "It's like a fairy tale."

  "Yes, very romantic. And the reason why every maid in every hotel I own comes simpering around as soon as I show up."

  "Lightning striking twice?"

  "Exactly."

  "You're not really his son. I mean, in every way that counts, I suppose you are, but genetically you're not. I don't think love at first sight happens for everyone."

  "You don't believe in it?"

  "I believe in it as a concept. I just think that some people need more time to fall in love.” She had not loved Gray the moment she had seen him. It had snuck up on her gradually, so that she had been effectively destroyed by it.

  Gray's eyebrows puckered in perplexity over this pronouncement. Unconsciously he turned his head toward her.

  "You're moving,” she admonished him.

  "Sorry.” He tried to readjust himself back into his former position, failing miserably. Smiling, she shifted to fix her perspective of him. “So you think love at first sight is a genetic predisposition."

  "You don't?"

  "No."

  Maybe, she thought in alarm, he was right. Sure, she was in love with him. But he apparently wasn't in love with her. There was no indication that they would be together forever. So maybe she had yet to meet her soulmate. Maybe, when she did, it would be love at first sight.

  "Maybe you're right,” she conceded with a shrug. The whole conversation had become almost unbearably depressing to her. She concentrated on her watercolor.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  There is no computing the love of New England for the Red Sox.

  —Michael Madden, Boston Globe June 14, 1986

  February 25, 2004

  "Mmm,” mumbled Aubrey, the most she could do by way of protest, when Gray moved underneath her.

  "I have to go to work,” he whispered, sliding her off him delicately.

  "Mm-hmm,” she said, burrowing into his pillow.

  "Stay and sleep,” he told her, throwing back the covers.

  He got no answer. Smiling to himself, he took a quick shower, gave himself a bleary-eyed shave, and, yawning, wondered how many hours sleep he'd actually gotten. Collecting his suit jacket, he kissed the mop of red hair that was the only evident part of Aubrey, and on his way out of the room he paused by the watercolor she'd painted the night before. Or, more accurately, he thought, looking at his watch with a grimace, only a few hours ago.

  He wasn't sure what he thought of the watercolor. A part of him really liked it. Another part of him looked at it and thought, Is that really me? Leaving it for the time being, Gray decided to go confront his day, and stepping out his door, frowned as it occurred to him, for the first time in many hours, that he really had to figure out who was using his casino to launder money.

  As the elevator arrived, he sighed. Too bad such serious, important problems tore him away from the delicious female cozily tucked in his bed.

  * * * *

  The phone rang, jarring her abruptly and unceremoniously from a vivid dream in which she had been back in Maine. With Gray. Standing by the ocean where she'd grown up. Watching a whale that was beached on the shore. For a moment, she thought the phone was a vet calling to help with the beached whale.

  Then, for another moment, she stared at the ceiling and wondered where the hell she was. It was little things that gave it abruptly away: the video game console they'd never tucked back into the armoire, the empty ice cream bowls, the articles of clothing straggling their way toward the bed. Then, feeling she'd gotten her bearings, she hesitated another second, wondering if it was her place to pick up Gray's phone. Wondering who could be on the other end of Gray's phone.

  It stopped ringing, and she breathed a sigh of relief. At least she didn't have to make that decision. Frowning, she glanced around the room again. The only articles of clothing on the floor belonged to her, and they seemed to have been kicked into some semblance of a folded pile. Where was Gray? It came vaguely to her that he may have woken her and said he was going to work. Silly man, she thought, and pulled the covers over her head, trying to slide back into sleep.

  The phone began ringing again.

  "Oh, dammit,” she snapped, picking it up in resignation. “Hello."

  "Rise and shine, Miss Thomas. This is your eleven o'clock wake-up call,” said Gray on the other end.

  "Eleven o'clock?” she repeated, frowning.

  "Eleven o'clock,” he confirmed.

  "Hmm...” She yawned. “Call me back in a few hours."

  "Not so fast. There's a reason I'm waking you from your sleep."

  "A good reason, I hope."

  "My mother's looking for you. She says you two had a sitting this morning. She's very suspicious that you didn't show up and you're not in your room. She suggested to me, oh so innocently, that I might know where you were."

  "Oh, damn,” sighed Aubrey and, keeping the phone to her ear, pulled the covers back over her head. “What did you tell her?"

  "I told her you were still sleeping. A night of phenomenal sex will do that to you."

  "What did you tell her?” she asked again.

  "That I had no idea where you were. But if you want that to look believable, you've got to get yourself out of bed and dressed and to my mother's suite with some sort of reasonable explanation."

  "I won't need a reasonable explanation. Your mother already knows we're sleeping together. You're not such a good liar."

  "I'm an excellent liar."

  "Since the cat's out of the bag already, call your mother and tell her I'm—” A gong sounded through his house, startling her.

  On the other end of the phone, he said, “Is that my doorbell?"

  "Doorbell? It made my teeth rattle!"

  "It has presence."

  "How do you have a doorbell?"

  "People without my code for the elevator have to ring the doorbell to gain admittance."

  The gong sounded again. Aubrey winced. “Gray, it's an annoying doorbell."

  "Go see who it is."

  "I'm not dressed."

  The gong sounded several times in quick succession.

  "It's my mother,” he announced.

  Aubrey knew he was right from the dread that settled in her stomach. “How do you know that?"

  "Only my mother is that persistent. Settle down, would you? It's you she adores. Me, she's not too happy with,” he finished dryly.

  "Why isn't she happy with you?"

  Chiefly because he hadn't yet given Aubrey a diamond. That was always his mother's ultimate objective. But he said, “Never mind.” The gong sounded twice more. “Time to face the lion, Andromachles. Is that the guy from the story?"

  Aubrey had no idea what he was talking about. “I'll call you later."

  "Stop by."

  "Fine,” she agreed and hung up his phone as his atrocious doorbell rang again. Why did he have such a d
oorbell? She pulled her clothing on quickly, listening to the gongs continue to echo, and then she jogged to the foyer and tried to figure out how to answer the door. Finally she just pushed the elevator's call button.

  The doors slid open, and Moira said immediately as she marched through them, “Did I wake you?"

  What the hell did she think? “I was, uh, just getting in the shower. Would you like some coffee?” Maybe this was the wrong move. Aubrey didn't really want to play hostess in Gray's suite. At least not for his mother.

  "Not right now. My daughter is driving me crazy."

  "Oh,” said Aubrey. She had not thought Moira would want to talk about Sophie.

  "I thought we could go to the museum and get away from this hotel for a little while,” Moira suggested. “Before Sophie can suggest to me any more ways to suggest to Gray that he hire Dirk. Gray would either kill me or kill himself if I made such a suggestion. I find neither alternative appealing."

  Aubrey thought maybe they'd better stick around the hotel to make sure Sophie didn't elope. And on top of that, she really didn't want to spend an afternoon with Moira so she could gush about how splendid and wonderful Gray was and how happy she was for the two of them.

  Aubrey didn't want anybody to be happy for them. There was nothing to be happy for. Except, of course, the very good sex. And all her painfully unrequited love for him.

  "What are you waiting for?” Moira demanded. “Comb your hair! Brush your teeth!"

  The museum time with Moira was actually much better than she expected it to be. Moira surprised her by only bringing up Gray in the context of harmless observations. There was nothing heavy-handed about the situation. Remembering Gray's remark about his mother not being very happy with him right now, she wondered if he was being pressured instead of her.

  Actually, that made more sense. Aubrey was obviously besotted with him. Moira would probably know that the person who needed convincing in the relationship was her perpetual bachelor son. Who, Aubrey told herself firmly, would make a miserable husband. She didn't want a serial womanizer for a husband. But she bought a frame for the watercolor she'd done of him anyway, thinking she could surprise him with it.

  On the whole, it hadn't been a bad day, she thought, calling for the service elevator. She would frame the watercolor for Gray, stop by his office and present him with it, tell him to sit Sophie down and give her a talking-to about how she was too young for marriage. Then Aubrey would go back to her room and work on Moira's portrait, Sophie's portrait, maybe even the real portrait of Gray. Painting him last night had made her realize that he was not the best at sittings.