Twenty Hours in Boston

by Priscilla Darcy

  She chose the man on Gray's left, walked up to him, tapped him on the shoulder, and said, her most flirtatious smile firmly in place, “I don't suppose you'd let me have your seat, would you?"

  "What?” he asked in disbelief.

  Aubrey could sense Gray's gaze. He had turned toward her as soon as she had spoken. She reached into her pocket and pulled out a random amount of twenties, spread them for the guy. “For eighty bucks?"

  He still looked disbelieving. “What the hell,” he shrugged, and took the money and vacated the seat.

  She slid into it and looked at Gray, who was silent and unreadable as he watched her steadily.

  "What'll it be?” the bartender asked her.

  "She'll have one of these,” Gray answered for her, indicating his Sam Adams. The bartender went off to fill the order.

  "It's crowded,” said Aubrey.

  "Hope springs eternal,” Gray replied.

  "Poor fools,” said Aubrey as the bartender handed her the Sam Adams.

  Gray reached across her before she could drink it, took her left hand in his, looked for a second at the diamond she had donned. “So does this mean the answer is yes?” he asked, shifting his gaze to hers.

  "I'm sorry,” she answered innocently, even as she entwined their fingers. “Did you ask me a question?"

  "I thought...” Gray shifted uncomfortably, wishing he was better at this. “I thought you might want to marry me."

  "Really? And what would make you think that?"

  He sighed. He lifted his free hand and tangled it in her hair. “Because I love you, okay? I've loved you since I stood in that doorway over there and spotted a redhead to watch the game with."

  "So why didn't you tell me?"

  "Can I ask you a question?"

  "What?"

  "Do you love me?"

  He looked so solemn, so tense, so nervous, that she had to just tell him the truth. “Yes,” she said.

  "So why didn't you tell me?"

  "There's no need to apportion blame here,” she said, which made him chuckle.

  He leaned forward and nuzzled behind her ear. “Tell me you're saying yes."

  "I'm saying yes."

  "Good.” He kissed the corner of her mouth. “Don't you have tickets to this game?"

  "I left them in Maine. I left in kind of a hurry."

  He drew back, smiling. “It's okay. We can buy a couple off a scalper, probably."

  "The thing is..."

  "Yes?” He settled his free hand at her waist.

  "I worry about Pedro."

  "Do you?” Under the cover of her coat, his hand whispered its way upward.

  "Yes,” she said on a sigh. “So much. He's so fragile and delicate. And the rest of the season..."

  "I thought you were a Derek Lowe believer."

  "I worry about him, too. And I think we should trade Nomar."

  "Trade Nomar?"

  "Mm-hmm.” She nodded while he leaned forward and breathed a kiss over the pulse point of her neck. “I don't think we're going to re-sign him and we should get something for—"

  "Aubrey,” he said thickly into her ear. “You've got to stop talking baseball, sweetheart."

  "Why?” she asked, turning her head so she could brush a kiss over his cheek.

  "Because it makes me want to tear your clothes off,” he answered, taking a deep breath, while his hand settled warmly just under one of her breasts.

  "Good. Don't you have a whole hotel full of hotel rooms right in this very city?"

  "Why, as a matter of fact I do. How clever of you to think of that."

  "Find me a cab,” she said. “Take me there. I'll talk baseball to you all night."

  He drew back from her with startling quickness. “How much,” he said instantly to the bartender, “do we owe?"

  * * * *

  They were married at Fenway, on an off-day in July, standing on the pitcher's mound under a brilliant blue sky. The whole thing was such perfection that Aubrey felt she almost could not wrap her mind around it. Gray looked impossibly handsome, and she could not believe that he was hers. Forever and ever. Hers. Gray Delamonte. Who had been connected with dozens of dazzling women and had somehow chosen her.

  For their wedding gift, he presented her with a surprise she would never have guessed. Because he managed, through strings and connections she had not realized he had, to get them into the Museum of Fine Arts after hours, to have champagne waiting by Monet's painting of the cathedral through fog, and to have the security cameras turned off.

  Epilogue

  This time, the history of the Boston Red Sox had the very happiest of endings.

  —Jackie MacMullen, Finally: Red Sox Are the Champions after 86 Years

  October 27, 2004

  Normally Gray was not allowed in her studio. He was distracting. And he made her nervous—those cool, appraising, periwinkle-blue eyes sliding over paintings that weren't yet finished. But he bounded his way inside without a second thought, and she looked up from her painting. Her paintings had covered a range of emotion over the past two weeks, from dark and violent to joyous and buoyant.

  She looked up at him. “Well?"

  "Got them,” he said briefly. “We have to go. Now. If we want to make our flight.” He went darting out of the studio.

  Aubrey paused to pull her poncho off then followed him.

  "Hurry,” he said urgently, watching her hop as she pulled her sneakers on. “Why can't you paint with shoes on?"

  "Not these shoes.” She frowned at him. “I can't get paint on these shoes."

  "Put them on in the limo, will you?” he demanded, pulling their luggage over to the elevator.

  Aubrey ignored him, succeeded in pulling her shoes on and dashed onto the elevator with him just before the doors closed.

  "It's a good thing you made this elevator,” he informed her, “because I was not going to wait for you."

  "You were going to leave without me?"

  "Yes."

  She grinned at him. “You lie,” she said, and leaned up and kissed him. “How much did you have to pay?” she asked as the doors slid open and they walked down the hallway to the main elevator.

  Gray punched the button. “Trust me. You don't want to know."

  The doors slid open and Aubrey waited for Gray to wheel the luggage on. “No, I don't. But whatever it is, it was worth it."

  "We can only hope."

  "If not tonight, then tomorrow. Or after that. But this is it, Gray. This is our year. Our most marvelous year.” She threaded her hand into his, lifted it, kissed his wedding ring. “Wouldn't you agree?"

  "Not even in my wildest dreams,” Gray replied, “did I think my most marvelous year would be like this one."

  She smiled. “And you were really going to leave me behind?"

  "I lied.” She leaned up to kiss him again. “You're giving the security cameras a show, you know,” he said, but kissed her back fervently.

  "We're newlyweds,” she replied. “They're used to it.” The elevator landed softly at lobby level and Aubrey took her suitcase from Gray and followed behind him through the lobby.

  Gray held up his hand to stave off what he knew were the good wishes the valets were going to give them. No jinxes, he thought, and checked his watch. They were going to make the flight—but just barely.

  "You got Danny and Mark to cover for you?” Aubrey asked, making conversation, because she could sense Gray fidgeting beside her. Sure, she was tense, too, but worrying about Gray's tension made it much easier for her to forget about her own tension.

  "Yes."

  "And I told your mother what we were doing."

  "What did she say?” The limo pulled up and the valets scurried to throw the luggage in the trunk.

  "She rolled her eyes. Then she said something about the baby."

  "What about the baby?” asked Gray, sliding into the limo, a touch of concern tingeing his voice.

  "Oh, nothing bad. Typical baby stuff. How Risa is the m
ost remarkable baby on earth. I just can't remember what the specific reason for that pronouncement was this time."

  Gray smiled.

  "I called my brothers, too."

  "What did they say?"

  "Some not so pleasant things about our ability to fly to St. Louis on the spur of the moment."

  "Once in a lifetime opportunity, Aubrey. If I had a job where I couldn't leave on the spur of the moment like this, I would quit it. I can try to get some more tickets for them. My treat."

  "No, they'll stay in Maine. They'll celebrate there. The rumor is that all the towns in New England are going to ring their church bells, the way they did during the Revolution. If we weren't going to St. Louis, I would say we should go home."

  "Would you rather have gone home?” Gray asked. “I wanted to be in St. Louis, but—"

  "No, definitely I would rather be in St. Louis. My brothers will be fine. Fit to be tied with jealousy, but fine."

  Gray yawned and leaned his head back against the seat. It had been a pretty sleepless October. And September had brought the birth of Sophie's baby Risa, which had led to more sleepless nights as everybody took turns helping Sophie out. Gray thought he needed some sleep, but he was a little too keyed-up just then.

  Aubrey had no such problem. Aubrey fell asleep as soon as they got on the plane, her head dropped cozily on his shoulder. She stirred and woke just as they began circling St. Louis, preparing for their descent.

  "We're there?” she asked.

  "Yeah,” he affirmed.

  "I have a gift for you."

  "A gift?"

  She reached under the seat, rummaged through the carry-on bag she'd packed, pulled out a cigar and handed it to him. “That's for you."

  He looked horrified. “Aubrey—"

  "It's not a jinx. You threw the cigar away last year, and look how that turned out. Keep this one. It won't be a jinx. You can't jinx us. If we lose, Gray, then we are truly cursed and we are never going to win. Anyhow,” she continued with a smile, “I bought a cigar with an advance off my winnings."

  "Your winnings?” he repeated blankly.

  "Someone placed a bet for me. On the Red Sox winning the World Series."

  Gray smiled despite himself. “You are tempting fate. You forget you are a Red Sox fan."

  Aubrey smiled back, leaned over and kissed him. “I think our luck's changing."

  * * * *

  Game Four of the World Series, like the first three games of the World Series that year, were blurs in the collective memory of Red Sox Nation. The details of them were never quite clear. The sharp, crystalline images of the players playing their hearts out were instantly recognizable, but the scores, the individual hits, how the runs came about all remained foggy.

  The World Series, so longed-for by Red Sox Nation, was not like the ALCS, where fans sat for years afterward and dissected Dave Roberts’ steal, David Ortiz's at-bats, Schilling's and Foulke's and Wakefield's and Lowe's pitches. The ALCS was traumatic, a hard-won knock-down drag-out fight. But the World Series ... The Red Sox won the World Series like they were playing a Little League team instead of the best team in the National League.

  Aubrey, sitting in the stands and watching, felt as if time was slowing down so she could remember every detail of what it was like to watch the Red Sox win the World Series. There were many Red Sox fans in the stands, and she could feel them holding their collective breath with every pitch. By the ninth inning, she and Gray were both standing. The Cardinals fans around them, she thought, were eerily quiet. Gray's hand was holding hers, and he was trembling with stillness, staring at the drama of the game below them.

  Edgar Renteria hit a ground ball and Keith Foulke reached out and grabbed it. Then, it seemed to Gray, he did nothing for a long long time. He turned with the ball in his glove. He dashed toward first. Dashed a little more. Lofted the ball carefully to first.

  And the Red Sox won the World Series.

  The Red Sox fans in Busch Stadium exploded. On the field, the Red Sox were a chaotic mass of celebrating players. Gray turned to Aubrey and kissed her. Lifted her off her feet and kissed her. For a very long time.

  "We won,” she said, finally, looking down toward the field. Cardinals fans were filing out. Red Sox fans, she could see, were gathering behind home plate. She could hear chants: Thank you, Red Sox...

  "We should go down there,” said Gray, but the crowd around them was still too thick, and they were stuck where they were for the moment.

  "We won,” she said again and stared at the tableau before her, and felt an overload of emotion. She didn't know whether to laugh or cry over the whole thing. Across the stadium from her, a band of Red Sox fans were dashing along the concourse with a painted bed sheet. We forgive Bill Buckner. She laughed.

  "I'll have to change our security code,” said Gray, sounding amazed. “I never thought I would have to change that security code. I mean, not really."

  She looked up at him. “Yes, you did. You're a Red Sox fan. We all tried to pretend that we never expected them to win. And we all always genuinely thought that they would win. None of us ever stopped believing. It would never have hurt us so much if we did. We always—always, until the last out—had faith. Gray, I have to tell you something. I was waiting, because I wanted it to be perfect, and the ALCS started out such a mess, and then we were so close to this...” She trailed off, gestured to the field.

  "What are you talking about?"

  She looked up at him. He didn't look as if he was paying attention to her. He was looking out over the crowd.

  "I think we can get closer to home plate now,” he remarked.

  "Wait a second, Gray. Look at me."

  He did, looking both perplexed and amused by her behavior. But who could predict how someone would react when the Red Sox won the World Series? He smiled at her. “What is it, sweetheart?"

  "I want this to be the best night of our lives."

  "Ah.” Gray wagged his eyebrows at her in a playful leer. “Is that a promise for later?"

  "We're having a baby,” she said.

  It took him a second to react.

  Thank you, Theo ... chanted the crowd.

  "Wait, what did you say?” he said, blinking at her.

  "I'm pregnant,” she clarified for him, and then she grinned. “I'm pretty sure the baby's yours, but once we run the paternity test we'll know for—"

  "Oh, shut up,” he said, and kissed her again. “How pregnant?"

  "About ten weeks now. As I said, I've known for a while, but this month has been so crazy—"

  "This is so fantastic,” he said, looking jubilant.

  "I thought you'd be happy."

  "Happy?” he repeated in disbelief. “I'm beyond happy. I can't believe you kept it from me as long as you did."

  "I wanted this to be a very special night,” she reminded him.

  Yankees suck! the crowd shouted enthusiastically.

  Gray looked up, down toward the field, smiled and looked back at Aubrey's stomach. “Very special,” he agreed. “We've come full circle from last year."

  "And now we know the reason for last year,” she said. “Without last year, this year would never have turned out so perfect."

  * * * *

  The faithful of Red Sox Nation began making their pilgrimage to Boston, straggling into the city in highly emotional states. Grown men cried like babies as they went to the graves of those who hadn't finished the journey with them and left memorials of the Victory Edition of the Boston Globe and Red Sox World Series Championship gear.

  Aubrey and Gray, on their way to meet her brothers and their children at the victory parade, stopped at the cemetery in New York where Hugh was buried. Gray stood in front of the grave and smoked his victory cigar. He toasted with a glass of champagne and Aubrey toasted with a glass of sparkling apple cider. Then Gray left a full champagne flute and the remainder of the champagne bottle by Hugh's grave, and ran his hand lovingly over the chiseled letters of Hugh's name. />
  He had died so many years ago, he thought. When Gray had been such a little boy. So much had happened since. So strange how much Gray still missed him.

  "We did it,” he said finally, feeling like he needed to say it out loud to Hugh. “Took us long enough, but we did it.” He paused, then added with a grin toward Aubrey, “And Aubrey and I are going to have a baby who will grow up a Red Sox fan who's never heard of a curse. How about that, huh?"

  * * * *

  Aubrey and Gray eventually had two sons, who they named Hugh and Thomas. But their first baby was a little girl, and they named her Faith.

  The End

  About the Author of

  TWENTY HOURS IN BOSTON:

  Priscilla Darcy grew up in Rhode Island and was raised a Red Sox fan. She lived in Boston for a few years, and was there for the devastating Red Sox loss in 2003. She started writing TWENTY HOURS IN BOSTON to heal after the disappointment of the 2003 season, and, in her wildest moments, fantasized about ending it with the Red Sox winning the World Series. She still can't quite believe that everything turned out so wonderfully. Priscilla lives outside of Washington, D.C., now, where she helps turn Camden Yards into Fenway Park South when the Red Sox are in town. That is, when she isn't busy practicing law.

  Scheherazade Tales Romance E-Novels

  Quality, not quantity—See for yourself!

  Try before you buy

  Read the first few chapters of all our ebooks online for free!

  scheherazadetales.com

  * * *

  Visit www.scheherazadetales.com for information on additional titles by this and other authors.