"Kicked a wall? Why did you do that?"
"I'm pleading temporary insanity. Intense frustration."
"It's a guy thing,” said Mark. “You wouldn't understand."
Monica rolled her eyes. “He's been insufferable since we found out the new baby's a boy."
"The baby's a boy?” Gray asked.
"You didn't tell him?” said Monica.
"I thought I told you,” said Mark.
Gray shook his head. “I don't remember that. A brother. What does Madison think about that?"
"Oh, Madison and Monica are both sulking because this evens things out now."
"Don't listen to a word he says, Gray. We could have a dozen sons and the women would still dominate the men in this family."
"I let her think that,” said Mark with a wink.
Monica grinned at him.
Jealous, Gray thought. He was definitely jealous.
Damn it, like he didn't have enough on his plate. Now, apparently out of nowhere, he'd decided he might actually like a family. Damn it to hell. He had to figure out how to get rid of that particular impulse.
Then Mark's cell phone rang and the grin on Monica's face faded, and she drew her eyebrows together and sent her husband a thoroughly displeased look. Maybe, Gray thought, he didn't want to be married after all.
"I'm sure it's nothing,” Mark said to Monica, then muttered to Gray, “Excuse me,” as he stood and walked to the other end of the patio with the phone.
"He's sure it's nothing,” Monica scoffed. “It's always something."
"Ah,” said Gray, who was unsure he wanted to get involved in this marital disagreement.
"I have to go,” said Mark, flipping the phone closed as he walked back to the table.
"Uh-huh,” said Monica, looking unsurprised.
"I'll drop you off,” he said to Gray.
"Don't be silly,” Monica told him. “You invited Gray to dinner, at least let him stay for dinner."
"Oh, I don't want to be any trouble,” insisted Gray. He was fond of Monica but he could count on one hand the number of times he'd spent hanging out with just her.
"You wouldn't be any trouble. You'd be company for me and Madison since Mark is abandoning us."
"I'm sorry,” said Mark, and kissed the tip of Monica's nose.
"Please be careful,” she begged him.
"Always.” He dropped a kiss on the top of Madison's head and glanced at Gray. “I'll call you later in the week to see if you've recovered."
Mark went jogging around the side of the house, and Monica said immediately, “Do you think we could convince him that we're having an affair?"
Gray actually burst out laughing, the idea was so ridiculous. “No,” he said. “And anyhow, why would you want to?"
"Well, maybe he wouldn't be so eager to leave us alone then."
"He wasn't eager to leave us alone. He offered to drive me home."
"I'm actually a little relieved he got called away. I've been wanting to talk to you. I was going to stop by the hotel at some point this week."
"Stop by the hotel?” Gray repeated, in confusion. That would have been completely unprecedented.
"Years ago, Mark mentioned in passing that you had offered him a job."
"Oh. Yes. I did."
"What kind of job was it?"
"Well, it was in security. I thought it would be convenient to have a person I actually trusted in charge of Bienvenue's security. I still think that would be preferable.” Gray's tone was dry. It was no secret at the hotel that he didn't get along with his head of security. Danny usually ran interference for him.
"Does the job offer still stand?"
Gray thought she looked anxious. He thought he could not be any more confused. “Well, yes, it still stands. I ask Mark a few times a month, for God's sake. Surely he understands it still stands?"
"I don't know what Mark thinks. I want you to convince him to take it."
"Convince him to take it?"
"Yes. He doesn't want to take it."
"No, he doesn't. Monica, he likes what he does."
"But I don't like what he does, Gray. I'm so tired of worrying about him. As soon as he leaves this house, I tense up, and I don't relax again until he comes back, and then I worry over how soon he's going to be called away again so I can start worrying about him."
"Monica, you're gong to drive yourself crazy. Mark's fine. You can't live your life worrying—"
"You think I don't tell myself that? Over and over? That I need to just relax and enjoy my life? That's all well and good—to a point. And the point that I reach is that Mark would be a lot safer if he worked for you than he currently is on the police force."
Gray was beginning to feel a little alarmed at how distressed Monica appeared to be. He tried to be as reasonable as possible. “All right. Granted that's true. Mark likes what he does—"
"I know. And I didn't think it would be this hard, being a police officer's wife. And then I had a baby. And now I'm having a son. How can I raise a son without a father?"
"You don't—"
"But what if I did? I know I'm overreacting. I know Mark is currently fine. But I'm so terrified of losing him, Gray. So absolutely terrified. I barely sleep because I just watch him and think of how terrified I am."
"But have you talked to him?"
"Yes. But you need to talk to him. If he had two people badgering him about this—"
"I'm not sure it's my place, Monica."
"I know. That's why I waited the longest I could before asking you. But now, Gray, you're my last resort. Please help me. Please?"
Monica Dailey was a pretty girl. Not quite Gray's type but pretty all the same. Petite in a way that reminded him of Aubrey. Long chestnut brown hair. And a pair of brown doe eyes that shimmered luminously at him in the lights of the patio, pleading with him.
Damn it to hell. “I'll give it a try,” he agreed reluctantly.
Chapter Five
So bring on the Yankees, and may Alex Rodriguez bat .240.
—Stewart O'Nan and Stephen King, Faithful: Two Diehard Boston Red Sox Fans Chronicle the Historic 2004 Season
Gray thought he must be getting old. He must have lost a step. Because Mark was dancing around him with phenomenal speed. Gray felt almost dizzy by how easily Mark was whirling, avoiding his feeble attacks. Gray was actually relieved when the sparring bout was over, because he was exhausted and out-of-sorts by having been beaten so badly.
Mark said, “You're still favoring that foot."
"Huh?” Gray, trying to catch his breath, looked down at it. “A bit, yeah."
"I was taking shameless advantage of it,” said Mark. “Sorry. Watching the World Series?"
"Yes."
"Think the Marlins are going to pull it off?"
"I pray every night. You going to finish up here?” asked Gray. Mark's workout routine was far more stringent than Gray's. Maybe the reason why he never seemed to lose a step while Gray felt like he was going backwards.
"Yeah, I'm going to swim some laps."
"Okay. Stop by the office when you're done."
Mark looked surprised. They didn't usually hang out in Gray's office after they boxed. “Sure."
Gray stopped off at his suite first, took a quick shower before pulling his businessman suit back on. He was still tying his tie when he took the private elevator to the executive floor and greeted his secretary.
"I miss anything?” he asked her, swiping a hand quickly through his damp hair in what sufficed for him as combing.
She shook her head and he breezed by her into his office, settling down. There was really nothing to running a company once you got the hang of it, and he'd gotten the hang of it years earlier. The key was to surround himself with people he trusted so that he didn't have to run around making sure Danny and Lucy and the rest of his employees were doing their jobs. The Vegas Bienvenue was the most difficult to run. If it was running smoothly, the rest of the hotels seemed to take its cue.
He was trying to come up with something to do when he heard Mark enter the antechamber where Gray's secretary was stationed. “Come on in, Mark!” he called and Mark came in, dressed smartly in his police uniform, which Gray saw him in so seldom he barely recognized him. “Don't you look like a dapper man in uniform."
"I am a dapper man in uniform,” said Mark, watching Gray close the door. “This is a little like getting called to the principal's office."
Gray smiled absently as he sat behind his desk. “Have a seat."
"Exactly like getting called to the principal's office."
"I wanted to talk to you about the security job."
"I see. And you're pulling out the big guns."
"The big guns?"
"Yeah. Get me in the executive office. Shut the door. Sit behind your desk in your suit so I'm reminded of our respective stations in life."
Gray felt his eyebrows lift in surprise. “That isn't what I'm doing."
"It's exactly what you're doing. And this is exactly why I don't want the job. Friendships don't survive when one of the friends turns into a boss."
"I wouldn't be...” Gray sighed in frustration. “I'm a pretty easy boss."
"Oh, that makes it all much better. Are you really hurting that much in the security department, Gray?"
"No,” he admitted. “Mark, listen. Monica asked me to try to convince you to take the job."
Mark was angry. Gray could see it in the flat look of his eyes. But outwardly he showed absolutely no sign of it. His tone when he spoke was almost expressionless. “Monica asked you?"
"Yes."
"Well, that's clearly not any sort of manipulation on her part."
"Mark, she's worried about you. I think she's almost hysterical with worry. That's the only reason why I'm doing this in the first place. I'd love to have you in the security department, but I know you don't want to do it and I'm willing to leave it at that. But you have a wife who's going behind your back to—"
"I'll handle my wife. Of course she's hysterical. She's pregnant. Women are frequently hysterical when they're pregnant."
"She's worried you're going to get yourself killed."
"I know she is."
"I don't think you understand the extent to which she's worried. You really need to sit down with her and get her to calm down a bit."
Mark took a deep breath. “I've tried. The fact is she's ... My father was a cop. My grandfather was a cop. My brothers are cops. It's in my blood. She's overreacting right now because of the baby. I don't want to make a life-changing decision because of some temporary physical condition."
"She has never asked me, ever, to talk to you about something."
"I know,” Mark agreed glumly.
"I really just meant this as a heads-up. I don't for one minute think that I can convince you to do something you don't want to do. Just make sure you're not underestimating the seriousness of this."
Mark swore as he stood. “Going to be an unpleasant discussion."
"Tell me again how I should get married."
"Thank you for the heads-up."
"Hey,” said Gray. “What are friends for?"
* * * *
Aubrey decided that the primary requirement for being a waitress was legible handwriting, followed closely by a good sense of balance. Unfortunately for all involved, she had neither. The cooks could not read the orders she put in, and neither could she, when pressed. She wasn't terribly good at carrying drinks. Or anything, for that matter. They hadn't fired her yet, but she could tell it was coming.
Stealing a break, she sank down into a seat at the bar and checked the progress of Game Six. Marlins still hanging on to the lead. If they could just pull it off ... What? She was feeling a little conflicted. Of course she wanted the Yankees to lose, but she didn't want it to look like every team in Major League Baseball could beat the Yankees except for the poor stupid Red Sox.
So, even with Game Six going the way it was going, she found herself sitting at the bar trying not to cry. All she needed was to cry. Maybe she could have a drink. Maybe she could find herself another one-night stand. Gray had made her feel so much better. She looked around the bar hopefully, as if Gray would be there.
Instead she met, to her shock, Paul's eyes. He had just entered the restaurant, frown firmly in place, and it deepened when their eyes met across the room.
Oh, dear God, no, she thought. One more thing for her to handle. And she just couldn't handle any more. She tried to vanish, which was absolutely absurd, because Paul had spotted her and he honed in on her and she, sighing, resigned herself to it when he appeared in front of her and demanded, “What do you think you're doing?"
She blinked. Then she said, mustering all her dignity, “That is none of your business anymore. Not only are you no longer my husband, you are also no longer my boss."
"About that—” said Paul, and then cut himself off, narrowing his eyes at her. “Are you waiting tables? Is that what you're doing?"
She sighed. “What do you want, Paul?"
Paul fidgeted a bit. He looked genuinely uncomfortable. Then he blurted out, “We can't do the Monet show without you."
"Really? That's interesting. Just a few days ago it seemed as if you couldn't do the show with me. If I do recall correctly, I believe I was calling into question the good taste of the museum by having the gall to choose Garamond as my program font."
"I was overreacting."
Aubrey lifted an eyebrow. “You were overreacting?"
"Yes. Look, Louis tells me the tickets are selling well."
"The tickets are selling well?"
"All right, the tickets are selling astonishingly well. This show has got to be a success. I've been having Karla step in, but Karla doesn't have the flair to ... I mean, your vision of..."
"Who told you that my vision of the show was a good one?” asked Aubrey wryly.
"Louis."
"Thank God for Louis."
"Louis said I'm to get you back, okay?” Paul snapped. “So let's not make me beg here. As if you haven't gotten enough out of me over the past year. We're prepared to raise your salary."
She gulped but stood her ground. “The problem wasn't my salary, Paul. The problem was my proximity to you. If I come back—notice I said if—I don't want you nitpicking over every little thing.” What the hell was she doing? She needed her job back. She needed it badly. But it had to be on her terms.
"We're both adults, aren't we? We made a mistake. Let's move on. Let's display a little maturity."
"Oh, yeah, because you've displayed so much maturity during my acquaintance with you."
"Now we're getting into petty insults.” Paul folded his arms and sighed heavily, as if bracing for the long haul. “I do wish you'd grow up, Aubrey."
She'd heard that so often during their marriage that she'd kept hearing it even after she'd moved out, would swear she could hear Paul whispering it at her, and then she would turn and she would be alone in the apartment. Hearing it again now pricked at her temper, but she couldn't afford to lose her temper again. It was losing her temper that had gotten her into this mess in the first place.
No, she reconsidered. It was the Red Sox that had gotten her into this mess in the first place. Grady Little. She would kill Grady Little if she ever got him in front of her. Her hands even curled into fists at the thought.
She forced a smile. “I can't come back."
"What do you mean, you can't come back?"
"Just what I said. I'd love to have my job back. More than anything. But I can't work with you anymore."
"Don't be too hasty. You need that job. You can't wait tables for a living."
"Says who?"
Paul made a face. “Grow up, Aubrey."
"That's it. I'm done with this.” She turned to leave. He grabbed her arm to stop her and she looked pointedly at his hand until he let her go again.
"Aubrey, the museum needs you. Karla needs you. I need you."
"
You can go to hell."
He bit his lip. “At least help Karla through this show. That's all I ask. Then you can wait all the tables your little heart desires."
Aubrey wavered. Karla wasn't exactly incompetent ... but she didn't have the experience to pull off a show this big. “I'll think about it."
Paul seemed to relax a bit. “Now you're showing sense. Be on time on Monday,” said Paul curtly. “Now if you'll excuse me, I have a dinner date."
She stared after him as he walked away, furious with the dismissive way he'd treated her. “You're welcome,” she mumbled, and then her jaw dropped open in shock. She couldn't help it. Because Paul was being met by a tall, stunning, statuesque blonde who leaned over and kissed him full on the mouth.
Bastard! Well. There was no doubt in her mind now. She'd said she'd think about coming back. She just did. For all of two seconds. Impossible. Oh, how she'd like to tell Paul what she really thought of him—
Then her attention was diverted back to the ballgame on television and she watched in awe as Josh Beckett finished his superb game and the Marlins started celebrating their World Series win.
It felt a hell of a lot better than if the Yankees had won, but it barely registered as far as salvaging this whole disastrous month of October.
* * * *
December 18, 2003
Gray should have been working but instead he was trolling message boards for A-Rod gossip and watching the deadline clock tick down on ESPN.
How could a man be expected to work when the Red Sox could be in the midst of pulling off the greatest positive trade in the team's exalted history? Because of course the greatest trade was the poisonous Babe Ruth trade that had cursed the team for the rest of time. Red Sox Nation was undecided about whether or not there was an actual curse, but there were more believers every year, every year that the Red Sox put out a good team—maybe even, some years, arguably, the best team—and still managed to lose in inexplicable fashion.
"I can't believe we're watching a countdown clock to a trading deadline.” Danny shook his head at ESPN. “Have you ever seen anything like this before?"
"This is it, Danny,” announced Gray expansively. “This is the trade. If Theo can get this done—and in Theo I trust, my friend—then we have a truly fighting chance. I mean, A-Rod in that lineup would be a match even for the most stubborn curse, don't you think?"
Twenty Hours in Boston Page 7
