Been In Love Before: A Novel Page 2

  “Sounds great. Let me talk to Patti.” Then, changing the subject, “Hey, what’s your meeting with Mary Kate about tomorrow?” he asked, taking a big swallow from his beer.

  “Graw said she wanted to meet with all three brothers. I’m sure it has something to do with her wedding. Only got two more weeks, but you know, sometimes I can’t understand my brother Ryan. She runs his home even though she’s living elsewhere. That daughter of his goes wild, especially now with her mother, Grace, gone,” he said with a knowing grin.

  “Now that was a pistol, that little Gracie,” he continued. “She was a fiery one, red hair and all. And that Kate, she’s just like her mother, red hair and an awesome temper to match. But I miss that Gracie . . . yeah, she was something special,” he said philosophically, his eyes drifting out to sea. That famous Scottish twinkle returned to his eyes as he recalled the times he had spent with the family. He was sad, and it was heartbreaking: all three brothers had lost their wives over the past two years.

  It’s just not fair, he thought to himself. The Macgregors lost the best women in the world. But he had his son, Bobby, to keep him company, to work with him and keep him sane; that was all he needed.

  Bobby reached into his back pocket and pulled out his wallet. Now is as good a time as any, he thought. Let’s get this over with. He found what he was looking for and handed the business card to his father.

  “What’s this?” Robert asked.

  “Dad, you remember you asked me to get you the name of the volunteer who heads up the senior social counseling programs?”

  “I remember your Patti saying I should call them. She said she would get me the name and phone number of the person who runs it. That’s what I recall,” Robert said, his voice rising, his face turning slightly crimson as he fingered the card. “I tried programs like this once before already, remember?”

  “Dad, listen, the last thing I want to do is to fight with you or argue with you. This has been too nice of a week. I don’t want to spoil it. It’s been like old times. There’s the card; do with it what you want. Call them or not—it’s up to you. Patti says this one is different. It’s supposed to be more like a social program, primarily geared to older folks who have lost their spouses. Her uncle went there and had nothing but great things to say about it. And about the people who run it.” He paused for a moment to watch his father.

  “You need to talk some things out, Dad. Maybe meet some people, get out into the world. Hell, go out on a date. Do stuff other than retreat down here every weekend. You need to talk with people who are grieving just like yourself. I know it can be a little scary and you may not want to embarrass yourself . . . but it’s up to you now. I’m out of it. Hand me another beer.”

  He could see the wheels spinning in his father’s head as he was silent until he finally said, “Embarrassed? Scared?” Standing, he turned to face his son. “You think something like this would scare me?” Bobby could see the bravado rising.

  “This is Robert James Macgregor you’re talking to, named for your great-great-grandfather Robert Jeremiah Macgregor, longtime descendant from the MacGregors of the Scottish Highlands in the Cairnwell mountains.” His face turned crimson. “Tradition? I am named for him the same as you are, the same as you will name your son, and don’t you ever forget it. Me, scared? Hell no. The only thing that scares this Macgregor is the fires of hell.”

  Bobby just looked at him, nodding his head, watching, knowing that sometimes he had to let off a little steam. He had to tell him. Soon.

  “Dad, sit down, please,” he whispered calmly, not really wanting to venture into this discussion.

  Robert sat and took a gulp from his beer, and the heaving in his chest began to subside.

  His son waited a few minutes before he asked, “You okay?”

  “Yeah, I’m sorry. I just miss your mother, that’s all. It hasn’t been easy without her.”

  “I know, I miss her too, but we’re all just trying to help.”

  Robert stopped, then gave a small grin. “And if you really must know, I was out on a date just last week,” he said with pride.

  “Oh yeah?” Bobby queried, more interested than ever. “Where did you go? With whom?”

  “Beth Ann McGuire.”

  “The librarian?” He had to hold himself back from laughing.

  “Yes, and she’s very nice. So keep a civil tongue in your mouth.”

  “Dad, she’s very old, she must be close to . . .”

  “Never you mind how old she is. We had a very nice time. I went to a charity book reading at her house. Had cookies, coffee, and I met some very nice lady friends of hers.”

  “Oh,” Bobby commented and decided to say nothing further about the “date.”

  He took in a deep breath. It was time to discuss something he and Patti had talked about together for weeks; now it was time to finally talk to his dad about it. Gently. “Dad, I’ve been meaning to ask you . . . well, Patti and I . . . wanted to know . . . what if we didn’t name the baby Robert? Would that be so bad?”

  “Why wouldn’t you call him Robert? It’s a tradition,” he said, his eyes and nostrils flaring. “Then you can call him Bob, Robbie, or . . .” He stood before him, his eyes narrowed, drilling his son as he awaited his response. Robert Macgregor was a traditionalist, especially when it came to anything Scottish. Tradition was life, at least in a Scottish family.

  “Well, you know . . . Patti . . . she . . . we . . . were thinking, you know . . . maybe to try a different name . . . like David or something . . . or maybe Bruce or Scott. That’s another good Scottish name. Right? That wouldn’t be so bad, would it?”

  “What? The boy’s name is Robert. It’s a Macgregor tradition, lad.”

  “And Dad, what if it is a girl? Unfortunately, we’ve had two sonograms, and they still can’t tell us whether it’s a boy or a girl.”

  “It’ll be a boy. I promise you, it’ll be a boy. I know these things. Stand tall, you’re a Macgregor.”

  “You’re right, Dad. I’m sorry I brought it up.” He shook his head and took another drink from his half-empty beer. Silence descended again on father and son.

  Minutes passed before his father whispered, “Bobby, what did you mean when you said . . . I might be embarrassed?” His father stood looking at him.

  His son didn’t really want to venture there, but maybe now was the time to clear the air. “Dad, sit down, please.”

  The old man’s chestnut-brown eyes flared again before he took in a deep breath and sat down. He was a true Macgregor, including the temper.

  “How can I say this?”

  “Spit it out, Bobby. We got no secrets ’tween us.”

  “Okay, for one thing, Dad . . . your clothes.”

  “What’s wrong with my clothes?” he asked, looking down at the fishing outfit he was wearing.

  “Dad, your white T-shirt is gray and has so many holes in it that it looks like Swiss cheese. And your ancient deck shoes are wrapped in gray duct tape, and everyone knows it’s meant to cover the holes in the soles of your shoes. And look at your jeans! They’re filthy and they must be ten years old. Throw them out and buy something new. I know it goes against the grain for you to spend money on what you consider frivolous, but . . . it’s up to you. Or let me buy you some clothes. Patti would love to take you clothes shopping just like Mom used to.”

  “I appreciate that, Bobby, but I don’t care what people think of me. Besides, the tape on the soles of my deck shoes gives me added traction on the boat. My friends and family are all I care about, and that’s the end of it.” He took a long drink from his beer bottle, but Bobby watched as his father’s left hand went down to caress the soles of his threadbare shoes. Bobby could tell he was thinking, wondering.

  Finally his father’s voice softened as he asked, “Let me have a look at that card again.” He squinted, and then said, “Damn, Bobby, I don’t have my glasses with me. Can you read it to me?”

  His ploy had worked. That was the onl
y way he could get his father to go, if he made him view it as a challenge. That had been Patti’s idea.

  “It says on the card, ‘Coleen Callahan, Regional Bereavement Volunteer/Social Coordinator.’ It lists her regular business phone number in Boca Raton. She’s apparently a CEO of a big real estate company and just volunteers with this agency. The phone number is at her business office.”

  He rubbed the card between his fingers. “Tell you what . . . I’ll give her a call if it’ll make you happy.” He looked closely at the card, then paused as he reflected. “I used to know a young lass in school named Coleen McGrath. Spelled her name the same crazy way, with one l. I really liked her. We dated for a while, feisty young thing, but she moved away and I never . . .”

  His son smiled as his father tucked the card in his pocket.

  His dad reached for the tray on the table he had brought outside and picked up an old, nearly empty whiskey bottle and two smudged whiskey glasses. It was a pint of thirty-year-old McClintish Scotch whiskey. He poured them each two fingers and then raised his glass high over his head in a proper salute. “To the Macgregors!”

  With a smile Bobby gave the traditional response, “Long live Scotland!”

  Chapter Two

  Damn him. Damn him to hell. I’m an honors law school graduate, newest lawyer at my law firm, and I’m not going to have any man rule my life, no, not anymore. I need to know—and need to know now.

  “Mickey?” she said from the kitchen as he poured her after-dinner drink in the other room.

  “Mickey?” she shouted again.

  He came walking in and snuggled up behind her. “You called, my dear?” he said, reaching his arms around her.

  “Don’t. We need to talk. Did you speak with your parents? The wedding is in two weeks, and I need to know if they are coming. Surely they’ve finalized their travel plans by now.”

  “I spoke with my father today, and he is in some very serious discussions with a firm in Australia. Very delicate negotiations, and he may have to leave at a moment’s notice to go there.”

  “Well, just have him say yes, and if something comes up, I’ll understand. What about your mother? Is she coming?”

  His shoulders slumped, his head drooped. “Red, I just don’t know what’s going on with them. Believe me . . . but I promise you I’ll get an answer for you by tomorrow.”

  “Promise?”

  “I promise.”

  She slung her arms around his neck and kissed him. “Why don’t we stay in tonight? Just you and me. What do you say?” she asked, sipping her drink.

  “You want to give up attending the new art-gallery opening in Delray?”

  “Pass.”

  “Free food.”

  “Double pass. I just want you, that’s enough for me.”

  “I love you, Red, always have. We’re soul mates.” He paused and looked up at her. “Don’t ever leave me.”

  “Never.” He was one of the strongest-willed people she had ever met, but he had certain ideas about family that she had never understood. For some reason, people leaving scared him.

  “Let’s stay in, then,” he said, wrapping his arms around her. “Maybe do some popcorn and watch some horror or mystery flick on TV?”

  She pouted. “How about Casablanca? B&B—Bogart and Bergman, doesn’t get any better than that.” Or Sleepless in Seattle? Or Love Affair? Or The American President? What do you say?”

  He pulled her close and whispered, “Hummm, a nice romance movie? How about a compromise, say—Rear Window?” He kissed her neck.

  “Jimmy Stewart and Grace Kelly. Romance-mystery, the best! I would love that,” she said, kissing his ear. “Unless . . .” She smiled and kissed him again, then turned out the lights and led him upstairs.

  Mickey softly squeezed her hand. He felt guilty. How could he tell her without hurting her? Damn him. He had to tell her soon. Tomorrow. I’ll tell her tomorrow.

  Chapter Three

  Eian Macgregor awoke to a bright Sunday morning with the Florida sunshine pouring through his bedroom window. He looked at the clock: eleven thirty. He had been up late the night before, and now his hangover was telling him he was getting too old for this kind of foolishness.

  His long legs draped over the end of the bed, but he was used to it at this point in his life. When he had traveled while playing professional baseball, he would always ask for a longer bed. After a while he just stopped asking because he always got the same response: “Sorry, sir, none available.” The coffeemaker in the kitchen signaled with a loud beep that his morning java was ready for him. He picked up his shorts and T-shirt off the floor, dressed, and lumbered into the bathroom to brush his teeth.

  He stopped to grab a handful of the pink terry-cloth robe that hung on the back of the bathroom door. He pressed it to his face and breathed in deep, smelling the all-too-familiar sweet lilac perfume of his late wife Alice. She had been his second wife, and they had been inseparable for the last fifteen years before she finally lost her six-year battle with Alzheimer’s.

  He cursed the dreaded zombielike disease, which robbed people not only of their identities but also of their dignity. The last two years had been a living hell: she did not know him, or anyone else, except for those rare moments of recognition when he had carefully brushed and fixed her hair, applied her makeup, and dressed her just the way she had always done herself. It took him over an hour. When he was finished, she lifted her eyes to his, and sometimes he saw a flash of a thank-you coupled with the thought of I love you drifting across the wasteland of her face before she returned to the darkness of her own world. God, how he missed her, and he realized that no amount of alcohol would ever bring her back.

  She had been in and out of three different health facilities when he needed help and could no longer manage her, but he always brought her home with him. It was where she wanted to be, home with her Eian.

  He cried and grieved for her when she was gone. It was almost a relief that she died; her suffering was over. Now he was doing what everyone told him he should be doing, getting on with living, after having had six years carved from his life. But he didn’t mind; he had loved her until the very end. He loved her now, and he missed her more than anyone could imagine.

  Eian heard the front door chime alert and female voices in the background. He grabbed his coffee mug and went to investigate who would barge in on him without knocking or ringing the doorbell. He had a sinking suspicion as to her identity.

  “Hello? Hello? Who is it?” he shouted.

  “Oh, Eian, you’re still here?” came the puzzled reply.

  He recognized the high-pitched tone. It was the last voice he wanted to hear on a lazy Sunday morning. It was the voice of his stepdaughter, Laura.

  “Yes, of course I’m still here. Where else would I be?”

  She came into the living room, accompanied by an older woman dressed in a business suit.

  Laura was always dressed in the latest fashion from her regular shopping trips to the New York boutiques. Shoes—expensive. Handbag—expensive. Watch—expensive. Her makeup and hairdo were impeccable. She worked with her father at his advertising agency, and part-time as a Realtor. She spared no expense on her clothes or on entertainment for friends or clients. She just never seemed to have time for her mother. Her damn loss now, thought Eian.

  The woman accompanying her reached out her hand and, after introducing herself, said, “You’re Eian Macgregor, the baseball player, aren’t you? I listen to your radio broadcasts all the time.”

  “Yes, I’m Eian,” he said, instinctively turning on the Macgregor charm. He smiled and held her hand as he looked her in the eye.

  “I’ve seen your commercials on television, but I must say you are much more handsome in person.”

  “Thank you.”

  “But I’ve heard you do quite a lot of other things, at least that’s what I read in the newspaper last week.”

  “I have my own sports marketing firm and work for the radio show b
roadcasting the Major League Baseball home games. I also work as an agent for other players, do personal appearances, autograph signings, and a lot of charity work.”

  “How do you manage the time to do all of that?” asked the woman, obviously interested.

  The woman started to say something else but was interrupted by Laura. “I see you’re still womanizing,” she interjected. “I’m sorry, but I’m going to have to cut short this lovefest. We have things to do.”

  His first marriage, after college, had lasted only two years. Her youthful carousing when he was on the baseball circuit, coupled with his constant traveling, was too much for his new young bride. She left him while he was on the road in Kansas City, leaving only a note and a stack of unpaid bills. It was a messy divorce, and he swore he would never again lose someone he loved.

  Eight years went by, and then he met Alice Cummings at an autograph session. They were married a year later. Her daughter Laura was from her first marriage. Eian had met Alice’s ex-husband at a funeral years ago and had not been impressed.

  “Careful of him. He’s a real weasel,” he remembered Alice telling him later. Laura was more like her father than her kindhearted mother. All she was ever interested in was money.

  Eian turned his full attention on his stepdaughter. “I never cheated on your mother, never. I dated a lot before we got married, but I never cheated on her. And at the end . . . I was with her day and night, which is more than I can say for the likes of you.”

  “Believe what you want if it makes you feel better, but I know different. Besides, I had other things to do than to hear Mother tell me the same story over and over again,” said Laura. “And now I don’t have time for this; we have work to do.”

  “What do you mean, work? What’s going on here? What are you doing here?”

  “Well, if you’d open your mail every once in a while, you’d know what I am talking about. I’m selling the house, and you have to vacate.”

  “What do you mean? Selling? Vacate? I don’t understand.”