Been In Love Before: A Novel Page 8

  “Rose? Oh, she’s good. She listens, takes lots of notes, and comes in under budget. I just can’t wait to see it and finally get some working space again,” Eian said, looking around the cramped, shared cubicle, which was no larger than a clothes closet.

  “Is she good-looking?”

  “Rose? Gee, man, I don’t know. But, yeah, I guess she’s rather attractive . . . I just never thought of her in that way.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “She was married to my best friend, Tony Gilardo, for some twenty years. The four of us did everything together until he died and we drifted apart. Then Alice was diagnosed with . . .” He stopped for a minute before saying, “She’s a good friend, and the wife of my best friend.”

  “You mean the widow of your best friend. Either way, let me know what you think of how your office turned out. Gotta go. I’m starving. See ya tomorrow.”

  Eian pulled his phone from his pocket and dialed her number.

  Two rings. “Hello? Eian?” he heard her say in her pleasant way.

  “Yeah. Hi, Rose. I just finished my radio show. I can be there in twenty minutes, if it’s all done.”

  “Sure, but make it forty-five minutes. We’re just about done here. I want it to be perfect for you,” she said.

  “Okay, see you then.”

  “See ya.”

  He saw a head poke into his cubicle opening.

  “Hey, come on in.”

  The young twentysomething in red sneakers, with a thick head of unruly black hair and a scraggly beard, walked inside. “Have you fired up your computer yet today, Mr. Macgregor?” he asked.

  “No. Should I?”

  “Yeah, you should, I fixed it. Remember you said you were having a problem with your computer slowing up or freezing?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Well, while you were doing your show this morning, I came in and fixed it.”

  “Yeah?” Eian spun around in his chair and turned it on. The screen came up with his computer games there waiting for him, at his beck and call. He clicked the keyboard and—voilà! It worked. “Hey, man, this is great. Good job.” He kept typing.

  “Anytime, Mr. Macgregor,” the young man said with a grin and turned to leave.

  “Hey, Joey? Got a question for you.”

  “Fire away.”

  “You know, I’m kinda new to all this computer and search engine stuff.”

  “Yeah, most ancient guys your age are the same way. Why?”

  He let the reference to his age and computer savvy slide.

  “Well, what if I wanted to find somebody’s phone number? Say, an old acquaintance, you know, out of state, from times long ago?”

  Joey smiled his knowing smile and said, “Slide out from your chair and let me sit at your keyboard and see what I can do. What’s her name?”

  “Paula Pragna. At least that was her name when I knew her.” Just the mention of her name gave him goose bumps. They had been high school and college sweethearts . . . and a little bit more. But over the years they had lost contact. The last he had heard, she was living in Europe somewhere, with some prince or something.

  “Birth date?”

  “Fourth of July. That’s a date that’s kind of hard to forget.”

  “Paula Pragna, with a matching birth date, lives in Santa Monica, California. You want her phone number?”

  Eian was stunned and could only try to act nonchalant as he nodded in agreement.

  “Well, you want her number?”

  He swallowed and whispered, “Yeah, sure. I guess.”

  The young man printed out the information and handed it to him. “Anything else?

  “No, I’m good. Thanks, for everything.”

  The aging baseball star’s eyes were transfixed on her name and phone number. It was just that easy, amazing. Before he sat down at his desk, he stood and looked around the office, then dialed her number. It rang once, twice, and he was about to hang up, but it was too late . . . someone answered the phone.

  “Hello? Paula?”

  “Eian. Is that you?”

  “Yes.”

  “It’s been a long time,” her sweet voice said, as if it were yesterday they had last talked. She had been waiting years for him to call.

  Chapter Thirteen

  “Paula, it’s so good to hear your voice again. How long has it been?”

  “Time just flies, and faster and faster every year. Let’s just say it’s been years since we talked last.” She laughed. “How the hell are you? I watched your World Series performance. A no-hitter! That must have really helped your career. I was so impressed and happy for you. I wanted to call you to congratulate you, but . . . I didn’t want to stir up any hornet’s nest at home.” She talked in her usual rapid-fire manner.

  “I understand.”

  “What else have you been up to? I saw you retired from baseball but kind of lost touch.”

  “I have my own sports marketing company and do a sports radio show here in Florida. Sign lots of autographs, manage a couple players as an agent, attend sports openings, and throw out the first pitch around the country. It’s a good gig, boring sometimes, but pays well.”

  “I’m impressed. I read in the newspapers about your divorce a long time back. Sounded messy. Did you ever remarry?”

  “Yes. A few years after my divorce I met a really sweet gal and we were married.” He stopped for a moment before continuing. “Her name was Alice. She died recently from complications from Alzheimer’s.”

  “Eian, I am so sorry to hear that. My condolences.”

  “Thank you. You know, I almost called you years ago, after my first marriage ended, but . . .” He paused, not really knowing what to say. “What about you? Married?”

  “A few times,” she laughed. “But you know how that goes.” The phone went silent. “I would love to see you again, Eian. Unfortunately, I never get to the East Coast. Do you ever travel to California?”

  “Occasionally. Hey . . . as a matter of fact, I’m supposed to go to Los Angeles for a few days next week. The professional baseball team there is opening a new training facility and asked me to come there for a ceremonial baseball pitch for one of my old coaches. They’ll pay for everything—air, hotel, rental car, food—the works.”

  “No need for a hotel room or any of that stuff. You can stay with me, at the beach house. It would be like old times. Remember?”

  He nearly blushed, thinking back to those days. Why not? “Sure, why not? It’s set for Tuesday.”

  “Let me give you my cell-phone number. I’m rarely at home. You’re lucky you caught me.”

  They exchanged phone numbers, and as he was about to say good-bye, she said, “I’m so glad you called me. I was just thinking about you the other day. I’ve missed you, I’ve missed us. Call me soon. Bye.”

  He hung up the phone and felt elated. His life was beginning to turn around. He glanced at his watch and grabbed his jacket. He didn’t want to be late for his meeting with Rose. Rose? A feeling deep in his stomach began to gnaw at him, and he didn’t understand what it was. Time to go, but for some reason he could not shake the feeling inside him.

  Chapter Fourteen

  After Eian left the office, he made the quick drive on I-95 until he saw the Boca Raton turnoff onto Glades Road. It was a perfect South Florida kind of day, sunny and bright, a chamber-of-commerce kind of day. Hardly any traffic. Maybe I should just go to the beach and take some time off. He pulled into his parking lot and parked his big SUV in the spot marked:

  RESERVED

  CEO

  MACGREGOR SPORTS MARKETING

  He smiled that boyish Scottish grin. He liked that; it had a nice ring to it.

  Rose met him at the elevator, excited as a schoolgirl. “Close your eyes,” she said, then grabbed his hand and led him into the elevator. The elevator still felt sluggish and noisy, but some things never change. However, he also noticed something new: the sweet scent of honeysuckle perfume, and the warmth of her hand.
The honeysuckle took him back to his youth, growing up and playing baseball in open fields ringed with neighbors’ backyard fences covered with honeysuckle. Good memories.

  “Keep your eyes closed,” she told him. “And no peeking.”

  The elevator came to an abrupt stop, and the doors slowly opened. She led him down the familiar hallway, then stopped and grabbed him by the shoulders. “Okay, now you can open your eyes.”

  Before him stood new glass-and-chrome double doors, which had replaced the old wooden one with its rusty doorknob. The new front doors were prominently stenciled with MACGREGOR SPORTS MARKETING—WORLD HEADQUARTERS. He turned to her in amazement, speechless.

  She smiled a coy smile. “I threw in the World Headquarters line just to add some cachet. Like it?”

  “I love it!” He was so impressed and excited, he hugged her tight and kissed her for good luck. “Rose, this is so awesome.”

  She swallowed hard, then recovered by saying, “You ain’t seen nothing yet. Come on inside and see your new offices.”

  His longtime assistant stood to greet him. “Looks great, doesn’t it, boss?”

  “You bet. Oh my God, this is awesome.”

  Posters of him during his playing years adorned the walls, along with pictures of him shaking hands with many of the players he currently managed. The old dingy coffee room was now a modern meeting room with a large cherry conference table and six black leather executive chairs. Colorful baseball pictures and posters hung from every wall. He nodded his approval.

  “Now to your office.” She took him by the hand and led him to the corner office and motioned for him to open the tall, imposing walnut door. Once inside he was speechless. His desk was in the corner. Rose had replaced the dark, dingy commercial-grade flooring with a soft and subtly patterned white wool Berber carpet. In a glass case in the corner was his baseball glove and one of the baseballs he had used to throw his monumental no-hitter against the Yankees. The final strikeout to win the game. Other memorabilia lined the walls, as well as pictures of him with some of baseball’s greatest players. Rose had made it really feel like home. She knew him well.

  “Rose, I can’t believe it. Look at this place. You’re great. And under budget, wow!”

  “Well . . . almost under budget, but close. Only one thing . . . I used your old storage closet back there for filing cabinets to hold all the records, files, and receipts. I had a lot of surplus baseball equipment left over. New stuff that you had in boxes, like bats, gloves, jerseys, and baseballs—stuff like that. There’s no more room. Maybe you can sell it online or donate some of it?”

  “Sure.”

  She spun around his new office and smiled. “You like it?”

  “Rose, I absolutely love it,” he told her as he sat in his new high-back executive chair. “Tell you what . . . let me take you out to dinner to celebrate.”

  “Sure,” she said with a broad grin. “How about tomorrow night?”

  “Okay . . . sure. No, wait, I can’t do tomorrow. Ryan’s daughter, Mary Kate, bought dance lessons for me and my brothers, and the first one is scheduled for tomorrow night.”

  “Dance lessons?”

  “Yeah. She’s getting married in two weeks. So she said she wants to dance with her father and uncles and bought us some dance lessons.”

  “Oh,” she exclaimed. “Hey, I got a good idea,” she chirped. “You can’t just take a dance lesson and not practice. Why don’t we do dinner at Germaine’s on Yamato? You remember the place. They have a band and serve dinner and have a huge dance floor. We can practice all your dance moves and celebrate your new office at the same time.”

  “Germaine’s? Is that the place the four of us used to go to years ago? The one on Dixie Highway, in Boca?”

  “The one and only. What do you say?”

  He took in a deep breath and said, “Lots of memories there. With Alice. Tony.”

  She looked at him and put her hand on his shoulder, whispering, “Come on, it’ll be fun.”

  “Sure, why not? You want me to pick you up, or . . . ?”

  “I have a client to meet with earlier, so why don’t I just meet you there? Say, seven? Okay?”

  “Sounds great. I thought maybe we could—”

  He was interrupted by a voice over an intercom saying, “Excuse me, boss, but you have a call on line one. Mike Humphreys, calling from Los Angeles.”

  “I must speak with him. I’m supposed to go to Los Angeles next week to meet with him. I think I need to talk to . . .”

  “Go ahead and take your call. I’ll see you Wednesday.” She kissed him good-bye, once lightly on the cheek.

  “See you then,” he said as he picked up the phone and plunged into his office routine.

  In the privacy of the elevator, she looked down at her hands; they were shaking. Hang on, girl; remember this is Eian, dear old Eian. Your best friend. Tony’s best friend. Yeah. My best friend.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Ryan met with his brothers that night, and as they sat around the deck overlooking his pool and watched the waves crash on the shoreline, he told them what had happened that day in the office. They could see he was still shaken up from the experience.

  “I saw you on television. You looked pretty shaken up, bro,” Eian said quietly.

  “I was. I just knelt there, shaking, with a gun to my head. It’s true what they say. Your whole life flashes before your eyes. But thinking about it, everything I thought about was family. I saw Mum and Da laughing. I saw us growing up as kids, playing ball, I saw my wedding, and I saw Mary Katherine being born—everything.”

  “Damn!” said Eian. “That’s scary.”

  “Have they caught him yet?” Robert asked.

  “No, but all this really makes you think about the things in your life.” He paused and looked at both of them. “When you think you only have two minutes to live, it makes you decide what’s important.”

  Robert finally spoke. “Yeah, we may fuss and fight, but I don’t know what I’d do if I ever lost you or Eian. I just don’t know, but everybody has been telling us to get on with things. The fire at the house got me to thinking about how I live my life. At least for me, I think it may be a wake-up call, that it’s time to get on with living.”

  His brothers nodded in agreement.

  “I need a drink,” Robert said, rising quickly and heading for the liquor cabinet. “The good stuff.”

  Robert returned with three glasses of Scotch whiskey and toasted, “To the Macgregor brothers.”

  “Long live Scotland,” they all chimed in.

  They sat in silence, each lost in his own world, his own thoughts, and his own resolutions.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Tuesday afternoon Robert parked his old pickup truck in the parking lot and, after looking in the mirror, brushed his unruly hair away from his face once again. As he sat in the truck waiting, he glanced down at his transformation—his new shoes, trousers, belt, and shirt. He had to admit that Patti did have excellent taste—expensive, but good. After taking a deep breath, he made his way into the lobby of the Callahan Building for his first meeting with the social coordinator. The tall chrome-and-glass building behind a grassy knoll was in stark contrast to his squat one-story shop, which was set back in the corner of a shopping center.

  “Robert Macgregor to see Coleen Callahan,” he said to the security guard at the desk.

  Looking up, the genial uniformed guard smiled and pointed to a clipboard. “Driver’s license, please. Then just sign in.”

  Robert retrieved his license from his old brown leather wallet and handed it to him.

  “I’ll call her office and someone will be right down to escort you,” the guard said as he handed Robert an ID badge marked VISITOR. “Just have a seat, please,” he said, motioning him to the leather sofas in the waiting area.

  The waiting area had glass-and-chrome tables filled with newspapers and real estate magazines, but his mind still pondered the conversation he had had the night be
fore with his youngest brother. Ryan could have been killed, murdered right in his own office. My own brother. Life is short, too short. Ryan was shaken, retelling the story. But the real question is—could that crazy guy come back? Will he try to . . .

  “Mr. Macgregor?”

  “Yes,” he said, looking up at the young man standing before him in a dark suit and tie.

  “Good afternoon, sir. Will you please follow me?”

  “Sure.”

  “Ms. Callahan’s office is on the top floor, the executive floor.” As they exited the elevator, they walked past employees in large meeting rooms seated around long wooden conference tables. Other employees were busy on the phones in cubicles and in larger offices with windows bringing in the bright Florida sunlight. The phones were ringing nonstop, making the whole scene seem almost surreal. The closer he got to her office, the darker and thicker the carpet felt beneath his feet. Soon they were standing before a woman with short dark-brown hair, wearing small round glasses and dressed in well-tailored clothes. This is not the Coleen I remember. Must be a different Coleen. There must be a million Coleens in the world, he thought to himself.

  His escort stopped and turned to him. “Here you go. Nice to meet you, Mr. Macgregor. This is Margaret, Ms. Callahan’s executive assistant, whom I believe you spoke with on the phone. You’re in good hands.”

  “Thank you, Tony,” she said as he departed, then smiled a kind and comfortable smile, the kind that comes from being good at one’s job and from one’s boss’s knowing it. “Good morning, Mr. Macgregor. So nice to meet you. I’m Margie. We talked on the phone yesterday.”

  “Ah yes, please call me Robert. My friends call me Mac.”

  “Sure, Mr. Macgregor . . . I mean Robert. I expect Ms. Callahan back soon. Why don’t you have a seat in her office and make yourself comfortable. Can I get you some coffee? Soda? Tea? Sparkling water?”

  “No, I’m fine, thank you,” he said as he glanced at his watch. He was nervous, and he did not know why.

  “She won’t be long. She’s never late. Please have a seat.”

  He glanced around her corner office and could not help but notice a large silver tennis trophy in the center of her dark cherry desk. He read the multiple civic citations on the wall, along with plaques honoring her and the company’s charitable programs. A dozen or so birthday cards littered her desk and credenza. He glanced at the inscription on one: