One Night in Boston (11 page)

7:00 p.m.

Jack stuck one finger inside his collar and yanked. Bowties always strangled him.

“Here you go.” The cabbie eased around Hotel Victoria’s circular drive and lined up behind two limousines.

“Thanks.” He handed the man a generous tip and stepped out into pouring rain.
What a night for the ball
. Hunched over, trying to avoid the rain and getting soaked anyway, Jack hurried to the front door. Light poured out from the grand entranceway where women in long gowns tiptoed next to their tuxedoed dates. He could hear the band warming up.

“Good evening, Mr. Major.” Three women, all bottle blondes, overly made up, and trying to pretend they weren’t pushing forty, gushed over Jack as he approached the ticket table in the lobby. One of them he recognized from a charity event last winter.

“Hi, Nina. Drake with you tonight?”

The woman sitting in the middle, revealing a good two inches of overly tanned cleavage, flicked her hand toward the ballroom. “Somewhere inside. Probably talking horse racing.” Her eyes moved over his shoulder and back. “Where’s Paige?”

“Working late.” He resisted the urge to run a hand through his hair. “Have a ticket for me?”

“Of course.” She pulled out a piece of parchment and tore it in half. The bottom went to Jack; the top she tossed into a glittery ball on the table beside her. “For door prizes later,” she explained, lacing her fingers underneath her chin. Her eyes moved across his torso and dropped to his crotch.

Jack felt his stomach turn and wondered if the bar beer had caught up with him already. “Thanks.” He stuck the ticket stub into his pocket and entered the ballroom.

The Hotel Victoria, one of Boston’s newest establishments, catered to the city’s elite, and its owners had spared no expense with its design and construction. Three stories high, the place featured two large ballrooms on its main floor and six other, smaller rooms upstairs. Besides hosting corporate parties and charity events, it also boasted an impressive selection of wedding packages. The basic one started somewhere around seventy-five dollars a plate, and the “Ultimate” topped out at a cool two hundred and fifty.
The only reason I know that,
Jack thought as he looked around,
is because Paige brought home their brochure a few months ago. Thank God the wait for the room she wanted was over a year
. With her biological clock ticking loudly, she’d made it clear that she had no intention of waiting that long to tie the knot.

Still, as Jack stepped through the huge double doors, he had to admit that the place was impressive, with its gilt crown molding and crystal chandeliers. Velvet curtains broke the enormous space into subtle, intimate corners, and he spied an atrium in the back filled with fruit trees and flowers. Tables draped in cream and burgundy framed the hardwood dance floor, and though a few couples sat scattered at them, most of the early guests had drifted in the direction of the two bars across the room. Jack joined them.

“Double bourbon on the rocks, please.”

“Eight-fifty.” The bartender slid the glass across the bar, filled with too much ice for Jack’s taste.

“Jack Major?”

He turned at the familiar voice and was relieved to see Sherry and Tom Clinton at a table nearby. Good friends from his early days at Bullieston, Tom had started there as an ad executive but moved on to open his own company.
And Sherry’s a pro bono attorney, if I remember right
.

“Good to see you.” Tom raised his glass. “What’s it been, a year?”

“Has it?” Jack eased his way into a chair. “Too long, then.” He glanced at Sherry’s empty glass. “Need another? What are you drinking tonight? Wine?”

“Just water.” She blushed and patted something under the table, which Jack realized a second later was her very pregnant belly.

“Oh, geez, I had no idea. I’m sorry.” He felt like an idiot. “Well, congratulations.”

“Thanks.” Tom grinned. “Another seven weeks and I’ll be a father.”

The enormity of that thought, and the notion that he and Paige would probably follow suit in a year or so, caused a spasm of unexpected nerves inside Jack’s chest. Fatherhood was part of the master plan, yes. But was he ready for it?

“I hear congratulations are in order for you too,” Sherry said. “When’s the big day?”

Christ, I really should have checked with Paige so I could answer that question without sounding like a fool
. “October fifteenth.”

Jack scanned the crowd as the band started up, counting the people he knew and making a list of the ones he really wanted to talk to. He caught sight of his father over in the far corner, with ten or twelve paunchy, pasty-faced men jammed at a table meant for eight. Doug Major held a drink in one hand and an unlit cigar in the other as he chattered with his country club buddies. Typical. Jack’s shoulders hunched up around his ears. He supposed he should go over and say hello. Maybe mention something about the memorial Taz wanted to plan. He knew Paige would want him to make the rounds anyway, do a little networking and show his face around the room.

Instead, he fiddled with a piece of bread, finished his bourbon and polished off two glasses of water. He listened to Tom and Sherry debate baby names. He let the hand on his watch count off twenty minutes. Finally, Jack gave in to guilt and his sense of duty. Taking the long way around the ballroom, he worked his way over to his father’s table, stopping every few feet to shake hands, laugh about the weather, or accept congratulations on his upcoming wedding. By the time he reached his father’s corner of the room, he was exhausted and out of sorts.

“Jack!” Doug Major scraped back his chair and stood, an even six feet and two hundred and twenty-five pounds—all of it muscle, thanks to daily tennis matches and personal training sessions. His skin glowed with the even orange of the tanning bed and his teeth shone an artificial white. His hair plugs, barely noticeable in the dim light, filled in the wide white vee of forehead Jack had looked at for as long as he could remember.

Guess everyone deals with loss in different ways
. To look at his father, you would think the guy had won the lottery five years ago, rather than lost his wife to cancer.
If you asked him about Mom, he’d probably come up with some glib comment about surviving the storm and coming out stronger on the other side. Then he’d go home and climb so far into a bottle that he wouldn’t find the other side of morning until sometime next week
.

Jack tried to resist the urge to judge his father. He knew that his own method of coping, of cultivating the perfect life with the perfect wife, just represented a different avenue of escape. Taz traveled to third world countries. Will partied. Aaron got married and took on the biggest mortgage and SUV he could find.
The busier we all stay, and the more we avoid the house and Dad and each other, the easier it is to forget what we lost
. Pathetic, Jack knew, but the only way the Major men knew how to deal with conflict was to stay the hell away from it.

Jack’s father raised his highball and took his son by the shoulder. His eyes, already bloodshot, matched his rosy cheeks.

“Good to see you, son. Paige coming?”

“Later on.” He made his way around the table, shaking hands with each of his father’s drinking buddies. “Frank, good to see you. Alex, Ellis.”

“When’s the wedding?” Max Friar, president of one of the largest banks in the city, lit a cigar and puffed.

“October.” Doug answered before Jack had a chance to. “And not soon enough, am I right, son?”

Jack smiled. “That’s certainly what my fiancée would say.”

Frank Sullivan, owner of several real estate agencies in and around the city, guffawed. “Not you, though, huh? Getting cold feet? Changing your mind? Not looking forward to the old ball and chain dragging you down?”

A waitress stopped by, and Jack ordered another drink along with the rest of the table. Wouldn’t be strong enough, not even close, but it might take the edge off of the next ten minutes.

“That’s not what I meant,” he said as he forced a laugh. “Sure, I can’t wait to get married. Paige is a wonderful woman. I’m lucky to have her. In fact—”

“My son always did know how to pick them,” his father interrupted. “That woman is smart as a whip, let me tell you. And good-looking—” He whistled in appreciation. “She’ll give me some damn attractive grandchildren.”

“That’s the truth,” Max agreed, his double chins bobbing. “What’d you have now, Doug? Couple-a granddaughters?”

“Three,” Doug said. “Pretty little things, but I’m waitin’ on a boy, tell you that much.”

“Got to carry on the Major name, right?” That came from Alex Cifonelli, a computer mogul who’d retired last year at the age of forty-nine.

Jack’s father nodded, his head bouncing up and down as if attached to a rubber band. “We‘ve been here in Boston since the Tea Party. The city wouldn’t be the same without Majors.” He lit his cigar and Jack pushed back his chair. He hated the smell. Always had. And his father knew it.

“Did you hear?” Doug went on. “Aaron made partner at Anderson last month, and Jack—” he reached over and pounded his son on the back— “I don’t have to tell you how he and Bullieston have taken the entire East coast by storm.” He guffawed as he brandished the cigar, but the laugh turned into a mucous rattle halfway through. Doug whipped out a handkerchief and spat a thick wad into it.

“Just wish Will would get rid of that pharmaceutical sales job,” he continued. “He can do better than that. Taz, well, I can’t even keep track of what cause he’s bleeding for this time.” He blew a smoke ring across the table.

Jack had had about enough. “Dad, it’s been nice,” he lied. “I’ve got a lot of people to talk to tonight. I’ll call you next week.”

His father barely looked up, waving a hand in what might have been goodbye or a dismissal. Jack was never quite sure.

He glanced at the line behind the bar, which was shorter now that most of the guests had occupied the tables or ventured onto the dance floor. A sea of black filled most of the room, the color du jour for any party, he supposed, though here and there he caught sight of a brave soul who’d donned red or a muted pastel. As one giant mass the guests moved around the room. They shuffled to the music, following pre-determined lines, as the men exchanged handshakes and the women air-kissed each other’s cheeks.

Jack looked at his watch. Almost eight. Another hour until Paige appeared, and then he could only guess how long she’d want to stay. Sometimes the Deveau Ball went well into the morning hours. He stifled a yawn and visited the men’s room. Washing his hands, he glanced into the mirror. Though he hated wearing a tuxedo, he had to admit that this one, a tailor-made gift from Paige last Christmas, looked terrific. He straightened his tie and smoothed his curls, hoping they’d behave for the rest of the evening. Though Paige had argued just last week that he needed a haircut, he’d balked. He hated the way close-cropped hair made him look twice his age and half his weight. It was the one thing they fought about on a regular basis.

Back in the ballroom, Jack cracked his knuckles and made his way to the bar. A soda this time, he decided, or he’d be under the table by midnight.

One woman stumbled into him as she left the dance floor. “Oops! Sorry.” Her words slurred, and she hung onto his arm and swayed for a moment. He gritted his teeth and helped her find her balance, closing his nostrils against cloying perfume. “There you go.” Behind him, someone laughed.

Jack turned to find the closest exit. He needed to take a walk outside and get some air. But something across the room, someone near the entrance, stopped him. A curve of neck, a shimmer of skin that looked familiar.
Was that…?
He shook his head.
Ever since you saw Stef tonight, you’ve been thinking about her. Stop it.

He meant to keep moving toward the door. He meant to shove it open with an elbow and take a lap or so around the hotel. He didn’t even care about the rain; he just needed an out. But his head turned as if it didn’t even belong to him. Jack froze.
Can’t be. I’m seeing things
. He took another look, just to be sure, at the woman who hesitated in the doorway. Wearing some kind of amazing green dress. Glancing around like she wasn’t sure where she was.

Then the floor tilted beneath Jack’s feet and his breath caught in his throat. He tightened the grip on his glass, blinked, and looked a third time. He must be hallucinating. Ten years had passed since she’d said goodbye and broken his heart. He’d moved on. So had she. There was no way on earth, no reason why, Maggie Doyle should be standing in the ballroom of the Hotel Victoria.

Except she was.

*

His last errand finished, Dillon leaped over puddles on his way to the truck. Rain soaked him to the skin.
All I want is a long, hot shower
. He hauled himself behind the wheel and flipped on his lights.
A shower and a shave.

Traffic had slowed, with most of the commuters home to the suburbs by now, he imagined. He watched the lightning carve jagged patterns as he wound his way across the city. Twenty minutes later, he turned into Patriot’s Way Drive, which splintered off in three directions after the first hundred yards. He took the first fork on the left, the one leading to the new section of townhouses, and a quarter-mile later, pulled into his covered parking spot.