Now You See Her - Michael Ledwidge [43]
“Oh, Tom,” I said woozily. “Oh, wow. I’m…”
“Hungry?” my fairy god counselor said, winking as he lifted his menu. “Then try the steak frites. Best in the city. Fuggedaboudit.”
Chapter 53
YOU HAD YOUR GOOD DAYS, Peter Fournier thought from his loge-level seat in the unbelievably opulent and immense new Yankee Stadium.
And then you had your perfect days.
“Here we go, Boston! Here we go!” he yelled as loud as he could as Beckett retook the mound.
From the famous façade, to the flat-screen TVs at every turn, to the low bowl-like design that made it seem like you were watching the game from the batting circle, even a die-hard Sawx fan like him couldn’t deny the billion-dollar ballpark was baseball’s version of paradise on earth. Even after they’d dug up Ortiz’s jersey.
But to be here in the eighth inning, the Sox up by three and Beckett still on the mound in a perfect game, was nothing short of miraculous.
Actually, the true topper was having his family there, his gorgeous wife, Vicki, and his two sons, nine-year-old twins, Michael and Scott, with him. As on all their trips to Disney and last year’s incredible European jaunt, Team Fournier was having an unforgettable blast.
The Fournier family had been invited to the game by Tom Reilly and Ed O’Connor, two New York FBI agents Peter had met at the FBI’s National Academy course years before. He’d actually had them and their families down for a Boston–New York spring training game in Fort Myers, and now it was payback.
The two big, bearlike Feds sat on either side of the Fourniers with their Yankee-fan families. There was a lot of razzing back and forth, but it was all in good clean fun.
Funny the places life took you, Peter thought, smiling as he shook his head at his twin sons. The second oldest in a destitute family of ten in a South Boston project, Peter had abhorred the idea of ever having a kid.
To be clear, he liked being married just fine. After all, there was nothing more satisfying or fun or clean than having a faithful, monogamous woman in his life. But by age fifty, and now on his third wife, Peter had had the epiphany that he’d actually acquired enough money to completely buffer himself from all the smelly, human unpleasantness of child rearing with a huge house, nannies, and prep schools.
It had worked out even better than planned. He’d never smelled a diaper, let alone changed one. And it was up to him which meaningless ball games or Christmas plays he would attend.
All he needed to concentrate on now was creating as many unforgettable, fun, heartwarming moments as were convenient so his family would give him his space. Like tonight’s doozy. Being Daddy was easy.
Beckett started off the eighth with a four-seamer on the black that Jeter just gaped at. Peter squeezed Vicki’s hand as their usually sedate son, Michael, jumped out of his seat with excitement, delivering high-fives.
Beckett went up 0 and 2 as Jeter swung and missed a breaking ball.
Peter looked down at Beckett with spine-tingling reverence. What a warrior. Baseball immortality was now within his grasp, and not even fifty thousand screaming New Yorkers could take it away.
One more. C’mon, Josh. One more, baby. Please, Peter prayed.
Beckett threw another off-speed pitch down and away, and Jeter swung and got under it. Youk went all out from first, but it bounced off the top of the Yankee dugout into the crowd.
Damn. Just missed, Peter thought. But at least it was just a foul ball.
A beautiful teenaged girl’s face filled the JumboTron in centerfield a moment later. She was holding the ball and hopping up and down like she’d just won the lottery.
There was something familiar about the girl, Peter thought, squinting at the six-story-tall high-def screen. Something in her smile reminded him of his dearly departed mom’s high school yearbook picture. Peter had loved that picture and his mom, despite her inability to keep her legs closed.
Peter watched, riveted, as they replayed the girl’s one-handed grab.
They even froze the frame.
Then his Heineken fell straight down out of his hand,