Been In Love Before: A Novel (14 page)

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Everyone was dressed so elegantly for the opera. The lobby was full of eager patrons waiting for the theater doors to open and for everyone to take their seats. Bob brought two glasses of champagne from the bar, and they toasted to a wonderful evening.

Don’t blow it, Bob.
“Cheers!” he said, raising his glass. “To a new beginning and to
Madama Butterfly
.”

Coleen laughed, and it made him feel good that he could coax a smile and laugh from her. When she wasn’t looking, Robert stuck his finger inside his new shirt collar to try to loosen it.
It didn’t feel this tight in the store,
he thought to himself.

“Thank you for the opera tickets.
Madama Butterfly
is one of my all-time favorites.”

“My pleasure.”

“And thank you for dinner. A great start to a wonderful evening.”

He had made reservations at L’Amour, the best French restaurant in Palm Beach. The food was superb, the wine excellent, the service outstanding. He was shocked when he received the bill for the meal, but looking at Coleen now, it had been worth every penny.

Sitting in the dark, watching the performers on stage, she was engrossed in the classic performance. When Cio-Cio-san sang about Pinkerton, her lost love, with the setting sun behind her, Coleen reached for the comfort of his hand. He held hers, afraid to move. Afraid that if he moved she would realize what she had done and remove her hand. He was engrossed in his own theater, feeling the warmth of her hand, smelling the scent of her perfume; he was lost, lost in love. But much to his surprise, he found that he enjoyed the opera, the singing, and the musical score. It was wonderful.

Later that night, after it was over, and he had walked Coleen to her front door, she turned to shake his hand, kissing him lightly on the cheek and saying, “Oh, Bob, before I forget, I don’t know if you’d be interested, but I have an extra ticket to a baseball game tomorrow night. Our company has season box-seat tickets. My daughter, Diane, usually goes with me, along with some other employees and customers, but unfortunately, she can’t make it this time. So I have an extra ticket if you’d like to go. There’ll be plenty to eat and drink. We have an air-conditioned suite to keep you cool. And, well . . . it’s just a very nice evening. I would hate to waste the ticket.”

He smiled. “I would love to go.”

“Great,” she said cheerfully. “Pick me up, say, at six o’clock. And bring your appetite. There is usually so much food there you won’t believe it.” She kissed him on the cheek and went inside. They stood motionless on either side of the door, neither wanting the evening to end.

Where is this going?

When he picked her up the next night, she commented, “Wow, I don’t see you for years on end, and now I see you two days in a row.”

“Yeah, hard to believe, isn’t it?” he said.

The baseball game was wonderful. The food was great, and he was able to spend four uninterrupted hours with her. She cheered for the home team, booed the umpires for all the bad calls, and was on her feet for every home run. She was a die-hard fan. The only bad part was that the Yankees won, again. They both had a great time. She wore a casual business outfit to the game but changed into a pair of form-fitting white jeans and sneakers once at home.

Afterward, they sat on the wicker sofa in front of the outdoor fireplace at the rear of her house, sipping from a glass of amaretto, now her favorite after-dinner drink. Thanks to Bob. They talked and talked, then laughed, both amazed that their conversation came so easily. She sat close to him, she said, because the weather had gotten cooler. He removed his jacket and placed it around her shoulders, wrapping his arm around her. He had to admit, he loved holding her close.

The flames crackled as he asked her, “Unless you’re getting tired of me, would you like to see
Fiddler on the Roof
at the Broward Center tomorrow? I just happen to have two extra—”

She placed her finger on his lips to silence him. “Shhh, I would love to go with you.”

Chapter Thirty

Saturday morning, as Eian turned off Atlantic Avenue and approached his street, he saw cars parked everywhere, including on the sidewalk, in front of fire hydrants, and double-parked on the street. He slowed to see what the commotion was and recognized Miguel waving at him. He had parked his bicycle in front of the vacant lot and stood guard, waiting for Eian to show up. “Over here!” he shouted, and waved his arms. “I saved this spot just for you, Mr. Macgregor, Coach.”

As he got out and closed the car door, Miguel approached him. “I wanted to make sure you had a parking spot. So I got here early.”

“What’s going on here? Who are all of these people?”

Miguel’s face showed some concern. “You said it was okay for me to bring some of my friends. Correct?”

“Yeah, sure,” he said, looking at the kids and parents beginning to crowd around him. “But . . .”

“Well, I told some friends, and they told some of their friends, and then they told . . .”

“Okay, okay, I get the picture.” He looked around at all the young kids, some barely as high as his kneecaps, looking at him, waiting to hear from the famed Eian Macgregor. The parents huddled off in the distance. He took a deep breath. “Pitchers to the mound with me. Catchers line up in a single file. Fielders take your places. Okay, let’s play some ball.”

There were six pitchers lined up for instructions, two of them left-handers. Miguel was at the front of the line. His eyes never left his new hero.

“All right, everybody, form a circle around me,” Eian said, kneeling down in the center. He waited until the voices became silent, and he knew he had their attention. “Listen up. Before we start, remember, baseball is a game. If you just want to make a lot of money, do something else. However, play baseball because you want to; no, play baseball because you love the game. I would do it for free. Anyone who disagrees with that should go rejoin your parents on the sidelines.” No one moved. “Okay, I’ll throw the first pitches after I work with the catchers for a bit. Each pitcher gets five pitches, then you hand off the ball to the next player in line behind you. Then go to the back of the line. Your goal today is accuracy and precision, not speed. And remember that the catchers are just as new to the game as you are. Anybody who hits a catcher with a ball is out for the rest of the day. Got it?”

“Got it!” they all yelled, putting their hands on top of his before grunting and yelling their salute. He worked with the catchers, then the outfielders, then the first and third basemen. Two young girls approached him to jeers and catcalls from the players, but one look from Eian silenced them.

“Coach,” the taller girl stammered, “we know how to play, and I was wondering if it’s okay . . . for us to . . .”

He looked her over, then the other one; she was athletic, and they each carried old, worn claw-mitt gloves.

“I need a shortstop. You want the job?”

“You bet,” she yelled, and ran off to join her new teammates. Turning to the other one, he told her, “We’ll try you in the outfield.” She smiled and yelled, then took her position in center field.

“Play ball,” he yelled, donning his old team’s baseball cap. He spent the next three hours working with them, directing them, coaching them. It felt good to have a baseball in his hand again, to hear fans shouting for players, encouraging them. No, it didn’t feel good—it felt great.

After four hours on the makeshift ball field, they were done for the day. Eian noticed that two big trucks had pulled up and men were beginning to unload picnic tables, food, and drink. Families appeared with containers of home-cooked meals and sodas, and soon began to play music from nearby speakers. The food smelled delicious.

“Okay,” he shouted, “everybody gather around.” He looked at his group of ball players, their faces filled with excitement and anticipation. A group of young boys and girls crowded around him.

He looked at each one of the thirty or so kids before saying, “You did real well today.” They beamed. “You played hard, you listened, and you followed directions. Now you need to take that to the next level and keep practicing.”

Miguel, always the leader, stepped forward. “Are we good enough to form a neighborhood team?”

Eian looked around at the determination on the young players’ faces. “Yes, I think you are.”

“Can you coach us?” Miguel pressed.

He paused, not knowing what to say. It had been a long time. “We’ll see.”

Groans followed.

“We’ll see how you do next week. All right? Next Saturday. Same time, same place.”

They yelled and screamed in excitement, running off to join their friends and family. It was then he noticed some of the fathers standing behind them, watching.

A short, stocky man with a thick black-and-gray mustache approached him. “I am Cesar, Miguel’s father. I apologize for him. Sometimes he is very headstrong and pushy, but he means well. No disrespect.” He pointed to the crowd of women feeding the crowd of boys. “His mother spoils him.”

“No problem. He’s a good kid and a good ballplayer.”

The man smiled. “Would you like to join us for some lunch?” he asked, pointing to the picnic tables now overflowing with food. “Nothing fancy, but it’s all homemade Cuban food. Hot and spicy, but the best Cuban food you’ll ever taste outside of Havana. And the desserts . . . whoa, they are outstanding!”

He glanced at his watch. He would be late for his meeting.
Hell with it.
“I would be honored to join you. Thank you for the invitation.”

The fathers were soon peppering him with nonstop questions and, of course, the inevitable suggestions about how he could better use their own kids in the game. It was then he realized how much he missed the game, the spirit, the true love of the game of baseball.

Chapter Thirty-One

“Mother? Mother, are you there?” Diane shouted. Coleen’s daughter’s voice echoed in the hallway of the big colonial house.
This house is way too big for her now,
she thought, walking inside.

“Mom?” She heard some movement upstairs and headed in that direction and found her mother in the bedroom, singing. A very rare occurrence, to be sure.

“If I were a rich man, ya ba da ba da ba da ba do, if I were . . .”

“Mother?”

Startled, Coleen jumped at the intrusion. “Diane, when did you get here?”

“Just a few minutes ago. I called, but there was no answer.”

“Oh.” Her mother returned to the mirror to finish putting on her makeup, still humming softly and dancing around the room. Her hair was coiffed, and she was dressed in a black cocktail dress and her favorite gray pearl earrings.

Diane wanted to find out what was going on in her mother’s life. Coleen was happier than she had seen her in years. She was singing when she thought there was no one around to listen, and dancing to some unheard tune. Diane was determined to find the cause of her newfound happiness. Their business partner, Perry, had said to leave it be, but she had to know.

“And where, might I ask, are you off to, my dear?” Diane asked as she sat on the bed to survey the situation before her.

“Well, if you must know, I’m going to the Broward Center to see
Fiddler on the Roof
this evening.”

“By yourself?” she pushed, edging closer.

“No,” she said, pausing before saying, “with a friend.”

“Who?”

“An old friend.”

“And who might that be?”

“An old friend. You don’t know him.”

“Did you say
him
? Mother, are you going out on a date?” Diane asked in a surprised, teasing tone. She was happy for her; it had been almost five years since her father had passed away, five years since Coleen had enjoyed the company of a man. It was time for her to enjoy herself with something other than work.

Suddenly Coleen felt a twinge of guilt overcome her. Her first date since . . . Hal died. Her shoulders slumped, and the smile left her face. “Yes. But it’s not really a date,” she said nervously. “And besides, I think . . . this . . . is the last time I plan on seeing him.”

Diane saw the look on her mother’s face; the smile was fading.
That’s it—open mouth, insert foot.
“Mom, I shouldn’t have said what I did. Go out with him. Have a good time. Enjoy it. You deserve some happiness.” She paused for a moment before adding, “Where do you know him from?”

“I know him from school, growing up. A big, gawky kid. We ran into each other recently after he lost his wife and . . . he said he had extra tickets to see
Madama Butterfly
and offered them to me.”

“Wait. I thought you said you were going to see
Fiddler on the Roof
? Which is it?”

“Tonight is
Fiddler
. We saw
Madama Butterfly
a few days ago.”

“So,” Diane said, leaning back on the bed, propped up by her elbows, “this is your second date?”

“Third. We went to the ball game together.”

“Oh, is that why my ticket mysteriously disappeared?”

Silence.

“Tell me more. Is he cute?”

“I told you, as a kid he was tall and awkward. He’s a very nice man. An old and dear friend. And it’s strictly platonic, mind you.”

“Is that why you’re all dressed up?”

“No, this is what I always wear to the theater. Speaking of which, why are you all dressed up on a Saturday night?”

“Oh . . . Perry and I are going to dinner to go over some of the numbers for our meeting next week. We can never seem to find the time at the office, so he suggested dinner. Strictly business.”

“I see . . . pretty fancy duds for a business meeting, if I do say so myself.”

“Wait a minute, Mother, let’s not change the subject. Tell me about this guy, this old and dear friend. Is he so old you have to push him around in a wheelchair?”

“No.” Coleen smiled to herself. “He’s quite strong and . . .”

The phone rang on the bedside table. Diane was closer and reached over to answer it. It was the front gate guard.

“Evening, ma’am, I have a Mr. Macgregor here to see you.”

“Send him right in, Ralph.” She stood as her mother made one final check in the mirror, smoothing the creases from her dress and checking her makeup for the third time.

Diane said nonchalantly, “I would like to meet this old and dear friend of yours.”
The one who makes my mother sing and dance . . . and smile.

Bob drove up her long driveway and was impressed by the sheer elegance of the lush green lawn as he approached the old colonial house with its tall white columns. He knocked on the door and was greeted by a much younger version of Coleen.

“Hello.”

“Hi, I’m Mac. You must be Diane?” he said, turning to her with a boyish grin.

“Why yes.”

“You look just like your mother. And that’s a compliment.” His gaze lifted, searching to somewhere behind her; his eyes glimmered when he saw Coleen standing there, smiling, waiting.

When he walked inside, he seemed at first almost shy, then laughed; then Diane turned to look at her mother. Coleen’s smile had returned, and Diane knew immediately . . . her mother was in love.

“All ready?” he asked.

“Yes,” she told him, then, turning to her daughter, said, “Good night, dear. Have a good meeting.” And with that they were out the door.

“You look very nice tonight,” Robert said as they walked outside.

He opened the car door for her and extended his hand to help her easily slide onto the seat. Her hand lingered in his as she smiled at him.

“Thank you, Bob.”

He caught a faint whiff of the sweet scent of her lilac perfume.

Before starting the car, he handed her a small blue box with a pink ribbon on it. “Happy birthday,” he said. “Sorry, it’s a belated gift. It’s not much.”

“Bob, I can’t take this,” she said, handing it back to him. “Really, I can’t.”

“Too late. The store I bought it at doesn’t take returns.” He had that determined look on his face.

When she opened the box, she found inside a gold puffed-heart pendant with a small ruby in the center, hanging on a thin gold chain.

“Bobby, it’s beautiful!” she said as she hung it about her neck, softly touching it. Coleen kissed him on the cheek, affectionately feeling the golden heart and the warmth of the ruby. She glanced to her side at Robert; he was always full of surprises. “Thank you, Bob, I love it.”

“I’m glad you like it,” he said with an oversize grin.

Coleen began to hum a tune from the show, but now she was truly filled with mixed emotions. She was torn. The memories of her late husband began to surround her.
Is it too soon for all of this? It’s been five years, but am I ready? Most people would say it is well past time, but . . .

“
Fiddler on the Roof.
It should be a wonderful production,” she finally remarked, filling the silence. She admired his profile. His straight jaw, his wonderful nose, and, of course, his smile.
Damn! What the hell am I going to do now?
she thought.

She looked out the car window at the houses passing by. It was beginning to rain. She knew she would have to tell him. In her counseling programs, it was easy for her to tell other people to move on with their lives, but she clung to the past. But tonight she would tell him . . . she did not want to see him again. It was for the best. She looked at him as he turned to her and smiled. Damn him and his Robert Redford smile.

“Everything okay?” he asked.

She managed a weak smile. “Yes, everything’s fine. Just tired, I guess.”

He reached over and squeezed her hand, sending shock waves through her body. She wished he wouldn’t do that, especially now . . . tonight of all nights. She should never have led him on. It was wrong. Tonight . . . she would . . .

“Maybe it’s the rain, that’s all,” he said, trying to comfort her. But not even he could do or say anything to help her. Not tonight. By the time they reached the Broward Center for the Performing Arts, the rain had stopped. He parked the car, and they walked the rest of the way to the theater in silence.

The musical was wonderful. She hummed many of the songs under her breath. He could see her smiling in the darkened concert hall, clasping her hands in the excitement of the moment. He was really beginning to enjoy attending the theater and opera with her, much more than he had ever thought he would.

He had seen the uplifting movie about a father marrying off his daughters, and each one breaking with more and more of the family traditions. When the show was over and the actors took their final bows, he knew she was right; it was a great musical.

Robert loved the show, and he had loved seeing it with her. He could hear her whisper the now-familiar refrains. Such wonderful music. He loved the music. He loved her intoxicating scent. He loved touching her. He just loved being with her. He loved . . .

“Did you enjoy the musical?” she asked as they walked back to the car.

“Yes, I really did,” he said enthusiastically. “I know you have seen it many times before, and I’ve seen the movie, but this is the first time I ever saw it live onstage. It was great.”

Now’s the time,
she thought, gulping.
It’s for the best,
she thought. “Robert, we need to talk.”

The words sounded ominous. “Sure,” he said. He knew that those were never good words to hear, and he detected a certain tone in her voice, one he had not heard before. It gave him chills.

She slowed her walking pace. “We are both widowed. You know we each have families. We each have businesses to run. And . . .”

Now he knew.
Think fast, you stubborn Scotsman.
He blurted out, “Yes, just like Tevye in the musical tonight. He and his wife, Golde, had been married for years.”

She smiled at him but was determined to end it. “Yes, but Bob—”

“I loved it when they sang ‘Sunrise, Sunset,’” he said as he began to waltz around her.

She smiled at his enthusiasm.

He sang the first word, “Sunrise . . . ,” and looked at her, holding out his hand.

She smiled again, finishing the first line, singing, “. . . sunset.” They laughed together as he repeated it again and again.

He danced faster, as if doing an Irish jig, and said, “And I loved it when he sang ‘If I Were a Rich Man.’ It was great; remember the words? ‘If I were a . . .’!” They both laughed and continued their walk to the car. He reached for her hand, but she moved away.

Robert swallowed hard and then said, “But my favorite part is when they know their children were all getting married, and they begin to reflect on their own marriage, their life together, and he tells his wife, ‘Golde, it’s a new world out there. Do you love me?’ And his wife responds with something like ‘Well, I think—’”

Coleen kept walking but said, “No, no, she said, ‘Do I what?’”

“Do you love me?” Robert repeated.

Coleen said the response from the show in a singsong fashion while mimicking the musical. “For twenty-five years I’ve cooked your meals, I—’”

“Yes . . . but do you love me?” He stopped walking and looked at her, the smile gone from his face. “But do you love me?”

She turned to look at him, standing there waiting for her response. He was serious. He was asking her a question.

“Do you love me?” he repeated slowly.

She walked to him, slowly. “Robert . . . Mac, that’s not fair . . . to ask me such a question . . .”

He took her hand and slowly placed it over his heart. “All I’ve ever wanted is someone to love. Coleen, life has rhythms, just like the sun and the moon. The stars in the sky. The oceans rolling in and rolling out. Rhythms, rhythms of life. My heart is beating for you. Can you feel it . . . can you feel the rhythm of my heart? Can you?”

She could feel his heart beating, pounding, beating for her.
Life is not fair.
She quivered, standing before him, not knowing what to say.

“Coleen, can you feel my heart?” he asked her again. “Can you feel it beating? It’s beating for you.” His eyes told her the story she wanted to hear.

“Yes,” she whispered slowly, “I can feel it.”

He took her hand in his and asked, “Do you love me?”

Don’t look up; your eyes will betray you. He will know. Don’t. Whatever you do, don’t look him in the eyes.

“Coleen? Look at me . . . please. I need you to look at me.” He repeated, “Like Tevye asked in the musical . . . do you love me?”

She raised her eyes to look at him, and the words came tumbling out, “Yes, Bobby . . . I love you. I’ve always loved you. Oh my God, I love you.”

He took her in his arms and kissed her, a long-awaited kiss. Tomorrow would have to wait another day. Today was their day. They listened to their hearts as he kissed her once more and held her and hugged her. Life was good again for Robert James Macgregor. Life was whole again.