Slap Shot, page 7
“It was really nice—all of us being together to watch you play on Mary Philomena’s birthday. We couldn’t have done it if you hadn’t had this big room built on to the house.”
It was a media room—good for holiday gatherings, watching hockey games, and holding never-ending funerals.
“You bet, Ma. Glad you enjoy it.”
“Father Martin said he received a very generous donation from you for Mary Philomena’s memorial Mass.”
She paused. This was where he was supposed to tell her how generous, which he didn’t intend to do. That was something he’d learned from living with Southerners. They didn’t talk about money, especially blood money. According to them, it was tacky.
“Anyway,” Maggie went on, “I’m sure he’ll thank you in person when we see you next weekend.”
And here it was—time to make the big confession for which there could be no penance big enough.
“Here’s the thing, Ma. I’m not going to be able to make it next week.”
Long, long silent pause. He’d been there. She intended to stay quiet until he reversed what he’d just said and apologized. It usually worked, but this time he was going to wait her out.
Finally, she caved. “Bryant.” Pulling out the big guns, she was, putting the ant on his name.
“Still here.”
“Did I hear you right?”
“If you heard me say that I can’t come to St. Sebastian next weekend, you did.”
“Well, see, if it was only that you weren’t coming to St. Sebastian, that wouldn’t be so much of a problem. But it’s your wife’s Mass you aren’t coming for. That is quite the problem. The Mass cards have gone out. Father is planning on it. The notification has already been sent to the bulletin. It can’t be changed.”
“I don’t want you to change it. I want you to go ahead without me.”
She let out a horrified gasp, like he had suggested that they all renounce hockey and the Roman Catholic Church and take up badminton and naked, fire-dancing paganism.
“Bry, I don’t know what to say.”
That might be true, but it wouldn’t last long.
“What on earth am supposed to tell Beverly and Alan? To explain why their son-in-law isn’t coming to their daughter’s memorial Mass?”
“You don’t have to say anything to them. I’ll call them myself.”
“Am I allowed to know why you have chosen not to come?” It wasn’t an accident that she wouldn’t use the word can’t.
“Emile Giroux has gotten engaged. Pickens Davenport is giving an engagement party at his house that night.”
“Is that all? I know it’s important to accept invitations from the owner, Bry, but he would understand this. Besides, you aren’t some rookie trying to gain favor.” She said all this like the problem—her problem—was solved. “Talk to him. Explain. Though I don’t understand why, I know you don’t talk about Mary Philomena to anyone down there, but you can say it’s a Mass for a deceased family member. It won’t be a problem.”
“But, see, Ma. Here’s the thing. I don’t want to. I want to go to the party.”
“You’d rather go to a party than Mary Philomena’s memorial Mass?” She had that tone that said, “You’d better disagree.”
He usually backed down at this point because it was easier, but not this time.
“Yes, Ma, I would. We had a funeral Mass for Philie, and we’ve had memorial Masses on her birthday and death anniversary every year since she died, complete with big multi-family meals afterward with every hot dish known to man. As far as I can tell, there are no plans to stop that. Emile is my best friend and he’s only going to have one engagement party.”
All that sounded perfectly reasonable, so reasonable that Bryant thought his mother had to accept it, if grudgingly. And she might have if he had only left out the word best when applied to friend and Emile.
“Emile Giroux is your best friend? Really? What about Patrick Kelly? Remember him? The one who had a crib next to yours in the church nursery—the one you played pond hockey with, and doubled-dated with to the prom? The one who stood up for you at your wedding—your brother-in-law? Where does this newfound friendship with Emile Giroux leave him?”
He wasn’t allowed to move on from grief, and apparently now he couldn’t have friends who didn’t remember him from the cradle. Why, why, why had he used the word best? But why fool himself? It wouldn’t have mattered.
“The same place he’s always been—in St. Sebastian, where I am not. He’s still my oldest friend and also my best friend. I text and talk with him all the time. Nothing is going to change that.”
“So, now Patrick is your best friend. And Emile is your best friend. I might not have gone to Boston College, but I know what a superlative is and there can be only one.”
“I didn’t go to Boston College long—not long enough to learn anything.” Except that I didn’t want to marry Philie. He took a deep breath. “But, Ma, I’m not in St. Sebastian anymore with my old friends. They’re still friends, but I need other friends.”
“Fancier friends with more money, who don’t work at the paper mill? Do I need to remind you that it was money earned at that paper mill that got you where you are?”
What the hell? “Ma, that’s not fair. I don’t think I’m better than anybody. I appreciate everything that you guys have ever done for me. I have tried to show it every way I can. If there’s anything that you or any of the family needs, I’m happy to get it. You know that.”
“This is not about money and things, Bryant. You can’t buy your way out of mourning for your wife and baby.”
He took a deep breath and counted to five. “I do mourn Philie, Ma.”
“So this newfound bonding, with these newfound friends—I guess that means you’ve told them all about Philie, the baby, and what happened.”
Only his mother would define five-year-old relationships as new. Partly because he’d wanted them to tell him it was okay, and partly because he hadn’t wanted them to give him away, he’d told his family that he’d never told anyone in Nashville about his marriage and the rest of it.
They had not told him it was okay, but when they’d met his teammates at the road games they’d attended, they hadn’t given it away either.
“No, I have not told. Just because I like to keep some things private doesn’t mean they aren’t real friends. If I could change what happened, I would. But I can’t. Missing the party for Emile and Amy won’t change anything. And I’m going.”
“I don’t even know what to say.”
“I’m sure you’ll come up with something and plenty of it.”
“I can’t believe my own son would talk to me like this.”
“Look, Ma. I love you. I don’t want to argue with you. I could have told you some bullshit lie about how this party was mandatory for the team. Hell, I could have told you a special mandatory practice had been called. But I didn’t. I told you the truth.”
“Is this what you’ve come to? Cursing when you’re talking to your mother? And I almost wish you’d told me a lie. Then I wouldn’t have to know you don’t care.”
“Good Lord, Maggie!” Bryant’s father’s voice boomed in the background. “Give me that phone. Son?”
“Hi, Dad.”
“Hell of a game! Are you on your way back to Nashville?”
“Not yet. Soon.”
“I just caught the tail end of that conversation with your mother. I take it you aren’t coming for the memorial Mass?”
“I can’t. There’s an engagement party for Emile Giroux at the Davenports’ house. It just came up.”
“Well, that’s a shame, but you have to do what you have to do. Team relations and all.”
He was just going to go with that. “I’m sorry Ma is upset.”
“Ah. You know how your mother is. She’ll get over it. It’s not just the Mass. She’s disappointed you can’t come for Thanksgiving. She wanted to see you.” He coughed. “So do I.”
And he wanted to see them—really. He just didn’t want to see them at St. Joseph’s doing it all over again—the whole funeral mass reenactment, complete with black clothes, crying, and grave visit.
“I have an idea,” Bryant said. “We play Winnipeg the Friday and Saturday after Thanksgiving. I know Ma is set on cooking the turkey at home, but why don’t I fly you down to Nashville the next day? Or even Saturday if Friday can’t work out.”
“I don’t know, Bry. Nashville. The South.”
“I’ve tried to get you to come a dozen times, and you always act like the South is a foreign country.” They always traveled to see him when he played within driving distance of St. Sebastian, but they’d never been to a Sound home game.
“Well . . . ”
“If you’ll just find out who all wants to come, I’ll make all the arrangements—tickets, your own spectator ice suite at the arena, hotel rooms downtown, and limo service. Ask all the Kellys, too. Ask David’s girlfriend and Michelle’s boyfriend.”
“Sounds pretty spendy.”
“Not as spendy as keeping a growing boy in skates and sticks.”
His dad chuckled. “I don’t know about that . . . ”
“Come on, Dad. You know you want to.”
“There are worse things than seeing my boy beat the Jets on home ice.” He hesitated. “Bry, would you be willing to go to Mass with your mother that Sunday morning?”
Why not? A small thing to do for peace.
“Yeah, yeah, sure. The Cathedral isn’t far from the arena. We can light a candle for Philie.”
“Okay then. I’ll give your brothers and sisters a jingle—the Kellys, too—and get back to you with a number.”
“And, Dad?”
“Yeah?”
“Please remind them, I don’t talk about Philie here.”
“You bet.”
After hanging up with his father, Bryant looked at his phone for a long time. He wanted to talk to someone who would make him feel better.
Without running it though his mind or analyzing why he did it, he scrolled through his contacts and called a number he probably wouldn’t have even had if they had not planned a birthday party for Emile together two years ago. For all he knew, she might have a different number now.
“Hello?” Gabriella sounded perplexed. “Bryant?” She still had his number in her phone. That made him smile. He felt a little buzz of excitement in the pit of his gut. That was odd. Usually that only happened when sex was imminent.
Now it was his turn to talk, and what was he supposed to say? Girl, you make my gut buzzy. And you definitely make me feel better. Maybe he should have thought about what to say before he called.
“Yes. Bryant. Some call me Swifty.”
“Some do,” Gabriella agreed. “I don’t usually.”
“Why is that? You call Jake Champagne Sparks and Nickolai Glaz. I’ve heard you.”
“I don’t know. Do you want me to call you Swifty? Is that why you’re calling? To tell me to call you by your nickname?”
“No. Bryant is fine. That’s my name. Bryant is a saint’s name, for Alexander Briant.”
She laughed a little. “You don’t say.”
“He was fair of face and pure of heart, martyred at twenty-five. When he was tortured, he felt no pain.” Why was he telling her this? The answer came loud and true in his head: he wanted to talk to someone, just talk for the sake of it about something other than hockey, memorial Masses, or how soon he and the puck bunny of the moment were going to have sex.
And she seemed to be going with it. “You know a lot about saints.”
“No. Just mine. My mother drilled it into me. I used to think I would die at twenty-five, but my mother told me not to worry. Because I was no saint nor pure of heart.”
“But you are fair of face,” she said.
“Ah. That was nice of you to say.” And nice to hear.
“I didn’t say it. Hot Nashville said it. I’m just repeating what I read.”
But she had read it and she sounded flirty and happy.
“Michael was a saint, too. And an angel. He fought Satan,” Gabriella said.
“Just like me. I fought Satan.”
“I saw.” Her voice went grim.
Time to change the subject. “Are you going to the party for Emile and Amy?”
“Of course,” she said. “I’m the sister. Remember?”
“Would you like me to pick you up?” Holy hell! Where had that come from?
“What kind of sense would that make? You’d have to drive from Nashville to Beauford and back to Nashville again for the party.”
“Doesn’t have to make sense. A lot of times I don’t. I wouldn’t mind.”
“No. I don’t date hockey players.”
What? She’d said no. No woman told him no. Anyway, he hadn’t been asking her for a date.
“It wouldn’t be a date. Just a pickup.”
She laughed out loud. “And you think that’s better? Good night, Bryant. Go be fair of face, pure of heart, and hold off on fighting Satan.” She was still laughing when she hung up.
She hadn’t even given him a chance to say goodbye!
Still. He sat smiling into the darkness.
Chapter Seven
“Wow. You could bring a dead man back to life.”
That came from the valet when Gabriella stepped out of her SUV in front of the Davenport mansion—Greenwood Hall, it was called, though not because it was built of green wood, but because that was Mary Lou Davenport’s maiden name and the house had been built by her ancestor in the 1800s.
“Sorry!” the valet said immediately and turned bright red. He couldn’t have been more than twenty. “Ma’am, I am so sorry. I’m not supposed to talk to the hockey wives let alone say things like that. But it just fell out of my mouth. Mr. Davenport will fire me for sure.”
“Only if he knows about it.” She pressed her valet key into his hand. “And he won’t unless you tell him.”
“You won’t tell him?”
She laughed. “No. And anyway, I’m not a hockey wife. I’m a hockey sister.”
“Wow!” he said again.
She hid a smile as she mounted the steps and looked up at the massive double front doors. Her dress had had the desired effect—at least in the driveway. Inside might be a different matter. She had learned a long time ago that with her height, there was no way to fade into the woodwork. People were going to look at her, so she tried to make the best of it. Most of these hockey wives and girlfriends were all about some glitz, sequins, and glitter. To keep from becoming one of the tribe, she either had to out glitz them or go for an entirely different look. Since there was no way to out glitz them without diving into a tubful of glitter glue, she’d gone for what she hoped would be different, but not bland—a simple amethyst chiffon cocktail dress with a bit of silver embroidery on the bodice. The dress was short—mid-thigh—so she’d splurged on silk stockings that had just a bit of shimmer to complement her silver sling-backs and the embroidery on the dress. She’d probably be the only woman at the party who wasn’t barelegged, but she didn’t care. A casual skirt with sandals was one thing, but she had always thought a woman wearing a nice dress with bare legs looked like she’d left the house before she’d finished dressing.
She studied the doors. They were really something—huge, heavy, and ornately carved. They hadn’t been built for mere function, to keep the babies in and the Yankees out. They were grand doors for a grand house to set the mood, meant to welcome or maybe intimidate. Gabriella wasn’t the type to be intimidated by a house, but if she had been, this one would have done the job.
Located five minutes from Sound Town proper, Pickens Davenport’s house, and a dozen or so other estates, was in a niche that was neither rural nor urban. And estate was the proper term. These houses were not McMansions sitting on too-small lots with waterfall pools. These houses—some new, some old—were the real deal, complete with stables, tennis courts, and who knew what else. Not Gabriella. Technically, she supposed plenty of the Sound players, including Emile, could have afforded a house like this. In fact, though she’d never seen it, she’d heard Thor Eastrom had one. She had a theory about why it was mostly the big money people from the pro teams and the country music industry who lived out here rather than the athletes and the entertainers. Most people who came from humble beginnings didn’t have the capacity to think this big. Sure, she liked her designer clothes and Emile had that car he’d paid three million dollars for, but that was small time compared to how these people lived.
Davenports had no such limitations on what they could imagine in terms of luxury. According to Sharon Orlov, who seemed to know a lot about Nashville despite being from Massachusetts, there was plenty of Greenwood and Davenport old money. Aside from traveling, Mary Lou Greenwood Davenport had only ever left Nashville to attend the College of Charleston, where she’d met Charleston native Pickens, whose blood was at least as blue as hers.
All this meant nothing to Gabriella, but she understood nice digs when she saw them. From where she stood on the multi-columned porch, she could see what was probably a guesthouse. Why someone with a house this size needed a guesthouse, she couldn’t fathom. Nor was there a world where she could fathom home bowling alleys, theaters, basketball courts, and fourteen bathrooms with solid gold fixtures.
Neither could Emile and Amy. Gabriella knew this about them because she’d gone with them to see the house they had their eyes on—a big, rambling Victorian in Sound Town that had been beautifully restored.
That had happened last week after Emile had returned from the Colorado/Arizona road trip. Things had been good, though Emile didn’t seem to realize that it had been a full week since they had spoken—the longest ever. Even while she’d still been in Quebec and he’d been with Paul and Johanna, they’d talked on the phone every few days.
But it was what it was and she’d get used to the new normal. Amy had sweetly pointed out which of the nine bedrooms in the new house would be hers when she wanted to stay over, and they’d gone wedding dress shopping together. Luckily, Amy had found a dress at White Lace and Promises in Beauford that met her fluffy specification and only needed minor alterations. Unluckily, Gabriella thought the dress Amy chose overwhelmed her, but Amy had insisted that it was important to Emile that she wear what he termed “a big, fluffy dress” so it was, therefore, important to her. Hélène-Louise was hard at work on the lace for Amy’s veil, but the question of getting bridesmaids dresses in such a short time had yet to be resolved.
