35. Fisher
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
fisher
As I put the Range Rover in park in the VIP lot at Lang Field, Libby pulls a pink quarter zip over her head.
I’m not sure which of the ten packages that came yesterday contained the Boston Revs gear or how she knew that the pink puffin design was an option, but Libby’s shopping talents are astounding.
“What do you think?” She pulls a ball cap on, flashing me a smile.
“You look beautiful, as always.”
Her mouth flattens into a thin line, and although I can’t see her eyes behind the sunglasses she’s slid into place, I feel the eye roll. “Charming. However, I meant are people going to recognize me?”
Between the high collar on the quarter zip, the baseball cap pulled low, and the sunglasses, I hardly recognize her.
I unbuckle my belt and peck her lips. “I think you’re safe.”
“Perfect.” She beams. “So do you know where we’re going or do you need to ask?”
A chuckle escapes me at the idea of having to ask for directions. “I’ve been here hundreds of times, Libby.”
“Really?”
I nod. I’ve held tight to most things from my old life, but I did give up the Revs season tickets. I miss watching the game from ten rows behind home plate, but spending money on tickets I couldn’t use became depressing. “Used to come to games all the time.”
“With Hunter?”
My chest tightens painfully, but I swallow back the emotion.
“Sometimes. Not often.” My brother only came out to Boston once a year or so and always alone.
I really only ever saw him and his family when I made the trek to the island.
“Marissa didn’t like bringing Sutton off the island.
And Hunter was busy. You know how it is. Always one more thing to do at home.”
She nods. “So Sutton never came to a game.” It’s not a question. She’s sure of her statement.
I shake my head and clear my throat. “Actually, I was going to bring her to a game the weekend of the accident.”
Libby slips her glasses off her face, her expression serious. “What happened?”
I run my tongue over my teeth, giving myself a minute to rein in the hurt.
Otherwise I don’t think I can get the words out.
“Hunter and Marissa planned a weekend in Boston. Sutton was going to stay with me for the first time. I had stayed with her on the island a few times so they could get away, but she’d never stayed in the city with me.
” I flex my hand into a fist on the console between us, already more emotional than I’d like.
Gently, Libby wraps her tiny hand around mine. The pressure allows me to release a modicum of the viselike tension in my muscles.
“Wednesday night, Hunter called and said Marissa was panicking about the idea of Sutton in the city. She’s always been a wanderer—no fear, no concern about strangers.
So they were nervous.” I spent most of the conversation telling Hunter the city would be good for Sutton, that we’d work on stranger danger, and maybe she’d acquire at least a little sense of caution.
“He asked me to come to his house instead. So I did. Rather than waiting until morning, they left that night. It was late by the time they got to Portland. And some guy jacked up on heroin was driving the wrong way down 295. Head-on crash. They both died on impact.”
A quiet gasp escapes her. “I’m so sorry.”
I shake my head and swallow back the tears. “It was three years ago. But their wish to keep Sutton safe and on the island still feels big.” So big it’s crushing sometimes.
“Do you ever think that she might like to see more places?”
Of course I do. When I was her age, I felt trapped on that tiny rock when there was an entire world to experience.
But before my father retired and Cank stepped up, my dad was the harbor master, and that was a year-round job.
Leaving for more than a quick boat trip to the mainland just wasn’t possible.
But I don’t say any of that.
“She might love to see a game,” Libby adds.
I nod, ready to end the conversation. I don’t want worries about whether I’m doing the right thing with Sutton to cast a shadow over the day.
“Come on.” I push my door open, and by the time I meet her on her side of the car, she’s got the glasses in place, and she’s back to incognito.
Not one person recognizes her as we make our way inside.
“Oh my gosh, how fun is this?” Libby’s head snaps from one direction to the other as we walk through the kids’ area along the harbor.
Just inside the gate, there’s a baseball-themed play structure and climbing tower.
Kids are lined up for the forty-yard dash and waiting somewhat impatiently for their turn in the batting cage.
There’s a bar set up along the water where parents can sit and enjoy a drink while they watch their kids play.
“It’s such a cute setup. Kids must love coming here.”
I nod, imagining Sutton running around, shrieking and laughing. Our girl would love this. Guilt and worry swirl in my gut, but I swallow down the racing thoughts and lead her to the escalator.
“This way. We’re going up to the boxes.”
“Fisher Jones,” a familiar British voice says as we step off. “You didn’t tell me you were coming today. What kind of dodgy shit are you pulling?”
I come to a halt at the familiar lilt and turn.
My college roommate and forever friend Cal Murphy strides my way with his cousin Zara Price at his side.
“You live in New York.” I shake my head, but I can’t help but smile at the asshole.
“I texted a few weeks ago. Remember? Told you I was coming up this weekend.” Brow arched, he assesses Libby.
My mood sours instantly. Cal is the biggest player I know. The last thing I want is for him to hit on my girl. “Although I see why you might not want me mucking up your plans.”
“Don’t be a shit, Cal.” Zara shakes her head and steps closer. “Fisher.”
“Zara.” I release Libby’s hand as Zara leans in to peck one cheek, then the other. “This is Libby.”
Zara reaches out, though she stiffens with her arm half extended, her eyes going wide. “Bloody hell, Elizabeth Sweet. The entire world is looking for you, and you’re hiding out in Boston with our Fisher?”
Anxiety courses through me, but beside me, Libby smiles, as if she doesn’t mind that her cover has been blown.
With a massive grin, Zara embraces her.
When she pulls back, Libby turns to me. “How do you know my favorite fixer?”
Her favorite fixer? I guess I should have realized that the Hollywood star and the woman who fixes image crises all over the country would know each other.
“Oh, love. Fisher is my computer man. When I need a photo to disappear, he’s who I ring.
” She flings a hand at her cousin. “Cal and Fisher went to Harvard together”—Harvard sounds more like Havad in her British accent—“so Fisher’s been my secret weapon since long before the rest of the world was after him. ”
A small wrinkle appears between Libby’s brows just above her glasses.
“It’s a hacking thing,” I assure her quietly.
“However, Elizabeth, you have wounded me.” Cal rocks back on his heels and clutches his chest. “How many times have I begged for a date over the years? And now you’ve passed me over for this bugger?”
I glare at my friend. Pretty sure I hate him right now. He’s with a new woman every week. Without thought, I drape an arm over Libby’s shoulders, tucking her into my side.
Cal’s eyes dance with delight as he locks in on me. “Who would have thought you would fall?”
Zara whacks him on the arm. “Don’t be a wanker. You’re the one we all say that about, not Fisher.”
Libby and Zara fall into a conversation about the upcoming Emmys.
Libby is still waffling about whether to go, though as they talk, her demeanor is casual, her mood light.
The two women are clearly friendly. For weeks, I’ve thought about how incompatible our lives are, only to realize we have mutual friends.
The realization is as odd as it is nice.
This moment feels like the evidence I need to believe we can continue to be an us past Labor Day.
“Mum!” Zara’s daughter calls from down the long corridor. She’s a couple of years older than Sutton. “Dad says hurry up. We don’t want to miss the first pitch.”
Asher Price, Zara’s husband, played for the Revs until he retired two years ago. But they still go to all the games.
Zara raises one finger to Clara. “Elizabeth, if you’re in Boston, we must do lunch. And Fisher, be better about keeping in touch. We really must get Sutton and Clara together.” She yanks on her cousin’s arm. “Come on, Cal.”
Cal peers back over his shoulder. “And the both of you should reply to my texts more often.”
“Don’t respond to his text,” I mutter. I’m half tempted to block his number on her phone right now.
Libby giggles. “Oh, I know all about Cal and his playboy ways. I’ve been telling Zara forever that he is primed and ready to fall hard for someone. I can’t wait to watch it happen.”
Fuck, I love the idea that we have mutual friends. Even if I never see mine anymore.
“This way.” I pull her down the hallway to the owner’s box.
“Mr. Jones, Mr. Langfield is expecting you.” A large man dressed in black tips his chin to me and pushes open the navy blue door behind him.
The second we’re inside, Beckett Langfield stands and crosses his arms over his chest. “Well, if it isn’t the bane of my existence.”
Next to him, Cortney Miller, the Revs’ general manager, chuckles. “Aren’t we dramatic today?”
Beckett, clad in his pin-striped double zero Revs jersey, whirls on his best friend. “Not even close, Man Bun. And I haven’t forgiven you for hiring this guy. People are still talking about the purple picture he sent to the entire organization.”
The deeper his scowl, the bigger my smile. Damn, I love riling him up.
“You really did look like a giant grape.” Cortney smirks.
I’ve done work for Cortney’s family over the years, and after one of Cortney’s interns clicked a link he shouldn’t have, he called me to run checks on the Langfield Corp system.