Chapter Twenty-Five
Fletcher
Doomsday has arrived on the outskirts of Millbrook Valley in the form of a baseball field.
I feel as if a horde of Mongol warriors and their children have invaded my quiet life in Millbrook Valley, Nebraska.
Well, my children are always a handful. But now, we must wrangle our own kids as well as those belonging to my friends.
Perhaps calling this week doomsday is an act of outrageous hyperbole.
But no, it really is not.
Now, however, we must deal with the impending cricket match. I haven't played the game in years, yet I allowed Dominic to coax me into participating. I hold Jennifer's hand while we approach the well-meaning contingent of Brits, Americans, and Scots who have traveled a long way to "help" me.
Emery MacTaggart, the ringleader of the American Wives Club, approaches us.
She offers us a dazzling smile and open arms---literally.
She hugs us, then kisses our cheeks. Emery moves with the confidence of someone who seems like she must regularly command boardrooms. But Dominic had confirmed Emery is not a tycoon.
She spends most days wrangling her twin children.
"Fletcher Murgatroyd! Finally!" Emery hugs me like we're old friends rather than complete strangers. "Your mother has told us so much about you!"
I awkwardly pat her back, shooting Jennifer a desperate glance. My wife---god, I love calling her that---simply grins and mouths "be nice" at me.
"Lovely to meet you," I say. "Though I'm still not entirely clear on why you've all flown halfway around the world to...help me?"
Emery waves my question away with a slight laugh. "Your mother was worried. She told me you've been working yourself half to death, barely taking time to enjoy your beautiful family."
That's not quite accurate. But I don't get the chance to set the record straight.
Emery clasps her hands under her chin and starts talking again. "When we heard about the wedding, well, we just had to come celebrate with you guys."
Behind her, I spot a small army of couples and children milling about on the baseball field that's usually reserved for high-school events.
I see Dominic with his wife Chelsea and their two children, looking thoroughly amused by my obvious discomfort.
I see a tall man with light-brown hair who must be one of the Scots.
He keeps his arm around a petite blonde woman while their children chase mine around the field.
"This is Rory MacTaggart, my husband," Emery explains, dragging her husband toward us. This is the man I'd pegged as a Scot earlier. "And that's Keely with the dark hair talking to your Amelia. Keely's American too and married to Evan MacTaggart, a Scottish billionaire."
My head spins while I attempt to keep track of everyone.
There are dozens more adults heading this way, but at least everyone's children have gone to the playground on the other side of the green.
I won't need to recall their names---not yet, anyway.
For the next fifteen minutes, my brain is tested to its limits while I attempt to recall the names of every wife and husband pairing.
Emery helpfully goes on stating their names and even their occupations.
"You've met my husband. But now let me introduce you to the other MacTaggarts---the ones who could come to this shindig, that is.
MacTaggarts are very, um...prolific. Over there are Iain and his wife Rae along with their grown daughter, Malina, who came back from Scotland to join the festivities.
She's American, like her mom. They brought their five-year-old son too. "
Bloody hell, all these names. I think I'm getting a migraine, though I've never had one before.
Emery won't give up, though. She drags me and Jennifer round and round the green, and I learn even more names, such as Damian and Heidi Petrescu. He's a fortune teller, allegedly, and insists on telling me my fortune. He's clearing having me on.
Damian sandwiches his palms around mine.
He's making me slightly uncomfortable.
"You will find great joy on the cricket pitch tomorrow," Damian intones, his American accent mutating into...Romanian, I assume. Then he closes his eyes. "But beware the man in the red cap."
I extract my hands from his grip, trying not to appear rude. "Brilliant, thank you. I'll keep an eye out for suspicious headwear."
Jennifer muffles a laugh, squeezing my arm in silent support.
Damian releases my hands and grins, winking at me. "Don't worry, Fletcher. The only one here who can see the future is Kirsty."
"Is that a woman or a man?"
"Kirsty MacTaggart is a woman. Sorry, I meant Kirsty Turner. She's a lovely Scots lass who has da-shealladh, the second sight."
Yes, of course she does. Are these people having me on? Or are they all off their rockers?
"Fascinating," I mutter, desperately scanning for an escape route.
Thankfully, Jennifer jumps in. "We should probably check on the children. Henry tends to climb things when unsupervised."
A sigh of relief rushes out of me.
Just as we start walking toward the makeshift cricket pitch, Dominic jogs up to me. "We're having a practice match, and I figured you'd want to be there for that. I assume you are, ah, a bit rusty."
I must've made a sour face because Dom slaps me on the shoulder. "Try to get into the spirit, Fletch, eh?"
Jennifer kisses my cheek. "Go. Have a good time with your friends. I should hunt the kids down before they decide to boost a car and drive themselves to the water park."
"That's a wise decision."
I watch as my wife vanishes into the crowd.
Dominic claps a hand down on my shoulder.
"I gather you're experiencing a small bout of nerves.
Forget that bollocks, Fletch. Thane Buchanan brought plenty of his whisky from his distillery in Scotland.
We have six cases of Thane Black Label, his signature whisky, as well as two cases of Sensual Secret and two of Dùndubhan Masterpiece. "
"Duh-what? I don't need booze, Dom."
"Au contraire." He chuckles. "No one needs whisky more than you do right now."
Dominic drags me over to the edge of the pitch, where I now see the cases of whisky he mentioned.
An American man trots up to us, holding out his hand to shake. "I'm Derek Hahn. My wife is Diana Hahn, though you might know her better as Diana Sangster. She married me a while back."
Yes, that explains everything.
Derek grips my shoulder hard enough to make me wince. "Let's get you in the mood for a brief match. That'll get your blood pumping."
Though I don't need any "pumping," I might as well give in. My friends believe this will help me somehow, but I have my doubts. I stare at Derek, then at the cases of whisky, then back at Derek. "A brief match? How brief are we talking?"
"Just a quick knock-about," Dominic says, already rolling up his sleeves. "It'll get the blood flowing and remind your muscles what cricket is like."
He hands me a whisky bottle, urging me to drink.
Oh, why not. I open the bottle of Sensual Secret and down two big gulps. I wind up coughing. But quickly, my hacking dissipates, and the warm, smoky liquid infiltrates my senses.
"Damn, that's smooth," I rasp, my throat still burning pleasantly. The smoky flavor coats my tongue and warms my chest. Not bad whisky at all.
"Told you," Dominic grins, taking the bottle and having a swig himself. "Thane knows his spirits. And speaking of spirits, yours needs lifting, mate."
He waves toward a blond man who rushes over to us. Dom introduces him. "This is Chance Dixon. His brothers Dane and Reese are here too."
Someone across the green waves emphatically, dashing toward me and Dom.
I squint across the green, trying to identify the rapidly approaching figure.
The whisky has already made my vision slightly fuzzy around the edges.
Drinking probably wasn't the wisest thing to do before attempting to play cricket for the first time in years.
Reese grins and extends his hand. "Fletcher! Heard you're a bit rusty on the pitch. Don't worry, we'll go easy on you."
"How reassuring." I shake his hand as the whisky burns pleasantly in my stomach, and I'm starting to understand why Dom thought alcohol might help. My nerves are definitely settling.
Dominic grins again. "Let's get you kitted out properly."
Within minutes, I'm ready to go in terms of my kit. As for playing the game...
Another man, who I don't recognize, dashes up to me. He slaps my arm---hard. "I don't believe we've met. I'm Declan Wilde."
"Of the famous Wilde family of London socialites?"
"Yes, that's me. My wife, Sabrina, is American." He glances at my bat, and I notice he holds one too. "Well, let's see who wins this match. Team Declan or Team Dominic?"
"Is that a cricket bat from the Jurassic period?" Reese asks, eyeing my equipment with undisguised humor.
I glance down at my old bat, "It's been in storage for years."
"It belongs in a museum," Declan says, not unkindly. "Here, try mine."
He hands me his gleaming new bat, the polished wood shining in the afternoon sun. The weight distribution is perfectly balanced like my old bat never was. I give it an experimental swing, muscle memory kicking in despite years away from the sport.
"That's more like it," Dominic nods approvingly. "Now you look like a proper cricketer."
I swallow another swig of whisky, and the liquid courage spreads through my limbs. "Right. Let's get on with it then."