Chapter Twenty-Six
Jennifer
Today's game might be just a casual match to help Fletcher get comfortable with cricket again, but it still makes me a touch uneasy.
I don't want my husband to get injured. I've heard---from the American Wives Club gals---that this game can be wild.
Emery told me not to worry. She's a lovely woman, and I trust what she said, though nothing will completely eradicate my worries.
Right now, I'm standing here alone near the grassy area.
But not for long.
Several women saunter up to me wearing warm smiles and curious expressions. I recognize a few faces from the whirlwind of introductions earlier, though I'm still struggling to keep everyone straight.
"Jennifer!" Emery calls out, her smile infectious as she approaches with three other women in tow. "We couldn't let you stand here alone, worrying about the boys and their testosterone-fueled antics."
A laugh snorts out of me despite my nerves. "Is it that obvious I'm worried?"
"Honey, you're wringing your hands like you're trying to start a fire," says a petite blonde with a distinct American accent. She extends her hand. "I'm Keely MacTaggart, by the way. Evan's wife."
"And I'm Rae MacTaggart," adds a woman with striking reddish-gold hair. "Iain's better half. Don't worry about the cricket match---these boys are all bark and no bite when it comes to actual violence."
The third woman, a brunette with kind eyes, steps forward. "I'm Chelsea Rigby, Dominic's wife. I know exactly how you're feeling. I was terrified the first time I watched him play after we got married."
Relief washes over me. "But you seemed so calm during introductions."
Chelsea laughs, tucking a strand of dark hair behind her ear. "Oh, I've had years to perfect my poker face. But inside? I'm still holding my breath every time he swings that bat."
"The key," Rae interjects with a wry smile, "is to focus on something else entirely. Like gossiping about our husbands' terrible cricket form."
"Ian's particularly dreadful," Chelsea continues. "Last time he played, he managed to hit the ball directly into his own wicket. I've never seen a Scotsman turn that shade of red."
I bite my lip. "Fletcher's been out of practice for years. I'm worried he'll hurt himself trying to impress everyone."
"Men," Keely says with a knowing nod. "They'd rather break a limb than admit they're rusty. But have you seen Declan play? Holy cow, that man is a machine on the pitch---and damn sexy too."
Sabrina Wilde, Declan's American Wife, trots up to us. "Sorry to tell you this, girls, but my honey's team is going to trounce Fletcher's guys."
Eye rolls accompany her statement.
I step in to save my man's reputation. "Fletcher is the Terminator. Nobody will knock him out of the match. He's one hot daddy."
Heidi Petrescu had hung back a bit, listening to our conversations, clearly amused by what the other wives had said. "Have you girls ever watched Damian deal cards for a reading? Now that's damn hot."
Emery links her arm around mine, guiding me toward a row of chairs set up under a large canopy. "Come sit with us. We've got comfy chairs and the best view of the pitch, not to mention emergency ice packs ready just in case."
I follow them, grateful for the company, and settle into a comfortable folding chair that has padding. Nice. Someone hands me a cold glass of lemonade, and I suddenly realize how thirsty I am.
"So," Rae begins, leaning toward me, "how are you adjusting to being Mrs. Murgatroyd? Four kids, brand-new husband, and now a houseful of international guests? I don't know how you do it. Two kids are enough for me."
I take a long sip of my lemonade, grateful for the cool liquid that soothes my suddenly dry throat. "It's been overwhelming at times, in the best possible way. The children have adjusted faster than I expected. I love them all so much."
"Children are resilient like that," Chelsea says with a knowing smile. "And from what I've heard, you were part of the family long before the wedding."
"True," I admit. "Though going from nanny to wife was quite the promotion."
My new friends laugh, and I realize I'm relaxing into their easy camaraderie. There's something comforting about being surrounded by women who understand exactly what it's like to be thrust into this whirlwind of British and Scottish traditions.
"Oh! They're starting!" Keely points toward the pitch where the men have formed into teams.
I lean forward in my chair, my heart rate picking up as I watch Fletcher position himself on the pitch. He seems confident holding that borrowed bat, despite the slight tension in his shoulders that suggests he's more nervous than he's letting on.
"That's my husband with the wickets," Emery says, pointing toward a tall man with dark hair who's setting up behind the stumps. "Rory's actually really good at this, though he'll never admit it. The MacTaggart men think shinty is the only true sport."
"Fletcher looks nervous," I admit, unable to tear my eyes away from my husband as he takes a few practice swings.
"They all do at first," Rae assures me, settling back in her chair with the ease of someone who's watched countless shinty matches. "But once they get into the rhythm of it, they become absolute children again. It's endearing, actually."
Chelsea nods in agreement. "Dominic transforms the minute his feet hit the pitch. One second he's my girls-school cricket coach husband, the next he's ten years old again, showing off for his friends."
I watch the men divide into teams, with Fletcher joining Dominic's side. They're laughing and jostling each other, passing around that whisky bottle like it's water. I hope he doesn't guzzle too much of Thane Buchanan's whisky.
"They've been drinking," I observe, trying to keep my voice neutral.
Keely snorts. "That's cricket tradition. Liquid courage. Don't worry---they're not really drunk. Yet."
Oh, great. I thought Fletcher would only take a swig to calm his nerves.
"First cricket match jitters," Emery tells me, patting my knee sympathetically. "We've all been there."
Another woman approaches our group, and Emery leaps out of her chair to sling an arm around the newcomer. "Ladies! Look who finally showed up. It's Ashley Murdoch. I don't think you've met Jennifer yet, have you?"
Ashley Murdoch turns out to be a warm, friendly American woman with an infectious smile. Her brown hair is pulled back in a practical ponytail, and she's wearing comfortable, casual clothing that immediately puts me at ease.
"Jennifer! I'm so sorry I'm late," Ashley says, giving me a quick hug like we're old friends. "I got caught up helping wrangle some of the younger kids. Your Henry is quite the little explorer, isn't he?"
My heart skips a beat. "What did he do now?"
"Nothing much," Ashley quickly reassures me with a laugh. "He just convinced three other children that they could build a fort out of cricket equipment. I found them constructing what they called a 'cricket castle' using stumps and protective pads."
"That sounds like Henry," I sigh. "He has a gift for turning any situation into an adventure."
"He'll fit right in with Lucas," Ashley declares. "He's a little adventurer too, just like his daddy."
Once we've all settled down again in our chairs, the practice game begins. Fletcher is on Dominic Rigby's team. Declan Wilde helms the opposing team.
First up is Errol Murdoch.
The Scot they call the fire starter whacks that ball like it's lit on fire and launches himself several feet into the air before smacking down onto the grass again. And then he whoops. Loudly.
Jeez, I pray he's the only one who plays cricket like that.
I'm not the only one who gasped as Errol's feet left the ground. The man seems to hang midair for an impossible moment before crashing back to earth with a triumphant shout. Fletcher stares at him with wide eyes, and I can practically read his thoughts: Am I supposed to do that?
"Is that...normal?" I ask weakly, clutching my lemonade like it might protect me from witnessing my husband's attempt to perform similar acrobatics.
Rae pats my arm reassuringly. "That's just Errol showing off. Most of these men haven't played properly in years. They're just here to have fun and relive their glory days."
"Errol always was the dramatic one," Chelsea adds with a fond eye roll. "Emery says he was crazy like that. All flash, no subtlety, but plenty of heart."
I watch as Fletcher takes his position at the crease, his posture shifting into something more confident, more familiar. Despite his years away from the game, there's muscle memory at work. He squares his shoulders, plants his feet just so, and raises the bat with a fluid motion.
"Look at that stance," Chelsea murmurs appreciatively beside me. "Your husband hasn't forgotten a thing."
The bowler---I think it's Chance Dixon---charges forward with surprising speed for a man his age. The ball flies from his hand in a blur of red. My heart leaps into my throat as it hurtles toward Fletcher.
Then---crack!---the sweet sound of bat meeting ball echoes across the field. Fletcher connects with a powerful swing that sends the ball soaring. The men whoop and holler as he takes off running.
"Go, Fletcher!" I shout, leaping out my chair to whistle and wave my arms in the air.
Yeah, I think my hubby will do just fine tomorrow.