“Stop it, Stevie,” she said. “I got lucky. Now go write.”
He did, but he wasn’t happy. Susan Carol had once called him the most competitive person she had ever met, and he knew she wasn’t far wrong. He wasn’t a good enough athlete to shine that way, so journalism was the way he competed. And his girlfriend had just whipped him.
On the media shuttle back to the hotel, Kelleher asked Susan Carol how it had gone with Buckner.
“You’ll have to read about it in the Post,” Mearns said with a smile. “She wrote a great story.”
“I don’t doubt it,” Kelleher said. “Did your genius editors find some extra space?”
“Uh-huh,” Mearns answered. “They put her on the front. They actually put a Redskins feature inside.”
“Whoa,” Kelleher said, turning again to Susan Carol. “You must have had great stuff to knock a Redskins story off the front.”
“I think it was a story about the backup quarterback,” Susan Carol said, stealing a glance at Stevie, who was pretending to look out the window. “It wasn’t that big a deal.”
“A hangnail is a big deal in Washington when it comes to the Redskins, you know that,” Kelleher said. “So what’d he say?”
“He said it was really nice of the Red Sox to invite him back, but he still didn’t feel completely comfortable in Boston,” she said. “It still bothers him when people ask him what it felt like to cost the Red Sox the ’86 series. And get this, he said he kind of hopes the Nationals win, because Boston has been winning so much recently. The Nationals are the underdogs now. Washington could use a championship, and Boston ’s had two World Series, three Super Bowls, and an NBA title the last few years.”
“You’ll make a few headlines in Boston with that story,” Kelleher said.
Stevie stared out the window. Susan Carol had written a story that everyone would be talking about the next day. He had written a story that his parents would read.
Maybe.
The World Series hadn’t started a whole lot better for him than it had for the Nationals.
Stevie and Susan Carol had agreed to meet at 9:30 for a prebreakfast before they met with the Doyles, but Stevie woke up early and went downstairs by himself. He needed a little time alone to pout. He sat at a window table, staring at the harbor and wolfing down some French toast and coffee.
He was halfway through Bob Ryan’s column in the Globe when Susan Carol walked in, looking around the room until she found him.
“Couldn’t wait for me?” she said, glancing at his empty plate.
“Sorry,” he said. “I woke up early and I was hungry.”
She slid into the chair across from him, took the pot of coffee that was on the table, and poured a cup for herself. He kept reading.
“Are you mad at me or something?” she said after several seconds of silence.
“Me? Angry? Why would I be angry?”
She raised an eyebrow. “Steven Richman Thomas, other than your parents-maybe-is there anyone who knows you better than I do?” she said.
He didn’t answer for a moment, trying to think of something clever to say.
“No,” he said finally.
“Okay then, let me take a stab at what’s going on here,” she said, taking a long sip of her coffee. A waitress came up and Susan Carol ordered fried eggs, orange juice, bacon, and toast.
“Is that part of your swimmer’s diet?” he asked.
“Don’t change the subject,” she said. “I can eat pretty much what I want as long as I’m working out.”
“And you’re always working out,” he said.
She flashed him the smile he had seen charm so many people. “True. Now, as I was saying…”
He put up a hand. “Do we really have to start the day with you psychoanalyzing me?”
“Yes, we do,” she said. “Because that’s the only way to clear the air.”
He sighed, knowing that nothing could deter her.
“Okay, okay, go ahead,” he said.
She leaned forward. “You’re upset because you feel like you blew it with Norbert Doyle after the seventh game of the playoff series,” she said.
He started to respond but she put up a hand. “Wait till I finish,” she said. “So, you beat yourself up about that, and then he makes the series roster. You get an interview with him and his kids, but the boy asks that I come along, so that upsets you even though it’s no big deal and you know it. Then, last night, I catch a lucky break-one that you might very well have caught if you’d been sent to the Red Sox clubhouse-and so you’re angry at me even though I haven’t done anything to make you angry. Nothing at all.”
He knew she was right. As much as he liked her, really liked her, it still bothered him that she was a little bit taller than he was, a little bit more athletic, a little bit smarter, and, clearly, a little bit more rational.
“Stevie?” she said, bringing him back from his musings.
“Sorry,” he said. “Look, you’re right. I know you’re right. But sometimes it’s hard to be your friend, even your boyfriend.”
“Why?” she said.
He shrugged. “You know why,” he said. “Sometimes it’s just hard trying to keep up with you.”
“Do I ever act like I’m better than you?” she asked.
“No,” he said. “But you don’t have to. You just are.”
Her food arrived, and she waited until the waitress had left before answering.
“Sometimes it’s hard to be your friend,” she said. “You’re so smart, and such a good writer, and you’re good-looking, and you’re funny, and you’re brave. And you still don’t think you’re good enough.”
“Well,” he said. “I may be good enough, but I’m not as good as you.”
She sighed. “Now you’re just being difficult, and you know it,” she said. “Today I had the big story. But you’re about to do an interview for a story no one else will have tomorrow. So get over yourself already.”
She picked up her fork and began to eat. Stevie poured himself another cup of coffee and went back to Bob Ryan’s column.
• • •
They started talking again on the twenty-minute walk to the Ritz-Carlton Hotel, which was where the Nationals were staying.
“This is your story, so I’m going to stay quiet while you ask the questions,” Susan Carol said.
“You have to at least be nice to David.”
“Of course,” she said. “I’ll be nice to David. And Morra. I’m just here to help. Where are we meeting them?”
“There’s a restaurant in the lobby. We’re having breakfast again.”
They rounded the corner onto Essex Street, following the directions the concierge at the Marriott had given them. As they turned onto Avery Street and approached the front door of the Ritz, they could see a coterie of security people and police stopping people from going inside.
“I didn’t think about this,” Susan Carol said. “Of course there’s security. Otherwise the place would be overrun with fans and autograph seekers.”
“What do we do?” Stevie asked.
“You follow me,” a voice behind them said.
Stevie and Susan Carol turned at the sound of the voice and saw a tall young man with light brown hair, blue eyes, and a big smile on his face. He looked at Susan Carol, still smiling.
“I’m David Doyle,” he said. “It’s great to meet you, Susan Carol.”
Stevie could see that Susan Carol was startled by David Doyle’s appearance. He was a good three inches taller than she was-which made him about six foot two, Stevie guessed. Since Norbert Doyle had said his twins were fourteen, Stevie had expected someone more like himself and less like a J.Crew model. Susan Carol had no doubt expected the same thing.
“Why, it’s very nice to meet you too,” she said, putting her hand out. Stevie noticed instantly that the Southern accent was turned up all the way: “Whaa, it’s verra naace to meet you toooooo,” the last word strung out as if she couldn’t cut herself off.