The word prompt this week is "old". Thank you for coming. Maggie's story continues:
“Where’s
my cap?” A note of irritation surrounded John’s voice.
“Where’d
you leave it, love?”
“Master
Penn is playing in half an hour and I don’t have my cap!”
Mary
frowned, but headed for the study. John had been taking notes on Mr. Roberts’
itinerary for Monday before taking him to the office. Sundays were busy days in
real estate, even for multi-millionaires.
Sure enough, there it was hanging on the back of the chair. She plucked
it off and returned to the kitchen.
“Looking
for this?”
“Bless
you, old girl,” he said, stooping to kiss her.
Before
she could say a word, John was hustling Penn out of his room. Anne and Maggie
slipped on jackets for the slight fall nip in the air. All four bundled into
the car and drove uptown to the ball field in Riverside Park. John parked, then
he and Penn ran ahead.
Maggie
smiled at her husband, all puffed up with importance as he stood in for the
lad’s father. Penn’s ten-year-old teammates thought John was cool because of
his British accent. Anne and Maggie grabbed seats in the bleachers.
Young
Penn was a natural. He showed more talent than any other player on the team.
Maggie was proud he was the star. But the sentiment wasn’t unanimous. One night
she overheard the Roberts’ arguing.
“I’m
not building this business so that my son can become some stupid baseball
player!”
“But he’s good. Really good. Maybe that’s what he wants to do. The coach is recommending baseball camp this summer.”
“But he’s good. Really good. Maybe that’s what he wants to do. The coach is recommending baseball camp this summer.”
“Over
my dead body! And you’ll stop encouraging him in this idiot little league crap,
Anne.”
He
stomped out of the room, into his study and slammed the door. A soft sob
drifted to Maggie’s ears. If he worked hard, the rich boy might make the major
leagues someday. But not if his father could help it.
A tap
on her shoulder interrupted her thoughts.
“Psst.
Look. A baseball day camp. Here in the city. Mister will never know.”
John
handed her the brochure. Maggie nodded. After checking that the study door was
still shut, she tiptoed into the living room, the brochure in one hand and a
cup of tea in the other.
“Thought
you might like this,” she said, setting the cup on the coffee table.
Anne
sniffed, wiped her eyes and nose and nodded. “Thank you, Maggie,” she said, her
gaze drifting over to the brochure Maggie was waving about.
“What’ve
you got there?”
Maggie
handed it to her. Anne read it, then looked up at her servant.
“I
couldn’t. No. I couldn’t. My husband would have a fit.”
“Not
if he doesn’t know,” the young woman said, smiling.
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