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Monday, June 22, 2015


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.”
“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.