Sticky Wickets by Nancy Kaminski (c) December 1996 Well, here it is Christmas time, and everyone is posting lovely Christmas stories. So what do do? Send one out that's set in July! My thanks to my beta readers Amber and Jules, who provided me with very helpful feedback and plenty of encouraging words. {{{{{{{{{{{{{hugs}}}}}}}}}}}}}}} In my little fiction world, the third season never happened, and NDNED (nobody dies, nobody EVER dies!). Nick has become mortal and turned into a typical suburban commuter with a larger world experience. "Sticky Wicket" is more or less a sequel to my first story, "Suburban Life." One explanatory note--a "roquet" happens when one croquet ball hits another. Don't worry--you'll see where it fits in. Permission to archive this little bit of fluff on the FTP site and Mel Moser's wonderful fiction page is gladly given. And now, on with the show... Sticky Wickets by Nancy Kaminski December 1996 Monday Evening "Nat, what's a block party?" Nick examined the fluorescent green flyer that had been stuck in their front door as he walked slowly towards the kitchen, a bag of groceries in his arms. "Oh, neat, are we having a block party?" Nat, holding seven month-old Michelle and the large canvas satchel stuffed with baby things, expertly bumped the door shut with her hip. "When is it?" "Next Saturday." Nick deposited the groceries on the kitchen table and read aloud. "Block Party! July 13! Softball, volleyball, croquet! Keg provided. Bring lawn chairs, grills, munchies to share and something to cook! Party Central--the Larsons' Backyard!" He held up the flyer for Nat to see. It was decorated with a clipart cartoon of a man wearing an apron and standing over a smoking barbecue grill and was printed with a large assortment of type styles. "So, what exactly is a block party?" Nat gently disentangled the baby's fist from her hair. "It's exactly what it sounds like--it's a neighborhood party. All the families on a block get together and have a cookout in someone's yard, play games and socialize. We had them once a summer when I was a kid. We'd block off the street at each corner so we could play softball in the street. Us kids would run all over until way after dark. It's fun." Nat bounced the baby up and down a few times and cooed, "Ready for supper already, Pumpkin? Let Mummy and Daddy get out of their work clothes, okay?" Michelle burbled in agreement. "Who's organizing it?" "It says here to call Marge Larson for details." Nick put the flyer on the counter and started putting the groceries in the fridge. Nat deposited the baby in her playpen. "I'll have to find out what she wants us to bring." Nick straightened up from the fruit bin and thoughtfully tossed an apple from one hand to the other. He looked at Nat, an embarrassed expression on his face. "You know, I don't know how to play softball, or volleyball for that matter." "You don't? Haven't you ever played? I know you follow baseball, and I've seen you watch those California beach volleyball matches on TV--the ones with the girls in the little bikinis." "Yeah, well, I've just watched. Vampires aren't especially into team sports." Nick paused--he had a sudden vision of Lacroix wearing a tee-shirt with a CERK logo on it, pitching underhanded and glaring ferociously at a hapless batter. He shuddered. "And these last two years I've had other things on my mind, like you and Michelle." Nick leaned over the playpen and tickled his daughter. She squealed in delight and grabbed his hand. "I know the rules, but I've never actually played." Nat laughed and patted him on the back. "Well, don't worry--it's not exactly professional level. Anyway, everyone usually drinks so much beer the quality of the game goes way down real fast. No one will notice you're a rookie." Nat's stomach rumbled. "Now get going, buddy--it's your turn to cook dinner and I'm hungry. What're we having?" "Pepper steak and home fries sound okay?" Nat sighed. "Yum. I'm so glad I taught you to cook. Among other things." Nick kissed her and patted her on the rump. "You go get changed. I'll keep an eye on the baby and start dinner. Here--take my jacket upstairs, will you?" Nick took off his jacket and handed it to her. "Gonna take off your gun, too, or do you have to shoot the peppers before you cook 'em?" Nat held out her hand as Nick shrugged out of his shoulder holster and handed it to her with a grin. "Nope, I'm an old-fashioned kind of guy. I kill all my vegetables with a knife." He rolled up his sleeves and started rattling around in the kitchen drawers. Nat groaned theatrically and headed upstairs to change. "803 years old and this is the level of humor I get..." Later that evening, after the dishes were washed and Nick had done some yard work, he and Nat settled down to a boring but satisfying evening of newspapers and sitcoms. Nat was half-watching TV and going through the day's mail when she remembered the upcoming block party. "Darn, I forgot to call Marge." She looked at her watch. "It's only 9:30--it's not too late." She dialed the number on the flyer, reading it over again while she waited for it to be answered. "Hello, Marge? It's Natalie... Yes, we got the flyer. Sounds great! What should we bring?...uh-huh, I can do that...yes, he's here..." She looked up. "Nick, Marge wants to talk to you." "Hmmmm? What about?" "She says there's something you can do for the party." Nick felt a twinge of apprehension--Marge was a 50ish, birdlike little woman with an incredible amount of energy who overwhelmed nearly everyone except her phlegmatic husband, Chet. She could get anyone to do anything, even if you did it just to get her to leave you alone. He put down the paper and took the receiver from Nat, who was laughing silently at the look on his face. "Hi, Marge. What can I do for you?" he made a face at Nat. "Nick, hi! How are you?" Marge greeted him is her high-pitched, perky voice. "Just fine, Marge. What's up?" "Well, there's something you can do for the party. We need to arrange for barricades to block off the street. Can you go down to the police department and get them? And you know, get the permit to block the street and stuff? I figured it would be easy, you being a cop and all." Nick looked dubious but felt a certain amount of relief. At least it wasn't something embarrassing, like that Tupperware party last winter. "Uh, I guess I can do that. It's a little out of my bailiwick, but..." "Oh, thank you, dear! They usually have the city maintenance truck drop them off on the morning of the party and pick them up the next day...ask them if they'll do that again." "You've done this before?" "Sure. Oh, that's right--the last block party was two years ago, before you and Nat moved in." "Oh. Well, okay, I'll see to it this week. Here's Nat again." At Nat's inquiring expression, Nick held the phone against his chest and whispered "Getting barricades for the street." He handed the phone back to Nat. "Don't worry, Marge. I'll make sure he takes care of it. Now, is there anything else...?" To be continued... Sticky Wickets, Part 02/03 by Nancy Kaminski Wednesday After Work Nick actually remembered to go down to the suburban police department without being reminded. (Although he claimed he still had his perfect vampire memory, like any man he conveniently forgot things when it suited him.) The tiny police department boasted six officers and two squad cars. When Nick paid them a visit after work, a lone officer was sitting behind the front desk, carefully tapping at a computer and swearing softly to himself. Nick cleared his throat. "Excuse me." The officer, a rumpled man in his thirties, looked up with a frustrated expression. "Do you know anything about WordPerfect? We just got some new software and damned if I can get it to work. Look--the text went all screwy." He gestured at the screen, where indeed there was a line of normal looking text followed by lines that were italicized, bolded and of varying sizes. It appeared to be an arrest report for shoplifting. Ah yes, Nick thought. Crime in the suburbs. "Sorry, no." Nick wasn't going to get sucked into that one. He'd spent hours with Schanke arguing how to make their own word processor behave, only to have Sergeant Miller come over, press a function key to solve the problem, and walk away with a smirk on her face. Better to stick to business. "I was wondering if you could help me get a block party permit? I live on the 3300 block of Oakdale Street." The officer's face brightened. "Oh, Marge Larson, right?" "Yeah, how did you know?" "We all know Marge. She brings us cookies at Christmas." At Nick's raised eyebrow he explained, "It's not like it's a bribe or anything. She brings stuff to the library staff, the fire department and town hall, too. I guess she just likes public servants." This was a side of Marge Nick didn't know about. He had sampled her cookies (the only good thing at the ill-fated Tupperware party), and in his considered opinion they were works of art. Maybe he could remind her what he and Nat did for a living...he brought his thoughts back to the task at hand. "How about the the permit and the barricades? What do we need to do?" "You don't need a permit. Just let us know when you want the barricades, and Chuck--he's the maintenance foreman-- will drop them off." Nick gave him the details and left with the assurance that two orange-striped barricades would be delivered to his yard on Saturday morning. Saturday Morning The day of the block party dawned clear and warm. At six in the morning, a loud rumbling and then the backing-up 'beep beep beep' noise of a truck in reverse was heard in front of the Knight household. Nick (who, to Nat's disgust, had turned out to be very much of a morning person) was already up. He went outside, coffee mug in hand, to see what the ruckus was about. It proved to be a large, orange city dump truck driven by a burly man--Chuck, Nick surmised--in greasy coveralls. Without a word, he hopped out, climbed into the bed of the truck and proceeded to throw two 20-foot planks and four sawhorse-like leg assemblies onto Nick's front lawn. The planks had "Closed to Thru Traffic. Do Not Enter" emblazoned on them in large black letters. Chuck scowled at Nick. "Have 'em there on Monday morning. Early! And don't bring 'em back broken!" he barked. Without a backward glance, he got back into the truck and drove away. Standing there in his pajamas with a pile of orange, black and white lumber at his bare feet, Nick watched the truck rumble away and turn the corner. "I bet Maintenance isn't on Marge's cookie distribution list," Nick mused. The pleasant, bright summer day proceeded as all suburban Saturdays seemed to. Up and down the block, people were cleaning house, running errands, washing cars, and generally puttering around. Nick spent a frustrating two hours trying to get his inherited lawn mower to start. The lawn, and by extension, the lawn mower, were Nick's particular obsessions. The lawn had been a disaster area when he and Nat had bought the house, but now it was a weed-free, velvety expanse of green (and currently somewhat in need of a haircut). He finally gave it up as a bad job and borrowed his next-door neighbor's in order to bring the grass under control again. When he came in for lunch, he was still fuming about the recalcitrant machine. "It's a lousy two-stroke engine. It should be running like a top after all I've done for it!" he complained to Nat. She was unimpressed. "Dear," she said patiently, "its time has come. It has gone where all good little lawn mowers go when they die, and all the attention in the world isn't going to resurrect it. Go out and buy a new one. It's not like we have to fit it into the budget or anything." "It's the principle of the thing," Nick said mulishly. "It should work. I'm going to go talk to that repair guy down at the hardware store after lunch." Nat saw an opening and dived in. "Well, if you're going out, will you please stop by JiffySnip and get your hair cut?" she asked. "You're about three weeks overdue, and it's been a bad hair day for the last week, if not longer. I don't understand how you don't notice." "I thought it was okay," Nick replied, craning his head to see his reflection in the toaster on the counter. He smoothed down his hair, which promptly sprang up in several different directions. "Maybe for the year 1500, but for 1996 Toronto it's a fashion 'no.' If you don't take care of it, I'll get the scissors out and do it myself when you're sleeping. Then you'll be sorry." "Oh, all right. But I'm talking to the repair guy first." Saturday Afternoon Accordingly, after lunch, Nick took off (incidentally leaving Nat with both the dishes and the baby) and had an unproductive chat with the repairman at the hardware store. Nick just didn't understand why everyone was so hell-bent on him junking his lawn mower. He was all set to get a second opinion when he realized he just had enough time for a quickie haircut before he had to clean up for the block party. The party didn't start until four o'clock, but Nick cut it close by getting home at three-thirty. His haircut duly inspected and approved ("Now I'm not ashamed to appear in public with you," is how Nat delicately phrased it), he showered and put on clean shorts and tee shirt. He and Nat gathered up their contributions to the party (Weber Kettle grill pre-loaded with charcoal, a large pan of brownies, two lawn chairs and two rather nice ribeye steaks) and, together with Michelle in tow, trooped four houses down the block to Marge and Chet's house. Nick got one of the neighbors, Bob, to help set up the barricades. They arranged them across the two ends of the block, just off-center enough so late-comers could drive in to park in their driveways. It's a good thing there's not much traffic on our street, thought Nick. He was still slightly astonished people could just block off a street for a party. Soon there were about twenty families gathered at the Larsons' yard. Children of all ages ran up and down the street in giddy, excited packs, playing games only they understood. The adults stood around chatting, occasionally exerting parental authority by yelling at their respective kids. The keg was tapped, and the beer began to flow. Soon came the moment Nick had been inwardly dreading the whole week--Marge organized a softball game. Out in the street, bases were marked by paper plates weighed down with rocks. Nick borrowed an extra glove from Bob and was tentatively swinging a battered aluminum bat. Nat, who opted out because 'someone has to watch the baby,' smiled encouragingly and waved Michelle's tiny hand at him. Nick returned the smile weakly, then chugged the remainder of his beer and got a refill. If he was going to suck, dammit, he was going to have a good reason. By this time most of the ball players had also imbibed at least two cups of beer, and the co-ed game proceeded with hilarity and lots of insults for all involved. To his relief, Nick's team struck out before he had to reveal his inexperience at bat. When the team went out to the field, he hurried to right field, hoping that no ne would hit a ball in that direction and he'd just have to stand there, pretending to know what he was doing. Since the "field" was a combination of the street and some lawns it wasn't exactly regulation size, and the various obstacles--bushes and parked cars--made the game much more interesting. Nick managed to spend the rest of the first inning leaning against a parked Toyota, yelling insults at the opposing team and drinking beer. When he finally did get a turn at bat, he was ready. He had watched everyone else closely and had the steps memorized. "Bend your knees," he ticked off to himself, "wriggle a little, swing the bat two times, and wait for the pitch." He followed his mental checklist. The first ball whizzed past him to thunk into the catcher's mitt. "Steerike!" yelled Mike. Undeterred, he went through the motions again and much to his surprise, actually connected with the ball. He stood, astonished, watching it sail over the pitcher's head into center field while his teammates screamed, "Run, run, you idiot!" Nick dropped the bat, hared down to first base and pulled up.Nat was cheering wildly. He stood squarely on the paper plate that was first base, grinning from ear to ear. Another first! His first base hit! He decided softball was fun and that he'd try out for the precinct team next spring. The game seesawed back and forth--the sides were evenly lousy--for seven innings. They finally quit, not because anyone had won the game (they lost count of the score somewhere in the fourth inning) but because it was six-thirty and time to barbecue. Nick wandered over to the picnic table where the community goodies were displayed and filled a paper plate with taco chips, salsa, and veggies and dip. Two yards down, a volleyball game was still in full swing, the ground around the net poles littered with half-filled beer cups waiting for their owners to reclaim them between points. Munching, he went over to where Nat was watching the coals in the Weber. "Want me to cook?" he asked. "No, you hold Michelle for a while. I'll do the steaks." Nat poked at the coals with the tongs. "I think the coals are ready." She laid the steaks on the grill. "So, you survived softball, eh?" "Piece of cake," he grinned. "I only got hit by a ball twice, and I got one single and two doubles. Not bad for a beginner." He sat back in his lawn chair with Michelle sleeping in his lap, chatting amiably with the neighbors and watching Nat cook. She was right--block parties were fun. Sticky Wickets, Part 03/03 by Nancy Kaminski Saturday Evening As the neighbors ate their dinners and socialized, the sun slipped down in the sky. Citronella candles were lit to hold the mosquitoes at bay. The street lights lit themselves one by one and the stars began to appear as dusk darkened into night. The children played "Starlight, Moonlight," dodging from bush to tree in the game of nocturnal tag. It had been dark for a half hour, and Nick was deep in a discussion with Mike and Bob on his favorite topic, lawn mower maintenance. Nick was still baby-minding. He held Michelle on his shoulder, patting her bottom and swaying gently back and forth while she kept up a constant babble. The men had wandered two doors down from the main gathering to look at Bob's new Snapper mower. Nick looked at it morosely and said, "Everyone wants me to get rid of mine, but I'm sure I can fix it. The damn thing keeps stalling out on me, no matter what I do." He took a swallow of beer. Bob shook his head. "They're right. Just junk it. Townsend had it in the shop every other week and it never worked right." Townsend was the man Nick had bought the house from, and all the yard equipment had been included in the deal. "Now take this baby here..." Bob's voice trailed off as he looked over Nick's shoulder. "Jesus Christ on a bicycle," he breathed. "Get a load of her." Nick turned around and the blood froze in his veins. Coming towards them, very familiar wine bottles in hand, were Lacroix and Janette. Nick uttered a curse in a language not commonly spoken in the last 800 years. Mike and Bob stared at him and then turned their attention back to the exotic couple. "Who are they? Do you know them?" Bob asked Nick. There was a pause while Nick considered his answer. Finally, he said weakly, "Yeah. They're...family. family." Janette undulated up to Nick and threw her arms around his neck. "Nicolas! Darling!" she cooed and proceeded to kiss him very comprehensively on the mouth. When he managed to detach her, she stroked his cheek and scolded, "It has been far too long since you called on me. Almost a year!" She transferred her attention to Michelle. "And this is the little one? Why, Nicolas, she looks just like you! May I?" She held out her arms. Behind her, Lacroix said, "Yes, Nicholas. I am very disappointed you didn't tell us about this important event. We found out from one of your coworkers just the other day and came to offer our congratulations." By this time, several other partygoers had wandered over in curiosity. Janette and Lacroix stood out like peacocks among sparrows. In stark contrast to the Saturday-casual shorts and tee-shirts everyone else wore, they looked ready for a garden party at the Rockefellers. Janette was attired in black raw silk skin-tight pants, a cream-colored silk bustier and soft leather Italian sandals. Her hair was elegantly done up in an elaborate style and her makeup was flawless. Lacroix, in deference to the summer weather, wore a steel gray linen suit instead of his customary black, with a collarless black silk shirt. Belatedly, Nick saw that he carried several small brightly-wrapped packages under his arm in addition to the wine bottle. Nick transferred his attention back to Janette. She smiled sweetly and made as if to take Michelle from him. He scowled and then reluctantly handed his daughter to her. "Be careful. She's very fragile." "Oh, Nicolas, you know how I love to mother young things." She cradled Michelle in her arms, cooing nonsense words in her ear. Bob nudged Nick in the ribs. "So, are you going to introduce us?" His attention was on the baby, and, incidentally, Janette's cleavage. "Yes, Nicholas, do introduce us to your new friends." Lacroix's voice sounded at once amused and just the teensiest bit disdainful. Nick glared at him. He introduced the seven people clustered around. "This is my cousin, Janette DuCharme, and my..." he paused and tried to think of a suitable relationship, "...uncle, Lucien Lacroix." "How very charming to meet you, ladies and gentlemen," Lacroix said. "Nicholas and I used to be very close, weren't we, Nicholas? But alas, as he grows older," Nick gave him another dirty look, "we seem to have drifted apart. Until we heard of the blessed event, of course. I thought a reunion was indicated." He indicated the wrapped packages. "We came to offer our congratulations and bring some gifts for the little one." Natalie had caught sight of Nick's 'relatives,' excused herself from the conversation and hurried over. She looked Janette in the eye and said, "I think she needs changing. I'll take her," and took Michelle from Janette's embrace. They smiled tightly at each other. Nat put her unoccupied arm possessively around Nick's waist. Lacroix interrupted the awkward silence. "We were just taking the opportunity to extend our warmest wishes for the child, my dear doctor. Allow us to present our gifts." He handed a small box to Nick. "That's from me," Janette told them. Nick unwrapped the colorful paper to reveal a jewelry box. Opening it, he found a silver chain with a single large black pearl gleaming against the white satin lining. "I will give her a new pearl every birthday. A charming Victorian custom, well worth resurrecting, non? When she is twenty-one, she will have a suitable necklace for a beautiful young lady." Nat fingered the pearl, gleaming dully in the streetlights. "Oh, Janette, it's beautiful. Thank you." She felt momentarily ashamed of her earlier hostility. "Would you like to hold her again?" she offered. Janette gravely accepted the baby into her arms. Michelle beamed up at her and waved her arms. "And this is from me." Lacroix handed Nick an irregularly-shaped package, tied with pink ribbon. Nick plucked the ribbon loose and the paper unfolded, revealing a stuffed animal. He picked it up. It was medium brown with a plush, squishy body. Little ears stood up from the head. A mouse? On closer inspection he saw it had soft plush wings, beady black eyes and a mouthful of pointed felt teeth. "Read the tag," Lacroix said, a small smile tugging at his lips. Nick located the small white tag sewn to the toy. "The South American Wildlife Collection," he read. "Nicholas the Vampire Bat. Non-toxic, hand washable. Safe for children of all ages." He looked at Lacroix and started to laugh. Between gasps for breath he said, "Look, Nat...it's a bat...a bat...named Nicholas." She stared at im in disbelief and then started laughing as well. Their neighbors looked mystified. All Nick could choke out was "Old family joke." Lacroix was smiling broadly, and Janette was grinning, too. Nick jiggled the toy in Michelle's face. "Look, Michelle, it's Daddy." This set off more gales of laughter. When they finally settled down, Nat asked, "Where ever did you find that?" Lacroix merely raised an eyebrow. "I have my sources." Then he relented. "There were new exhibits at the Natural History Museum I wished to see, and before I left, I visited the gift shop. For some reason, I couldn't resist it." He pulled an envelope out of his inner breast pocket and handed it to Nick. "However, this is the real gift." Nick opened the envelope, Nat craning her head to see. He removed a legal-size document written in French. "What is it?" she asked. Nick's jaw dropped as he read the document. "No! Absolutely not!" he growled at Lacroix. Suddenly aware of all the people listening in with avid curiosity, he said, "Excuse us for a moment," and moved down the driveway, Lacroix, Janette and Nat trailing behind. He lowered his voice. "Don't you think I can provide for my own family?" he hissed. Nat said, "What is it? Tell me!" Nick looked at her and said, "It's the deed to the villa in Monte Carlo. He's given her a twenty room villa and paid the taxes and upkeep for the next fifty years." He looked at Lacroix again. "Absolutely not!" He shoved the paper back into Lacroix's hands. "Why ever not, Nicholas? I haven't used it in twenty years. I don't much care for Monte Carlo any more--the tone has gone down with the current crop of nobility, and it is far too sunny for my tastes. She'll enjoy it when she's old enough." He sounded very reasonable. "I can give her that, assuming I want to introduce her to that life. No!" Nick folded his arms and glared at his former master. Nat was looking at the document, now crumpled in Lacroix's hand. "Is it on the beach?" she asked wistfully. "Oh yes. It has a private beach, as a matter of fact. And a swimming pool. It is quite pleasant, really." "No!" Nick asserted again. "You're going to be tiresome about this, aren't you, Nicholas? ." Lacroix sighed theatrically and gazed around him abstractedly. His eyes lit on something in the adjoining yard, and the corner of his mouth twitched in an almost-smile. "I have an idea. The villa is in Monte Carlo, home of a very elegant gambling establishment. Are you game for a little wager, in the spirit of the place?" Nick said suspiciously, "What do you have in mind?" "If I win, you accept the gift. If you win, I take it back. An elegant solution to our dilemma." "Win what game?" Lacroix gestured to the next yard, where wire hoops gleamed faintly in the streetlights. "Croquet." Silence fell as Nick considered Lacroix's proposition. Lacroix stared at him challengingly. Nat said wonderingly, "You're going to play croquet for a ? With a kid's set on a bumpy lawn?" She turned to Janette. "How much is this place worth, anyway?" Janette shrugged expressively. "Seven, eight millions? I do not know. It never seemed to matter. It is just someplace we go when we are bored with Paris." She turned her attention back to the baby. "You would love it, little one. The gardeners are such young men..." she cooed as she rocked Michelle. Nat turned to Nick. "Do it," she urged him, her face lit up with the sheer romance of the idea. Just imagine, a fortune won or lost on the outcome of a trivial game! It was just like those trashy Regency romance novels Grace liked to read on her lunch hour, the ones in which young noblemen lost vast estates on the turn of a card. (At least, that's what the blurbs on the back covers said. Natalie wouldn't actually read one of them, of course. She had her pride.) Belatedly Nat realized that Nick would have to lose. She weighed the prospect of a little short-term connubial angst against luxurious, sun-filled vacations. Practicality won out--she was rooting for Lacroix. "You're on, Lacroix," Nick returned Lacroix's stare. "A few ground rules, though. We play with the light-colored balls to even out the vision, uh, discrepancies. And you don't use any other 'unusual talents.' Regular backyard rules. Agreed?" "Agreed. Shall we?" Lacroix gestured towards the adjoining lawn. The four of them moved off to examine the field of challenge, trailed by a gaggle of curious spectators. The croquet mallets and balls were dented and chipped with much use, and the wickets were no longer smooth hoops--most looked like they had been bent and re-bent many times. At least the lawn was mostly flat, although the grass was shaggy, and there were enough bumps to make sure that a shot probably wouldn't go exactly where you wanted it. A petunia bed marked one side of the court, and the street the other. "Nick," Nat whispered, tugging on his shirt sleeve. "Have you ever played croquet before? You told me you never played any sports!" He smiled at her reassuringly and leaned over to whisper back in her ear. It wouldn't do for anyone to hear where he learned this particular game. "Croquet was all the rage in the late 1800s. We attended lots of garden parties that included 'moonlight croquet.' And Lacroix used to hang out with the Algonquin Roundtable crowd in the '30s--they were absolutely vicious players. Can you imagine him trading barbs with Dorothy Parker while knocking her ball out of bounds? It was quite a sight." "Can you beat him?" She secretly hoped not, and then felt a twinge of disloyalty, which she banished by thinking of romantic Mediterranean nights. "Maybe." He looked momentarily doubtful. "I haven't played for about 100 years, but the lawn's lousy enough to even that out." Nick seemed to be beginning to forget about his wounded pride and get into the prospect of possibly beating Lacroix at something. Although they had reached a detente of sorts (Lacroix was no longer threatening to kill either him or Nat) they still relished the opportunity to puncture each other's ego one way or another. Unfortunately, Lacroix had done most of the puncturing in their last few meetings. Lacroix selected the yellow ball and Nick the orange one. "You're first," Nick said graciously. "But of course, Nicholas--yellow is before orange. Thank you for the reminder. I do believe I remember the rules." Lacroix carefully positioned the wooden ball one mallet-length in front of the first wicket. He lined up the shot and gave the ball a smart whack. It shot cleanly through the two wickets and rolled to a stop five feet beyond the second wicket. His first bonus shot put his ball neatly in position to go through the number three wicket, and the second bonus shot put him through. Lacroix smiled a small, self-satisfied smile and said, "Yet another bonus shot, I believe." He angled the ball towards the fourth wicket. It stopped, perfectly placed for an easy trip through. "Your turn." Lacroix turned to watch Nick with an expectant air. A look of determination and concentration on his face, Nick duplicated Lacroix's feat, his ball following practically the same path. The orange ball bumped to a halt a little less than one foot behind Lacroix's yellow one. "Well-placed, Nicholas," Lacroix commented. "For me, that is." Instead of hitting his ball through the fourth wicket, he sent it backwards towards Nick's hapless ball. It hit with a loud 'thwock.' The yellow ball caromed off to the left. "Roquet, Nicholas. Two bonus strokes for me," he announced with a certain amount of relish. Nick glared at Lacroix's ball, as if he could send it off course through sheer force of will. Lacroix's ball had moved only two feet after hitting Nick's ball. Sending it through the fourth wicket was easy, and he acquired another bonus stroke. And so the game went. Nick would almost catch Lacroix, who would then casually knock his ball off course and gain bonus strokes in the process. Nick did manage one roquet, but on his second bonus stroke, his ball hit a bump in the lawn and bounced into the petunia bed. Lacroix's ball never seemed to hit a bump, of course. Each shot went precisely where it was aimed. Nat and Janette had ensconced themselves in lawn chairs on the sidelines. "Oh damn," Nat said insincerely. "It looks like Nick's losing." Janette smiled and elegantly recrossed her legs. "You'll like the bath." She delicately sipped the contents of her wine bottle from a blue plastic beer cup. "I ordered a very large spa installed last year. Used creatively, that will serve to soothe anyone's injured pride. Even someone as determined to be insulted as Nicolas." "I'll make good use of it, don't worry." Nat made an encouraging noise as Nick's ball was once again knocked off the court. "In fact, I think I'll have to do a lot of soothing this evening." "Every dark cloud has a silver lining, non?" The two women smiled at each other, in perfect accord. A smattering of applause broke out from the spectators as Lacroix's final shot made a beeline through the last two wickets and hit the stake so hard it vibrated for a moment. Lacroix bowed slightly to his audience, acknowledging the applause. Nick's ball was still three wickets behind. Lacroix put down his mallet, reached into his inside breast pocket and pulled out the deed. He carefully smoothed it out and then, looking at Nick, silently held it up, his eyebrow raised. Nick approached Lacroix and stood there, just looking at him. He seemed to be contemplating another use for the finishing stake. "Oh oh, time to play referee," Nat said to Janette. She stood up and went to join Nick, Michelle in her arms. "Nice try, darling," she said brightly. "We'll have to have a rematch some time." She turned to Lacroix. "Thank you much for the lovely gifts. I'm sure Michelle will enjoy them all--as will we, right, Nick?" She nudged him none too gently in the ribs. "Right, Nick?" Nick sighed, reluctantly nodded his assent and took the deed. "Don't think you can just drop in when we're there. Call first." "I wouldn't dream of imposing on you or your family." Lacroix held out his arms. "Now that that is all settled, may I hold the child for a moment?" Nat smiled, and handing Michelle to him said, "Of course, 'Grandpa.'" Lacroix favored Nat with his patented I-am-a-Master- Vampire-Don't Mess-With-Me icy stare, then took the baby. He held her up in front of him, examining her like he was inspecting her for flaws. She was awake, having slept all afternoon. She looked at him with a serious expression on her face, then reached out and grabbed his nose with her tiny hand and giggled. "There is no doubt this is Nicholas' child." Lacroix's oice sounded a bit nasal. "She is already trying to aggravate me." He shifted her so her hand detached from his nose. He held her in his arms and stared down into her bright eyes. His look softened. He turned away from Nick and Nat, tickled her tummy and began murmuring something. Nat strained her ears to catch his words, but they made no sense to her. She looked at Nick and whispered, "What's he saying?" Nick listened carefully for a moment, then had to smile. "I think it's the Latin equivalent of 'who's a cute widdle bunnykins,' or something to that effect." Janette's voice came from behind them. "I always told you he had a sentimental streak in him, Nicolas. You just refused to believe me." "He hides it well." Nick raised his voice. "Looks like the party is breaking up, Lacroix." People were drifting off to their homes, calling good-nights to each other. "It's getting late. Time for us to get our stuff and go home." He reclaimed Michelle and they headed back to the Larsons' yard. Marge bustled up to Nick out of the darkness and said, "Dear, don't forget to take down the barricades. And take this. Here." She handed him a Tupperware container. "This is for the nice man who delivered them. Make sure he gets it, will you?" She turned to Lacroix and Janette. "It was so nice to meet Nick's relatives. You should come by more often. I'll remind him to invite you to our next get-together. Do you need any Tupperware? We're having a Tupperware party next Saturday at my house. It's so handy for storing just about anything, don't you think? Don't forget!" She spotted someone else across the yard and zoomed off again, calling, "Cheryl..." They stood and looked after her, momentarily stunned into silence by the tiny whirlwind. "That was Marge." Nick said unneccessarily. He peeked in the container she had pressed into his hands. Cookies. Of course. "So sorry you had to lose--again," Lacroix said, unable to hide his satisfaction. "Perhaps a rematch could be arranged. But we must fly now--figuratively, not literally. We drove," he added at Nick's alarmed look. "I have a radio show to put on." "And I have a club to run," Janette said. She kissed Nick. "Come by and see me, cher. Once in a while, at least. Bring the child." She looked at Natalie. "And Natalie, of course." Nick and Nat watched them walk down the street to Lacroix's Mercedes, parked at the end of the block. Nat tightened her arm around Nick's waist. "I'm sorry you lost, but I'm not sorry you lost, if you know what I mean." She sighed. "A villa in Monte Carlo! It's so romantic, Nick!" "I know. Why do you think I threw the game?" He laughed at her astonished look. "I used to beat the pants off him at croquet every time we played. It drove him crazy.He must have thought that being mortal would interfere with my game and he'd finally get a chance to win." Nat said suspiciously, "Are you sure? You're not just saying this to salvage your pride, are you?" Nick looked hurt. "Remember, I was an actor once or twice in the past. I was acting up a storm back there." He smiled at her. "I must have been very convincing--he bought the whole act! I decided to let him win when I saw how much you wanted the villa. Anyway, I already made my point by making such a fuss." "Why, you sneaky so-and-so!" She smacked him in the arm. "And here I thought I would have to make you forget your disappointment by making mad, passionate love to you all night!" He waggled his eyebrows suggestively. "I do need consoling. Letting Lacroix win was a blow to my pride. I think I'll need very consoling when we get home..." He assumed a woebegone expression. "Well, I guess that can be arranged." Nat sighed again. "The things I do for real estate." "What do you mean?! The things do for real estate...!" They disappeared giggling into the dark. The End ========================================= Nancy Kaminski--Cousin, UFer, Knightie, N&NPacker nancykam@pioneerplanet.infi.net Minneapolis, Minnesota =========================================