December 31, 1949: Boston, MA
Sarah Barrell peered around the crowded ballroom. "I can't believe you managed to pull this off," she said, turning to look at her husband.
For his part, Harry Barrell looked as if he were born to this. His tuxedo, tailored to fit his athletic frame, gave him a debonair look that Sarah found more than a little amusing. She still saw her husband as the quirky, funny goofball she'd met all those years earlier when they'd been children. And even at 36, she thought he was the best-looking man she'd ever seen.
Harry, somewhat oblivious to the once-over his wife had been giving him, sipped at his champagne as he surveyed the room. Then he looked over at his wife and said, "This really isn't my kind of crowd."
Sarah eyed him speculatively and replied, "Oh, you don't say."
Harry shrugged. "I'm a beer and hot dog kind of guy," he said and waved his hand dismissively. "I'm much more comfortable with, you know, the hoi polloi," he added with a smirk.
"No arguments here," Sarah said, matching his smirk. After a beat she asked, "So why are we here then?"
"Here" being the hottest New Year's Eve ticket in Boston, hosted by the very wealthy and well-connected Barton Gardner. Harry had been very mysterious about the whole thing and Sarah's curiousity was at a fever pitch.
"Oh, you know, friend of a friend kind of thing," he said. She noticed he failed to look her in the eye as he said this.
"What friend?" Sarah pressed. Harry took another sip of his drink and refused to meet her gaze. She grabbed his chin and turned him to look at her.
"Who?" she asked in a hiss.
"Uh," Harry stammered.
"I'm waiting," Sarah said.
Harry sighed. "Fine," he began, "It was Ruthie Barton."
Sarah's eyes narrowed. "I should have known," she said heatedly. "That woman has an agenda, Harold," she said.
Harry swallowed. He was only "Harold" when she was angry. "Look, Sarah, she's the boss's daughter and she offered me two tickets," he explained.
Sarah shot him a dark look. "I still think she wants to get her hooks in you," she growled.
As if summoned by Harry speaking her name, Ruth Barton sailed into view, spotted Harry and with a sparkling grin, made her way to them.
Sarah's eyes narrowed as she watched Ruth make her way towards them, looking stunningly beautiful in a dress that probably cost more than Harry and Sarah's home.
"Why Harry! You made it!" Ruth exclaimed as she pulled Harry into an embrace that looked a little too familiar for Sarah's liking. Harry politely pecked her on the cheek, saying, "Hello, Ruthie."
Ruth turned her attention to Sarah. "Mrs. Barrell, it is so nice to see you again," she said, disingenously in Sarah's view. Ruth appeared to take in Sarah's dress with a small downward turn to the corners of her mouth. "Your dress is lovely," she cooed, obviously not meaning a word of it.
"Thank you for the invitation, Miss Barton," Sarah replied, smiling her own fake smile. Sarah glanced at Harry - as usual he appeared to be clueless, with a small grin on his face. Sarah loved him to death, but he was as obtuse about women as he'd been when they'd met as 10-year-olds.
Ruth engaged them in conversation, one that Sarah felt was pure torture. They were saved when a well-dressed older man glanced their way, then did a double-take at recognizing Harry. Sarah watched as he excused himself and took a well-turned out looking lady by the hand before heading towards Harry.
"Well, well, if it isn't Sergeant Barrell," the man said. Sarah couldn't quite place his face, but she felt as though she'd seen his picture somewhere.
"Colonel Bigsby!" Harry said with genuine delight. He shot out his right hand and shook the Colonel's hand. "It's good to see you, sir," he said, and Sarah knew him well enough to know he meant it.
Sarah noted with some satisfaction that Ruth Barton seemed put out by the interruption. "Colonel Bigsby," she said, extending her hand, "I'm Ruth Barton. I've heard so much about you," she finished with her fake smile.
Bigsby kissed her hand before grabbing Sarah's and repeating the process. "Mrs. Barrell, I presume?" he asked. Sarah smiled and nodded. "Nice to meet you, Colonel," she said, adding, "Harry has told me so much about your time together during the war."
Bigsby was very gracious as he introduced his wife, Martha Gardner. Her father was the very wealthy, old money, host of the party. Harry, trying to be polite, explained that Ruth was the youngest daughter of Jesse Barton, who owned the Minutemen and whom Harry referred to simply as "Boss."
There were a few moments of chit-chat and then Bigsby steered Harry off to the side, asking the ladies to excuse them a moment. Sarah shot Harry a brief look of panic: she was a small-town Georgia girl and felt out of her depth with two very wealthy women, one of whom she felt had designs on her husband. Harry tried to give her a reassuring look as he walked off with Bigsby.
"Harry, I wasn't expecting to see you here," Bigsby said.
Harry grinned. "I could get in trouble for speaking with you, Colonel. You know, on account of me being a FABL player and you being the 'evil' genius behind the Great Western League and all," he said.
Bigsby waved a hand and said, "Well, that might be changing soon."
This was a surprise to Harry and it showed. "Really? How so?" he asked.
Bigsby lowered his voice. "What I'm about to say needs to stay between us, understand?"
Harry nodded. "Sure," he replied.
Bigsby smiled a little and said, "I have a deal in the works. Everyone knows old Sam Belton's a mere figurehead now."
The Colonel went on, explaining that FABL President Belton had essentially delegated his authority to the league's Board of Governors, which was in turn dominated by Chicago Chiefs owner Billy Whitney. Bigsby had been talking with Whitney about making peace. Whitney, for his part, noted that there would be a great deal of pushback to that concept from several owners, most notably Toronto's Bernie Millard and Boston's Jesse Barton.
Bigsby frowned as he said, "Which is one reason I agreed to come to Boston. My wife," he nodded in the direction of the three women chatting nearby (Sarah looked miserable to Harry's studied eye), "is from here and this party is of course, her father's annual shindig. I was hoping Barton would be here, but the man is 82 years old."
Harry nodded. "Well, Ruthie's here," he pointed out.
"Yes," Bigsby replied, still looking at the women. "She's his youngest, right?" he asked. Harry nodded, explaining that Ruth was indeed old man Barton's youngest, the only offspring from the man's fourth marriage, naturally to a much younger, and quite beautiful woman.
"How old is she, anyway?" Bigsby asked.
"Thirty, I think," was Harry's reply.
"And she hasn't married?"
Harry shrugged and shook his head. "My wife thinks Ruthie has set her sights on me," he said sheepishly.
Bigsby laughed and said, "Well that explains why your wife looks like she drank a pint of sour milk."
Harry looked - and felt - uncomfortable, and Bigsby took the conversation back on track, asking, "You think you can get Miss Barton to talk to her father?"
Harry thought it over and said, "I could try."
Bigsby was silent a moment, apparently deep in thought. Then he looked at Harry again and asked, "Your brother Tom, he's the skipper of the Kings?"
Harry nodded.
"I've heard rumors," Bigsby said, "that Prescott might sell the club."
Harry's eyes widened. "I haven't heard anything like that," he said. Then he added, "I did hear from Tom, that he heard that the Stars owner, Mielke?" he paused and Bigsby motioned for him to continue, "Is having it out with that Robert Moses guy. Apparently they have bad blood and Moses wants to turn the lot the Stars ballpark is sitting on into a state park or something."
Bigsby's face took on a thoughtful look, "Yeah," he said, still thinking, "I can see where that would be an issue."
He pulled a small notebook out of his pocket and wrote in it. Harry was wondering what that was all about when Bigsby put the notebook in his jacket pocket and said, "Let's go rejoin the party."
When they reached the women, Ruth was saying how much she was looking forward to a whole new decade.
Harry winked at his wife and said, "You know, Ruthie, I've been thinking about that," he began, and noted that the whole group was listening to him before continuing, "We count one to ten, right? So if that's the case, wouldn't 1950 be the last year of the forties?"
Colonel Thomas Bigsby laughed, his wife wore a look of confusion, Ruthie's brow creased in thought and - best of all to Harry - Sarah grinned and winked back at him.
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Colonel Thomas Bigsby, US Army 1945
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