"Ah. Well, nice to meet ya, Father. Any friend of Fionn is a friend of mine. What church do ya work at?"
He shook his head. "Oh, no, I don't reside in a parish any longer. There was a wee," he raised the pitch of his voice and held his thumb and index finger together, "bit of a scandal some years back. These days, I hold confession from this bar stool right here. The title and a few job duties kind of stuck, shur ya know like." He chuckled, looking none too upset about whatever scandal had occurred that had evidently resulted in his ex-communication. I shrugged. Who was I to judge? I was a fallen man, too.
"I don't usually see ya around these parts this late at night," he said, taking a sip of his drink. "Now Fionn, that's a different matter. That boy's always on the tear, and always with some new floozy on his arm. Ya know when I say floozy, I mean no disrespect. God loves all his children, even the ones who dabble in dubious ethical behavior."
I smiled what felt like a weary smile. "I don't usually have the need to imbibe at all, truth be told, Father."
"Ah, so what's chased ya here at such an ungodly hour, son? Money or a woman? Since I've heard ya have more money than the Almighty himself, me guess is a woman."
I sighed, leaning my chin on my hand. The truth was, it felt good to confide in someone about my own dubious ethical behavior. Maybe confession really did cleanse the soul. "Lydia De Havilland."
"A woman, aye. She doesn't want ya, I gather? Well, why not? You're a fine-lookin' sod."
I shook my head. "It's not about that." I turned to him. "Seven years ago she did somethin' that resulted in my family bein' thrown out on the street."
"Ah. I see. She betrayed ya."
I nodded. "Aye. And because of it, I promised I'd never beg again, never be brought to my knees."
He appeared to consider that for a moment before shaking his head. "Ya can't avoid it. Life brings us all to our knees at one point or another." He smiled suddenly. "I find when it does, ya are in a bloody convenient position to start prayin'." He chuckled and patted me on my back a couple times. I mustered a quick smile. "Also, son, if ya find yourself in love with a woman, on your knees is a rather beguilin' place to be."
I chuckled, suddenly having a pretty good idea about the topic of the wee scandal. But the statement simultaneously amused me and brought a strange ache. Never again would I touch Lydia in that way. Even though her skin had felt like velvet beneath my hand earlier. No. Never again would I touch Lydia.
"The thing is, Father, now the tables are turned, and she's the one who needs savin'." I stopped, looking around the bar, seeing only Lydia's beautiful face in my mind's eye. Malevolent, beautiful face I reminded myself. Blue-green eyes filled with evil. All right, perhaps I was being a wee dramatic. Filled with deception. That was more accurate.
"Sounds like that would be a good place to find yourself. Tables turned on the woman who brought ya low once upon a time and Bob's your uncle! Well done. Sláinte!" Cheers. He held up his drink.
I looked back to Father Donoghue's craggy face, staring momentarily into his sharp blue eyes that didn't appear inebriated at all, despite that he was sitting in a bar late at night with a drink in his hand. He turned in his seat and began to bring the glass to his lips.
I frowned. "Only—"
He turned back toward me, lowering the glass. "Aye, yeah, only."
I couldn't help smiling. "Is there always an only, Father?"
He smiled back, a hundred tiny creases appearing at the corners of his squinting eyes. "Aye, when it comes to a woman, there's always an only, son." He smiled again as if this made him happy for some reason. "I will surmise that in your case, the only is that ya would not hate her so much now if ya didn't love her so much then. And there is such a thin veil between love and hate, me boy. As wispy as the mist on an Irish mornin'."
I let out a breath, raising my glass to my lips and taking a drink, letting the alcohol burn slowly down my throat. He was right, perhaps. I had loved her then with a fierce boyish infatuation. But I had loved a girl who hadn't really existed, and I needed to remind myself of that. I had loved an idea, an image, a beautiful face and a sexy body. And yet . . . if that was true, why did she still make me feel this out-of-control need, this confusion and hunger and lust?
There is such a thin veil between love and hate.
Okay, so the feelings I'd had for Lydia had been more than simple lust. It hadn't been just her beauty that intrigued me. She'd affected not only my body but my heart. And that was why I needed to exorcise her from the part she still claimed. I needed to break her like she'd broken me and finally be rid of her. The love I had felt for her was false, based on lies. And if the love was false, the hate was false, too. I would ruin her, humiliate her, and then there'd be nothing left except peace. She had never really known me.
That must have been very difficult for you.
I set my glass down on the bar just a tad too roughly, causing the remaining liquid to slosh out. I threw some cash on top of my tab and raised a hand to the bartender, standing and nodding to Father Donoghue. "Thank ya for the listenin' ear, Father. It helped."
He nodded, a small, knowing smile on his lips. "Ya be well, Brogan. Ya know where I am if ya need me."
"I do. Thank you. Slán, Father."
"Slán, me boy."
I left the bar, pausing outside the door, taking a deep breath of the night air, smelling gasoline, the garbage can halfway down the block, and the spices and fried food smells from a food truck parked a little way down the street. I felt better, more in control than I'd been when I'd entered the bar.
A boy walking alone with his hands in his pockets caught my eye, and I watched him for a minute. He eyed the food truck, and I recognized the look on his face: desperation, hunger.
I began walking toward him as he moved surreptitiously through the small crowd of people talking and laughing as they waited for their food. His hand snaked up and grabbed an order as it was set on the counter and a number called out. He made to duck through the people closest to the counter when a burly guy, probably having just left a bar after a night of drinking, clamped his hand down on the kid's arm. "What the fuck? That's my number, you little thief."
Walking up to both of them, I laughed. "Whoa, sorry, that's what I always order. My friend thought it was mine." I looked at the kid. "I haven't had a chance to order yet, pal." I clapped the big dude on his back, taking the food from the boy and handing it back, giving him a small shove. He looked confused but moved along. "What'll you have?" I asked.
The kid glowered at me, attempting to break loose of the grip I had on his arm. He smelled like unwashed hair and dirty laundry. I could smell him even over the stench of the grease and food code violations wafting off the truck. I ordered the largest burrito they sold, and we stood waiting with the rest of the crowd. I could tell he wanted to run, but the allure of food was too great.
When the order came up, I paid and handed the food to him. He unwrapped it greedily and began stuffing it in his mouth. He followed me as I made my way to the sidewalk and sat down on a bench a little way down the block. "Sit down," I commanded. He hesitated, shooting me a nervous glance but finally relented, sitting at the furthest end of the bench from where I was sitting.
"Stealing food from drunks at two in the morning is the best way to get yourself beaten to a pulp or taken down to juvy."
"I was just hungry," he grumbled around the food.
"Yeah. I can see that. How old are you?"
He paused before answering, his mouth still full. "Eighteen."
"Finish chewing and then tell me how old you really are."
He chewed the oversized bite in his mouth, his eyes moving away from me before he said, "Fourteen."
I leaned forward, resting my forearms on my thighs and lacing my fingers in front of me. "Who's supposed to be feeding you at home that's fallen down on the job?"
He regarded me for several moments, another bite of food in his mouth before he again swallowed and answered, "My ma
." He glanced up the street and then said, "She got herself hooked on heroin again. Took off last week with a boyfriend, and I haven't seen her since. She'll come back at some point, but there's no food in the house and—"
"What's your name?"
He shook his head. "I'm not going to foster care. No way. Got put in there for a couple months when I was twelve, and I'll never go back. Never." He shook his head again to make his point.
"You're old enough to work. How'd you like a job?"
He stopped chewing as he balled up the burrito wrapper, setting it in the paper tray and putting it next to him on the bench. "Nah, mister, I don't do that kind of stuff."
Oh you would if you became desperate enough. I should know. I shook my head, pushing aside the sudden feeling of self-disgust as best as I could. "It's a clerical job mostly. You'd be running errands for my business after school. It's not the most exciting job, but it pays well enough, and you'd be able to feed yourself."
His eyes narrowed, and I could see the wheels turning in his head as he tried to figure out the rub. I took a business card out of my wallet and handed it to him. "My office is nearby. You go to that address on the card tomorrow and ask for Fionn Molloy. He'll set you up with the forms you need to fill out. You don't feel right about it, you can leave. You only stay employed if you don't bunk off school."
He nodded, a light of hope brightening his expression. A lump formed in my throat and I quickly swallowed it down.
"Are you from here?" I asked.
"Yup. Born and raised."
"I've never seen you around."
"My ma just moved us to a basement apartment up the street a couple months ago."
I nodded, standing. "Don't lose that card."
"I won't. Hey," he stood up, too, "thanks, mister."
I nodded over my shoulder as I headed for my car. Pulling out my phone, I texted Fionn.
Me: Sorry looking kid is going to come by tomorrow with one of my cards. Set him up with a job.
I got in my car and headed toward my apartment in the city. A minute later my phone beeped.
Fionn: Jaysus. You plannin on adoptin the whole of NYC?
I chuckled, throwing my phone down on the seat. It rang a second later. Figuring it was Fionn, I picked it up, but before answering I glanced at the screen. Courtney. I sighed and threw my phone back on the seat. I didn't have the energy for Courtney's neediness right now. And if she was calling in the middle of the night, she was especially needy. I felt a momentary twinge of guilt but squashed it down. "Not tonight, Courtney," I murmured into the silence of my car. I was needy myself, and I knew seeing her now would only end somewhere I'd regret. And for now, I had enough regret to last a bloody lifetime.
CHAPTER NINE
Lydia
By Thursday, I had read four books cover to cover. Brogan had a decent-sized library, and so I spent a lot of my time there. I should have considered this a mini vacation of sorts, but I was too antsy and keyed up to really relax. From being at the office from eight till five every day for the last few years, worried about the financials, attempting to turn the company around, to . . . doing nothing? A difficult adjustment to say the least.
I had rearranged and organized all of Brogan's dresser drawers—who put T-shirts in the top drawer anyway? Everyone knew top drawers were for underwear and socks. Only it seemed Brogan either only owned one pair of underwear or didn't wear any at all. I tried not to think too much about that.
I was still shaken and confused about what had happened between us in my bedroom and a lingering feeling of sad despair filled my heart. I hadn’t even considered the possibility that Brogan and his family had suffered to the extent he described. I hadn't known where they went when they left our home, had often wondered if they'd gone back to Ireland to be with family, had hoped Brogan's father had found another job quickly, but never once had I pictured them destitute and starving. Anguish gripped me, and I wondered if I had just been too self-centered to consider the depth of hardship his family might have suffered back then. I had been young and sheltered, and though I thought myself worldly, I hadn’t been. Not in the least. "You were," I muttered to myself, "just a stupid, selfish girl."
And at the moment I was lonely. Brogan and I had been friends once. Maybe I just needed to remind him of that to get on better footing with him. Suddenly it wasn't even all about my company. Suddenly I just wanted to let Brogan know how sorry I was, how I would do anything to change what I'd done to him back then. If only I could.
I pulled his business card out of my purse and grabbed my phone before I could overthink anything.
Me: Did you take all your underwear with you so I wouldn't rifle through it?
I immediately saw three dots indicating he'd read my message and was responding. But the dots remained there for a good ten minutes. Why was I picturing him standing somewhere, trying to figure out why I was being playful with him and waffling about what to write back? More likely he was just busy and had started a message and been interrupted. I wondered again at what exactly he did business wise.
Brogan: The fact that you're asking this question is proof I was right to do so.
I laughed and let out a relieved breath. Smiling, I typed him back.
Me: And btw, who puts jeans in the top drawer? Is that some kind of Irish thing?
Brogan: Aye. Now stay out of my drawers or I'll have to sic my nasty little leprechaun on you. Goodbye, Lydia.
I remembered how he'd always leave me when we were younger, the Gaelic word for goodbye. Me: Slan, Brogan.
Again, I saw the three little dots indicating he was responding, but then they disappeared. He must have changed his mind and decided to leave it at that.
Grinning, I tossed my phone aside. Surely Brogan joking with me was a good sign. Feeling lighter, I went to his office to organize something there. When I saw business cards for an event floral arrangement and a catering company sitting right on the top of his desk, I paused only momentarily before calling each one, hoping they were the ones he’d hired for his party. When I'd confirmed they were, I posed as Brogan's secretary and had them go over what Brogan had ordered and made some small tweaks. He most likely wouldn't notice, and he'd done a decent job, but he was missing a woman's touch. And after all, he had asked me to work the party. I could hardly do a good job if I was unprepared for exactly what he'd ordered.
On Friday the gardeners arrived and started manicuring the lawn and grounds. I went outside and gave them some direction. Why not? I was the only one in charge, and Brogan had said I was part of the party staff, so I might as well start working. If I knew how to do anything from my upbringing, it was to throw a fancy party. That and shop, but Brogan didn't require my skill in that arena. He dressed immaculately. Classy and masculine and, oh, whatever. Shaking my head, I continued walking the grounds, noting things the gardeners had missed so I could make sure they touched them up before leaving.
As I walked between some trees, I caught movement in the window of the small house behind Brogan's. Biting my lip, I paused and then walked toward it. I took a deep breath before knocking. There was a long silence before I finally heard someone inside moving toward the door. It swung open to reveal a young woman with curly, dark brown hair and the same icy-blue eyes as Brogan's. I let out a breath. "Eileen?" I asked, although I knew immediately who she was. The last time I'd seen her, she'd been a frail pre-teen with leg braces. Now she was a beautiful young woman. She must be what? Nineteen now? Twenty?
She regarded me coldly before saying, "Lydia De Havilland. Imagine this. I never thought I'd see ya again. You're just as beautiful as ya ever were."
I smiled at the lilt of her accent. "You look wonderful, too. Your legs . . ." I gestured my arm downward, smiling with happiness for her. I hadn't ever really known her, never exchanged more than a handful of words over the three years her father had worked for us, but I remembered her being painfully shy and awkward.
"Yeah. No more braces. My brother found a brilliant
surgeon and Bob's your uncle, here I am fixed up good as new."
"That's wonderful." There was an awkward silence in which she simply stared at me. I squirmed under her disdainful perusal. "I haven't had a chance to ask Brogan how your father's doing?"
"Our dad's dead."
My heart sunk. "Oh, I'm so sorry," I breathed. She merely shrugged. Another awkward silence ensued.
"Your brother didn't tell me you lived back here."
"Well, I do."
I nodded. This was not going well. It was time for me to go. "Okay, well. I'm just . . . staying at Brogan's house temporarily." I felt the blush rising in my face. Had Brogan told Eileen about taking over my company? About offering me a . . . sort of job or . . . something? "Working there, I mean."
She gave me a small smirk. "So I heard."
I licked my lips and let out a small breath. She hated me as much as her brother did. I turned to go. "Okay, well, it was nice to see you. I'm glad to know you're doing so well."
"Lydia, wait," she said, stepping onto her small porch. I turned just in time to catch the hard slap across my face. Stunned, I brought my hand up to my stinging cheek, my widened eyes finding hers. They were cold and full of contempt.
"That's for breakin' me brother's heart," she said before walking back inside and slamming her door in my face.
I stood there, blinking repeatedly. I now knew that a physical slap hurt almost as much as the bitchy, behind my back but within earshot catty comment from the women I’d once called friends. And yet, there was almost a certain relief in being slapped by Eileen. I wasn't sure I wanted to examine that too closely at the moment. And I wasn’t sure I could ever face Eileen again without feeling every inch of heat on my skin. I wanted to hide, I wanted to leave, I wanted this to be over. But that wasn’t an option. My hand on my cheek, humiliated and shaken—yet with that confusing relief running just beneath the surface—I didn’t even recall the walk back to Brogan’s house.
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