by K. T. Samois
It’s a quiet day in the Araby household, which means only four faces greet him when the door swings open. Roisin stares at him with a barely disguised sneer; he returns her disdain with a smile. Moira beams up at him, but forgets to blink. Niamh, inscrutable and scrutinizing; she’s watching him with a surgeon’s dispassionate objectivity, and it makes his skin crawl. And Oisin, wading through the scrum like an affable fisherman.
“Back, back, ye savages; let the man in off the stoop! Hardin, come in. You’re letting the cold air out.”
“Thank you, sir,” Hardin says, because he remembers the few manners his mother had time to teach him.
“Ma’am,” he adds, when Riona’s mother smiles at him. He can’t get a read on her, but Oisin — like his daughter — appears to be an open book. If nothing else, he carries himself with the steady confidence of a man whose family lineage dates back to the days of rock carvings.
“Is Ree finding a spot, then?” Oisin asks. “You’re a brave man to let her try to parallel park that car of yours.”
“Ah — no, sir,” Hardin replies. His mouth is painfully dry, his pulse erratic. He feels cold sweat under his arms. “Riona isn’t here today; she has a shift.”
“I see,” Oisin says. “Girls, find somewhere else to be for the afternoon.” Roisin rolls her eyes but departs with a quick wave. Moira’s harder to convince, but a hard look from her father has her skittering back up the stairs.
Oisin’s eyes rake over Hardin, absorbing all the tells he knows he must give off. He fights the urge to squirm. He’d heard jokes about being interrogated by fathers… but now he’s wondering what Oisin did before he took up teaching.
“Have a seat, Hardin. Niamh, darling? Would you get a bottle of Walker Red from the shop?” Oisin asks sweetly.
Now it’s his wife’s turn to stare at him. “If you’d like privacy, Oisin, you might ask.”
He grins, wholly unrepentant. “I think that’d be wise, darling.”
Oisin intimidates him personally, but Niamh alarms him in a wholly professional capacity. Her stare has the same predatory regard as a shark’s. But then there’s a fleeting softness around her eyes, and she nods.
“I’ll bring Gatorade for the inevitable hangover. By the time you two are done, we won’t be able to pour him into a cab.”
It sounds fond, but Hardin wonders. He knows that if he upsets Riona, he’ll be donated to science before anyone can even think to notice he’s gone.
“You’re a marvel and a miracle,” Oisin says, buttering his wife up.
“You seem to persist in believing in those, barring all evidence.” Despite her cutting words, Niamh brushes a kiss to his cheek on her way past. Her husband catches her hand, pressing it to his lips. “I wake up and see you beside me — what more proof do I need?”
“I’ve already married you, Oisin, you needn’t seduce me. What do you want?” Oisin, never one to ignore an opportunity, confirms Hardin’s nascent suspicions.
“I’d take a bag of crisps, if it’s on offer,” he says, a bit sly. His wife stares at him, emoting shock. “To sop up the Walker!” Oisin tries. Hardin wonders if every family is like this, or he’s about to marry into the Addams Family’s Irish cousins.
“Oh well, then!” Niamh says, but she’s laughing, and Hardin realizes that she has her daughter’s smile.
In thirty years, Ree will look like her. If you’re lucky, you’ll be around to see it.
“Right,” his future monster-in-law says. “I’m off.”
Then she’s gone, leaving a stillness in her wake. Hardin sucks in a deep breath for the first time in what feels like eons.
“Now that liquid courage is on its way,” Oisin says. “What’s eating at you, lad?”
“Nothing.” It comes out a bit sulky, and Oisin treats him to such a scorchingly sceptical gaze that Hardin fights the urge to squirm in his seat. Instead, he rises to his feet, pacing through the study like a caged tiger.
“I - This isn’t how I imagined any of this would go,” Hardin starts. “And I know I’m not doing it right. Let me start at the beginning, or it won’t make any sense.”
“As you like.”
Hardin prowls through the man’s study, wearing a path into the twelve-thousand dollar antique carpet. “I was… the product of an unhappy home. My mother was a good woman, but my father wasn’t a good man, Professor Araby. I was sixteen when he killed her, and I tried to kill him.” The words twist and tangle bitterly in his mouth. It feels like he’s polluting the air here with his ugly history, and he feels brutally ashamed.
“I went to the system, and from there to my Uncle Sam’s welcoming arms. The Army has a way of straightening little shits out, and it did its job on me. I worked hard to get promoted to the Development Group, but with that sort of position comes a certain responsibility.”
“I thought I recognized that pin, lad. How long were you with the NSWDG?”
“That’s classified, sir,” Hardin says, dead serious. Oisin nods without rancour.
“Ah, see — ask a stupid question, get an obvious answer. Well, lad, why are you in the full kit just for a social visit?”
“I… am here to ask your blessing. Riona has… proposed-”
Oisin chokes on spit and coughs sharply to cover it.
“-a joint business venture.”
“Holy Jesus,” Oisin wheezes, thumping his chest. “Right. Mm. Ate a fly, excuse me. I can’t say I’m surprised at the venture itself… Ree’s always been a hard worker. What did she have in mind?”
“She wants to open a security firm.”
“Like malls and things? You’re good to humour her, but you’re somewhat overqualified.”
“No”, Hardin says shortly, because -good God, what a nightmare. Jim Hardin, Mall Cop. Fuck.
“More… private security for government teams.”
“Are you telling me my daughter wants to be a defence contractor?”
Now it’s Hardin’s turn to choke. Ree on a battlefield? No. Never. I’ll take a billion bullets before I allow that.
“No, sir,” he says, like he’s giving a report. “I think she wants to own defence contractors.”
Oisin bursts into a belly laugh. “That girl never fails to amaze. Always the quiet ones, hm lad? Well. So what’s the blessing necessary? Do you need an underwriter? Because you’d have to ask the wife, she’s better with figures. Ree gets that from her mother. Brains like mob accountants, those two.”
“No, no. We’re in consideration for a bid. It’s only — it’s risky, sir.”
“I’m sure Riona’s drawn her conclusions and drafted her ten-year plans.”
“She has. She says we’ll be fine, and I trust her. But I don’t want to risk her.” Until now, he hasn’t admitted it aloud. “She means the world to me, sir.”
Oisin nods. “Don’t take offence, lad, but it shows. If it’s any consolation, I’ve never seen that girl look at anyone the way she looks at you. The last time I saw her sparkle that bright, she was dancing the lead.”
“Dancing?”
“Prima ballerina at the NYC Ballet’s junior academy,” Oisin says with pride. “You should ask her about it, Hardin. I suspect she’d tell you.”
“I plan on proposing to Riona.” Hardin blurts, before he loses his nerve in addition to his mind. He’s not sure what to expect, but a relieved nod isn’t it.
“See, now that sounds more plausible,” her father agrees, and then rests his chin on his hand. “Have a seat, Hardin,” Oisin tells him, and so he does.
“Why?”
Hardin blinks.
“Why what? Why do I want to propose?”
“Yes. And why are you informing me of your intentions?” He sounds warm, but Hardin’s led enough interrogations to know when he’s in one.
“I-” Hardin says, and his voice sticks in his throat.
Oisin’s blue eyes go warm, and a bit indulgent. The man knows what’s coming, damn him, but like any good parent he seems content to let Hard
in squirm in his mortification. He tries again.
“I’m informing you because- I know it’s important to Riona. I’m sure I don’t need to tell you about your daughter, but she has a romantic streak.”
Oisin’s expression has done something funny; Hardin’s never had a parent who cared enough to bust him doing anything, but he’s sure it feels like this.
“Is that what you call it?” Oisin says mildly, and Hardin’s stomach plummets. He knows an insinuation when he hears it. “Her mother and I always thought — well. You know how some little girls’ dream that they’re actually princesses hidden away from their royal families, and one day they’ll be swept away to a castle?”
Hardin does not, in fact, know any such thing, but defers to Oisin’s expertise.
“Niamh and I… we always wondered if someone had switched Riona in the cradle after all.” Oisin seems to mull over his next words for a moment. “Roisin — she was a happy baby, cheerful and bubbly and strong. Hearty, understand? Never cried, slept through the night, ate like a hog.”
Oisin continues, voice fond. “Ree — well. Ree was different. Quieter. No less happy, but much more observant. Babies don’t notice things, but Riona did.”
His smile is warm with memory, and the easy nostalgia inherent to happy families.
Hardin wouldn’t know, but Martinez likes to brag.
“Babies pick up on their parents’ emotions — jot that pearl of wisdom down for later, lad, it’s worth a mint—” Oisin says with the seriousness of a professor during exam prep, as though this is information Hardin may soon need. The thought that Oisin might be right is staggering. Hardin’s whole circulatory system seems to clench and relax in chorus so quickly it makes him dizzy.
“—but Ree wouldn’t amplify them,” Oisin says, as Hardin struggles to adjust to a world in which he might have a wife and children to follow.
“She’d respond to them, though. When I was happy, she would giggle in chorus, and when I was sad, she would try to soothe the sorrow, as best a babe could hope to. Her mother, her sisters — Ree knows their favourite cookies, their tastes in music, and their best friends’ names. She always has done.”
Oisin watches Hardin for a moment, eyes narrowed in consideration, before soldiering on relentlessly.
“I’ll bet my last brain cell that she knows everything about you; every like and dislike, the way you take your coffee, the shoe you put on first.”
Waft a coffee pot over a sugar bowl, Hardin can picture Ree saying and knows she’d be right.
“That’s how my daughter shows she cares, Hardin,” Oisin says, voice thick with emotion. “Do you understand? Riona has always been a people-pleaser.”
Hardin knows that; he only hopes he hasn’t taken advantage of it.
“She — ah — I have noticed a certain tendency towards… a generosity of spirit. Sir.”
“I’m sure you have,” Oisin says, dry enough to mummify.
“Sir-”
“Are you asking for my permission, Hardin?” Oisin asks, point-blank.
“No, sir.”
Up go Oisin’s eyebrows, high in genuine surprise.
“Oho! Well then! Not that I don’t love our chats, lad — you know I do — but if not my permission…”
“I’d like your blessing, sir… and some advice.”
Oisin considers him for a moment.
“My blessing.”
“Yes, sir. I will not ask you for permission to propose to Riona; respectfully, that isn’t something you can give. But — but your blessing matters a great deal to her.”
“And to you? Would it change your mind if I said I disapproved?”
Hardin feels yawning dread in the pit of his stomach. His time with the Arabys has been… pleasant. They’ve welcomed him into their home and made him part of the fun; he can’t think of anything he’s done to earn Oisin’s enmity. His disapproval. It cuts deeper than he had expected it would.
He chooses his next words deliberately. “No, sir, although I would be disappointed if that were the case.”
Oisin nods but says nothing further; he stares at Hardin with narrowed eyes for an agonising length of time. Hardin sits, silent, and submits to the inspection.
Eventually, Oisin breaks the silence with an easy chuckle.
“Oh, easy, soldier. You’ve got a reprieve. Fortunately for you, it isn’t the case. So. You have my blessings to you both. What’s the question?” Oisin’s a historian; curiosity is an innate character flaw.
“What’s…” Hardin pauses and steels his nerve. “What’s the secret?”
“To a happy home?” Oisin understands right away. “Well. They say it’s to tell your wife she’s right often, but Niamh just takes that as her due, so I’ve never had very much luck with that tactic. Riona… hmm. Riona likes to feel…”
Oisin pauses, considering his word choice. He tastes and discards a few before settling on:
“Important, Hardin. Seen.”
“Doesn’t everyone?”
“No, Hardin. Rather, yes, everyone does — but you understand the distinction between being seen, and being watched.” There’s a tinge of paternal sorrow in his eyes, a recognition that he can’t save his children from everything.
“It got worse, understand, as she got older. As a father, you notice what goes on around your kids — head on a swivel, you’ve got that down — and when Ree turned about sixteen, she started wearing baggy shirts and stopped ballet. And she stopped running outside. The girls were cruel, the men were crude, and Ree’s always been a solitary type. She’s a strong woman, Hardin,” Oisin tells him, voice achingly fond. “But she’s much happier now that she’s met you. She trusts you.”
“What if I abuse that trust? What if I make her unhappy?” Hardin nearly whispers it, as though saying it aloud will summon bad luck.
“Then you’ll apologize and make amends.” Oisin informs him matter-of-factly.
Hardin stares. It sounds so simple when he says it like that.
“You’ll eat some crow and sleep on some couches,” Oisin says. “And I know that someday she’ll misuse yours, because you’re both human. You’ll be mad, and she’ll be sorry. Eventually, you’ll have a shout and then she’ll apologize and you’ll accept it. You’ll kiss and make up, then move on with the business of loving one another.” He grins at Hardin, mischievous and a bit wicked. “Ah, to be young and see the world in absolutes. You’re a good sport, Hardin.” Oisin says with no small amount of amusement. “I can see what she sees in you.”
“I — thank you, sir. I appreciate this.”
“Ah, son, come here.”
It’s the first time someone’s called him that in decades, and it hits him in the solar plexus.
There’s nothing he can do about it, though. By the time he’s had time to recover from the shock, Oisin’s wrapped him up in an enveloping hug that could have crushed bones if the bigger man had put his mind to it. But there’s no malice, only warmth and affection. Rather than shame, Hardin feels himself relax into the hug. Oisin doesn’t seem to expect him to return it and steps back quickly enough.
“Right,” the older man says. “Good chat. What are your thoughts on a round of Go while we wait?”
***
She’s having such a good day that even the lineup down the concourse nearly to the RayBans kiosk can’t fray her nerves.
There’s been a series of rolling delays. Add that to a deplaning flight full of bleary commuters, and Ree’s got more work than she can handle — but it’s easy to fall into a rhythm.
“Enjoy and have a great trip,” she says to the penultimate guest, turning to the last customer. She’s an elegant woman in her middle age, with sharply honed facial features and a coldness behind her blue eyes that instantly puts Ree on edge.
“Good morning, what may I get started for you?”
When the woman speaks, her lazy drawl is as patrician as she is. Ree feels her spine straighten to ballet-perfect posture in response.
&
nbsp; “I’ll have a venti, six shot, extra hot blonde ristretto. Add in two pumps of toffee nut syrup, two pumps hazelnut syrup and two pumps of vanilla.” the woman says, with no pleasantries.
Let it go, Ree. This one looks litigious. Clearly the woman’s some sort of barrister, or perhaps a politician — she would be the sort to raise a fuss.
“And make sure it’s bone-dry. And I’d like cinnamon almond foam. And salted cream foam.” she orders in an imperious tone. Ree bites her cheek so hard she tastes blood.
“Right away, ma’am.” she says with saccharine sweetness. “Anything else?”
The woman stares at her with ice-cold eyes for a moment. Then she smiles, and nothing about it is friendly. Ree feels uneasiness sluice through her veins for a moment, but brushes it off as paranoia and a souring temper.
“And how will you be paying tonight?”
“Amex,” the woman says as she holds out a black American Express card without a flinch. To her credit, Ree only stares a little.
“Of course,” she stammers. “Whenever you’re ready, please.”
The woman inserts the card, tapping the keypad with the back of her first knuckle. Hardin does that sometimes; he says it’s because he doesn’t want to leave fingerprints, but Ree knows he’s a germaphobe.
“Excuse me,” she says as the bill clears; the woman literally waves her hand at her in dismissal.
High-handed, arrogant-
The litany of mental invective is hot enough to steam milk; the woman, blissfully unconcerned, reads a tawdry airport paperback.
It’s just a single moment’s distraction, but that’s all it takes. Trying to steal a surreptitious glance at the woman, she leans a bit too close to the machine, and the inside of her arm connects against a hot metal casing.
The burn is immediate, and she shrieks.
She has the common sense to move away from the machine — and the searing drink it’s making — and slams her forearm under a cool stream of water.
When she looks up, the woman is right there.
Ree’s skin crawls where it doesn’t burn. The tender skin of her forearm has already come up in an ugly red weal, and she whimpers to see it. Then cool hands reach into the stream of water and gently extricate her arm from the stream. The pain is agonizing, and without the water cooling it, Ree swears she can feel the burn deepening by the second.
