by Megyn Ward
“Mr. Gilroy?”
I stifle a sigh. It is my assistant. “Yes, Jane?” I’ve asked her a thousand times to call me Patrick. Every time she says, Yes, Mr. Gilroy. “Is everything okay?” I’m having sudden visions of Con showing up and throwing Declan down the stairs.
“Yes...” the word lilts at the end, like she’s asking me a question. “No.” She sighs. “The Sojourn Center called about Mr. O’Connell again. He’s—”
Oh, shit.
“Call Declan,” I tell her, even though I know her well enough to know that that’s the first thing she did. Declan deals with Ryan, not me. And sure as fuck not Conner.
“I did, sir,” she says, confirming what I already know. “He’s not answering his phone and the director of the center said if someone doesn’t call her back within the next ten minutes, they’re calling the police.”
The police? What the fuck did Ryan do this time?
“Call them back—tell them I’m on my way, then re-schedule the one o’clock inspection and call Bill and see if we can get the three o’clock moved to one,” I say, giving the Audi’s rear view a quick check before sliding across three lanes of traffic.
“And, Jane...” I take the next exit and backtrack to Fenway.
“Yes, sir?” she says, her tone polite and professional. I imagine her sitting at her desk, the picture of efficiency, eagerly poised to do my bidding.
I shift into fourth and rip through the intersection on a yellow. “If you call me Mr. Gilroy, one more time, you’re fired.”
Fifty-seven
Cari
This is probably the dumbest, most impulsive thing I’ve ever done. Certainly, the dumbest, most impulsive thing I’ve done lately. How the hell did I let Tess talk me into coming here?
Standing on the sidewalk outside Davino’s I almost lose my nerve. I came here to apologize for causing a scene in his restaurant because the last thing I want to do is cause tension between Patrick and someone he clearly cares about. I have to at least try to fix some of the damage I’ve caused.
I stand on the sidewalk in front of the heavy glass doors and pretend to consider the framed menu posted on its front. What I’m really doing is trying to talk myself into opening the damn door.
Suddenly, the door opens and I look up from the menu to see Silver, the woman from last night, standing in front of me in a pair of black silk palazzo pants and a tailored red blouse. Red must be her color.
“Cari?” she says, her tone as warm and friendly as I remember. If she heard about my behavior last night, she doesn’t let on. “Is everything okay?”
“I, uhh...” My fingers tighten around the strap of my paint-splattered bag. I’m wearing jeans and low-top Chucks. What was I thinking? As soon as the thought takes hold, I push it away.
I’m enough.
“I’d like to speak with Davey, please?” I say, using the familiar nickname Patrick used last night. “Is he here?”
Still smiling, Silver pushes the door open a bit further and nods. “He’s always here,” she tells me, laughing. “Come in, I’ll let him know you’re here.”
She leads me through the front of the restaurant and into the dining room. It looks different in the daylight. Not as imposing without its dozens of wealthy patrons and army of wait staff. Expecting her to leave me at some point, I’m surprised when she leads me all the way back into the kitchen.
“Dad,” she calls out, pushing the door open on its hinges. “Cari, Patrick’s friend, is here to see you.”
Dad.
Davey is Silver’s father.
“Bring her in, bring her in,” a familiar voice calls from beyond the doorway. “Put her at the table—I’ll be right there.” I'm ushered into a large stainless-steel kitchen with several prep and cook stations. The prep stations are manned by nearly a dozen chefs, heads bent over cutting boards and crates of produce. None of them look up when I walk in, each of them concentrating on the task at hand.
Silver leads me to a curved booth set away from the action but with a perfect view of the kitchen. “Can I get you something to drink?” she says, graciously, indicating for me to sit.
“No.” shake my head, feeling a little like Alice again. “Thank you.”
She smiles. “Good luck,” she whispers, giving me a wink before she leaves me alone.
I sit here for several minutes, watching Davey’s army of sous chefs chop and trim and wrap their way through what looks like enough food to feed half of Boston. No one looks at me. It’s like I’m not even here.
What did I get myself into?
“Do you like chocolate?”
It takes me a few seconds to realize I’m being spoken to.
“Yes,” I answer. “Probably a little too much.”
Davey’s laughter booms around the room, heavy and rich. “A beautiful woman should love many things,” he says, his voice getting closer and closer until I see him emerge from a room off a short hallway behind the kitchen area. “Chocolate is one of them.” He slides into the booth across from me and sets a dessert plate on the table between us. On it is the most beautifully constructed dessert I’ve ever seen. It looks like a work of art. Producing a spoon from his apron pocket, he offers it to me. “You missed the dessert course last night,” he says like I’d fallen ill or had to leave because of an emergency and not because I had what must’ve looked like a psychotic break in the middle of his restaurant.
I take the spoon but can’t bring myself to use it to destroy the dessert in front of me. “About that...” I set the spoon down and fold my hands into my lap. “I came to apologize for the way I behaved last night,” I say, forcing myself to look him in the eye. “You gave us a beautiful dinner and I ruined it by being rude and ungrateful—and I’m sorry.”
Davey gives me a long look, studying me with dark eyes under heavy black brows. Finally, he shakes his head. “You were neither rude or ungrateful,” he tells me, sitting back in his seat. “You were afraid—anyone paying attention could see that.”
I open my mouth to deny it but it quickly snaps closed.
He’s right. I was afraid. I still am.
“I’ve been gone a long time,” I say, lifting a hand from my lap to lay it on the table. “I’m not sure Patrick and I belong together anymore.” My fingers trace along the handle of the spoon in front of me. “He’s different. We both are.”
“Different?” One of Davey’s bushy brows arches over a dark brown eye.
“He—” I suddenly don’t know how to explain it. What about who he was last night upset me so much. The suit? The car? The fact that he’s at ease in places I’ll never fit into.
“Tell you what,” Davey says. “You eat and I tell you the story of how Patrick and I met.”
“He already told me,” I say, picking up the spoon anyway. “You asked him to design a new restaurant.”
“Is that what he told you?” Davey laughs again. “I suppose it’s half true.”
Now I’m confused. “Why would he—”
He jerks his chin at the plate in front of me. “If you want the story, you’ll have to eat.”
Because I’m curious on multiple fronts, I pick up the spoon. Using it to cut into the perfectly crafted mound of chocolate and crème in front of me, I can’t help but wince a little. My guilt over destroying perfection dissipates the moment the bite hits my tongue.
I’m pretty sure I moaned.
Davey gives me a satisfied nod. “Patrick and his cousin had been coming in here quite often,” he says, starting his story, as promised. “Bringing their rich clients and their vapid wives in to seal the deal for their mansions and vacations estates. Anyway—” He waves a hand and rolls his eyes. “One particular night, we were busy—a waiter got sick. A busboy didn’t show. It was a mess,” he says while I inhale the dessert in front of me. “One of my bussers—sweet girl—was clearing plates in a rush. She was new at the time and not very good under pressure. She dropped a knife. It fell off the plate she was clearing and onto the
table in front of the client. He became irate. Belittled and insulted her until she was in tears.”
I thought of the people I saw here last night and can easily believe that one of them would lose their minds over something like that. “What did Patrick do?” I’m afraid to ask. The Patrick I knew would’ve been kind. He would’ve helped her. Put her at ease.
But the Patrick I knew wouldn’t know Tom Ford from Tom Thumb. He loved his pick-up. Drank beer and ate pizza. He was as far from James Templeton as a person could possibly get.
“He told the guy to shove his McMansion up his ass—that he wouldn’t design it, even if he were starving in the streets—and followed my busser, straight into the kitchen, to make sure she was okay.” Davey smiles and shakes his head like he still can’t believe what he’s about to say next. “And then, seeing how short-staffed we were, hung up his suit jacket, rolled up his sleeves, and bussed my tables in his five-thousand-dollar suit, until dinner service was over.”
“Patrick did that?” I say, not sure what I’m feeling.
Relief.
Pride.
Love.
“He did that.” Davey nods. “Maybe I don’t know the same Patrick you do,” he says, shrugging his shoulders. “Maybe the man you left behind is completely different from the one I know—but I can promise you, whoever that man was, he isn’t any better than the one he is now.”
Fifty-eight
Patrick
Ryan’s been home for nearly six months now and at the Sojourn Center for almost three. If not for constant intervention and bribes, thinly disguised as donations, he would’ve been out on his ass and in a halfway house for disabled vets fifteen minutes after he got there.
That’s when he assaulted his first orderly.
Since then, I’ve probably donated enough cash to this place to fund it into the next decade. Not that I mind.
Ryan is family. And even if it’s not by blood, Gilroys take care of our own. So, when I walk into the center, I have my checkbook in hand and a let’s talk about it smile plastered all over my face.
The first thing I see when I walk in the door is the director waiting for me, arms crossed over her chest, mouth flattened into a grim, red slash across her face. In a chair, behind the desk is a male nurse, head tipped back with a wadded-up towel pressed to his face. His chin and neck covered in blood.
I stifle a sigh. “I know what you’re going to say, Candace,” I say, addressing the director by her first name. That’s how well we’ve gotten to know each other.
“Do you, Patrick?” she says, shaking her head. “Because I’m beginning to think nothing I’ve said over the past two months has made a difference.”
“It’s been a difficult transition for him—harder than most.” I stop in front of her and set my checkbook on the reception counter between us, trying not to smile when her gaze gravitates toward. “I’m just asking for a little understanding here.”
“I sympathize with Mr. O’Connell, I do...” Candace says, her shoulders loosening up a bit. “But I can’t have him assaulting my staff. I just can’t.”
“Then give him female nurses and therapists like I suggested,” I tell her. “Ryan would never hurt a woman.”
Candace looks away for a split second before re-connecting her gaze with mine. “My female staff are afraid of him.”
Even though I understand why, hearing it makes me angry. Any idiot knows that when you treat someone like an animal, they’re going to act like an animal. I need to get Ryan out of here.
Fast.
“My final inspection for the center is in a few hours.” I look over the counter at the nurse with the busted face. It’s the truth—sort of. “I’ll have him into the new place by the first of the month—I just need a little more time.”
She’s going to give in, I can smell it—but she’s going to make me work for it first. “Do you know how many staff have quit because of his behavior? How many staff members he’s assaulted?”
It’s a ridiculous question. Of course, I do. Because I’ve paid every single one of them off.
“Let me talk to him,” I say, even though we both know that that’ll buy us nothing more than a day or two of mollified behavior at best.
Candace drops her arms completely. “He’s in his room,” she says. “Find me in my office afterward—” She looks over her shoulder at the bloody nurse. “Gregory and I will be waiting.”
I nod. The last thing I want to do is sign my name to another check but I will if it means buying Ryan another week or two. That’s all I need.
I knock on the door and wait. I know he’s not going to answer me but I want to give him a chance to behave like a normal person. When he doesn’t say anything, I give up and push it open on my own.
“Hey,” I say from the doorway. “It’s Patrick.”
He’s in his chair by the window overlooking the parking lot, wearing the same flannel pants and faded T-shirt he was wearing four days ago. His dark, reddish-brown hair is flat and dull against his head. Facial hair covers sallow skin. Fingertips raw and ragged from being chewed on constantly.
“I got eyes, motherfucker,” Ryan shoots back, even though he hasn’t even bothered to look at me. “The fuck do you want?”
What do I want?
To go a week without having to pay off someone he’s assaulted.
To not have a horrible, sick feeling in the pit of my stomach every time I look at him.
To know what to do. How to help him.
But mostly, I just want my friend back.
“What do I want?” I say, swinging my keys around the finger looped through my keyring. The sudden movement catches his attention from the corner of his eye and he looks at me. For a split second, he looks like Ryan. The kid I knew. Spent summers playing baseball with. My friend.
Seeing him the way he was, even for a moment makes every penny I’ve paid and every broken nose and busted mouth he’s given, worth it. It gives me hope. “I want to get the fuck outta here—you comin’?”
Fifty-nine
Patrick
Ryan’s quiet while the building inspector and I are busy with the walk-through. All I can hear as he walked around the empty and newly renovated apartment is the shuffling thump of his feet, followed by the cane he begrudgingly uses for support. I know what he’s doing. He’s digesting what I said in the car. Trying to figure out exactly what I’m up to.
“You’ve exceeded expectations, as always, Patrick,” the inspector says while scribbling something on his clip board before looking up at me with a polite smile. “I wish all my inspections were this easy—whoever gets this place is a lucky guy.” He looks past me, watching Ryan lurch around the apartment behind me.
“Thanks, for coming early Bill,” I say, taking my copy of the paperwork he’s offering me. “You’ll have to swing by and check things out as soon as we’re open. We’d love to have you.” I walk him to the door and see him out. As soon as the inspector is gone Ryan speaks up.
“Let me get this straight,” he says, his shuffling thump coming to a stop in front of me. “You want me to move in here and live with Mrs. fucking McGintey?”
“I’m not asking you to spoon her, asshole,” I say, shaking my head. “I’m not even asking you to live in the same apartment. I’m asking you to live in the same building.”
“So she can babysit me?” The question sounds like an accusation.
“No,” I say, fighting to keep a lid on my frustration. “If anything, you’re going to be the one keeping an eye on her.” It was a lie. Of course, I want Ryan to move in here because he needs a babysitter. But saying so wouldn’t get me what I wanted, so I just rub a hand over the top of my head and sigh. “Look—I bought the building on impulse. The previous owner was selling it and the developer he was dealing with wanted to tear it down.” I drop my hand to dig it into my pants pocket. “Mrs. McGintey would’ve... I bought it so she wouldn’t have to move, okay?” This time it’s not an out and out lie. More like a half-truth
.
Ryan looks at me like he can’t decide if I’m lying or not. “You bought a three-story apartment building so an old lady wouldn’t have to move?” he says, summing it up neatly. “Are you on drugs?”
“Pretty much—and no,” I say, huffing out a short laugh. “I’m not on drugs.” I take a trip to the window and look out. I can see the bar from here. The apartment.
Our apartment.
I wonder if Cari’s there.
What she’s doing.
“The building was half empty. Everyone else still living here was re-located and the second and third-floor apartments were renovated...” I leave out the part where they were renovated to meet Boston Housing Authorities wheelchair accessibility requirements. Turning away from the window, I lean against the sill and look at my watch. I’ve got a few hours before the client dinner—another thing Declan let me to contend with on my own. “I’ve got plans for this place but I need your help to pull it off.”
“Plans?” Ryan lifts his cane, pointing its tip at me before thumping it back onto the floor. “When a Gilroy makes plans, an O’Connell is usually left holding the bag.”
I wince because it’s true. “Not this time—I’m the good Gilroy, remember?”
“If you say so, Cap’n,” he mutters, using the nickname Con saddled me with years ago. Until now, I wasn’t even sure he remembered it. “These plans involve the community center I’ve been hearing about?” I catch that tone in his voice again. Accusation. Indignation. Like what I’m doing here isn’t welcome.
“I’m just trying to help—that’s all.” I lift my hands, palms up, and shake my head.
“Who said I needed your fucking help,” Ryan says, grinding the words flat. Mood turned on a dime, aggressive and mean.
“There you go again, dickface,” I shoot back, shoving my hands into my pockets again. “Thinking everything’s about you. You think you’re the only soldier on the planet who came back from that place wrong? The only vet who needs a leg up?” I scoff at the idea. “Get the fuck over yourself already.” Since he’s been back, I’ve learned the best way to deal with his mood swings it to meet them head on. He expects you to back down. Mollycoddle him. Apologize. Because that’s what everybody does when they find out how he got hurt.
