He’d watched Conall with Sunday this past week. Patrick was hard-pressed to find fault with the man’s treatment of her. He’d been courteous and attentive, a gentleman in every sense of the word. Patrick had tried to fool himself into believing that Conall’s interest in Sunday was based merely on some stupid youthful competitiveness. After watching them all week, Patrick had to admit he no longer believed that was true. Conall genuinely wanted her.
And why not?
She was everything Patrick had ever dreamed of. It only stood to reason Conall would see the same things.
Patrick held her gaze, and then spoke the hardest words he’d ever uttered in his life. “I think he’ll treat you good, Sunday.”
She didn’t respond, her expression wooden.
Then her temper snapped.
“I didn’t ask how he would treat me, Patrick! I asked what you thought of him. So far, you’ve managed to give me a grocery list of everything in the world except the answer to that question. So I’ll let you off the hook. But let me leave you with my own list of things that I’d like you to consider. First of all, you apparently don’t know anything about my dreams. You’ve assumed that I want to go to America to pursue music. Have I ever said that to you?”
She hadn’t said it. Not once.
“I want to go to America and I want a home of my own. I want to continue playing my songs, not to earn money but for the sheer enjoyment of it. I want to marry a good man and have a big family. I want love and laughter and a husband who looks at me with love in his eyes, not because he thinks I’m beautiful or would make a nice trophy for his wall, but because he thinks I’m special—and I thought that man was you.”
Her voice broke slightly and Patrick realized the depth of this stupidity. He’d made a terrible mistake. “Sunday, please—”
She rose from the stool. “No, I’ve listened to everything you had to say, Pat. Walked home with you hand in hand for months as you shared your beautiful dreams with me. You let me see what was in your soul and I thought you saw what was in mine. Apparently I wasn’t speaking clearly enough or maybe you didn’t believe what I was saying. Either way, it doesn’t matter now.”
A tear slid down her cheek. Patrick felt that drop like the slice of a knife against his skin.
She walked away, gathering her guitar and leaving the bar before he could force himself to move.
“You let her walk out?” Tris asked incredulously.
Patrick nodded. “I’m ashamed to say I did.” He glanced over and saw Teagan surreptitiously wiping her eyes.
Apparently Ewan noticed as well. “You okay, sis?” He wrapped his arm around Teagan’s shoulders as she grinned in embarrassment.
“I know I’m being a sap, but this is such a sad story.”
“Ah lass. I was a foolish young man. Before your mother, I’d never been in love. It was hard for me to imagine being worthy of such an incredible woman. I made far too many mistakes.”
“Oh Pop.” Kiera leaned forward, taking his hand in hers. “I love this story. Love hearing that you’re human, that you made mistakes along the way. Makes me feel a bit better about the stupid things I’ve done in my relationship with Will.”
“God knows I’ve done my fair share of asinine things with Lauren and Chad.” Sean grabbed the bag of chips from the coffee table. He glanced at Riley, who smirked.
“Don’t look at me,” Riley said. “I’ve never screwed up with Aaron.”
Everyone laughed, Riley included. Then she conceded. “Fair enough. I’ve messed up plenty. But this story isn’t about me. It’s about Pop and Mom and Conall. I swear to God, Pop, if you don’t punch this guy in the face at some point, I’m returning your Christmas gift.”
“Very well,” Patrick said, rubbing his hands together. “It’s time for the good part of the story.”
3
“Go ask her to dance, Patty.”
Patrick looked at Kathleen, confused. “What?”
“You haven’t taken your eyes off Sunday MacKenna all night. Go ask the lass for a dance.”
He flushed, guilt suffusing him. He’d invited Kathleen to the dance then proceeded to sit by the wall, glowering at Conall. “I’m sorry, Kathleen. I’ve been a poor companion tonight.”
Kathleen laughed easily and Patrick wondered why he’d never felt the same spark for her that he experienced whenever Sunday was around. Kathleen was pretty and kind. She had a good heart and she was quick to laugh. She was also devoted to Killarney and Ireland. Patrick knew she’d never be happy anywhere else.
“I’ve been an ass.”
“I wouldn’t say that. Actually, the word I was thinking of was fool. You’re clearly in love with the woman. It doesn’t take a genius to see she feels the same way for you. So tell me, then, why she’s here with Conall Brannagh?”
“I handled things badly with her, Kathleen.”
“You’ve a silver tongue in that head of yours, Patty. Something tells me you can make this right. Go talk to her.”
Patrick appreciated Kathleen’s encouragement, but he didn’t share her optimism. As he watched her slow dance with Conall, desolation coursed through his body.
Kathleen shook her head. “I never thought I’d see the day.”
Patrick looked at her, curious at her proclamation. “What day?”
“The day you gave up. Patrick Collins, there’s never been a day in your life you didn’t scrape and scratch and fight for what you believed in, what you wanted. You’ve worked yourself near to exhaustion to save money for your future. You studied harder than most of the lads in school because you knew you’d need that knowledge to succeed in business. Are you in love with Sunday MacKenna?”
He nodded. “So much.”
“Will you make her a good husband? Care for her?”
He ran his hand through his hair. “I’d give her anything, everything. But Conall can give her more.”
Kathleen rolled her eyes. “Och. Damn, you’ve got a thick skull. Did you ever consider that Sunday doesn’t want more? That you’re enough for her?”
Sunday had said as much last night at the pub. It was that sentiment that had kept him awake, tossing and turning all night. She thought he was enough. It was a heady, wonderful feeling.
“So what do I do now, Kath? Lead me to the answer.”
Kathleen pointed toward the exit to the dance hall. Patrick’s stomach sunk when he watched Conall walk outside with Sunday. “You stop the girl and you tell her how you feel.”
“What if it’s too late?”
Kathleen shoved him firmly on the back. “You’ll never know unless you try. Even if she rejects you, you’ll be no worse off than you are now. Look at you. You’re a mess. Stay here and you have no chance. Follow her and I figure your odds are better than fifty-fifty.”
Patrick grinned. Leave it to Kathleen to put her argument in terms he could understand. Betting was his vice.
He wasn’t ready to concede yet. Patrick wasn’t going down without a fight. He kissed Kathleen on the cheek, murmured a quick word of thanks then rushed toward the exit. God willing, it wasn’t too late to make things right.
“Did you catch her?” Riley asked.
Killian grinned. “What do you think?”
Riley shook her head. “Crap. I’m getting as caught up in this story as Teagan.”
“Kathleen was a nice lady,” Ewan said.
“She’s a lovely lass. Actually, she’s family now. She married my cousin Aidan.”
Kiera perked up “She’s that Kathleen?”
Patrick nodded. “Yes, Kiera Kathleen Collins Wallace. You were named after her. If not for her encouragement that night, I’m not sure any of us would be here.”
“So maybe it’s Kathleen we should be toasting instead of Conall.” Sean raised the nearly empty bottle of whiskey in silent tribute.
“That’s a nice thought, son. Perhaps we should.”
“So what happened when you left the dance, Pop” Tris asked. “Get to the good part
.”
“When I walked outside, I glanced around, thinking perhaps Conall and Sunday had gone home, but I was wrong…”
Patrick was relieved when he spotted Conall’s car still in parked in the crowded lot outside the dance hall. Glancing to the left, he saw Sunday and Conall standing together at the far corner of the large building. They were well away from the crowd just arriving at the dance as well as the couples who’d escaped the stuffy hall for a bit of fresh, cool air.
Patrick pulled his jacket around him more tightly and pondered his next move. Sunday and Conall were deep in conversation. Should he interrupt them? Ask to speak to Sunday privately?
When Conall reached into his pocket and pulled out what looked like plane tickets, Patrick knew it was now or never. His legs began moving before his brain told them too.
He pulled up short when the sound of Sunday’s voice drifted to him. He thought he’d heard her say the word no. He paused and strained to hear.
“Conall, I’m truly flattered by your invitation, but you must know I can’t accept it.”
Patrick took a step closer to the building, letting the shadows and a large hedge hide him. Sunday was rejecting Conall?
Conall didn’t appear concerned by the refusal. “I know it’s sudden, but if you take a few minutes to consider, I’m sure you’ll come to your senses. There’s nothing I won’t be able to give you—the chance to see America, to meet powerful people in the music industry. Maybe somewhere down the road we could consider marriage, a home and kids. We’ve only had a week together, Sunday. I want more time with you to see where this could lead.”
Patrick peered around the hedge, trying to see her face. While he couldn’t make out her facial expressions, her body language told him she was tense. Her shoulders were stiff, her posture rigid.
“That sounds wonderful, but it’s not what I want.”
Conall sighed. “Sunday, you weren’t made for a life in Killarney. You’re beautiful and charming…you’d thrive in America. I can take you to all the places you’ve never seen, set you up in style in the best hotels.”
“What about my singing job at the pub?”
“Just quit, of course. I have money. I can take care of you.”
Sunday shook her head. “I like working.”
Conall scoffed. “You can’t seriously tell me you like singing night after night in a dingy pub for a bunch of dirty farmers.”
Conall said farmers like he’d just swallowed something nasty. Patrick’s temper rose.
“I have no problem with the pub or the patrons there. And I don’t mind working, Conall, if it would help my husband and family.”
“But that’s just it, Sunday. If you come with me, you won’t have to get your hands dirty. I’ll rent you a big, fancy apartment and even hire a maid for you. I’ll be working with a very prestigious firm and I’ll need a pretty lady on my arm. We’ll throw the biggest parties for the cream of New York society. You’ll be the premiere hostess and other women will look to you as the one to emulate.”
Conall made it sound like the only thing Sunday had going for her was a pretty face and good manners. Patrick took a step closer, ready to call a halt to Conall’s insulting proposal, but Sunday’s response stopped him again.
“I don’t want to give parties, Conall. I sincerely hope to God I have more to offer than rubbing elbows with rich snobs and looking down my nose at people who work hard to make a living. People who don’t judge another person’s character based solely on how much money they have in the bank.”
Her tone was hostile. Even Patrick could hear the venom in each word. Her anger wasn’t lost on Conall either.
“Christ. You sound just like Patrick Collins.”
Sunday lifted her chin defensively. “I take that as a compliment. Patrick is an honorable, honest, hard-working man.”
Conall’s eyes narrowed. “Are you in love with him?”
Patrick held his breath and leaned closer. Would she admit it? Were her feelings toward him that strong?
Sunday didn’t reply, but something in her face must’ve given her feelings away because Conall’s scowl grew.
“You are! You’re in love with Patrick Collins. Jesus! I credited you with more intelligence than to fall for that ne’er-do-well. He’s a barkeep and a farmer with a bunch of big dreams that will never come true. Why would you tie yourself to a miserable existence with someone like that?”
Patrick clenched his fists.
Apparently he wasn’t the only one whose anger had been tweaked.
Sunday exploded. “Patrick Collins is the finest man I’ve ever met! He’s compassionate and kind. How can you stand here and smugly criticize a man who’s had to work for everything he’s ever earned? You’ve had the world handed to you on a silver platter. There’s nothing special about that, Conall.”
Conall leaned closer. “Is that what you think? Look what that hard work has earned him. Nothing but calluses and holes in his boots. You deserve more than that, Sunday.”
“You aren’t fit to lick those boots!” Sunday planted her hands on her hips and turned slightly, allowing the streetlight to capture her face. Patrick marveled at the intimidating look he saw there. She was a powerhouse. He loved her.
Patrick had heard enough. Hell would freeze over before he let Conall continue to criticize Sunday.
“It’s clear you aren’t going to listen to reason. Maybe you need another type of persuasion. I bet your farm boy’s never even kissed you.” Conall grabbed Sunday and took her lips roughly.
Patrick sprang out of his hiding spot as Sunday shoved against Conall’s shoulders.
“Stop!” she cried.
Conall wouldn’t be deterred. His hand grasped Sunday’s breast, squeezing.
Patrick captured Conall’s wrist and twisted, hard, forcing the man to release Sunday. He shoved Conall farther away.
It was clear from the shocked look on his enemy’s face, Conall hadn’t expected to be interrupted. “Oh look,” he sneered. “It’s the barkeep. Just in time, too. I’m parched. Go fetch me an ale.”
Patrick reacted without thought. He punched Conall in the face, following with a solid blow to the gut. Conall dropped like a sack of potatoes.
“How dare you lay a hand on her!” Patrick shouted. “Didn’t you hear her say ‘stop’? What’s wrong, rich boy? Hasn’t anyone ever said no to you before?”
Sunday’s hand landed on his arm. Patrick stiffened. “Pat. It’s okay. I’m fine.”
Patrick wasn’t soothed. “No, Sunday. It’s not.”
Conall staggered to his feet and Patrick thought the man was going take a few swings of his own. Patrick had broken up more than his fair share of barroom brawls. He had no doubt he could handle one spoiled college boy.
He gestured for Conall to step closer. “Come on, Conall. I’ve been waiting a lifetime for this.”
Conall paused, his gaze traveling from Patrick to Sunday and back again. “Fuck it,” he said at last. “She’s not worth it.”
Patrick’s world went red. “You stupid bastard. You’ve spent your entire life placing value on the wrong things. Sunday is priceless. You’re going to realize that one day and you know what?”
“What?” Conall spat belligerently, rubbing his jaw.
“It’ll be too late.”
Conall studied Patrick’s face for a long time. Then he shrugged. “It was too late before it started. Take her, Pat. You two deserve each other.” Conall staggered away, his last words meant to be an insult.
Patrick didn’t take them as one. He turned to face her. “I’m sorry, Sunday.”
She frowned then rolled her eyes. “Sorry? For what part, Pat? The part where you pulled that asshole off me? Or maybe when you said I was priceless? Is that what you’re sorry about?”
He shook his head. “No.”
“Did you mean it?”
“Christ, lass. Do you really have to ask? You’re a treasure beyond measure, but Conall was right. What can I give you that w
ill show you how much you mean to me?”
“Your heart. Give me your heart, Pat. It’ll be more than enough.”
He leaned forward and pressed his brow against hers, shutting his eyes tightly. “You have that. You’ll always have that. I love you, Sunday.”
Sunday reached up and placed her hands on Patrick’s face. She waited until he opened his eyes to look at her. “And I love you.”
“Yes!” Riley stood up and high-fived Sean across the coffee table.
Patrick chuckled at his youngest daughter’s exuberant response. “I assume this means you approve of the happy ending?”
“Hell yeah. You punched that coward twice! That was totally cool, Pop.” Riley resumed her seat on the couch.
“So whatever happened to Conall Brannagh?” Ewan asked.
“Ah, well, that’s a story in itself. He took the fancy job in New York, but he couldn’t cut it as a high-powered business executive. He was fired before the end of the first year and returned to Killarney, where he managed to run his family’s businesses into bankruptcy in less than a decade. Now he’s the barkeep at Scully’s.”
Teagan’s eyes widened. “Really?”
Patrick’s grin grew. “No. Not really. Last I heard, he and his third trophy wife were living in Manhattan.”
Teagan rolled her eyes. “Nice, Pop. You got me.”
They all laughed. The conversation continued into the wee hours until, eventually, everyone began to make their way to bed.
Sean was the last to rise.
“It was a good story, Pop.”
Patrick nodded. “I think so too.”
“I wish there’d been a happier ending. Mom should have been here tonight.”
Patrick swallowed heavily against the lump in his throat. Cancer had claimed Sunday well before her time. For too many years he’d wished the same thing. Eventually, he’d learned to be grateful for the time they’d had together. “She was here, Sean. She’s always been here. She’s inside you and your brothers and sisters. She’s in at least fifty percent of those Christmas ornaments, in dozens of the pictures, and she’s in quite a bit of the furniture around here. We had a heck of a fight the day I dragged that ugly old recliner in here. I think of her every time I sit down. She created this home for all of us.”
Home for the Holidays: A Contemporary Romance Anthology Page 10
