After her bath, she’d gotten tipsy on champagne and was tempted several times to call Vivi to let her know what had happened. But she was afraid that in her distraught state, she’d let slip the envy she felt toward her half sister, who seemed so effortlessly to have it all: a successful business and a man who loved her more than life itself and who wanted to spend the rest of his life with her. Why couldn’t she get it right? Why did she always pick jerks? First that career-wrecking, lying bastard Thierry when she was still back in Paris, telling her he was separated from his wife when he wasn’t, and now Quinn.
She’d cried herself to sleep in the big bed, sleeping fitfully, waking up with a skull-shattering headache. Thankfully, it was gone by the time she’d finished the sumptuous breakfast she’d ordered, courtesy of Quinn O’Brien.
She rose from the couch, surprised to find her hand trembling when she poured herself a glass of water in the kitchen. She wished she could hide there. Her headache was returning. When she forced herself back to the living room, a fresh wave of despair assaulted her. Stupid girl, as her mother used to say. Stupid, stupid girl.
Knowing she had to take responsibility for what she’d done, she forced herself to go to her purse and fish out all the credit card receipts, tallying up the damage. A small cry of horror escaped her lips when she came to the grand total: six thousand dollars. She’d spent six thousand dollars in three dazed hours. There was no way she could afford this. And yet, the addict inside her wanted to keep it all. All the old familiar lies and justifications came rushing back to the fore. You’ll figure out a way to pay it off; just get a second job. It’s not really that much. Besides, you deserve it.
She closed her eyes tight, clenching her hands into fists, knowing that if she allowed herself to keep it, she’d start buying more and more and would be unable to stop. She had to take it all back, or disaster would ensue. She would lose Vivi. She would lose her job. Worst of all, she would lose self-respect. She resolved to return it all tomorrow. But right now, she was going to find out when the soonest SA meeting was, and she was going to go—and keep going for as long as she needed to. At least there would be one thing in her life she could control.
The next night at work, Natalie decided she had best tell Quinn’s parents that she and Quinn had split, and that she’d leave just as soon as she could find another job, since it was probably best for everyone. The truth was, she’d gotten somewhat complacent in her job search, since she liked working at the Hart, especially now that she was considered part of the family.
“You’re not going anywhere,” Quinn’s mother declared. “I’d rather that eejit son of mine and his friends find somewhere else to wet their whistles than lose you. You’re a good waitress. And you’re family. You stay.”
Natalie teared up. “That means so much to me.” She didn’t have the heart to add that a part of her wanted to leave, since she didn’t know if she could stand seeing Quinn night after night. It would be too painful. Not that she’d ever let that show.
Quinn’s mother embraced her. Natalie had come to love the way she smelled: like fresh-baked bread and fried onions and love all mixed together. It occurred to her that she had no idea of her own mother’s scent, so rarely had her mother hugged her.
Quinn’s mother pulled back, running a tender finger down Natalie’s cheek. “I’m sorry he hurt you, love. And it pains me to say this about my own flesh and blood, but you deserve better.”
“He’s a good man; he just—”
“Has his head up his arse,” Quinn’s mother finished tartly. “Mark my words: one day the chickens will come home to roost, and he’ll rue the day he let you go.”
Not likely, Natalie thought sadly, but she appreciated the sentiment.
She gave Quinn’s mother a quick peck on the cheek. “I’d better get to work.”
Natalie desperately hoped tonight would be one of the rare nights Quinn didn’t make an appearance, but of course he did, coming in late with his coworkers. For a split second she refused to look at him. Then she gathered her pride and used it to build a wall around her heart. Quinn came over to speak with her while she was waiting at the bar for a drink order from Liam.
“Did you enjoy the rest of your evening?” he asked quietly.
“Oh, yes. It’s always been my dream to spend a night at a fancy hotel all alone.”
“I’m sorry.” He looked miserable. “I’ll say it as many times as it takes for you to believe me.”
“I believe you,” she said as coldly as she could.
Quinn grimaced as he glanced past her shoulder in the direction of the kitchen. “Did you tell—?”
“Yes.”
Looking uncomfortable, he’d shoved his hands deep into the front pockets of his pants. “I guess I’ll go sit with my friends.”
“I take it you’ll all want your usual?” Natalie asked, all business.
“Yeah.”
“Very good.”
He turned to go, then spun back around. “Nat.”
“What?” She was becoming desperate to get away from him, tortured by those dancing blue eyes of his that she loved and by the weary handsomeness of his face. Stupid girl. Harden your heart.
He looked sheepish. “Again . . . sorry.”
“Go to your friends, Quinn,” she said wearily, “and let me do my job.”
“You okay? ”
Liam’s question surprised Natalie as he began filling the drink order for Quinn’s table. Liam hadn’t spoken with his folks since she’d arrived at work, so she assumed it was Quinn who had told him they’d split.
“I’m fine.”
Liam put Quinn’s traditional whiskey shot down on the tray. “I wasn’t shocked when he told me, but I was kind of bummed. You and Quinn were a great couple.”
No, Natalie thought, Quinn and Manhattan are a great couple.
“Were?” The Mouth’s eyes widened with shock. “You and Quinn have parted ways?”
“Yes.” Natalie wished Liam hadn’t brought it up in front of the bar regulars. Now the news would spread like wild-fire. Maybe it really didn’t matter. Everyone would have eventually found out anyway.
PJ Leary held a declamatory index finger in the air. “ ‘The course of true love never did run smooth.’ ” He lowered his finger. “Shakespeare.”
“I thought it was Elizabeth Taylor,” said Liam. He looked hopeful as he regarded Natalie. “Who knows? Maybe you guys will get back together.”
“I don’t think so,” she replied coolly. Eager to keep busy, she scoured the bar for empty glasses or to check if anyone needed a refill. She found herself looking right into the face of Mason Clement, who, with his usual kind smile, was holding his glass aloft.
“Hello, Mason.” She took his glass. “The usual?”
“Yes, thank you.” There was a small, awkward pause. “I’m sorry to hear you’re no longer seeing Quinn.”
“Yes, well, these things happen,” she said briskly. “I’ll just be a minute.”
She went to get his Stella Artois, knowing he wasn’t sorry at all. She served him and then carried the usual array of cocktails and beers over to the booth where Quinn and his cronies sat. The mood was somber. Natalie didn’t know if it was work related or whether Quinn had told them of their breakup. It didn’t really matter.
32
The next night, Quinn lingered at the bar after closing time. He’d been called a “pitiful specimen” by his mother, a “loser” by his friends, and he’d had to endure the ultimate insult of Mason Clement smirking at him.
It shocked him how painful it was to see Natalie. She was brisk and businesslike with him, even as she joked and chatted with his coworkers. And each time Mason Clement flagged her down for a refill and she lingered to talk to him, it was like a hammer blow to his solar plexus. Smarmy bastard.
Door locked, parents safely tucked upstairs after chatting a bit with the Major about the recent flooding in Ireland due to endless rain, the Major motioned for Quinn and Liam to co
me closer to his usual perch. He pushed an envelope toward Liam. Puzzled, Liam opened it, rendered speechless. Then he passed it to Quinn. It was a voucher for a one-way ticket to Ireland.
“I—I don’t—” Liam stuttered.
“You’re to leave the country as soon as possible. I can’t protect you here, but you can go wherever you’d like in Ireland. I’d suggest Ballycraig, where your people are from. You have my word that you’ll be perfectly safe. Whitey won’t dare trouble you when he hears I’m the one who sent you away.”
Liam looked stunned. “Am I ever going to be able to come home?”
“I expect so. But don’t worry about that yet. Just get yourself to safety.”
“What do I tell my parents?” Liam asked.
“Quinn will help you tell them the story, and if they resist the idea of your going, just tell them I’m the one who’s sending you. They’ll be heartbroken, but they’ll know it’s the right thing to do. Right, then; I’m off home.”
Quinn finally overcame his stunned silence. “Major, no disrespect intended, but who the hell are you?”
The Major smiled. It was the first time either of the brothers had ever seen him smile, and it was in some ways just as terrifying as the dark look they’d seen the night before. “Let’s just say that Whitey Connors knows there are forces far more powerful and frightening than his little band of thugs.”
“Why are you doing this for me?” Liam sputtered.
“You’re a good boy, Liam. And so are you, Quinn. But I’m not doing it for you. I’m doing it for your ma and da. They helped me find a peace I sorely needed, and so I’m forever in their debt. Good night then.”
With that, the Major left the Wild Hart.
Liam turned to Quinn. “Holy shit.”
“I know.” Quinn hated to bring up the obvious, but he was worried that Liam might be so overwhelmed he wasn’t thinking clearly. Not that he was himself. “We should tell Mom and Dad as soon as possible.”
“Yeah, like now.” Liam suddenly scrubbed his hands over his face. “Jesus Christ, Quinn. What the hell am I going to do in Ballycraig? There’s nothing there but the pub, the church, the gas station, and that crappy supermarket!”
“Aunt Bridget and Uncle Paul are there. Cousin Erin. Cousin Brian. And the countryside is beautiful.” Liam scowled at him. “Let’s not think about this right now, okay? Let’s go upstairs.”
“You’re right. It is what it is,” Liam said with a weary sigh. “Let’s just get this over with.”
Shock and despair didn’t even begin to cover Quinn’s parents’ reaction to the news about Liam.
Quinn spoke first, as the Major had suggested. By the time Liam finished telling them his part of the story, their mother’s face was as white as chalk, their father’s breathing labored. Quinn was afraid he was going to have a heart attack. As far as he knew, the old man had never exercised in his life, unless you counted jackassing boxes of booze and restaurant supplies up and down the basement steps for forty years.
Quinn’s mother began to cry, her face contorted with grief. “You can’t go,” she said to Liam. “You can’t.”
The look on their father’s face changed. “If the Major says he has to go, he has to go,” he snapped.
“Yes, but . . .”
“No buts. That feckin’ Tommy Dolan,” Quinn’s father growled. “He’s never been anything but trouble. Did I or did I not tell you years ago to get the hell away from him?” he yelled at Liam.
“Dad, calm down.” Liam came to sit beside the old man. “Take a few breaths. C’mon.”
“Your father’s right,” their mother murmured. “That Tommy—”
“It’s a moot point, all right?” Liam snapped.
“Look,” Quinn intervened cautiously, “I know we’re all really upset here, but I think we should all try to calm down a bit.”
His mother snorted derisively. “Will you listen to this one, telling us to calm down! Your brother’s got to leg it to Ireland because he’s in fear of his life, and why? Because of that bloody article of yours, that’s why.”
Liam jumped to Quinn’s defense. “Get off his ass, Mom. After the truck incident, Quinn offered to kill the article, and I told him not to.”
Mrs. O’Brien’s mouth fell open. “Are you daft?”
“No. I think it’s an important story.”
“So important you’ve got to leave your family whom you might never see again,” his mother pointed out tearfully.
Liam pulled a put-upon face. “Don’t be melodramatic, Ma. You and Dad go back to Ireland once a year. And I’ll be coming back eventually.”
“Still.”
Quinn tried to change the subject. “I think it’s time you told us who the Major is.”
Quinn’s mother looked to his father, who nodded.
“The Major’s father fought with Michael Collins after the Easter Rebellion. It’s said he was an assassin. In the Irish Civil War, his father was Collins’s chief of counterintelligence, hunting down and killing spies. The stories are that when the Major was a little boy, his father brought him along on his work. When he reached manhood, the son replaced the father. It was in the Second World War that he became a major. They say he hunted down and killed dozens of German and Irish spies for both the Irish Free State and Britain. The stories are all a little confusing. All I know for sure is that he was sent to the States because he was wanted for something by someone. We were asked to give him a place to stay and to help him get settled. And so we did. It’s said that to this day men in the know both here and in Ireland grow pale just at the mention of his name. End of story.”
“Wait a minute,” Quinn said. “Who asked you to help him, and what did you do?”
Quinn’s father flashed an enigmatic smile, the likes of which neither of the boys had ever seen before. “That’s none of your business, son,” he said matter-of-factly. “I said that was the end of the story.”
Quinn’s mother defused the tension. “When are you thinking of going, Liam?”
Liam looked overwhelmed. “Day after tomorrow. That’ll give me tomorrow to pack things and find out about flights.”
“I’ll call Aunt Bridget and Uncle Paul and let them know you’re coming,” Mrs. O’Brien said. She looked to her husband. “Do I tell them why he’s coming?”
“Just tell them the Major is sending him.”
Mrs. O’Brien looked like she’d aged ten years in ten minutes. Their father, too.
Mr. O’Brien rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “We’ll tell the regulars Liam’s gone on vacation, and then that he decided to stay.”
Quinn nodded approvingly.
“I’ll tend the bar till we find someone else,” said Mr. O’Brien.
“Oh, that’ll be grand for your back,” Mrs. O’Brien chortled.
Mr. O’Brien lifted an eyebrow. “And who else do we have to do it, macushla? You? I’ll be fine.”
“Famous last words,” she grumbled. She looked depressed as she gazed at Liam. “I’ll call your siblings and tell them to come over here tomorrow night after closing time. We have to give you a wee send-off.”
Liam began choking up. “I hate this.”
“If the Major says you have no choice, you have no choice,” Mrs. O’Brien replied stoically. “We’re not losing you.” She stood up slowly, helping Quinn’s father off the couch, one of her hands massaging the small of his back. “We’re exhausted, boys. We need to get to bed.”
Liam hugged his parents, then Quinn hugged them. But as Quinn stepped back from his mother’s embrace, he saw accusation in her eyes. Your fault, her expression said. You and your article.
He turned away, heartsick.
She was right.
Quinn was surprised when Natalie followed him upstairs to his parents’ apartment after closing time. Clearly she knew what was going on, and clearly his parents considered her family. He was sure that if they could, his parents would disown him and adopt her.
His stomach hurt when he c
ame into the kitchen and caught sight of his mother. There were deep circles under her eyes. On the counter was a large chocolate layer cake, Liam’s favorite since he was a little boy. Natalie walked over to his mom and hugged her tight from behind. His mother burst into tears and turned in Natalie’s arms.
Quinn felt like he was intruding, so he went into the living room. Both his sisters, their eyes swollen from crying, regarded him coldly. Everyone thought Liam’s having to leave was his fault. Everyone was right.
“Where’s Dad?” Quinn asked.
“He’s in the bathroom,” his brother-in-law Brendan answered, “taking some aspirin for his back.” Quinn noticed that once again, he was hiding behind the Sent to stay out of the cross fire.
“Can one of you persuade him to go to the doctor, please?” Quinn pleaded. “I’ve tried, and he’s turned a deaf ear. Maybe one of his ‘darlin’ daughters’ would have more success.”
“We’ve all tried,” Maggie answered wearily. “He won’t listen. Face it: he’s never gonna change. Neither of them are.”
Quinn’s father appeared and clapped a hand on his shoulder. “How you doing?”
“Apart from my mother and sisters hating me?” he murmured. “Fine.”
“Ah, don’t mind them,” he murmured back. “It’ll blow over. And for what it’s worth, I don’t blame you for any of this. It’s that Tommy Dolan that’s at fault. I’m glad you’re writing the article, and I’m glad it’s going to run. I hope it winds up putting that evil bastard Connors behind bars, which is where he deserves to be.”
Thank God someone is on my side, thought Quinn. His father went to talk to Brendan about the Mets game. Quinn looked at Sinead, sitting beside Maggie on the couch, the two of them with their heads together, whispering. He couldn’t remember the last time he and Sinead had a long talk. She’d always been the tense one, the one who held it all inside both personally and professionally. In his opinion, she was even more driven than he was.
With a Twist Page 26
