“Maya is doing just fine with her studio,” Frank said. “And Kiera’s video game has really taken off in the past two years.”
Dammit. He knew their names, and he knew about their work. “You are not going to ask Kiera or Maya for money. And I’m not going to ask them for money for you.”
He shrugged. “Maybe if I make you miserable enough, one of them will offer me a wad of cash to get me to leave town to make you happy.”
That was actually a very real possibility. “So the plan is to make me miserable?” Sophie asked. “How will that be different than what you normally do?”
He didn’t seem offended at all. He grinned. “You really want to know?”
“No.” She really, really didn’t. “What I want to know is how much would it take?”
“To get me to leave town?” he asked.
“Yeah. I didn’t realize there was a set price on that.”
Something flickered across his face. Regret? But no, that was one emotion Frank Birch had never felt. “Fifty thousand dollars.”
She frowned. “That’s a very large, very specific amount of money. What do you need fifty thousand dollars for?”
“An RV.”
“You’re buying an RV?”
“That way I’ve always got a place to stay, but I can go wherever I want. Expenses will be only food and gas.”
For a second Sophie thought she saw something that looked a little like sadness cross his face. He and her mom had traveled around in an old beat-up RV for the first two years after they’d eloped. They’d worked odd jobs here and there, picking up and moving on whenever they felt like it. Then for four years Sophie had lived with her grandmother while her father drifted around in that same rickety RV, mourning the death of the only woman he’d ever really loved. Sophie and Grandma Sophia had been happy, playing pretend and singing songs and making up stories with happy endings every day. Then, suddenly, Frank had shown up on their doorstep, sans rusted-out RV, saying he was ready to be a dad. And he’d taken Sophie to dinner with Karen, her first stepmother, in a brand new four-door SUV. The perfect family vehicle.
“And you really didn’t set fire to the theater to get some of that money from the insurance policy?” Sophie asked one more time. But she already believed he hadn’t done it. Honesty, even when it was about things she didn’t want to know, was the one thing she could count on from Frank.
“Sophie,” he said patiently, “if I was going to burn this place to get an insurance payout, I would have done it in the middle of the night when there was no chance of them getting to it before it was worth at least the fifty grand I need.”
Sophie didn’t concede that that was also a good point. And she didn’t want to know how he knew how long the theater would need to burn to pay out a certain amount of money.
“So fifty grand will get you an RV, huh?” she asked.
He nodded. “Saved up about twenty-five thousand, then Cindy gave me twenty-five to move out. Just need fifty grand more.”
Cindy had paid him to move out. Nice. And yeah, just fifty grand. But it would get Frank out of Boston and away from the people she cared about. “Sure, piece of cake.”
He nodded. “Great.”
“I was kidding, Frank,” Sophie said with a sigh. “I don’t have fifty thousand dollars just lying around.” She’d have to look in her notebook to see how much she did have lying around, but she was pretty sure it wasn’t fifty grand.
“I know. But if you happen into any extra cash, you now know about my moving fund.”
“Definitely noted,” Sophie told him. And she was already thinking about ways to get him the money. As much as she hated it. Not because she wanted to help him out, but because it would get him out of her life.
She had extra money. Of course she did. You didn’t grow up the way Sophie had and not learn to have a safety net. But she couldn’t just give him the money. He’d want to know where she’d gotten it. And she would never tell him that she had cash stashed here and there—at the house, at the theater, and a couple of other places—where she always had access to at least some of it, no matter what happened. She’d tried setting up a bank account that he didn’t know about, but when you had to use your Social Security number on something, it was nearly impossible to keep it a secret from someone who knew enough to check those kinds of things.
“And what will you do when you find a girlfriend?” Sophie asked. “You park the thing at her house or does she move into it with you?”
But Frank was already shaking his head. “God, no, that’s not nearly enough space for two people.”
Sophie didn’t comment on the fact that most RVs were made for families of four or more.
“And I’m retiring.”
“You’re done getting married?” She didn’t really believe that for a second.
“You think being a husband is easy work?” he asked. “Keeping women happy has to be the toughest gig around.”
She absolutely hated that he referred to his marriages as jobs.
“But I put in a lot of good years,” Frank went on. “Now I’m going to kick back. I’ll do the RV thing until you marry a guy with a guest room.”
She knew this was his plan. But every time he said it, she was a little stunned. “Payback for all of the years you supported me, right?” Because he’d seen being her father as a means to an end rather than what it was supposed to be—his duty and pleasure.
“It’s your turn, baby girl,” Frank said with a shrug.
Her stomach churned. But hell if she’d show it. “Well, too bad I haven’t fallen in love with anyone,” Sophie said. “Guess the RV plan is gonna be a longer-term thing.”
Frank rolled his eyes. “Be thankful you haven’t fallen in love, Sophie. You’ll be a lot happier if you don’t. Makes it far easier to move on when things go to shit.” And in Frank’s world, things always went to shit. It was usually his fault, of course, but that was one part of the reality he hadn’t quite grasped.
Frank’s “retirement plan,” as he called it, was one reason that Sophie had stayed away from serious relationships. His goal for his one and only child was for her to marry well—and take him along. If the guy had a spare room and didn’t mind buying extra groceries, that was fine, but if she managed to land a wealthy guy who had a spare wing, an extra country club membership, and a car or boat he didn’t use all the time, Frank would give her the Daughter of the Year award.
“You’re young and beautiful, but you’re getting older,” he said. “You should be married by now, and I should be spending my days in my guesthouse on your property, putting model airplanes together while I watch daytime TV. Waiting for some guy to be the One isn’t getting anyone to their goals here.”
Right. Because finding love and being with someone for a reason other than money weren’t realistic goals.
It actually kind of pissed her off that she was still romantic and thought about falling in love once in a while. Growing up with Frank should have cured her of any such thoughts. But she couldn’t help that a little part of her wanted to believe that people could love each other for real and be there for one another.
Still, Sophie was definitely not looking for a long-term, committed relationship. If she thought Frank would sit in a spare room with The View on while he harmlessly glued plastic airplane parts together, she might not be so against the idea. But Frank Birch was not, and never would be, harmless and content.
“Anyway, we’ll come up with something,” Frank assured her, as if she were truly concerned about getting him that money.
But she kind of was. It was almost like an investment. The past few years without him around had been so great. If she could get him to leave Boston and leave her alone, it would be worth fifty grand.
“Until then, I still need a couch,” he reminded her.
“Fine, I’ll give you all the insurance money, but in exchange, you stop even thinking about getting to know Maya and Kiera.” Sophie hated herself for agreeing, but
she didn’t know how else to protect her friends. Other than breaking off her friendship with them so Frank had nothing to use them for. And she wasn’t strong enough for that. She kind of hated herself for that too.
Frank gave her a grin. “You’re a good girl, Sophia Isabelle.”
And that just made her feel sick. She really wanted to be the good girl everyone thought she was.
But no matter what, she was Frank Birch’s daughter. And that meant she was definitely not soft and sweet.
CHAPTER THREE
Hey, Ma!” Finn called out as he let himself in through the back door of his mother’s house on Saturday afternoon.
He didn’t hear a response, but he let his nose lead him. His mother was in the kitchen, surrounded by cinnamon rolls in various stages of completion.
“What’s going on?” He propped a shoulder against the doorjamb, not quite willing to go all the way into the kitchen just yet.
Angie baked when she was upset, unlike the milk-and-cookies-after-school stereotype. When they’d been growing up, Finn and Colin had both known they were in trouble if they came home from school to freshly baked cookies. She also baked after an argument with a friend, on the anniversary of their father’s death, and when she saw something on the news that bothered her. She’d baked a lot until she’d gained ten pounds and decided to stop watching the news every night.
“Nothing,” she told him, without turning. “Just doing some baking.”
Uh-huh. “Mom, you have enough cinnamon rolls here to feed the whole precinct.” He pushed away from the doorway. “Do I get to take these to the guys, or has Colin already been over?”
Whenever she baked, she eventually felt better and, of course, would need to do something with all the brownies or cookies or pies. Luckily Finn had a whole police station and his brother had a fire station full of people willing and able to help with that. Angie was a mother figure to…pretty much everyone she met who was younger than she was by five years or more. She was quirky and melodramatic and had a hard time knowing when she’d talked too much and overshared, but she was warm and loving and people were naturally drawn to her. Throw in her baking skills and her loud, robust laugh and she’d been adopted as a mom many times over by the guys Finn and Colin worked with.
Angie wiped the back of her hand over her forehead and sighed. “No, these are for the people at the theater.”
“You’re feeding the whole audience at the theater?” Finn asked, feeling safe about stepping fully into the kitchen since this didn’t seem to be about him.
“The people cleaning up the theater,” she clarified. “Sophie’s friends are all there this afternoon, trying to get things sorted out. It’s going to be a huge job.”
“Sophie’s friends?” he repeated, picturing white-haired men with walkers and tool belts.
“Yes.”
The number of pans she produced was also a measure of just how upset she was. A horrible story on the news would get a pan or two. The anniversary of the day she’d buried her true love would get four or five. The night Finn had been shot and ended up in emergency surgery, she’d produced seven. Today there were five pans of cinnamon rolls covering the countertops. This was something big.
She sniffed. “It’s nothing for you to worry about.” She kneaded a ball of dough on the countertop. “We’ve got it handled. Nothing for you to worry about.”
Finn frowned. Nothing for him to worry about didn’t compute. Especially if whatever it was upset his mom. He crossed to the tall chairs at her counter. He kicked one out and sat. “Talk,” he told her.
She looked up, and Finn felt a thump in his chest. He’d been expecting to see upset or anger. But this was worse. Her eyes were red rimmed, and her cheeks were rosy. She’d been crying.
“Mom, what the hell is going on?” Five pans of cinnamon rolls and tears. Finn braced himself to hear who had died.
She looked at him for a long moment. Then shook her head. “You wouldn’t understand.”
Finn felt his scowl. What? Colin was the happy-go-lucky son who made her laugh. Finn was the responsible, serious one who got things done. That’s how it was. That’s how it had been since Tommy Kelly, the love of her life, had been shot and killed and could no longer make her laugh or take care of her. “Mom,” he said firmly. “Tell me what it is.”
She sighed and began rolling out more dough. “Finn, I don’t want to talk about it. You can’t fix this.”
Bullshit. He could fix anything. “Angela Marie Kelly.”
She looked up, surprised. He was Finn Patrick and his brother was Colin Sean when they were in trouble. He’d never called his mother by her full name before. Then again, she’d never not told him about something that was bothering her before.
Angie put her flour-covered hands on her hips, making white prints on her bright-yellow apron. “Fine.”
Finn felt a wave of relief. Five pans of rolls were concerning, but Angie not wanting to talk was downright frightening.
“It’s about the theater.”
Finn frowned slightly. “The fire?” It had been a dangerous situation for sure, but everyone had come out without injury and the damage had been contained to one area. Overall a good outcome.
For a moment his thoughts flickered to brunette hair and pink satin, but he pushed those images away. He’d rescued someone from the building. Big deal. That was his job. And the hair that he’d been attracted to hadn’t even been hers. He felt like an idiot thinking about how she’d ditched him at the scene.
Angie sniffed again, and Finn focused on her.
“Sophia called me this morning. She got an estimate on the damages, and the insurance payment isn’t enough to cover things.”
Angie’s eyes filled with tears again, and Finn frowned. “Okay, well, what’s she going to do?”
Angie shook her head. “She said we might have to put off the next show. She doesn’t know how long it will take for her to get it all done.”
“So she is going to hire someone?”
“She’s going to do it herself. With some of her friends. I told her I would help paint, but I know nothing about redoing electrical and…” Angie trailed off and wiped a finger under her eye to catch a tear. “I’m being selfish. This theater is everything to her, and I’m only thinking about myself.”
Finn knew that the theater meant a lot to his mother. She spent an inordinate amount of time there and had developed a very close friendship with the owner. But he had no idea what she meant about being selfish. “I think I’m missing something,” he told her.
“I just don’t want to postpone the next show.” She shook her head. “But I’m overreacting. It will be fine. It’s not about me.”
Finn was used to not quite following his mother’s conversations. She often had them more with herself than with the people around her. But this time it felt as if he needed to know the details.
“Mom.” He reached out and covered her hand with his. “I don’t understand. Fill me in here.”
She met his eyes, and the sadness in her gaze made Finn determined to make this okay, no matter what. He gritted his teeth and made himself smile.
“The next play we were going to do at the theater was…something I wrote,” she said.
He had to admit that he hadn’t been expecting that. “You wrote a play?”
Angie nodded. “Sophia’s been teaching me about scriptwriting and encouraging me to finish. It’s taken me a long time. But it’s finally done and she wanted to produce it right away.” Angie gave a little laugh. “She was afraid I’d chicken out.”
“Wow, Mom,” Finn said, relieved that she was laughing instead of crying now. “I had no idea that you wanted to write a play.”
“I didn’t either, really,” she said. “Until I met and started working with Sophia.” She gave him a small smile. “But that theater…” Then the smile died, and her eyes went sad. “It means so much to me. More than the play. Even if we can’t put the show on for a while, I can’t stand th
e thought of Sophia having to deal with the fire damage like this. The theater barely makes ends meet. She does so much already to keep it going. For us. And now she’s going to have to tear the walls down and put them back up. With her own two hands. Literally.”
Finn took that with a huge grain of salt. As he did most things his mother said. Angie was a happy person. Eternally optimistic and bubbly. Unless she wasn’t. She was an equal-opportunity drama queen. Things were always amazingly wonderful or horribly awful.
He wasn’t diminishing the fact that the fire had done some damage to the theater and would set the production schedule back a bit, but it was a business. A business that produced plays. If it wasn’t producing plays, it wasn’t making money. Or so he assumed. He actually knew nothing about the theater business. But it was also a place that his mother loved dearly, and as with everything she did, she gave it 1,000 percent.
Like her painting. And her baking. And her projects.
Finn loved his mother more than any other person or thing on the planet. But Angie was…unconventional. And bighearted. And had a little bit of attention deficit disorder. She needed to be occupied and to have a project. Or she would make up projects.
Like the time she went to the local homeless shelter and got all the people staying there into the kitchen with the idea that they’d have a bake sale and raise some money for the shelter. Or the time she’d started art classes for kids of single parents who couldn’t afford after-school care so they would have a positive way to express themselves and something to do rather than causing trouble. Or the time she’d gotten teens involved in babysitting at the local women and children’s shelter to show them what it was like to take care of babies.
Finn hated when Angie did that shit. Some of the places she went and the people she tried to befriend were dangerous. But, much to his chagrin, the projects worked. At least kind of. The baking at the homeless shelter hadn’t gone far. People, for some reason, didn’t want cookies made by guys who huddled around Dumpsters in alleys some of the time. But the art classes and the babysitting project were still going on. Colin thought it was great and encouraged it. Finn…didn’t.
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