Mrs. Scrooge

by Barbara Bretton

  All his life, Bill O'Rourke had avoided emotions—both his own and those of his two combative sons. His heart attack back in October had changed many things but not that one basic part of Bill's personality and Murphy doubted if anything ever would.

  * * *

  CAROLINE COULD BE BOSSY, annoying and generally a pain in the neck, but she was one terrific best friend.

  Who else would sit at the corner of West Fiftieth and Eighth Avenue in the pricey sports car piled high with designer gowns just so she could drive New York's newest cooking school graduate back home to New Jersey that afternoon?

  "I owe you one," Sam said as she settled into the cushioned leather seat and rested her head back.

  Caroline chuckled and switched on the stereo system. "Just you remember that when the time comes."

  Soft, lush music filled the small car as the Jaguar inched its way toward the Lincoln Tunnel. Sam closed her eyes and let herself drift lazily along on a cloud of her friend's ubiquitous Chanel No. 5. Neatly stacked on the tiny back seat, padded with tons of tissue to prevent wrinkles, were three glorious Cinderella ball gowns, the latest acquisitions from Old Frosty. A pale tea rose with delicate seed pearls tracing the curves of the bodice. A red beaded gown made for grand entrances. And a magnificent, fairy tale of a satin dress in a sapphire blue so deep and luminous that the sight of it had made Sam almost weep with joy.

  A sigh threatened to escape, and she quickly translated it into a yawn. All Caroline needed was to know how badly Sam would love to primp and fuss and dress to the nines and dazzle the denizens of Princeton at the masquerade ball; there would be no living with the pressure her best friend would put on her.

  Anyone—even Sam—could spare just one Saturday night to live a dream but the rock bottom truth of the matter was the hundred dollar ticket fee might as well be ten thousand.

  Money. Wouldn't you just know that would be the problem?

  But, how wonderful it was to daydream about it! Sam wasn't given to flights of fancy the way Patty was, but it seemed as if the ball gowns whispered stories with each rustle of satin and silk. Dazzling women and handsome men in all their splendor, waltzing on a shimmering marble dance floor to the strains of Strauss. Exciting flirtations behind the de rigeur white velvet masques. Caroline would look like a movie star in the Schiaparelli gown while Sam—

  What?

  She closed her eyes more tightly and concentrated. It wasn't as if she had no imagination, after all. She was a world-class daydreamer, but try as she might Sam couldn't conjure up one single vision of herself in anything but baggy cords and a black sweater.

  She could come up with an elegant upswept hairdo only to pan down to her trusty Reeboks and sweat socks. Or she dreamed up a pair of pricey Jimmy Choos with bejeweled buckles and teamed them with her ragged jeans. But even more horrifying was the image of herself all decked out in Old Frosty's finery but with a face devoid of makeup and her overgrown hair pulled back in a ponytail.

  It was as futile an undertaking in her daydreams as it was in real life: She was plain Sam Dean, nothing more, who had a daughter to provide for and a future to plan.

  * * *

  PATTY'S GRANDMA, Betty Dean, glanced at the thermometer and smiled. "Down another half degree, Patty. I think you'll live."

  "Can I have some more ice cream?"

  "You had some at lunchtime."

  "Please, Grandma. My throat's sore and the ice cream makes it feel better."

  Grandma Betty pursed her lips but Patty saw the twinkle in her bright blue eyes. "Maybe."

  Grandma bustled out of Patty's bedroom, leaving behind the smell of cinnamon and brown sugar, and Patty had little doubt a bowl of vanilla ice cream wouldn't be long in coming. Smiling, she nestled back under her covers and thumbed through the newest issue of Time Magazine. Not even a discussion of supply-side economics could pique her interest. She glanced at her watch. Back at school they were just starting math class; and Patty had been looking forward to a special project Mr. Berman had promised would keep her busy for a while.

  Except for the vanilla ice cream, Patty hated being sick because being sick meant staying home from school. She looked forward to school each morning the way other kids looked forward to summer vacation. She loved the feeling of excitement when she sat down in class and opened her book, even if that excitement wasn't quite as much fun as it used to be. It seemed the longer she was in school, the harder the teachers at Harborfields Elementary found it to keep ahead of her.

  Lately, Patty had been spending a lot of time in the Rocky Hill library, checking out big fat books on physics and calculus and advanced methods of food production for the Third World. The librarian said that pretty soon Patty would have to go to the big Somerset County library in Bridgewater. "Can't keep up with you, honey," the woman had said with a shake of her gray head. "Don't know if the whole state can for long."

  Now and then she'd hear teachers whisper about special classes and what a shame it was a child so bright was languishing in a school like theirs, and a cold knot of fear would form in Patty's stomach and make her wish she could be like everybody else. She loved her friends and she loved her teachers, and she couldn't imagine going to school any place but Harborfields. Sometimes she would see her mother's face grow all cloudy and sad looking when she thought Patty wasn't looking, and Patty found herself scared and confused and angry that her mom had to work so hard for things other people took for granted.

  If she had a father, it all would be different. She just knew it. When there was a father in the house, everything was better. She knew real families weren't like the old TV shows where father always did know best. In real families both mom and dad went to work and the kids had keys to the house. Real families didn't always fit together the way they should; real families didn't always like each other; but real families stayed together forever and that was the one thing Patty wanted.

  She loved going to Susan's and listening to Mrs. Gerard complain about Mr. Gerard's magazines scattered around the family room and the toothpaste tube left uncapped in the bathroom. Even though Patty was only ten years old and had never had a father of her own, she somehow knew that Mrs. Gerard's griping was a form of affection and she wished with all her heart she had a father around the house to scatter magazines around and leave toothpaste tubes uncapped and make her mother smile.

  Murphy O'Rourke could make her mother smile.

  The magazine slipped from her fingers and she closed her eyes. Grandma Betty was whistling in the kitchen and Patty could hear the low mumble of the television set. She didn't want to fall asleep. Any minute Grandma would be bringing in a dish of vanilla ice cream, but it was so cozy there tucked under the covers. From somewhere came the sound of a doorbell ringing and as she drifted into sleep, Patty wondered who would come calling in the middle of a regular day. . .

  "Honey, I'm home!" Murphy O'Rourke, looking tall and handsome in his corduroy jacket and worn raincoat, stepped through the front door of their house in Rocky Hill.

  "Darling!" Sam O'Rourke swept into the room, her full skirts billowing around her knees. "Dinner is almost ready. I made your favorite—chili and spare ribs." Sam's dark hair was swept off her face and fell below her shoulders in glossy ringlets. Her makeup was perfect, Her frilly white apron looked fetching against her pale blue dress.

  Murphy tossed down his briefcase on the piano bench and pulled her into his arms. "Just think," he said, "if it hadn't been for Patty, we never would have met."

  "Yes," said Sam with a delighted sigh. "We owe this all to our daughter. Patricia Dean O'Rourke, the youngest graduate in MIT's history. . ."

  "No man is luckier," said Murphy.

  "No woman is happier," sighed Sam.

  And no dream had ever been better.

  Chapter Six

  "Five minutes," said Sam as Caroline turned off the engine and let out the clutch later that evening. "I'll pick up the empty trays, get a bit of feedback from O'Rourke, and we're on our way."


  "Don't rush on my account," said Caroline, reaching for the door handle.

  "You don't have to come with me." Sam swung her legs out of the low-slung car. "I'll be back before you know it." The very last thing she needed was Caroline's opinion of Murphy O'Rourke.

  Sam crunched across the gravel driveway with Caroline's footsteps crunching right behind. Boisterous male laughter seeped through the walls of O'Rourke's Bar and Grill, along with the friendly blare of big band music popular around the time of the Second World War.

  "They sound like a happy group," Caroline observed as they paused in front of the door.

  Sam resisted the urge to smooth her bangs and refresh her lipstick. Mustering up a smile, she opened the door and ushered Caroline inside.

  Her friend looked at the crowd and went pale. "Samantha, these men are seventy, if they're a day."

  "I know."

  Caroline's shock was almost comical. "How old is O'Rourke, anyway?"

  Sam was about to answer when she heard footsteps behind her, then a male voice.

  "Hi, Sam."

  Both women turned as Murphy O'Rourke, clad in a putty-colored shirt and a pair of baggy cords, strolled up to them. He carried a bottle of Schnapps in one hand and a bar towel in the other.

  "Caroline," said Sam with a wide grin, "this is Murphy."

  He tucked the bar towel in his belt and extended his hand. "You're the one with the clothes shop."

  Caroline shook his hand and shot Sam another quelling glance. "You've been talking about me?"

  "Patty has," said Murphy. "She called to tell me you both would be stopping by."

  Sam's face flashed with embarrassment. God only knew what else her voluble daughter might have told O'Rourke. "You might want to consider an unlisted number. Patty seems to have taken quite a liking to you."

  He shrugged amiably. "It's mutual. She's some piece of work,"

  Sam warmed at his words. "That she is. She's always trying to set me up with—" She stopped herself just in time and gestured toward the busy saloon. "You're busy. Why don't you show me where the trays are and we'll be on our way."

  O'Rourke's hazel eyes were friendly and disarmingly direct. "You in a rush?"

  "We're going out to dinner."

  "I hope you don't have reservations?'

  She blinked. "I beg your pardon?"

  He inclined his head toward Caroline who—amazingly—was now perched atop Scotty's table and laughing uproariously with his companions. "I don't think she's in any hurry."

  "So I see." Sam glanced again at her best friend. "It would serve her right if I took her Jag and aimed it for the Pizza Hut."

  "Patty said it's a celebration." He led her toward the bar where she claimed a stool on the end. "Congratulations. What are you celebrating?"

  "My last day of school. If I never see Manhattan again it'll be too soon. I hate that city."

  His expression darkened, and she remembered that Manhattan had been his stomping grounds before he walked off the job at the Telegram.

  "Sorry, Murphy. I have strong feelings about New York City and most of them aren't nice."

  "New York's a great place if you're rich enough to enjoy it. Fortunately I was rich enough." He reached under the bar and pulled up a bottle of Asti Spumante. "How about a toast to your graduation?"

  She hesitated a moment. "I haven't eaten yet today. I might end up with a lampshade on my head."

  He grinned. "I'd offer you some food but they cleaned me out."

  Her eyes widened. "They ate everything? Even the bacon-and-mushroom pinwheels?"

  "Even the pinwheels. I'd thought this meat-and-potatoes bunch would turn their noses up at fancy stuff like that."

  She ran her hand along the brass rail, admiring the old-fashioned workmanship that had gone into the bar itself. "The world's full of surprises."

  "Like that kid of yours," he said, popping the cork on the Asti.

  "Like that kid of mine." She cast another glance at Caroline who paid her not the slightest heed. "Genius doesn't exactly run in my family."

  He reached over and pulled down two flute glasses from the rack. "What about her father's family?"

  "If genius ran in their family, maybe they'd be smart enough to appreciate their granddaughter."

  "Their loss. I can't imagine anybody meeting Patty and not liking her."

  Of course it was much more complicated than that and they both knew it. Not the sort of thing you discussed with a man you barely knew.

  She watched as he poured the Italian champagne into the glasses. Murphy O'Rourke had nice hands, large and well formed, with a dusting of sandy-colored hair. His nails were cared for but not manicured. Sam hated men who wore clear polish and had their hair permed every few weeks. From the looks of O'Rourke's mop, he rarely paid a visit to the barber, which was all right by Sam.

  He handed her a flute of Asti, then raised his glass. "To your success."

  She raised her own in answer. "To a wonderful future for all of us."

  They touched glasses. Sam sighed in pleasure as the bubbly golden liquid slithered down her throat. Normally talk of Patty's father or grandparents was enough to send Sam into a black cloud of depression, equaled only by her own reluctance to admit someone as dear as her little girl could mean so little to her own flesh and blood.

  There was something about O'Rourke that rattled her defenses and loosened her tongue. He was as straightforward as a mug of draft. He had told her he wasn't known for his tact, and his behavior had borne out that statement, but somehow Sam found his blunt talk refreshing, instead of abrasive.

  "I should get going." Sam polished off the rest of the Italian champagne and thanked God she wasn't driving for her head was buzzing rather nicely at that moment. "I have to be home by eleven."

  Murphy chuckled and shot her a curious look. "A curfew at your age?"

  She made a face at him. "My dad's babysitting Patty tonight. Eleven is his bedtime."

  He looked down at the battered watch on his wrist. "You're running out of time."

  "Don't I know it." Across the room, Caroline was bent over the checker board with the apparent concentration of a nuclear physicist on the verge of a big discovery. "I'm ready to eat your bar stools." She cast him a mournful look. "Do you have any pretzels?"

  O'Rourke's hazel eyes twinkled with a wicked light. "We can do better than that."

  "I can?"

  He reached for Sam's hand and drew her to her feet. "Let's go."

  * * *

  "THEY'RE GOING to be furious," said Sam, ten minutes later as they took their seats at Tony's Pizzeria.

  "No, they're not," said Murphy.

  "We shouldn't have done this."

  "Why not?'

  "What about the bar?"

  'Scotty will keep things running."

  "Caroline will kill me."

  "Do you care?"

  A laugh escaped Sam. "Not at the moment." She sighed with pleasure. "You were right, Murphy. This pizza is fantastic!"

  "Worth the walk?"

  "Even in a blizzard!" Sam had grumbled as they walked the two blocks to Tony's in a bitter wind, but she had to admit it was worth it. "The question is—how do we get the rest of the pizzas back to the bar before they turn into popsicles?"

  Murphy gestured toward a sign near the cash register. "Tony delivers.'

  She stopped, pizza halfway to her mouth. "You could have called in the order."

  "Sure I could have." He sprinkled crushed red pepper on his slice. "But you have to admit it's quieter here."

  It was also more private. There had been thirty pairs of eyes trained intently upon them back at O'Rourke's. Thirty pairs of ears straining to hear every word that passed between them. Not that their words were particularly interesting or intimate, but such avid attention had made Sam a bit uncomfortable, especially with Caroline's bright blue eyes following Sam's every move.

  Murphy might be a well-known figure at Tony's, but Sam wasn't and she found herself delighting
in her anonymity. She could eat and drink and laugh all she wanted and not one single member of her family was around to wonder what was really going on. Sure, Caroline would have a few questions but Sam was certain she could handle her friend's curiosity.

  Her own curiosity, however, was something else again as she pretended to concentrate her attention on her pizza. Truth was, it was Murphy O'Rourke who had her wondering.

  "Hot peppers?" asked Murphy, pushing the container toward her.

  "No, thanks."

  "Cheese?"

  "Not right now."

  That wonderful lopsided grin tilted his mouth. "Questions?"

  She leaned across the table. "What are we doing here?"

  "You don't like it?"

  "I love it."

  "I thought you would."

  "You should be back at the bar."

  "I needed a break. I was OD-ing on cigar smoke."

  She nodded and sat back in her chair, chewing thoughtfully. So, what did you expect, Dean? A declaration of love? He wanted to get out and stretch his legs and grab a bite to eat. There was no mystery in that, no hidden romance. She refused to acknowledge a twinge of disappointment and instead grabbed for the hot peppers and sprinkled them liberally on her second slice of pizza.

  Tony was whistling behind the counter as he packed the six pies into their boxes. The savory smells of onion and pepperoni and sausage filled the air.

  "Do you always treat your customers this well?" Sam asked after Tony's delivery boy staggered out to the truck, unable to see over the stack of boxes.

  "Good customer relations," he said with a shrug. "Keeps 'em coming back for more."