Seeds of Tyrone Box Set

by Debbie McGowan

  Now she stood at his door and he was faced with the choice of giving her preferential treatment and letting her cut in front of Mr. Miller’s mail, the leaky showerhead in 307B, and Miss Jenner and Bryan, or telling her no.

  “Aren’t you going to invite me in?” she asked slowly.

  No tenant had ever been inside his apartment, much less Mrs. Wright.

  “Uh…”

  He’d hesitated too long for the beautiful woman and she shoved past him into his tiny kitchen. Automatically he shut the door, and when he turned back, he found she’d removed her jacket revealing nothing more than a bit of lace covering over her privates. All the wires in his brain short-circuited. What? Huh?

  “This countertop is disgusting,” Mrs. Wright said. “We should fuck on it.”

  “I don’t…”

  Aidan didn’t have the capacity to think further than tenant and married and what in the hell?

  “No?” His mouth betrayed him, coming out as a question rather than a statement.

  “No?” she repeated, walking toward him in heels that clicked pointedly against his linoleum. “What could you possibly mean by no? I’m paying you. If I want to fuck the help in his shitty little apartment on his dirty counter like some sort of lower class whore, I’ll do it. Money’s in my purse. Ms. Ashmore said you took a fifty from her.” She chuckled as if she thought that was cute. “I can pay you a lot more.”

  A wave of nausea hit Aidan so hard he thought his knees were going to buckle. Instead, he groped blindly for the door that he’d closed only moments before. Oh, Jesus, no. How many women in The Grand Heights thought he was some sort of…prostitute?

  Mrs. Wright’s sultry grin began to change. “Where are you going?”

  “Work,” Aidan said. “I have to work. I’m not…I can’t…I’ve got to…”

  Mrs. Wright raised her fingers and snapped, but for once Aidan wouldn’t be swayed. He somehow got the door open, stumbling backwards out of his space. He almost collided with Jill who had—finally—come to see what was taking him so long. It was a miracle he managed to slam shut his door before Jill saw the mostly naked Mrs. Wright leaning against his countertop. (Which really wasn’t all that dirty.)

  “What the heck were you doing in there?” Jill asked.

  “Nothing. I’m ready. Fire first? And then mail, showerhead, threaten Bryan, got it.”

  Chapter Six:

  Pea-Super

  “I swear, Max, as God is my witness, they’re like a little piece of heaven in your belly.” Patrick continued along the supermarket aisle, steering the cart one-handed, the other hand clasping his phone to his ear.

  “Ugh, they are diz-guz-ting,” Maxine pronounced in an exaggerated fashion. In the background Patrick could hear the muted whirr of exercise bikes and treadmills, and pictured Maxine, sitting at her desk, in her spartan office at the back of the gym, a tremendous pile of unfiled workout sheets in front of her. She made a slurping sound and he laughed.

  “See, now, you’re telling me mushy peas are disgusting, but you still drink that dreadful gray gloop. But anyway, did you want to come up and share supper with your old pal?”

  Maxine sighed. “I can’t. I’m sorry. I’ve got this date with…er…thingum-a-jig. Damn, I really need to remember his name before I get to the restaurant.”

  Patrick picked up a can of chick peas, rolling it from side to side as he spoke. “What’s he look like?”

  “It’s the guy with the tattoo of an eagle across his back.”

  “Brandon.”

  “Yeah! That’s him! Brandon. Okay. What d’you think of the red dress with black heels?”

  “Brazen.”

  “Red heels?”

  “Lady of the night. What are the chances of chick peas being more or less the same thing?”

  “How would I know? Mom always made ’em, not me. So not the red dress.”

  “No. What about that blue one with the beads around the bottom?”

  “You think that’s gonna get me the guy of my dreams?”

  “Maxine, my darlin’, how can he possibly be the man of your dreams when you can’t keep the poor fella’s name in your head for more than thirty seconds?”

  “That is so unfair! And so not true.”

  Patrick smirked to himself and put the chick peas back on the shelf. “Right. So who’s your date tonight with again?”

  “Brendan. Ha!”

  “Brandon. B-R-A-N-D-O-N.”

  Maxine squealed into Patrick’s ear and he moved his phone away, laughing.

  “Okay,” she said, “you win. Blue dress it is.”

  “Ah, you know I was just tormenting about the red dress. Wear what’ll make you feel most comfortable.”

  “Er, yeah. I think maybe guys’ sweatpants are out of the question. I’d much rather come and eat with you, but I already canceled on…the poor guy once.”

  “I’m telling you, you’re missing a treat. Rosemary leg of lamb, new potatoes in butter and—” Patrick stopped talking and did a double-take, unsure if he’d just seen what he thought he had.

  “And your mashed-up peas.”

  “Mushy,” he corrected absently.

  “Uh-huh? You’re made for each other,” Maxine said knowingly. “Spotted something you like?”

  “I, erm, I’d best let you get on. I’ll be back in about half an hour, all right?”

  “Sure. See ya.” Maxine hung up.

  Patrick quickly locked his phone and shoved it in his pants pocket, then slowly edged around the end of the aisle, scanning up ahead. “Yep. That’s him, all right.” It was the young widower from the cemetery. For a moment the other man stopped and looked up, along the signs indicating the different sections of the store, before turning right into the homeware aisle. Patrick thumbed his chin, wondering if it would be too stalkerish to try a stealthy dash up the adjacent aisle so that they met “by chance” at the other end.

  Just being friendly, Patrick tried to convince himself as he swerved into the aisle in question, oversteered and almost took out a stack of bath towels. He straightened his cart and dodged his way between other shoppers, finally reaching the other end, just as the other guy passed by, his back now to Patrick. All of a sudden his incredible, usually infallible memory for names, failed him completely. Serves me right for mocking Max, he thought, turning his cart and increasing his speed in an attempt to catch the guy up. He raced through names in his head, convinced that it started with “N”—Neil, Niall, Nicholas, Nikoli? N- N- N- Ah, hell… He’d been spotted.

  The guy turned with a frown and did his own double-take, his expression quickly morphing from a sullen frown, to surprise, to a beautiful, beaming smile.

  “Patrick? Hi.”

  “Hello, er—” It came to him in a flash. “—Aidan. How are ya?” Stupid question. Two hours ago he was crouched over a grave. How do you think he is, you eejit?

  “I’m okay, thanks. You, er, live nearby?”

  “No. I sometimes stop here on my way home from work. And I was starving, so…”

  Aidan glanced into Patrick’s cart, an eyebrow rising in puzzlement. “That looks like an interesting meal.”

  “Oh, it’s great. One of my mam’s favorites. Mine too.” Patrick could feel his face burning. God, he’s beautiful. Look at those eyes. And those lips. He noticed Aidan was blushing too. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to…” Patrick covered his eyes with his hand and peered between his fingers. Aidan was still watching him and laughing. What a glorious thing that was. Laughter coming from the handsome young widower. Patrick smiled sheepishly.

  “Have I got dirt on my nose, or something?” Aidan teased.

  “No. Just…” Patrick moved his hand away, keeping his eye contact with Aidan. “You’ve got freckles on your nose.”

  “Yep. Not as many as you.”

  Patrick nodded in acceptance of Aidan’s point. He was very freckly, all over.

  “Your accent. It’s Irish?”

  “Yeah, well, mostly. My mam was Iris
h, but I’ve lived over here since I was fourteen.”

  “Oh, okay.” Aidan paused a moment, processing what Patrick had said. “Your mom passed away?”

  “Yeah. A few years ago. She’s buried not far from your wife, actually.”

  “My wife?” For a second Aidan looked confused. “Nadia, you mean?”

  “Yeah.” Patrick cringed. He was usually so good at talking to people and getting it right, but he could see from Aidan’s face that he was way off track.

  “Nadia’s my twin sister.” Aidan’s smile faded. “Was my twin sister. I don’t think I’ll ever stop missing her.”

  Patrick reached out and brushed his hand down Aidan’s arm. “Of course you won’t. I’m so sorry for your loss, Aidan.”

  Aidan nodded and kept his eyes downturned. “What happened to your mom, if, you, er, don’t mind me asking?”

  “Not at all. She had cancer.”

  “Oh.” Aidan glanced up and gave Patrick a quick smile. “That must have been really tough on you.”

  “It was. But in the end it was a relief that she didn’t suffer. And it’s getting easier all the time. I’ve got good friends who help me through.”

  Aidan nodded, but it was more thoughtful than understanding. “Friends,” he echoed and followed it up with a dejected shrug. “I lost contact with all my friends after Nadia. It’s my own fault. They tried to keep in touch, but I just…I just couldn’t face them.”

  Patrick still had his hand on Aidan’s arm and gave it a gentle squeeze. Before he got as far as responding, another shopper’s cart lightly clipped the back of his leg, reminding him that they were standing in the middle of a store—not an ideal location for a conversation like this. He stepped to one side and beckoned Aidan to do likewise.

  “Did you get what you came for?” Patrick asked.

  Aidan lifted his hand and examined the shrink-wrapped showerhead. “Yeah,” he said, a sigh of disappointment escaping with the word. He blinked and shook his head. “Did you?”

  “No, actually. I need some English peas.”

  “English peas? Like sweet peas?”

  “Ah, not quite. They’re what we call garden peas back home, unless you like the taste of flowers of course. Mind you, marigolds are supposed to be great in a salad, so…” Patrick cursed himself for rambling. “What I mean is back home ‘sweet pea’ is a flowering variety, with the most delicate, colorful petals and a glorious scent. English peas are much bigger than what you call sweet peas, and they mush well.”

  “They what?”

  “Mush.”

  Aidan’s smile returned. “How are you spelling that?”

  “M-U-S-H.”

  “Oh. Mush, not moosh.”

  “Didn’t I just say that?” Patrick said with a grin. “Look, it’s been really great talking to you, but I need to head off home. My mate Maxine runs a gym and she’s got a date, so I’m manning the place tonight.”

  “I understand. I need to get back myself. I only came to get this for a break.” Aidan looked Patrick in the eye. “Thank you.”

  “Whatever I did, you’re welcome. I’ll see you around, all right?”

  “Yeah, you will. Enjoy your ‘moosh.’”

  Patrick laughed. “Thanks. You enjoy your, er, showerhead.”

  Aidan rolled his eyes and with a smile turned away. Patrick’s insides had turned to…

  “Moosh.” He finished the thought aloud and returned to his search for English peas.

  Chapter Seven:

  A Friendship Date

  “You’re becoming my best customer,” the older woman behind the florist counter said. She was wearing a dark green apron with her name embroidered on it. Doe. He imagined there was a story there. “She’s still not agreed to go out with you?” Doe guessed. “Or is it forgiveness you’re seeking?”

  Oh, definitely the second. Nadia’s forgiveness. His own. But today, as Aidan eyed the mixed flowers near the front of the shop, he tried not to think about his ulterior motive for buying them.

  “What’s in this one?”

  “Nice choice,” Doe said with a smile. “Carnations, chrysanthemums, oregonia, and there’s some huckleberry in there too. You want two of them? Double your chances of winning her over? I’ll give you a deal.”

  “Sure.”

  Dumb. He didn’t need two, but as Doe rang up his order, he couldn’t help the smile that played around his lips. A quirky little thought entered his brain. He’d lay the first bouquet on Nadia’s grave and the second he’d… What? Give to the handsome Irish groundskeeper? He had to stifle a laugh. Well, it would probably be a surprise to Patrick. Was just passing by to see Nadia and thought you might like a set of carnations, chrysanthemums, oregonia, and huckleberry. That’s a thing guys give to other guys when they want to be friends, right?

  All at once, the humor of the situation dissipated like a mist of perfume on the breeze. Friends. Jesus. How long had it been since he’d had someone he could call a friend? Lily was the closest thing he had to a friend, and that was just…sad. But every time he and Patrick had spoken, Aidan felt…what was the word for it? Warm? Grounded? Connected. Yes, connected.

  <<< >>>

  By the time Aidan reached the graveyard he felt nervous and excited. He parked at the far end, near the gate, grabbed his two bouquets and then started his trek up the path toward the place where Nadia lay buried. He’d been coming so often to confess his sins to her, that even the gravel under the soles of his shoes felt familiar.

  He scanned the graveyard for a sign of Patrick, but all he could see was a woman and a young boy standing silently, side by side. He tried not to stare and looked down at his sister’s final resting place instead.

  “Hi, Na-Na,” Aidan said as he approached and quietly set one of the bouquets down on her overflowing headstone. There were now almost two weeks’ worth of flowers and even he wondered if he shouldn’t toss some of them out. He definitely couldn’t place the second bouquet without cleaning up a little. He hesitated—what? Was he really going to give them to Patrick?—and laid them on the marble as well and picked up a couple of small, wilting bundles of daisies. “I brought you two sets of flowers today. There’s a whole bunch of things in them…I only remember chrysanthemums now, since you like those. Oh, and carnations. God, I’m rambling.”

  Not just rambling, but disjointedly rambling. He could tell her about his day at work—the toilets he’d unclogged and his conversation with Bryan—or better still, he could tell her about Mrs. Kimiko Wright and how she’d cornered him three more times since first saying she wanted to have sex on his countertop. He could at least assure his twin that he hadn’t—that he wouldn’t—with a married woman. Instead he talked about the flowers.

  Aidan looked up again. It was six o’clock when he left The Grand Heights and it was half past now. Patrick would be around soon to gently, kindly, usher people away from the deceased and back toward their homes.

  He glanced around. The other mourners were heading back to their car.

  Aidan ran his hand over the top of his sister’s tombstone, his fingertips bumping along the textured surface. “I think I might make a friend, Na-Na, if I don’t act like…well…me.”

  Suddenly, Aidan realized why he’d brought the second set of flowers. It was penance for not coming to the graveyard to visit her. At least, not coming to the graveyard only to visit her.

  Aidan quickly rose to his feet and walked back to the main path, veering off when something interesting caught his eye, such as a tombstone so old and faded that he had to put his hands on it to feel the dates underneath the worn marble and moss. There was a family mausoleum, large and ostentatious. He couldn’t help but stop and gawk. (He imagined this was what the Cordova Family had in mind when they built it.) And it was hard, too, not to stop and look at the graves with the ceramic photos mounted above the engraved names. His brain couldn’t reconcile the attractive young girl with big eighties hair and the disarming smile as a corpse buried deep beneath the earth.
He had to turn away.

  When he reached the gates of Babyland, Aidan slowed. He’d never been so close to the two cherub statues or the large wrought iron lettering that arched over the entrance. A cold sweat broke out on his brow. He wanted to move forward and he wanted to flee.

  He’d never brought flowers to the baby. Never visited the baby. Never thought about the baby, save to curse it for killing his sister. He was afraid if he got near its tiny plaque, he’d break down and forgive it. Refer to it by its gender, by its name, and if Aidan did that, he’d have to mourn for the baby, too.

  God, he didn’t have that in him.

  He took a step back and came up hard against a wall. Startled, he jumped and turned, an apology bursting from his mouth.

  “Sorry!”

  Patrick. It was Patrick. And he looked concerned. Goddamnit.

  “Are you all right?”

  “Sure, yeah, you just scared me and—I didn’t mean to step into you.” He fought to get his heartbeat under control. “I’m sorry.”

  “Sad, isn’t it?” Patrick asked, his accent as melodic as ever. Aidan imagined he had no trouble making friends with such an interesting voice. He probably only had to say “hello” and then everyone would ask where he was from and want to buy him a beer.

  “Hmm?”

  “Babyland,” Patrick explained. “Breaks my heart to bury the wee ones. I take extra special care with cleaning up their graves.”

  Aidan nodded dumbly and turned, willing Patrick to follow him. He couldn’t be near Babyland any longer without making a complete ass of himself.

  “I was just walking around,” Aidan explained, glad to see that the handsome redhead, with his sleeves rolled to his elbows, had followed. “I…usually just visit Nadia.”

  “I’ve noticed,” Patrick remarked. “Come to admire our work?”