The Irishman's Christmas Gamble (Wager of Hearts #2.5)

by Nancy Herkness

  Liam gave her a long, level look. “She deserved better than a man who’s in love with another woman.”

  Frankie felt as though he’d slammed her back against the seat, but she concentrated on not moving a muscle. “You told her that.”

  “I’m not an eejit. She figured it out on her own.”

  Her stomach plunged like an airplane caught in a downdraft. She’d dismissed all his declarations of undying love as exaggerations, meant to blarney her into his arms. But Carolyn had seen the reality of his feelings.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, stalling to give herself time to wrestle her own response under control. Because her heart had soared back up and hurled itself against the walls of her chest, trying to force her to tell Liam that she loved him too. Always had.

  Always would.

  “I’m not,” he said.

  Her heart slammed into her rib cage again. Maybe the age difference no longer mattered. Maybe his athletic success could counterbalance her enormous wealth. Maybe Owen would be enough of a family for him.

  Too many maybes. She’d never go into a business deal with all those unknowns.

  Liam leaned against the door of the limo, scanning the crowd of children pouring out of the brick school building’s double doors. Frankie had elected to stay in the car, claiming Owen needed to know he was the focus of Liam’s attention.

  She’d changed the subject after he’d told her about Carolyn. And he’d let her do it because he was afraid to push any harder. Frankie had built so many walls between them. He wasn’t sure he could tear them all down. And the thought of her walking away again shredded his guts.

  “Da!” Owen’s young voice yanked him out of his unhappy thoughts. The boy was barreling down the front sidewalk, his backpack bouncing behind him as he waved a square of brown paper in the air.

  Liam’s chest squeezed as it always did when he saw his son’s face light up at the sight of him. In two strides he was across the street and kneeling to catch Owen in his arms, the boy’s thin shoulders feeling as light and fragile as a bird’s under his hands.

  “Look at the cool picture frame I made you. It’s a reindeer,” Owen said, leaning back against Liam’s embrace to hold out the construction paper frame decorated with antlers on the top, two plastic eyes on the sides, and a button nose on the bottom. “It’s a little babyish because the teacher made us outline our hands for the antlers, but the moving eyes are cool. Mom said I could give it to you because she got the snowman snow globe.”

  “Your mom’s a generous lady to give up such a magnificent gift,” Liam said, working to keep his voice steady as he touched one hand-shaped antler. He still had every paper, painting, and craft project that Owen or Carolyn had given him. “I’ll need a picture of you to put in it, and then I’ll display it on my coffee table for everyone to admire.”

  “Maybe we could take a picture with you in it too,” Owen said, with a shy sideways glance.

  Liam wanted to squeeze Owen in a bear hug for that. “That would be even better. I’ve got a friend with me who could take that photo for us.”

  The light in his son’s face dimmed. “It’s not just us?”

  “It’s my old friend, Frankie. I’ve told you stories about her.”

  Owen perked up. “The chocolate lady?”

  Liam nodded and rose, taking Owen’s hand to walk to the limo. A couple of parents nodded to Liam with recognition written on their faces. Several of Owen’s classmates wished him happy holidays.

  “Let me have your backpack and then you can scoot in beside Frankie,” Liam said, before he slid onto the leather seat beside his son. “Frankie, meet Owen. Owen, you’ve heard a lot about Frankie.”

  Surprise showed in the slight lift of Frankie’s eyebrows, but she held out her hand. “Nice to meet you, Owen. I’ve known your dad for a long time.”

  Owen put his small hand in hers. “Nice to meet you too. Da says your chocolates are the best in the world.”

  “Maybe you should find out for yourself. I brought some with me.”

  Owen’s eyes went wide as Frankie pulled the sizeable Taste of Ireland sampler out of her shopping bag. “Da’s given me some before, but never this much.” He turned to Liam. “Can I have one before lunch? I’m so hungry.”

  Frankie flinched before she could stop herself, as the child’s voice hurled her back into the bedroom she shared with her sisters. She forced herself to breathe through the sudden clutch of panic.

  “It’s a special occasion, so I think it can be allowed,” Liam said, his smile fading into a look of puzzled concern as he scanned Frankie’s face.

  It had been hard enough to keep herself in the present when she saw Owen through the car window. Except for the child’s mop of dark blond hair, he was the spitting image of Liam as a boy with the same wiry body and coiled energy. When the boy had slipped into the car and turned Liam’s dark blue eyes on her, she’d nearly gasped.

  Owen ripped the plastic off the box of chocolates and lifted off the top, giving Frankie time to fight down the memories of other small, but thinner hands, reaching for the occasional rejected chocolate she brought home from work at Balfour’s. Owen started to pick out a Minty Shamrock before pulling back and holding the box out to her. “Would you like one?”

  “You’re a very polite young man, but they’re all yours. Are Minty Shamrocks your favorite?”

  Owen took the shamrock before offering the box to his father. “I like the way the shape feels on my tongue before I bite into it and let the mint out.” He popped the chocolate into his mouth.

  “A real connoisseur.” Frankie was impressed with the sophistication of his answer. “I think you’ll like this other gift then.” She pulled the chemistry kit from the shopping bag.

  “Don’t I have to wait until Christmas to open it?” But Owen had already plunked the box of chocolates down on his father’s lap.

  “It’s not wrapped in Christmas paper, so that eliminates the need to wait.” She transferred the large box to Owen.

  “You’re cool,” the boy said, as he found a corner of the brown wrapping paper and pulled.

  The pleasure on Liam’s face made Frankie’s heart twist with sadness. She could almost feel the power of his longing to have his son and his oldest friend take to each other.

  Owen ripped the wrapping off the front of the box. “This is awesome! Is there chocolate in it?”

  Frankie pointed to the chocolate wafers in the photo on the box. “But I’ll send you more since you have such a fine palate for it.”

  “I do?”

  “That means you don’t just know that the chocolate tastes good, you know why it tastes that way,” Frankie said.

  “I have a fine palate,” Owen said to his father.

  Liam ruffled the boy’s hair. “And she would know because she’s a professional.”

  The limousine came to a stop by the curb. Owen leaned over Frankie to look out the window. “It’s Paddy’s Pub,” he said, his young voice vibrating with excitement.

  “A pub?” Frankie had made too many trips to the neighborhood pub in Finglas to collect her father when he was too drunk to find his own way home.

  “One of my mates from Team Ireland owns it, so Owen gets treated like visiting royalty,” Liam said, before he added in a low voice, “and it’s nothing like the Leprechaun.”

  Her father’s favorite boozer to get plastered in. “Thank God.”

  “They have the best chips in America,” Owen said. “Paddy’s secret recipe.”

  The limo driver swung open the door and offered his hand to Frankie while Owen scrambled out behind her. Frankie eyed the half-timbered facade with mullioned windows and a bright green shamrock painted on the faux-Tudor sign. “Just like the Auld Sod,” she said, her tone as dry as desert sand. But relief loosened the clench of her shoulders. Liam was right. It was nothing like the Leprechaun.

  “Americans like the atmosphere, according to Paddy,” Liam said. Owen was already at the door, looking over h
is shoulder at them. Liam held out his hand to Frankie. She took it, knowing he meant it to be a comfort to her. She regretted it when she saw the boy’s smile fade as he saw his father’s gesture.

  Liam drew her forward and held the door open. Frankie waved Owen through in front of her, and the air exploded with a chorus of Irish accents shouting, “Owen! Liam!” followed by various abusively friendly greetings.

  The interior continued the ye-olde-historic-pub theme with dark paneling, a long polished bar, dart boards, and brass lamps, all serving as a background for a shrine to Irish football. She couldn’t call it soccer here where photos, posters, framed jerseys, and scarves were all tributes to Team Ireland.

  The din of welcome quieted to a single voice, as a blond man of about Liam’s age came toward them with his hand thrust out. He wore jeans and a button-down shirt striped in green and orange. His stride was fluid and efficient, reminding her of Liam’s. This must be his former teammate.

  “Paddy Naughton,” the man said, taking her hand. “You’re much too lovely a lass to be hangin’ around the likes of Liam Keller, so I’ll be glad to rescue you.”

  She put her hand in his warm, strong grasp. “Frankie Hogan.” It came out in full-on Irish, an involuntary response to Paddy’s deep accent.

  “Ye’re a Dubliner, then. That deserves a kiss.” He leaned in to give her a smacking buss on the cheek.

  “Away and pull yer wire,” Liam said, putting his arm around Frankie’s waist.

  Paddy winked at her. “Don’t go actin’ the maggot, Kells. I was just bein’ cordial.”

  Owen was already perched on a stool, chatting with the bartender. Liam tapped his son on the shoulder. “We’ll be taking a table today.”

  The boy sighed but jumped off the stool and followed them to a high-backed booth. Paddy handed Frankie a menu and nodded to the wall beside her. “Thought you’d appreciate the Liam Keller table.”

  She looked up and saw the photograph of Liam sitting on his teammates’ shoulders, his head thrown back in a silent shout as he lifted his arms above his head. His hair was matted to his skull and his knees were bloody, but his face was lit with the savage joy of triumph. She had the same photograph in the file in her office. It was from the game that had advanced Ireland to the quarter-finals of the World Cup. And one of her favorites because it showed the essence of the boy who wouldn’t allow the world to beat him down.

  “Can we order now?” Owen asked. “I’m starving.”

  His child’s whine slashed through her, and all the memories, all the images, all the Irishness of this place swelled up in her chest until she couldn’t breathe, couldn’t see, couldn’t slow the pounding of her heart.

  Sweat seemed to erupt from her pores, soaking her blouse so it clung to her skin as she saw her six-year-old sister double over, sobbing and clutching her stomach when the hunger cramps grew too strong. The disappointed faces of her younger siblings arrayed around the table as she dished out one spoonful of watery boiled potatoes on each plate and nothing more. The humiliation of coaching her youngest sister to open her big blue eyes wide when Frankie took her to the grocer’s to beg for rotten fruit.

  She was going to explode.

  “Liam, I’m not feeling well. I’ll wait in the car.” She brushed away his concern as he rose to let her scramble out of the booth. Calling on every ounce of strength she could muster, she locked her eyes on his and spoke in a normal tone, “Stay with Owen. I need air, that’s all.”

  She bolted out the door and into the car. Dropping her head back against the seat, she forced herself to breathe in for six seconds, hold for six seconds, breathe out for six seconds. The child’s cry I’m starving beat against the inside of her skull like a hammer against a gong.

  She yanked out her phone. “Vincent, I need to get back there ASAP. Send a car and the chopper.”

  By the time Liam had gotten Owen’s lunch to go and dragged his son to the limo, Frankie was gone. The driver said a car had picked her up not five minutes after she’d made a phone call. “She asked me to give you these,” he said, handing Liam two small folded notes.

  He flipped open the one with his name on it.

  Dear Liam,

  Your son is a fine young man. You should be very proud of him. I am honored that I got to meet him. But it’s too much. All the memories. I can’t. I’m sorry.

  Frankie

  He crumpled the paper with a snarl. She couldn’t even bring herself to add a word of affection in her closing.

  “Da? What happened to Frankie?” Owen asked.

  Liam shoved the balled-up paper into his pocket. “She got sick and went home.”

  “But the limo’s still here.”

  “She’s a very resourceful lady, so she called a cab.” Or something faster, to carry her away from her past. “Here’s your lunch. Go ahead and eat in the car.”

  Owen grabbed the takeout bag with enthusiasm, while Liam unfolded the note with Owen’s name on it. He wasn’t handing his son anything that Frankie had written without checking it first.

  Dear Owen,

  I’m sorry to leave without saying good-bye. I might have a touch of the stomach flu, and I didn’t want to pass my germs to you and your da. I’ve known your da for a long, long time, and I want to tell you that he is the strongest, most honorable man I’ve ever met. You can always trust him to have your back, to take care of you, to be there when you need him. He will love you truly, with everything in him. And he will never hurt you. You are too young to understand what a rare thing that is, but in time you will. Be good to him, Owen, and love him with all your heart. He is one of the few people who is worthy of it.

  Warmest regards,

  Frankie

  Liam folded the note as though it were fine, fragile silk, smoothing it between his fingers. He stood with his head down while he fought back the black sea of anguish trying to drown him. Maybe he would give Owen this note one day, but not now.

  These could be the last words he would ever have from Frankie.

  Chapter Nine

  Frankie stepped out of her elevator and walked straight to the door to her terrace. She needed the slap and bite of the frigid winter wind to counter the storm raging in her mind and heart. She walked to the wall and pressed her hands down into the frosting of snow Liam had joked about her staff leaving for picturesque effect.

  Liam. Her body jerked as though she’d been shocked. She threw her head back as she fought the torrent of agony the thought of him sent roaring through her. A long, low moan wrenched itself from her throat, rising to the gunmetal gray sky.

  She felt as though some part of her, an organ deep inside her body, had been cut out of her, leaving a gaping emptiness that was worse than the slash of a razor blade. She’d carried him there, next to her heart, all these years. And now she had to rip him out because her past could still rise up and destroy her.

  Her hands burned with cold, but she held them against the snow and frozen stone, pushing them against the gritty surface.

  She wasn’t strong enough to face down her terrors and come to Liam as a whole, undamaged person. She wasn’t worthy of his love, wasn’t worthy even to claim his friendship.

  The wind sliced through her thin cashmere sweater and she shuddered. Frostbite and pneumonia weren’t the answer, so she tucked her hands under her arms and trudged back into the warmth of her apartment. Her gaze went to the framed photos Liam had picked up. The ones she’d carried with her everywhere.

  Walking straight to them, she picked up the frame and flipped open the back to pull the strip of paper out. She touched the two young faces, the excitement of their smiles contrasting with the fear and loneliness in their eyes. The soccer academy was Liam’s big chance, and they both burned for him to succeed.

  But they’d survived the desperation and dangers of Finglas because they’d always had each other. Once he left, there had been no one to cheer her on, no one to trust with her secrets, no one to protect her from her mistakes.

&n
bsp; She hadn’t cried that day, not even after Liam’s ferry to England had rumbled away from the dock. She’d gone to work and wrapped herself in the warm, comforting aroma of melted chocolate.

  Now tears streaked down her cheeks, one after the other, dropping onto the two tiny photos, making the cheap chemicals fade. She let them.

  Carrying the small photos with her, she went to her bedroom and took the two enlargements off the wall. She ripped off the backing and pulled the two pictures out of the frames before she headed back to the elevator.

  When it opened on the first floor, she strode to her office suite, closing the door to the reception area before she walked to the fireplace. As always in the winter, a small fire flickered there. She tilted the metal fire screen forward and flicked the photos into the flames, watching them curl and turn black around the edges before they burned.

  As soon as the last ash dropped through the grate, she retrieved the key to her office safe and pulled the massive door open. The leather file box that held all the clippings and photos of Liam that she’d collected over the years stood on a shelf, right at eye level. She yanked it out and carried it to her desk, sitting down to lift off the lid.

  She pulled the most recent folder out. It was filled with stories and photos announcing that Liam had signed on as head coach for the New York Challenge, the city’s new, high profile soccer team, created by the same organization that owned the New York Yankees. She flipped it open to be hit by a head shot of Liam looking directly into the camera with a confident smile on his face, just like the one he’d worn as he surveyed the vast emptiness of Yankee Stadium the night of their dinner there. She slumped back in her chair and closed her eyes until the anguish lessened enough for her to breathe again.

  Swiveling, she fed the folder into the high-powered paper shredder, wincing as the razor-sharp blades chewed through the papers she’d pored over when she craved the sight of her old friend.