by Jo McNally
Vickie grabbed a dish towel from the oven door and folded it on the kitchen table for Maura to rest her hands on. She started filing Maura’s nails lightly, then looked up.
“Oh, I forgot to ask—how did the Turn the Page party go last week?”
“From all reports, a rollicking good time was had by all.” Maura grinned. “Except Bridget, of course, but she wouldn’t admit she had fun even if it was the truth.”
Her granddaughter had more defense mechanisms than three Vickies. No matter how much Maura had worked to make sure Bridget found her place in the McKinnon family, Bridget still seemed to be struggling. She was a go-it-alone person in a family full of opinions. Noisy, squabbling opinions, but loving ones. Her desire to have things—and people—under control didn’t always go over well with her cousins. They didn’t realize it was her coping mechanism. Even as a child, she’d seemed overwhelmed by her rowdy family. But Maura gave her a cookbook when she was twelve, and Bridget put her energy into cooking, carrying that preciseness into her life.
Bridget’s father Patrick, God rest his soul, had done his best, but he left most of the child-rearing to Maura while he worked at the pub. The Purple Shamrock was his home, and Bridget had been so desperate for his attention that it became her home, too. She’d started working the kitchen as a teen, and then perfected her skills at culinary school in New York. She’d had her sights set on opening her own restaurant somewhere as far from the Finger Lakes as possible. Maura understood. Bridget wanted to make her own mark, free from the rest of the McKinnons and the town that knew her too well. But when her father died, she’d given up that dream, and the man she said she’d loved, to take over the Purple Shamrock. Because that’s what Patrick had stipulated in his will.
Vickie started applying the nail polish, which was a shade or two brighter than Maura thought it would be. “I don’t get it.” Vickie was frowning at the nail she was painting. “Why is Bridget always so testy? She has a reputation as the crankiest business owner in town, and that’s saying something when our friend Iris is in the mix!”
“That’s probably why she and Iris get along so well.” Maura smiled. Iris owned the Taggart Inn, and, and at eighty, refused to admit she no longer controlled it now that her grandson and his fiancée were running the place. “Two tough women determined to have everything their way. But Bridget isn’t...testy...all the time. She’s more...tasky. She has a lot on her shoulders, and she gets through it by being very focused on checking off each little task.”
“Is tasky another word for short-tempered?” Vickie examined her work, then started on the other hand. “Unfriendly? Because some people say...”
Maura stiffened. “Victoria Pendergast, if I’d believed half of what people said about you, we’d never have become friends. Stuck up. Bitchy. Husband-stealer.”
“I never stole anyone’s husband, and you know it.” Vickie smirked, not bothering to deny the other labels. “He walked away from Beatrice of his own volition, and it was before we ever dated. I didn’t steal him. I...found him.”
“Yeah, you found him on your doorstep, because you already knew each other.”
“That may be, but it wasn’t my fault.” Vickie looked up from her work, her violet eyes shining with humor. “I didn’t ask men to fall at my feet back then. They just...did.” She lifted her shoulder. “But those days are long gone, my friend. And so are all the men. And fair or not, you’re right—those labels stuck, all these years later. So Bridget should do something to change things. All work and no play makes your granddaughter seem cranky and unapproachable. She needs a hobby.” Vickie winked. “Or a man.”
Maura nodded as Vickie brushed on the quick-dry top coat to protect the manicure. “Maybe. But she’s so busy these days. I loved my son, but he wasn’t exactly a visionary when it came to the Shamrock. He was convinced there was nothing wrong with the old place or the old ways and old decor. Business has been sliding for years, and Bridget’s trying to turn it around. But there’s only so much she can do with limited funds.”
“How is she going to buy out her cousins if she doesn’t have the money?”
“That’s a very good question. Her father’s house has always been a money pit. Then he took a second mortgage on it to pay for the kitchen at the pub a few years back. She’s using all her income to cover the mortgage. That’s why she’s been taking in tenants in the downstairs apartment, even though she hates having strangers in her house.” Maura glanced out the window. She could just see the pointed tower roof of the blue house through the trees, only three lots away from her own house.
Bridget’s dad bought it ages ago because it was next door to the pub. All he had to do was walk—or stumble—across the parking lot to get home. But he’d never done a thing to make the big Victorian feel like a home. He’d divided it into apartments after his wife, Monica, died, figuring the upstairs was big enough for him and Bridget. He rented the downstairs apartment to whoever came along. Usually college students, but Patrick had never been all that careful about who he had living under the same roof as his daughter. She’d never asked Bridget why she was so careful to rent to only female tenants, but Maura had a hunch something must have happened.
“I heard she lost her last tenant over the holidays,” Vickie said. “It’ll be tough to find someone in the middle of the school year.”
“Mike told me she had it leased already, so she must have gotten lucky.” Maura wondered why she’d heard that from Mike, and not from Bridget. She’d visited Maura twice since the Turn the Page party and never mentioned it.
Vickie touched Maura’s nails lightly, and smiled when she saw the polish had set. “Have you made a decision about the book club meeting next week? It’s not that big a group in the winter, so we could gather right here if it would be easier, or I can drive you up to the winery. We’ve missed you.”
The book club often met up at Helen Russo’s Falls Legend Winery. The tasting room made a great meeting place for local groups, and Helen made the best cookies and snacks.
“I can’t next week—I have a treatment, remember? Besides, I haven’t been part of the book club for five years. I’m not sure this is the time...”
“I forgot about your appointment—and I think I’m taking you, right? On Tuesday?” Vickie checked her phone. “Yes, I have it in my calendar. Okay, forget next week, but we’re flexible with our meetings. We could put it off a week, so we’d catch you on the rebound.” Maura usually felt strongest the week after treatment, but never strong enough to think of it as a rebound. The upcoming treatments and the crushing exhaustion that followed were always hanging over her head. And she had a few more months of this. Vickie was still rattling on. “And not coming for five years is nothing. Helen was out for a couple years after Tony died, and Iris hardly ever comes anymore unless we have it right there at the inn. It’s not like we take attendance or collect dues.” Vickie put her manicure supplies away. “You need to do something other going to chemo and thinking about cancer and that stupid bar.”
Maura chuckled and nodded in agreement, as Vickie expected her to do. But inside, Maura was biting back tears. She adored her dear friend and knew Vickie would walk through flames for her, but Vickie couldn’t possibly understand that Maura had thought of little else but cancer since she found it was trying to stake a claim on her body. It wasn’t like she chose to focus on it. It was the other way around—this cancer chose her, and wouldn’t be ignored.
CHAPTER THREE
FINN HUNG UP the last of his clothes in the cramped closet and closed the door. Rick and Luke were laughing in the kitchen—more like a kitchenette—and he went to see what was so hilarious about his new home.
“...don’t let him see that. He might panic, and my back can’t take lugging all those books again...” Rick looked up in surprise. “Oh, hi, Finn. I think we’re done in here, although it’ll probably feel like a scavenger hunt when you start cooking an
d need to find anything. Do you cook, by the way?”
Luke slid something off the countertop and behind his back as Rick talked. Finn walked over and held out his hand. “I cook enough to survive. Give it up, mate. What’d ya’ find, a cockroach or something? It’ll take more than that to scare me off...”
Luke dropped a narrow, unopened box in Finn’s hand, stopping his words cold. Finn looked at the pregnancy test, then burst out laughing. His friends joined in, and Rick clapped him on the back.
“It was under the kitchen sink, which seems an odd place, but what do I know about these things? I’m guessing you won’t need it?”
Finn shook his head. “I’m pretty sure no matter how many times I pee on that wee stick, it will never show positive. Feel free to take it home with you.”
“Me?” Rick put his hand over his heart in dramatic fashion. “Trust me, the men I sleep with never worry about getting pregnant. Maybe Luke can take it home to Whitney?”
Luke’s cheeks went ruddy, and he looked everywhere but at the box. The corners of his mouth twitched repeatedly, until he finally gave in and smiled. There was a glint of pride in Luke’s eyes.
“We have no need for it. Not anymore.”
“Not anymore? What...” Rick stepped back, his mouth falling open. “Are you saying you and Whitney...? Oh, wow—congratulations!”
Luke held up his hand to slow Rick down, but his smile didn’t fade. “It’s not public knowledge yet, so keep it between us. Whitney and her aunt are adamant that we can’t tell people until after this week, when it will officially be three months. I guess that’s some magical threshold. I think she’s being paranoid, but whatever. The doctor said everything looks and sounds perfect.”
Finn congratulated Luke and shook his hand. “Oi, good luck to you, lad.” He tossed the box into a drawer. “I’ll get rid of that later. Lord knows, I won’t be needing it.” He looked around the tiny apartment. There were many boxes of textbooks and research material to be unpacked and sorted. He’d take care of that tonight, after he grabbed something to eat. He opened the refrigerator and handed out bottles of Guinness. “Thanks, guys. I really appreciate all your help today. Maybe I can finally get the college president off my back about not putting down roots here.”
Rick shook his head. “Old Man Greer is a stickler on some of the most ridiculous things.”
Luke raised a brow. “Old Man Greer is only a few years older than you, isn’t he?”
“Kiss my ass, Rutledge. He’s fifteen years older in age, and a century older in attitude. But Finn having an apartment with an actual lease should make Greer feel a little better.”
Luke’s forehead furrowed. “Finn, why is he so convinced you’re a runner?”
Finn grimaced, eager to steer the conversation away from his work history. “I screwed up in Durham. There were...complications. Not my finest moment.”
“You mean when you punched your colleague in the face?” Rick said it as matter-of-factly as if he were speaking of the weather, then put the bottle to his lips, winking as he drank. Finn chewed the inside of his cheek to maintain his composure. He shouldn’t be surprised—the video went briefly viral the previous spring. It wasn’t every day people saw a professor knock another prof out cold during commencement.
Luke looked back and forth between them. “I’m confused, but also impressed. Did the guy deserve the beat down?”
“Oi, he did.” And then some. Vince had been his best friend. Until he’d stolen Finn’s wife.
“Then well done.” Luke drained his beer and set the bottle on the counter. He turned to Rick, who was still staring at Finn. Did the older man know more than he was letting on? Luke filled the silence. “We gotta get going, Rick. One thing I’ve already learned about pregnant women is you do not want to piss them off. Whitney’s feisty on a good day. And now that she’s loaded with hormones? I don’t need to be setting off that kind of dynamite, trust me.”
Rick nodded, then drained his beer. “Sounds good. I’ve got an early lecture to give on Beowulf tomorrow. Not that I don’t know every word I’m going to say, but I like to make sure I appear energetic so they don’t tune me out completely.” He looked around, then tipped his head toward the chintz sofa. “Not sure this is exactly your style, Finn, but at least it’s an address for your paychecks. And speaking of feisty women? Tread carefully around your landlady—I’ve heard she can be a firecracker.”
Luke laughed as he grabbed his jacket and tossed Rick’s at him. “I’ve worked for Bridget since her dad passed, and she’s got an edge, for sure. Her bark is worse than her bite, though. She blows hot, but she’s always fair about things in the end.”
Finn spent an hour or so unpacking, then rearranged the kitchen a bit so he could find stuff. He was starving but was too tired to cook, so he ordered up a pizza. What he didn’t eat tonight would be dinner—or maybe breakfast—tomorrow. He’d just started pulling books from boxes when he heard a sharp rap on the door.
“Come in!” he hollered, his arms loaded with books on Celtic history. Should he stack them on the floor by time period or by subject matter? Either way, the living room was going to be buried in books. The door opened behind him, and he didn’t even glance back. “Thanks, mate. You can put it on the counter there. Hang on just a sec.” Finn dropped the stack of books and reached for his wallet. “Let me get your tip for ya...” He turned with the cash in his hand, then froze. This was no ordinary pizza delivery.
Bridget McKinnon stood just inside the door, holding what he assumed was his pizza. She was looking none too pleased.
“Oh, hey, Bridget.” He glanced down at all the boxes, half empty, half not, scattered around the room. “Sorry for the mess, but I’m just getting settled.” Her expression didn’t soften one bit, and he rushed on. “We did agree on today for the move-in, right? I gave you the prorated amount with the deposit...” Why was he blathering on to this woman? He was a grown man—a college professor—and had nothing to apologize for. At least...he didn’t think he did. But her eyes were hard and angry. And she was still holding his dinner. He didn’t realize how hungry he was until he smelled the sausage and mushrooms. He splayed his hands. “What have I done?”
“Did I not give you a lengthy lecture about security when you paid your deposit and signed the lease?” She was easily eight or ten years younger than he was, but her voice held all the gravelly strength of a woman who’d been around the world a few times and was in no mood for nonsense. “Did I not point out the specific paragraph about privacy?”
Finn was stumped. “I haven’t been upstairs. I haven’t been in the laundry room yet. Did I park my car in the wrong spot or something?” He stepped forward, his stomach grumbling. “Here, let me get that. Wait...did you pay the delivery guy? Do I owe you—”
She tossed the pizza box at him, but he managed to catch it and keep it right side up. “What you owe me is the understanding that you don’t ever leave that front door unlocked. And you sure as hell don’t leave a stone propping it open!”
Finn did have a vague memory of reading that in the lease. “Oh...uh...yeah. We did that while we were carrying boxes. But I was right here, and I knew it would only be the pizza delivery and I wanted to get the books...I mean...who else would just walk in...” As he said the words out loud, he realized he sounded like an inconsiderate ass. “Well, I guess...anyone could have walked in. And this is your house. Your home. I’m sorry. Truly.”
He let the apology hang there between them. Her shoulders eased, and her eyes softened just enough to let him know she’d heard him. Luke said she was fair. She finally nodded sharply and turned on her heel.
“It’s your first night, so I’ll give you a pass. But I want that door kept locked, okay?” She stopped at the door, then glanced back at him. “I need to know who’s in this house, or at least know that anyone here has been let in by you or me. It’s important.”
&nb
sp; “I get that.” He wondered if there’d been some kind of trouble with a previous tenant. “Did something happen in the past?”
She pulled the dark wooden door open, then turned back to face him again. “That doesn’t matter...” She frowned, then blew out a sigh. “A college student had some of her friends over and they were drinking. One of the guys thought it would be fun to trespass into my apartment. It was not fun.”
“Damn. Did he...do anything? Hurt you?”
Her lips pressed together tightly, as if she was trying to stop talking, but couldn’t.
“No. He didn’t even know I was home. Waking up to a man in my bedroom was...not fun.” Her words were clipped. “I screamed. He ran. I gave the tenant her notice. End of story.”
Bridget seemed to have a continual air of tightly wound self-control. Not as much strong as...brittle. Fragile. Her gaze fell to the floor. He wondered if she had anyone to talk to, then remembered Rick and Luke talking about her big Irish family. And yet she seemed very alone standing there, and something tapped at his chest, making him want to comfort her.
“I’m sorry. That must have been terrifying. I promise you I’ll never leave that door unlocked again. And if there’s anything else I can do to make you feel safer while I’m here...”
She looked up in surprise. “I’m fine.” She let out a soft sigh and shook her head. “This hasn’t been the nicest welcome, has it? Sorry about the pizza, I just...”
He waved her off. “Don’t. I deserved it.”
“Are you done moving in? Any problems? Any questions?”
