Hunks, Hammers, and Happily Ever Afters (29 page)

“Ungrateful teenagers are a part of the job when you’ve a house full of kids.”

“They’re not my kids.”  Regan dropped the wooden spoon and gripped the edge of the counter next to the stove. “They’re
your
kids, Pop. Yours and Ma’s, and there isn’t a day that goes by that I don’t wish she were here to help me with them.”

“You sayin’ I’m of no help?”

The verbal door that had been opened so many times before loomed in front of her once more.  The opportunity was there, all she had to do was voice the disappointment and truth that had been hovering behind locked lips for more years than she could count. 

“I know you’re doing the best you can,” she said instead and hated herself for it. Why couldn’t she stand up to him? To tell him how much his neglect and anger had hurt her, hurt all the Murphy kids. That they’d needed him, still needed him, and instead they’d been relegated to watching him drift further away as grief dragged him away from them. “But if you’re not going to help me, you’re not allowed to judge the choices I make.  And my choice is that Maura is your problem now. You want to continue to enable her and let her run wild, you stay by the phone so you can be the one they call when she’s arrested or God forbid worse.” The air in her lungs burned as she uttered her greatest fear; losing one of her siblings after fighting so hard to keep the family together. “You’ve made me responsible for everything else in this family, Pop. Don’t make me responsible for that as well.”

The hallway outside the kitchen had never felt so long or seemed so dark. The dim light of the stained glass lamp on the table at the foot of the stairs glowed enough for her to head upstairs, cocoa cooling as she avoided the creaking boards. She set her mug on the floor outside her room and headed to the far end of the second floor, pushing open the grey door before stepping inside.

Two twin beds sat on opposite sides of the semi-spacious room. One side dedicated to a montage of fashion clippings, mythical illustrations, and beautifully detailed landscapes  taped to the walls along with copied song lyrics and a conglomeration of purples and blues as if Maura had been caught in the tide of a mystical ocean instead of an oversized bed spread.  Her sister was so talented, had so much to offer that for the life of her, Regan couldn’t fathom why Maura was so determined to find trouble instead of a future.

Fallon’s side of their bedroom, on the other hand, was still little girl innocent with a touch of science nerd that brought an encouraged smile to Regan’s face.  She looked down at her baby sister, the child her mother had died bringing into the world, and felt a connection and responsibility she would never be able to shake. Fallon, for all intents and purposes had been hers from day one. Her crib had been moved into Regan’s room when it was obvious their father wasn’t capable of coping with a newborn. Regan, along with Desmond and Finn had taken turns with her and as a result had helped to develop one of the more unusual Murphy children. With fair blonde hair that harkened to their mother, to the stubborn tenacity that was all Cormac, Fallon was the combined personification of their family.  She was, even at eight years old, Regan’s one saving grace.

“Sweet dreams, little girl.” Regan bent down and tugged the down comforter up and around Fallon’s narrow shoulders and took an extra moment to stroke the hair from her eyes. As she straightened, she felt the charge in the room and knew without looking Maura was awake.  Regan turned, a plea poised on her lips as she looked to the heap under the blankets, but before she could surrender to the pull of offering a truce, Maura turned her back on her, pulling the covers over her head and disappeared into the darkness.  Tears burned Regan’s eyes as she questioned her decision yet again.  Was it worth it? Losing her sister’s affection—however much there might be—to prove to her that she was headed down a path Regan couldn’t save her from?

It would have to be. “Sweet dreams, Maura,” Regan said on the way out. It wasn’t until she was in her own room, behind her closed door, clutching the almost tepid mug between her hands that the tears fell. She sank onto her bed, rocking, letting the frustration, the disappointment of the day wash over her. Just when everything seemed its most hopeless, just when she found herself dreading the next day, she thought of Brodie Crawford. Of his kind, sympathetic eyes, and the warm, understanding smile he’d offered in unexpected forgiveness. 

“Brodie,” she whispered. She lay down and pulled her blankets around her, closing her eyes and realized, for the first time in nearly a decade, she didn’t feel quite so alone.

CHAPTER FOUR

“I don’t think staring out the window at the pub will make her magically appear.” Toshi pushed a fresh brewed mug of tea into Brodie’s hands.

“Who?” Brodie asked with a mock frown on his face as the odd aroma wafted into his face. Who knew what Toshi brewed in the back room. Could be anything from Godzilla skin to backyard weeds. The man loved experimenting with his tea. “It’s a nice day. I’m just appreciating—”

“Lie to me.” Toshi shook his head. “But not to yourself. You’re interested. Nothing wrong with that. She’s an impressive woman. You’re a semi-attractive guy, or so I’ve been informed. You running out of excuses to go talk to her? It’s been almost a week, Brodie. Ask her out already and put me out of my misery.”

“I suppose I could check and make sure our application for the festival had been accepted or not.” Brodie wasn’t about to admit—either to Toshi or himself—that Regan Murphy had managed to capture far more of this thoughts than he was comfortable with. His focus had to be on Cilla, now and for the foreseeable future. She’d had far too much uncertainty in her young life for him to be distracted. He needed to give her a solid foundation and be there when she needed him.  Except the more time that passed and the more secure she felt, the less she seemed to need him. Slippery slope.

Finding Cilla wrist deep in the peanut butter jar this morning—she’d been determined to make her own lunch—had been a sign he’d made the right decision signing her up for the day care program at the local youth center. As much as he hated having her out of his sight, he had to embrace her grasp for independence. So much for thinking he’d have to fight her tooth and nail to get her to go and he’d ended up being left behind when she raced off—without said lunch—and made instant friends with twin little boys named Cedric and Aiden.

He should be thrilled and proud of the progress Cilla had made although he could have waited a few years before having to deal with boys in his daughter’s life. For nearly a year after he’d gained custody, Cilla wouldn’t have ventured more than five feet away from him, but here she was, almost two years later, thriving and laughing and expending more energy every day than he could ever remember having.

Had he any doubts about their move, all he had to do was look at Cilla’s happy face. If only his ex-in-laws would lay off once and for all. The judge had agreed with Brodie’s recent complaint that their constant phone calls were disruptive to Cilla’s progress and that until further notice, they were to have no contact with either Brodie or Cilla.

That news from his lawyer yesterday allowed him to breathe a bit easier for the first time in months.

“Why don’t you order us lunch?” Toshi suggested as he took a seat behind the reception desk in the empty studio. “Not like we have anything else going on. My next appointments aren’t until tomorrow.” He flipped through the anemic calendar listings on the computer. “And you are free and clear until four.”

Brodie tried not to be discouraged at the lack of clients. MARKED  had only been open less than a month. The customer base just hadn’t found them despite the prime location smack-dab center of downtown. Good thing his savings account was flush and that he’d bought their new house—small as it was—free and clear.  He wouldn’t have to worry for a while. “How are we coming on those festival plans?”

“I ordered a couple of samples for those temporary tattoo sheets you’re thinking of promoting,” Toshi said. “Should be here by Friday. Great idea by the way, catering to people who are considering but haven’t fully decided on a tattoo.  Give them some walking around time with it and if they don’t like, they just wipe it off. Also solves that pesky underage issue that could be a problem.”

“Gotta roll with the punches.” And if there was one person who was familiar with punches, it was Brodie. He saw a flash of red hair pass by the long bank of windows at Murphy’s Pub. He set his tea, or whatever it was, down. Maybe Toshi was right. “What do you want for lunch?”

“Anything but fish,” Toshi added with a grimace on his face. “Surprise me.”

Brodie chuckled. Toshi’s aversion to seafood no doubt came from being raised in the heart of Philly cheese steak country. The man might look like a harsh wind could blow him sideways, but Brodie had seen Toshi eat enough that should MARKED go under, his friend could make a fortune as a competitive eater.

“Hold down the fort.” Brodie headed out the door. “I’ll be back in a bit.”

“A lady never likes to be rushed!” Toshi leaned back, crossed his feet on top of the desk and dropped into whatever story was loaded onto his e-reader.

It didn’t matter how many times over the past week he’d made this walk, Brodie couldn’t seem to settle the nerves jumping in his stomach as he headed across the street, taking some extra time to appreciate the homey, small community feel of the thriving town of Lantano Valley.  He’d wanted a change of pace—for both him and Cilla, and their new home combined just enough of the large city lifestyle he was used to so he didn’t feel so much a fish out of water. He loved the borderline bohemian and small business centric atmosphere of downtown and the neighboring streets that had everything from old world feel grocery stores to restaurants to an amazing independent bookstore both he and Cilla had fallen in love with.

He could get lost for hours in the wonder that was J & J Markets or wander aimlessly through the streets that housed companies like Tremayne Securities and Investments and Oliver Technologies.  The town thrived on a mixed economy status, from the very wealthy, to the doing-pretty-well middle-class. Lantano Valley even boasted its own super-hero/vigilante/criminal with the ongoing machinations of Nemesis, a cat burglar with a penchant for proving to the world the Robin Hood mind set was still in fashion. But in recent weeks, even news of Nemesis had died off, as if the thief had gone into hiding—or hibernation.

Brodie yanked himself away from the threat of maudlin memories and in time to pull open the brass handled glass door to the pub for the middle-aged women ahead of him. “Ladies.” He gave them a smile when they blinked at him in surprise, murmuring thank yous as they disappeared inside. 

Murphy’s was hopping this afternoon and was nearly filled to capacity as Brodie wedged himself through the crowd, looking for a free spot at the bar. He found one toward the far end, but caught sight of Regan spinning and whipping her way between tables, her smile lighting that dark corner of his heart he thought would be forever empty. 

He’d always thought he had a type, a type that didn’t come close to resembling Regan. Watching her now as she maneuvered her way around the pub with a flirtatious and electric attitude, he realized his life would be partitioned yet again to before he met Regan Murphy and after. Her attention grabbing presence was hypnotizing, accentuated by that amazing, thick and long red hair tumbling around her shoulders. Snug jeans accentuated every lush curve of her hips and backside, the black fabric of her Murphy’s Pub T-shirt clinging in all the right places. Just looking at her was enough to make him forget why he’d popped over and instead had him wondering how much convincing it would take to find a quiet corner somewhere and...

“Brodie, hi.” Surprise flickered in Regan’s eyes as she glanced around the crowd, the easy smile she’d carried moments before faltering. “You’re just about a regular by now. What can I get you today?”

“Lunch,” he remembered at the last second. “Take-out.”

“Sure. Let me get you a menu—”

“Actually.” Brodie caught her arm and pulled her toward him before she was jostled off her feet by the group of young men barreling out of their booths toward the front door. “It’s crowded today.”

“I love it.” Ah, the smile was back and she beamed at him. “Nothing better than staying busy.”

“Wouldn’t know about that,” he admitted. “MARKED hasn’t exactly caught on yet.”

“It will.”  She made to rub his arm, but snatched her hand away at the last second as color rose in her porcelain cheeks, accentuating the slight dusting of freckles across her nose. “Oh, that reminds me. I filed your application for the festival. Looks like you’re a go. It’s only a matter of time before you’ve got clients out the door. If you have flyers, I’d be happy to leave them on the tables or even in the menus. We small business owners need to help each other out.”

Servers dressed in similar style to Regan bopped past them, soaring through the swinging door and spinning behind the bar.  Either Regan’s positive attitude was contagious or a requirement of the job. Either way, the staff treated their customers—and each other—like family.

“I’d appreciate the word of mouth. It’s standing room only in here.”  He took another step to the side and pressed against the wall. “I wanted to ask you—”

“Hang on.” Regan nodded to someone beyond him and made some odd gesture with her hand. “Why don’t you come into the kitchen with me? We can put in your order while we talk.”

“Okay.” He followed her into a kitchen that could have well been housed in any Five-star restaurant in New York or Los Angeles.  Pristine stainless steel work surfaces were being fully utilized along with a center serving counter that was filling up with steaming plates of Guinness stew and lamb burgers faster than the servers could carry them out.  Towering salads looked like works of healthy art served with chunks of piping hot soda bread dripping with butter and topped with a sprinkling of coarse salt. 

At least two chefs were busy at their respective stations, along with assistants who were busy chopping, cutting, blanching, and plating the sparkling white dishes with the MP moniker.  “You really have this pub thing down, don’t you? A well oiled machine.”