| |
Michael tucked the folded newspaper beneath his arm and stared at the polished wood desk. A middle-aged woman with mousy brown hair twined into a lop-sided bun looked up from her paperwork. Her eyes widened, and her hands trembled.
“Mr. O’Fallen.”
He smiled at her, despite the pinch in his stomach. “Good morning, Ms. Preston. I’d like to see Bill, if that’s possible.”
She thrust to her feet, spilling her papers onto the floor. “Certainly. He’ll be happy to see you.” With short, clipped strides she hastened to a door labeled “Mayor” in uneven gold lettering.
“Enter,”said a commanding voice.
Ms. Preston prodded the door open. “Mr. Yates, Mr. O’Fallen is here to see you.”
“O’Fallen!” Bill Yates spilled out, enthusiastically through the opening. “Well, send him in. Send him in.”
Casting a gaze over her shoulder, she waved Michael into the room.
Michael took a deep breath. William Yates was an imposing man. Standing well over six feet, his broad shoulders and thick arms replicated physically his usual assertive manner. However, he was also kind-hearted, faithful to the church, and loved his wife and children.
Michael comforted himself. That must count for something. He entered the office and took the firm grip of William Yate’s large paw.
“Welcome.” Bill gestured to a seat before his disorderly desk. “How can I help you today?”
Michael removed the paper from beneath his arm, and turning it over, laid it beneath his nose. “Read that.” He pointed at the page.
Bill’s head dipped, and his lips moved. “I see.”
“Do you?” Michael said, keeping his tone even. “I thought this town was above that, Bill. Patrick Finnegan is my friend and an upstanding member of this community. He doesn’t deserve to be treated as such.”
Bill leaned back in his chair, which protested his weight. “There isn’t much I can do about it. Freedom of the press, you know. The story is unfortunate, but ...” He didn’t finish his sentence.
Michael fisted one hand in his lap. “But, what, Bill? I think you can do something, you just don’t want to.”
Bill’s breath heaved in and out. Michael refused to blink. He’d not show weakness.
“What would you like me to do?” Bill asked at last.
“I’d like you to have them print a retraction.”
A retraction and make this right. Though in the eyes of some people the damage was probably already done.
Bill’s response echoed his thoughts. “It will be too late for some people. You know that.” He waved at the page. “Besides, is it true?”
Michael swallowed the fire rising from his gut. He’d thought about this question, knowing it would be asked, yet it didn’t make him any less angry.
He inhaled to steady himself. “The lady in question is a friend of my wife and me. She is staying there at our request, having tried numerous times on her own to leave. What she was or was not in the past makes no difference to us because God’s forgiveness covers it.”
His words stretched taut in the room, and Bill folded his fingers together on the desk.
Michael reached for the newspaper and flipped it over. He pointed at the May Celebration advertisement. “There is also that,” he said.
Bill’s head bowed again, and he seemed to contemplate what was placed before him. “What exactly are you saying?” he asked.
Michael gave a crooked smile. “I don’t recall agreeing to sing anything. In fact, I don’t think I was even asked. Yet amazingly, it’s in the paper. How will it look when I don’t show up? There will be all those people, many who will have traveled great distances to hear me, and they’ll all be sorely disappointed.”
The mayor’s face shaded crimson. “You’re refusing?”
Michael crossed an ankle over his knee. “Not if you print the retraction. You put it in there,” he waved his hand at the paper, “Make it large enough people can see it, and your May Day will be whatever you want. I’ll put this town on the map.”
His gut twisted at his words, and the old fears clawed at his throat. For Patrick. For Amber. Remember this is for Patrick and Amber’s sake.
The mayor tilted his head and glanced out a nearby window. Early spring leaves spread their bright green color toward a crystalline sky. He cleared his throat. “I do not like having my hand forced,” he said. He swiveled his head back toward Michael. “But I can see that we’re in the wrong here. The words should never have been printed. I will speak to the editor this morning and have the retraction in tomorrow’s news.”
He stood to his feet, and Michael followed suit. Bill again extended his hand. Clasping Michael’s tight, he spoke in a measured voice. “We can count on you then?”
Michael nodded. “I give my word.”
He left the mayor’s office, nervousness wriggling in his gut. He’d given his word, and he’d keep it. But now he had only a few weeks to somehow get over his consuming need to hide. Lord, he prayed, help me do this.
He left the office and headed across the street. Winding his way through the growing traffic, he dodged a large wagon overstuffed with wooden crates, then slipped around a smaller cart parked at the street’s edge. He paused to pat the neck of a tired, gray horse before continuing across the busy roadway to the boardwalk on the opposite side.
The red brick buildings lining the street warmed in the noonday sun, their heat radiating onto his already overheated frame. His stomach growled, and he picked up the pace, his eyes trained on the large paned glass window of the café. Swinging in the door, a bell chimed and the heads of the patrons swiveled his direction. He crossed the room to a table mid-way down.
Anne gazed up at him, her eyes sparkling. “That must’ve went well.”
He slipped in the seat across from her and reached for the menu. She immediately took it away and returned it to its place. His eyebrows lifted.
“I ordered for you,” she said.
“An' 'oy ye nu waaat oi wanted?” he burred.
She snickered, covering her mouth with her hand. “That still makes me laugh.”
He grinned at her and rubbed his stomach.
“I’m your wife. Therefore, I knew what you wanted.” She waved at the nearby waitress who paused at their table a tray seated on her wide hip.
“Coffee,” Anne said, “and you can go ahead and place the order.”
The waitress gave a curt nod and moved toward the kitchen.
Anne stretched her hands across the cool surface of the table. “So tell me, how did it go?”
“As expected. He acted like it was none of his business until I pulled out my trump card.”
She tilted her head and the clean expanse of her neck put an itch in Michael’s fingers. She’d worn her hair up today, and every time she did that, he wanted to run his hands down her slender throat. He curled his fingernails into his palm.
“And then?” she pressed.
He shook his wandering thoughts away and concentrated on her face. “And then he was Mr. Nice Guy and agreed it was horrible and he’d see to it. But ...” He hesitated, the size of the task now before him growing larger.
“But?”
He sighed. “But now I’m obligated, and I’ll do it. But I don’t want to.”
She took his hands, uncurled his fingers, and folded them into her own. “I know you don’t, but you’ll be fine.”
The waitress returned with two cups of coffee and two bowls of hearty stew. She released him, and he reached for his spoon. Taking a bite, he closed his eyes. “Almost as good as your mother’s.”
She laughed. “Nothing is as good as Mama’s.”
He chewed slowly, his gaze focused on her face. There were never enough hours in the day to stare at her; never enough time to learn all there was to know. Her lips parted as she ate, and he swallowed the desire to kiss them, stew and all.
She held her spoon aloft and smiled. “You going to eat, or stare at me?”
He crooked a smile. “Stare at you.”
She reached across and lifted his spoon to his mouth. “Open wide. I will have to learn to feed you and the baby, I guess.”
Obediently, he emptied the spoon, but released it slowly, licking his lips. She let go, leaving the spoon in his mouth at an angle.
“You are full of it today,” she teased. She tapped his bowl. “Eat.”
He bent his head for another bite. But at that moment, the door to the café rang. He turned his head with all the other patrons to see the newcomer, and his gaze darkened.
He tightened his grip on the spoon. Giarello.
Anne laid a hand on his arm. “Michael, don’t.”
Joe directed his steps to their table. “Mr. O’Fallen. Small town. One café. And so we meet.”
Michael clenched his teeth.
“Where are your friends?” Joe continued. “The preacher and his ... girlfriend, is it?”
Michael rushed up from the table, his bowl shooting forward. Stew sloshed over the edge. The restaurant quieted.
“Michael,” Anne pleaded.
“Yes, Michael. You should listen to your wife and not make a scene.” Joe waved at the seat. “Mind if I join you?” He didn’t wait for their response, but plopped down at Anne’s side, extending an arm around her back.
A fire lit in Michael’s gut. Control yourself. He lowered himself back into his chair.
“Tell me,” Joe said. “How did you and your lovely wife meet?”
Michael opened his mouth, but Anne spoke first. “On a boat,” she said. “There he stood, tall and handsome with those green eyes, and I was smitten.”
Joe grinned. “Ah, you play with me. I know about O’Fallen and boats, seasickness and all that.”
She arched an eyebrow. “Oh?”
“Yes, he and I once got it into our heads to leave the city for the day, so we bought a ferry ride over to the mainland. Trouble was he got so sick we couldn’t do anything once we got there. How did you make it this far south?” he asked.
Michael ground his teeth. “I got over it.” After days of vomiting. But he wouldn’t admit to that.
“So if it wasn’t a boat, then what was it?” Joe laid a finger to his temple. “I’m thinking you were thrown together.”
Michael tensed. Lucky guess. He couldn’t have known that.
“I’m right. Aren’t I?”
Anne again gave the answer. “Why would you think that? Am I an ogre or something? One look at me and he’d cross to the other side?”
A smile creased Joe’s lips. “No, my pretty thing, you are not. But Michael always went out of his way to avoid ‘temptation,’ as he used to call it. He had some saying of his mother’s he’d quote. He was most determined to restrain himself from sins of the flesh.”
“And what about you?” Anne barbed.
He waved a hand in defeat. “Point one for the O’Fallens.”
“Are we sparring then?” she asked.
“More like a duel. Do people down here still do that?”
She smiled sweetly. “Verbally, it seems.”
Joe turned his face toward Michael. “Come now, Mike, you are letting your wife have all the fun. Don’t you have anything to say?”
What he had to say was best not said at all. Michael glared at him. “I had an interesting visit with the mayor this morning.”
Joe’s smile remained fixed.
“Seems a misprint in the paper will require some correction tomorrow.”
Joe leaned back in his chair. “A misprint, eh? I’ll bet that paper has a good editor, and it wasn’t a misprint at all.”
Michael shot his hand over the table and gripped Joe by the shirt collar. “So it was you.”
Joe yanked himself away and straightened his shirt. “Really, Mike, you are so sensitive today. You should be more like your wife. But then, that’s not possible is it? Tell me,” he said, leaning over the table. His breath smelled faintly of alcohol. “Is she as much fun in bed as she is in conversation?”
Michael erupted. Throwing himself across the table, he grabbed Joe by the collar and dragged him down the aisle, his chair clattering in the floor. A lady seated nearby grabbed her throat and shrieked.
He flung the door to the café open with his elbow and lifted Joe airborne, tossing him headfirst into the street where he landed in the dust with a thud.
Michael smirked at him, and then turned around to return inside. But with a shout, Joe launched himself at his back. He stumbled backward into the street, Joe’s arm around his neck, and bent his head to remove his grip. But Joe clung tight, his fingers grappling at Michael’s throat.
Michael stretched an arm backward, fingering Joe’s face, and in the process, fastened his fingers in Joe’s eyes. With a cry, Joe released his hold.
Michael spun about, the fire in his gut blinding his vision. Insulted my wife. Insulted my friends. Hauling back his fist, he contacted it with Joe’s nose, and blood spurted down his chin and onto his shirt.
Joe clutched his nose in his hand, his eyes hard. “That’s how it is, is it?” He wiped his hand on his pants.
“You know you won’t win this,” Michael said. He circled left.
“This fight?” Joe asked, following suit. “Or this battle over Amber? Because that I will win.”
Faces inside the café pressed to the window glass, and a crowd quickly gathered on the curb.
“She’s not yours to win, Joe.”
Anne emerged from the café, but Michael waved at her back.
“That’s what you think. But then, you don’t know what I do.”
Michael dodged Joe’s next swing. “I know enough, and I don’t care about the rest.”
“You ought to care. She’s got ties, Mike, ties back to New York. Why don’t you ask her about that?”
Startled, Michael lowered his guard, and in that moment, Joe swung.
His fist landed squarely in Michael’s eye, sending him flying backward into the pane of glass, shattering it into a million pieces. Dazed, he lay there, his gaze on the ceiling, the room whirling in his view. With a groan, he closed his eyes and willed it to cease. When he at last re-opened them, he looked into Anne’s worried face.
“That went well,” she said.
He lifted his head to look for Joe, but the room shifted again.
She pressed his head to the floor. “He’s gone. And now you’ve made a huge mess.”
He took her hand, shutting his eyes. “Tell them we’ll pay for the window. In fact, once I get my head back on straight, I’ll help clean it up.”
She squeezed his fingers. “Already done. You’ll look handsome in an hour or so with that shiny eye.”
He grunted.
“You know, I don’t think I’ve seen you that angry since Ferguson.”
His eyes shot open. “You remember Ferguson?”
After she’d bashed her head during a tornado over a year ago, she’d lost her memory of everything, including him.
She bit her lip. “Yes. Much of it has come back.”
Why had she never told him? He’d had so many unanswered questions in those days.
“I never said anything because I knew how angry you’d get,” she continued.
He sighed. She was right.
The waitress appeared with a towel filled with chipped ice. Anne pressed it to Michael’s right eye. “Hold that there,” she said, folding his arm over the rag. Reaching beside him, she grabbed the broom and moved to the door. With even strokes, she swept up the glass.
“I said I’d do that,” he grumbled.
She cast him a glance. “You are going to sit right there and hold that over your eye.” She returned to her sweeping.
He winced at the throbbing pain building in his head. This would cost him more than the price of the window glass. It’d cost him a story in the newspaper as well. Only this time, the story would be deserved.
“Tell me,” he called to Anne. “When did you remember?”
She didn’t pause in her sweeping, but spoke throughout her movements. “It came gradually in bits and pieces, though some of it is still missing. I don’t expect to ever get it all back.”
He readjusted his grip on the dampening towel. “And Ferguson? What about him?”
She halted and leaned on the broom. “He knew, like Joe, exactly what to say to rile you, and you always let him. I think you liked being angry.”
But he didn’t. He simply hadn’t known how to get past it.
A rotund man wearing a greasy apron emerged from the kitchen. Throwing his hands to the sky, he mumbled something in his native German. Strings of his rapidly thinning hair flipped upwards as he waddled forward.
“You haf cost me day’s service!” he snapped.
Michael gave a sheepish grin. “I’m sorry Herr Eichenberg. I’ll pay for the window and whatever you would’ve made today.”
“And for tomorrow! Shop will need repairs.”
Michael nodded. “And for tomorrow.”
Herr Eichenberg waved a fat finger in Michael’s face. “Iss goot thingk I like you, Irishman. Iss goot your wife iss Melva’s friend.” He directed his beady-eyed gaze at Michael. “I think you sing for Melva’s birthday next week. Yes?”
Michael sighed. “Yes.”
He raised his gaze to Anne, but she’d returned to her sweeping. A smile curved on her lips. She was enjoying this way too much.
“Goodness gracious. What happened to you?” Patrick halted in the doorway to the office, his hands flexed at his sides.
Michael leaned back in the chair with a moan. “I fought to protect a lady’s honor.”
Anne eyed him with a smirk. “More like he was hotheaded and lost control.” She leaned back in the chair in front of the desk and cast him a withering look.
He returned it, then glanced at Patrick. “Pat, I’m afraid I have to ask for a loan.”
Patrick stared at him unfazed. “Of course, but might I ask why?”
“Because he broke the window in the café.” Anne smiled when she said it.
Patrick reined in a smile of his own. “I see. I thought you went there to have lunch, not break windows.”
“I did, until Giarello walked in.”
Patrick’s heartbeat increased. “And?” he asked.
Anne rested a hand on his sleeve. “And he was full of himself. And Michael became upset.”
“And tell him why,” Michael inserted.
She flicked her gaze at him, but Patrick patted her hand. “It isn’t necessary. Whatever it was, you obviously took the brunt end of it.”
“Not before I threw him out and got in one of my own.”
Anne threw her hands wide. “Men! I was perfectly fine. All he had to spar with were words, and you let him get to you.”
“But he shouldn’t have said that in public.”
“You’d have done better to laugh it off. He was goading you.”
Patrick looked from him to her and smiled. “Husband and wife quarrel?”
“Yes.” “No.”
Both spoke at once.
A gurgle and coo came from the doorway and their three heads turned. Amber pressed the baby to her chest. “Did you hear that?” she said to his fuzzy, blond head. “Mama and Papa are having an argument. Isn’t that silly?”
Anne rose from her chair. “You’re right. Especially when Papa is wrong.”