Mrs. Scrooge

  MRS. SCROOGE

  Barbara Bretton

  Previously published by Berkley Books as "Home for the Holidays" - The Christmas Cat Anthology

  Acclaim for the novels of

  Barbara Bretton

  “Bretton’s characters are always real and their conflicts believable.”

  — Chicago Sun-Times

  “Soul warming... A powerful relationship drama [for] anyone who enjoys a passionate look inside the hearts and souls of the prime players.”

  — Midwest Book Review

  “[Bretton] excels in her portrayal of the sometimes sweet, sometimes stifling ties of a small community. The town’s tight network of loving, eccentric friends and family infuses the tale with a gently comic note that perfectly balances the darker dramas of the romance.”

  — Publishers Weekly

  “A tender love story about two people who, when they find something special, will go to any length to keep it.”

  — Booklist

  “Honest, witty... absolutely unforgettable.”

  — Rendezvous

  “A classic adult fairy tale.”

  — Affaire de Coeur

  “Dialogue flows easily and characters spring quickly to life.”

  — Rocky Mountain News

  Publishing History

  Print edition published by Harlequin, 1989

  Copyright 1989, 2013 by Barbara Bretton

  Digital Edition published by Barbara Bretton 2013

  All rights reserved. No part of this book, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews, may be reproduced in any form by any means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without prior written permission from the author.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, business establishments, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  The scanning, uploading, and distributing of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the copyright owner is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author's rights is appreciated.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  A Holiday Message

  More eBooks from Barbara Bretton

  About the Author

  Chapter One

  Patricia Mary Elizabeth Dean knew all about biology and how marriage and babies didn't always go hand-in-hand the way they did in old movies and television sitcoms. She'd heard stories about the days when a young girl had to leave home if she became pregnant out of wedlock but those days were long gone by the time it happened to her mother Samantha.

  Sam had stayed right where she was, safe and secure in her parents' house in Rocky Hill, New Jersey. She finished her senior year of high school and, nine months pregnant with Patty, she marched up to get her diploma then marched back out of the auditorium and headed for the hospital in Princeton. Five hours later Patty was born, and it seemed that from her very first breath she had been looking for a man to be her father.

  Her best friend Susan couldn't understand it at all. "My dad is always telling me I can't stay up to watch Letterman," Susan had complained just last week. "He won't let me wear nail polish or get a tattoo or even think about going to the movies with Bobby Andretti until I'm twenty-one. You're really a whole lot better off with just your mom."

  Patty knew her mom was pretty special. Sam was independent and ambitious and she had always managed to keep a roof over their heads and good food on the table, even while she juggled school and work and taking care of Patty. But there was one thing Sam wasn't very good at and that was romance.

  Her mom said she didn't have time for boyfriends and dating and maybe that was true but it seemed to Patty that it wouldn't be long before she ran out of time. Patty had heard women her mother's age talking about their biological clocks and how all the good men had been snapped up while they were busy building careers and she hated to think her mom would end up old and lonely with a dozen cats.

  Not that Patty didn't like cats but . . .

  And so it was that she decided to take over the quest.

  There had been a few good prospects but nobody she could imagine becoming part of her family until the day Murphy O'Rourke walked into the classroom to give his career-day presentation, and she knew her search was over.

  Murphy O'Rourke wasn't handsome, although his sandy brown hair was shiny and his hazel eyes held a friendly twinkle. He wore a brown polo shirt with a corduroy sport coat that was frayed at the elbows—and Patty couldn't imagine him sewing on those wimpy patches Susan's dad had on his corduroy sport coat. He didn't have a fistful of gold rings or ugly puffs of chest hair sticking out of his shirt, and his voice didn't go all oily when he talked to women. When Mrs. Venturella introduced him to the class he didn't try to be funny or cool or any of the thousand other things that would have been the kiss of death as far as Patty was concerned.

  He smiled at them as if they were real live people and said, "Good morning. I'm Murphy O'Rourke," and something inside Patty's heart popped like a birthday balloon.

  "That's the one!" she whispered to Susan. "He's perfect."

  Susan's round gray eyes widened. "Him?" The girl looked down at the fact sheet in front of her. "He hasn't even been to college."

  "I don't care. He's exactly what I've been looking for."

  Susan wrinkled her nose. "He's old."

  "So is my mother. That's what makes him so perfect."

  "I liked the fireman," said Susan. "Did you see those muscles!" The girl sighed deeply and fluttered her eyelashes, and Patty could barely keep from hitting her best friend over the head with her math notebook.

  "The fireman was stupid," said Patty. "He didn't even understand the theory behind water-pressure problems encountered fighting high-rise fires."

  "Patty, nobody understands things like that except you."

  "The nuclear physicist from M.I.T. understood."

  "Then why don't you think he's the right man?"

  "Because he called me 'little lady' when he answered my question on the feasibility of nuclear power near major urban centers."

  "But he was cute," said Susan. "He had the most darling red suspenders and bow tie."

  "I hate bow ties."

  Susan made a face. "Oh, you hate everything, Patty Dean. I think you're about the snobbiest girl I've ever—"

  "Patricia! Susan!" Mrs. Venturella rapped her knuckles sharply against the chalkboard at the front of the room. "If your conversation is so fascinating, perhaps you'd be willing to share it with the rest of the class."

  Susan's cheeks turned a bright red and she slumped down in her chair. "Sorry, Mrs. Venturella," she mumbled.

  Patty found herself staring up at the twinkling hazel eyes of Murphy O'Rourke and suddenly unable to speak.

  "Patricia," warned Mrs. Venturella. "Do you have something to say?"

  Murphy O'Rourke winked at her and before she knew it, the words came tumbling out. "Are you married?"

  All around her the class was laughing but Patty didn't care. This was important.

  O'Rourke looked her straight in the eye. "No, I'm not."

  "Do
you have any kids?"

  "No kids."

  "Do you—"

  "That's enough, Patricia." Mrs. Venturella turned to O'Rourke and gave him one of those cute little "I'm sorry" shrugs Patty had seen the woman give Mr. MacMahon, the phys ed teacher with the hairy chest. "I apologize, Mr. O'Rourke. Patricia is one of our advanced students and she has an active curiosity."

  "I make my living being curious," he said, then crossed his arms over his chest and leaned back against Mrs. Venturella's desk. He looked straight at Patty. "Go ahead. Ask me anything you want."

  "On the newspaper business," said Mrs. Venturella, with a stern look for Patty, who still couldn't speak.

  "Do you make a lot of money?" Craig Haley, class treasurer, asked.

  "Enough to pay my rent," said O'Rourke.

  "Did you ever go to China?" asked Sasha D'Amato.

  "Twice." He grinned. "And I was thrown out once."

  Danielle Meyer held up a copy of the New York Telegram. "How come I don't see your name anywhere?"

  "Because I quit."

  Patty was extremely impressed: he didn't so much as bat an eye when Mrs. Venturella gasped in horror. "What do you do now?" Patty asked.

  "I'm a bartender."

  The only sound in the classroom was the pop of Susan's bubble gum.

  "Look," he said, dragging his hand through his sandy brown hair, "I didn't mean to misrepresent anything. When you guys called and asked me to speak at the school, I was still a reporter for the Telegram. This is a pretty new development."

  "Why'd you quit?" Patty asked. If there was anything her mom hated, it was a quitter. She hoped Murphy O'Rourke had a good reason for giving up a glamorous job as a New York City reporter and becoming a run-of-the-mill bartender, or it was all over.

  "Artistic freedom," said Murphy O'Rourke.

  "Bingo!" said Patty.

  She'd finally found her man.

  * * *

  MURPHY O'ROURKE had faced hostile fire in the desert war. He had stared danger in the face everywhere from the subways of New York City to the back alleys of Hong Kong to the mean streets of Los Angeles and never broken a sweat.

  He'd been lied to, cursed at, beaten up and knocked down a time or two but he'd never, not ever, encountered anything like facing sixty curious New Jersey school kids on career day at Harborfields Elementary School in Montgomery Township.

  All in all, it made running naked down the Turnpike backward in a blizzard seem like a day at the park.

  They asked him about passports and phone taps. They asked him about deadlines and drug busts and protecting his sources. Those kids had more questions than the White House press corps and he had a hell of a time keeping up with them.

  Why had he let his old man talk him into this, anyway? His father had always been big on community participation and had agreed to this command performance a few months before the massive heart attack that laid him low. When Murphy stepped in to take care of things for Bill, he hadn't expected his job description would include a visit to Sesame Street.

  Funny how quickly it all came back to you with the first whiff of chalk dust. The pencils and the rulers; the big jars of library paste and gold stars for perfect attendance; blackboards and erasers and the unmistakable smell of wet boots on a snowy morning. Of course today there was also the hum of computers and the friendly LCD glow of hand-held calculators, but except for a few different trappings, it was still the same.

  Even though it had been over twenty-five years since he'd been in the fourth grade, he found that a few things never changed. It wasn't tough at all to peg that dark-haired boy in the first row as the class wise guy, or the pretty little blonde near the window as the class flirt. The clown and the jock and most-likely-to-end-up-at-trade-school were just as easy to pick out.

  But that serious-looking girl with the bright red hair and big blue eyes—damned if he could figure out where she fit in the scheme of things. She didn't ask the usual questions about the glamorous life of a reporter. Instead of giggling when he told his best "I interviewed Justin Bieber" story, she asked him if he'd ever been married. Hell, even after he told her he'd never taken the plunge, she went right ahead and asked him if he had kids, and she never so much as blushed. In fact she seemed more interested in knowing the details of his after-hours life than the details of his headline-making rescue of an Iranian hostage last year.

  When Mrs. Venturella introduced the lawyer—"Anne Arvoti, divorce specialist"—Murphy breathed easily for the first time since he entered the classroom. He nodded at Mrs. Venturella, then was making a beeline toward the door when a small hand snaked out and grabbed him by the coat tails.

  The red-haired girl with the ponytail. He should've known.

  "You can't leave," she whispered, her freckled face earnest and eager. "There's a party afterward."

  "I've got a bar to run," he whispered back, wondering why he felt like he'd been caught playing hooky and she was the truant officer.

  "You have to stay," she insisted, clutching his coat more tightly. "I have to make sure that you—"

  "Patty!" Mrs. Venturella's voice sounded to his right. "A bit more respect for Ms. Arvoti's presentation, if you will."

  He had to hand it to the kid. Her cheeks reddened but not for a second did she look away. "Please!" she mouthed, turning her head slightly so her teacher couldn't see. "You have to stay!"

  Murphy hesitated. He hated schools. He hated school parties. He hated the thought of answering a thousand questions while he juggled milk and cookies and longed for a stiff Scotch. He had to get back to the bar and take over from Jack so the guy could grab himself some dinner. There was a meeting of the Tri-County Small Business Association at 7:00 p.m., then back to the bar for the usual late-night crowd. The last thing he had time for was playing Captain Kangaroo for a roomful of ten-year-olds.

  But this kid was looking up at him with such unabashed eagerness that the rock that had passed for his heart for longer than he cared to remember thawed a bit.

  "Christmas cookies," she whispered, her blue eyes eager and bright behind her wire-rimmed glasses. "My mom made them."

  "It's only December first," he whispered back. "Aren't you rushing things?"

  "Christmas can't come soon enough for me. Besides, I have a deal for you

  Murphy O'Rourke knew when he had been bested and he was okay with it. She was probably a Girl Scout pushing chocolate mint cookies. He could handle that.

  "Why not?" he said, shrugging his shoulders and taking a seat near the blackboard. A glass of milk, a few Santa Claus cookies, and he'd be out of there.

  An hour, give or take. What difference could one more hour possibly make?

  * * *

  IT TOOK MURPHY exactly fifteen minutes to find out. The kid was some piece of work.

  "Fifty dollars," Murphy said, meeting her fierce blue eyes. "Not a penny more."

  "Sixty-five dollars a tray," Patty Dean stated in a voice Lee Iacocca would envy. "Anything less and we'd be running in the red."

  Murphy threw his head back and laughed out loud. "I don't think you've ever run in the red in your life. You're one tough negotiator."

  "Thank you." She didn't even blink. "But it will still be sixty-five dollars a tray. My mother is an expert chef, and food doesn't come cheap."

  "Does your father have you on his payroll? You're better at this than most Harvard MBAs."

  He caught the swift glitter of braces as a smile flickered across her freckled face. "My mother will be glad to hear that."

  "And your dad?"

  She shrugged her bony shoulders. "I wouldn't know. The last time I saw him I was two years old."

  "Two?"

  "Yes," she said. "My long-term memory is excellent and I remember him quite clearly."

  Murphy wouldn't have thought it possible but his battle-scarred heart again showed signs of life. He'd grown up without his mother, and he knew that the emptiness never left, no matter how old you got or how successful. "Yeah, well, then
tell your mom she has one hell of a businesswoman on her hands."

  "Sixty-two fifty," Patty said. "Take it or leave it."

  "Sixty-three," said Murphy, extending his right hand and engulfing the girl's hand in his. "Not a penny less."

  Patty's auburn brows rose above the tops of her eyeglasses. "Sixty-three? Are you certain?"

  "Take it or leave it."

  "You're got yourself a deal, Mr. O'Rourke."

  Patty gave him her mother's business card and promised that Samantha Dean would be at the TriCounty meeting later that evening to finalize the arrangements. Feeling smug and self-satisfied, Murphy grabbed an extra cookie and headed out toward his car in the rainswept parking lot.

  It wasn't until he was halfway back to the bar that he realized he'd just made a deal with a ten-year-old budding corporate shark whose mother might take a dim view of handshake agreements with unemployed gonzo journalists who were now pulling drafts for a living.

  And, all things considered, he wouldn't blame her one bit.

  * * *

  SAMANTHA DEAN stifled a yawn as the New Jersey Transit train rumbled toward the station at Princeton Junction. The railroad car was cold and damp and it took every ounce of imagination in Sam's body to conjure up visions of hot soup and a roaring fire. Before she knew it she'd be home with Patty, the two of them snug in their favorite robes as they watched Monday Night Football.

  "One more day," she said to her best friend Caroline. "Twenty-four hours and I never have to ride this blasted cattle car again."

  "Speak for yourself," said Caroline, eyeing the handsome businessmen sitting opposite the two women. "I rather enjoy riding the train."

  Sam resisted the urge to kick Caroline in her fashionable ankle. "You wouldn't mind a trek through the Sahara if there was a man involved."

  "Try it some time," Caroline said, her dimples deepening. "You might find you like it. Men are pleasant creatures, once you tame them."