Mrs. Scrooge Read online

  A kindred spirit! Who would have imagined it possible? Eagerly she spun around in time to see a scruffy man in a battered trench coat blow into the room with all the grace and charm of a Nor'easter. His black umbrella was inside out, his hair was wet and plastered to his forehead, and he was mumbling words not often heard in the environs of Princeton. Sam was surprised they'd let him in without fingerprinting him.

  "Hold this," he said, pushing the cockeyed umbrella and a soggy sheaf of papers into her hands. "Damn coat's soaked."

  Sam stared down at the umbrella and papers in shock. "Hold them yourself," she said, pushing them back at him.

  "Come on," he said, his sandy hair dripping water into his hazel eyes. "Just let me hang the coat over the radiator and take everything off your hands."

  "You'll take everything off my hands now," said Sam, in the same tone of voice she used on Patty.

  "Full of Christmas spirit, aren't you, lady?" he mumbled, but Sam noted he retrieved his belongings quickly enough.

  "I suppose Christmastime is an excuse for bad manners these days." Who did this scruffy barbarian think he was, anyway? She owed Caroline an apology. Apparently there really was something to be said for dressing for success; she hadn't worked this hard and this long to be mistaken for a hatcheck girl.

  He was grumbling under his breath about feeling like a circus juggler, and Sam turned to find another spot to wait for Murphy O'Rourke when a terrible thought struck her. That scruffy-looking specimen couldn't possibly be Patty's new business partner. Patty had described a tall and handsome man with money to burn. She took another look at the man in the worn corduroy jacket. Certainly no one would call him handsome. Attractive, maybe, in a somewhat battered kind of way with his large-boned build and rugged face that had taken a punch or two in its day, but not even Patty could describe him as a hunk.

  And as for looking like the proper Princetonian businessman—well, he had none of the sheen and polish of the men at the Tri-County meeting. His hair tickled his collar and flopped over his ears and looked as if it hadn't seen a stylist's scissors in a very long time.

  But then, the man Patty had struck a deal with owned a bar not a law firm and this man looked exactly the way Sam imagined a saloon keeper should look.

  And let's face facts, Sam, she thought as he met her eyes and flashed her a roguish grin. This was exactly the type of man Patty would think was just terrific.

  He appeared at Sam's elbow. "Any seats available or are you planning on a quick getaway?"

  Sam gestured toward an empty row near the podium. "Be my guest. I'm waiting for someone."

  "So am I."

  She turned and looked up at him. "Murphy O'Rourke?"

  He nodded. "Samantha Dean?"

  She extended her hand. "I believe you and my daughter arranged a business deal today."

  His grip was firm without being macho which was a pleasant surprise. "The kid's sharp," he said, grinning. "I wouldn't want to face her at an arbitration table."

  A man in the last row turned around and loudly shushed them.

  "Look," Sam whispered, spirits sinking, "I don't think business deals made by a ten-year-old are binding. If you want out, there won't be any hard feelings."

  The entire last row swiveled to glare at Sam and Murphy O'Rourke. Chastened, they found seats near the window and Sam struggled to stay awake during an interminable discussion of the Holiday Ball next Saturday night.

  "If I snore, kick me," O'Rourke ordered, then closed his eyes.

  Sam almost fell off her folding chair in surprise. All around them the most ambitious entrepreneurs in the region were exchanging business cards, setting up power breakfasts, and deciding whether the main arboreal theme for the masquerade ball should be mistletoe or holly. The air bristled with energy and, at least when they weren't discussing the Christmas party, Sam found herself itching for January first to roll around so she could be a real part of things.

  Not O'Rourke. He was slumped in his chair, arms folded across his chest, head thrown back as if he didn't give a fig what any of Princeton's best and brightest thought about him. Sam was torn between admiration and horror. She had a healthy respect for clubs and associations and institutions, mainly because they had always seemed just beyond her grasp.

  "All in favor of holly in the ballroom and mistletoe in the anterooms signify by saying aye."

  A chorus of ayes rang out. Sam withheld her opinion on general principle since she wouldn't be an official entrepreneur for another four weeks. Next to her O'Rourke made a noise like a strangled moose.

  "Ouch!" He leaned forward and rubbed his left ankle. "What the hell was that all about?"

  "You snored," Sam said. "I'm saving you the embarrassment of public disgrace."

  He inclined his head toward the podium. "Do you care about the dinner menu for the Christmas dance?"

  "No."

  "The wine list?"

  "Not even a little."

  His sleepy hazel eyes narrowed as he met hers. "How do you feel about the Giants?"

  "True love," she said. "If you're a Jets fan, the deal's off."

  "Mention the Jets at O'Rourke's and you buy drinks for the house."

  "An admirable policy."

  "How would you feel about ironing out our deal at the bar while we watch the game?"

  He may not be a candidate for the cover of GQ, but Murphy O'Rourke was a man after her own heart. At least, in the business sense. "If we hurry, we might catch the end of the second quarter."

  "You're okay, Samantha Dean," he said, flashing a devilish grin. "Let's go."

  * * *

  THE LOOK on Aunt Caroline's face was even better than a gift subscription to Science Digest.

  "You've done the impossible," Caroline breathed, lowering herself into the rocking chair near the stereo.

  "I know," said Patty, beaming with delight, as she handed Caroline a cup of hot tea then curled up on the sofa.

  "The one meeting I skip and you convince your mother to go. How did you do it—hypnosis?"

  "Money," said Patty proudly.

  Caroline's perfectly lipsticked mouth dropped open. "You bribed your own mother? What kind of allowance do you get, girl?"

  "I cut Mom a business deal."

  "That does it," said Caroline, laughing. "Would you be my business manager, too?"

  Patty felt happier than she had the day she won the Mid-Atlantic Science Fair with her work on water purification. Aunt Caroline wasn't one of those grownups who fell all over kids, pouring on the praise as if it was maple syrup. A compliment from her always had Patty walking on air for days.

  Caroline listened closely as Patty told all about Career Day and Murphy O'Rourke and the saga of the sixty-three-dollar trays of food.

  "And Mom couldn't resist," Patty finished up, her voice triumphant.

  "Okay, Ms. Trump," said Caroline, leaning forward, "what's the catch?"

  Patty felt her cheeks redden beneath the woman's knowing gaze. "There's no catch."

  "Of course there's a catch."

  Patty looked down at her feet which were stuffed into humongous bunny slippers. "Okay, so maybe I do have an ulterior motive," Patty said finally.

  "Matchmaking again?" Her aunt shivered delicately. "You like to live dangerously, Patricia."

  Patricia? How grown-up that sounded. How sophisticated. Leave it to Aunt Caroline to think of something so wonderful.

  "You match-make," Patty said, wishing she were wearing normal slippers. It was hard to be adult when your feet looked like Bugs Bunny. "Mom says that's all you ever have on your mind."

  "From the mouths of babes," muttered Caroline, smoothing one pale brow with a manicured fingertip. "So what is he like?"

  "Wonderful!" said Patty, forgetting that she was feeling sophisticated and worldly. "Perfect!" Just the thought of Murphy O'Rourke was enough to make Patty feel all Christmasy and happy inside, like the first snowfall of the season.

  Caroline's blue eyes twinkled with delight. "I s
uppose he's handsome?"

  For a second Patty couldn't conjure up a face to go with her romantic notions. "He's very . . . manly."

  "Handsome?" Caroline repeated.

  "Not exactly," said Patty as his image clarified. "He's kind of rugged."

  "Uh-oh," said Caroline. "That bad, is he?"

  "He's not bad at all," Patty said, leaping to his defense. Why couldn't she find the words to tell Caroline about the man she was certain would one day be her dad? "He was a foreign correspondent."

  "I thought you said he owned a bar."

  "He does now but he used to be a reporter."

  "Does he look like he needs a shave?"

  Patty nodded. "Five o'clock shadow."

  "And he smokes?"

  She thought about the pack of cigarettes tucked in his shirt pocket and the matches he'd cadged from Mrs. Venturella. "Camels."

  "Last question," said Caroline. "Does he wear a trench coat?"

  Patty's heart pounded wildly inside her chest. "An old one," she said, "and no hat." Murphy O'Rourke was the kind of man who laughed at the elements. In her wildest imagination she couldn't picture him as a little boy, all bundled up in galoshes and muffler and rain hat.

  Caroline leaned back in the rocking chair and fixed Patty with a look. "Poor old Sam," she said, starting to laugh. "The girl doesn't stand a chance!"

  Chapter Three

  O'Rourke's Bar and Grill looked exactly the way a tavern in central New Jersey should look, and the moment Sam stepped inside, she felt at home. O'Rourke's boasted a great deal of gleaming mahogany, shiny brass, and enough beer mugs to keep the crew on Cheers happy through decades of reruns. A group of men well over voting age were clustered around a table near the old juke box, arguing loudly over great baseball teams of the past, while the football Giants played their hearts out on the big-screen TV mounted overhead.

  The air smelled pleasantly of pipe tobacco, Old Spice and spirits, and Sam couldn't help but smile at the dark-haired waitress who scurried by, carrying a pitcher of beer and six glasses to the over-the-hill gang at the table. No hanging ferns and Perrier at this bar.

  She peered around at the other customers. There also were no women. This was obviously the local watering hole, that most sacrosanct of male establishments, and she made a mental note to forget the watercress sandwiches on crustless pumpernickel in favor of roast beef on rye.

  "Hang your coat on the rack by the door," O'Rourke said. "I'll get you a draft."

  "Make it a hot chocolate and you're on."

  The silence in the tavern was daunting as she strolled over to the coatrack. Murphy, the dark-haired waitress, and the Over-the-Hill-Gang all watched her as if she were a land mine.

  "Hot chocolate?" Murphy O'Rourke sounded incredulous. "How about an Irish coffee?"

  "I'm driving," said Sam. "Hot chocolate will be fine."

  Murphy vaulted over the bar and rummaged noisily beneath the counter. "I don't see any hot chocolate back here."

  The cluster of senior citizens found that highly amusing and they laughed along with O'Rourke.

  Sam called up her friendliest smile. "How about a cup of coffee, then?"

  "I don't think we have any," said Murphy, looking oddly uncomfortable behind the bar.

  The waitress hit him on the arm with her tray. "Idiot! You can't make Irish Coffee without it, can you?"

  His grin was sheepish. "I didn't think of that."

  A saloon owner who didn't know the first thing about something as basic as Irish coffee? Not good. He motioned for Sam to take a seat and she was about to claim a bar stool when the most elegant of golden agers rose to his feet and executed a courtly bow.

  "We'd be honored if you joined us," he said.

  "I'd love to," said Sam, glancing at O'Rourke who was still rattling around with the coffee pot, "but we have business to discuss."

  "We have known Murphy since he was in knee pants. There is no business he cannot discuss in our presence."

  Who would have figured the mercurial, devil-may-care man she'd met at the Tri-County meeting to be a part of a most intriguing extended family? She had to hand it to Patty; her daughter rarely befriended anyone ordinary.

  "Forget it, Scotty." Murphy vaulted the bar once again then picked up two cups of coffee. "She's too young for you."

  "Age is a state of mind," the older man pronounced in the lofty tones of a Princeton professor, "and in my mind I am in my prime."

  His peers broke into hoots of laughter and a few clumsy, but amiable, jokes about snow on the roof and a fire in the furnace.

  "Ignore them," said O'Rourke, leading Sam to a table on the other side of the room. "It's past their bedtime."

  "Respect!" boomed the gentleman he'd called Scotty. "We are the only buffer between this establishment and bankruptcy court, my boy."

  Sam's eyes widened. "Business isn't good?" And you're willing to pay over sixty bucks a tray for sandwiches?

  "Business is booming," he said, sitting down opposite her, "but they still like to think they're the cornerstone of the bar."

  Scotty winked at Sam and she chuckled. "Why is it I think they probably are?"

  "You're a lot like your kid," said O'Rourke. "Blunt."

  Sam nodded. "It's a family trait."

  Murphy grinned. "I'll remember that."

  Sam was blunt but she understood the rules. Everything about O'Rourke's was exactly as it should be, including the shroud of smoke settling over her shoulders. She gestured toward the old boxing photos on the brick wall next to her. "That's Joe Louis, isn't it?"

  "My dad's a fight fan. You should see how many boxes of memorabilia he has stuffed in his attic."

  She took a sip of the hot, surprisingly good coffee. "It's nice of you to hang some of them up. Gives the place atmosphere."

  "My dad will be glad to hear that." He met her eyes. "It's his bar."

  "What?" She couldn't keep her surprise from her voice.

  "It's his bar," O'Rourke repeated. "I'm baby-sitting until he's back on his feet."

  She leaned closer, her curiosity piqued. "What happened to him?"

  "Heart attack." O'Rourke's voice lowered and he looked away for a split second. Just long enough for Sam to see both fear and love in his hazel eyes. "Guy doesn't even smoke."

  "How is he? My uncle had a heart attack two years ago and he's back out there running eight miles a day."

  "Pop's more the recliner-chair-and-remote-control type, but he's almost one hundred percent."

  "And you're the resident barkeep?"

  O'Rourke raked his shaggy brown hair off his forehead and grinned. "I can pull a draft with the best of 'em. Just don't go getting fancy on me."

  The thought of Murphy O'Rourke fixing a margarita was comical. "Judging by your clientele, you're safe. They look like a sturdy, all-American brew crowd to me."

  "Does that disappoint you?"

  Sam's eyes widened and she looked down at her baggy sweater and cords. "Do I look like the Perrier-and-lime type to you?"

  "No," he said, that smile of his back in place. "That's one of the things I like about you."

  Sam listened while he told her about the long recovery period Bill O'Rourke was going through. Murphy's brother in Florida had tried to convince Bill to put the tavern up for sale but the older man was adamant that it stay open, even if a stranger had to come in and tend to things in his absence.

  "And you put aside your own career to come take care of things for your dad?" Sam couldn't keep the admiration from her voice as visions of Happy Days and Richie Cunningham helping out at the family hardware store spun through her bead. "I'm impressed."

  O'Rourke grunted and downed his coffee. "Before you nominate me for the Croix de Guerre, I should tell you there wasn't any career to put aside. I've been unemployed for the past few months."

  She instantly understood the worn elbows on his corduroy jacket and the deplorable condition of his raincoat. Poor man was down on his luck and probably thrilled to have a steady
job to go to each morning. "A strike?"

  "In a manner of speaking." His hazel eyes glittered with a challenge as he met her gaze straight on. "Actually I walked out."

  "Out of what?" It wasn't difficult to imagine him staging a walkout at a steel mill or an automobile assembly plant. He looked like the kind of man who wasn't afraid of hard work. Unfashionable work that dirtied your clothes and blackened your hands.

  "I walked out of the New York office of the Telegram."

  She sprayed coffee clear across the table and onto the lapels of his sorry excuse for a jacket. "Very funny. You had me going there for a moment."

  "I'm not joking. I was managing editor."

  Sam had a sense of humor. She could go along with the joke. "And I suppose before that you were foreign correspondent for Reuters."

  "First Moscow, then London."

  "You should be a writer, O'Rourke. You have a way with fiction."

  "I am a writer but I deal with the facts."

  "Being a bartender is nothing to be ashamed of."

  "If I were a bartender I wouldn't be ashamed."

  "Okay," said Sam, mopping up the spill with a cocktail napkin. "Have it your way. Let's talk about the sandwich trays."

  "I'm not kidding, Samantha."

  "I said I believed you, O'Rourke." She whipped a notepad out of her pocketbook and uncapped a felt tip pen. "Do you want heroes or club sandwiches?"

  "Hero's." He gulped more coffee. "I walked out on the paper as a protest for artistic freedom."

  "Turkey, ham, or tuna salad?"

  "Aren't you listening to a damn thing I'm saying?" He glared at her. "I thought club sandwiches were usually B.L.T.s."

  "Good tomatoes are out of season. How about roast beef?"

  "Jeez . . ." He dragged a hand through his shaggy, still-damp hair. "Some of each, why don't you?"

  Sam scribbled a few lines then looked back up. "With lettuce? Without lettuce? Pickles? Assorted condiments? Perhaps a side of cole slaw and—"

  "Gimme a break, will you?" He yanked the pen from her hand. "I don't care if you make peanut butter and jelly sandwiches."

  Her eyebrows arched. "At sixty-three dollars a tray, I'd make quite a profit." He couldn't be a businessman by profession because he would have run himself into the red in days with an attitude like that.