Mrs. Scrooge Read online

  Patty snatched a piece of American cheese from the stack on the counter top. "Aunt Caroline doesn't like football. We talked mostly."

  "And why is it I have the feeling that you talked mostly about me?"

  Patty really tried to be honest all the time, and not telling her mother the one hundred percent truth made her feel kind of jumpy inside. She could just imagine what Sam would say if Patty told her that Caroline had bought tickets to the masquerade ball for both of them! The only thing that would make Sam angrier was knowing that Patty was envisioning Murphy O'Rourke as a permanent feature around their maple kitchen table.

  "Maybe I am tired," she said. She didn't even have to fake a yawn. "I suppose I'll go to sleep now after all."

  "Sounds like a good idea to me," said her morn with a knowing look. "You wouldn't want me to find out you'd been matchmaking, would you?"

  Patty felt like she did when she played dodgeball at school: her stomach tightened and it seemed as if all the air had been pulled out of her lungs.

  "Are you mad?" To her horror, tears burned against her eyelids.

  "I should be," her mother said, leaning against the counter and taking Patty's trembling hands in her own cool ones, "but for some reason I'm not."

  It's Murphy O'Rourke, thought Patty, her heart tumbling and twisting inside her chest. How can you be mad at me when you've met the man of your dreams?

  "Murphy is a nice man," Sam continued, "and the deal you made is a good one."

  "I knew it!" Patty crowed, her tears forgotten. "I knew you'd like him. I—"

  The look on her mother's face made Patty's words die off abruptly.

  "I'll enjoy my association with him this week but that's as far as it will go."

  "But, Mom, I—"

  "I won't fall in love with him, honey."

  "How do you know?"

  "He's not my type."

  "He believes in artistic freedom."

  "No castles in the air, Patty, please!" Sam pulled her into her arms and kissed the top of her head. Sometimes Patty thought her mother would still be kissing the top of her head when Patty was fifty years old and a Nobel Prize winner. "How on earth did I ever give birth to such an impossible romantic? Just because you're smitten with Murphy O'Rourke doesn't mean I should be."

  "He's perfect, Mommy," she said, forgetting that she was way too old to call her mother by a baby name, "he really is. If you'd only—"

  But her mother wasn't listening to any of it. "You're enough, kiddo, you always have been. It's the two of us together, the way it should be."

  "I hate him!" Patty exclaimed, surprising them both. "He ruined everything!"

  "Now don't you go blaming Mr. O'Rourke because your plans went haywire. The poor man has no idea what you're up to and I intend to keep it that way."

  "I don't mean Murphy," Patty said, starting to cry for real. "I mean Ronald Donovan."

  Patty could feel her mother tense up. "Ronald?"

  "My father. If he hadn't been such a creep you wouldn't be stuck all alone with me today."

  "Don't go feeling sorry for me," Sam warned, her voice low and tender. "The best thing that ever happened to me was having you." She chucked Patty under the chin and Patty forced a smile despite herself. "The second best thing was not marrying your dad."

  Patty didn't often feel like a dumb little kid. She understood more about science and math and physics than most grownups three times her age ever would. But it was times like this when she knew there was a whole scary world of things out there that she might never understand, no matter how colossal her I.Q. or how formidable her vocabulary.

  "But I thought you loved him," she managed, trying to make all these puzzle pieces fit together the way they did on television. "Grandma Betty told me all those stories about the way you met. She showed me the pictures of you two at the junior prom."

  "I did love him, honey, but there are times when love isn't enough to make things work out the way you want them to." Patty actually felt a sharp pain in the center of her chest as she watched her mother struggle for composure. "I—wasn't the kind of girl the Donovans thought was right for their Ronald."

  "Because you weren't from Princeton?"

  "Because we weren't rich. Because we drove old cars and my father didn't dress up and wear a suit to work." Sam stopped and her eyes closed for one long moment. Then she looked into Patty's eyes. "Yes, we loved each other, but not enough to matter."

  Patty was beyond hearing anything but the pain in her mother's voice. "I hate him," she said again, her voice shaky and thin with rage. "He shouldn't have listened. He should have come to your house one night and asked you to marry him and you both could have run away and been happy."

  "I'm happy now, don't you know that? I have you and I have Grandma and Grandpa and Caroline and all of our friends and family and in a few weeks we'll have the store. I don't need anything else, honey. I have everything I could possibly want right here."

  Oh, how much Patty wanted to believe her mother's words.

  But deep in her heart, Patty knew there was still an emptiness in her mother's heart same as there was in hers. An emptiness that only a husband and father could fill.

  Murphy O'Rourke.

  It just had to be.

  Chapter Five

  Patty woke up sick the next morning. The little girl was cranky and demanding, and nothing Sam could do was enough to soothe the child's ruffled feelings. As much as she wanted to stay home with her daughter, there was no way on earth she could miss her last day of school.

  "Thank God for mothers," she said to Caroline when her friend showed up to drive them both into Manhattan. "I'm twenty-eight and I still need to be rescued from time to time." Betty would be there in half an hour to take over

  Caroline offered to wait for Sam to get free, but it quickly became apparent that the trays of sandwiches would never fit in the tiny sports car.

  "Go," said Sam, waving her friend on. "No reason for both of us to be late." It was bad enough that she was running behind; the last thing she needed was to cause Caroline to miss her appointment with Old Frosty.

  It was eight o'clock when she whipped into the parking lot of O'Rourke's Bar and Grill. Her heart was thudding at an alarming rate, and she took a few quick, deep breaths before unloading the sandwich trays and making her way to the locked front door. O'Rourke was bound to be furious and she didn't blame him. This certainly wasn't the best way to gain a reputation for a fledgling company.

  "I can explain," she blurted the moment he opened the heavy front door and ushered her inside the dark, and quiet bar.

  "Patty's sick," he said, his voice husky as if he'd just climbed out of bed, which judging by the hour wasn't hard to believe. "Her fever is down to 100.5."

  "She called you?"

  "She called me." He took the trays from her and set them down on one of the scarred wooden tables near the front. "She said I shouldn't blame you for being late." His grin was sleepy and surprisingly appealing. "She told me you were only doing your maternal duty."

  Sam groaned and wished she had a less verbally precocious child. "Believe it or not, I didn't put her up to it."

  "I believe you. I haven't forgotten you have yourself one smart kid."

  Sam's eyes suddenly widened as she realized he was barefoot, shirtless and wearing a pair of sweatpants with a blown-out right knee. "You'll be the one with the fever if you don't cover up. Hasn't anyone told you winter's almost here?"

  "I don't feel the cold," he said matter-of-factly as he closed the door. "I just rolled out of bed and down the stairs to let you in."

  "You live up there?"

  "For now." He smothered a yawn with the back of his hand. "How about some coffee?"

  "I'd love it but I've got a train to catch."

  "Patty said you have your final exam today."

  Sam arched a brow. "Patty seems to have told you quite a lot."

  "Afraid so." He laughed and Sam found she liked the sound. "You're twenty-eigh
t, unmarried, a budding entrepreneur, a great mother, a rotten house-cleaner, and an all-around swell person."

  "I suppose you know my height, weight, and social security number, too." We have to talk, Patty. . . .

  He leaned against the bar and folded his arms across his broad chest. "About five-seven, maybe one hundred ten soaking weight."

  "What about the social security number?"

  "Give me five minutes on the telephone and I'll come up with it." He tilted his head a fraction. "So how close was I?"

  "Five-seven and a quarter and too-close-for comfort with the weight."

  "You're too damned skinny as it is. You should gain a few pounds."

  "I will," she said, casting a covert glance at her watch. "Wait until I open up the shop. Good food is one of my passions. I'll probably blimp up the first month."

  "Big deal," he said, snapping his fingers. "If you're happy, what does it matter?"

  "Most men judge a woman by the way she looks."

  "I didn't hire you to model clothes. I hired you to make sandwiches."

  Laughter bubbled to her lips, "Maybe we should quit while we're ahead."

  "Sorry. I'm not known for my tact."

  "I noticed." She adjusted her scarf and slipped on her gloves. "You do know what to do with all of this stuff, don't you?"

  His brows slid together in an early-morning version of a scowl. "What is there to do with sandwiches? You dump them on a plate and people help themselves."

  "I wrote out all the instructions on a piece of stationery and taped it to the tray of ham and swiss."

  "You're making me real nervous, Samantha."

  Men were terminally strange when it came to anything more complicated than a can opener and a microwave. "I made a few appetizers last night to practice for my final. Patty and I can't eat all of them so. . ." Her voice trailed off.

  "Appetizers?"

  "Nothing fancy. Just heat and eat. It's on the house."

  "No way. What do I owe you?"

  Sam thought about Patty and her killer business deal. "Believe me, you don't owe me a thing. You're paying me more than enough as it is."

  He inclined his head in thanks and opened the door. "What about the trays?"

  "I'll come back tonight after school to pick them up." A brisk wind whipped through the open door to the bar, and she saw gooseflesh form on his arms. "Put something on now, will you, please?"

  He grinned and Sam found herself grinning back. She hadn't grinned in at least six or seven years.

  "My male pulchritude too much for you, huh?"

  "Definitely," said Sam as she turned to leave. "Especially this early in the morning."

  "Later," said Murphy O'Rourke.

  "Later," said Sam.

  You're right about this one, Patty, she thought as she headed across the parking lot toward her Blazer. A genuinely terrific man. Murphy O'Rourke was funny and sharp and not all that bad looking without his shirt on. She liked his style and his bar and the way he treated women and children.

  Too bad she wasn't interested.

  * * *

  MURPHY WATCHED SAM trot across the parking lot, her shapely rear end looking damn cute in those black pants. For a skinny woman, she had a surprising number of curves hidden beneath her loose clothing. Of course, he usually liked his women a bit on the curvy side but Sam Dean wasn't half bad. There weren't many things Murphy liked before his first cup of coffee and to his amazement Sam had turned out to be easy on the nerves.

  Who would've thought it?

  He liked the way she seemed comfortable in her own skin, not looking for a way to be anyone other than exactly who she was. She seemed ambitious without being driven; sharp without being brittle; friendly without being pushy. She was the kind of woman you could kick back with and relax. Watch the game. Read the papers; Take to bed and—

  No way. Some men liked long and lanky brunettes with small boobs and tight butts and eyes that glittered like onyx. Murphy would be the first to admit the combination had its charm, but he liked his women small, blonde and as big-breasted as possible. He also liked women who came unencumbered, and it wasn't hard to see Sam Dean came with a lot of baggage, including the delightful Patty. Although for some strange reason he couldn't imagine any man thinking of Patty Dean as an encumbrance.

  He continued to watch as Sam climbed into her battered Blazer, revved up the engine, then zipped off down the road toward the Princeton Junction train station. He glanced up at the big round clock hanging near the door to the kitchen. In about nine hours she'd be back.

  The thought made him smile.

  "What's this?

  Murphy started in surprise and turned around to see his father, dressed and in an overcoat, poking the sandwiches on the top tray.

  "Food," said Murphy. "Thanks to Earle and his sudden departure, we have a kitchen problem."

  Bill O'Rourke grunted and peeled back the wrappings on a huge pile of perfectly sliced pickles. "Real fancy," he said with a sharp look at his son. "Who are you trying to impress?"

  "Not you." He debated leaving it at that but his better instincts won out. "I hired a new caterer from Princeton Junction. She threw the appetizers in as an extra."

  "Free?" He sounded ten degrees beyond skeptical.

  "Is that so hard to believe?"

  "Nothing's free in this world, boy. Thought you were old enough to realize that."

  Murphy was thirty-six years old. He'd traveled the world. He'd lived through a bad marriage and a worse divorce. He'd acquired a hide tough as shoe leather and a heart to match, but damned if his old man couldn't still find the right place to stick the knife.

  "Sounds like you've been talking to Joey Boy again."

  "Your brother is worried about my future," Bill said.

  "And I'm not?" Damn it, he thought. Don't let him bait you like this.

  "I didn't say that."

  "Yeah, but I suppose little brother did."

  "He thinks I should see a specialist in Florida." "Princeton doctors aren't good enough?"

  "He thinks I should slow down."

  "Dr. Cohen thinks you aren't doing enough."

  "He thinks I should sell the bar."

  "And do what? Count your food stamps?"

  His father's cheeks reddened. "Joey thinks I should retire. He thinks I should sell the bar and the house and—"

  "Yeah, don't tell me. Move down to Florida and turn into a sunburned old man with nothing but time on his hands." Murphy waved his arms in disgust. "I've heard it all before."

  "At least I'd have family down there."

  "Carole and Jay and the kids don't count?"

  "Of course they count," said Bill, sounding uncertain. "But we're talking about you and you aren't going to be here forever."

  "That's right," said Murphy, struggling to remember that his old man was still under a doctor's care, "and you're not going to be recuperating forever. Things will get back to normal soon enough."

  He's scared, Murphy thought. He's had a heart attack. Remember everything Dr. Cohen told you about cardiac patients. Don't blow up!

  Bill folded the plastic wrap back over the appetizers, his fingers trembling with the effort. It was almost enough to make Murphy relent.

  Almost, but not quite.

  "Stein called last night," Bill said, meeting Murphy's eyes. "He says he wants you back on the paper."

  "He says a lot of things," Murphy mumbled, "some of which are even true."

  "He says he'll give you a raise."

  "I'll tell him where he can stick his raise."

  "He said you can have the city beat. The tri-state gubernatorial coverage. A Sunday spot on Face the City. Anything."

  "Right. Anything but freedom of speech." Murphy stormed over to the coffeepot and poured himself a steaming cup. "Forget it."

  Bill fumbled through his pockets and extracted a stick of gum that he unwrapped and folded into his mouth. "You come rolling in here, playing savior, and think you can make everything right
, when you haven't bothered to come around in years."

  Murphy threw his hands in the air. "Isn't it too early in the morning for venom, Pop?" It wasn't like he'd abandoned his father then come around looking for an inheritance.

  "You wanted out from the minute you were born."

  "Can you blame me? This wasn't exactly a happy home we had here."

  "I'm not made of money," Bill said. "You can't live here forever."

  Murphy, who had not only been paying his way but everybody's else's, looked up from his cup at the man who'd fathered him but never understood one damned thing about who and what he was. "You said that before," he said quietly. "On my eighteenth birthday."

  Both men fell silent, tangled in memory. Murphy had walked out that day within a half hour of Bill's terse pronouncement. He swore Rocky Hill was history and so was his father; the only way he'd come back was in a chauffeur-driven limousine with money to burn. It had taken eight years of struggling but on his twenty-sixth birthday he'd pulled up to O'Rourke's Bar and Grill in a monster stretch limo with a full bar in the back and treated his father and his brother to a day at Atlantic City. On him. All of it. Murphy was a fountain of money that day and not even the fact that it took him six months to pay off the bills was enough to sour the sweet taste of victory.

  For one fleeting moment, he'd been someone in his father's eyes and in his brother's. There'd never been another moment like it.

  He looked at his father. And probably never would be.

  "Want some coffee?" he asked, reaching for a clean cup:

  "I'm on my way out," said Bill, buttoning up his coat.

  "Need a lift?"

  Bill shook his head. "Tessie Gargan is picking me up on the corner."

  "Going any place special?"

  "Doc Cohen wants me in."

  "Good luck," said Murphy. "Maybe you'll be kicking me out of here sooner than you think."

  Bill paused in the doorway, his fair Irish skin flooded with color again. "Nobody's forcing you to stay, boy. You can go back to your fancy friends anytime you want."

  "Yeah, Pop," said Murphy when the door slammed shut behind his father. "You're welcome."

  But then he had no right to expect thanks. His father needed help. His sister couldn't provide it. His brother had bailed out to Florida and a ritzy law practice. Only Murphy remained; volatile, greedy, unemployed Murphy. And it was Murphy who came back to the place he'd struggled to escape from for so many years, only to discover that the more things change, the more they stay the same.