Mrs. Scrooge Read online

  Christmas. What a bizarre time of year. Perfectly sane human beings did the strangest things. Sam pulled her Blazer into the parking lot of O'Rourke's Bar and Grill at one minute to noon.

  "Murphy?" she called out as she entered the dimly lit bar. "It's Sam, Murphy!"

  No answer. How strange. She put the tray down atop one of the wooden tables and glanced about. A camel's hair coat was draped over a chair. Maybe Murphy was in the tiny room behind the kitchen that served as an office.

  Well, no matter. She'd finish unloading the Blazer first, then go searching for him.

  Sam turned and headed for the door when Scotty's cheerful voice stopped her.

  "Greetings, Samantha," he said, his intelligent face lit with a pleasant smile. "What wonders have you wrought this fine day?"

  "No fair, Scotty! You'll have to wait and see."

  He sniffed the air speculatively. "Do I smell Danish ham and sweet gherkins on cocktail rye with a dollop of Dijon mustard for tang?"

  "It looks like I'll have my work cut out for me if I want to keep you surprised."

  "Don't worry about him," came a voice from the entrance. "It's the boss you should be worrying about."

  Both Sam and Scotty turned to see Murphy O'Rourke, arms piled high with boxes, kick the door shut after him.

  "Where do you want these?" Murphy pretended to stagger beneath the load of food.

  Sam stepped forward to help him. "Let me take this—"

  He grunted something and moved past her. "Just point out a place, why don't you?"

  Sam pointed to the table where she'd placed the first tray. "Right over there."

  "We're going to have to renegotiate the price, Dean." O'Rourke's countenance was fierce. "There's a hell of a lot of food here."

  Sam's back went up in defense. "Don't worry, O'Rourke. The extras are on the house."

  "No way."

  Her eyes widened in surprise. "I thought you were feeling ripped off."

  "You're the one who should be feeling ripped off. You contracted to make sandwiches, not five-course meals."

  "Consider it a rehearsal for my opening in January. I'm trying to perfect my techniques. Why let all these goodies go to waste?" True enough. There was a limit to how much she and Patty could consume, and besides, after the killer deal her daughter put together, she felt she owed O'Rourke and his clientele a few extras.

  Scotty turned toward Murphy who was shrugging his way out of a leather bomber jacket. "How was your power breakfast'?"

  Murphy started to say something then glanced at Sam and caught himself. "In polite words, lousy."

  Scotty, a gentleman to the tips of his manicured fingers, turned to include Sam in the conversation. "Our mutual friend's employer—"

  "Former employer," grunted Murphy.

  Scotty winked at Sam and continued, "His former employer saw fit to travel all the way from the city—"

  "There's a big deal," said Murphy, tying on his apron. "All of sixty miles. The man will do anything to get out of Manhattan."

  "His former employer came all the way from the city to talk to this pigheaded young man about furthering his career."

  "What career? I'm a bartender now."

  "Murphy has the opportunity to become managing editor, print and digital, of the New York Telegram."

  Sam turned to Murphy, who was busy stomping around the bar with the subtlety of a wounded buffalo. "Managing editor. I'm impressed."

  "Don't be," said Murphy.

  "He's in a snit," continued Scotty, unperturbed. "He longs for the life of the foreign correspondent."

  Of course he would, thought Sam. If ever a man looked ready to run, it was Murphy O'Rourke.

  "The offers aren't exactly pouring in." Murphy's tone was gruff. "Apparently my time has come and gone."

  It was an oddly vulnerable remark from a man who seemed immune to such things as insecurity, but there it was. Sam found she liked Murphy O'Rourke more than ever.

  "I think you have a few good years left in you," she said lightly, touching his forearm. "I wouldn't worry about it."

  "You're a kid," said Murphy with a sudden twinkle in his hazel eyes. "What would you know about it?"

  "I'm twenty-eight, and I know more than you realize."

  "Talk to me when you're on the downside of thirty-five. It's a whole other world."

  "It's what you make of it," said Sam, "no matter what age you are."

  "Bravo!" Scotty, who had been listening to their exchange, broke into spirited applause. "Give this woman a drink on the house."

  Sam laughed and shook her head. "I'll take a rain check. I have work to do at my shop."

  "How about coffee and a sandwich?" Murphy inclined his head toward the trays resting upon the table. "I hear our caterer does a damn good job."

  "She's the best in the business," said Sam, "even if nobody's ever heard of her."

  "That will change soon enough." He pulled out a chair and motioned her toward it. "I'll bet you didn't eat breakfast."

  "I made french toast, bacon, and hot chocolate."

  "Yeah," he said with an answering grin, "but how much of it did you manage to get?"

  "Would you believe black coffee and a sip of juice?" '

  "I'd believe it. Like I said, you're too skinny."

  Sam shrugged and reached for a sliced chicken and tomato sandwich with dilled mayonnaise on pumpernickel. "I can see when I'm outnumbered. Are you gentlemen going to join me?"

  Murphy grabbed the sandwich closest to him while Scotty searched out the Danish ham he'd zeroed in on when Sam arrived. Munching on his sandwich, he carried a pot of strong black coffee over to their table and pulled a container of cream from the small refrigerator behind the bar. Sam threw her cholesterol count to the wind and helped herself.

  "The folly of youth," said Scotty with an envious sigh. "I remember the days when milk and cream and eggs were good for you."

  "Don't remind me," Sam moaned. "Do you know how sad it is to have to turn out a reduced-fat, reduced-cholesterol, reduced-calorie version of beef stroganoff?"

  "The only thing sadder is having to eat it," said Murphy, straddling the chair next to her. "Smoking's no good for you. Sugar can kill." He shot Sam a look. "Even sex isn't what it used to be."

  "Speak for yourself," said MacTavish.

  Sam nibbled on her sandwich and watched O'Rourke out of the corner of her eye. So sex wasn't what it used to be. Wouldn't she love to know the story behind that statement?

  A charged silence filled the room and Scotty—bless him—jumped in.

  "The average English high tea has probably lined the pockets of more cardiologists and dentists than a lifetime of steak dinners."

  Murphy laughed but Sam could only sigh.

  "High tea," she said dreamily. "What I wouldn't give for one afternoon at Claridge's."

  Once again she found herself under Murphy's professional scrutiny. "You've never been to Europe?"

  "I've never been anywhere," she said matter of factly. "I've gone as far east as Manhattan and as far west as Philadelphia."

  "New Jersey born and bred?"

  She nodded. "I can see my epitaph: `Here lies Samantha Dean, she lived and died in Rocky Hill and never knew the difference.'" The words were out before she could stop them and the biting edge to her tone of voice surprised herself as much as it surprised the two men. "Sorry. I didn't mean to sound like that. I'm actually very happy here."

  "There is no crime in craving travel, my dear," said Scotty kindly. "It is a natural desire of the active mind."

  "It's one of the reasons I became a foreign correspondent," said Murphy as he poured them all more coffee. "I wanted to get out of here more than I wanted anything else on earth."

  "When I was sixteen I used to lie awake nights, dreaming of London and Paris and Rome and all of the other wonderful places that were waiting for me to discover them." She had also lain awake nights, dreaming of how wonderful it would be to see those glorious places with Ronald Donovan.
Her dreams of Ronald were long over but she was pierced with a sudden, bittersweet yearning for all the other foolish dreams that had once seemed so important.

  "And then you had Patty?" asked Scotty.

  "And then I had Patty. Not even London could compete with that."

  "You could still go," said Murphy. "Kids are portable."'

  How could she explain to the footloose O'Rourke that while kids were portable, she wasn't? Years ago she'd made up her mind to stay put and, despite this outburst, she did not regret her decision. Travel took both time and money, and at the moment both commodities were tied up in Fast Foods for the Fast Lane. "Who knows?" she said after a moment. "Maybe someday I'll get there."

  "Go," said Murphy. "You owe it to yourself to see England."

  "Yes," said Sam, "but I owe it to Patty to stay here." Patty needed continuity; she needed security and challenges and every single cent Sam could possibly spare for her future education. Trips to London, no matter how wonderful, were dreams for some distant future when Sam was a successful entrepreneur and Murphy O'Rourke was just a topic of conversation around the bar.

  O'Rourke didn't say anything. He nodded his head slowly, his gaze never leaving hers. In his eyes she saw something close to respect and admiration. And even though his opinion shouldn't have mattered, her heart beat just a little bit faster.

  Chapter Eight

  Murphy wasn't quite sure how it happened, but by the time three o'clock rolled around, he was in one bear of a bad mood. Scotty, Joe and the rest of the crowd had taken a tray of sandwiches and a pile of appetizers and retired to a table near the exit. From time to time they cast such baleful looks at him that Murphy almost felt contrite.

  Almost, but not quite.

  He never should have let Dan Stein talk him into that little power breakfast at the diner. That had been a lousy idea from the word go, and if Murphy had had half a brain, he wouldn't have given the die-hard New Yorker directions to Rocky Hill. Born and bred New Yorkers didn't believe there was actually life on the other side of the Hudson River; if Murphy had used his head, he would have let Stein go on thinking exactly that. But, no. His damn curiosity had gotten the better of him and Murphy let himself be coerced into consorting with the enemy.

  All he had to do was say no to the Telegram's offer and mean it. Sounded simple enough. Why was he finding it so hard to stick with his decision? In any given day he found himself vacillating between the life of a foreign correspondent, going back to Manhattan and the Telegram and disconnecting his laptop and pulling draft beer for the rest of his days.

  Talking to Samantha Dean, listening to her optimism about her future and that of her daughter, made him aware of a void inside himself that he hadn't known was there until that moment. Sam knew who she was, and what she was about. She understood where she was going, how to get there and what was expected of her once she arrived. And add to all that the awesome responsibility of a child with a potential as phenomenal as Patty's, and you had a woman who was pretty phenomenal in her own right.

  In one day Sam Dean did more that was important than Murphy O'Rourke had done in his entire life, a fact his father had been more than happy to point out after Sam left for her shop. Bill O'Rourke had come in from his morning constitutional and taken an immediate shine to the friendly young woman. It had been a long time since Murphy had seen a genuine smile on his father's face but Sam Dean had managed to call forth not only a smile but an actual laugh, as well. Scotty told Murphy that it had taken all of his willpower to keep from leading the patrons of the bar in a loud "Hip hip hooray!"

  Bill's smile had faded the moment Sam left for her shop, and before she backed her Blazer out of the parking lot, Murphy and his old man were engaged in one of their sniping sessions. Bill stormed up to his room to nap. Murphy stormed about the bar, bullying the regulars and eating enough for six fullbacks after a famine.

  "Retirement is supposed to be a time of fulfillment and tranquility," observed Scotty as Murphy clattered glassware and trays behind the bar: "Your foul disposition makes me long for the halls of academe once again."

  "Be my guest," said Murphy, glaring at the former mathematics professor. "I'll drive you."

  "Why don't you go out and take a walk?"

  Murphy glanced toward the window. "It's snowing out there."

  "It might cool you off."

  "I don't need to cool off."

  "That, my boy, is a matter of opinion. I think you need a change of venue."

  Murphy glanced at the empty sandwich trays stacked at the far end of the bar. "Maybe that's not such a bad idea."

  "The walk?" asked Scotty.

  "The change of venue."

  "But you just said—"

  "When you're right, you're right, Scotty." He untied his apron and tossed it near the sink. "Can you watch things for me while I'm gone?"

  Scotty cast a scornful look at the ancient cash register and the beer mugs waiting to be filled. "I think the time has come to talk about putting me on the payroll. I am highly overqualified for this work."

  "I won't be long."

  He grabbed his leather jacket, his car keys and the metal trays. Why not, he thought, as he headed across the snowy parking lot toward his rented car. She'd been knocking herself out these past few days making epicurean delights for the guys at the bar. She must have her hands full with Patty home sick and Christmas coming and getting her store ready to open in less than a month.

  The least he could do was stop by Fast Foods for the Fast Lane, drop off the trays and save her a trip back to O'Rourke's that night.

  It doesn't mean anything, he thought as he started the car and cautiously eased the vehicle out onto the slippery street. If he didn't get out of the bar for a while he'd probably deplete a month's worth of Scotch before the afternoon was out.

  He slid to an off-angle stop at a traffic light. Damn weather. She didn't need to be out in it, risking her life. She had a daughter who needed her, family and friends who cared. He could imagine her with a husband and a few more kids with Patty's brains and her smile. Murphy grunted as he moved the car forward again. Nobody would notice if he plowed into a snowdrift and stayed there until spring.

  You're a coward, son. He heard his father's voice as clearly as if he were in the car alongside him. Anytime life doesn't go your way, you're looking to back out.

  "Can you blame me?" he mumbled, his fingers gripping the wheel as the snow thickened. "Who wants to spend winter in New Jersey?"

  He thought of Samantha Dean and a smile broke through his foul mood. He liked her. Nothing complicated about that. He liked her ambition, her devotion to her daughter, her straightforward manner and her offbeat sense of humor.

  When he was seventeen he was a wiseacre kid with more bravado than brains.

  When Sam was seventeen, she was a senior in high school—and the mother of a newborn baby girl.

  Murphy couldn't imagine what a hash he would have made of a situation like that.

  It didn't take a genius to know Sam was something pretty special. He enjoyed her company as much as he had enjoyed her daughter's at the Career Day seminar at the grammar school. He'd never given a lot of thought to having a woman for a friend before. Reporters in general, and foreign correspondents in particular, weren't known for their fidelity to members of the opposite sex. The life-style wasn't exactly conducive to forging lifetime commitments and Murphy hadn't been overly interested in finding an alternative. His one brief shot at marriage had been over before it had a chance to begin, and frankly he hadn't been devastated by the divorce.

  He and his wife had been lovers but they'd never been friends. In fact, there had been a lot of women he'd enjoyed in bed but few he'd ever tried to enjoy once they got out. He and Sam were off to a good start, and for some reason that made him feel better than he had in a long, long time.

  * * *

  SAM HAD JUST FINISHED sealing twenty pounds of unbleached flour into two huge metal canisters and was about to arrange her spi
ces in alphabetical order on the open shelves near the stove when she heard a knock at the front door.

  "Sorry," she called out, pushing her hair off her face with the back of her hand, "we're not open yet." The knock sounded again.

  "We're closed! Come back New Year's Day."

  "Sam! Open up."

  She stopped and stared toward the front of the store. Murphy O'Rourke? "What are you doing here?" she asked as she ushered the snow-covered man inside and relocked the door. "How on earth did you find me?"

  He presented the empty trays to her with a flourish. "I wanted to save you a trip," he said, brushing the snow off his hair with a quick shake of his head, "and it wasn't too hard."

  "You reporter types are resourceful."

  He glanced around the bright and airy storefront and whistled low. "You entrepreneur types are pretty resourceful."

  Sam beamed with pleasure. "Thanks. It is shaping up pretty nicely."

  "This place is dynamite. You'll be turning them away in droves."

  Her laughter was high and unforced. "That's the general idea." In the distance they heard the low rumble of a New Jersey Transit train pulling into the Princeton Junction station. "Some location, isn't it? They fall out of the train, tired and hungry, and into my shop to pick up dinner."

  He folded his brawny arms across his chest and nodded. "I have to hand it to you, Sam, you covered all the angles. I don't see how you can miss."

  Sam crossed herself and grinned like a kid caught in the cookie jar. "From your mouth to God's ear. Unless I've missed my guess, Fast Foods for the Fast Lane is just what Mr. and Ms. Commuter are looking for." Suddenly she realized she was clutching the empty food trays to her chest like a shield. "You didn't have to do this, you know. I was going to stop at the bar on my way home."

  "I figured I'd save you a trip."

  She nodded as she placed the trays down atop the Corian counter that had cost her an arm and a leg on sale. "And I suppose you just happened to be in the neighborhood."

  His hazel eyes twinkled. "No," he said. "I wasn't anywhere close and I'll have you know, the only thing I hate more than driving is driving in a snowstorm."