Hunks, Hammers, and Happily Ever Afters (28 page)

Regan resisted the urge to sigh. Falling in love—or even dating—was so far down on her “to do” list Regan should start a “in my next life” list.

What she could do with at the moment was a bit of a break.  Given the way her phone had been buzzing all day, Maura had made it home and regaled their father about how cruel and heartless Regan was the second she walked in the door. This from Desmond, three years Regan’s junior who was even more disenchanted with Maura’s behavior than she was. The added “about time, Sis,” in his last text message was both encouraging and sad.

The anger with her sister had died down to a low simmer, but it wouldn’t be pulled off the stove anytime soon. How could Maura have been so uncaring and cold? When had lying become so easy for her? The fact Maura could see the shock on Brodie Crawford’s face and those ocean sized tears landing on his daughter’s cheeks and not even blink? 

For that alone, Regan wasn’t sure she’d ever be able to forgive Maura.

Regan delivered the drinks to table nine, located far enough from the trio of large screen TVs that a semblance of normal conversation could be had. With high-backed leather booths reminiscent of the photos she’d seen of the pub her grandfather had owned in Ireland, along with the dark walnut with accents of brass and stone, Murphy’s Pub was their family’s little spot of the Emerald Isle smack dab between Santa Barbara and Los Angeles.

The pub had been her parents’ dream. But when Noreen Murphy died after complications with her last pregnancy, the family legacy had been firmly placed on Regan’s shoulders. As had the responsibility of keeping the family functioning once it became clear their father may as well have been put into the grave beside his wife.  Instead, he’d taken up permanent residence in a bottle.

Cormac Murphy had stopped living eight years ago; and so, for the most part, had Regan. That’s what happened when you were the oldest of seven, barely twenty-one, and trying to keep your family from dissolving. Forget trial by fire; Regan had survived trial by inferno.

“Regan, you want me to close down the back room for the night?” Liam, brother number three and current college junior studying architecture on a partial scholarship, made his way out of the kitchen with a dish pan in his hands and that damnable charming smile on his lips.

Regan glanced at her watch. “Yeah, go ahead.”  She’d worked these hours long enough to be able to gauge how the rest of the night would go. They were open until midnight, but with only a third of the tables filled, whatever crowds showed up wouldn’t have much of a wait. “Should make shutting down tonight go faster. Thanks, Liam.”

When her brother didn’t immediately head off and scrunched his mouth in that way that told her he was mulling something over, Regan arched a brow. “What?”

“It’s about Maura.”

"Nope.” Regan held up her hand, shook her head. “I’m not talking about her with you.”

She wasn’t talking about her with anyone. Not yet.

“Regan, she never means what she does.”

“Yeah, well, this time, someone innocent got hurt. Stop, Liam.” She used the same tone of finality that seemingly had no effect on their sister. “She went one step too far and I’m not backing down. It’s time for Dad to take her in hand. If he can be bothered. And stop playing peacemaker all the time. You might be the middle brother, but it’s not your responsibility to keep everyone happy.”

“It’s not yours, either.” Liam’s response had Regan blinking in surprise. “You’re too young to be this old, Regan. When are you going to take some life for yourself instead of worrying about the rest of us all the time?”

“I—” When was the last time she’d been stunned into silence?

“Fallon asked for some help with her science camp project,” Liam reminded her as he headed off to the back room they reserved for large parties and events. “Okay to head home when I’m done closing up the back?”

“Yeah.” Regan nodded, more unsettled than she was willing to admit. “Yeah. Thanks. Tell her I’ll help her in the morning if she needs.”

“She’ll need.” Liam grinned and for an instant, she saw the reckless little boy he’d been not so many years ago, with too big teeth in a too wide smile beneath his too long ginger hair.  “I failed fourth grade science, remember?”

Oh, she remembered.  The kitchen ceiling still had scorch marks from his renegade volcano.  Still smiling at the bittersweet memory—and the image of their mother trying to scrape melted plastic off the walls—Regan turned toward the door in time to see Brodie and Cilla Crawford walk in.

Her face went hot and cold in the same instant and she wondered—for a brief moment—what Brodie was thinking coming into the pub so soon after their disastrous meeting earlier. 

Whatever false smile of welcome she might have plastered on her practiced face was replaced by a real one as Cilla beamed up at her and waved.  “Hi, Regan!”

“Well, if it isn’t my favorite
banphrionsa. 
Princess,” she clarified at Cilla’s look of confusion. “It’s Irish.  Did the two of you come for dinner?”

“Yes, please.” Cilla grabbed Regan’s hand and swung it back and forth as she looked over her shoulder to her father. “Daddy said I can have a hamburger and trees. And a root beer!”

“Trees?” Regan’s mind raced. “Broccoli?” She asked Brodie as she chose a booth for them by the window.

“You speak five-year old, I see.”  Brodie slid into the booth across from his daughter, an apprehensive expression on his rugged and not quite handsome face.  Strange. If anyone should be nervous it should be her. What was it about this man that shoved all practical thought out of her mind?

“My sister Fallon isn’t much older,” Regan explained. “Order whatever you want. Dinner’s on me. It’s the least I can do,” she added when Brodie frowned.  “Cilla, you said you’d like a root beer?”

“Uh-huh.”

Brodie gave his daughter the warning brow arch.

“I mean, yes, please.”  Cilla rolled her eyes. “Do you have any crayons?”

“I always have crayons.”  Regan reached into her apron pocket and pulled out a brand new pack of 8 Crayolas, something she insisted all her servers carry. “They’re yours to take home. And yes, you can color on the placemats.” That was why they were white.

“Thank you!”  Cilla dumped all the crayons onto the table. “I’m going to draw you something pretty.”

“I would love that, thank you.”  She dropped a hand on the little girl’s head and felt her heart twist as she caught Brodie’s appreciative and approving look.  She snatched her hand away, not wanting for him to get the wrong idea. It didn’t matter how attractive she found him, the last thing she was going to do was get involved with this man and his daughter.  She’d raised her siblings; that had been enough. More than enough. She didn’t need anyone else to care about.

Someday—just like Liam said—someday she’d have a life of her own; one where she wasn’t tied down and beholden to a houseful of people. “What can I get you to drink, Brodie? Guinness?”

“That would be great, thanks. Oh, and I do have a favor to ask, actually.”  He pulled out a folded up piece of paper from his back jeans pocket.  “I know the deadline was last week, but I was hoping I could squeak in?”

“Oh.” Looking at the application for the
Spring in to Summer
festival had her groaning. She’d totally forgotten the final paperwork was due in a couple of days.

“I take it by that “oh”, I’m too late?”

“Please let my Daddy in.” Cilla scrambled onto her knees and clasped her hands together.

“Is that what you want?”  Regan bent down, almost nose to nose and grinned.

“More than anything. More than chocolate cookies.”

“Did someone tell you we have chocolate cookies here?”  Regan asked with a mock stern expression.

“Um. Toshi said something.” Cilla bumped her nose against Regan’s and slipped right into Regan’s heart.

“Well, one cookie, and one application it is.”  She plucked the paper out of Brodie’s slack fingers and winked before she reminded herself Brodie was not a man to flirt with.  Flirting would be...dangerous.

Slipping the application into her pocket she took a step away, a little uncertain about the look in his eyes, as if he couldn’t quite believe she was real.  “I’ll be right back with your drinks.”

Without another glance in Brodie’s direction, she put in their orders and quickly retreated to her office where she back-dated his application and slipped it into her file to process it with the rest in the morning.

And resisted the urge to look over her shoulder to see if Brodie was watching her.

CHAPTER THREE

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R
egan wasn't surprised to find her father waiting for her in the kitchen when she trudged through the back door at just after one a.m. Friday night. Given the text messages that had been flying through cyberspace the past hours, she wouldn’t have been surprised if Cormac Murphy had walked through the doors of the pub he hadn’t stepped foot in for the past five years.

“Had yourself a full day, then?”  Cormac saluted her with his coffee cup that no doubt contained something from the Whiskey family. Pale as a cloud with green eyes sharp enough to cut glass, Cormac watched Regan lock up and hang her purse and jacket over the hook on the coat rack her great grandfather had carved in Conway County, Ireland. 

The kitchen was covered in the same yellow flowered wallpaper her mother had put up thirty-two years ago when the Murphys moved to Lantano Valley. Corners drooped and the colors were faded, as if the wall coverings were as exhausted and bone-weary as Regan. The dated countertops screamed early seventies and the worn wood floor was only clean and polished because Des was a neat freak. If it wasn’t for him and Finn taking turns, the entire house would look as if a gaggle of hoarders resided here.

“It’s not a day I’d like to repeat.” Resigned to the fact she wouldn’t be falling face down on her mattress as soon as she’d hoped, Regan set a pan of milk to boiling on the stove and got out the hot cocoa mix her mother had always kept handy for late night chat sessions. Nights like this, when life just felt...heavy, Regan missed her mother the most. What she wouldn’t give for Noreen Murphy’s guidance and advice or even one of her famous and familiar tongue-lashings.

Instead all Regan had was a framed photo and a grave she visited once a month if she found the time. “How was your day, Pop?”  Stupid question.  Every day was the same for Cormac and rarely involved leaving the house. She widened her eyes to keep herself from falling asleep where she stood. Whatever energy she’d had had been drained before she’d locked the last door and placed the last stack of bills in the safe back at the pub.

“Not as eventful as yours. We need to talk about Maura.”

Regan chewed on the inside of her cheek and gave herself a mental talking to. Everyone was so suddenly determined to talk about Maura. Where was their concern when Regan raised the alarm months ago? “We really don’t.”

“Girl’s getting out of hand. Needs a firm one.”

“Totally agree. You know of one?”  Regan crossed her arms over her chest and faced her father, all fifty-six years and six feet of him encased in a pair of beige striped pajamas and ancient forest green terrycloth robe Regan remembered him receiving nearly a decade ago for his birthday. The chair he sat in was older than he was, having made the journey with her parents from Ireland in the late sixties. The father she remembered, the big lumbering, jovial  man who had tossed her into the air as a little girl and promised to keep her safe was nowhere to be found behind the bitterness and anger or in the stooped, frail shadow of the man he’d become.

“I don’t care what she’s done, you don’t turn your back on kin.” While Regan had prepared herself for her father’s response to the Maura situation, his accusation still struck her straight in her over-burdened heart. “You and me.” He shook a finger at Regan with more determination than she’d seen in years. “We’re going to figure this out.”

“No, Pop, we’re not.” She swallowed the trepidation that had accompanied her home this evening, keeping in mind the terrified expression on little Cilla’s face when she'd clung to her father as if he were the only person in her world. “I’ve been asking you for weeks to help and all you said was she’d out grow it.  I’ve done my bit. I’ve got enough to juggle without adding an ungrateful, selfish teenage girl to the mix.”

“Maura’s in that difficult stage.” Cormac took a long enough drink to confirm Regan’s suspicions he wouldn’t remember this conversation come sunrise. “Your ma and I lucked out with you.  You were always so sure of yourself and we didn’t have any worries where you were concerned. Or with the boys. But Maura—”

“I’m not Ma,” Regan said for what was possibly the billionth time in her nearly twenty-nine years. “I haven’t tried to be and I couldn’t hope to be. And you know what? Today I was glad Ma isn’t alive to see the damage Maura caused. She’d have been ashamed.” No more ashamed that Regan had been. At least Brodie didn’t seem one to hold a grudge.  Their conversation had stretched almost until closing and until Cilla was fast asleep on her side of the booth and it was time to close up.

“No harm was done.” Cormac’s voice sharpened in that way that told Regan there was no arguing with him. He’d already made up his mind that Maura was the slighted party and that he’d continue to excuse her behavior. “She admitted the truth, no charges were filed and that man—”

“Brodie Crawford was more than understanding considering Maura’s lies put the fear of God into his little girl. I don’t have to know the details about that family to see her father is all she has in the world. Maura didn’t stop to consider the consequences of her actions. Not when she got that tattoo and not when she lied to me about where she got it.”

“You got too much of your ma in you.” Cormac’s words began to slur. “Didn’t think before you went and accused him—”

“I’m well aware of the part I played in the situation.”  She heard the milk begin to bubble and turned to dump a heaping amount of chocolate into the pan, stirred it until it dissolved, all the while wishing she could disappear along with it. “And I apologized for it. Profusely. Maura, on the other hand, didn’t utter a word except to make more excuses. I’m done, Pop. You want to take over, do it. I’ve got enough to focus on.”