Ramsay (23 page)

"And what about your brother? Isn't constantly forgiving him really just sending the message that you'll tolerate anything? His choices affect you. They have for a long time."

She looked at me thoughtfully, if not a little uncomfortably. "Yes, you're right. It's easier to forgive a person when their bad choices don't wreak havoc on your own life, when you can distance yourself." She sighed. "I guess, sometimes, you have to be the one to cut ties if you're truly going to forgive. And it's more complicated than it seems. I wasn't trying to make it seem overly simplistic."

She looked troubled and perhaps slightly lost, and so I reached over and took her hand, lacing my fingers through hers. "This sleepover has suddenly taken on a somber tone."

She laughed softly. "You're right. We'll save somber for when we have a bottle of wine open."

"I'd lay off the wine for a while,
Mo Chroí
. You're a dirty talking drunk." I raised a brow.

She laughed softly and then was quiet for a moment before she asked, "The other night in ah, bed . . . what did you say to me in Gaelic?"

I paused. "I believe it was something very complimentary about your cream puffs."

She laughed again and the mood lightened. We talked about less serious topics after that. She told me about going away to college, her roommate Beatrice who had snored like a trucker, listened to techno music constantly and lived, seemingly, on a diet of candy corn and Red Bull, about coming back home, about her life now. I listened to her talk, smiling and absorbing every word, and I had to admit, I liked my first sleepover, despite all the talking. Or maybe because of it. Or maybe I just really liked the girl I was having a sleepover with.

I told her about my childhood in Ireland, my mam, the cancer, and even a little bit about my dad before he'd been ruled by the bottle, and I found that it felt good to talk about them, even if only a little. Apart from Fionn, and Eileen of course, I hadn’t come across anyone who had lost both parents so young.

"I wanted this with you," she murmured. "When we were teenagers. I dreamed of this." I smiled softly at her. Funny, we'd both been dreaming of the same thing, yet we'd both been dreaming alone. I didn't want to dream alone anymore. I hoped to God she didn't either.

We'd slept together in the guest room in Greenwich, but having her in
my
bed brought an even deeper joy and satisfaction. I loved whispering with her in the near dark of my room, loved the look of her freshly scrubbed face right next to mine on the pillow, loved the soft sound of her voice, the way her words faded away as she started drifting off to sleep in the middle of a sentence.

I don't remember falling asleep, but at some point in the deep of the night, I came half awake, realizing Lydia and I were tangled together, her smooth thigh thrown over my leg and her breasts pressed against my chest, her breath warm on my throat. I pulled her closer, burrowing my nose into her sweetly fragrant hair, feeling a calm sense of happiness flow through me.

When I woke up next, it was morning and Lydia was gone, but when I got up and opened the door to my bedroom, I heard the water running across the hall in her bathroom and smiled. I brought my arm to my nose and inhaled.
Lydia.
Her scent lingered on my skin.

I brushed my teeth, shaved, and took a shower, and then dressed quickly in dress pants and a button-down shirt.

When I got downstairs and turned the corner into the kitchen, Lydia was sitting at the table dressed . . . as a man. "Em," I said, squinting my eyes at her.

She grinned. "Hi," she said, "I mean, hi," she said again, lowering her voice a few octaves.

"What exactly is . . .?" I used my finger to indicate her state of dress—a button-down shirt stolen from my closet it seemed, rolled up to her elbows, a pair of loose jeans—and her hair bundled into a baseball cap, and the small . . . I squinted again . . . drawn-in mustache?

"I'm coming to work with you today," she said. "I thought you'd feel safer about me accompanying you if I was in disguise."

"Disguise?" I walked closer, leaning my hands on a chair back. "Lydia, that's the worst disguise I've ever seen."

"Oh!" She held up her finger, grabbed a pair of sunglasses sitting next to the toast she was eating and put them on, smiling.

"Just as bad."

Her smile vanished. "Well, of course it's not meant to trick you." She removed the sunglasses. "But it should work just fine in general. Plus, you said you'd come to an agreement with the men holding my brother's loan. Surely the risk is decreased now, right?" I pressed my lips together and then sighed.

"Please, Brogan," she rushed on, standing and walking over to me. "It's so boring being locked in an apartment all day alone. And you told me you might have some work for me to do for your company. Wouldn't it be better if I was actually
at
your company so I could ask you questions if I need to?" She put her arms around my waist and gazed up at me, and my eyes wandered to the mustache.

"This is disturbing," I said. "Really disturbing."

"Please?" She blinked up at me, flirting in that shameless way I remembered. Only now . . . it made me smile. Even though I had no bloody idea how to flirt back. Fionn would know. But I had a feeling that sort of thing either came naturally or it didn't. And for me, well, it didn't.

I sighed again. "Fine. But you stay inside with me. I'm serious, Lydia. Let that small ache I'm sure you still feel on your side be a reminder of why what I say is very important." I didn't think she was in danger today, but I wasn't going to take any risks. And either way, she'd be with me. I'd make
sure
she was safe.

I ate a piece of toast and finished getting ready and then we went down to my car, pulling through a coffee drive-thru en route. Fifteen minutes later, I parked across the street from what was my former home, and now my offices in the Bronx.

We got out of my car and I grabbed Lydia's hand as we crossed. She grinned. "I'm glad to see you're confident enough in your masculinity to hold another man's hand in public."

"You're not a man."

"Yes, but other people don't know that."

We stepped onto the porch and I pulled her to me, wrapping one arm around her waist, and holding my coffee in the other hand.

I grinned. "I'm confident enough to do this, too." I pulled her closer and kissed her lips, running my tongue across the seam so she opened on a surprised inhale of breath. I heard the door open in front of us and cracked one eye open. Rory was standing there, a baffled look on his face as he watched me kiss the young . . . man in my arms.

I pulled back, clearing my throat. "Rory," I greeted as I took Lydia's hand, pulling her behind me and past Rory who was still standing in the doorway looking completely blindsided. I almost asked him why he wasn't at school, but remembered he'd told me it was a teacher in-service day.

I brought Lydia into my office and pulled a chair up next to mine. She stood there watching me, looking around. "Things were so different the last time I was here," she said softly.

A wave of guilt washed over me when I thought about how I'd treated her that day, the offer I'd made and my dark intentions toward her. "Yeah," I said. "You were a woman then." She laughed and I smiled, letting out a breath. I didn't want the easy rapport we'd developed last night to go away. And though things were far from perfect, and I still had several unpleasant tasks staring me down, in that moment, watching as she settled herself at my desk, the only thing I felt was happiness.

Lydia

Brogan had set me up with a list of tasks, and I had gone to work right away. I went back and forth between Brogan's office and the file cabinets in a small room off the waiting area. Each time I did, Rory looked at me skeptically, but I just nodded, wanting to laugh at his confusion.

I also noticed the way he followed Brogan around, watching him closely and imitating his mannerisms. I didn't think Brogan noticed. I didn't even think Rory was aware, but he obviously hero-worshipped Brogan. This situation with Brogan's new man-friend must really be throwing him for a loop. Though I figured part of his confusion stemmed from the fact that he was unsure whether I was actually a man or not. I wanted to giggle, but I held it in and resolutely went about my tasks.

Going through a few of the files Brogan had me working on, confused me.
What sort of business was this?
"I do what I want now," he'd said. Only it seemed what he did was . . . help people. I bit my lip.
What did he get out of this?
How did you make a business out of helping people who were in bad situations? Did he charge them an exorbitant interest like one of those check cashing places that loaned you money before payday? I leafed through several more files, but if that were the case, there was no record of it here.

A little before noon, Fionn came striding in. Brogan and I were in his office and he paused in the doorway, one eyebrow cocked as he stared at me. "Em . . ."

I laughed. "Hi, Fionn. What's the craic?" I winked and Fionn let out a breath, walking into Brogan's office.

"I thought that was ya, Lydia. But I didn't want to be wrong and offend Brogan's new, wee lad secretary." He sprawled in the chair in front of Brogan's desk. "We gona go deal with that mug, Rudy Dudley?"

Brogan sighed and rubbed at his eye. "Yeah. Just give me a minute to take my anti-nausea medication." Fionn chuckled.

"Rudy Dudley?" I asked.

"Aye," Fionn said. "A real chancer, tight as a duck's arse. He owns some slums in South Bronx and our client has hired us to," he paused as if considering his words carefully, "use our powers of persuasion to convince him to make some repairs."

Hmm.
"A chancer. A . . . dodgy character." I grinned, proud to have remembered a word from my Irish slang lesson. I turned to Brogan. "And your client is . . ."

"Sally Hodges. She has a three-year-old and a six-month-old living in a shithole where the rats are bigger than the cats."

I cringed. But if Sally Hodges lived in this rat-infested shithole, she must not have the money to move elsewhere. And if she didn't have the money to move elsewhere, how did she have the money to hire Brogan and Fionn? "I'm coming with you," I said.

Brogan shook his head. "You wouldn't want to be anywhere near this place, trust me."

"I'll stay in the car. But I'm coming." Brogan considered me for a second, but then nodded his okay.

Ten minutes later, we were pulling up in front of a crumbling, three-story brick building. I leaned toward the backseat window, looking up at the structure as Brogan and Fionn got out, telling me they'd be back in twenty minutes, Brogan locking the doors with his key fob.

Although the street was nice, with lots of old, large trees, the building in front of me was a definite eyesore.

I sat in the car for several minutes, watching two boys kicking a ball on a patch of brown grass. I glanced up at the building one more time.

Overcome with curiosity, I got out, walking quickly to the door I'd watched Brogan and Fionn enter, wrinkling my nose when I stepped into the lobby. It reeked of trash and something dead. I hoped whatever had died was of the animal variety.

Stepping through the debris, I climbed the stairs, following the raised voices. I stayed hidden around a corner for a minute listening to the conversation.

I heard Brogan say, "Mr. Dudley, we've catalogued a hundred and fifty housing code violations in this building. Frankly, I hardly want to waste the finances or the energy bringing a lawsuit against you, but there are seven women and thirteen children living here who deserve better than the fucking, dirty shithole you're providing for them. And unlike your tenants, I have the means to do something about it."

"Now listen here,
boy
," an older voice spat out. I peeked out from behind the corner and caught the old man's eye, and pulled myself back against the wall, my heart pounding.
Damn!
"Who's that?" I heard him demand.

Biting my lip, I pulled my ball cap off, quickly scrubbed at the mustache I'd drawn on with eyeliner that morning and unbuttoned the top two buttons of my shirt, un-tucking it and tying it at the side of my waist. I took a deep breath, fluffed my hair and stepped out from around the corner, smiling brightly. Brogan was walking toward me and when I shot him a smile, his forehead creased right before his eyes widened.

"Oh, hi, sorry I'm late," I sing-songed. Brogan frowned, and I stepped around him, reaching my hand out to Mr. Dudley. "Mr. Dudley?"

"Uh . . ." said the tubby old man with the greasy, white hair sticking in every direction from his head and every other orifice I could see. He looked at me, to Fionn and then back to me. I glanced around him into the dirty garbage pit he referred to as his apartment and tried not to grimace at the smell wafting out. My eyes caught on a bookshelf near the door—a bookshelf featuring a folded American flag in a small glass holder and several medals and plaques. I squinted my eyes, reading the inscriptions quickly. When I looked back to Mr. Dudley, he was trying to look down my shirt.

"Mr. Rudy Dudley, former US Marine, recipient of the Silver Star?"

He puffed up, standing taller, looking at me more closely. "That's right. How'd you know that?"

I pointed behind him to his bookshelf, smiling and cocking one hip out. "The Silver Star," I said, putting one finger up to my lips and puckering up as I tapped them. "That's for gallantry in action, right? Why, Mr. Molloy, Mr. Ramsay, we're dealing with a bona fide hero right here. You boys hardly need to
threaten
him with doing the right thing. Doing the right thing is in his blood." I sighed. "Mr. Dudley, you have no idea what an honor it is to meet you. There are so few real
men
nowadays, don't you agree?"

Mr. Dudley straightened even further, smoothing his wrinkled wife beater down his paunchy stomach and flicking something dried and crusty at the hem. "Uh . . . yeah. Yeah! You're right, young lady. In my day, heroes were
respected
." He shook his head. "Not anymore." He shot a glare to Brogan and Fionn who were watching our exchange with blank looks on their faces.

"Well, I respect your service to our country, your bravery, and I admire the fact that you want to provide safe and secure living conditions for the women residing here—the women who are counting on you to be the hero they need. But, Mr. Dudley, I understand it's an overwhelming job and perhaps you've hesitated while trying to come up with the most strategic plan for making the fixes and repairs necessary. Am I right?"

"Uh . . . strategy . . . yeah. That's right. If you're not strategic, it'll all go to hell. Every last bit of it!" he yelled, looking off behind me as if expecting someone else to appear.

I nodded sympathetically as his eyes moved back to me. "You're so right. Again, Mr. Dudley, the sound thinking I'd only expect from a war hero such as yourself. Here's what I propose: if I can get your guarantee that you'll fund the cleanup project and hire the professionals necessary, I'll send a crew made up of Mr. Ramsay's employees, free of charge of course, to get rid of the garbage and debris littering the uh . . . grounds and main foyer of this property."

Mr. Dudley nodded. "Main foyer, right." He narrowed his eyes, and tilted his head, considering me.

"You've got a deal, Miss . . ."

"De Havilland. Lydia De Havilland." I grinned. "Mr. Dudley, you're a gentleman and a patriot."

Mr. Dudley, shockingly, grinned back, showing me a mouthful of crooked, nicotine-stained teeth. "Miss De Havilland, will you be by to check on the progress?"

I hesitated. "Uh, absolutely. Of course."

"I will see you then." Again, he smoothed his shirt, licked his palm, and reached up, attempting to tame his wild hair. Well, that was gross. And anyway, it was a useless effort—his hair remained looking like one of those freaky troll dolls. And how I wished he had not just raised his arm higher than his shoulder.

He turned to Brogan who was standing there with a look that was simultaneously baffled and disgusted. "Mr. Ramsay, I'll go inside right now and start setting up the appointments to make the fixes you outlined in your letter. Good day." He nodded to both men, smiled at me again, and closed his door. I heard him whistling from the other side.

I rubbed my hands together, turning from the door and walking back to the stairs. "Are you coming, boys?" I called to Brogan and Fionn. "Or are you both going to stand there looking gammy?" I heard Fionn's deep laughter as I headed down the stairs and grinned to myself.

**********

Happy hour at the bar named The Black Dragon Tavern was already shaping up to be quite the party. Brogan, Fionn, and I snagged one of the last booths, Fionn raising his voice to place our order with the waitress over the hubbub. "I took the liberty of orderin' for ya, Lydia. Ya gotta drink like the true Irishwoman ya are if we're celebratin' ya joinin' our company today."

Brogan nodded. "As an office assistant. Temporary."

"I much prefer working in the field," I insisted.

"Not when the "field" is a rat-filled, asbestos-poisoned slum," Brogan grumbled.

"I don't know, mo chara, I think Lydia proved the field is exactly where her specific talents are needed, shur ya know like."

"We would have achieved the same result eventually," Brogan said.

"Aye, in donkey's years. We were shapin' up to make a balls of it first," Fionn said.

"Would you have
preferred
to spend money and time on a court case?" I asked. "Sure, you could have crushed him eventually. But Mr. Dudley just needed his ego stroked a bit by a female. You men seem to find that very convincing."

"The lady is right," Fionn said. "Us lads do like to be stroked. I can't deny it." He winked and I rolled my eyes. "Now," he went on, "like Lydia said, we can apply the funds we were plannin' on usin' to convince Mr. Dudley to do the right thing elsewhere, like."

The waitress delivered tall glasses of thick-looking black liquid I assumed was Guinness.

Fionn raised his glass. "To Lydia, and to a bleedin' deadly day in the field. Fair play to ya.
Sláinte.
" He grinned and took a long drink. I followed suit, taking a mouthful of the strong beer, blinking and giving my head a small shake once I'd swallowed it down.

"Well, that'll put hair on your chest," I said, my eyes watering.

"Let's hope not," Brogan muttered. "I like your chest just the way it is." I laughed, nudging him.

Brogan seemed to spot someone at the bar and started to stand. "Hey, I need to go say hi to someone. I'll be right back."

"Oh okay," I said. He got up and I watched as he wove through the crowd, women looking back over their shoulders at him as he moved by. Though I bristled slightly with jealousy, I didn't blame them. And on top of the jealousy, I felt a strong surge of pride.
I
was going home with him tonight.

I looked at Fionn who was watching me with a small, knowing smile on his face.

"How are ya feelin'?" He glanced at my side where my stitches were. I hadn't even thought of it all day.

"I'm fine." I frowned slightly. "Brogan seems to have taken it harder than he needed to. It's just a scratch, and he solved a situation my brother put me in."

"He blames himself for turnin' your brother down the path of destruction in the first place. Tryin' to convince him otherwise is brutal, like."

"I suppose it was his initial intent." I bit at my lip. "A moral dilemma . . ." I murmured, still not completely sure how to organize it in my mind, especially because I was so close to the subject.

"I daren't say that Brogan knew completely what his initial intent really was, Lydia." Fionn took a long sip of his beer, appearing to use the time to consider his next words. "And aye, a moral dilemma. Brogan ain't that grand with moral dilemmas." He paused. "Brogan is savage with numbers, but when it comes to emotions," he frowned, "he can be fairly feckin' . . . black and white, either, or. It's like with numbers, his brain is nimble and complex, but with emotions, he can be a spanner."
A spanner. A person lacking wisdom.
He smiled, looking slightly guilty for his wording perhaps. "I don't mean it unkindly, like. He just has a bloody hell of a time seein' shades of gray when it comes to matters of the heart. Eileen says when he was six, he was doin' high school maths, but he'd wallop someone over the head if they mistreated the class pet. He's a man now, but sometimes with emotional subjects, well, he gets there, but it's not always a pretty process."