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He must have felt so … guilty.
“So I just text him and suggest we get together and talk?”
“Why not?” she said, as if it were so simple. “Were you happy when you were with him? Did he treat you well? Other than not telling you classified info that he wasn’t allowed to tell you anyway?”
I didn’t respond, not certain I wanted to admit that I was happiest when I was with him – the happiest I had been in a long time.
I sighed heavily and dramatically. I really was confused about what I should do. Part of me thought that I could never forgive his lies of omission. Part of me wanted to fall into his arms and let whatever would happen between us happen.
To hell with second-guessing everything.
“I’ll think about it,” I said and finished my coffee.
“Fair enough. You know what they say – you don’t regret the things you do as much as the things you didn’t do. Give it a try. That way, you won’t always be wondering what if.”
I nodded. That was enough talk about Beckett for now. I wanted to wipe my mind of the events of the past six weeks. I had to think about my year at CUNY finishing my Master’s and doing my internship with the FBI. I had a paper to write. I had research to conduct. I had a job and would be working three shifts a week.
I had a date with Gramps on Tuesday night for dinner and then a shift in the bar. Working at his bar would give me extra pocket money and help him out. I knew that bar like it was the back of my hand and so I felt honor-bound to work again, even though I probably had enough money saved from my year and from Dan’s life insurance to support myself nicely. Luckily, they were only six hour shifts.
“You working this week?”
I nodded. “Having dinner with Gramps and then pulling the early shift on Tuesday.”
“Talk to him. See what he says about Beckett.”
“I will.”
We parted company after paying our bill and I walked back to the subway and to my apartment in the New Yorker.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Beckett
On Monday, after my Saturday night from hell and my reunion with Miranda, and Sunday spent regretting everything I had done and didn’t do in Topsail Beach, I went through my usual routine of going for an early morning run as the sun was rising. After I showered and dressed in a navy business suit, I went in to Brimstone and read through my email, went over a few briefs my staff prepared for me on plans to replace the work that Graham once brought into the company.
I had lunch with Brandon, and spent the afternoon meeting with a few clients of mine to discuss future projects, including further development of training videos for private security operators overseas. I was so busy, I didn’t think once about our precarious financial situation, but I did find my mind wandering to Miranda and how she was doing. I wondered whether she had been able to get over the shock of learning that Dan died while on a clandestine or “black op” that took him into enemy territory to rescue me.
How would Dan’s parents react to learning the truth? As far as they knew, he was on a routine training mission. They didn’t know it was black. I couldn’t imagine that she wouldn’t tell them, and I expected they’d be upset and want to speak with someone in the military about it, just to confirm facts. It could get me in trouble, but love does that to you – messes with your ability to reason.
I let my attraction to Miranda get in the way of my faculty of reason.
I’d never done that before, priding myself on being calm in the face of danger, cool in a crisis, and making sound decisions – business or personal. I’d done everything wrong with Miranda right from the get go.
That was going to change.
From now on, I was going to do what Brandon suggested. Instead of letting Miranda go, I was going to fight for her. She was the best thing that happened to me in a long time and I wasn’t going to let her slip away due to my inaction.
I remembered Miranda talking about her grandfather’s bar in Queens that was frequented by the cops in the precinct – The Harp and Keg. On a whim, I decided to go and speak with him. He sounded like he really cared about her and they were very close. I don’t know what I thought meeting him would accomplish, but I wanted to explain myself to someone in the family.
Did I deserve a second chance with Miranda?
If he kicked me out on my ass, I’d have my answer.
The Harp and Keg was a small bar in the middle of a block in downtown Queens, New York. It screamed Irish Pub, with the Guinness Logo in the window, and thick wooden floor boards, a long burnished wood bar with polished brass fixtures. A mirror ran the length of the bar and a few dozen bottles and glasses glittered in the light from the overhead lamps.
I spent a lifetime avoiding my father’s side of the family due to their not-so-law-abiding careers as small time hoods, and here I was in love with an Irish beauty, with the lovely auburn hair, hazel-green eyes and freckles. Miranda looked like an Irish maid from some medieval era in her wedding photos, with flowers braided in her hair. I focused on the Cajun side of my family – my mother’s side, learning a bit of patois and French, learning how to cook Cajun jambalaya, spending time down in the gulf. Here I was back in Manhattan, living in Hell’s Kitchen, for Christ’s sake, in love with an Irish American who could be a model in travel brochures for the Emerald Isle.
I went inside and took a stool at the bar, checking out the place, noting the beer on tap. An older man who looked to be in his late sixties came over, his bald head shiny in the overhead light of a Tiffany lantern.
