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“Because of Scotty, Declan. You may not give a fuck about anything but yourself, but this hinders his run for mayor.” Her voice softens, and I know it’s for the fear that she may not get out of this life. Scotty going for mayor of Boston will help further his political career. It’ll get both of them away from the danger of the Mafia, and that’s what she’s always wanted.
“It’s fine, princess,” Scotty says, starting the engine. “We took care of it.”
“Took care of it,” Saoirse says, but the bite to her tone is gone. She turns forward, and he rests his hand on her thigh. Immediately, it douses her anger. My best friend since childhood, Jameson Scott Burne, has put out the fire inside of my sister’s soul. Or at least dimmed it so it’s not a raging, uncontrollable forest fire.
I stare in shock, mouth agape. “If I knew you’d calm her down so easily, I’d have told Callum we needed to set up a forced marriage the second she turned eighteen,” I deadpan.
Saoirse’s head snaps back toward me. “Shut up and get dressed. You can shower at the hotel. I had your belongings sent to a penthouse there already. You’ll be sober and smiling for this dinner tomorrow, Declan. Or I’ll shove you in the trunk, and when I drive you over a bridge, you won’t be able to get out.”
I snort, shimmying on the sweatpants they packed for me. Silence fills the air, and I swallow as the guilt for ruining her big night settles. “I’m sorry, Saoirse. I forgot about the hotel opening.”
And I truly mean that I’m sorry. Had I remembered, I would have at least waited to end my life on a day that wasn’t so important to her.
Chapter Two
“It’sbeenfiveyears,Samira. When are you going to come home? Your father and I could help out more if you’d just move back, baby.” Mom’s voice comes through my cell phone. I’ve just told her about the draining day I’ve had, and her response is to tell me I need to move back home?
I roll my eyes. She can’t see me, but I’ll bet she can hear the muscle strain all the way from Connecticut. Our daily chats on the phone are always the same. I tell her about my day. If it’s a good one, she tells me how much she misses her grandbabies and asks me when I’ll sell the house so she can have them back home with her full time. If it’s a bad one, like today, she tells me it’s time to come home so she can help. Either way, it’s the same argument, and I just don’t have it in me to fight today.
Never mind the fact that Boston is my home. This is where I started a family with my late husband, Ian. Selling it would be like leaving him behind. We picked the location for the schools and the closeness to the diner. Ian was so happy when he saw the backyard. He’d scooped me up, twirling me as he smiled so widely that I got a glimpse of those sweet dimples that always made my heart beat faster.
We conceived our youngest, Max, on the couch in the living room. We made friends and created a family from those friends.
There are too many memories here. I’ll never leave Boston, even if it means raising my kids without the help of my parents. I steel myself, knowing I’m about to argue with my mom. “Mom. We’re doing all right here. The kids have had enough happen to them. I won’t pull them from their schools. From their friends.”
Mom scoffs, dismissing my worries the way she always does. “Kids are resilient. They’ll make new friends, honey.”
My kidsareresilient. They’ve endured the tragic loss of their father at only twelve and five. I’m not about to yank them from the only thing that’s been constant since. “Mom. Boston is our home. It’s where they’ve grown up, where they’ve made their friends. It’s where . . . ” The words swirl around in my gut, like a sinking rock. “It’s where Ian is.”
“Honey, that’s just a grave site. He’s in your hearts. He’s all around you in everything you do. Every day.”
I swallow, shaking my head. The most frustrating thing is that she acts like we’re across the country. My parents’ farm in Salisbury, Connecticut, is only three hours away. She’s only been to my house three times since the month after Ian’s death. But Dad travels here all the time. She says it’s because she can’t leave the orchards unattended, and that her goats will get separation anxiety if they think she’s abandoned them. But Dad hired someone to help when I left for college.
Deep down, he always knew I wouldn’t come home.
My eyes are closed as I force away the tears. I can’t cry. Not here, standing in the middle of my bedroom. The only place I’m allowed to cry is in the shower, where the kids can’t hear me. “Mom. Please, I don’t have the energy for this conversation.”
Tucking the phone between my ear and my chin, I fold a towel and toss it onto the bed. “I’ve gotta get the vomit out of the minivan before the smell settles. Max upchucked after baseball practice today. I don’t understand why these coaches run them so hard. They’re eight years old. It’s not like they’re training for the MLB.”
Mom laughs. “Your father was the same way with your softball team. It’s why I finally forbade him from coaching. Men and their sports—”
“Is that Sammy?” Dad’s voice comes through the line, and I catch the tail end of him arguing with her as he steals the phone. “Hey, Sammy. I heard you had a rough day?”
“Hey, Dad. Yeah. We’re fine now. Max is clean and playing games like nothing ever happened. The car has seen better days, though.”
“That’s a shame. I’m proud of you, baby girl. Doing this all by yourself.”
As if I had a choice. As if Ian didn’t up and croak on me. I know he doesn’t mean any ill intent, so I keep my mouth shut as he tells me about his fishing trip. Dad and I have always been close. But it’s been harder for me recently. Memories of me in my teenage years going fishing with him or ordering pizza and wings while we watched Sweeney Todd. Every time I talk to him, the guilt eats at me. My daughter will never get those moments with her father. Em’s time with Ian was cut short—robbed from her.
My phone beeps with an incoming notification. Saoirse Murphy is calling me. I’m hosting a grand opening event at her hotel tomorrow, so I use it as an excuse to get off the line. “Hey, Dad. I gotta go. I’ve got a client on the line.”
Dad hums his approval. “Okay, sweetheart. You’re doing great. I’ll be there in a few days to help, okay?”
“Okay, Dad. Bye, I love you.”
“I love you, sweetheart.”
I hang up the phone, then open the text chain.
