Mismatched

by Elle Casey

  “She needed somewhere to stay, Erin. I tried calling her a cab but she was too drunk. I couldn’t send her home alone in that state.”

  “How convenient. It certainly didn’t look all that innocent to me when I walked in on ye in the bathroom. And, in future, please make use of the lock on the bathroom door.”

  “If I shagged Marnie, why would I be sleeping out here on the couch? Answer me that.”

  “I don’t know, maybe she snores?” I’m genuinely trying to understand that particular piece of the puzzle. Oh, how desperately I want to believe him, but a great big fat hard-on speaks a thousand words.

  “It’s not Marnie I’m interested in, and if ye could just get your head out of yer precious business for a minute, ye might see what’s really going on here.”

  “I saw enough last night in the bathroom.” I pick up the empty coffee cups and bring them into the kitchen. “I can’t talk about this any more.”

  Walking down the hall toward the bathroom, I steal a glance into the spare room, where the door is ajar. Marnie is passed out on the bed, fully clothed, with a bucket beside her and a cover over her middle.

  “Huh,” I say softly and tiptoe on to the bathroom. My head is wrecked. I’m too tired to figure all this shit out, so I take a shower. When I come back out Michaél is also up and dressed.

  “Erin, we need to have some fun. Take me out and show me the sights.”

  “I don’t think so. I’m wrecked. I haven’t slept much and I’ve loads of paperwork to catch up on.” I pick up my laptop and turn to go toward my room where I can work uninterrupted.

  Michaél blocks my path and takes my hand in his. “Please, Erin. Ye work too hard. Ye need a break, and I’ve barely seen any of Boston. Come on. It’ll be fun.”

  I consider his proposal. There’s no chance of me getting any more sleep and today is supposed to be my day off. My brain seems to be out to lunch. I’m literally too tired to fight today. Besides, my attorney told me to play nice. She may have even told me to give this thing a chance, whatever this thing is.

  “Sure, what the hell,” I say surprising us both.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  RIDLEE

  I TAP MY PEN ON my desk as I wait for Mary O’Conner, attorney-at-law, to pick up my call. Her office is in New York, so thankfully we’re in the same time zone. I have my notes in front of me, including a giant stack of printed-out caselaw to back up my arguments. If she thinks she’s going to get off this call without coming over to my way of thinking, she’s dead wrong. I’ve practiced my speech for hours.

  The elevator music playing over the line cuts off and a woman’s voice comes through the phone. “Mary O’Conner.” She sounds pretty tough, but I’m the biggest badass this side of the Mississippi, so I’m not impressed.

  “Hello, Mary, this is Ridlee Taylor from Tanner-Scott in Boston.”

  “Hello again, Ridlee, how are you?”

  “Excellent. Listen, do you have a few minutes to discuss the Flanagan-O’Neill matter?”

  “Sure do. I’m free for the next ten minutes.”

  “Perfect. I’m putting you on speaker, if you don’t mind.”

  “Not at all. I’m going to do the same.”

  “Great. So…” I press the speaker phone button and put the handset down in the cradle. “I did some research into the caselaw…”

  “Yes, and let me just stop you right there.” She sounds tired. “I don’t want you to waste your time with this. The last time we talked, I’d just been handed the file and had only had a brief conversation with my client, Mr. Flanagan.”

  “Uh-huh…” I have no idea where she’s going with this, but I’m familiar with that tone of voice. She’s about to apologize. I’m afraid to get too excited about it, though, because she might just be sorry that she hasn’t had time to do anything on the case.

  She continues. “Since then, I’ve done some research.”

  My heart starts to race a little. “And…?”

  “And I found what you probably already had in your files. He doesn’t have a case for misrepresentation, fraud, or negligence.”

  I want to drop to my knees and kiss the carpet, but I restrain myself, somehow managing to still sound professional. “Thank you. That’s exactly the legal conclusion that I’ve come to.”

  She sighs. “I guess I’m not exactly clear why you’re calling, then.”

  I have to think about that for a few seconds because I have no idea what she’s saying. “Ummm… to discuss the case? See what we need to do to wrap things up?”

  “No, I mean, I talked to my client over a week ago and he told me … well, obviously, I can’t tell you what he told me, but suffice to say we’re not filing suit.”

  “Was that on your advice? Can you tell me that?”

  “No, not really.” I can sense that she wants to tell me, but the rules of the Bar forbid it.

  I chew my lip, trying to figure out how to get her to tell me what I want to know. When the line goes mostly dead, save for the sounds of shuffling paper on her end, I start talking, worried she’s going to end the call before I can do any more recon. “Can I be honest with you? Off the record, so to speak?”

  “You can do whatever you want. I’m not going to report you for any Bar violations if that’s what you’re worried about.”

  “I don’t mean that. I mean … you and I both know Michaél never had a case. He’s apparently known this for quite some time. So why is he still at the bar, still working there and living with Erin under the guise of evaluating the business?”

  “You’d have to ask him that.”

  “I don’t know whether he’ll be truthful with me. I’ve met him a few times, and although he came here and gave my friend a huge headache, I’ve always gotten the impression that he’s basically a good guy.”

  “I really don’t know him that well.” Her voice goes a little softer, losing some of its hard edge. “I’ve only talked to him on the phone, and I would agree with your assessment. I don’t think he ever came at this with bad intentions. And to be honest, I’m not even sure that he ever wanted more of the business than he already received.”

  I’m fascinated. “Really…” Now things are getting interesting. “What makes you think that?”

  “I don’t know. You know I can’t share our conversations, but I will tell you that it’s my first instinct with business cases to go in hard and fast, knock the opposition on its derriere. He didn’t want that. He was always … very conscious of Erin’s feelings, I’ll put it that way. I think he cares for her, outside of a business context.”

  “Uhhhh-huh. Well. That’s very informative. Listen, thanks for everything. I appreciate your candor and your understanding.”

  “No problem. Maybe if I’m ever in Boston I could meet you for a coffee? We’re always looking to make connections in other big cities where our clients do business.”

  “Where exactly are you in New York?” Now that I know Erin’s in the clear, I’m curious about what Mary O’Conner does that doesn’t include Michaél, the love-scammer, Flanagan.

  “Manhattan. Fifth Avenue.”

  “Oh, boy. Swag. I love that area.”

  “It has its ups and downs like anywhere else.” Someone comes into her office and talks in the background, interrupting her. Then she comes back sounding harried. “Shoot, I have to go. Let me know if you need anything else; otherwise, I’m considering this matter closed.”

  I can’t keep the smile from my voice. “Excellent. Take care. Call me if you’re ever in Boston.”

  “Likewise.” She cuts the call off and I jump to my feet, doing a happy dance. I’m busy doing the cha-cha-cha, using the reflection of my window as a mirror to admire my moves when a voice interrupts me from my doorway.

  “A-hem, excuse me, Ridlee?”

  I turn around to smile at my assistant. “Hey, Hilary. What’s up?”

  “Did we win a case that I didn’t hear about yet?” She’s smiling, already accustomed to my part
icular brand of celebrations for awesomeness.

  “Kind of.” I stop shucking and jiving and take my seat.

  “Okay, well, line two is for you. It’s Erin.” Hilary grimaces. “She’s kind of freaking out.”

  “No worries, I’ve got this.” I pick up the line and wait for my door to close before I start talking.

  “Hello? Is this Ridlee?” Erin is most definitely freaking. I can tell from her tone and a strange echo around her that she’s calling me from a bathroom stall.

  “Yes, it’s Ridlee. What’s up? By the way, I have some good news for you.”

  She sighs out her exasperation. “Okay, shit. Now I don’t know whether to talk first or ask you what the good news is.”

  “Let me save you the dilemma. I just talked to Michaél’s attorney. They’re not going to file suit against you. It’s over.”

  “Oh my god! Oh my god!” She’s whisper-squealing, so yeah, she’s hiding somewhere, probably from Michaél himself.

  “And that’s not the best part,” I add.

  “It’s not? Okay, I’m about to pee myself. Don’t keep me in suspense any longer. Tell me now.”

  “Apparently, he’s known this for quite some time. Maybe even from the beginning.”

  “What?!”

  “Uh-huh. And while his attorney couldn’t share their conversations with me, she did let me know that she got the impression that he never really wanted to file suit in the first place. He was always very worried about you.”

  “Holy shit, what does that even mean?” she whines. “I’m so confused right now.” She’s breathing heavily right into the phone, like some kind of pervert. “Tell me what to do, Rid. Just tell me. I’ll do whatever you tell me to, no questions asked.”

  I laugh. “And blame me when things go south? No thanks.”

  “Ridlee! Don’t you dare hang up!”

  “I’m not hanging up. What did you call me for?”

  She immediately calms down. “Oh. Right. I called because I wanted your advice. Michaél’s asked me to show him the town. We’ve called for a tentative peace accord. He didn’t sleep with Marnie.”

  “Who in the hell is Marnie?”

  “Never mind. It doesn’t matter. Tell me what to do.”

  “Since when did you become so helpless?” I’m trying not to laugh. She’s so freaking out right now.

  “I’m not helpless! It’s just that my brain has decided to ride in the back seat while my libido takes the wheel. I can’t trust my decision-making skills at the moment.”

  “Okay, I’ll just tell you what I’d do if it were me.”

  “I’m not sure that’ll help,” she deadpans.

  “Whatever, it’s all you’re getting from me.”

  “You’re such a lawyer sometimes.”

  “Shut up. Okay, so we know he made a big effort to come over here to Boston to see you, and we know that pretty much from the get-go he wasn’t interested in hurting you or maybe even taking your bar away. So why did he come, then? And if he came to just get in your pants, why didn’t he just come and do that? Why the charade of a lawsuit? You need answers, and if he’s asked you to show him the town, you’re in the perfect position to get those answers. Take him to the waterfront and feed him some chowder, take him to Fenway Park, take him to a museum. And talk to him. Find out the truth. That’s your mission.”

  “Find out the truth, eh?”

  “Yep. That’s it.”

  “You say it like it’s easy, but the truth never is, is it?”

  “Maybe not, but he owes you that much and you owe him the same.”

  “I’m afraid.”

  My voice softens at the vulnerability I hear. “What are you afraid of?”

  She mumbles her answer. “I guess I might be afraid that I’ll love him and he won’t love me back.”

  “Wouldn’t it suck worse to have him love you back and you never find out about it?”

  “Yes, I suppose.”

  “Good, then we agree. Go get ‘im, girl.”

  “I’m still afraid.”

  “Good!” I say with extra cheer. “It means you’re not too jaded to fall in love. Have fun!”

  “You’re my best friend in the entire world, you know that, right?” she says.

  “Ditto. Now stop stalling and go.”

  “Okay, wish me luck.”

  “You don’t need luck, Erin, you’re Irish. Just be yourself.” I hang up the phone before she can come up with any more excuses to avoid talking to Michaél face to face. Then I start with my happy dance again, changing it to a nice Irish reel, hearing the sounds of Lisdoonvarna echoing in my head.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  ERIN

  I STARE OUT AT THE city below as Michaél looks through the telescope of The Skywalk Observatory. I love Boston and I’m excited to show him around, so I’ve brought him to the Prudential Tower where we can get a panoramic view of the city and plan our route.

  “I suggest we begin by following the Freedom Trail and try to cover the Top Ten Sights, or at least as many as we can.” I’m standing behind him, taking in his nice ass as he leans down to look through the eyepiece. I’m tempted to call it the Top Eleven Sights now that his rear end is in the picture, but I feel shy and awkward round him and can’t seem to shake the feeling.

  “The Top Ten sights?” he asks, standing up straight and turning to look at me, clearly amused by something. Most probably me, or at least one of my idiosyncrasies, as he has taken to calling my character tics.

  “Well, my top ten, really. Not the official top ten,” I say, somewhat sheepishly. I am beginning to realize that not everybody is committed to lists and planning to the same degree as I am.

  He looks around at the cityscape beyond the windows and slides his hands into the back pockets of his jeans.

  Shit, did he see me checking out his ass?

  “Sure. But why don’t we amble along and just see where the city takes us. Ye know, stay loose, stay open.” He smiles.

  I melt. What the hell is happening to me? Ridlee has given me the all clear on the once imminent implosion that was the bar deal and I’ve gone gooey. My brain has checked out and gone on hiatus, and I still need to find out what Michaél’s intentions are. If he never really wanted a stake in the bar, then what does he want?

  Back down at street level, we hit the red-brick line of the Freedom Trail, and I throw myself into tour guide mode, ignoring the ginormous elephant in the room. For two and a half miles I prattle on about the history of the city, and I tell him about the Big Dig project to drive the city traffic underground. I cannot help but think of Lisdoonvarna and Donal's horse Big Dick, which for some reason makes me sad and nostalgic for a moment in my life when everything seemed clear. And all the time I’m doing this, I’m avoiding asking the one question that I’m burning to ask. Does he still like me?

  We eat lunch near Quincy Market in Boston’s oldest restaurant, famous for its oysters. This is no accident; Oysters are an aphrodisiac, after all. We share a bottle of crisp white wine and chat about everything under the sun, except us. I tell him about my family back home and about Margaret. He’s a good listener and I find myself talking too much.

  “So, what about you?” I say. “Tell me about your family.” I take half a shell and scoop another oyster out sending it south.

  He smiles at my technique. “Well, I don’t have much of a family, really. Donal and Siobhán are it. My parents died when I was very young and my grandfather died two years ago. He brought me up.”

  I look down at my plate. Oh shit, I guess I’m not supposed to know that already. I nod and smile sympathetically. “That must have been hard — growing up without any parents?”

  “Nah, ye don’t miss what ye never had, and my grandfather was an amazing man.”

  I admire the way he can say that without a hint of sentimentality, like it’s a simple fact.

  “Do you remember your parents at all?” I ask.

  “Bits, I suppose.” He pauses f
or a moment, the wine glass midway to his lips. “Ye know, sometimes when I’m out on the waves, early in the morning or around dusk, I get pictures of them floatin’ through my head, like home movies. My mum’s auburn hair, her laugh… or I see my dad getting out of the car and scooping me into his arms and I’m laughing uncontrollably.” He shakes his head as though to clear it. “False memories, probably.”

  I reach out and place my hand over his. “Still, whatever they are, they’re what you have left of your parents.”

  “I suppose it’s made me more cautious about people. I’m not prepared to let important people into my life if they’re not serious about the relationship. And I mean both men and women. I have known Donal and Siobhán my whole life. They are my family.” He looks off into the middle distance.

  I’m about to say something, but I don’t know what yet, something to let him know that I’m not toying with him—not anymore anyway, but he beats me to it.

  “I’m a live-in-the-moment kinda guy, Erin. The past is the past. Maybe they are real memories, maybe they’re not. It doesn’t matter much. Life is now. This moment.”

  I take my hand away, a little abashed but not understanding why. Should I be reading between the lines here? Is he telling me that things between us have changed since Ireland and that there’s no longer anything there? I don’t know and he doesn’t elaborate.

  We settle the bill and head back out into the street. I try to shake the feeling that our ship has sailed and that whatever spark was there before has been extinguished by money and lawyers and threats of lawsuits. Or, put more simply, by me.

  “Let’s do a Duck Tour!” suggests Michaél, giving no indication that he’s suffering like I am.

  “What? Really?” I consider the big pink vehicle that takes tourists round the city as they wave and honk at real Bostonians. This is not included in my top ten pick. I was initiated into Bostonian life by Ridlee, a bonafide Bostonian, and she never recommended tourist gimmicks. Discover it like a local, she advised, and that’s what I’m trying to pass on to Michaél. “Nah, that’s lame,” I say digging at some imaginary hole in the ground with the toe of my Converse.