He checked his phone, not sure whether to be relieved or irritated that Jocelyn hadn’t called back regarding hers and Kirk’s meeting with Takiro. Part of Flynn, the responsible part, hated to miss it. The other part was relieved. Asking to reschedule at the last minute, however, felt unprofessional and disrespectful. He didn’t want to intentionally do anything to jeopardize the deal. He couldn’t do that to his friends. They’d—he’d made a commitment. No matter how much he might be regretting it at the moment, he had to suck up his discomfort and finish what he’d started. Unlike his kid brother, Flynn wasn’t a quitter.
That he’d be dealing with the situation stuck in St. Helena because his mother had chosen to jump out of a plane in a misguided effort to regain her youth added comic fodder to his mounting stress levels. For that he should feel grateful. After all, if he was going to be stuck anywhere…he took a long, deep breath devoid of smog and diesel. There were worst places to be.
The parking lot behind the old brick building his parents had bought was small, but felt almost private enough to serve the family’s vehicles. He saw his father’s aged truck and Trevor’s ancient Impala. Flynn shook his head. Trevor still had that thing? Then again, with the glossy black paint and polished chrome, the 1967 vehicle really was a thing of beauty.
“Uncle Flynn, Quaid broke his arm.” Wyatt waggled the camouflage clad twelve inch doll in the air.
“What?” Flynn frowned as Wyatt dropped to the ground. “When did you talk to—?”
“He named his soldier doll after Uncle Quaid,” Caley explained in an overly patient voice, but Flynn didn’t miss the eye roll that accompanied her clarification. “And that arm is always breaking. I told him we should just throw it away and find him a new toy.”
“Sabrina says you don’t throw something away just because they’re broken.” Wyatt stuck his tongue out at his sister. “You put them back together as good as you can and make the best of it. Soldiers get hurt all the time. And don’t call him a doll!”
“Sabrina said I can call him a doll if I want,” Caley said.
“Doesn’t mean you have to.”
Flynn’s patience strained. The restaurant manager, his parents, now the kids. This Sabrina excelled and weaseling her way into everyone’s life. That said… Flynn accepted the broken plastic arm from his nephew and stuck it in his pocket. “I’ll see about fixing this when we get home. You want to leave him here so he’s safe?”
Wyatt scrunched his face, looked between his doll and uncle, then shrugged. He tossed Quaid head first back into the car. Flynn grinned. Too bad Quaid hadn’t seen that.
They rounded the side of the building, Flynn allowing his niece and nephew to take the lead since in all honesty he wasn’t sure where he was going. So far what he’d seen of St. Helena appealed to him. Small businesses, a close knit community, events and celebrations to keep people occupied throughout the year. He could certainly understand why his parents had insisted on moving here from southern California once his father had retired from his sixty hour a week job. They’d needed a slower pace. As if running a restaurant was easy. If his mother’s emails were any indication, this town had a cast of some pretty crazy characters including Randolph the Reindeer (Randolph?) and the pseudo-feuding DeLuca and Baudoin families. Not that he’d be hanging around long enough to become invested or even interested. He had a life to get back to in New York.
All the same, it was clear his parents had chosen the right place for their post-retirement years despite the financial risk they were taking. At least if the Lafferty clan ever tired of beer they’d have plenty of wine at their disposal. After exhausting his body’s tolerance for caffeine, he’d settle for a tankard of either.
Main Street was hopping. His parents had chosen a good location at the North end of town, right near the fire station. A narrow storefront sat empty next door, the weathered paint on the windows indicating it had been a bookstore at one time. Across and down the street he could see a burger joint and yoga studio and a block away the Napa Grand Hotel, its green awnings visible even from a distance, towered over the other businesses.
With a resigned sigh, he pushed open the etched glass front door and was welcomed by the muted sound of familiar Irish melodies and the thick aroma of bubbling stew and fresh-baked soda bread.
Home.
All the doubts, all the questions he had about his mom and dad’s determination to bring Beatha, the Celtic word for life, to fruition, made sense. Beautifully polished hardwood floors, brass fixtures, burgundy leather topped bar stools currently occupied by patrons. The small selection of tables were filled to capacity, their tops overflowing with family style pots of stews, soups, meats, and a variety of side dishes including Flynn’s favorite growing up, cheese-topped cauliflower mash. His mother’s unique spin on classic family recipes that had been passed down since before his grandparents had come to America deserved the spotlight.
For a moment, he was ten again, sitting in his mother’s kitchen, watching as she spooned up rib-sticking helpings of meat-heavy comfort food that called to mind everything that was good in the world.
Guilt struck him hard between the ribs as he recalled the frustrated phone calls, the less than supportive exchanges he’d had with both his parents in the last few months. As if he’d had any say given how long it had been since he’d been to the west coast. His absence had relinquished any impact his opinion might have. They should enjoy their retirement he’d told them, and not sink every penny they had left into a business that was by no means a guaranteed success.
Given the place was standing room only, he’d been wrong.
His father stepped out of the swinging door in the back of the room. Tall, grey-haired and a bit on the hulking side, Brady Lafferty had always come across as a combination of lumberjack and professor, especially with his penchant for flannel shirts and the thin rimmed glasses he wore perched on his nose. The second he spotted Flynn, his tan, wrinkled face broke into a wide smile as he waved him and his grandchildren back.
Caley and Wyatt raced ahead of Flynn and, seeing his niece and nephew happy for the first time in hours, he decided to hang back. His father gave him a glance of inquiry before seeming to understand. He swooped his grandkids into the kitchen.
As anxious as Flynn was to get a plan in place as to what was expected of him while his mother was out of commission, the one thing that appealed to him most at the moment was a drink.
He took a seat at the end of the bar and scanned the impressive lineup of alcoholic selection on the mirrored wall. He’d been to his share of bars and pubs; none of the latter actually living up to any potential he’d had in his mind. He should have known Brady Lafferty would know how to offer the widest range of intoxicating pleasures to those inclined to imbibe.
Flynn leaned over, frowning at the unfamiliar icons on the beer and brew taps even as they were consistently pulled by the middle-aged bespectacled man behind the counter. White button down shirt topped by a tartan inspired vest with brilliant brass buttons, the congenial, friendly way he spoke to the customers was clearly one of the things people found appealing about Beatha.
“Welcome to Beatha,” a soft, familiar, feminine voice said.
Flynn dropped back on his seat and blinked twice in an effort to convince himself he wasn’t dreaming. It was her. The woman from the hospital, bright yellow shirt and denim encased curves and all. He caught the hint of a chain necklace beneath her shirt. In one hand she carried a plate of fried clams, and in the other, a stack of menus she effortlessly deposited in the stand next to the bar. There was this aura about her, an energy he’d never encountered before seeing her at the hospital.
“We have to stop meeting like this.” He fought the fog threatening to overtake his brain.
“Are you afraid people will start talking?” She laughed and deposited the plate in front of a customer further down the bar. “You here to order or just drop the kids off?”
“Kids? Oh, right. Kind of both I guess. Tho
ught I’d check in with my dad. Mom said he’d be short-handed.”
An elegant dark eyebrow arched. Amazing eyes. Hypnotic eyes. He wouldn’t even struggle against drowning in those eyes. “I thought the same thing. I came in to cover so the servers could take their breaks. Smooth out any rough edges.”
“Looks to me as if things are going smoothly enough.” The only edges he was interested in exploring belonged to the woman across the counter. “I could very well make things worse.”
No sooner had the words left his mouth than his brother Trevor emerged from the kitchen, arms loaded with piled plates and steaming bowls. Flynn fell silent. The gangly, distracted looking boy he remembered had been replaced by a full-faced, sturdy young man with too long hair and a determined glint in his moss green eyes. He was what, twenty-two, no, twenty-three now? An adult.
Trevor’s gaze skittered to his, caught and held long enough for the bemused smile to fade from his handsome boy-band face. His brother’s expression darkened as he darted around chairs and the other server on his way to the corner table. He deposited the order with practiced ease, chatted with the customers for a few seconds, and then disappeared back into the kitchen.
“That went about as well as I expected,” Flynn muttered to himself only to look back at his temptress of a server and found her watching him with open curiosity. “Family’s complicated.”
“So I hear.” Her lips curved. “What would you like to drink?”
“Can I just stick my mouth under the tap and have you leave it on?”
“I don’t think the management would appreciate that, family or not.” She leaned over and whispered. “How about I surprise you? We have a great brew that was created by two locals, Lorenzo and Teodor Santini. They call it Sunset Brew. Your brother worked out a distribution deal with them.”
“Trevor worked out a deal?”
“Why do you make it sound as if he’s mastered crayons?” She filled a good pint, the full foam barely kissing the edge of the glass before she set it in front of him. “Near as I can tell Trevor’s a good part of the reason Beatha’s doing as well as it is.”
Flynn bit his tongue to stop from arguing. Trevor knew precisely jack about business—how could he when he’d ditched college to roam around Europe with his friends? Last he’d heard, his parent’s late in life baby excelled at job hopping. Then again, he’d stopped asking when it had been made clear his brother’s employment issues weren’t any of his business. “If you say so.”
“Well aren’t you Mr. Optimism.” She leaned her arms on the counter and rocked toward him. “Want to tell me about it?”
“Tell you about what?”
“Whatever’s bothering you.”
“Don’t you have to work?”
“Listening is part of the job. Besides, Jenna is off her dinner break.” She pointed behind him to the petite blonde who was tying a black apron around her waist. “She and Trevor are doing fine. I’ll keep an eye out. You seem wound pretty tight for a Lafferty.” She dipped her chin for a moment and when she looked back at him with those penetrating eyes of hers, she sighed. “Life isn’t meant to be suffered through, Flynn. You need to learn to relax and enjoy yourself. Find some pleasure in the day. So drink your beer and unload on your stand-in bartender.”
“Do I need to hang up my six-shooter first?” He sipped and nearly swooned. He took a longer, larger drink. “Well, hello.” The warmth of the hops slinked all the way to his toes. “Boy, that’s smooth.”
“It’s the local favorite according to your father.” She leaned her chin in her hand, her hips swaying back and forth in time to the music. “I wouldn’t know as I don’t drink. So let’s have it, handsome. What’s got you all tied up in knots?”
“Sabrina Benoit.” The name escaped his lips before he gave it much thought.
Surprise jumped into her eyes before a grin curved her lips. “Ah, I see. Woman trouble.”
“Hardly.” Flynn’s smile was tight as he took another drink. Damn but this stuff was addictive. “Tell me something.”
“Hmmmm?” She leaned in closer and he swore she actually batted her lashes at him. “What?”
“What kind of interloper convinces a sixty year old woman to jump out of an airplane to celebrate her birthday?”
Her eyebrows arched. “Is that what she did?” She did a little hip wiggle that told him she was having trouble standing still. He knew the feeling. This woman possessed a contagious energy that sparked through him and reignited his neglected hormones. “She sounds interesting if you ask me.”
“Dangerous is more like it.” He finished his beer, set it down with a clunk as his mouth ran ahead of his brain. His frustration tinged anger rolled free and picked up speed. “Some stranger pokes her head into my family, into their business, and suddenly my mother’s diving out of airplanes, my father thinks he’s the Jolly Green Giant, and she’s living in their guest house! I bet she’s not even paying rent, or if she is, it’s a pittance. On top of that, she convinced their manager to up and elope. She’s up to something.” He frowned at the empty glass. Was there truth potion in this stuff? “This thing with my mom is just the tip of the iceberg.”
“Sounds as if this Sabrina woman had better watch out.” His confessor’s face remained passive as she took a deep breath and inclined her head. “Let’s start with what’s important. Eileen’s okay, isn’t she? If I heard correctly, she was injured after the jump, not because of it.”
“Semantics.” Flynn waved away her explanation. “If she hadn’t been out there in the first place it wouldn’t have happened. This woman’s been putting crazy thoughts in her head. Next thing you know she’ll be wanting to get her pilot’s license.”
“I’d lay odds on bungee jumping out of a hot air balloon.” She shrugged. “Things happen for a reason, Flynn. Good and bad. Yes, it’s bad she got hurt, but she’s going to be fine. And the good news, for her at least, is that you’re here, right?”
“Not so sure that belongs in the good column.”
“My, you are a grump. All this.” She waved her hand in front of him as if she were trying to catch his soul in her hand. “This is what life’s supposed to be about. You know what else I think? I think there’s more eating at you than this Sabrina person.”
He squirmed on his stool. “No, there isn’t.”
“Sure there is. You’ve been throwing off stress vibes since I met you at the hospital, and that was before you even heard this Sabrina person’s name. So come on, out with it. What else is going on?”
He smirked. “That would require another beer.”
She moved off, refilled his glass, and caught him fiddling with his phone when she returned. “Ah.” She held his beer hostage as she pointed at his cell. “First you tell me who you’re waiting to hear from. Girlfriend?”
“Don’t have one of those anymore.” Was it wrong to want her to care? “Business partners.” He waggled his fingers for the glass, took a long drink, and welcomed the increased buzz. “They were supposed to meet with a big new potential client today. A life changing client.” For better or worse…
“You’re a kind of fixer aren’t you? You go in to companies and see what’s working, what isn’t, where they can improve.”
Flynn frowned. He didn’t remember telling her any specifics. “How’d you—”
“Your parents like to brag. And I’m sure you’ll hear from your partners when they have something to report. Maybe they’re celebrating.”
“I suppose.” Or maybe they were afraid to find out what he really thought. He examined his nearly empty glass. “When did this turn into a therapy session?”
“When you ordered your second beer. You know what I think?”
“I bet you’re going to tell me.”
“You’re nervous about the future. You like to be in control, to know what’s coming at you so you can prepare for anything. But you can’t prepare for everything, Flynn. That’s just the way life goes and in the meantime, I think you nee
d to have a little fun. Loosen up. Balance is as essential to a successful life as the air you breathe.”
“Is there a platitude factory nearby?” He shoved his glass away. “You sound like that whackadoo Sabrina my mother’s been…talking…a…bout.”
It took him longer than it should have. Oh, no. Flynn clenched his fists. He actually heard himself gulp.
Oh, no, no, no. He could not have possibly made this huge a mistake, could he?
“What’s…your name?” Heat infused his face and sank all the way to his toes.
“Sabrina Benoit.” She shoved her hand into his, squeezed and shook it hard. “Family interloper and psychotherapist bartender. Nice to meet you, Flynn.”
Chapter Three
Flynn jumped out of bed so fast, he forgot where he was. The resulting crash of computer equipment to his right and topple of books to his left reminded him he’d wedged himself into the air mattress space of what was to be—eventually—his father’s office.
He froze, terrified to move for fear of setting off a chain reaction avalanche.
His heart jack-hammered against his chest and was rivaled only by the pounding in his skull. He grabbed his head, bit back a moan and swayed. Something had woken him up. Something terrifying and unfamiliar and down right—
Cockle-doodle-doo! Cockle-doodle-doo!
“What in the bloody hell is that?” And why did his voice sound as if he’d coated his throat with sandpaper?
“Rooster.” Trevor passed in the hall, grabbed the doorframe and leaned in. “Clooney, more specifically. Hens can’t keep away from him.”
“Awesome.” Flynn grabbed hold of his head and squeezed. “You wake up this way every day?”
“Nature’s alarm clock.” Trevor inclined his head. “You don’t like?”
“I don’t do birds. Especially chickens.” Unless they were deep fried and crispy.
“Too bad. They give the best eggs.” Trevor stretched his arms over his head and leaned over one way, then the other as if performing a morning yoga ritual. “You want breakfast?”
Straight To His Heart Page 3