by Terri Reid
She slowed down to the posted thirty-five miles an hour as she drove through the upscale community with tree-lined streets and well-manicured lawns. The house she’d grown up in was at the center of the cul-de-sac at the end of the block. Pulling up into the long drive, she looked over at the leaf-covered lawn, a sure sign the gardener and his crew hadn’t been by yet, and tried to remember playing there as a toddler. She closed her eyes, imagining a little auburn-headed girl running through leaves in the bright autumn sunlight, but the picture in her mind was of another yard, a smaller yard with a huge old house behind and a wrought iron fence around it. A house that had the sounds and smells of a city, not a suburb. Shaking her head, she took a deep breath. She was not going to let O’Reilly’s lies get to her.
Quickly getting out of her car, she half-ran to the house and let herself in. Pausing for a moment in the foyer, she listened for the noises from the house. She’d developed the habit as a teenager when her parents were having marital problems. By taking a moment to assess the situation, she knew if she should hide out in her bedroom or if she were free to go into the kitchen or living room and relax. Today, the soft murmuring of voices coming from the parlor confirmed that her father was home to help answer her questions.
Berta, their housekeeper, came out of the kitchen and smiled at her. “It is so good to see you, Miss Brooke,” she said. “Do you want me to tell your parents that you are home?”
Brooke shook her head. “No, thank you, Berta,” she said. “They’re expecting me. I’ll just go in.”
Berta nodded and then went back down the hall, into the kitchen. Taking a deep breath, Brooke squared her shoulders and walked briskly to the parlor door. Pausing at the threshold, she first looked at her mother. “You called Dad?” she asked, knowing the judge’s caseload rarely allowed him to be home during the middle of the day.
Her mother, Amy Callahan, winced at her daughter’s harsh tone and then nodded. “Yes, I felt that it was best for both of us to be here,” she admitted. “You know, to answer any questions you might have.”
Fear skittered down Brooke’s spine. If it were all a lie, the thought screamed in her mind, she wouldn’t have called your father.
Taking a deep breath, she looked at both of them, the two people she always thought she could trust, always thought would be there for her. “Okay, this should be simple enough,” she said. “Am I a Callahan?”
“Yes,” her father answered emphatically, slapping his hand down on his Italian-suit-covered thigh.
“Well,” her mother hedged at the same time.
Asserting her professional skills over her emotions, she let the trial lawyer take over. “What?” she asked sharply, focusing in on her mother, the weaker of the two witnesses.
Lifting her arms towards her child, silently pleading for understanding, Amy sighed softly. “Your…” she paused, searching for a word.
“The term is birth father,” Brooke inserted sharply.
Amy nodded. “Your birth father was Bruce Blackwood,” she admitted. “He was killed when you were just a baby.”
“Killed?” Brooke asked, tamping back the emotions trying to break free.
“Murdered,” her mother replied. “He was a detective for the Chicago Police Department, and he was killed.”
“How old was I?” Brooke asked.
Her mother’s attempt at a casual shrug would have been laughable if it hadn’t been so painful. “Three,” she replied.
“I was three years old,” Brooke said. “So, I actually knew my father. I wasn’t a baby. And for some reason you chose to hide the fact that my real father was murdered?”
“We did it for your own good,” Reece Callahan inserted, wrapping his arm around his wife’s shoulders. “For your own safety.”
“My own safety?” Brooke repeated.
“There was a murderer out there,” Amy explained. “A murderer who was never caught. We could have been next. At first Reece just offered us a safe house, but after a few months together…”
She paused, placed her hand on her husband’s leg, and then looked back at her daughter. “We fell in love,” she explained with a slight shrug. “Reece wanted to adopt you, and you seemed to accept him…”
“So you casually cut any memory of my real father from my life,” Brooke inserted, anger now replacing fear. “You two decided that even when I was an adult, I wouldn’t know that I was adopted.” She paused for a moment, her eyes widened, and she stared in unbelief at her parents. “You altered my birth certificate.”
“It was for your own good,” Reece demanded.
“Like hell it was,” Brooke shouted. “Maybe when I was a child, but not now. Not when the danger had passed.”
“Darling, you don’t understand,” Amy pleaded.
Brooke took another deep, shuddering breath. “No,” she said, her voice breaking. “I don’t understand. But right now, I can’t bear to listen to any more of your explanations. The two people I thought I could always trust have been lying to me all of my life.”
Amy stood up. “Brooke, no.”
Stepping backwards into the hallway, Brooke shook her head. “Stay away,” she said. “I don’t want to hear any more of your lies.”
Turning, she ran down the hall and out the door, slamming it behind her. But even the sharp sound of the door crashing didn’t make her feel better. It just made her feel even more alone. Wiping a few stray tears off her cheeks, she thrust her key into the ignition and turned her car back on. She needed some time alone.
Chapter Six
“That did not go well,” Reece Callahan said, standing up and walking across the room. Amy watched her husband; he had a commanding presence. And, as with many powerful men, he knew how to use charm and intimidation with equal precision. In his mid-fifties, his personal appearance was not only important to him, but he also understood how crucial it was in order to reach his lofty, political goals. Equal time was spent in the gym and under a tanning light as well as at the stylist, to present a toned, polished and sophisticated image. His slightly graying hair, sharp blue eyes, and lightly tanned skinned groomed to give him an outdoorsman look, rather than an orangey, tanning booth façade. And tailor-made, Italian suits created just the picture he wanted to present to the world. He read the best books, listened to the important gossip and took the side of expediency in his political views. He was a man with a purpose and had little patience for those who either stood in his way or pulled at his coattails.
He turned back and looked down at his wife. “I blame you for the situation we find ourselves in,” he said pointedly.
“Excuse me?” she replied, folding her arms across her chest and staring at him. “I believe I told you years ago that we should tell her the truth.”
“Whose version of the truth, Amy?” he asked.
She stood up and made her way behind the couch. “Which version would you prefer?” she asked. She turned towards him, her hands braced on the back of the couch.
“I told you that we should have continued with the child psychologist,” he replied. “If we had continued, we would not have had this outburst today.”
“The psychologist did all she could do,” she argued. “Her memories were repressed. Brooke didn’t just happen to remember her father. Someone today, someone must have said something. That’s the only way this could have happened. Her memories of her father and the day he died were blocked.”
“Obviously not blocked well enough,” he replied.
“Well, now the truth is out,” Amy replied. “And we’re going to have to deal with it.”
Reece shook his head and casually strolled around the room, finally stopping at the window and gazing out into their yard. “We? No, you are going to have to deal with it,” he said. “You are going to have to talk to her and convince her that she needs to forget what she heard. You need to convince her that bringing her father back to life, so to speak, will do nothing but endanger those she loves.”
“And if she i
sn’t convinced?” Amy asked.
Reece turned back. “Is that even an option?” he asked. “I don’t think so. For her own safety and well-being she has to leave the death of her father alone.”
Chapter Seven
When she finally slowed her car down, Brooke looked around and realized she was back in her Gold Coast neighborhood. She knew she had been on autodrive as she rehashed the conversation with her parents. She still couldn’t get her mind around it. She wasn’t Brooke Callahan; she was Brooke Blackwood. She pulled into a parking spot in front of Flannigan’s, one of her favorite evening hangouts, and made a quick decision. She hadn’t been allowed to share her father’s life, but the least she could was honor his death. And there was nothing better for that than a good, old-fashioned Irish wake.
Picking up her cell phone, she messaged Niki. “I’m going into Flannigan’s,” she typed. “Worst day of my life. Join me.”
She shoved her phone into her purse, locked her car, walked over to the bar and pulled open the heavy, oak door that led into the pub. Rich, burnished wood, gleaming copper rails, and soft, Irish music greeted her when she walked in. Padrick, the bartender, greeted her with a friendly smile. Brooke was one of the high-end customers who always ordered white wine, always was courteous and always left a big tip. She was one of his favorite clients.
“Well, good afternoon to you, Brooke. Can I get you a glass of white wine?” he asked, naming her preferred label.
Slipping onto a stool at the bar, she shook her head. “No, thank you,” she replied. “I’m afraid white wine won’t do the trick today. I’m in mourning.” Glancing beyond him to the mirrored wall, she perused the bottles of different colored alcohol. “I’ll take a double Jamo, neat,” she said decisively. “And leave the bottle.”
Padrick scratched his head and met her eyes. “Irish Whiskey?” he asked, not a little surprised. “Are you sure?”
Placing both hands on the countertop, she pushed herself up so she could get closer to the bartender. “Do I look like I’m unsure?” she demanded, steel in her eyes.
Shaking his head, Padrick stepped away from her. “No, you don’t at that,” he replied. “Irish, double and neat, coming up.”
He placed the glass in front of her and poured the Jameson into the cup. And, following her orders, he placed the bottle just behind the glass on the bar. Staring at the drink for just a moment, Brooke moistened her lips with her tongue and picked up the glass, staring at the amber liquid. Then, in one quick movement, she lifted the glass to her lips and knocked the drink back.
A blast of heat expanded from her throat to her stomach, and she gasped, coughing softly a few times to catch her breath. She looked up at Padrick through watery eyes and nodded. “I told you I wasn’t kidding,” she said, her voice slightly weak.
“Aye, that you did,” Padrick replied.
“I’d like another,” Brooke demanded.
Pouring her another, he stepped back and leaned against the inside counter to watch. Taking a moment to work up her courage, she took a deep breath, lifted the glass and knocked it back once again. “Thank you,” she said, in a slightly strangled voice.
Biting back a smile, he nodded. “You’re welcome.”
Inhaling softly, she motioned to the bottle. “I’ll have another.”
“You really don’t want to have another so soon,” he cautioned. “Whiskey is a powerful drink.”
Raising one eyebrow, she nodded her head in the direction of the cup. With a sigh, he poured her another. “I need a powerful drink,” she said softly, picking up the glass and drinking again. This time her body’s reaction wasn’t as strong, and she smiled up at the bartender. “See, I’m getting used to it. It’s not so powerful.”
A half hour later, with the bottle more than half gone, Brooke couldn’t quite remember why she’d come into the bar. She suddenly looked around when she heard music. “That’s a familiar song,” she said slowly to Padrick, who’d been keeping an eye on her. “What’s it called?”
“It’s your phone,” he said to her, pointing to the cell phone in the outer pocket of her purse.
“Ursaphone?” she asked, confused.
“No,” Padrick said with a slight smile and a shake of his head. “It’s your phone.”
He matched his words with actions, picking up the purse that was on the bar next to her glass and handing it to her. “No, I don’t want my purse,” she explained to him, shaking her head and speaking slowly so he’d understand. “I want to know what the name of the song is.”
With a sigh of frustration, he pulled the phone out of the pocket and held it out to her. “You have a phone call,” he said.
“Oh, who is it?” she asked.
Closing his eyes for a moment, saying a prayer for patience, he answered the phone and held it up to her ear. “Hello?” she sang into the phone.
“Brooke?” Niki asked, her voice filled with concern. “Are you okay?”
Placing her fingers on her lips and tapping, she shook her head. “I think my lips are numb,” she said slowly. Then she looked up at Padrick in alarm. “I think I might be having a stroke. My lips are parallel…I mean…plagiarized…wait…you know, when you can’t move stuff?”
“Paralyzed?” Niki asked.
“Exactly,” Brooke smiled into the phone.
“Girl, are you drunk?”
Looking up at Padrick again, Brooke leaned forward. “She wants to know if I’m drunk,” she whispered.
“Aye, you are, very,” Padrick replied.
“Yes. Yes I am,” Brooke said to Niki. “Irish Whiskey.”
“Brooke, you don’t drink hard liquor,” Niki said.
“I did today,” Brooke answered. “And I think I liked it.”
“May I speak with Padrick?” Niki asked.
“‘Cause you think he’s cute?” Brooke asked.
Niki sighed. “Yes, Brooke, that’s exactly why.”
Giggling, Brooke handed Padrick the phone. “She thinks you’re cute,” she whispered loudly.
“Is that so?” Padrick asked, putting the phone to his ear. “Hello?”
“Hi, it’s Niki,” she said. “How drunk is she?”
“Totally, 100 percent snockered,” he replied.
“How much has she had?”
“Three-quarters of a bottle of Jameson,” he replied. “Neat.”
“Wow!” Niki replied. “Can you keep her there? I can be there in ten minutes.”
“Aye, she’s got another quarter bottle she’s trying to finish,” he said. “Just trying to pick up the bottle will take her another ten minutes. Have to give her credit, she’s a persistent drunk.”
Brooke smiled up at him. “Thank you.”
“Okay, I’m leaving now,” Niki said, the alarm evident in her voice. “Thank you.”
Chapter Eight
Art O’Reilly pushed open the door of Flannigan’s and froze. Attorney Brooke Callahan was sitting at the bar, and he was sure he was the very last person she would want to see that day. He started to step back, but, unfortunately, Padrick had seen him come in.
“O’Reilly,” Padrick called. “Good to see you.”
“O’Reilly?” Brooke choked, placing down her glass and looking over her shoulder. She owlishly stared at him for a moment, and then a smile broke out on her face. “Just the man I wanted to see.”
“I am?” he asked, more than surprised.
She nodded slowly. “Yes,” she said. “Seems that I owe you an apple…er, abol…um…I need to say I’m sorry.”
He approached the bar and studied her. “Counselor, are you drunk?” he asked.
She nodded enthusiastically. “Yes. Yes I am,” she said proudly, and then she leaned forward and whispered. “And I did it with Irish whiskey.”
Biting back a smile, he slipped onto the seat next to hers. “You don’t say,” he replied. “Well, that’s a fearsome drink.”
She nodded again. “I know. But it was the only thing that would work,” she sa
id, and then she leaned over again. “I’m having an Irish wake.” Picking up her half-empty glass, she lifted it up. “To Bruce Blackwood, my father.” And downed the remaining liquid.
“I’m so sorry,” Art said. “I never meant...”
Brooke whirled around on her seat and nearly fell off, but Art caught her and steadied her. “No,” she exclaimed. “You shouldn’t be sorry. You told me the truth.” Her voice saddened. “No one else told me the truth.”
She reached out and lifted the bottle again, but Art’s hand closed over hers. “I’d like to have a drink in your father’s memory, too, if you don’t mind,” he said.
She smiled up at him. “That would be lovely,” she replied, and then she leaned forward on the bar. “Padrick, would you bring another glass for my friend?”
“Of course,” Padrick smiled, sliding a glass to Art. “Would you like it on the rocks?”
“How has she been having it?” Art asked.
“Neat, nearly the entire bottle,” Padrick whispered to Art. “And she’s generally a one small glass of white wine customer.”
Art slid the glass back to Padrick. “Fill it,” Art directed. “And see if you can’t empty the rest of the bottle into my glass.”
Padrick picked up the bottle and poured, the amber liquid nearly pouring over the rim of the glass. Art picked up the glass before Brooke could say anything. “To Bruce Blackwood,” he saluted. “A fine man and an honorable detective.”