Love, Luck, and Little Green Men: A Contemporary Romance

by Diane Kelly

  Tammy’s eyes snapped down to my feet. “Whoa. Those shoes look hot.”

  I looked down at them, angling my feet, the crystals sparkling in the light. “Think I should wear these for the dance contest?”

  “Dance contest?” She cocked her head at me. “You mean the wet T-shirt contest?”

  I sighed. “Yeah.”

  “They’re perfect. Now you just need to wear your red hot pants and a pair of black fishnets and you’ll be all set.”

  “All of my fishnets have holes in them.”

  “Even better.”

  I cringed. “I’ll go straight to hell for sure.”

  Tammy rolled her eyes. “You and your Catholic guilt. If God didn’t want women shaking their stuff, why’d he give us boobs in the first place?”

  “To feed our children?”

  “Yuck.” She gave a mock shudder, then reached into the pocket of her robe and pulled out a shotgun shell. “Time for a shooting lesson.”

  I’d never fired a gun before, but it was time to learn. Tammy showed me how to load the thing and how to aim. “This is the safety,” she said, engaging a small lever near the trigger. “Keep it on until you’re ready to shoot. Then you just pull the trigger and BLAM! That little Leprechaun will be nothing more than a green stain on the floor.”

  “Thanks.” I slid the gun onto the top shelf under the cash register, within easy reach, wondering if I’d really have the nerve to use it if the little green man showed up again.

  “That’s new.” Tammy gestured at my locket.

  I nodded. “Brendan gave it to me last night.”

  “A heart-shaped locket, huh?” She smiled a knowing smile. “That’s not a friend gift. That’s a girlfriend gift.”

  “Not necessarily,” I replied. “He said he’d put photos of my two most special guys inside.” I popped the locket open. “Look.”

  Tammy stood on tiptoe and peeked inside the locket. “Riley and . . . Blarney. Huh.”

  “What does it mean?”

  Her mouth twisted first one way, then the other, as she considered the issue. “Hard to say. Seems like a romantic gift, but he didn’t put his own picture in it. Maybe he was afraid to put his own photo in the locket, afraid what that would imply. Then again, he might have been trying to make a point, to let you know that things can’t go anywhere between you two.”

  I bit my lip. Things had become so confusing.

  Tammy eyed me intently. “Wait. It’s obvious you have feelings for him. But it’s just a harmless crush, nothing serious, right? You’re not actually in love with Brendan, are you?”

  I couldn’t hold myself together any longer. I burst into all-out sobs. “Oh, Tammy,” I wailed, covering my face with my hands. “I think I am!”

  She put a hand on my shaking shoulders. “This is an impossible situation.”

  I removed my hands from my face and looked at my friend. “I know.”

  “He’s a priest.”

  “I know!”

  “I didn’t realize you were in this deep.”

  “I didn’t realize it myself until recently.” When I’d first met Brendan I was a new mother, a single mother to boot, with a demanding baby and a full-time job. I had no time for men then. Hell, I hardly had time for myself. But over the years, as my life had slowly become mine again, a place had opened up in it for a male-female relationship. Brendan had slipped into that place, quietly, without fanfare, so easily and naturally that neither of us had given it much thought.

  Then again, maybe we’d purposefully avoided the issue, knowing that openly acknowledging what we had, what we felt for each other, would mean it would have to end. After all, any romantic relationship between us would be forbidden by the Catholic Church.

  But didn’t forbidden love taste the most sweet?

  I wiped my tears with the back of my hand. “This totally sucks.”

  At that moment, my cell phone chimed Brendan’s ring tone, an Irish folk song called Cliffs of Doneen. Fitting since the song lyrics spoke of a person leaving the Emerald Isle, just as Brendan had done. I flipped my phone open. “Hey, Bren.”

  “I got your message. Something weird’s going on?”

  I told him what happened.

  “Keep the doors locked, Erin. I’m on my way. I’ll reschedule the rest of my sessions.”

  “No need,” I told him. “Tammy’s here with me now. She brought a shotgun.”

  Brendan groaned. “That doesn’t make me feel better. In fact, that makes me feel worse.”

  “Look, the guy is smaller than us, and there are two of us, and he apparently doesn’t mean me any harm or he wouldn’t have run off.” I wasn’t sure if I was trying to convince him or myself. Probably both. “Besides, school’s out soon and Riley will be here with me.”

  Brendan sounded hesitant, but finally acquiesced. “Shoot first, ask questions later.” Living in Texas had finally rubbed off on him.

  ***

  The green man didn’t reappear that afternoon. When school let out, I called Riley’s cell phone and warned him to be careful walking to the shop.

  “A little green man is stalking you?” He snorted. “Good one, Mom. What’s next, a butt probe?”

  My own son was as doubtful as the cops had been earlier. And if I heard one more word about an anal probe I was going to lose it. “I know it sounds crazy, Riley, but it’s true. Keep an eye out, all right?”

  “Okay, Mom. Anything you say.” Which meant he’d written me off. Oh, well. At six foot two, Riley could hold his own against a man half his size. As long as the man didn’t have a weapon. Oh, God! What if he did? Acid churned in my stomach. Fortunately, now that it was late afternoon, the activity at the yoga shop and the Toro had picked up. With so many people milling about, the Leprechaun would be unlikely to show up again. At least I hoped that was the case. I said another quick prayer, asking for our safety, as an afterthought putting in a good word for the victims of the fire that had been mentioned on the news.

  While Tammy sat on the countertop and watched The Ellen DeGeneres Show, occasionally chuckling at Ellen’s jokes, I kept watch at the window. I normally enjoyed the show, too. But I was too nervous to pay any attention to the program today.

  Finally, Riley appeared a couple of blocks down, sauntering along in his usual bouncy but leisurely gait. I unlocked the door, stepped out onto the sidewalk, and cupped my hands around my mouth, hollering to him. “Hurry, Riley! Run!”

  He broke into a slow jog, only half humoring me. Darn teenagers. Shivering in the cold, I motioned with my hand, encouraging him to move faster. When he drew close, I grabbed his arm and yanked him into the shop.

  “Watch it, Mom! You’ll pull my shoulder out of the socket. That’s my shooting arm.”

  His shooting arm. Ugh! We had much more urgent matters to worry about at the moment than basketball. I slammed the door and locked it again.

  Riley hung his denim jacket on the coat tree and dumped his backpack on the floor behind the counter. He pushed up the sleeves on his blue long-sleeve tee and reached out to ruffle the rat’s nest on Tammy’s head. “Nice hair, shorty.”

  “Cool it, Paul Bunyan, or I’ll bite your kneecaps.”

  Riley grabbed a can of root beer from the mini fridge in the stockroom, popped it open, then slurped the fizz that erupted out the top. He leaned on the counter. “So. What’s up?”

  I told Riley more about the leering Leprechaun and the disbelieving cops, showed him the tiny black buckle shoe.

  Riley’s brows scrunched in concern and confusion as he took the shoe from me. “It’s so small.”

  “Yep,” Tammy said. “You were born with feet bigger than that.”

  I admonished Riley not to tell his grandparents about my stalker. “No sense in worrying them.”

  “Maybe you should close the shop for a few days,” Riley said, “or hire a security guard.”

  “Can’t afford to do either one.” Especially with a five-thousand dollar vet bill looming on the horizon
. Of course Riley knew nothing about that. “Tammy brought me a gun.”

  Riley’s eyes bugged out. “Really?”

  “Really.” Tammy pointed under the counter where the gun rested.

  Riley glanced down at the gun, then up at me. “My own mother packing heat. Cool.”

  I thought the situation was anything but cool. In fact, in Riley’s lingo, I thought the situation was totally jacked up. But I was in no mood to argue. At least now Riley seemed to be paying attention, to realize the situation was serious.

  After Riley and I walked Tammy to her car, we returned to the shop. Riley flopped into one of the chairs to work on his assigned reading, The Scarlet Letter. Of all the books his English teacher could have assigned she just had to choose that one, didn’t she? Poor Hester Prynne, in love with her minister. I could certainly relate.

  “If you hear someone at the door,” I told Riley. “Don’t open it without looking out first.”

  He gave me a crisp salute, the smart aleck. Lucky for him a mother’s love is unconditional.

  I walked into the storeroom and sat at the workbench. A bride-to-be had dropped off a dozen pairs of satin pumps. She wanted them dyed to match a swatch of burgundy silk.

  Twelve bridesmaids. Holy cow. Must be a huge wedding. I felt a little tug of envy. Would I ever have a wedding of my own? Not likely. Not at the rate things were going. Not when I was helplessly in love with a man who was forbidden to marry.

  Maybe if I met someone else I could get over Brendan. Maybe I should try one of those online dating services. Maybe I’d find someone better suited for me. Then again, maybe I was just trying to fool myself. If not for the fact that Brendan was a priest, he was the ideal man for me, my perfect complement. While I was tenacious in practical matters, my spiritual fortitude wasn’t quite as strong. My weakness was his strength. Brendan bolstered me spiritually, helped me see past the everyday irritations, find joy in a life that had not turned out as planned, focus on the great and wondrous things that lie beyond this earthly realm. On the flipside, I grounded him, brought his head out of the clouds and down to earth when the situation called for a pragmatic rather than spiritual solution. We shared our faith, a slightly warped sense of humor, a fierce dedication to the things we believed in and the people we cared about. Not to mention our shared taste for bangers and mash.

  If only we could share our lives completely. But no sense dwelling on what could never be.

  I grabbed the stack of newspapers from the stockroom and spread them out on my workbench to soak up the excess dye. With so many pairs of bridesmaid shoes, the newspaper ran out quickly. Remembering The Irish Examiner I’d stuck in my bag yesterday, I walked to my tote and pulled out the paper. I opened it to the obituary page, the page that had seemed to distress my mother. I’d planned to ask her about it last night, but by the time I’d arrived home from Brendan’s she’d already gone to bed, and she hadn’t been awake yet when I’d left the house before seven this morning.

  My eyes scanned the page. A ninety-eight-year-old woman from Cork City, dead from a heart attack, the family requesting donations to the Irish Red Cross in lieu of flowers. A fifty-three year-old former high school history teacher from Clonakilty lost a long battle with lung disease, his survivors including a wife, nine children, and seventeen grandchildren. Catholics, no doubt, with that size of family.

  My gaze locked on the next entry, an obituary for an eighty-year-old man named Dermot Dunphy from Ballincollig. I read the full details, noting that, like me, he’d worked with shoes, as a cobbler. He’d been an active member of The Order of Irish Faeries, whatever that was. Probably some type of gay rights organization. The only survivor listed was one unnamed daughter. No wife? And if he’d been gay, how’d he end up with a daughter? Not that it was unheard of. Still, the whole thing seemed a bit odd.

  My eyes moved up to his photograph. Though the picture was black-and-white and grainy, it was clear he bore the typical features of an Irishman, once-red curls and a full beard, now faded to a soft gray in the photo. His nose was small, his face heart-shaped, much like mine. Had Ma known this Dunphy? She’d never mentioned the name that I could recall. I made a mental note to ask her about him.

  An hour later, once the bridesmaid shoes had been dyed and were drying on the newspaper, I walked back out front and picked up the tiny leather buckle shoe from the counter. Turning it in my hand, I looked it over. If I knew anything, I knew shoes. I could identify a pair of Pradas, Jimmy Choos, or Manolo Blahniks at a hundred paces. Not that I’d ever owned such an expensive pair of shoes myself. I couldn’t identify the maker of these shoes, though. But the high-quality leather, the perfect stitching, and the soft inner padding indicated fine craftsmanship. I looked inside. No brand name was printed on the bottom. Nothing on the back of the tongue or the sole, either. Strange.

  Who was the little man who’d been wearing this shoe? Why had he been dressed in a costume? And, most importantly, what did he want with me? So many questions. So few answers.

  I set to work, stitching the holes back together. When I was finished, I took a handful of pennies out of the register and filled the shoe with them, setting it on the counter for customers when they were a penny or two short. I reached down and touched the gun for reassurance. If that little green man came back for his shoe, he’d better be prepared to die for it.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  IF YOU CAN’T MAKE BOXTY . . .

  After closing up the shop, I rushed Blarney and Riley to the car, the shotgun tucked in easy access under my winter coat in case I needed to use it. Fortunately, the green peeper was nowhere in sight. We headed home for a quick dinner before dance class.

  I pulled into the driveway. My parents’ house, like many others built in the 1950’s, was a modest one-story wood frame model. The house was painted white with black shutters. A single-car detached garage stood in back. Concrete steps led up to a small front porch flanked with a wrought iron railing. Ma had hung a pretty floral wreath on the front door to welcome visitors.

  My eyes scanned the rosebushes and shrubs for evidence of my stalker. No sign of him here at home, either. I breathed a small sigh of relief.

  Blarney trotted through the front door with Riley and me on his four heels. Riley tossed his backpack onto the wing chair in the living room and, as usual, headed straight for the kitchen. Teenage boys and their metabolisms. I scurried to my tiny bedroom and stashed the gun under my twin bed, the same bed I’d slept in since I was a girl. I stowed my tote in the corner. When I passed the window over my bookshelf, I stopped to yank the curtains tightly shut, then went to Riley’s room and did the same. If that teeny peeping Tom wanted to take a gander at us here at home, he’d have to work for it.

  After washing my hands in the laundry room’s half bath, I headed into the kitchen. The gold-tone fridge was hopelessly out of date and the yellowed linoleum curled up at the seams, yet the kitchen maintained a cheerful feel. The display of family snapshots and colorful crayon drawings on the fridge served as a scrapbook of sorts, chronicling the lives of our large, busy family. All of my brothers and sisters had remained in the Dallas-Fort Worth area, and we all got together as often as we could.

  My dad sat at the table, his left arm resting limply in his lap. I gave him a big noisy kiss on his cheek. Smooch. “Have a good day, Da?”

  Since his stroke, he sometimes found speaking difficult, the link between his brain and his mouth functioning like a cell phone signal. Sometimes he had full bars, other times none. He smiled up at me and simply nodded. No bars at the moment.

  Ma had traditional Irish boxty, a type of potato pancake, ready for us. Yum. There was something to be said for still living with your parents. Our arrangement was mutually beneficial. While Ma performed the bulk of the domestic activities, freeing me up to work longer hours, I paid the property taxes on the house, the utility bills, and all repair and maintenance costs. On a fixed income, they’d barely scrape by without my contribution. The arrangement took the
pressure off all of us and enabled me to raise Riley with a strong sense of family, despite my single-mother status. My parents were thrilled to have so much time with their favorite grandson.

  Given my dad’s age and deteriorating condition, Riley had become the unofficial man of the house. He took care of the yard work and upkeep, often with Brendan’s help. I smiled as I thought back to last month when the two of them had raked the leaves, each bragging about the size of their pile, insisting his was bigger than the other’s. Blarney, barking up a storm, bounded into the yard and right through the piles, sending the leaves scattering and rendering their competition moot. A leaf battle ensued. Ten minutes later, the three of us were rolling on the ground, laughing up a storm, leaves in our hair and clothing. Ma had glanced out the window and shook her head, but not before I’d caught the grin on her face.

  As Ma slid the food out of the frying pan and onto our plates, she recited a traditional Irish poem. “Boxty on the griddle, boxty in the pan; if you can’t make boxty, you’ll never get your man.”

  I looked up at my mother and gave her a feeble smile. I’d never learned to make boxty but, even if I had, I’d never get my man. Not if my man was Brendan.

  Ma slapped Riley’s hand when he picked up his fork. “Not before you thank the Lord.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Riley put his fork down, linked hands with the rest of us, and joined us in prayer.

  “Bless us, O Lord, and these, thy gifts, which we are about to receive from thy bounty. Through Christ, our Lord. Amen.”

  Boxty was normally one of my favorite meals, but tonight I had no appetite, still upset about the day’s events. I merely picked at my food. Hard to eat when your stomach is knotted with worry. Worries about the stalker, worries about the dog, worries about my relationship with Brendan. Ma, as always, finished her dinner in two minutes flat. With so many children to take care of, she’d learned as a young woman never to waste a second. Efficiency experts could learn a few things from her. Someday, if my luck changed, I’d take her out for a four-course meal at a five-star restaurant, the kind of meal meant to be savored, lingered over. She certainly deserved it.