Home for the Holidays: A Contemporary Romance Anthology

by Christine Bell

  “Oh,” Sean added, “and a word to the wise, Pop. Next year, when the girls ask you what you want for Christmas, say a flashy tie or an animal-print Snuggie or some bull like that. Don’t say, I only want you all to be happy and healthy. Leaves too much room for interpretation—especially from Riley.”

  Riley picked up a pillow and lobbed it at her younger brother’s head. “Way to ruin Keira’s sappy speech, smartass.”

  “Language, Riley,” Patrick said, the words a familiar joke more than a true rebuke.

  “Sorry, Pop.” Her face told him she wasn’t sorry at all.

  Tris lifted the whiskey, proposing a quick toast. “We’re here, Pop, because we’re family. To the Collins clan.” He took a swig from the bottle and passed it to Teagan, who followed suit with her own cheers.

  Patrick wasn’t sure what it said about his character that he was proud of the way all seven of his offspring could hold their whiskey.

  As the bottle moved from hand to hand, they each offered up words of thanks or wishes for the New Year. When it reached Patrick, he lifted the bottle and proposed a toast he hadn’t used since the last Christmas he’d celebrated with his wife, Sunday.

  “To Conall Brannagh.”

  Ewan took the bottle from his father. “Who?”

  “Conall Brannagh,” Patrick repeated. “If your mother had chosen him over me, none of us would be here tonight.”

  Sean leaned forward, a definite gleam of interest in his eyes. “So you had some competition for Mom, eh? I never knew that.”

  Keira grabbed a bag of pretzels. “I didn’t either. Was Mom in love with him?”

  Teagan looked at Patrick. “I always thought you were her first love.”

  Patrick smiled at his daughter. “I was her last love, Teagan. That’s a much better spot to claim. Besides, I don’t know if it’s fair to say she loved Conall, though he certainly turned the women’s heads. What’s the word you girls use for handsome men? Dreamy?”

  Riley laughed. “Um…yeah, not in this decade. I definitely don’t use the word dreamy to describe Aaron.”

  “Then what would you say?” Pat asked.

  “He’s hot. Totally doable.”

  Killian turned to look at his younger sister and shook his head. “Jesus. How are we related?”

  “Dreamy works for me, Pop,” Teagan said quickly.

  Patrick looked at his kids and silently marveled at how different they were. Somehow, miraculously, their unique qualities meshed perfectly, creating an amazing family.

  Ewan, always the steady one, hadn’t been distracted by the asides. “So Mom thought this Conall was dreamy?”

  “All the girls in Killarney thought Conall was handsome, but he only had eyes for Sunday. Not that I could blame him. Your mother was a beauty, with that long dark hair and those crystal-blue eyes. She caught every man’s attention.”

  “But you didn’t fall in love with her because of her looks, right?” Keira asked.

  “Och, Lord no. While Sunday’s face was pleasing, it was her heart, so kind and compassionate, that I found attractive. That’s what captured me by my hand and—pardon the expression—balls and kept me holding on to her for dear life.”

  “So what was the story with this Conall guy?” Tris asked.

  “Well now, that is a tale.” Patrick leaned back and closed his eyes, letting his mind drift to a different place, a different time.

  “I was working on my family’s sheep farm during the day while tending bar at Scully’s Pub every night. I was a young buck of twenty when Sunday, who was just nineteen, moved to Killarney to live with her aunt. Scully hired her to sing in the pub and from the first moment I laid eyes on her, I was lost…”

  “Put the horse back in the stall there, laddie. You’ve work to do,” Scully chastised in his deep, gravelly voice. Patrick scowled at the all-knowing look from his boss.

  “Don’t know what you’re talking about,” Patrick mumbled.

  Scully chuckled. “You’ve been sporting a boner in those pants ever since our new singer took the stage. Never seen you so distracted in your work. This pub only makes money if the bartender is serving drinks. Tuck your cock away and start pouring.”

  Patrick flushed, forcing his gaze from the stage and going back to work. It was hard to argue with Scully when he was right. He’d seen the new girl in town a few times over the past couple of months. They’d just been passing glances, but he hadn’t been able to erase her lovely face from his mind. More than a few of his mates had made bawdy comments about her, all of them lusting after Old Lady MacKenna’s pretty niece.

  He managed to do his job the rest of the night, only sneaking four thousand and twelve glances at the beautiful woman on stage. Her voice enthralled him. She sang sweeter than Joni Mitchell and he was awed by her talent with the guitar. Her dark hair hung in long waves that cascaded over her delicate shoulders. More than once she captured his gaze, making him believe she was singing just to him.

  She’d won over the entire crowd by the time she wrapped up the evening with a rousing version of Whiskey in a Jar when Scully announced last call. As the regulars stumbled out, headed for home, she approached the bar.

  “I’m Sunday MacKenna.” She claimed a stool across from him.

  “Patrick Collins. How about a drink? You must be thirsty after all that singing.”

  “I’d love a red ale.”

  He poured the drink, grateful for his steady hands. He wasn’t sure why but his heart was suddenly racing, his palms sweaty. He’d never let a woman get under his skin like this—so fast, so completely. One evening listening to her pretty voice and he was ready to pledge himself to her forever. It was a foolish sentiment, and certainly a new one for him.

  “I’ve seen you around town,” she said. “My aunt says you work on your family’s farm.”

  He nodded. “I do.”

  “And then you tend bar here all night?” she asked.

  “Yep. That’s me. A regular workaholic.”

  She took a sip of her ale as Scully came behind the bar. “I’m heading home, Pat. You finish the cleaning and lock up behind you, eh?”

  “Sure.” Patrick was surprised by his boss’ early departure. Scully was always the last one out of the pub each night. He caught Scully’s quick wink—the wily man was playing matchmaker, giving him a chance to be alone with Sunday.

  Patrick smiled. He’d have to thank his boss tomorrow.

  Scully said his good nights to Sunday, complimenting her singing and promising to add more tables to accommodate all the new customers she was bound to bring in.

  Once they were alone, Sunday looked at him. Patrick had never been the recipient of such a thorough examination. He stared back, equally as enthralled. He felt as if he was a blind man seeing for the very first time. He wondered if she felt the same connection.

  “Why do you work so hard, Patrick Collins?”

  No one had ever asked him that before. It was simply expected that he do his chores on the family farm, while Scully proclaimed him a born barman and assumed he worked at the pub because he loved it.

  What no one in his family realized was—Patrick had a plan, a dream for his future that didn’t include sheep or even Ireland. He took one look into her bonny blue eyes and revealed what—until he’d met Sunday—had been his deepest desire. “I’m saving up enough money to leave Ireland. I want to move to America. Scully has an older brother who lives in Maryland who’s hoping to retire soon. He’s agreed to hire me as a bartender while letting me gradually buy the business. One day soon, I’m going to get out of Killarney. I’m going to be my own boss in a pub in America.”

  He hadn’t intended to share so much. Most young men he knew dreamed of moving away from this small Irish town, dreaming of a better life somewhere else. Very few of them ever managed to make it more than a mile away from their birth home. They continued to toil all day on the farms while drinking away their wages at the pubs each night. What if Sunday thought he was one of those wis
hy-washy dreamers?

  She smiled. “I think that sounds wonderful.”

  He studied her face, trying to decide if she was humoring him, but he saw no deceit. Quite the opposite. She appeared impressed.

  “You do?”

  She nodded. “I suppose everyone dreams of going somewhere else, doing something special with their lives. You’ve set your goal and you’re working hard to achieve it. That’s admirable.”

  Patrick had never received such a compliment. It touched and humbled him. “Thank you.” Her kindness encouraged him and he found all his private thoughts flowing out in a rush of words. He described his ideal pub, as well as pictures he’d seen of Baltimore and the Inner Harbor. At one point, Sunday closed her eyes as he spoke and he imagined she was letting him draw a picture of the place in her mind.

  Finally, he paused, realizing he’d kept her sitting at the bar for nearly an hour. He picked up a glass and hung it from the rack above his head. “I suppose you have some big dreams as well. I mean, a woman with your singing talent could go far.”

  She rested her chin on her hand. “I do love singing.”

  “You’re one of the best I’ve ever heard. You’ll be famous one day. Mark my words.”

  Sunday laughed softly. “Maybe. Maybe not. You and I share a dream, Patrick. I hope to go to America one day too.”

  “Well, of course you do. I’m not surprised to hear it,” he said. “Best place for a truly talented singer to catch a break.”

  Sunday took one last sip of her ale and glanced at her watch. “I suppose I should head home. My aunt wasn’t too keen on me taking this job since it would mean staying out so late.”

  “If you give me a minute, I’ll walk you. Not that Killarney is dangerous, but maybe it would set your aunt’s mind at ease.”

  “Wouldn’t that be out of your way?”

  He shrugged. “I like walking in the moonlight. Gives a man some quiet time with his thoughts.”

  “And you have a lot of those?”

  “A million,” he confessed, enjoying their lighthearted banter.

  “I think I’d like to hear a few.”

  “Well,” he said, lifting the end of the bar and walking toward her. “You’re in luck. Since I’m escorting you home tonight, you’ll be privy to all my silly dreams and schemes.” He pulled off his apron and placed it on the bar.

  She picked up her guitar case. Patrick took it from her then reached out his free hand.

  He struggled to contain his grin when Sunday placed her hand in his, allowing him to hold it during the entire trip to her aunt’s house.

  “I escorted Sunday home from that pub every night for three months, holding her hand as we shared our thoughts and dreams with each other.”

  Teagan sighed. “What a romantic story.”

  “Romantic?” Sean said. “What the hell? Where was the part about the Conall Brannagh guy? You sure you didn’t leave something out, Pop? A lot of somethings?”

  Patrick chuckled. “Well now, I didn’t say that was the end of the story. I was just laying down some background for you, letting you see how your mother and I met.”

  Riley rolled her eyes. “We’ve all heard about you meeting her in the pub, taking one look at her and falling head over heels. You’ve told us that a thousand times before. Get to the good part. Did this Conall shithead try to break you two up? Did you get into a fistfight over Mom? I bet you kicked his ass, didn’t you?”

  “Oh Riley,” Patrick said. “You are so much like your mother. Sunday always loved a good story, lots of drama, action, maybe even a wee scene to make her cry.”

  Riley raised her hands as if he’d proven her point. “Well, if that’s true, then you need to step it up a notch. So far there’s been no drama, no action and I haven’t sniffled once.”

  Killian lightly tugged Riley’s hair. “Maybe if you’d stop yapping he could get to the good part. So you and Mom were dating when this Conall guy comes on to the scene?”

  Patrick shook his head. “Actually, I don’t know if you could call it dating. Apart from walking her home after work each night, we didn’t see each other or go out. I’d never even tried to steal a kiss from her.”

  “Really? After three months? Why not?” Tris asked.

  Patrick considered his son’s question. “I’m not sure. I was very smitten with Sunday, but I wasn’t sure of her feelings for me. Much as it pains me to say it, I was terribly inexperienced when it came to relationships and maybe even a bit of a coward. I was afraid to try to kiss her in case she rejected me.”

  “How could you think she wasn’t crazy about you?” Teagan asked. “I’ve seen pictures of you when you were younger, Pop. You definitely fit the dreamy category.”

  He nodded, grinning at her compliment. “Well, there’s dreamy and then there’s Conall Brannagh.”

  Ewan rubbed his hands together happily. “Something tells me we’re about to get to the good part of this story.”

  2

  “You’re in fine voice tonight, Sunday.”

  “Thanks, Pat. Could I have a glass of water? I have a tickle in my throat.”

  “Sure thing.” Patrick poured a glass of cool water and handed it to her across the bar. He’d been trying to work up the courage to ask her out for several weeks, but something had always prevented him from making the request. Tonight, he vowed he’d extend an invitation to the Christmas dance next weekend. “Listen, Sunday, I—”

  A loud ruckus near the door of the pub distracted them. They turned to see who had entered.

  “Conall,” Patrick muttered.

  “Conall?” Sunday asked. “Who is he?”

  Patrick wasn’t sure if it was his imagination or jealousy that suggested Sunday’s question was piqued by more than mere curiosity. She was definitely checking out the man who’d been Patrick’s nemesis throughout his younger years.

  When they were growing up, no matter what Patrick did, Conall found a way to best him—be it in grades, hurling, or by stealing the girls Patrick fancied. Conall’s family was the most prosperous in Killarney, owning and operating most of the town’s businesses.

  “Brannagh,” Patrick added begrudgingly.

  “Brannagh? As in Brannagh Grocery?”

  “And Brannagh Boutique, Brannagh Bakery, Brannagh—”

  Sunday laughed. “Okay. I get it. He’s the crown prince of Killarney.”

  Sadly, she’d summed up Conall in one sentence. “Yeah. That would be him.”

  “Where’s he been?”

  “He was attending university in Dublin, last I heard. Studying finance. He didn’t come home after graduation, so I assumed he’d taken a job in the city rather than return here to run the family’s businesses.”

  “You don’t like him?” she asked.

  He’d tried to hide the disgust in his voice, but obviously he’d failed. He purposely avoided any gossip surrounding Conall, not giving a shit what he was doing. The man had left town and that suited Patrick just fine.

  There wasn’t anything outwardly offensive about Conall. Watching him work his way through the pub was a bit like observing a greasy politician as he greeted his constituents—projecting a false friendliness in order to secure votes. Conall reminded Patrick of a shiny red apple that was perfect on the outside, while inside lurked a thick, ugly worm. Unfortunately, he was the only person in town who seemed to sense the man’s lack of character.

  “Patrick Collins,” Conall said jovially as he approached the bar. “Holding court at the pub. I should have known I’d find you here.”

  Conall’s words were clearly meant as an insult. A way to remind Patrick that while Conall had escaped the bonds of their small town, traveling all over the country, Patrick was stuck in the same damn place.

  Well, not for long, if I have my way.

  Patrick had worked his ass off for nearly four years, ever since leaving school at sixteen. He’d stashed away every penny he had earned. His nest egg had grown quite a bit and he anticipated being able
to make his journey across the sea very soon. Lately, he’d been wondering if he could convince Sunday to make the leap with him. He knew she was anxious to leave this small-town life behind as well.

  “Brannagh,” he said. “It’s a small town with precious little to do for recreation. I view my job tending bar as an important one. I lend an ear to the downtrodden and provide a bit of joy and relaxation for the men seeking an escape from their everyday lives…and their wives.”

  Sunday laughed at Patrick’s joke, but Conall didn’t appear amused. “Sounds like dreary work to me.”

  “Not at all.”

  Conall shrugged. “Well, I suppose someone needs to sling the drinks.”

  Patrick’s jaw clenched. Taking a deep breath, he silently counted in his head until he was able to control his temper. “What brings you back to town?”

  “The holidays. I’m off to New York at the beginning of the year. I’ve accepted a job with a large American corporation. My father roomed with the president of the company back in the day. I won’t bore you with the details, but let’s just say they made an offer I couldn’t refuse. Thought I’d take this opportunity to visit the folks because I don’t know when I’ll manage a trip back to Ireland in the future.”

  Patrick swallowed hard against his growing anger. It was driven by sheer resentment and he felt like a small man for his bitterness. He’d worked his fingers to the bone for years for the chance that had fallen into Conall’s lap. Conall had never expressed an interest in America until Patrick did. They’d had to write an essay about what they wanted to be when they grew up during the first year of their junior cycle. Conall claimed he was going play fullback and win the All-Ireland Senior Hurling Championship.

  Patrick had written about his dream to move to America to open his own business. He ached to leave the hard life of farming and small-town existence behind. After they’d shared their essays in class, Conall’s new goal had been to live in America. And once again, he’d beaten Patrick to the golden ring.