A Matter of Trust (The Boston Five Series #5)

by Poppy J. Anderson

  “Roxbury.”

  “And what brought you to Charlestown, where us Irish people hold court?”

  “The Guinness, of course.”

  He knew Ted was listening to their conversation, even though he seemed busy washing a few glasses, so Kyle snorted disdainfully. “If you want to drink a really good pint of Guinness, you should try Flannigan’s, a few streets further south.”

  “I’m going to ignore that remark,” the bar owner grumbled. “But you do know that I keep my baseball bat under the bar, don’t you? And your mom wouldn’t even get angry with me if I knocked a few teeth from her golden boy’s mouth.” Ted threw his dish towel across the tap and turned around, thankfully disappearing into the back kitchen.

  “A friend of yours?” Morgan asked, sounding slightly amused.

  Kyle made himself more comfortable on the stool, stretching his legs. “What makes you think that?”

  She wrinkled her small nose. “Isn’t that what they say about the Irish? That they see red at the smallest slight?”

  “Nonsense.” He shook his head. “You must be confusing us with the Scots. Irish people are terribly sentimental and peaceful.”

  Morgan snorted and gave him a skeptical look. “Is that why the man keeps a baseball bat under his bar?”

  “I’m pretty sure he actually keeps two,” Kyle informed her. “But Ted wouldn’t harm a hair on my head. My mom taught him Sunday school.” He didn’t mention that he’d treated little Mary-Ann in the ER after a bee sting had made her throat swell so badly it could have suffocated her.

  “Sounds like you’ve lived here quite a while.”

  “From the day I was born. You?”

  She shrugged. “Born in Arkansas, grew up in Indiana and Colorado, went to college in Florida, and now I live in Boston.”

  Kyle leaned forward and lowered his voice confidentially. “Can I ask you something personal?”

  She raised one of her perfectly arched eyebrows and gave him a suspicious, thoughtful look. “How personal, exactly?”

  Now he wrinkled his nose. “How could anyone leave Florida to move to Boston?”

  “Hey!” She laughed and swatted his arm in a friendly manner, which felt rather good, if Kyle was completely honest. And it reminded him of Chelsea Parker, a girl from elementary school who used to kick him when they were on the swings but then kissed him on the cheek on the jungle gym. Teasing was a sign of affection, right?

  “I thought Boston was your hometown, Kyle. Where’s your loyalty?”

  He nodded and pretended to tend to his injured arm. “I totally appreciate Boston, but Florida is Florida, after all.”

  “Florida is filled with blood-sucking mosquitoes, retired people in bathing suits that are far too skimpy, and tourists who block each and every walkway,” she informed him. “Is your arm all right, or do you want me to call an ambulance?”

  “I’ll survive,” he told her.

  “Whew!” Morgan pretended to wipe imaginary sweat from her brow. “Can I buy you another Guinness in consolation?”

  When he saw her point at his almost empty glass, a warm fuzzy feeling spread in his stomach. “Only one. I work the early shift tomorrow.”

  “Early shift?” She raised her chin with curiosity. “What do you do, if I may ask?”

  “I’m a paramedic,” he heard himself say, surprised by his own lie.

  “Oh.” Morgan reached for a small bowl that held peanuts. “Not what I expected.”

  “No?” He gave her an amused look and rested his right arm on the bar. “What did you expect?”

  “To be honest, I haven’t wasted many thoughts on what you might do for a living in the long period of our acquaintance.” There was that eye-roll again that all but made him laugh out loud. “But now that I do think about it, I’d have thought you might be a lawyer.”

  “A lawyer?” He almost choked on his own breath. “What in the world makes you think I could be a lawyer?”

  “Maybe it’s the way you have with words?” She gave him a look that was nothing short of sly. She had to tilt her head back a little, for even sitting on a bar stool he was still a lot taller than her.

  “Right back ’atcha.” Kyle grabbed a handful of peanuts. “What about you? Are you a lawyer?”

  “God, no!” She shook her head with fervor. “I actually like people.”

  Kyle couldn’t refrain from laughing out loud. Between chuckles, he told her, “My sister-in-law studies law.”

  “Oh. Well.” She raised her glass, not the least bit flustered. “Put my foot in it there, I guess.”

  “No, she worked for a lawyer for years, and she’d probably agree with you.”

  “Whew again then.” Ted appeared from the back room, so she signaled to him for two more pints.

  Kyle studied her for a moment, before stating truthfully, “I like women who drink Guinness.”

  That seemed to take her by surprise for a moment. She looked at him for several seconds, apparently speechless, before her cheeks reddened. “Aren’t you afraid I might be the one with a drinking problem?” she asked sheepishly.

  “Hey.” He lifted both shoulders. “I’m Irish. Do I have to say any more?”

  “You’re not a people of great comedians, that much is clear.”

  He pressed his palms together in apology. “You still haven’t answered my question.”

  “Which one?”

  It was his turn to roll his eyes in an exaggerated fashion. “If you’re not a lawyer, what do you do?”

  “Oh.” She waved a dismissive hand in front of her face. “I’m a social worker—absolutely boring.”

  “Somehow I can’t believe that.”

  “That being a caseworker with the city is boring as hell?” Morgan nodded vehemently. “You better believe it. Sometimes the second hand on the clock seems to be going backwards.”

  He studied her with a grin as Ted grabbed their empty glasses to switch them out for full ones.

  “I think we should go out together sometime, Morgan, and discuss the boredom of your job in greater detail.”

  At first Morgan didn’t reply, and Kyle expected to be rebuffed any moment. But when she finally opened her mouth, she sounded almost shy. “The Irish aren’t famous for being reserved, are they?”

  “That was not an outright no,” he noted happily.

  She raised her glass to her mouth but couldn’t hide the smile that was playing on her lips.

  Chapter 3

  Both Morgan’s great-aunt, who she’d lived with from age seven to twelve, and her foster mother, who she’d lived with during high school, had been of the staunch opinion that each and every piece of clothing had to be ironed before you could wear it. Both of them would have preferred going naked to wearing a blouse that hadn’t been ironed. Their insistence had driven Morgan insane. The rebellious child and the defiant teen had only been allowed outside in nicely ironed clothes. There had been innumerable fights and arguments over the question of whether Morgan was dressed in an appropriate fashion. Morgan didn’t care whether she wore the same t-shirt to school four days in a row, even if it was dirty as hell. And nobody at home had ever cared what she wore to school.

  Aunt Edith, on the other hand, had put her into the tub every night, scrubbed her from head to toe, and taken great pains to ensure each article of clothing was spotless and wrinkle-free, before she brought Morgan to the school bus honking at the curb. And her foster mother, Milly, had been the same brand of neat freak, a woman who’d thrown her hands up in horror when Morgan had moved in with her hair dyed in various garish colors, dressed in torn jeans, and sporting a nose piercing. Milly had been an absolute darling, but at the age of fifteen, and after several less-than-loving foster families, Morgan hadn’t been able to fully appreciate her kind nature. Aunt Edith and Milly had actually been the only women who had ever cared or worried about whether Morgan was okay, whether she did her homework, and whether she was dressed nicely.

  She couldn’t help thinking of the
two women as she stood in her bedroom and sorted her laundry.

  Generally, Morgan thought of herself as a passable housewife. There was no moldy food in her kitchen, her bathroom was always clean, and with a little bit of goodwill, her windows could be described as free of streaks—at least with the right angle of light pouring in. The only thing she hated with a passion was laundry, and she’d always had an aversion to ironing, which wasn’t surprising, considering her history …

  She closed her eyes, pushed back the unsavory memories, and focused on finding matching socks in her pile of freshly laundered clothes. But it seemed that none of the countless socks in this load matched any other. That was the main reason Morgan thought doing laundry was a terribly bothersome chore. But after she’d only been able to find an old pair of cutoffs and a plain old denim shirt to wear yesterday, since everything else smelled like wet dog on a pile of rotting potatoes, she hadn’t been able to put off doing the annoying chore any longer.

  At least she had managed to tackle the dreaded laundry pile today. She had gotten something done!

  During the last three weeks, she’d done next to nothing at all, creeping through her apartment in sweatpants, having pizza and Chinese food delivered to her door so she wasn’t forced to leave the house, and not washing her hair for days on end. All of that was completely unlike her, for she wasn’t normally a person to engage in self-pity. Her boss had told her to get some rest, and her colleagues had urged her to go on vacation and take her mind off whatever it was that was bothering her. Her friend Gayle had even suggested they could go on a girls’ trip together, even though her baby was only four months old. They had all been worried about Morgan, who had refused all of their advice in her usual down-to-earth manner, insisting over and over again that she was fine.

  Which could not have been further from the truth.

  How could she be fine?

  She kept waking up drenched in sweat in the middle of the night, struggling with all her might to forget the horrible nightmare that kept haunting her, over and over again. If only it was a nightmare! She could have dealt with a simple nightmare, but since this was a real memory, and since it would probably haunt her for the rest of her days, it was more than difficult, it was virtually impossible to shake off and dream of playful puppies instead. If she hadn’t been so stubborn, she’d have asked the psychologist she was forced to see for those pills he’d mentioned repeatedly. But Morgan was not the type to swallow a pill when she had a problem. Her third stepmother, a pill-devouring witch, had been such a cautionary tale that Morgan didn’t even like to take a harmless Tylenol when she had a major headache.

  No, instead of taking the meds her psychologist had recommended, Morgan had preferred to hide in her apartment, cry for days, and blame nobody but herself.

  After three weeks of wallowing in self-pity, she had finally gotten up yesterday, taken a shower for what felt like at least an hour, washed her hair, and even painting her nails, before heading out and finding a pub. Where she had met a man who had managed to make her laugh and distract her from her dark thoughts for two full hours. Even Jimmy Kimmel and Ellen DeGeneres hadn’t been able to accomplish that …

  When the phone rang, Morgan was glad to forget the socks for a moment and grabbed the handset from her nightstand.

  “Hello?” she said, sinking down on her bed.

  “Hi, sweet pea. I just wanted to check on you, see how you’re doing today.”

  The lump that formed in her throat at the sound of Gayle’s voice kept her from answering her best friend for a moment. “Hello again,” she finally mustered. “I’m fine, thanks for asking.” Trying to divert Gayle’s attention from her feelings, Morgan asked cheerfully, “What’s Casey doing?”

  “Sleeping, pooping her diaper, and sleeping again,” her friend listed in an unruffled voice. Casey was her fourth daughter. Mothers didn’t seem to make a fuss about their offspring after they’d had a few kids. They knew what to expect and weren’t floored by the prospect of life with an infant. “No need to distract me though. I called you last night, but you weren’t home. I almost filed a missing person’s report, you know.”

  “Why didn’t you try to reach me on my cell?” Morgan asked with studious calm as she let herself fall back on her bed, watching the ceiling fan make its lazy turns above her.

  “Before I could grab my phone, Harry brought the girls home. Bella had a huge lump on her forehead and—”

  “Let me guess,” Morgan interrupted good-naturedly. “You and Harry had a fight, then you were all over each other, and now he’s moving back in with you!”

  “No, he’s not moving back in,” Gayle disagreed categorically. “He can move back in here when he finds a new job and ditches the stupid idea of opening a garage with his cousin—the man can’t even use a vacuum cleaner! Who told him he could repair cars for a living?”

  Morgan grinned involuntarily. “You did not deny that you were all over each other, Gayle.”

  The answer was a snort. “You’re evading my question, young lady! Where were you last night?”

  “Honestly, Gayle,” Morgan continued, unfazed. “You shouldn’t throw Harry out of the house at every turn if you can’t keep your fingers off him. The girls must be totally confused by your back-and-forth insanity.”

  “The only insane one is Harry, if he really believes he can repair other people’s cars when he knows he’s all thumbs.”

  “Your husband doesn’t want to sell insurance anymore,” Morgan stated the obvious. She could relate. “I totally get that, you know.”

  Her dearest friend sighed heavily into the receiver. “Of course I get it, too, but we have four kids. How can he just quit his job and put all our savings into a garage he wants to run with his utterly incapable cousin? As soon as I find a day care for Casey, I’m going to have to go back to work!”

  “At least then I’ll see you more often,” Morgan joked. “We can spend our lunch breaks together. I think I’m looking forward to you coming back.”

  Gayle cleared her throat. “Does that mean you’re going back, too? I was under the impression you were ready to quit.”

  Morgan ran a hand across her forehead and closed her eyes for a moment. “I don’t know what I’m going to do, Gayle. Ask me something easier.”

  Her friend’s voice lost its sharp edge and became frighteningly gentle. “How are you really doing, Morgan?”

  That wasn’t easier. Morgan swallowed. “How do you think I’m doing?” she replied hoarsely.

  “Oh, sweet pea.”

  “I keep thinking …” She stopped herself. “I keep thinking I should have noticed something on my last visit,” she whispered. “I should have sensed something. I should—”

  “Nobody could see that coming, Morgan. I would have acted exactly the same way.”

  “Maybe,” she admitted. “But still … I feel responsible.”

  Her friend was quiet a few seconds. “Did you see Dr. Fisher?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “And?”

  Morgan shrugged helplessly, even if Gayle couldn’t see that. “And … we talked. Or rather, I talked and he listened. But I can’t say it has helped in any tangible way. How could it? He’s a total stranger, how could he know … well, how I feel.”

  “But maybe he can help you understand that you’re not responsible for this particular tragedy, Morgan. Someone who isn’t involved can often make us see these things more clearly. Just think of how many cases you had to take care of over the last months—”

  “That’s not the point,” Morgan interrupted with unusual force, sitting up on her bed abruptly. “Nor is it an excuse! Each of my cases is important!”

  “Morgan.” Gayle sighed heavily. “One person alone can’t accomplish that much. And I know what I’m talking about.”

  She didn’t want to talk about this anymore, not with her friend and colleague. She knew she was already close to bursting into tears. So she changed the subject quickly. “I met someone las
t night.”

  “What? And it took you this long to tell me?” Gayle sounded positively stoked. “Tell me!”

  “There’s not a lot to tell,” Morgan said, chewing on her lower lip. “His name is Kyle, he’s a paramedic, and he lives in Charlestown.”

  “And?”

  “And he wants to go out with me.”

  “He’d be an idiot not to want to go out with you!”

  Morgan laughed briefly. “Your loyalty is heartwarming.”

  “When is your date?”

  “Not so fast.” Morgan clucked her tongue. “He gave me his number, but I’m not sure if I—”

  “Is he ugly, or what?”

  Morgan’s eyebrows shot up automatically as she pictured the handsome blond who had been far too good-looking for her peace of mind. And his dreamy brown eyes …

  She felt a pleasant shiver run through her.

  “That’s not how I would describe him.”

  “Then what are you waiting for?” Gayle groaned in frustration. “Get yourself a nice paramedic and make a few cute babies!”

  Morgan almost dropped the receiver in shock. “I’m going to hang up, call Harry, and tell him to chain you to the heater again,” she warned. “You need supervision and discipline, Gayle!”

  “Too late for that.” Her friend giggled mischievously. “Do me a favor and call that nice paramedic, okay? A hot date may be just the thing to take your mind off things.”

  Morgan snorted disdainfully into the receiver. “You do me a favor and kiss Casey for me. Tell the girls to keep the sugar away from their crazy mom.” Then she hung up.

  ***

  Morgan didn’t know how it came to pass that the next day she was sitting across from the blond paramedic, listening to some anecdotes about his job. After hanging up on Gayle, she had dialed his number, talked to him on the phone for an hour, and finally agreed to meet him the following evening.

  Now she’d already been sitting here with him for two hours, clutching her cappuccino, and she couldn’t stop grinning like a moron. Strangely enough she didn’t want to leave the little Italian restaurant where they’d shared a pizza. But it was the middle of the week and they were more or less the last guests, so Morgan feared they’d be thrown out soon if they didn’t leave on their own account. But she hadn’t felt this good in the presence of another human being in a long time.