Emma Bryan the lifestyle-slash-food blogger didn’t care much for that and scowled. “What?” she snapped, slapping the book against her bare thighs.
My eyes dropped to see she was wearing a skirt, and I cocked my head. I was a fan of skirts. Particularly the short kind.
“Oh, great. A rude asshole and a pervert. This is just wonderful.”
Lifting my gaze back to her face, I glared at her with stern eyes. “I’m no pervert.”
“You just tried to look up my skirt!” she shouted, alerting everybody in the feckin’ plane to my innocent observation, and I glanced around with an apologetic smile at the frowning onlookers.
“I did not,” I defended through gritted teeth, “and I’d thank ya to not get me arrested for sexual harassment. Now, back to the matter of your job, I wasn’t aware that was somethin’ ya could actually be makin’ money at. I meant nothin’ by it.”
“Well, I actually do make money at it, hence why I was able to fly to your country for two weeks trying all the different cuisine, and—what now?”
I was grinning and holding back my laugh. “Oh, I just wouldn’t have called the shite I eat cuisine. Such a fancy word for garbage food.”
“Garbage? Oh, you’re eating the wrong stuff then! I mean, there’s cottage pie—”
“Pub food. Garbage.”
She narrowed her eyes with obvious irritation. “Farls, skirts and kidneys—”
“Garbage, and don’t tell me you actually ate that shite. Please, I can’t even stomach the idea of it.”
“You’re Irish! You don’t eat that?”
“Me grandmother would make it, and I’d give it to her dog.” I wrinkled my nose. “Christ, just because I’m Irish doesn’t mean I’m gonna eat every disgusting thing cooked in Ireland.”
“So, no black pudding for you?”
“I could eat it at breakfast with Mam, but given the choice, bloody hell, no.”
Smiling, she shrugged. “To each their own. So, what do you do for work?”
“I own a pub,” I said, shrugging my indifference at the mere thought of The Wet Hog.
And there was that laugh again. A confusing combination of sniffing and snorting that Padraig would’ve appreciated, had he not been stuffed in with the other cargo on the plane. I felt guilty then, wondering what the big lummox was doing and if he were cursing me under his breath for shipping him along with me. I had no other choice though, with no one to check up on him, and I couldn’t just leave him alone.
“Why is that funny?” I asked, cocking my head and narrowing my eyes.
“Because that’s exactly what you’d expect an Irishman to say.”
My lips twisted and prepared to blast her with a comeback, but I had nothing, so I smiled. “Yeah, I guess you’re right.”
The stewardess and her tray of drinks stopped at our row and she handed over a Coke for Emma Bryan and then a thimble of whiskey to me. “I added a bit extra,” she whispered with a wink, and I glared at her.
“No, ya didn’t, ya feckin’ liar.”
She smiled apologetically. “We’ll be landing soon.”
“We just got in the air an hour ago!”
Emma nodded. “We have about six hours left.”
With a quick glance at her and then back to the stewardess, I said, “See? Now I will never trust another thing you say this entire flight. I hope you’re happy.”
Without an apology or any further remark, the stewardess shrugged and made her walk back through the plane, leaving me once again, alone with Emma Bryan, lifestyle-slash-food blogger extraordinaire.
I tipped my chin toward the cup of Coke in her hand, and I commented, “Yours is bigger than mine.” I held up the equivalent to a shot glass and she sniffed another laugh.
“I’d offer to share, but we only get four drinks on this entire flight, so …” She shrugged and tipped the cup back into her mouth and I shook my head with narrowed eyes.
“Anyway, Malachy Shevlin, what’s bringing you to the old US of A if you hate flying so much?”
“Mm,” I grunted, knocking back the whiskey like a seasoned professional, and huffing a sigh through puffed-out cheeks. “Well, if ya want the shortened version, I spent most of me life thinkin’ me stepdad was me biological father and it wasn’t until after he died that me mother decided to tell me he wasn’t.”
Seeing as I didn’t have cousins, aunts or uncles and only a handful of acquaintances, this was the first time I had spoken aloud, the lies my mother had led me to believe for thirty-four years.
Emma looked about as shocked as I expected someone to be. “Uh … okay, wow, I didn’t see that coming.”
“Oh, believe me, neither did I.”
“How did she even tell you that? ‘Oh, Malachy, your wee daddy wasn’t your daddy at all?’” she mocked in the worst depiction of an Irish accent I had ever heard, and I grunted a laugh.
“First of all, that was shite. And second of all, she explained—over cottage pie, by the way—that she hadn’t wanted to ruin the relationship I’d had with me father. I mean, it sorta made sense. He’d never not been in me life. They were together when I was born, for shite’s sake.” I shook my head, still somehow in disbelief even after those six years had passed. “I mean, his relationship with me mother was rocky, but … he was always in me life.”
“Then he was your dad,” Emma stated sternly. “I mean, maybe you don’t have his genes swimming in your pool, but he raised you.”
I nodded in agreement. “Aye. That’s what I told Mam, when she fed me that bollocks about ruining me relationship with him. But still, I almost understood her not wantin’ me to know and gettin’ curious while he was still around. Maybe she was afraid of him feelin’ inadequate or somethin’, I don’t know.
“Anyway, she told me then that she knew the name of me biological father—an old boyfriend of hers from back in school, shortly before she met me da—but I didn’t wanna know. I’m a stubborn gobshite and didn’t have any interest in knowin’ some man I had zero attachment to. Then, she was diagnosed with cancer a couple years ago.” My nostrils flared against my will and I pinched my lips, swallowing back on the hurt that had yet to dull. “And then, she, ehm … she passed away seven months ago, now.”
“I’m sorry,” Emma responded.
I nodded my thanks. “Yeah, well … anyway, as to what I’m doin’ on this plane … After she died, I didn’t have any more family, and it only took about two weeks for me to realize how alone I was.”
“You’re not married or anything?”
Laughing, I shook my head. “Never found a woman to tie meself to for all of eternity, but … it’s a lonely life, just me and Padraig. So, I did one of those DNA testin’ things, to hopefully find me biological father, and as me feckin’ luck would have it, I got a message on Facebook a month ago, from a Mister Collin Kinney.”
And as though I had just told her I knew the actual Chris Kringle, her pretty face glowed with her smile. “Oh my God, that’s incredible! He’s your dad?”
I nodded, floating back into the state of shock I’d felt when receiving the message. “He is, apparently.”
“So, he did the DNA thing too?”
I shook my head, floating further. “No. Ehm, his son did, and found me.”
Emma’s mouth dropped. “So, wait a minute … now you’re going to meet them?”
“Yeah, in Connecticut,” I said on a breath too short to be healthy. “Collin’s married to a woman named Helen, and they have three sons together, and accordin’ to him, two of his sons are married with kids of their own.”
“Malachy!” she exclaimed, gleefully using my name with a clap of her hands. “That’s amazing!”
Snorting, I shrugged. “I’m not so sure how amazin’ it really is just yet. This guy has his whole life set in stone, and I’m just gonna, what? Wander right in and say, ‘Hello sir, I’m a forty-year-old orphan, won’t ya please take me in?’”
Emma’s joy for me faded and I regretted my ty
pical pessimism, because, as much as I’d hate to admit it, it felt nice to have someone feel happy for me for once.
“They want to meet you though, don’t they?”
I nodded. “Well, yeah. I’m not droppin’ in unannounced or anythin’.”
“Well, then, Malachy Shevlin, I’d say there’s hope that they will adopt you.”
Hope. I grunted my response and stared at the wee thimble in my hand, wishing there was more, because hope …
That wasn’t a word in my vocabulary.
CHAPTER TWO |
New Fathers & Brothers
MALACHY
“Well, sir, it’s been a pleasure,” Emma said, as we entered the terminal together. “You were not as much of a prick as I initially thought.”
“And your laugh still sounds like this guy when he’s happy, but it wasn’t nearly as irritatin’ as I thought it’d be.” I hoisted my backpack onto my shoulder and extended a hand to her.
“Thank you,” she replied with a polite nod as she slid her hand into mine. “And can I just say, you are much taller than I thought you’d be?”
Shaking her hand, I laughed and felt the heat in my cheeks. “Funny thing about that … me mother and father were both very short people, and I never wondered.”
“Well, maybe Collin Kinney is a giant,” she offered with a glowing smile and a nod, pulling her hand from my grasp. “Enjoy your stay, and maybe try some of our more desirable cuisine. Bye, Padraig. It was lovely meeting you, finally.”
Padraig’s heavy tail thumped within the confines of his cage.
“Thank you, Emma Bryan.” With a smile, I bowed my head. “And thank ya for keepin’ me sane for seven hours.”
“You’re very welcome.” She grinned before turning and walking away, her suitcase trailing behind her.
And there I was. Alone—again. An Irishman and his dog, in America, standing in the middle of the Bradley International Airport in Hartford, Connecticut.
“Now what?” I asked Padraig, and he lifted his head to peer up at me through big brown eyes. His brows worked, his ears shifted, and I nodded. “Yeah, I dunno either, boy.”
Gripping the handle of his kennel, and careful to not topple the two suitcases I had teetering on top, I dragged him through the doors leading to a wide-open car park and a barrage of cabs lined up along the footpath. It was tempting, to climb into one of them and have the driver take me anywhere else, but I had already arranged through Collin, that his son Patrick would be picking me up.
Apparently, he had the biggest truck, to fit Padraig’s kennel.
With a sigh, I pulled my best friend to a nearby bench and sat down, pushing my hands through my hair. Pad huffed through the bars, nudging his nose against the metal, and I lowered my fingers to him.
“I dunno what I’m doin’ here,” I confessed to him for the umpteenth time since receiving that message, which still felt like something out of feckin’ Star Wars.
Malachy, I am your father. Not those exact words, but they might as well have been.
It’d chimed through at a quarter past two in the morning on a Monday. I had just walked through the door, coming in from the pub, when my phone vibrated in my pocket. I’d pulled it out, immediately confused by the request to connect to a Collin Kinney. I didn’t know a Collin, or a Kinney—not at the pub, or otherwise—and I considered rejecting it.
But, I didn’t.
Hello.
My name is Collin Kinney. Your mother Roisin Shevlin and I were together many years ago for a brief time. We separated amicably after college and never spoke again.
Recently, my son Sean sent away for DNA testing, to see if there were any genetic matches floating around in the world, and he found you.
I’m sorry if this is a strange way to tell you this, but I believe you may be my son. I swear to you, I had no idea you existed. If I’d had any idea, I would never have taken forty years to get in touch. Even if you never respond, I just wanted you to know that.
I hope you are well.
Collin
My legs had felt foreign as they buckled underneath me, and I slumped against the wall and slid to the floor. Pad, concerned and confused, had nudged his nose against my cheek, before leaning his heavy head against mine. Whimpering and feeling like a failure for being unable to coax me from my stunned stupor.
I’d drunk a bottle of whiskey before I’d mustered up the balls to respond, because, what do you even say to that? The truth was, there was nothing I wanted more, than to call up my mam and ask her what to say, what to do, because I felt like a child. Scared and apprehensive of the big bad wolf in the form of this man, claiming he was my father.
But the genealogy website had confirmed it: Sean Kinney was a match, which could only mean Collin Kinney was as well, and his two other sons. And their children.
Somewhere inside of me, I was rejoicing with the prickle of something unfamiliar. Hope, maybe, that I wasn’t by myself in the world. That even though I thought I had lost everything, I would somehow be gaining everything else in just a matter of months.
But even as I had booked my flight to the States, and closed the pub for an undisclosed amount of time, I was scolding myself for thinking this could’ve been anything but a disaster. I was too late, and I was too old. This man had a family. He would never be my father, and I was just an orphan with a dog.
My fingers worked into my hair, then stroked Pad’s wet nose, when I heard the hushed voices break through the bustling airport racket.
“Is that him?”
“How the feck am I supposed to know?”
“Well, Paddy, he has a big feckin’ dog with him, so I think it’s him. Ya see anybody else around here with a giant dog? Because I sure as hell don’t.”
“Great, genius. Then why are ya askin’ me?”
I looked up to see two men walking toward me. Tall. One was blonde, wearing a plaid flannel shirt and jeans. The other had hair too black to be natural, and was decked out in a black leather jacket, black t-shirt and black pants—no guessing what his favorite color was—and then, there was his beard.
It was the same color red as my hair.
My eyes focused on it as they approached, and I stood.
“Are you Malachy Shevlin?” the red-bearded man demanded in an almost threatening tone, coming to stand in front of me.
“Christ, Ryan. Ya don’t have to ask him like you’re about to interrogate him for murder,” the blonde-haired man said with a shake of his head before glancing at me with a pair of greenish-blue eyes.
He startled me, because had he red hair, we could’ve been twins. Judging from the drop of his jaw, I guessed he saw it too.
“Well, feckin’ hell, it’s like lookin’ in the mirror,” he said with a nod and a slow-moving smile. “Ehm … well, shite, I don’t really know how to do this kind of thing.”
I managed a laugh. “I don’t think this is the kinda thing most people have to know how to do.”
“So … you are Malachy?” the man called Ryan asked, raising a brow that had a silver barbell pierced through it.
I nodded. “Aye, and you must be Ryan,” I said, extending a hand to him.
“A quick learner. Seanie’s gonna love you,” he said, as we shook. His other hand clapped the shoulder of the blonde-haired man and he said, “This is Paddy.”
“And you’re the … oldest?” I asked, offering Paddy my hand.
“Yep,” he replied as his smiled widened.
“Ehm, do ya only go by Paddy?”
He shook his head. “That’s a family thing. Everybody else calls me Patrick.”
A family thing. I immediately felt like I was overstepping some invisible boundary for even referring to him with the name, so I laughed to cover up my nagging insecurities. “I’m only askin’ because me dog answers to it and …” I felt so feckin’ stupid, telling this guy that he shared a nickname with my feckin’ dog. That shite just screamed lonely, and it didn’t help when Ryan busted up laughing.
&nb
sp; “I told ya, Paddy. You share a name with his dog.”
“God, Ryan, keep laughin’ it up,” Paddy shook his head, and addressed me. “Don’t mind him. We’re pretty sure he’s insane.”
An awkward air moved between us. The two of them standing ahead, keeping a distance from my dog and me, and my eyes dropped to the footpath. The knowledge that these were my brothers hung around me, but I kept it out of reach, too afraid to grab and hold onto it.
“So, ehm, I guess we’ll get this guy in the truck and head to the house,” Paddy said, breaking the silence, and my gaze shot back to him.
“Oh, ah, I told Collin ya could just take me to a hotel. I can get settled in, and—”
He shook his head, then shocked the living bejesus out of me when he reached out to grip my shoulder. “We’re not gonna bite ya, Mal.”
Mal. Nobody since Mam had called me Mal and the softer side of me wanted to reach out and hug the stranger carrying my DNA.
“Come on,” Ryan said, grabbing the bags from off the dog kennel. “Mam’s making her famous roast and boiled-to-shite potatoes.”
I laughed, painfully aware of the nervous tremor in my throat. “Sounds good to me.”
Paddy leaned closer, squeezed my shoulder tighter and said, “And there’s plenty of booze, if you’re needin’ it.”
I laughed again, allowing myself to relax just a little, as I replied, “Ya feckin’ read me mind.”
CHAPTER THREE |
Mail & Ex-Husbands
EMMA
The house was dark and quiet when I pulled into the driveway. I had been gone a couple of weeks, and the mail was now overflowing from the letter slot in the box. With a sigh heaved from my chest, I pulled my phone from my bag, climbed out of the SUV and rang my ex-husband.
“Emma,” he answered curtly after the first ring. “Welcome home.”
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