by Hadley Finn
I go back to my computer screen and flip back to Google and map the house in Charleston. These images are newer, but nothing to write home about. I move up and down the street. Nothing seems odd. It shouldn’t though. Expensive neighbors have their own kind of protection, the kind that in-house servants and nosy old biddies provide just by their presence. Wonder if anyone saw anything out of the ordinary. If they did, would they be afraid to say anything? That was no accidental fire.
The next night, I’m on the treadmill. Rain and snow have come and gone but the trails are mud and not the packed kind that comprise trail running.
I’m in mile three and struggling. Three full months off and you’d think I was a newbie trying to get his first five.
My phone dings and I wait until mile five to answer it. I basically bribe myself since I’m struggling and I need the motivation. The screen says it’s Bobby so I slow down and slide my phone to open it.
Bobby: Read the whole report. Early morning presumed start time. No gasoline or fuel of any kind. Used fingernail polish remover. That’s their guess. Assuming you didn’t have a stock of that in your bathroom.
I turn off the treadmill and wait for it to stop before responding.
Me: That’s a negative. No polish there either, if you’re wondering.
Bobby: Blaze came hard and fast. Fire department arrived in time to contain from the neighbors’ homes. The brick infrastructure probably helped a bit. Ironic, don’t you think? A firehouse burning?
Me: Hadn’t considered it, but I guess so.
Bobby: Random, though. The fire chief said that after the fire was extinguished and they went back to investigate, there was a pink daisy where your front door would have been. Couldn’t have been there during the fire which means someone went back after. Or they watched? But they think it was after because the flower was wilted, but not charred.
Me: The fuck?
“Sorry for the late call! What the fuck?” I say in lieu of greeting.
“Sorry. What’s up your ass?”
“Fuck, man! Not you.”
“What is it?”
“The pink daisy—there was one on Sirona’s mom when they found her body. It’s a calling card.”
“What the …. Back up. What am I missing?”
“Sirona’s mom. Enzo killed her and left a pink daisy on her body. There was a white one at the threshold of the church after her funeral. I locked up and was the only one there. I assume it was left for me as a warning.”
“Damn. I had no idea.”
“Why would you? Besides, Enzo’s dead. So, what’s with this now?”
I begin pacing, lost in this new discovery.
“Missing? Yes. But dead? Where did you hear that? Reputable source?”
“Let’s just say I’m positive he didn’t leave that flower.”
“Oh-kaaaay,” he drawls. He doesn’t ask, but he knows. I read his message in his silence. He continues, “Who’s number two in his organization?”
“No clue. I can poke around a bit, but the debt Sirona ‘owed’ was to him, not to the mob.”
“Want me to ask some questions?”
I stop dead in my tracks.
“No!” My answer comes out harsh, but I don’t care. “No. Please don’t. I mean that—don’t. If from beyond the grave that man is still torturing me, I don’t need him doing the same to you. I’ll see what I can find out and keep you in the loop.”
I pause, shaking my head even though he can’t see me. “You think there are any cameras around there that would see who placed the daisy?”
“Police chief and the fire chief did so as a standard matter of business. Nothing they saw was out of the ordinary and caught their attention. We’ll settle up the insurance claims ASAP and I’ll keep you posted.”
“Thanks, Bobby, and, man, be smart. Something about this feels very, very wrong. I don’t like it at all.”
“You too, brother.”
We hang up and I get back on the treadmill in the cold garage to hammer out another painful two miles. I don’t feel either of them, although I certainly will tomorrow.
What the fuck is going on?
Thirty-Eight
“Congratulations, you’re a father.”
His words stop me cold. It’s just a weird adage when you haven’t, until recently, had sex and aren’t with a doctor.
“Yeah?”
“Yup! Congratulations, my friend. There are some final loose ends to tie up and it won’t be official for another eight to ten weeks. Clara’s biological father signed away his rights upon her birth and has no reason to contest it now, so the petition for adoption will go forward with no legal objections. That is always the biggest hurdle. I’ll keep you posted but now it’s just a matter of getting it onto a docket.”
I wish I could say I have eloquent words but I don’t. “Okay then,” I swallow past the lump in my throat. “So, what do you need of me?”
“Nothing, man. I’ll take care of it and keep you posted.”
“How’s the family?”
“Good. Trey has decided the terrible twos now last until five. He demonstrated this at Eliza’s first birthday party on Saturday when he shoved her face into the cake.”
I chuckle.
“It’s funny. Now. But Sherrilyn didn’t think so for sure. He spent most of Sunday in some kind of time-out or time-out from time-out. Seriously. Sooner or later, some school will say he’s a deviant and he’ll be their handful too. Geez!”
“So, he’s you, just shorter.”
“Fuck off!”
I laugh out loud at that one. A year ago at this time he’d have never said that.
“Thank you,” I add, my tone serious. “Can’t thank you enough for everything.”
The knot in my throat expands, thwarting my ability to continue. I can’t swallow past it so my silence continues.
“Love you, too, man.”
His laughter is the last thing I hear before he disconnects.
Growing up Irish in Boston of all places, I thought I knew how to celebrate St. Patrick’s Day. Turns out I had no clue.
This is Ireland’s Mardi Gras, Rio’s Carnival, and China’s New Year all wrapped up in one giant party.
Sirona, Killian, and I head for Galway, with Clara, wearing her hot pick sweat suit, in tow for our first ever Galway Paddy’s Day parade. My only stipulation in the whole thing was that Clara not wear green. She will be pissed when we get there and realizes I’ve thwarted her ability to blend in to forty thousand attendees. And that is why I made the stipulation. I’ve used crowds and drinking before to my advantage. With the arson to my U.S. house last month and the corresponding message left with it, I’m taking no chances with my girls. They’ll be mine officially soon. No need not to refer to them that way now.
Killian is along because firstly it is the celebration of all things Irish and the man is nothing if not Irish. Secondly, I’ve mentioned to him that Enzo’s successor is trying to fuck with me—succeeding, actually—from afar and that I want my family’s security and safety while protecting them from fear and worry.
Eventually I’ll have to clue Sirona in on my fear but today is not that day. We’re here to celebrate.
We arrive early, and it’s a good thing. We have to hike a fair way to the parade. Clara rides my shoulders, brown curls bouncing with each step I take. From her vantage point, she can see the crowd milling about and it takes less than a minute for her to complain that she didn’t wear the right outfit.
“I’m sorry, pretty girl. Looks like we all messed this one up.”
“Not all of us,” Killian mumbles.
“Well, you should’ve told us,” I reply teasingly.
His responding scowl says we look like American tourists who don’t understand a thing about Irish culture. It also says we didn’t listen when he did tell us.
My navy sweatshirt has the Fighting Irish Leprechaun on it. Sirona has on her blood red pea coat because of the potential weather, which she is s
till fighting to acclimate to. Only Killian fits in with his green pants and green jacket and green and tan driving hat.
“Hope you get pinched,” he mutters before leading the way through the throng to a pub.
“Ah, Killian, who’d’ya bring with ya, today?”
The waitress never gets her answer because Killian is arguing with Clara about who gets to pinch and who gets to pinch back. Turns out “Leprechauns can’t see people in green and so they aren’t visible to be pinched. Little girls in pink however…”
After taking our drink orders, the waitress leaves for the bar.
“Poppa Sean, I need something green!!”
“Why’s that, sweetheart?”
“I don’t want to get pinched,” she all but screams.
“Well, I guess you need a big green hat or something, then, don’t you?”
She nods vigorously, content with my solution. As am I. She’s still neck to ankles in pink and easily on my radar.
Our waitress, Peggy, drops off our drinks, takes our orders and only leaves after giving Clara a four-leaf clover sticker “for good luck.” Clara is over the moon about it and me? I’ll take all we can get.
We chat about the day and the history of Patrick and what he means for Ireland. Killian teaches Clara Gaelic until our food comes. I better learn this too since she’s a sponge and will pick it up in a heartbeat. I’ll need to be able to keep up.
Peggy comes back with a corned beef sandwich for Killian, coddle for me, and fish and chips for Clara. Sirona goes with the Forfar bridie and her moan when she breaks open the puff pastry has me jealous and makes me stiffen in my jeans.
“Good?” I ask, trying to keep my voice even. Her eyes say that is a stupid question, but she reaches out a spoonful to me, and I quickly know why she is enjoying this so much.
“Damn! Think you can make that at home?”
“I’m working on figuring out the herbs, but I think the wine is the key. It’s doable.”
“Yeah, it is.” My double entendre is evident to her, but Clara misses it and just asks to taste my soup. I share some with her and she returns the gesture with a fry.
Killian’s quiet smile and happy demeanor say what his words never do—he’s happy and content.
We’ve given him family as he’s given us a home.
After paying our bill and saying goodbye to Peggy, we make our way out into the sunny Galway day to celebrate Ireland and its beauty. More Slaintes make it to my ears than I’ve ever heard in my life. Ireland has become a safe landing spot for us.
Irish life fits me. It fits us. It has taken Sirona longer to adjust than Clara or me. Clara still misses her friends and her teacher but was never so immersed that it was culture shock to her. Her Irish accent is getting better—she works on it daily—and Hagrid has been wonderful for her. She didn’t enroll in school since that comes later here, and Sirona finally gets to be a nonworking mom for the first time ever. We both agree that working would be easier than Clara or multiple Claras a day, but she’s getting back valuable time and I’m thrilled for them both.
I’ve always known moving was my out and that I was only in New Orleans for a time to handle business. The escape was as important as the mission.
Sirona, though, left home and changed everything: clothes, weather, people, food, music, climate, language…everything. She has smiled and made the best of it, choosing to look at it as an adventure instead of a punishment, but I’d bet she’d love to walk down the street, have a great po’ boy, and enjoy a daiquiri along the way.
Today affords her that. New Orleans has a great Irish tradition and St. Patrick’s Day is second only to Mardi Gras in the Big Easy. So this is a little taste of home, even if it requires a coat and listening closely to get past drunk Irish brogues.
We watch the parades. New Orleans knows parades. But Galway has this thing down and the bands and dancers are spot on.
We enjoy the festivities. We buy Clara her green hat. We drink the beer and, much later, eat street food as we wander. After the sun has set and the real party begins, Clara’s dead weight on my shoulder tells me she’s sound asleep, Sirona and I make our way to the car, leaving Killian to enjoy the baser things.
As we’re turning off the main drag onto our long driveway that takes us to the house, my phone vibrates and dings in my pocket. When it begins ringing, I silence it, but it immediately rings yet again.
“Sorry. Let me check this,” I say to Sirona and reach for my phone.
Sliding it open and putting it to my ear I offer a greeting.
“Sean? It’s Kay Scott with Merrick, O’Shea, and Croydon.”
“Okay,” I say warily. No one has ever contacted me from Bobby’s office. Not even with trivial matters. Bobby has always handled things directly.
“Mr. O’Shea—” her voice breaks. She pauses and tries again, “Mr. O’Shea committed…. He took his own life today. He left a note—”
I throw the car in park, the world around me going gray.
“What? No! Bobby wouldn’t do that.”
“He did, sir, and his note had a message he wanted relayed to you.”
“I’m sorry. Back up. Your name again, please?”
“Kay”
“And what do you do there, Kay?”
“I’m Mr. O’Shea’s paralegal.”
“And you’re familiar with my business with Bobby?”
“I am.”
“And do you think he was capable—” I look in the mirror to verify that Clara is still asleep. “Of killing himself?”
Sirona gasps near me and flings her hand to her throat.
“I…. Well, sir… he did.”
“Wasn’t what I asked, Kay.” My words come out brusque.
“I, um, well, I would say no.”
“Anything out of the ordinary? Like the note was typed? Anything?”
“Just the handwritten note and the fact that his desk was clean. But that’s in fitting with suicide… Getting your affairs in order and all, but it was a mess this morning, like it normally is. I really wouldn’t think he could or would do this. It seems so unlike him, but… Well, he did it.”
“Kay? Anything else? Anything? God! I need to make sense of this. He’s my best friend.”
“No. Although….” She trails off and I let her because I’m nowhere near accepting this information.
“Although, what? Anything, give me anything, no matter how weird.”
“He had a lunch meeting with a new client. They met out at the client’s insistence. He came back after and that’s when he….”
“Oh, God! He was at the office?”
“Yeah.”
“What did the note say?”
“It says,” she pauses, her swallow audible in my ears. “It says, He’s coming for you.”
My vision goes red. My blood runs like ice in my veins.
I try to swallow but my tongue is so thick I can’t get past it.
“Are you still there?” Kay asks, her voice tremulous.
“Yes.”
“There was one other thing. Mr. O’Shea wasn’t a flowers kind of guy. And there were flowers on his desk, well, one flower—a pink daisy—on his desk when—”
If more is said, I never hear it.
I recheck the rearview and turn to Sirona, using my eyes to tell her to come take the driver’s seat, and I exit the car. I squeeze my phone, wishing it would shatter.
Sirona takes the driver’s seat and I nod and flick my hand up the lane. If I speak, I will scream. She rolls down the window, opens her mouth, closes it upon seeing my face, and slowly meanders up the driveway.
When she’s far enough away, I drop to my knees and scream as loud as I have breath to release. My wailing must be heard in the car, because I see brake lights and then the car slowly reverse back to where I am on my hands and knees, tears falling from my face, body wracking with sobs and silent screams. Two gentle hands rub my back and two knees drop beside me, attempting to lift me.
I shake my head back and forth and all I can say through my tears is, “No. No. No. Not him. Not Bobby. No. No. No.”
Sirona knows it’s not about her or my inability or unwillingness to move so much as it’s about my grief. She gently tries to lift me, and when I’m standing, she envelops me in a hug. When my wracking stops, she leads me to the passenger’s seat and drives me home.
She leaves me for a minute to grab Clara and put her to bed. I’m alone with my thoughts for easily ten minutes. When Sirona returns, she silently grabs my hand and leads me through the darkened house to the master suite and into the bathroom, where the shower is already going, steam billowing.
She undresses me and then herself and drags me into the shower. She turns my back away from the spray and slides in behind me, hugging me, face pressed to my back, taking the brunt of the fiery water. The silent tears run down my face. My body shakes and heaves. The vomit comes and I allow it. And she holds me.
Until the water runs cold, she’s there.
This is the moment when my resolve solidifies like concrete in my veins.
That fucker burned down my house. Worse still, he killed my ma, Sirona’s dad and mom, and now Bobby.
Fuck, not Bobby!
How, from beyond the damned grave, is he still fucking up my life? How?
In the middle of the night, Sirona slides on top of me, positions my cock at her entrance and slowly, silently, takes me. She allows my silence, but maintains eye contact with me all the while. When my thrusts buck her, she rides me deep until we both come. She slides off and positions herself behind me, taking my back, literally and figuratively, allowing me to sleep after an overwhelming day.
Thirty-Nine
I make the slow trek up to Killian’s the next morning. He’ll know something is wrong immediately. He’d know the same if I failed to show.
The weekend’s snow is melting but it’s at that in-between stage where it’s mostly water with ice around the edges. If the sun would come out, we’d have mud. As it is, with the sun hidden by gray clouds, it’s just a mushy, icy sludge.