Mrs. Scrooge

by Barbara Bretton

  "You're a nice guy, O'Rourke. Why don't you just admit it?"

  "Nice guys don't make good foreign correspondents."

  She thought about a third slice of pizza, hesitated, then reached for it, anyway. "I thought you were a city beat reporter."

  "That was my last gig. Before that I spent ten years in Europe."

  No wonder his trench coat had looked so battered; it had served as the official costume of the peripatetic correspondent. Why that should make her feel sad was beyond Sam. "Footloose and fancy-free, I suppose."

  "Footloose and fancy-free except for a three-year marriage."

  "Kids?"

  "Nope."

  "Your wife didn't like to travel?"

  "My wife loved to travel," O'Rourke said, "but she didn't like traveling with me."

  Sam took a bite of pizza, cheese stretching out like a white rubber band, and studied him intently as she chewed. "Are you over her?"

  "Completely." His look matched hers in intensity. "How about you—divorced?"

  "Never married."

  "Does he see Patty?"

  "About as often as Mr. Spock has sex—every seven years or so."

  Murphy's use of language was salty and right on target.

  "I've called him that a time or two myself," said Sam.

  "He's missing out on a great kid."

  "Serves him right," said Sam, her tone angry. "Unfortunately Patty's missing out on having a father."

  "Does she miss him?"

  "It's not Ronald Donovan she misses. It's having a real, live, seven-days-a-week father."

  He leaned forward, eyes focused squarely on her. It wasn't hard to see how effective a reporter he must have been; there was something vaguely intimidating in his body language and intensity that could force state secrets out of shadowy hiding places. "How do you feel about that?"

  She shrugged, wishing they'd stayed back in the crowded, noisy bar where a conversation like this could never have gotten off the ground. "Patty's a born romantic, Murphy. She believes in love at first sight and happily ever after."

  His intensity softened, and she thought she saw something akin to understanding in his eyes. "Nothing so terrible about that, is there, Sam?"

  "Only if you're ten years old and you really think it can happen."

  "It happens sometimes."

  "Maybe," said Sam, "but not to anyone I know."

  He started to say something then stopped on the first syllable.

  "Go ahead," said Sam. "Tell me I'm a cynic. You won't be the first."

  "That's not what I was going to say."

  "Don't tell me you agree with Patty."

  "I'm too cynical, myself, for that." He looked over at Sam and an uneasy feeling built inside her stomach. "I almost wonder if Patty—" He stopped, shaking his head. "No. That's too ridiculous."

  "What is?" How she managed to sound cool and collected was beyond Sam.

  "Do you think she was trying to set us up?"

  Sam started to choke on her pizza and she had to grab quickly for her beer before O'Rourke vaulted the table and began administering the Heimlich maneuver.

  "Stupid idea, right?" asked O'Rourke once she caught her breath.

  "Stupid idea," she managed. You're too good at this, O'Rourke. You should be back pounding the political beat. Her little red-haired daughter was a born matchmaker. No one from the butcher at Shop-Rite to her pediatrician had escaped Patty's scrutiny. Sam liked to tease her, saying she had a Noah's Ark mentality but Patty truly believed in a couples-only world and had made it her business to see that Sam found her better half.

  That Murphy could figure that out after only one meeting was frightening.

  "So you're not looking for a husband?"

  Sam shook her head. "I've been waiting so long to open my store that nothing short of an earthquake could tear me away from it."

  "I still don't know exactly what kind of store you're opening. Is it a deli?"

  Now this was territory she was familiar with. "Delis are for Rocky Hill, O'Rourke. I'm talking pure Princeton cuisine.'

  "I thought you were a takeout service?'

  Sam lifted her chin in a parody of the proper Princeton matron. "Upscale takeout service, thank you very much. Not a pastrami on rye to be found."

  He made a face. "Not another pasta salad place."

  "Great pasta salads never go out of style, O'Rourke. I thought you ersatz New Yorkers know all about being trendy."

  "All I know is that spaghetti belongs on a plate with meatballs. Case closed."

  Sam couldn't help laughing out loud. "You sound like my father. He thinks the only good chicken dinner comes straight from the Colonel's bucket."

  O'Rourke grinned but maintained his position. "I think I'd like your father." He placed another slice of pizza on her plate then helped himself as well. "So how did you end up in the world of sushi and potato skins?"

  "I'm a domestic creature. I grew up mixing brownies and making meat loaf suppers. It's the only marketable skill I have. Unfortunately you can't make a living slinging corned beef hash and chicken fricassee around here."

  "So you're going where the market is."

  "Exactly." She told him the location of her store and watched with satisfaction as his eyes widened with respect.

  "I'm impressed," he said.

  "So am I," said Sam. "I never thought I'd find a place so close to the railroad station."

  "Hungry executives will fall out of the train and into your shop."

  "That's the general idea."

  His expression was comically sorrowful. "Now if you were cooking real food, I'd say you had a winner there."

  Sam, whose own tastes ran more toward meat loaf than blackened red fish, shook her head. "Sorry, O'Rourke. Marketing 101: supply exactly what they demand."

  "I think you're going to make a fortune."

  "I hope so. Patty deserves the best I can possibly provide."

  He nodded as if he really understood. "I'm angling for another overseas spot. The minute my father's back behind the bar, I'm out of here."

  "It looks like we both have our heads on straight, doesn't it?" asked Sam.

  "We know what we want and how to go about getting it. Can't ask for more out of life than that."

  "No," said Sam after a moment, thinking about the delights to be found in a warm restaurant on a cold winter's night with a man who could actually become a friend. "I don't suppose you can."

  The wind was fierce, and they walked quickly, with their heads down. They didn't talk, but then, they didn't need to. She felt as comfortable with Murphy as if she had known him forever.

  Pizza seemed to have worked wonders with the crowd at the bar. Sam had expected a barrage of questions—especially from Caroline—but their return to O'Rourke's was greeted with nothing more than a chorus of praise for the pizzas.

  She sat down at the bar and watched as Murphy got to work. O'Rourke's Bar and Grill did a brisk, steady business. Customers arrived and departed with the predictability of a train schedule and there was no one who didn't have a good word for Murphy. He really had grown up in the tavern, Sam thought as she watched an elderly woman with sleek silver hair and a quick laugh chuck Murphy under his chin.

  Many of these customers had known Murphy since he was a little boy, and Sam found their affection for the former foreign correspondent endearing. Not that the elder O'Rourke was forgotten. You only had to listen to some of the stories told by the tavern regulars to understand just how much he was missed. Bill O'Rourke had opened the doors in the late forties and those doors had remained open ever since. There seemed to be some talk among the regulars about Bill being afraid of getting back to the daily grind after his heart attack, but Murphy never entered into these conversations. He just smiled and poured another draft and said, "Isn't it great about those Giants?"

  Sam wasn't inclined toward on-the-spot analysis. As a rule, she was too busy to spend much time digging into psyches—her own or anybody else's. But th
ere was something about Murphy O'Rourke that made her wish she'd be around long enough to figure out what made him tick. She'd never known an honest-to-goodness man of the world before. Why, he'd been to places she'd never dreamed of going. Bangkok. Peru. The deserts of Saudi Arabia. Sam had been content to remain in the town where she was born, in the neighborhood where she'd grown up, surrounded by people who knew her as well as she knew her own daughter.

  It wasn't hard to imagine O'Rourke tossing down his bar apron and grabbing his trench coat the moment his dad stepped back into the picture.

  No, she thought, watching as he fixed an Irish coffee for Scotty, no matter how hard Patty wished for it, she'd picked the wrong man this time around. Murphy O'Rourke wasn't going to be around for the long haul. He probably had his suitcases packed and at the ready so he could be on the next plane out the minute his father was ready to take over the bar again.

  The rest of the evening sped by in a blur of laughter and song. Caroline took over the upright piano in the back of the bar room and before too long the old timers were raising their voices to tunes Sam remembered from vintage World War II movies: She closed her eyes and imagined she was at a USO dance, jitterbugging with a fresh-faced sailor who was on his way to battle. . . .

  "You're not singing."

  She opened her eyes in time to see Murphy slide a mug of hot coffee across the bar to her.

  "Thank your lucky stars," she said, holding back a yawn. "I could clear your bar in a matter of seconds."

  "Maybe you should give me a few choruses of something loud and off-key. It's almost midnight."

  "Midnight!" Sam leaped to her feet. "I have to go!"

  "What happens now? Do you turn into a pumpkin?"

  "No, but Caroline's Jag might."

  "Can you fit those trays into a sports car?"

  "Caroline said we'll tie them to the bumper if we have to." She extended her hand. "I've had a terrific evening."

  "Me too."

  Her hand disappeared into his and for a second the rest of the world fell away.

  She hoped he took his time finding himself a cook.

  * * *

  THE BAR CLEARED OUT soon after Sam and her friend left. All except for Scotty.

  "Need a ride?" Murphy asked, wiping down the bar and dumping ice down the sink. 'I'll run you home if you want."

  "I have my car," said Scotty.

  Murphy eyeballed the coffeepot. "I think there's enough for another cup."

  "Caffeine after midnight is my arch enemy, Murphy."

  Murphy poured himself a cup and leaned against the bar. "Okay, friend, out with it. What's on your mind?"

  "Has it occurred to you that the Masquerade Ball is this Saturday?"

  "Big deal." The last thing on Murphy's mind was getting all decked out in a tux and plastering a velvet mask on his kisser.

  "Caroline plans to attend."

  "I hope she has a great time." He took a sip of coffee and battled down the urge to pour sugar into the deadly brew. He wondered if Sam was going to the ball and had the feeling Scotty knew the answer, but he refused to give the professor the satisfaction. "Did she promise you a dance?"

  Scotty sat up straighter, his tweeds fairly bristling with self-satisfaction. "The last waltz."

  Murphy gave the man a friendly punch in the shoulder. "You old dog. Nice going. Next thing I know you'll be asking her to go as your date."

  "That thought had occurred to me," Scotty said, "but unfortunately she is already spoken for." Scotty was receiving a special Princeton citizenship award and Murphy knew the dapper professor would have loved to show up with a beautiful blonde on his well-tailored arm.

  "Too bad," said Murphy.

  "Quite," said Scotty.

  "You could take Angela."

  Scotty flashed him a lethal look. Waitress Angela Fennelli and Edmund "Scotty" MacTavish were the proverbial oil and water. "To be truthful, I already have another prospect in mind."

  Murphy threw his head back and laughed out loud. "You've been holding out on me." He straddled a chair across from Scotty. "Who's the lucky woman?"

  "You are, Murphy my boy. You're going to be my date."

  * * *

  CAROLINE WAS STRANGELY QUIET on the way home and Sam would have been suspicious if it wasn't for the fact her friend had already said yes, she'd be happy to stop at the all-night Shoprite so Sam could pick up a few extra fixings for tomorrow's sandwich trays and no, it wasn't a bother.

  Caroline pulled her sports car right up to the front and waited while Sam ran in and grabbed a few cans and jars of goodies she knew Scotty and Joe and the others would enjoy. Hadn't Murphy said he was crazy about olives? She grabbed a can on her way to the checkout and chalked it up to customer relations.

  "Thanks," said Sam as she folded herself back into the low-slung car. "I hope I didn't take too long."

  "Not at all," said Caroline as she drove out of the parking lot. In profile she appeared to be smiling. "I hope you got everything you need."

  Sam swiveled around in her seat and took a close look at her best friend. Bad enough she'd be going home to an irate father. The last thing she needed was a mysterious friend. "Okay, out with it."

  Caroline batted her eyelashes the way she had at Scotty. "Whatever are you talking about?"

  "Murphy."

  "A lovely man," said Caroline, her tone bland. "He makes wonderful coffee."

  "That's not what I mean."

  Caroline glanced quickly in the rearview mirror. "Then perhaps you should be more explicit."

  "The matchmaking," said Sam. "When is it going to start?"

  "I'm not going to matchmake."

  Puzzled, Sam leaned back in her seat. "Don't tell me you didn't like Murphy." Caroline and Patty were two-of-a-kind when it came to finding possible husbands for Sam.

  "He was quite pleasant."

  "But—?"

  Caroline shrugged her elegant shoulders. "But I can see he plainly isn't your type?'

  "Why don't you think he's my type?"

  "I would think that's obvious."

  "Because he's a bartender?" Although Caroline was a product of Rocky Hill same as Sam, she tended to be class conscious.

  "I thought he was a foreign correspondent."

  "Yes."

  "And a reporter for the Telegram?"

  "Yes, he was that, too," said Sam, "but he's between jobs."

  "So he's unemployed."

  "He's not unemployed." Shut up, Sam! You sound like you're defending the man. "He's helping out with the family business."

  "He's not for you."

  "You're talking to the daughter of a plumber, Caroline. There's nothing wrong with running a bar."

  "And you're talking to the daughter of a mechanic. You're not telling me anything I don't know."

  "So what's the problem? Why aren't you pushing Murphy and me together?"

  "Chemistry." Caroline cast her a quick glance but Sam couldn't read her expression in the dark car. "There isn't any."

  "I resent that."

  "Sorry, but it's true. He's just not interested in you."

  Sam's jaw settled into that old stubborn line. "You mean, I'm not interested in him."

  "You heard exactly what I said, Sam. He's not interested in you sexually."

  "And how would you know?" Sam retorted. "You were too busy wooing the Over-the-Hill Gang to notice anything."

  "I noticed," said Caroline in that maddeningly calm fashion. "He didn't."

  Maybe Caroline was right. Sam had spent four hours in O'Rourke's company and he hadn't flirted, teased, flattered, conned, or tried to seduce her in any way, shape, or form. They'd talked and laughed and traded war stories but the one thing they hadn't done was look at each other the way men and women often did.

  "You're right," she said at last, sinking lower in her seat. "One hundred percent right."

  To Murphy O'Rourke she was nothing more than Sam the Sandwich Maker. How depressing.

  * * *

 
SAM STOOD IN THE DOORWAY fifteen minutes later and waited while her father climbed up into his truck, started the engine, then disappeared down the quiet, tree-lined street. There had been some difficult times along the way, but Sam doubted she'd be where she was today if it hadn't been for the unswerving love and support of her parents. It was thanks to them she had the house she lived in. If she could provide one-half of that solid foundation for Patty, she'd count her lucky stars.

  Yawning, she stepped back inside and locked the door behind her. Of course, it would be wonderful if she'd been able to provide a father for her brilliant little girl, as well, but some things not even an eternal optimist like Sam could manage. She believed fervently in the importance of a stable home and strong family and knew that it was within her power to provide that for Patty. With her parents' help and Caroline's unstinting support, Sam had managed to keep a half step ahead of her daughter's growing needs.

  At least, so far she had.

  She tiptoed through the narrow hallway and inched open Patty's bedroom door. The little girl was asleep, her red hair unbraided and pulled into a ponytail atop her head. Her glasses rested on the nightstand next to a pitcher of water, a humidifier and a Mickey Mouse alarm clock that had been a present for her fourth birthday. Sam knelt down alongside the bed and pressed her lips carefully against her daughter's cheek and brow. Cool and dry, thank God. Her nostrils twitched at the smell of Vick's Vapo-Rub and she remembered many winter nights when she was the little girl in the bed with her own mother slipping into her room to check her progress.

  Oh, she could give Patty love and tender care. She could give Patty support and encouragement and an extended family to lean on when the going got tough. Sam could give her child all those wonderful things that matter so much in the scheme of things. But Patty wasn't your average child. Princeton offered limitless opportunities for Patty to excel but the door to those opportunities was closed as tightly for Patty as they had been to Sam years ago. Money would open those doors and Sam aimed to earn enough to do so.

  She placed a kiss on Patty's cool forehead then slipped from the room. For a moment she was sorely tempted to go back into the kitchen and dive into preparing some of the delicacies she had in store for the men of O'Rourke's Bar and Grill. She'd been running on adrenaline all evening and could more than likely put in a few good hours at the stove but the lure of a warm bath on a cold winter's night was too seductive to resist.