Copyright © 2013 by Ruth Logan Herne
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions
By payment of required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this book. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented without the express written permission of copyright owner.
Please Note
The reverse engineering, uploading, and/or distributing of this book via the internet or via any other means without the permission of the copyright owner is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author's rights is appreciated
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the publisher, except where permitted by law.
Thank you.
Cover design by The Killion Group
Interior format by The Killion Group
http://thekilliongroupinc.com
DEDICATION
To my beautiful daughter Sarah Blodgett Bermeo, who introduced me to Princeton, to St. Paul’s Church and the delightful Msgr. Walter Nolan, pastor emeritus of St. Paul’s Church. God blessed us with you as a precious baby… how wonderful to see the woman you’ve become!
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Big thanks to Zach Blodgett for his always helpful insight on how to keep Conor’s character real because this farm girl’s experience with big city lawyers is somewhat lacking. Zach, thanks for the help and the encouragement! To Luke Blodgett whose advice about how companies work financially from within gave me solid ground. To Sarah Blodgett Bermeo for sharing her life in Princeton as she completed multiple degrees. How fun it was to walk the streets, eat ice cream at Thomas Sweets and meet the folks of St. Paul’s Parish. And we only got pulled over by the local police once while driving our somewhat tired and worn red farm truck, so that’s not a bad average, LOL!
To Msgr. Walter Nolan, formerly of St. Paul’s parish in Princeton whose warmth, humor and great smile inspired the “Fr. Murphy” character in this book. Msgr. Nolan’s common sense directives behind a warm grin brought my “Fr. Murphy” to life. God bless you Monsignor, for your life of dedication and holiness. You are a very special person.
To the NYPD who aren’t afraid to specialize in things like “Bridge negotiators”, special police skilled at saving lives of mentally fragile people. To Mandy, Paul, Beth and Jon for always stepping in to give me time to work, or time to run and play! And to all my children whose college experiences and careers have given me reason to visit East Coast cities and fall in love with America all over again.
Also thanks to Transiberian Orchestra’s “The Lost Christmas Eve” which made me see this rich man for the lost soul he was, and to Emerson Drive for their music video “I’ve Had My Moments”. I love when inspiration hits from multiple sources to become a final product. Your great music helped to inspire my story.
Prologue
Wells, Terwilliger, Whickman and Bradstreet, LLP
One Financial Trade Center Plaza
New York, New York 10005
New York Los Angeles London Tokyo Beijing
From the desk of Conor Bradstreet:
Note to self: Christmas list:
Send: Godiva chocolates and gift certificate to
Mom:
Broadway tickets and checks to Addie and Kim:
Flowers to female office staff: LeAnne, Dorothy, and Kate:
Saks gift card to Brennan and Sheldon:
Suits to cleaners before they close:
Call: Mom, wish her a Merry Christmas:
Daughters, ditto: (Addie didn’t pick up, left msg. w/Kim)
Deposit sufficient funds in Alicia’s account:
Make stupid administrative assistant cry twice:
Kick someone’s dog: Unfortunately unavailable
Brighten everyone’s day, take the bridge:
Conor Bradstreet’s Kenneth Cole shoes matched the silent night as he trudged the bridge’s raised deck. The late hour coupled with the holiday to keep traffic sparse. City sounds and odors receded with less volume, allowing the smell of river water to mingle with cold December rain.
A real George Bailey moment, thought Conor as he pushed one foot after the other. Christmas Eve alone, no one to talk to. Share a meal with. Another Christmas missed and unmissed.
Most days he loved New York, the frantic pace, the pyramidal moneymaking schemes enacted behind closed doors or in full view on public streets. In the daily to and fro, the hustle and the bustle that was New York, he could pretend to be painfully busy and vital.
But not tonight, not this night. Never this night.
From the looks of Manhattan, the public had gone to bed. More power to them. Someone should be able to sleep. To dream. Especially on Christmas Eve.
He’d shrugged into his hat and scarf before he left his upscale downtown apartment to take a final dip. Now why did he do that? For comfort’s sake, when he was planning to join Moby Dick beneath the waves? Sleep with the fishes? He needed a hat and scarf to protect him from whatever the swirling waters could give? Yeah. Lots of luck on that one, Einstein.
Or had he turned into such a city boy that he couldn’t manage the bridge walk without proper headwear and foot gear? More likely. What a wuss.
He remembered a different boy in Pennsylvania, long ago, when life was sure. Happy. Running with his pals, chasing dogs, impervious to the bitter winds of winter.
Now the cold pierced to the core of his being. He hated the chill, the damp, the cold, the snow, the caustic loneliness of this night above all others.
Most of all, he hated himself.
The waters of the East River swirled and swished, tempting, courting, their whisper a Siren song to the sad and oppressed. Woosh... Woosh... Woosh...
Not unlike Frank Capra’s famous fictional character, Conor figured a whole bunch of lives could be happier if he reduced himself to a generous life insurance settlement on top of his expansive portfolio. Kind of like an eighth grade mathematical equation, simple in its factuality. He was the money, the money was him. Very Zen.
He leaned beyond the rail, knowing he’d have to scale the cables to reach the granite and limestone tower. Jumping from the base ensured nothing but wet clothes. The towers? No one survived them, and he was a ‘go big or stay home’ kind of guy.
Eyeing the cable climb, he realized he should have worn his shorter coat. The placketed front of the Armani trench didn’t allow full movement, and at forty, even in good shape, climbing the slippery cables wasn’t the easiest option on a cold, damp night hampered by a long coat. Should he ditch the coat altogether, or enjoy his last minutes in well-fitted designer outerwear?
He’d be cold either way, then wet, then dead, so did it matter? He lifted one leg and shifted his gaze upward as he reached. Spotlights sparked a Grinch-green effect and the sting of the ice-cold steel cables made him suck a breath.
Conor loved the Grinch. He understood the Seuss icon. They were copasetic, peas in a pod. He couldn’t approach December without dreading vapid lights, inane carols, false cheer and the crass commercialism which helped make him a rich man, but to what end?
He refused to think about Alicia with her dark auburn hair and gray/blue eyes, the dash of copper freckles sprinkled like cayenne pep
per across the bridge of her nose, living with their two girls in New Jersey. The home they’d shared until...
The water called again, a moaning whisper, a temptress’ hum, reaching for him. To him. Conor... Conor... Conor...
Homer understood the lure of the sea, as did Poe and his Annabel Lee. Definitive reasoning overpowered poetic license in feminizing the sea, Conor felt certain of it, mostly because he’d dealt with women. Some were deep, some were shallow, most were totally unpredictable, not unlike the gathered waters of the earth. The rolling motion beneath the bridge beckoned him, a strumpet calling, the thrust and push of the waves pulling at his very being. Conor...
His second foot began to follow the first, his hands stretching upward, grip tight. Conor...
“Got a light, Mister?”
“What?” Swinging around, Conor stepped back and jerked his hands into self-protective fists. His heart raced at the interruption, unexpected and unwelcome. A short, stocky man faced him, aged and battle-weary, shaggy gray-flecked dark hair framing a damp face beneath a worn, brimmed hat. “Get out of here, buddy, if you know what’s good for you.”
The old man regarded him through tired eyes. “Just need a match. Got a few cigarettes left to see in the holiday, but no match. You got one maybe?”
Of all the...
He’d had one foot up, arms reaching, ready to follow through, and out jumps a derelict on a mission for a smoke. Conor felt his coat pockets, then shrugged, a brow up. “None. Who are you?” A sudden thought occurred to him, considering the circumstances of the night. “No chance your name is Clarence, is it?”
The bum’s faint smile said he got the correlation to George Bailey’s second class angel, the first person to get Conor’s jokes in a very long time.
“Name’s Sarge.” A jerk of his head indicated their surroundings. “This is my bridge.”
“Really?” Conor regarded him, mentally scanning bits and pieces he’d read about the Big Apple’s homeless. Not like their plight was one of his pet issues. Please. The idea was repugnant. Didn’t he already offer a generous annual donation to his daughters’ church and one, equally as liberal, to the Cancer Research Institute, hoping for a someday cure?
The homeless? One of many necessary evils tied to a big city. Just his luck, it stood representative before him, big as life and not as reclusive as he might have wished. “The mayor might take issue with that.”
Sarge snorted, then swept the back of his hand across his face. “It was mine when the mayor was chasin’ skirts on Long Island, it’ll still be mine when he’s hangin’ out in Washington making rich men quake on Capitol Hill.” The wreck of a man waved his thinning pack of smokes aloft. “I’m a New Yorker.”
Conor’s lip tugged up. Obviously the old-timer kept up on city affairs. At least those involving their mayor. Conor glanced around before studying the scruffed-up figure standing solid before him. “You live nearby?”
The old man narrowed his eyes. He nodded to the city behind Conor, his look wizened, his voice waxing sarcastic. “Third box on the right with the white colonial mailbox, just past the broken street light after the second Baby Gap.”
His wit tweaked Conor’s humor, rusty from disuse. Maybe corroded was a better word. “Funny.”
“Not so much when it’s true, Sonny-boy.”
In a burst of realization, Conor unbelted his coat to probe an inner pocket.
The old man took a step back. “You fishin’ for a gun?”
“No.” Conor pulled out a box of matches and an expensive Cuban that one of the other partners had doled out to celebrate the birth of a grandson a few weeks previous. He handed both to his newfound friend. “Merry Christmas.”
The words felt alien. When was the last time he’d wished anyone a Merry Christmas, other than his daughters? And his mom? No clue. Who cares?
“...the Grinch hated Christmas, the whole Christmas season, Now please don’t ask why, no one quite knows the reason...”
Seuss’s sing-song phrase squeezed Conor’s heart tighter. Smaller.
The bum groped the matches greedily, his wet hands fumbling to strike the stick in the stiff wind. No luck.
“Here.” Conor reached out and cupped his hands. “Let me help.”
Once again the old man’s eyes flicked to Conor’s, the brief look sharp and shrewd, then he took a deep breath on his end. The match flickered, fainted, then brightened as the cigarette took hold in trembling hands. After a second puff, the old man eyed the expensive cigar Conor had offered, smiled and nodded. “Now that’s a holiday right there.”
Conor snorted. “A cigar?”
“Not just a cigar, my friend. A Trinidad Coloniale.” The old guy waved the thing like a banner. “A gentleman’s smoke, subtle and easy-going. Precious, Sonny-boy.”
“You know Cubans?” Dubious, Conor eyed the stogie he’d handed to a derelict that most likely bore his full wardrobe on his person, layer by crusty layer.
“I know a good smoke,” retorted Sarge. He tucked the cigar deep into the folds of clothing, his expression careful. He raised his eyes back to Conor. “The Missus don’t let you smoke ‘em in the house?”
The Missus. Conor’s heart clenched and unclenched in spastic rhythm, remembering. He shook his head. “No wife.”
“Kids?”
Conor nodded. “Two.” Another stab of pain hit, somewhere in his mid-section. He swallowed hard, fighting it off. “Girls. Teenagers now.”
“Got pictures?”
Conor straightened and stared at him. “It’s the dead of night, Christmas Eve, we’re standing on the bridge in the wind and rain, and you’re wondering if I’ve got pictures of my girls?”
The lit end of the cigarette glowed bright as the old fellow drew a breath, then smiled, puffing smoke, as if the lit cigarette was the best gift known to man. “Good a time as any to get acquainted.” He waved a hand toward the Manhattan side. “If we stand beneath the approach, we won’t get so wet.”
So wet? Conor contemplated how wet he planned to be and appreciated the irony. Obviously, dampness was subjective. “Sure, come on.” Maybe if he led the old man to a safer place, he could get on with his mission. What was this, anyway? A guy couldn’t even die in relative peace and obscurity on a rain-soaked Christmas Eve in the Big Apple. Was nothing sacred?
Impatient, Conor worked to match the old guy’s shuffling gait. The least he could do was get the geezer to a warmer setting. Eyeing the other man’s piled-on clothing, he guessed that washing facilities were scarce commodities among the box people.
“Over here.” Following a lengthy walk, Sarge angled his head and led Conor beneath the bridge’s Manhattan approach. “Not much, but it’s dry.”
“Kind of.” Conor watched water sluice down a metal overhang, puddling at the far end.
“So we won’t stand there.” Sarge rolled his eyes. “The rest is dry enough, and that’s all we need, hey, Sonny?”
His dad had called him Sonny-boy some thirty years past. His tone would be teasing. Fun. “Hey, Sonny-boy, you call that a catch? Let your old man show you how it’s done, Bradstreet-style.”
Hank Bradstreet didn’t have a mean bone in his body, which made Conor wonder where his came from. Or maybe he was just looking for someone to blame instead of himself. Unfortunately the candidates were few and far between.
“You smoke?” Sarge was attempting to light up again, his fingers clutching the match, box and a new cigarette. He turned to block the wind, then sucked deep.
“No.”
“Drink?”
“On occasion.”
The old man scrutinized him, the cigarette glow an orange-gold smudge against his salt and pepper beard. “Meth? Coke?”
“No, thanks, I’m a Pepsi man.”
Faded gray eyes held a spark of twinkle. “A funny guy.”
Conor leaned back against the bricked support. “Why all the questions, old man?”
“Not so many.” He puffed again, his cheeks hollowing to drag
in the smoke, as if he’d been waiting a long, long time. “Old habits die hard, I guess.”
“Oh, yeah?” Conor shifted his weight and took the bait, fully aware. “What habits are those?”
“Cop.”
“Ah.” Conor knit his brow and scanned the old timer’s appearance with a skeptic’s look. “Not recently, I take it.”
“No.”
“So.” Conor leveled his boardroom gaze at the old man, assessing the clothes, the dirt, the overall condition. “What brings you here, Sarge?”
“You.”
“Me?” Conor shook his head. “I don’t think so. Try again.”
“No, it’s definitely you,” answered the bum, his tone nonchalant, his look offering too much understanding. “And others like you.” He took a draw on the filter, sucking deep. “Aren’t the first, won’t be the last.”
Conor straightened. Glanced around. “Where are you staying tonight? Where’d you come from?”
Sarge waved the cigarette in the general direction of the city. “We got us a nice place in a rotunda near the station. We clear out by day to keep the city fathers happy, and they return the favor by leaving us alone at night. Not a bad setup, all told. The walls block the wind, ‘less it’s due East, then it’s just plain cold unless you’ve got some good cardboard, you know, the waxed kind. Shortage of big boxes these days, though. Damn recycling.”
“Diminished commodities affect market share and value.” Conor thrust an eyebrow up, ever the cynic. “My guess is you’re at the lower end of the trickle down theory.”
“And my guess is those two girls of yours don’t want your lifeless body dragged out of the river on Christmas Day.” Sarge drew a deep, smoke-filled breath and met Conor’s gaze. “But that’s just a guess, of course.”
Conor winced, his mind reeling. The old man waved toward the brackish water. “Dead body, identification, all those unanswered questions, Christmas day. Kind of puts a damper on things, you know? No pun intended.”
Try, Try Again Page 1