Conor stared him down, tiny hairs rising along the nape of his neck. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“My assertion or my evaluation?”
Conor nailed him with a pinprick gaze. “Either.”
“Really?” Another drag on the cigarette lit an insignificant corner of the wretchedly cold, wet night. “I say I’m dead on.” Over the dwindling cigarette, he met Conor’s eye. “Pun intended, that time.”
“But—”
“I’ve had my moments, Sonny,” Sarge offered, chin up, brows drawn. “My day in the sun. I still know a few things.”
Was it his words or his look that stirred Conor’s awareness? No clue. A gust of wind swirled the roadway’s edge, misting them. The old man ducked back, unfazed. “Sorry. Forgot that happens sometimes.”
Conor swiped his sleeve to his face. The wet fabric offered little help.
“So. You got them pictures? I ain’t got all night.”
An unexpected smile tugged the corner of Conor’s mouth again. “I beg to differ. You’ve got all night, all day tomorrow, then that night, the next and on, ad infinitum.”
Sarge fixed him a cop look above nicotine-stained whiskers. Conor hauled out his wallet, flipped past the single credit card with no limit, and edged further under the bridge approach to avoid wetting the images. “This is Kim. She just turned eighteen. Heading to college next fall.”
The old man touched the picture with reverent hands. “Beautiful.”
“And Addie. Adelaide,” Conor corrected himself. “She’s fifteen.”
Sarge eyed her photo, then cast him a knowing grin. “This one’s a corker, ain’t she?”
He could tell that from one picture? Conor nodded. “Yes. And then some. How can you tell?”
The old timer gave an impatient snort. “Ya gotta see what’s in front of your eyes, man. This one,” he held up Kim’s picture, a beautiful senior portrait done by an expensive New York photographer and worth every penny, “wants to please everyone. Strong, hard-working, smart, caring.”
He shuffled back to Addie’s photo and held it out. “This one says ‘no way can I keep up with that, nor do I want to, screw the whole thing, I’m my own person, no ifs, ands or buts.’”
“In a nutshell.” Conor took Addie’s picture and studied the profile of a dark-haired, saucy girl, eyes bright, a slightly crooked smile that no amount of orthodontia could correct. “But how did you know that from this?”
Sarge stared him down. “Because she looks like her daddy.”
Conor gulped and clutched the picture a little tighter. Words became a struggle. “You think?”
“Spittin’ image, ‘cept for the hair color. Must’ve gotten that from her mama. Besides that, she’s you, through and through.”
The weight in Conor’s chest shifted slightly right. “She doesn’t talk to me.”
Sarge shrugged. “She’s fifteen. Give her time.”
“And Kim.” Conor held up his oldest daughter’s picture in his left hand. “She’s the peacemaker, always trying to make things right. Help her mom, help me.”
“Perfection’s a tough act to follow.”
Wise words. Conor nodded. “I hadn’t thought of it that way.”
“When we’re too busy thinking of ourselves, we rarely do.”
Conor straightened his shoulders. “I’m paid to think. It’s hard to turn it off.”
“Learn.” Sarge took a last puff on his cigarette, gave the butt a longing glance, and tossed the filtered stub to the ground. “You’re young and smart. Lots of money, lots of choices. Use ‘em.”
“That easy?”
“Nope.” Sarge turned toward the water, waved his hand. “That’s easy. Chicken’s way out. Don’t have to face nothin’, let everyone else pick up the pieces.” He eyed Conor’s coat, his shoes, the hat and scarf. “Since money’s not a problem, I think you’re a pretty boy who’s lookin’ for the easy road, probably for the first time in his life.”
The chest weight shifted again, hard and cumbersome. Conor didn’t trust himself to speak.
Sarge moved a step closer. “Seein’ as how you’re a rich and powerful kind of guy, I don’t know why you don’t just change things up. Make amends.”
“Amends?” Conor thought of all that happened the last few years and shook his head. “I wouldn’t know where to begin.”
“Sure you do.” The old man reached out an ancient hand and touched the photos still clenched in Conor’s fingers. “You start right there.”
“With the girls?”
“Your girls.” The old man let his fingers lay against the protective wrapping of the pictures. “Girls need their daddy.”
Something in his voice gave Conor a clue. “You got kids, Sarge?”
The old man shook his head, his face hard, his breath harsh. “No.” For a moment he faced outward, his speckled beard ruffled by the wind, then he swung back, his expression softer. “You start there and you don’t stop until them girls know you love them more than anything in this world, Sonny. You got that?”
Something in his voice told Conor there was no choice. “Yes.”
Sarge looked at his watch, frowned, tapped it, then frowned again.
Conor hiked up his sleeve and shrugged. “Two-twenty.”
“You’re it, then, most likely.”
Conor frowned. “What ‘it’?”
Sarge ignored the question. “Good thing, too, because I’m feeling a mite tired.”
Conor stepped forward. “Can I take you somewhere? Help you?”
The old man shook his head. “You go home. In the morning call those girls. Figure out where you hid your sense of humor, dust the ratty thing off and put it to use.”
“But—”
“Opportune phrase: Go home.” Sarge gave him a clap on the back. “And if you think of it now and again, you might want to slip a few bucks to someone down on their luck. If you get a little heavy on cash flow, that is.”
“Like a shelter.”
“Huh.” Sarge gave a snort. “You ever been to one of them, Sonny?”
Conor thought of his ridiculously affluent lifestyle and shook his head. “Can’t say I have.”
Sarge leaned in, a brow cast up, his expression all business. “Thought not. Word of advice, a little business aside that a bright, savvy guy like you can understand: Best to avoid the middleman. Go to the source. Diminishes the loss of discretionary income that way.”
“Lose less at the upper levels thereby ensuring adequate finances for the intended outreach.”
“You got it, Sonny. Pure Wall Street. Very poetic.”
One thing Conor had never been called was poetic. He was pretty sure the Sarge knew that. He groped his pockets, wishing he’d brought a little cash with him, but found nothing. A guy didn’t carry a lot of loose change into the water. What would be the point? “I’d like to give you something, Sarge. Something to help, but I didn’t bring any money along.” A sudden thought occurred to Conor. He started to loosen the buttons of his coat. “Here. Take this. It’ll block the wind.”
Sarge took a step back. He swept a cryptic glance to Conor’s larger frame, then his own short stature, before eyeing the long Armani. “I show up at the rotunda wearin’ that, they’re gonna think I rolled somebody, on Christmas, no less. Don’t do to mess with a good reputation, Sonny. A bright guy like you should know that.” He raised both hands, palms out, as he backed away. “Don’t need nothin’ except you makin’ peace with those girls, but I thank you.”
“But where can I find you?” Desperate, Conor moved forward, frowning.
“I’m here, I’m there.” The old man’s gaze encompassed the bridge, his expression tight. “Mostly here.”
“Third box on the right?” Conor tried to lighten the moment with humor.
The old man smiled, nodded, and tipped his cap. “With the white colonial mailbox, just past the broken street light after the second Baby Gap.”
Conor twitched a smile, his h
eart giving a queer twist in his chest. “I’ll be in touch.”
The Sarge waved a hand. “You do that, Sonny.”
The rich guy meant well, but he wouldn’t be in touch. The old cop knew that like he knew people, most times. He moved deep within the shadows and waited, watching until the well-dressed jumper moved up, onto the approach and turned...
Sarge watched, waiting, holding his breath, muttering prayers that sounded more like commands. “Go left, Sonny. Left.” He glared upward, his tone demanding. “You got any spare angels up there, you’d best get them onto this bridge and turn this guy toward home. I ain’t got all night, you know. Got things to do.”
As Conor wavered, Sarge studied him, hands fisted, his voice a whisper. “Stay off that bridge, Sonny, or I’m going to get really—”
Reaching up, adjusting his hat, Conor turned left, toward Manhattan, his footsteps assured.
Sarge nodded, narrowed his eyes, sent a glance to the dark heavens and turned, shuffling further into the gloom, suddenly tired.
Chapter One
Present day Princeton
“Mom!”
Alicia Bradstreet hung the last scherenschnitte snowflake in an upper pane of the bay window as her oldest daughter burst through the back door. “In here, Kim.”
“Which here?” Kim’s voice echoed as she strode through the house, her feet tapping in business rhythm.
“Sitting room ‘here’,” called back her mother, smiling.
“This place is a freakin’ mansion,” Kim complained for at least the fifth time that year. “No one could possibly need all this space. Why don’t you sell it? Move on?”
“You mean move out.” Alicia copped her daughter a knowing look, climbed off the dining room chair that doubled as an impromptu stepstool, and held open her arms. “Quit complaining and come here. I’ve missed you.”
Kim returned the hug. “Me, too. They’ve kept me swamped at work and there’s precious little time to just relax and be me. Christmas is such a mixed bag for the foundation. Altruism is at an all-time high, which is great, but the holidays have a way of showing poor people all they’re missing. Makes for tough conflict. A lot of mixed emotions.”
“You could come home on weekends,” her mother reminded her. “Bring Brian along. And Grayce. Take a break.”
“Then I’m away from work if they need me,” Kim reasoned. “Poverty is not exactly a Monday thru Friday, nine-to-five kind of gig, especially this time of year. But Brian loves coming down here, hobnobbing with the old money and the nouveau riche wannabes.”
“How much really gets done on Saturday and Sunday?” Alicia wondered. She slanted a look Kim’s way.
Kim shrugged. “You’d be surprised.” She slid her gaze to include the paper snowflakes. “I still love these things. We’ve had them forever, haven’t we?”
Alicia stood back, eyed the hand-fashioned snowflakes she’d razor cut on an old maple bread board as a financially stricken new bride, then re-climbed the chair to drop one down a smidge. “At least forever, and don’t get me wrong, Kim. I’m proud of the work you do with the homeless foundation.”
“Homeward Bound.”
Alicia nodded. “I just want to be sure you allow time for life to unfold. You’re young. Beautiful. A lot of living to do.”
“You’re kidding, right? With Brian and Grayce around, trust me, I’m living. Juggling, actually. I can’t imagine how working mothers do all they do.”
“Not all jobs require the hours you seem expected to put in,” Alicia noted, not trying to hide the hinted disapproval. She’d lived with a workaholic New Yorker. She understood the city’s lure better than most, and disliked it for more reasons than she cared to count, but one in particular stood out: Conor lived there.
She tucked the chair back in place and headed toward the kitchen. “Come on back here. Let me make you a flavored coffee. I’ve got the world’s greatest blend...”
“Fair trade?”
“Wouldn’t think of buying anything else, sweetheart. Me and Small World.” Alicia crossed her fingers in a show of solidarity with the popular Princeton coffee shops. “We’re sympatico.”
Kim laughed. “Where’s Addie? I thought she was due in yesterday.”
Alicia crossed to the espresso machine, frowned and shrugged. “Went to New York to spend a little time with your father.”
“Oh.” Kim pulled up a stool in the expansive ivory kitchen, the old-school glass-fronted cabinetry harking timeless good taste. “Good. That’ll be a nice surprise for him. I don’t think he was expecting her.”
“No.” Alicia recognized the internal homicidal tendencies that surged whenever Conor was brought up. Thoughts of life in prison without artisan bread and coffee had held her in check so far or she’d have done him in a while back. Bare-handed, most likely. More satisfying that way. Getting a grip on her emotions, she glanced over her shoulder at Kim. “Addie had a great third semester and wanted to tell him personally.”
“Oooooo.” Kim gave a sage nod. “That will please him no end. I always figured she was a chip off the old block and her law school performance confirms it.”
“Right.” Alicia nodded, made a face and pursed her mouth as she ticked a list of Addie’s attributes on her fingers. “Except she’s nice, kind, honest, caring, sympathetic, empathetic and good to animals.”
“Mom.” Kim laughed out loud. “You know Dad’s made substantial improvements over the years. Might want to cut him some slack.”
“Great.” Alicia threw her a look of encouragement. “Take out an ad, we’ll post it in the ‘Singles’ column. Maybe he’ll get lucky. DWM, late-forties, filthy rich, indiscriminate in his taste for women, dishonest, mean-spirited workaholic, completely soulless. Ability to cheat on spouse as necessary. Send picture and resume to yaddi yaddi yadda, The Daily Princetonian.”
Kim perched one hip on the edge of the kitchen table and arched a brow. “Ouch. What brought all this up? I haven’t heard you go off on Dad in years. And let me just add, it’s been a nice break. From a kid’s perspective, that is.”
Alicia leaned over and slapped a folded sheet of paper in front of Kim. “Right there, Sugar-beans. Read it and weep. I did. And no, it’s got absolutely nothing to do with your father. He’s just an easy target.”
The Zoning Board of Princeton Borough regrets to inform you that your application for restaurant zoning regarding the property at 101-105 Poole Street has been denied due to over-saturation of restaurant business in that specific locale. We thank you for your interest.
“But...” Kim eyed the form letter rejection, confused. “You want to open a book store.”
“With coffee,” added Alicia. “A Barnes and Noble type thing with legally addictive stimulants in the form of lattés, cappuccinos, frappes and, oh, yes, plain old coffee for the every day Joe who still calls Princeton home.”
Kim swept the spacious stone home a look, her expression skeptical. “Not too many plain old Joe’s around Princeton anymore, Mom.”
Alicia couldn’t disagree. Princeton wasn’t exactly teeming with the every day middle class that populated most small towns. When a town boasts an Ivy League school that eats, drinks and breathes old money and Supper Clubs, the surroundings would be silly not to cater to that.
Nothing about Princeton, New Jersey was silly.
“Okay, you got me there. It’s not like this,” she splayed her hands to the side, indicating the house around her, “is the norm. This is the ‘Dad has lots of money so Mom gets to live in high style since the divorce’ syndrome.”
“More normal than it should be these days.” Kim drew a breath and picked up the rejection notice again. “I don’t get this, though. What does coffee have to do with anything? Don’t all bookshops offer coffee?”
Alicia scowled. “You’re a child of a new millennium. In your lifetime, yes, most book shops have at least a coffee corner so that people can browse and lose themselves in the enticing scent of roasted beans, French vanilla and
toasted hazelnut.”
“So?” Kim frowned. “I’m still out of the loop.”
“It wasn’t always that way. A coffee shop was a coffee shop and a bookstore was a bookstore. The local zoning laws reflect that archaic reality.”
“Seriously?”
Alicia nodded. “Once Starbucks coupled with Barnes and Noble, the idea caught on. Then every bookstore needed a coffee spot, big or small. To run the coffee side of the business, I had to apply for a restaurant permit from the town. That building is not slated for restaurant use, so I got a big, fat N-O.”
“But that’s ridiculous,” argued Kim. The knot between her Morrissey eyebrows deepened, their dark line a contrast to the wheat-toned hair from Conor’s side. “What’s the big deal about serving coffee? Coffee’s just...” she lifted a mug from the counter in salute, “coffee.”
Her mother shook her head. “I don’t think there is one. I think the big deal is that the University contracted for a humongous bookstore on Nassau Street to service students and staff with textbooks and pleasure reading. Guaranteed sales and proximity to campus. Therefore, I don’t get to have one on Poole.”
“But that’s blocks away and a totally different clientele,” argued Kim.
Her mother slapped a bottle of caramel syrup onto the counter next to a frothing wand. “Good girl. I knew that Bryn Mawr education would pay off in the long run.”
“Oh, Mom.” Kim’s expression said she shared Alicia’s disappointment. “I know how much you wanted to do this. And it would be such fun. Right up your alley. There’s no other way? No other location?”
Alicia met Kim’s gaze. “You know what retail space is like in this town.”
“Non-existent.”
“Pretty much. I could look out on Route 1, but that’s not what I envisioned. I dreamed of a nice, neighborhood coffee shop-slash-bookstore where I could run library programs like I do now, and let people relax and unwind at the end of their day. Kid business during the week, adult customers at night and on weekends. Maybe even a seniors’ group. That circular stairway arching into the upper level of the Poole Street property is perfect for this kind of thing. An ideal set-up. Seeing this,” Alicia pointed to the letter on the antique oak table, “I assume they’re going to say no to any location I might suggest. Carefully, of course.”
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