Try, Try Again

by Herne, Ruth Logan

  Conor smiled. “That’s Kim. She goes to church with me every week she’s in New York, even though it’s not exactly convenient for her and I’m sure she’s got plenty to do on her short weekend off.”

  The priest leaned forward, humor gone, his eyes narrowed in understanding. “You’ve done well, Mr. Bradstreet. No, you can’t go back and change what was,” he waved a hand to the town in general and the grave beside them, “but you’ve changed what is, and that’s vital. You’ve helped a lot of people.”

  Conor drew back. “I don’t understand.”

  The priest offered him a shrewd look as they started walking toward the gate. “I’m neither dumb nor illiterate. With as many parishioners as we have who work in the city, I keep up on things. It’s nearly impossible to see your name without a well-disguised charity function nearby.”

  “Father, I—”

  The priest held up a hand. “No, no, you don’t have to explain and your secret’s safe with me. I respect anonymity in charity. It’s a trait employed far too seldom these days, when helping the right cause garners good press and political attention.”

  Conor nodded, grateful. “I appreciate that, Father.”

  The priest shrugged off the thanks, raised a humor-filled eyebrow and latched the quaint gate behind them. “I won’t pretend to be unaware of the sizable annual donation you make to our parish on behalf of your family. Since Mrs. Bradstreet stopped attending years ago, I’m guessing she’s unaware of your quiet support.”

  “Some things are better left unsaid.”

  Father Murphy angled his head toward the lovely old home slated to become Alicia’s bookstore. “A little too close for comfort, I’d say.” He dragged his gaze from the colonial front windows to the far corner of the cemetery beyond, plainly visible from the store’s vantage point.

  Conor nodded. “I thought the same thing, but maybe it’s a good thing.”

  The priest raised a skeptical brow.

  “Confronted with reality, we either cave or grow stronger.” Conor eyed the proximity and shrugged. “It’s time for Alicia to step out and face the world. I’m hoping this new venture will facilitate that.”

  “You know her well.”

  Conor grimaced. “Not as well as I should have, and not soon enough, I’m afraid.”

  “Are you dead?”

  “Am I...?” Conor straightened his shoulders and drew back, surprised. “Am I what?”

  “Where there’s life, there’s hope,” explained the priest, his voice street tough. “You’re single, she’s single, you’ve got time, what’s your problem?”

  Conor studied the man before him. “You’re talking second chances?”

  The priest shrugged, matter-of-fact. “God hands them out all the time. Why not you? Why not now?”

  Conor could think of at least a hundred reasons why not, but still...

  The priest clapped him on the shoulder with a smile. “Just something to think about. Good to see you back in Princeton again. You’ve been missed.”

  “Not by everyone,” Conor retorted with a look of grim exaggeration. The priest grinned acknowledgement.

  “Some things take more time than others,” he agreed as he headed back toward the rectory with a quick wave. “Stop by again. Good chatting with you.”

  “And you. I think.”

  The priest’s deep laugh echoed behind him, like broad wooden wind chimes on a mid-summer’s day.

  Conor retraced his steps to the car, pulling his coat against the rising wind. At the door he hesitated, one hand out, the other tucked in his side pocket. He turned and eyed the blocks leading toward Teaberry Street, then tugged his collar up against the chill of the January afternoon and headed in that direction.

  Minutes later, their old neighborhood stretched to Conor’s right. The east-facing homes blocked the west wind. He turned and strode down the winter-bare street, eyeing what changed and what hadn’t.

  The “For Sale” sign at One-twelve brought Conor to a

  dead stop. He eyed the sign, then the door to the house, then the sign again, disbelief nudging him forward.

  The old house hailed him, as if begging for help, looking for relief from whomever thought pea-green trim looked good with aged Memphis brick. The combination was staggeringly awful, and it wasn’t as though Conor had a clue how to put colors together to come out warm and welcoming, a touch he’d taken for granted with Alicia, but he could tell wicked awful when he saw it, and one-twelve Teaberry was all that.

  Obviously street appeal was not a skill possessed by the current owners.

  The yard lay bereft, Alicia’s gently tended flowerbeds long gone, replaced by straggling bushes that appeared as morose as the rest of the setting. The left wing needed a new roof, no, scratch that, the whole place needed a new roof, and Conor could only imagine what that meant to the inside ceilings.

  A dog’s bark broke the silent winter afternoon, the quiet neighborhood tucked behind closed doors, sheltered from the early January cold and wind. Of course the Giants were slated to play at four, and most self-respecting men were glued to their seats to watch the weekend’s playoff games. Conor pushed back the stab of envy accompanying the thought, shoving aside memories of pot roast and little girl chatter, scuffed up baby boy knees and a recliner that sat in just the right spot, not too much sun.

  The surrounding homes were much like Conor remembered, sweet and serene, a collection of quaint salt boxes and colonials nestled amid spreading maples, oaks and ash. Teaberry Street was a family neighborhood, despite its upscale price tags, a place where kids played kickball and soccer in the grass, and basketball hoops adorned expensive drives.

  Withdrawing his smart phone, Conor jotted pertinent information into the memory, squinted at the house, frowned at the incredibly out-of-place chipped green trim, and headed back the short blocks to his waiting car.

  Inside, out of the wind, he dialed an associate in New York. “James?”

  “Conor, what’s up? You’re not working, are you?”

  “No, I’m in Princeton, actually, to plan my daughter’s wedding. James, I’ve got a job for you. I want to buy a house.”

  “Oh?”

  “It’s here in Princeton, and without going into a lot of detail, I don’t want to cut the deal myself. Too much talk and speculation if I do that. Will you ink it for me?”

  “Of course. When can we meet?”

  “Not necessary. Get me the best price you can, but I’m willing to pay whatever they’re asking.”

  “Must be some house.” James’ voice paused as Conor heard the tiny tick, tick, tick of a keyboard through the sensitive phone. “Address?”

  “One-twelve Teaberry Street, Princeton.”

  “Realtor?”

  “Sandra J. McGovern.”

  “Listing realty?”

  “McGovern and Associates.”

  “Phone?”

  Conor recited the number without resorting to his miniscule computer friend, then turned his car around and headed back toward Teaberry as he talked to James.

  “Okay, Conor, I’m on it,” his realty associate promised. “I’ll call this McGovern woman and set up a showing.”

  “No showing.”

  His words inspired a distinct pause at James’ end of the phone. “No showing?”

  “No.”

  “You, um...” James hesitated, his voice quiet and curious. “Don’t want to see it?”

  “I have seen it.”

  “Oh.” James’ voice pitched to a more natural tone. “So she knows you’re interested.”

  “No, not at all. I saw it a long time ago. James, listen, it’s complicated—”

  “Or deceptively easy,” James interrupted.

  Conor smiled. “That would be my take on it.”

  “I’ll make arrangements and let you know how much you’re going to pay for One-twelve Teaberry Street. You’re sure about this?”

  Conor had never felt so sure of anything in his life. Except maybe that n
ight with Alicia, after the mind-boggling Penn State win in the closing moments of the divisional championship game. Now there was a moment, no, make that a night to remember. That was life to the full, right there. How on earth had he ever gotten stupid after that? Taken things for granted?

  He had no idea. Eyeing the property that seemed to realize help was on the way, Conor nodded, easy. “I’m sure. Keep in touch, okay?”

  “Will do. And, Conor?”

  “Yes?”

  James paused, quiet, then came back on. “I think this is a good move.”

  Was it? Conor frowned, unsure, but equally certain he had little choice. The possibility that his old home would be for sale on the very day he took a walk around Princeton? If he were a gambler, he’d have never bet those odds. Too sure to lose, and Conor wasn’t a man who liked to lose.

  But like the priest said, sometimes life offered a chance to regroup. Change things up. If nothing else, he’d give the old place the love and care it so richly deserved, once the current inhabitants moved out and took their lack of historic sensitivity with them.

  He’d be close to Grayce when Kim and Brian headed to Princeton for weekends. He could take the little girl apple picking at Terhune’s, or walking in the park, savoring cones from Thomas Sweet’s. Maybe even a family trip down to Sesame Place, before she got too big to enjoy the theme park. And he’d be closer to Addie when she came home, making it easier for her to see both parents. So sensible.

  Slightly less sensible was that he’d be closer to Alicia. What had Father Murphy asked in that outright manner? Was Conor dead?

  Conor shook his head, surprised that the priest read him so well, but to what end? If he hung around Princeton more often, would it help matters or cause Alicia more pain?

  The wayward reminiscence of that Penn State game and the life that followed had Conor clenching the wheel with more vigor than necessary for the open streets, traffic scarce because Princeton undergrads were still on Christmas break.

  Would it bother Alicia to have him around, to know he lived around the corner from her new venture?

  A tiny smile worked the left side of Conor’s jaw, remembering her little slip in the office short hours before, the way she listed toward his grip, instead of away. The look in her eyes before anger shoved the spark of compassion aside. For just a moment she’d wavered, a hint of the woman he married, the woman he’d held through life and death, a woman whose recent history had been pretty well buried between towering shelves. The smile grew as he turned the car down Washington Road. Bothering Alicia might be exactly what they both needed.

  “Hey, I’m buying a house in Princeton. Would you like to come visit me there? Maybe...” Conor eyed Sarge as they crossed to a communal table... “Live there with me?”

  “I’m too old for sleepovers, Sonny.” Sarge grimaced as he crossed the floor, gingerly touching his feet to the rug as if each step caused pain. When Conor offered assistance, Sarge waved him off. “Just ‘cause you got me gussied up in this place, don’t make me old or crippled. Sit.”

  Conor obeyed, but smiled. “You are old, not crippled, but sick. There’s nothing wrong with wanting to help you. You’ve helped me—”

  “Blah, blah, blah.” Sarge waved a grumpy hand for silence, a habit whenever anyone tried to offer praise or thanks for his work at the bridge and among the homeless. “Yaddi, yaddi, you’re worse than a Jewish mother. How are them girls doing?”

  “We’re planning Kim’s wedding and Addie’s raising the bar in law school. She started her new semester and the professors love her.”

  “Chip off the old block,” Sarge reiterated. “I knew that from the first, didn’t I?”

  Conor nodded, noting the way the old man’s hands trembled as he tried to lift his coffee mug. It took concerted effort for Sarge to stop the shaking long enough to sip the hot liquid. Conor’s heart ached to see the deterioration, but he’d known the sergeant long enough to understand what an offer to help might get him. Minimal, a good scolding. On a bad day, it might be a backhanded thwack.

  “I’ll have plenty of room, Sarge, and Princeton has good medical facilities just a few blocks away.”

  “I’ve told you before.” Sarge chanced another sip before setting the mug down, the gnarled clutch of his hands making simple tasks difficult. “I’m a New Yorker. You tourists come and go. I belong here.”

  Conor smiled. “Then I’ll visit when I’m in the city. Do you need anything, Sarge?”

  “I could use a little less attention from these vultures you pay to take care of me.”

  “But...” Conor cast up a wondering brow in an exaggerated frown. “I, er...um... thought that was the point. I pay big bucks, you get great care. Show me how this is a bad thing.”

  Sarge leveled him a shrewd look. “Unobtrusive would be the operative word here, Sonny. Make ‘em back off or I’ll head back to the streets and they’ll never find me.”

  Conor didn’t doubt the threat for a minute. He nodded. “I’ll take care of it. And you’re not heading back to the streets. That was years ago, remember?”

  “Nothin’ wrong with my memory.”

  Quite true. Conor acknowledged that with a lift of his shoulders. “I think you’ve actually gotten used to a bed and a table now. Electricity. Running water.”

  The old man’s face relaxed in a knowing smile. “Hot baths. Now there’s a wonderful thing, Sonny, and everyone takes them for granted or doesn’t take them at all because a shower’s so much quicker, but I’m here to tell you I’m hoping for hot baths in heaven.”

  “No doubt St. Pete’s installing additional plumbing lines as we speak,” Conor replied. He stood and handed off a small box. “Don’t smoke ‘em up here or I’ll get in trouble. Use the smoking area downstairs.”

  Sarge’s face crinkled into a Santa Claus smile. “I’ve got a couple of the night nurses who smoke with me. We talk.”

  “I bet you do. Do you straighten out their lives like you did mine?”

  “If they need it. Some do, some don’t. Gotta know your people, read ‘em.” Sarge pushed to his feet, a little wobbly at first, but steadier after a few seconds. “That was my gift on the force, why they put me on bridge detail in the first place. I read people.”

  “You do.” Conor put a hand to Sarge’s elbow as they moved toward his suite of rooms. “Want me to hang out and watch Wheel of Fortune with you?”

  “No. You talk too much. Can’t figure out the puzzles with you yammering at me.”

  “Translation: you want Vanna all to yourself,” Conor joked.

  “Nice girl. Kind of reminds me of...” Sarge’s voice tapered off, his forehead knit above his whiskers.

  “Of?”

  “My wife, when she was young. Tall and pretty. Blonde like Vanna. People always were surprised why she married a guy like me.”

  Conor slowed his steps. Sarge never talked about his wife or daughter, killed in a car wreck when Sarge pulled overtime duty. The guilt he’d felt for not going home that night, not being there to drive them to the girl’s dancing lesson, had driven the man into a life of homelessness and alcoholism. That single decision cost him his family, his job, his home and his self respect for a lot of years. He’d paid a price no man should have to pay, all because he needed the overtime money to afford things like shiny bikes and dancing lessons for his girl. A real catch-22.

  Conor waded into this conversation with care. “I thought every woman wanted a good looking cop husband.”

  Sarge barked a short laugh. “I looked all right, I guess, at least she thought so, but it wasn’t so common for a tall woman to marry a shorter guy back then. Now you see it all the time, like it’s the next big thing.”

  “So, you set the stage. Everyone else is a copycat. Was your daughter tall like your wife?”

  Sarge shook his head. “Too many Italian genes, I guess. Gina was a peanut. Fragile, almost, like one of them fairy tale princesses. Dark hair from my side, blue eyes from her mom and delicate boning. Whe
n she danced, it was like an angel moving, so light and easy. Her body flowed like water. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

  She’d been fourteen when she died. After years of Sarge’s reticence, Conor had researched him, trying to help, only to realize that Sarge’s mission was to help others once he was off the booze. He stayed homeless by choice, mingling, helping, encouraging, protecting. He took on a guardian angel role, and played the part especially well on the bridge, his former stomping grounds as a bridge negotiator for the NYPD.

  They reached Sarge’s room. He eyed the door, confused for a moment, then flexed his jaw, his whiskers twitching. “You see the Missus?”

  Conor nodded. “We’re working on Kim’s wedding together.”

  “Good.” Again the whiskers twitched back and forth. “Kids don’t deserve stupid parents. Remember that.”

  “An ultimate truism. Got it.”

  Sarge stuck out a hand. “You’ve done all right, Sonny.”

  “I had help.”

  Sarge shrugged. “Giving help don’t always mean people take it. You’ve changed.”

  “Aw, Sarge, are you going to give me the ‘you’re a better person now’ talk?”

  “Naw.” Sarge shook his head and gave a snort. “You don’t like the fuss any more than I do. That’s why we get along.” He waved the pack of cigarettes toward a passing nurse who frowned and pointed to her watch. “That means it’s too early for our evening smoke,” Sarge told Conor in a quiet aside. “Her break isn’t until nine.”

  “Smoking with the nurses.” Conor grinned down at him. “Nice gig if you can get it.” He waved a hand to the cigarettes. “Don’t you know those things will be the death of you?”

  Sarge laughed out loud and gave his tired body a once-over. “Something will, I hope. These bones are wearing out.”

  Conor clapped a gentle arm around him in a hug. “You need anything, you call me, okay? I’ll be back in a few days.”