by Nancy Martin
“She’s fine for the moment. In better shape than this one, who needs to calm down.”
“I want drugs!” Zephyr screamed. “Strong drugs.”
Her hand felt like it was going to snap his arm any second. Mick tried prying her fingers loose. “Take it easy, lady.”
“Zephyr. My name is Zephyr. Say it.”
He couldn’t’ quite get his mouth around her Appalachian accent, but he said, “Zephyr.”
“And you’re who? Mike?”
“Mick.”
“Good. Make yourself useful, will you, Mick? Get a carving knife and hack me open. I can’t stand this another minute!”
“Okay, Zephyr, calm down. Take a deep breath or something.”
Between gritted teeth, she let out another long, disturbingly animal-like growl as the contraction rolled on. Mick couldn’t stop himself from putting one hand around the back of her neck to steady her. “Easy, easy.”
Doctor Stengler nodded encouragingly at him. “Keep it up.”
The contraction finally eased, and Zephyr flopped back on the bed, gasping with relief. The doctor seized the moment to dive under the sheet and take a look at the situation.
All over again, Zephyr writhed in pain. “What the hell are you doing down there?”
“Try to relax,” the doctor ordered.
While the doctor was occupied, Zephyr latched another death grip on Mick’s arm, and she pulled him closer. In a lower voice, she said, “I have a message for you.”
“What?”
“From inside. Connie Pescara says to watch your back.” Zephyr’s face registered none of the pain she’d just exhibited seconds ago. She had the cold intent of an inmate passing jailhouse secrets.
Startled by her transformation as well as her message, Mick said, “How do you know Connie?”
“She’s in the cell next to mine. And she says her husband’s going to dump a body in the ocean if you don’t turn over the family business to your cousin Gino.”
At that moment, Dr. Stengler popped up from between Zephyr’s long legs. “You’re doing fine, Ms. Starr. The nurse is going to get you hooked up with some medication to make things easier. Meanwhile,” she crooked her finger at Mick, “you come with me.”
Zephyr released his arm but gave him a steady, warning stare.
Although he wanted to ask Zephyr a hundred questions, Mick numbly followed the doctor out into the hall.
She ripped off her gloves and dropped them into a trash can, then got some hand sanitizer for double protection, and spun on him—all business as she rubbed her hands together. “Okay, you need to get cleaned up. Hang up your coat. Roll up your sleeves. Scrub your hands and arms in that sink over there. Then we’ll put you in a gown, and you can go back and forth between these two rooms. Zephyr’s coming along fast. You’ll have to change gloves every time, got it? We don’t want one set of germs contaminating the other child.”
He tried to get his head in the game. “I really should be with Nora.”
“And you will.” The doctor hooked her thumb in Zephyr’s direction. “But this other woman needs you, too. Nine months ago, you must have been a very busy boy, so now it’s time to pay the piper.”
He tipped his head at Zephyr’s room. “Nora and I are going to adopt that baby. But it’s not mine. Not yet.”
“Sure.” The doc almost rolled her eyes. “Whatever you say. Just go wash your hands. You’ve got a long night ahead of you. I must go. I have other patients delivering tonight.”
She strode off, leaving Mick to sort through the information he’d just learned. Connie Pescara? He hadn’t heard that name in … how long? Five years? She’d gone to prison when she took a rap for her husband, an idiot cousin by the name of Gino Pescara. How he convinced his wife to take a fall for him back then, Mick couldn’t imagine. And now here was Connie sending a message, warning Mick and ratting out her husband.
True love was always quirky.
Mick knew all about his cousin Gino’s ambitions. As a teenager, Gino had made his bones by collecting debts on behalf of his father, Mick’s uncle, who did some loansharking on the side. Gino regularly broke fingers and had once run over a customer’s legs with his Hummer to make a point. In the years since then, Gino had been known for being good with his fists—but definitely not his head. He had often bragged about taking over the family some day.
And Emma had said something about guys hanging around the hospital tonight. She had described one of Gino’s idiot pals—Patsy Nicolazzi, a go-fer in the Pescara branch of the family. Gino’s ambition might explain why Patsy was in the hospital.
But Gino trying to kill Mick to gain control of the family—this was something new. Not unexpected. But stupid to do it in a hospital. It would be just like Gino to think some big, dumb act of vengeance and violence ought to be his first act as head of the family. He’d think it might prove to the rest of the cousins that he was capable of being the top dog. A well-placed act of terror was always a good way to make a point, of course. But Gino didn’t have the skills to follow up.
Gino was so stupid he’d run all the business into the ground in a matter of months. And he’d be in jail within the year. But that wouldn’t stop him from trying to kill Mick to get his shot at the top job.
Mick shook his head. He had hoped to organize and unload everything within the week, no fuss, no muss. It would make Nora happy, but it was also the only way to keep their own little family safe. But now the baby was coming early. He’d have to move faster than originally planned. And head off a stupid attempt at a hit, too.
He headed for the sink to start washing, but on the way he pulled out his phone.
8.
Emma snatched the bottle of Jameson’s out of the priest’s hands before he could pickle his liver completely. “Stop that! What are you trying to do? Drown yourself?”
“It’s a harmless dram before bedtime. Even my blessed mother, may she rest in peace, took one every night.” The priest settled back in the passenger seat of the truck as if nestling down for a good night’s sleep. His Irish brogue was thick enough to work on a vaudeville stage. “She used to say the Heavenly Father wouldn’t have created grain if he guessed what mankind might do with it.”
“Well, it’s nice to have an open-minded mother, but I gotta keep you sober long enough to do the deed,” Emma retorted. Although tempted to toss the bottle out the window, she tucked it into the cup holder. There was no sense wasting good whiskey.
How Hart knew this character, she wasn’t sure. But he fit the bill tonight, if she could get him to the hospital in time. Trouble was, he seemed to be a little too theatrical. He wore a lush floor-length robe in royal blue with what might have been a slightly moth-eaten ermine fur around his shoulders. The white priest’s collar showing at his neck looked a lot like a paper napkin that had been hastily folded and tucked into his shirt.
The night had turned very dark, and the headlights shone on the winding road ahead. A few fallen leaves danced in the twin beams. Beside Emma, the priest folded his hands complacently across his round tummy and smiled. He was a priest out of Central Casting—pink-faced with laugh lines around blue eyes, a cherubic smile, white hair, and a slight double chin that quivered above his white collar. His accent was Irish, blended with something Emma couldn’t quite place. Long Island, maybe?
“What should I call you? Your Lordship? Father What?”
“Father Jerry will do just fine.” He peered over at her side of the dashboard. “Young lady, you’re tempting the good Lord’s wrath. You’re speeding.”
“He’s got bigger problems to worry about than me. Besides, I think speeding comes under the separation between church and state. Forgive me, for I have sinned. Also, I’ve got a lot on my mind tonight.”
“Anything I can help with?”
“No, Father, I’m pretty sure you don’t want to know all the things that have me in a tailspin.”
“Try me. Something
to do with you and Mr. Jones?”
“How do you know Hart, anyway?”
“We met at O’Meara’s. And I used to see him there with you from time to time.”
“Yeah, well, not lately. He’s been out of the country.”
“I couldn’t help noticing you and he are rather affectionate with each other.”
“Sorry if you saw something shocking, Father.”
The priest waved away her apology. “I’m not as unworldly as you think. I have noticed the two of you seem to care about each other. Are you going to marry him?”
Emma snorted. “Not likely. He’s already spoken for.”
“But you seem to get along so well.”
“We get along great as long as we’re making the beast with two backs. Is that a Biblical way of putting it?”
“No, that was Shakespeare. Who probably got it from Rabelais, who also wrote of the well-mouthed wench, rubbing and frotting—a phrase I find very descriptive—but then, the old masters knew what they were writing about. Have you ever read Falstaff? A brilliant character. Role of a lifetime.”
“Huh?”
“Never mind. Tell me your troubles, child. Why are you not planning a happy future with Mr. Jones?”
“I told you. He’s already married.”
The priest paused for a moment. “And if he wasn’t?”
“Father, you surprise me!” Emma shot him a glance and found him smiling benignly at her, waiting. Finally, she said, “But he is married, dammit. Besides, I’ve been married before, and I’m pretty sure he’s not good marriage material.”
“Where is your husband?”
“Dead,” Emma said.
“Ah, I am sorry to hear that. You must be lonely.”
“Don’t make assumptions. I’ve got lots of guys to keep me warm.”
“But your husband was special. I can hear it in your voice.”
Emma swallowed the sudden lump in her throat and cursed herself for not keeping better control of her emotions. “Yeah, we hit it off.”
“How did you meet?”
Immediately, the memory came clearly into her mind. And she found herself easily telling Father Jerry how it happened. “I work in a horse barn, see? I ride expensive horses for expensive trainers. Show jumping. Well, one of the barns used to have this program, y’know, for handicapped kids. And Jake, he was a football player. Seriously, he played for the Eagles. And in the off-season he used to do stuff with handicapped kids. He brought a group to the barn, and we helped the kids learn to ride, learn to take care of the horses. It’s therapeutic. Gives the kids skills and confidence, and … well, that’s where we met.”
“He sounds like an admirable person.”
“Oh, don’t get me wrong. He was a lot of fun, too.”
“But you respected him. Had something in common with him—the horses and the children. You were friends first.”
“Yeah, I guess.”
“What do you have in common with Mr. Jones?”
“Who knows? Mostly what we do is … well, it’s physical, Father.”
Firmly, he said, “Good marriages begin with friendship.”
“Is that a line from the Bible?”
“No, an episode of the Gilmore Girls. I love those re-runs.” He rolled down his window a crack and sniffed the fresh air. “Marriage requires structure and balance and even rules. Yes, rules are important. But also common interests. Maybe you and Mr. Jones should tour lighthouses together. An awful lot of people seem to like lighthouses. Or maybe collect typewriters.” He turned to her again. “What about disco dancing? That looks fun.”
Emma laughed but shook her head. “You don’t know Hart very well, do you?”
“I’m sure he has interests.”
“Probably. I just don’t know what they are.”
“Maybe you’re not looking at the important things. You should start journaling. You know, writing down your thoughts and feelings. Your observations about yourself and others. Journaling can make you more self-aware. I’ve been doing it myself for decades. Writing my thoughts every morning helps enormously. I’ll get you a book.” When Emma didn’t object, he said, “You seem to need direction, child. You need goals in life.”
“My goal is to get a horse into the Olympics.”
The words were out of her mouth before she could stop them. She had never spoken them before, maybe never dared. It felt weird to have declared her wish so openly.
The priest nodded. “What an excellent ambition. The first step to happiness is being engaged by some worthy enterprise—living in a way that fulfills a purpose. If you want to be happy, you must be working toward happiness.”
“Gilmore Girls again?”
“No, I think it was Oprah. Or maybe Aristotle. No matter. The horse enterprise sounds good. Have you thought about the steps you must take to reach your goal?”
“Well, sure. I train, I ride. I ride a lot.”
“What makes an Olympic rider?”
Giving up drinking, Emma thought at once. But she didn’t say it.
“My point,” said Father Jerry in the lull, “is that you have to acknowledge the steps before you take them. I suppose you need physical training, mental training, that kind of thing. And I am glad to hear you are working with other people, not just horses, of course. People with a common goal are always helpful. Plus, it’s not good to be socially isolated.”
He helped himself to the bottle in the cupholder.
Emma kept silent, driving. Her personal life was a train wreck. But she had avoided thinking about it. Ever since Jake had died, she had shoved a lot of painful stuff down inside. It was easier to manage there.
“Look,” she said, “don’t get the wrong idea about me. I don’t know what the hell I want. My sisters, they can think clearly about their lives and where they’re going, but me … I’m just not that type.”
“Are your sisters happy?”
“In their own ways, yeah. They have families and men in their lives, and Nora has a career that lights her fire, and they have friends.”
“You don’t have friends?”
Just friends at the barn, Emma thought. Nobody she could call for a lunch date. What was the point of that? Except Father Jerry would probably say having a few girlfriends might be healthy. Even fun. When was the last time she had lunch with a friend? Years. Did that make her a loner? Or lonely? Emma wasn’t sure.
When she didn’t respond, he said, “What about your sisters?”
“They drive me crazy. Except when they’re saving my life. I’d be a drunk and probably homeless if not for them.” Softer, she said, “I owe them both. For a lot of stuff. That’s why I’m taking you to the hospital tonight. I want to make something happen for Nora, something she really wants.”
“A wedding,” he said.
“And something else.”
“Can I help with that, too?”
“No, I’ve got to do it.”
Putting Noah into Nora’s arms once and for all was in her power. Emma could get Noah away from Hart. She knew that now. But in exchange, she’d have to sign herself over to him. Tit for tat. Hart hadn’t said it that way, but that’s what he’d meant. Agreeing to be his love monkey was the price she’d pay to make sure Nora and Mick got Noah.
But after talking to Father Jerry, she wasn’t sure that was the right thing to do … for herself.
She took the bottle away from him again. He had to be sober enough to conduct the wedding ceremony. That is, if Mick was still alive. She put her foot down hard on the gas and sped toward the hospital.
9.
Mick washed up at a sink under the watchful eye of the nurse, who brought him a yellow paper thing that was half superhero cape, half hospital gown with a dash of strait jacket. When she tied it behind his back, he felt like Big Bird.
She helped him with the gloves. “Now, you’ll have to change these gloves every time you change rooms. It might help to
choose a different color. Purple for one baby, green for the other. And after you touch one baby, you have to change the gown, not just the gloves. Got it?”
He liked the nurse. He grinned. “Got it.”
They were frozen by a strangled yell from one of the delivery rooms. Mick wasn’t sure which one.
The nurse gave him a comradely pat on the back. “Too bad you didn’t wear some running shoes. You’re going to be busy.”
He checked on Nora first to make sure she hadn’t yelled. She was composed and had her phone to her ear when he pushed into the room. But when she looked up at the picture he made in his yellow suit, she burst out laughing.
He spread his arms wide. “I look like a Muppet, right?”
“A very large one,” she agreed.
“Who’s on the phone?”
She covered the cell with one hand and whispered to him, “I’ll be off in a minute. It’s Gus.” She widened her eyes warningly to stop him from objecting. Into the phone, she said, “Michael’s here now, Gus. Can I put you on speaker?”
Hardwicke must have agreed because she hit a button on her phone, and Gus Hardwicke’s Australian twang filled the delivery room.
“Abruzzo! I hear congratulations are almost in order! The brat’s going to make an appearance any minute?”
“Any minute,” Mick agreed. Just the sound of Hardwicke’s voice made him want to grab the phone and throw it out the window. But he said calmly, “How are the broken bones?”
“Let’s just say I won’t be on a surfboard anytime soon.”
“Tough luck,” Mick replied, although he felt decidedly pleased when he thought of Nora’s former boss in a hospital bed with various limbs in traction and half his teeth missing from a fall he took after interrupting the last wedding Mick had planned with Nora.
“Yes, damn luck,” Hardwicke said dismissively. But he had no interest in chitchatting with Mick either, so he said briskly, “Look, Nora, I called because the Pendergast sisters asked me to consult with them on the re-organization of the Intelligencer.”
“I talked to one of them earlier,” Nora said. “They say they’re not ready to close.”