Chapter 37 – Spencer
Spencer
Istare at my mother, then at the document in her hand.
Stace sits beside me at our out-of-the-way coffee shop, almost bouncing out of her chair. So much for the composed lawyer she’s supposed to make.
Who am I kidding, I’m just as excited.
Only, right now . . . I’m stunned.
Full custody and a birth certificate for Ives are hanging in my mother’s grip.
I always knew she was a brilliant lawyer, but I’ve never been on the receiving end of her genius or generosity.
“Take them, Spencer. Miss Alcott will not be a problem to either you or Ivy any more.”
I take the papers, my movements slow, as if in a dream.
“There is one other thing. Not really my department, but I have an associate who will take on your sexual harassment case against Priscilla Princeton and some of the other founding members. All you have to do is arrange a meeting.” She slides a white business card over the table.
“She’s the best in the business when it comes to this sort of litigation. ”
Holy fuck.
“Thanks,” I utter, picking up the card.
“Don’t thank me yet. But if I could ask one thing, Spencer, please leave the particular conversation you had around Priscilla with your father off the record.”
Some things never change.
My face hardens as Stace glances at me.
“I’m not going to lie for him,” I say.
“I know that, but your father was raised to do whatever it takes, and in his mind, it wasn’t something he thought would phase you. I guess he is just as out of touch as I was.”
“Will Silver Elite close if we pursue this? I don’t want the staff losing their jobs.”
“There’s always a chance of that. Businesses close up all the time for less. However, I think if word gets out around a topic of this nature and nothing is done, that would be far worse.”
She forces a smile, and I realize she is caught in the middle of all this. Maybe she has always been the rock in a hard place when it came to our father and this family.
Is that what Stace was trying to say when she sent me that cryptic message? Something about how we can only do what we think is right at the time?
I forget.
“Thanks. It’s worth pursuing, but there is something time sensitive I have to do first. Do you have any strings to pull in getting Ives a passport?” I ask Mom.
“The quickest we can get her one is about a week. Why, Spencer?”
“There’s somewhere else we’re meant to be.”
I stand and give Stace a smile. Her jaw has dropped, but her face is filled with hope.
“Thanks.” I nod to them both. “This means a lot to Ivy and me.”
I turn and head for the door.
“Spencer, wait.” Mom is up and rushing after me, her fingers closing around my biceps. “At least let me meet my granddaughter before you run off to Ireland and never come back.”
“Sure, Mom. We won’t go without saying goodbye.”
I know how much that one scars.
Stacey appears at her side. “I’m really proud of you, Spence.”
Her chin wobbles, and she scrunches up her face.
I don’t think Stace has been proud of anything I’ve done since high school. I huff a surprised laugh and fold her in for a huggle.
“Back at you, sis.”
Releasing her, I make for the sidewalk before I turn into a blubbering damn mess. I need to collect Ives from Uncle Brady and head home.
We have some packing to do.
Six days later, a passport is delivered via courier to the cottage.
Agnes Marie Lockwood.
Urgh, Ives. What was that woman thinking?
It’s Ivy’s picture, and the name on the passport matches the birth certificate. I make a mental note to send in a name change when things settle down.
Ivy will always be her name.
Period.
Our flight leaves in two hours, and I’m rushing around trying to find Mr. Fluffy as Ives has her afternoon nap.
Not sure if that’s the best idea before a long-haul flight, but I need the time to organize myself and pack a few final things.
So far, I have decided to only take the essentials. Clothes, a handful of Ivy’s favorite toys . . . If only I could find Mr. Fluffy.
Dammit.
I rummage through the toy box and then the toy basket.
Lord above, this girl has too much stuff already, and she’s only . . . well, according to her birth certificate, turned one last week.
January 11th.
My little girl’s birthday is January 11th.
I stand, hands on my forehead.
Now is not the time to get distracted.
I scan the room, looking for the only toy she can’t go without. The only damn one I can’t find.
It was hell getting her down for her nap without him.
Dropping to my knees I fish every goddamn toy out of the toy basket and am left staring at the one thing left in the bottom.
A navy velvet scrunchie.
My eyes close briefly. It’s been almost three months without any contact. Riles never gave me her cell for back home. The number she gave me all those months ago is disconnected. Most likely, she used an international SIM card. And I don’t have her email.
Only her bank account . . .
Not helpful at all.
I’m an eejit, alright.
But an eejit that is head over heels in love for a little woman in Northern Ireland. And if I have to climb over those emerald hills to get to her, I will.
I spent most of my life not caring about much at all. Everything was a passing phase. Nothing held weight. Until Riley.
And I would move mountains for her.
I snatch up the scrunchie and continue the search for our long-eared friend. When I finally double-check behind the sofa, there he sits, squeezed between the wall and the furniture.
“Come on, you eejit bunny, we have places to be.”
I chuckle at myself all the way down the hallway. I toss him into the carry-on full of Ivy’s things and zip up our luggage.
Here we come, Riles.
All we have to do now is find a little town called Clady, make our way to the vet clinic, and tell the only girl in the world that I ever loved exactly that.
“Wish us luck, Fluffy.”
Nowhere on the ride to this tiny damn town was it mentioned that there are, in fact, two towns called Clady in Northern Ireland. After an international flight and a few too many tantrums—some even Ivy’s—I’m wiped.
I book a room at the inn of the town Clady that no O’Malleys live in or near, on the street that does not in fact have a vet clinic, and try to get my bearings.
It’s cold, miserable, and rainy outside. Maybe this was a terrible idea.
Maybe I’m a true eejit for dragging Ives halfway across the world to find her mama.
Can’t wait to see Riles’s face when she hears—
Ivy trips on the ratty rug by the bed in the world’s tiniest room and starts crying. I toss my phone to the bed and pick her up.
“I promise it will be worth it, baby girl. Tomorrow, we’ll see her.”
I bounce her on my knee until she calms down.
An hour later, she’s showered and in her pajamas, giving Mr. Fluffy the tightest huggle on one side of the bed, me the other.
I stroke her hair and sing her the lines of “Love Somebody” that I can remember in a low, slow tone.
Her eyes drift closed, and I release a ragged sigh.
I hope I haven’t made a stupid decision.
That I don’t get to the end of some tiny country road, only to be told to go home. That Riles has moved on from us . . .
I’ve never been great at relationships with any depth. Loving doesn’t come natural when you’re raised in a house full of criticism and expectation.
But this feels different.
I damn well hope it’s different.
I turn the key and fire up the engine of our tiny rental car, Ives chattering away in the back to Mr. Fluffy having only just woken up from her afternoon nap. Lucky the guy has long ears, because she sure spends a lot of time chewing his ear. Literally and figuratively.
I needed a few hours to plan our route, double-check we weren’t on a wild goose chase this time.
I have Ives to think about, and I have no desire to relive yesterday’s confusion and frustration.
I pull the map app up on my phone and haul in a deep, lung-stretching breath before rolling out of the inn’s parking lot and onto the road for the right Clady.
I hope.
Down some of the narrowest, windiest roads, we bump along to Ivy’s favorite songs, with a few of mine snuck into her playlist. The rain hasn’t let up, so we take it slow.
The outskirts of Clady come into view as the sun starts to set.
And she’s beautiful.
Rolling hills frame either side of the township. Quaint farms with hedged fences and roaming sheep and cattle. White homes line the streets before I make it to the center of town, where the buildings are similar but taller and more commercial.
Smack-bang in the center I find Smugglers Inn. Thank god, I could use a beer. Or is it a pint over here?
I pull into a parking spot, only to turn back and find Ives sound asleep.
Of course.
I guess international travel takes a toll. I kill the engine and decide to take my chances. I swaddle Ives into my arms, securing her coat around her before I step onto the wet sidewalk and into the pub.
Inside, warmth hits me instantly.
There’s amber lighting, cream walls, and low dark beams running the length of the ceiling.
Wooden tables and chairs that fill the floor before a long bar flanked by stools.
Most of them are occupied by older men. A built guy in a black uniform polishes glasses behind it, his gaze homing onto Ives and me the second the door squeaks shut behind us.
I give folks a nod as I walk for the bar.
There’s a side room where families sit eating. Kids play with a train set on the floor while the adults chat.
Nice.
Ives wakes up as I reach the bar, rubbing her eyes and looking around. She shrinks into me, as if understanding we’re in a strange place.
“How can I help you, mate?” the big guy behind the bar says. He looks like he’s in his early twenties, with dark hair gelled but not styled, and dark eyes. He’s a burly guy.
He swings the tea towel over his shoulder, obstructing the name stitched onto his shirt before I can read it. De was all I got.
“Hi, evening. I was wondering how far it is to the O’Malley place.”
He sets the glass down with a thud as his brows drop. “Who’s askin’?”
“Spencer. I’m actually looking for Riley O’Malley?”
“You don’t sound so sure.” He folds his arms over his chest.
Ives wriggles, wanting down.
She strains while I let her down, then wobbles over to the kids and the toys. Apparently, the stranger danger’s worn off.
“I am. How do I get to the O’Malley place? It’s important.”
The old guy on the stool to my left eyes me up and down. “Now, lad, why on earth would you be chasing that girlie for? Sour as they come, that Riley O’Malley.”
“Shut it, Curtis. Or I’ll do it for you while I toss your sorry ass out onto the curb,” the bartender growls.
I’d find it funny, if these two eejits weren’t obstructing my path to Riles.
“If you could just tell me the address.” My head shakes as I glance at Ives, who’s made herself at home with three little girls playing on the floor.
Someone fits right in here.
With a heavy sigh, the bartender plucks up the glass again. “End of Tullymoan Road offshoot. Can’t miss it.”
I collect Ivy from her impromptu playdate, and she whines as we make our way back to the car.
“So close, bubba. Hold on.”
I strap her in, and we’re following Siri’s directions to Tullymoan Road a minute later.
My heart thunders in my chest. The road is wet and grimy. I try to take it slow.
It would be great to get there before night falls. Or the rain gets heavier.
“You have arrived at your destination,” Siri says.
In the middle of damn nowhere.
“What the hell, woman? There’s nothing here!” I slam a hand on the steering wheel.
Ives squeals.
Mr. Fluffy is getting a flying lesson as she flings him around.
Urgh . . .
How insane would it be to step out of the car into the rain and start calling for Riley at the top of my lungs?
We’re just about at the point of desperation.
First, the radio silence for months. Then the ordeal with Ives’s papers. Then the international flight. Followed by the wrong town, a slightly unhelpful bartender . . . and—
Rain pelts down harder on the windshield.
Fuck my luck six ways to damn Sunday.
I turn the headlights to high beam and flick the fog lights on. A sign lights up a little way down the road.
Tullymoan Rd Ext.
“Shit, Ives. That’s it.”
I roll down the road and turn onto the smaller version of Tullymoan Road. It winds for a bit, and we follow it to the dead end we were expecting.
Large metal double gates sit at the entrance, shut.
I stop the car and open the gates. The driveway is mostly dirt until closer to the homestead I can barely see through the rain and now fog, barns dotted around it.
It looks just the way Riles described.
This has to be it.
Back in the car, I drive through the gates and get back out and shut them.
“Almost there, kiddo.”
I put the car in drive. The tiny little car slips as we make our way over the dirt section the rain has turned to a swampy track.
The tires start to spin, and we stop moving forward.
“Dammit.”
I kill the engine and spring from the car. Throwing Ivy’s door open, I unbuckle her and prop her up on my hip. I grab the carry-on with her things.
If I have to walk the last few miles, that’s what I’ll do.
Riley’s mom’s song flings into my head.
Humming along to the song I huff out, “I would walk . . . And I would walk five hundred . . . To see . . .”
The wind picks up, driving the cold rain into us sideways. I harry my pace, hugging Ives to my side.
She’s snuggled into my neck by the time the homestead lights are in our sights.
Thank fuck.
“Ready, baby? We came all this way.”
Ives turns, taking in the beaming light pouring from the house and barns.
The place is incredible. So much for the tiny little farm Riley spoke about. This is a legit stud operation. Brades would love to see this.
Mere feet from the homestead front door, I look up to see the fireplace smoke billowing from both ends of the house.
Inside, it looks so warm.
The resemblance to the cottage we shared is uncanny. Despite being three times the size, so much is the same. No wonder Riles was more at home there than the penthouse.
I raise my hand to knock, and the door opens.
“Whatever you’re sellin’, we ain’t interested.” A guy—with a similar build and appearance to the bartender, come to think of it—stands in the doorway, arms crossed over his chest.
“I’m not selling a single thing, bud. I’m here for Riley.”
His stance shifts, making him bigger.
Hell, they grow them—
“Spencer?” a young girl calls out, coming into view in the hallway behind the family bouncer, sliding on her socked feet. “Oh my god, it’s really you!”
“Chloe?” I ask, bending to meet her gaze.
“You total eejit, Connor, get out of the bleeding doorway.”
Connor, apparently, moves and glances at Chloe.
“Ivy baby.” Chloe reaches for her, and I hand her over. I feel like I know this girl even though I’ve only managed to see her on calls and to photo bomb the odd pic Riles sent.
Ivy starts playing with Chloe’s long wavy hair.
Connor eyes me up and down. “Ye walked in this? What, ye mad?”
He glances out at the rain, falling faster and heavier than before.
“Where is she, Connor?”