Chapter 28
Lucy
I muddled through school today, as has been my pattern since my life went crazy last week, and now, the final bell has rung, releasing me. Though, immediately, I feel a pull toward the bar. I need to talk to my dad, but since this bomb dropped, Beatrice has become the bastion of responsibility. She hasn’t called out once, and Dad took me off the schedule. Rationally, I know that’s likely because he’s giving me time to deal with all that letter revealed, but it’s also left me feeling adrift at the worst possible time and left me without an excuse to go to the pub.
So I guess I’ll just have to go on my own. It’s not like I need a reason to see Dad. I toss my backpack onto the passenger seat of my beat-up sedan and drive over to Barney’s. A warm gush of air greets me as I push open the heavy wooden door. The bar is its usual hive of activity, but I don’t see Dad.
“If you’re looking for your pa, he’s in the back.” Mick, the current bartender, nods toward the office without looking up from polishing glasses.
“Thanks, Mick,” I tell him, slipping past the regulars and down the narrow hallway that leads to Dad’s sanctuary.
The door is slightly ajar, and I knock softly before pushing it open. There he is, my father, hunched over a mountain of papers strewn across his desk. The sight of him stills me—eyes bloodshot and ringed with shadows deep enough to drown in, his hair unkempt and wild. He looks as though he’s been wrestling with more than just inventory and payroll.
“Hey, Dad?” My voice is tentative, unsure. He doesn’t respond, and I step closer, concern squeezing my chest. “Is everything okay?”
He finally lifts his gaze, and there’s a vulnerability there I’ve never seen before, a raw edge to the man who has always been my rock. I swallow hard. Whatever is happening, whatever is tearing at him, I need to know. I want to help.
“Talk to me, Dad.” I reach out, laying a gentle hand on his shoulder. “Please.”
He tries to muster a smile and waves away my concern with a shaky hand. “Lucy, I’m fine,” he says, but his voice is as crumpled as the papers before him.
“Fine?” The word fractures in my throat. We’ve been each other’s constants, the steady hands in the storm of life. And now, he’s retreating into this shell, this husk I barely recognize. “You’re not fine, Dad. Look at you!”
The frustration and fear claw up from my gut, and I can’t stop the words that burst forth. “Why did you marry her? Why did you take me on—another man’s child? What were you thinking?”
He recoils as if I’ve struck him. His shoulders slump, and his defenses crumble. “Lucy, I…” His voice trails off. Then, gathering the shards of his composure, he starts again. “I was so worried about you. I still am.” His eyes, red and weary, brim with a sorrow so deep it threatens to engulf us both. “I lo ved your mam more than life itself. She was everything to me. And when she brought you into this world… You were hers, which meant you were mine too.”
I reach out, pull him into an embrace, and hold on tightly.
“Jimmy O’Connor,” he scoffs. “He took her from me. And now, he’s going to take you too.”
“Me?”
“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you. Your mam and I talked about telling you, but then she left us.”
Tears blur my vision as I pull back to look at him. “Dad,” I choke out. “Jimmy O’Connor… He’s just a man. A name. He wasn’t there to hold my hand when I took my first steps or to patch up my skinned knees.”
My father looks up at me, and I take a deep breath, steadying myself before I continue. “He didn’t stand beside me at Mam’s funeral, holding me together while everything else fell apart.” My voice cracks, but I push on, needing him to understand. “You did. You’ve always been there. You’re my dad, in every way that counts.”
The dam breaks. His arms encircle me, pulling me into a bear hug that smells of old cologne and the faintest hint of whiskey, the scents of my childhood. We’re both shaking, our tears mingling as we cling to each other.
“Lucy,” he whispers, his voice thick with emotion. “My girl. My only girl.”
I nod against his chest. This is where I belong, safe in the knowledge that nothing can sever this bond.
After a moment, Dad pulls back slightly, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand. A sheepish smile plays on his lips as he switches gears.
“By the way,” he says, his voice hoarse but lighter now, “I had to lay down the law with Beatrice. She’s not calling out anymore, and she’s been covering for Janelle while she’s off studying for finals.”
I raise an eyebrow, fighting back a smile. “So, you figured out how to be the tough boss, huh?”
He gives me a reluctant grin, scratching his head. “Had to be done. Can’t let the place fall apart, now, can I?”
“Of course not,” I reply, my heart swelling with pride. This man, this beautifully flawed and resilient soul, is mine. No blood tie could ever compete with the love and history we share.
“Come on,” I say, squeezing his hand. “The others can handle it. Let’s go home.”
I navigate through the dimly lit pub, feeling the curious glances of the staff as I take my father’s arm. “I’m taking Dad home for the night,” I announce, steel in my voice leaving no room for questioning. “He’ll be back tomorrow.”
“Sure thing.” Beatrice nods as we pass.
The chill of the evening air hits us as we step outside and begin the familiar journey to my childhood home. Dad’s steps are unsteady, but his grip on me is firm.
We reach the house, its facade bathed in the soft glow of the porch light. I usher him inside, steering him toward the bathroom. “Go shower, Dad. You’ll feel better.”
I’m determined to have us remember the good times, so the first thing I do is locate our home movies. I think the last time we watched these was when Mam died, but they always bring a smile. We need that right now. While the sound of water running fills the silence, I set about restoring order to the crazy that has crept into our lives. The phone feels heavy in my hand as I dial Zeffirelli’s. Their spaghetti and meatballs have been a comfort food on countless nights before.
“Two orders, please. Yes, delivery. Thank you,” I say as I hang up.
With dinner on its way, I turn my attention to the living room where empty takeout containers from the pub have colonized the coffee table. As I collect them, my gaze falls upon a shattered frame, a jagged fracture obscuring the smiling face of my mother. My breath catches.
“Lucy…” Dad’s voice quivers from be hind me. He’s fresh from the shower, his hair damp and sticking up at odd angles. “I—I did that. In a moment of anger… I thought I was losing you too.”
I see the vulnerability written on his careworn face, the haunted look in his eyes that speaks of fears and regrets. Without hesitation, I close the distance between us. “There’s no way you could lose me, Dad,” I whisper fiercely, holding him tight. “Never. I’m right here. And I always will be.”
The doorbell rings, and I peel away reluctantly, brushing a stray tear from my cheek as I go to answer it. The air carries the rich scent of tomato sauce and garlic, and a warmth that has little to do with the food wafts over me as I take the bags from the delivery person. “Thank you,” I murmur, offering a small smile before closing the door.
“Smells like Zeffirelli’s,” Dad says eagerly.
“Only the best for tonight,” I reply. We settle on the couch, plates balanced on our laps, the comfort of spaghetti and meatballs a cure to our frayed nerves. I load up one of the video tapes I found earlier, press play on the remote, and the screen flickers to life with scenes of my youth. The joy we shared, just him and me, plays out in every scene. Birthday parties, Christmas mornings, school plays—he was always there, front and center.
“Look at us,” Dad says, his voice cracking. “We were quite the team, weren’t we?”
“Are,” I correct, reaching for his hand. “We are a team, Dad.”
He squeezes my hand, his eyes glistening. And in that simple gesture, all doubts evaporate. Jimmy O’Connor may share my DNA, but Declan Sheridan is—and always has been…my dad.