Chapter 6 The Sense of Humor Upstairs #2
As she nudged my chin with her fist, I fought the urge to lean into it like a cat searching for a head rub. I wanted her to keep touching me, however she wanted to do it.
I wanted more of that light. That warmth.
“Better?”
I managed to nod. Barely. “Yeah, um, thank you.”
“Anytime.”
She rounded back to her side of the bar. The space she’d occupied beside me was now a black hole.
“I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” I admitted to myself and her.
“Your parent is ill. Feeling shaken up is normal.” I watched as she pulled out a bottle of whiskey. “Refill?”
I found myself shaking my head. “Just a water. Um, please.”
I’d lost all desire to douse my sorrows and muddy my thoughts. Suddenly, I wanted to know everything about Simone Bishop, bartender and part-time candy striper. And I wanted a clear head to do it.
“How long have you been volunteering at the hospital?” I asked as she slid a glass of water my way.
“About five years.” She was back to polishing glasses. Always on the move. Clearly a good worker. “Since I moved to Boston.”
“Good money?”
Her mouth twisted in an adorably wry smile as she glanced around the bar. “I wouldn’t say that. That’s why I work here, to pay the bills. I tried nannying for a while, but I prefer the hours at the bar.”
“Planning to be a doctor or something?”
Simone scoffed, shaking her head. “Oh, gosh, no.”
“Why not?” It seemed like the obvious reason for all the time at the hospital.
“Honestly? I’m not interested in all that school. I didn’t even go to college.”
I was legitimately surprised. She seemed like the studious type—or at least like the teacher’s pet, the one who finished every assignment and did every bit of extra credit.
“Secondly, I don’t have that kind of money. And thirdly…” She trailed off, shaking her head. “No. Definitely no.”
Yeah, there was a story here.
“So, why spend so much time at the hospital?” Something wasn’t adding up, and for reasons I wasn’t ready to consider, I desperately wanted to know.
I wanted to know all the little mysteries about this woman.
She bit her lip, like she wasn’t sure she wanted to say it. But then our eyes met again, and the rest of the bar seemed to blur around us.
“My mom died there,” she said softly. “She had breast cancer, and at one point, we moved with her to the city so she could take part in a clinical trial at Mass Gen. It…failed.”
“That’s what you were talking about earlier.” She’d mentioned her mother died there, but this was on a different level.
Simone nodded. One glass was going to shine like a damn diamond. “So, I suppose—I don’t know, working there makes me feel like I can be closer to her, even when she isn’t around. She always said it’s our responsibility to give to people who need us. This is just my way of doing it, I guess.”
One of the missing pieces to the Simone Bishop puzzle clicked into place. I knew a little bit about losing a mother too, even if mine wasn’t technically dead. I bet this angel was just a kid, too.
“How old were you when she died?”
“Eight.”
I knew it.
Simone’s eyes glazed, but she didn’t cry. She was strong, this one. Used to her own tragedy. “After that, we went back to Vermont—that’s where I grew up.”
I already knew that, but I didn’t say. Given her thoughts on privacy, I doubted that she would appreciate my outright bribery of her coworkers.
“But when I moved to Boston, this was a way to be close to her again,” she finished. “Especially when I didn’t know anyone here.”
“What brought you back to Boston?” I found myself asking even though I was already making mental plans to have our family’s private investigator do a full workup on her.
For what, I didn’t know.
Yes, you do, you fuckin’ liar.
Simone’s bright face darkened with something that looked like bitterness, though the shadow was fleeting. “My twin sister. And my niece.”
Twin. Twin. It meant she probably wasn’t burdened with eldest child syndrome like I was, but I was still willing to wager she’d been born first.
My fingers drummed on the bar top, fighting the urge to reach across it for her hand. Maybe even tug her back around to hold her the same way she’d held me. Anything to erase the loneliness that had crept into those beautiful features.
In that moment, I would have traded every penny of my net worth just to see what joy looked like on Simone Bishop’s beautiful face.
Instead, I kept asking questions. “So, you two grew up in Vermont? Any other siblings?”
“No, it was just the two of us. My family has a place near Woodstock. A farm.” To my goddamn delight, a bit of light entered her expression. “The dairy side used to pay the bills, but we made goat cheese too and sold eggs and produce at the local farmers’ markets.”
“So, you’re a farm girl?”
She giggled, and my heart gave a massive thump of victory. And I didn’t even have to pay a cent for it.
“So, what was that like? Did you spend your childhood gallivanting through lush green meadows and milking cows? It sounds so idyllic and American.”
Another giggle. I practically levitated.
“You make me sound like Laura Ingalls Wilder. It was hardly idyllic.”
I watched, rapt, as one graceful finger tapped her very soft-looking bottom lip.
“Well, some parts were. But mostly it’s a lot of hard work caring for animals and raising produce like that.
Before my mom died, my parents ran a tight ship.
After…well, my dad tried, but he’s bad with numbers.
The farm has been struggling for a long time, so I stayed in the city to work, and I send my extra cash to help.
Last year, tips from businessmen like you paid for the new furnace. ”
I frowned. She was telling me one story—that of a simple country girl with deep ties to her roots—but I was hearing another. One about a daughter exploited by her family. Expected to pick up the pieces when the rest couldn’t get their shit together.
It was unjust and unfair.
And far too familiar.
“Was he a good father?” I couldn’t help but ask.
I hoped she’d answer yes. I hoped she’d say that even if her dad couldn’t make the money to give his daughter the future she deserved, at least he filled her life with love. I hoped she would give me a reason not to exploit her dire straits and vulnerability in order to fulfill my own agenda.
Instead, Simone blinked rapidly and started polishing her glass again, even more intensively than necessary.
“He tried. Sometimes he was great. He’s kind.
Gives great hugs, and I never want to let go because his flannel shirts are so worn and soft.
We love watching old musicals together. His favorite is South Pacific.
When he was in a good mood, he’d put on the soundtrack and sing ‘Some Enchanted Evening’ to my mom like he was Rossano Brazzi. ”
Another sweet smile played on her mouth.
“They sound like they were really in love.” It was a nice fairy tale, anyway.
“They were, I think. To hear my dad tell it, it was love at first sight. They met when my mom’s family was visiting Woodstock on vacation.
She and Dad went into an ice cream shop on the same day.
They both picked chocolate chip. Two weeks later, her parents left, but she stayed, and the two of them got married in our living room.
My sister and I were born nine months later. ”
“And now? Why do you think he…”
“Faded?” She shrugged, though the pain was evident in the hunch of her shoulders.
“That’s how I think of it, I guess. It’s not his fault he had no idea what to do with two young daughters.
Eventually, he let us…go, I suppose. Do what we wanted while he didn’t do much of anything.
I don’t think he knew what else to do. I think when Mama died, it was like he lost his anchor. He just sort of drifted.”
Was it possible that sadness could make someone more beautiful? Those blue eyes glittered with pain, that pink bottom lip swelled after she bit it too hard, those cheeks reddened with emotion.
The urge to pull her into my arms and kiss away that sadness howled inside my chest. “My mother’s gone too.”
Simone’s gaze met mine, full of sympathy.
“Not dead,” I corrected. “Just…gone. She and my dad were married. Twice, actually—a sordid story I won’t bore you with. But they split up permanently when I was still young, and my father made sure she was gone for good. Since I was about twelve, I’ve only ever seen her once a year.”
The facts felt foreign. I wasn’t used to talking like this. Give and take. Opening up and letting her into my personal life and in return, sampling her stories like they were a hundred-year-old port.
My life was Blackguard. Cutting remarks and business reports were what I gave, and my family’s temper tantrums were what I took.
This was new.
Amazingly pleasant and normal, but definitely new.
Simone and I blinked at each other over the bar while something that sounded like Jim Croce played on a jukebox. The song was familiar.
My past, present, and future collided with a force that nearly knocked me off my stool.
Mom in the kitchen of a beach rental on the Cape, singing with Loggins and Messina about not having money, being so in love with you, honey.
Liza’s words echoing from the hospital: that I needed “a house, a wife, a family.”
Simone greeting me as I returned home from work, barefoot, pregnant, and glowing with a grin like a Hallmark heroine.
The howl was back. The feeling of wanting something so badly, I couldn’t breathe.
The possibility that maybe it wouldn’t all have to be an act.
Was I really that…stupid?
I was pulled out of the combined daydreams by a hand on my arm. I looked down to find Simone’s delicate fingers squeezing through the wool.
“It’ll be okay,” she said. “He’s going to be okay.”
I blinked. Right. Dad. She didn’t need to know just how far I was from thinking of him. Which, arguably, I should only be thinking about. Especially since I’d originally come here with one particular agenda.
“I have to help some other customers,” she said, nodding to the other end of the bar. “But, Brendan? Anytime you need to talk, you can find me here.”
She released my arm and went back to work.
Was her kindness just her doing her job, or was she feeling the same heady rush I was? Would she understand what I wanted? Would I even be able to differentiate that from what I needed to do?
This was a bad idea. I should have done what Liza had all but suggested—found some society brat desperate to become the next Mrs. Black. Someone I could control. Someone I felt nothing for.
But I couldn’t just let her leave.
“Hey,” I called, though Simone didn’t seem to hear me. “Would you—”
The buzzing of my phone interrupted me, and I pulled it out of my jacket pocket.
Owen.
“You dick,” I told the phone. “Worst fuckin’ timing, as always.” Nevertheless, I answered. “What?”
“Are you done soul-searching, or do you need another hour to find yourself?”
“Fuck off. What is it?”
“Dad woke up. Get your ass back here.”