Chapter 24 Declan
DECLAN
The driver stops in front of the Meridian Hotel, a five-star location.
Maggie slowly gets out of the car and then spins in a small circle, taking in our surroundings.
Drawing a breath, a small smile forms on her perfect lips.
The lights from the hotel practically make her sparkle.
The crackling inside builds. I want nothing more than for this trip to happen under a different set of circumstances, ones in which I can take all the wrongs I’ve done out of the equation.
She’s too good, sweet, and pure. She doesn’t belong here. At least not with me.
It’s like the past sacks me on fourth down. The ball switches play and now I’m on defense, deep in familiar territory. Exactly where I don’t want to be.
Shoulders bowed, I mutter, “I’ll see you in the morning.”
She wedges herself between me and the vehicle’s door before I can close it and tell the driver to speed away, possibly back to Boston. Though I’d make sure Maggie made it home safely.
“Where are you going?” she asks.
“Not here.”
“Declan, I don’t think you understand. I’m your coach. Where you go, I go.”
“Bathroom too?” I ask, humor filtering through the density of my return.
“No, gross. But the deal with your coach, your actual football coach and the commissioner, is that I basically babysit you. I’m to report your every move.
And don’t ask if I mean the ones in the bathroom, too.
Absolutely not. Your career and, according to what you told me, the careers of three other guys, are riding on this.
So, if you’ve made secret arrangements to meet with Brandi or whoever, it’s off. ”
I scrub my hand down the back of my neck. “It’s not like that.”
“Then where are you going?”
“The hospice.” My voice is almost a whisper.
If she’s surprised, she doesn’t show it, but she does get back into the car. Gaze softer now, she says, “Like I said, where you go, I go.”
The driver moves into traffic. The sheen on the asphalt suggests it rained recently. I recognize the names of the streets, the turns the driver takes, and many of the stores and pubs, but a lot has changed, too.
Have I? I feel like I’m ten, twelve, sixteen all over again—when Aunt Maureen got me out—when my life hung by a frayed thread.
“I haven’t been home in years either.” Maggie’s voice floats to me from the other side of the car.
“I take it home is not in Florida. So where is it? You never told me,” I answer.
“I don’t know anymore.”
“What about your parents?”
Her answer is silence as if to remind me that the topic is off-limits.
When I had her phone, I saw a photo of a little girl with her same eyes, hazel with amber flecks, tucked between two adults who looked vaguely familiar. Perhaps she suffered a tragedy of her own and is as alone as me.
“How about your home?” she asks, breaking the long pause.
She seems alone, lonely at times. I recognize the empty void of that feeling and how deep its claws sink in to keep me there. I don’t want to shut her out, but I can’t let her get close to the past—to who I was.
But Maggie is a beam of sunlight. What would happen if I let a little of that into the shadowy spots?
Before allowing myself to think too hard, I blurt, “I never knew my father. My mother passed away when I was a lad. Grew up...moving around. When I was sixteen, my great aunt found me. We’d never met before that, but I went to live with her in the United States.
She was a flight attendant. The private plane was a gift for her, but. ..” I trail off.
Maggie is quiet for a long moment. “I get the sense that you’re avoiding something.” She faces me, gaze soft with understanding, despite the private airplane reentering the conversation.
As we pass under the street lights and illuminated signs, her features move in and out of shadow. I sense the same could be said about her avoiding something.
“Listen, I’m here to help you manage your life. The good and bad. The tricky and easy. I’m your coach. It’s my job.”
“You’re also my friend.”
“Remember, we didn’t know each other until now.”
“But we’re no longer at Blancbourg.” I lift both my eyebrows.
“We have to follow the rules.”
“We’re in my territory now. I make the rules,” I say with a laugh, but I’m not joking. For a long time, that was true...until things went too far.
We pull up in front of a nondescript brick building. Maggie’s gaze floats to the sign Hope House Hospice.
I sense the gears shift between us as the car comes to a stop.
In a low voice, I say, “What I need right now is a friend.”
Without hesitating, Maggie takes my hand.
If I didn’t know better, I’d claim my shoes are made of granite.
I don’t really want to go inside and see my aunt, once energetic and inspiring, in bed.
Technically, she’s my great aunt. Maureen Printz worked well into her sixties, flying all over the world.
She’d tell me about all her travels, making the planet seem like a magical place, rather than the rough, thankless life I’d experienced on the streets before she came along.
She was my very own knight in shining armor, rescuing me from myself.
Above all, Aunt Maureen had believed in me.
I pause on the sidewalk, considering turning back as the shadows try to fog me over.
Maggie gives me a gentle look. “She probably isn’t awake. It’s late. She’s ill...” I don’t want to say goodbye.
Maggie loops her arm through mine, snugging me closer and pulling me forward.
We stand outside the entryway. The mossy smell of the river combines with the aroma of roasting coffee, the yeasty waft of Guinness, and the faint yet ever-present burning of tobacco.
Or perhaps I’m just remembering those distinct smells of the city rather than letting myself get too close to Maggie’s sweet rosewater scent.
“I’m not good at goodbyes,” I say.
“You’re not good at hellos either.”
We both laugh lightly.
“But I thought I got a positive review from you.”
“Water guns,” she reminds me, pointing her fingers like a pair of pistols. “But I’m here to help you work on that. Anyway, how do you know it’s goodbye?”
“Because she’s in hospice care. You know what that means.”
We cross into the foyer. A few chairs are against one wall, a table with some outdated magazines, and a desk with a single light glowing dimly. It’s quiet yet peaceful.
“What do you believe?” Maggie asks. “Do you really think this is all there is? That goodbye means the end?” She eyes the cross on the wall.
“Well, no,” I hedge.
“Then have faith,” Maggie whispers.
Without another word, her hands are around mine and she bows her head. We remain that way, each of us sending silent prayers up to God while we wait for the attendant to return.
A few minutes later, someone clears their throat. “Apologies for the delay. Short-staffed this evening. Nurse Milly has a stomach bug and we can’t have her around our residents. May I help you?” The older man’s voice rises and falls like my own lilting Irish accent, bringing me unexpected comfort.
“We’re here to see Maureen Printz,” I say in a clearer voice than I expect.
“Oh, you must be her nephew. She talks about you every day. Thank you for the generous donation.”
“Happy to help. You do incredible work here.”
The man nods and then comes around from the desk to lead us to the room. “Don’t tell anyone, because I’m not supposed to have favorites, but she’s mine. Maureen has the best stories.”
My eyes tickle, but a smile rises to my lips. “That sounds about right.” When I went to live with her in Boston, she’d tell me wild stories of adventure.
Before we enter, I whisper into Maggie’s ear and can’t help but get a breath of her sweet rosewater scent. “Prepare yourself, Aunt Maureen is a hoot. She’s as elegant as she is—”
“A jokester?” Maggie asks, filling in for me.
I chuckle because she’s not far from the mark.
“Must run in the family.”
All the same, I take a deep breath as the attendant opens the door.
“There’s my lad,” Maureen says in a raspy voice when we enter.
Maggie follows me.
Aunt Maureen reclines in bed and the light in the room forms a dim golden halo, but her eyes are as bright as ever. “Who’s this lovely lass?”
“Aunt Maureen, this is Maggie. Maggie Byrne,” I say.
She pads closer and clasps the older woman’s hand. “I’m very fond of your nephew. Thank you for raising a rascal.” She winks.
A smile races across my lips.
“It’s nice to finally meet you, Maggie. Declan always mentions you when we talk. Surprised we never crossed paths back in Boston when you kids were in high school. It’s almost as if he was hiding you from me.”
The room is silent for a moment, reminding me that I’m holding my breath.
Maggie says, “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
“Likewise. I thought you were going to thank me for raising a gentleman and I was going to call malarkey on you.”
“You mean caveman?” Maggie jokes.
They both laugh.
“Declan, I like this lass. She’s a straight talker.”
“That she is. Also, she’s the one who’s teaching me to be a gentleman.”
“Will Wick Hightower be at the Super Bowl this year?” Aunt Maureen winks at Maggie.
“You know the offensive coordinator?” I ask.
My aunt smiles demurely. “Dinner and conversation have been had. Memories made. But I don’t think I’ll be there this year.”
“I’m not entirely sure we’ll make it either. Half the defensive line is injured or still recovering,” I reply, meaning to make my aunt feel better, but realizing a moment too late that I probably drew more attention to her ailments.
“Don’t be thick. Sure, you will. The Bruisers quarterback has an arm like a canon and can scramble like Tarkenton.”
“Fran Tarkenton?” I ask, shocked that my elderly aunt knows that legendary football reference.
“We met when I was on the London-Chicago route, years ago.” Her cheeks take on a healthy glow.
“And let’s not forget they have a great wide receiver.” Maggie leans into me with a smile.
Her gaze meets my aunt’s and floods me with warmth. What was I expecting coming back here? A stiff beating? Retribution for all the ones I’d given? I don’t know, but it wasn’t this.
Maggie sits down in a folding chair next to my aunt’s bed while I remain by the door.
“Oh, good, she’s going to stay. Why don’t you make yourself comfortable, too, Declan? I’d like Maggie to know what kind of tangle she’s getting herself into.”
“I have some idea,” Maggie says.
“Is that so?” Aunt Maureen asks with an arched eyebrow and a playful smile.
“But I wouldn’t object to getting the full picture,” Maggie adds.
“A captive audience. I like it.” Aunt Maureen coughs.
“Can I get you some water?” I ask.
“Nope. I’m fine. You get used to the interruptions. Now, where was I? Oh yes, a story about our wee Declan.”
I know what’s coming and wave my hands as though trying to avoid an oncoming vehicle. “You don’t have to do that, Aunt Maureen.”
“Oh, but I do.” Mischief scrolls across her features.
Maggie leans in.
It’s then that I realize that Aunt Maureen must think we’re a couple. My insides crackle.
“If you can believe it, Declan used to be a pipsqueak. A scrawny boy. I only know this from a few photos and his own accounts, but after his mother passed, he learned to get along on the streets. Do you understand? A real punk,” she says to Maggie.
“Aunt Maureen, are you getting tired?” I ask, trying to thwart her account of my childhood.
“Tired? Not anymore. You’ve made my, well, your visit made my day.” She coughs. “Back then, all Declan’s flash and fame were more like grit and grime. He toughened up, dare I say a bit too much. Fights, trouble with the Garda. My, oh my, he was naughty.”
I pump my hands. “Okay, okay. Let’s hear a more uplifting story. Tell Maggie about the time you visited the Royalty in Concordia.”
“Oh, what a grand place. The castle, the ball, the glamour,” she says.
Her eyes dip as if in reverie. “Before I get to that, Declan, did you hear about Keefe? His mother paid me a visit about a week ago. Says she tried to get ahold of you.” She turns to Maggie and her expression darkens.
“Has he told you about Keefe? Talk about naughty. No, that word is too kind. Keefe was a—” Her tone thins.
“I suppose it was inevitable. Tragic though.”
My throat tightens. Then my gaze shoots to Maggie and it’s like I have a vision of two closed doors. Behind one is a pit of loss and loneliness that’ll swallow me up. Behind the other is a future with this woman, who is my best friend, with the potential for more. So much more.
It’s as if my whole life has been driving me toward making this choice, minus the detour of the last few years.
I know the destination I desire and she has hazel eyes, a sweet smile, and the kind of warmth that could thaw the coldest, darkest of hearts.
But I don’t deserve her. After everything that’s happened in the past, my fate lies behind the first door.