Liam: Branded Brothers (5 page)

“Did he have any friends or anything?”

“Not really, he was a loner. Kept to himself most of the
time. I think I was the closest thing to a friend he’d had in a long time.”

“You know how he got this place? Did he grow up here?”

“I don’t know, never said.” Charla shook her head. “We
didn’t talk much about our pasts. We both preferred it that way. He said he was
a woodworker back in the day and that he missed Helen, but that’s about it.”

“Hmm.” Liam took another swig of beer.

“Did he mention your brothers’ names in the letter?” she
asked.

“Just their first names, Ronan and Brody. They’re younger
than me, but that’s all I have to go on.”

“I know it’s probably hard to believe, but Jack wasn’t that
bad of a guy. I can’t see him leaving you all unless he had a reason,” she
said. “Doesn’t seem like something he would do.”

“Well, he did.”

“It had to be for a good reason. Jack didn’t seem like the
dead-beat type who wouldn’t take responsibility for his family. He talked about
Helen and asked for her at least twice every single day for the last year. She
was the love of his life. He was alone for the rest of his life after she
died.”

“What happened to her?”

“She died over twenty years ago, but I don’t know what
happened. He never said anything about it. It’s like the actual death never
happened. When I first met him, he didn’t want to talk about it. And later on,
I think he just forgot she was dead. He always asked where she was.”

“But he never said anything about his sons?” Liam asked.

“Nothing about his sons,” she said with a shrug. She left
out the part about the boy and the suitcase and the rest of his crazy ramblings
before he died. It would only muddy the situation, and this situation
definitely didn’t need any more muddying.

“Have you seen any pictures of her?”

“Only one.” She got out of the chair and disappeared down
the hallway. She went into her room and dug through a box of belongings she had
marked with an X, the things she intended to take with. She couldn’t bring
herself to throw away the picture of Helen and Jack. Somehow, she thought
disposing the picture would erase the existence of Helen and Jack’s love.

She returned with the framed picture and handed it to Liam. “Here.
It’s yours. Keep it.”

“Helen and Jack,” he said, turning over the picture in his
hands. “My biological parents.”

Charla sat down next to him and looked at the picture. They
were both beautiful, young and full of life. “I can see you in Jack. You
definitely have the same hair. The same eyes.”

“Yeah, I guess I can see myself a little,” he said, turning
over the frame in his hands. He began to bend the clips in the back. “It’s
strange to think my dad was only thirty minutes away. I wonder if our paths
ever crossed. I could’ve passed right by him and never known he was my father.”
He popped off the cardboard backing to pull out the picture. A small, thin
piece of paper fluttered out.

“What’s that?” she asked.

“It looks like a receipt from a restaurant,” he replied,
taking the paper in his hand. “It’s from 1989.”

“A first date maybe?” She shrugged her shoulders.

“Maybe,” he said, turning it over.

“Jack could be sweet when he wanted to be,” Charla said,
taking a drink. Somehow the bottle was half gone already. She had grown
accustom to drinking Guinness regularly, although prior to moving in with Jack,
she had despised most beer and alcohol in general. With an alcoholic mother,
avoidance seemed like the best route. She had to limit Jack’s intake by hiding
beer in the garage. He’d always forget he had one and always asked for more,
even after she showed him the empty bottles. The role was a familiar one for
her, except this time around, Jack had an excuse. Her mother didn’t.

Liam pulled out the photo, running his finger along the
edges before tucking it back into place. He set the receipt on next and then
placed the cardboard backing on top, folding over the tabs. He turned it around
and gave it another look before setting it on the couch next to him.

“I should check in at the bar,” he said, pulling out his
phone. “What’s your number, by the way? I want to be able to call you if I have
any questions about Jack.”

“Is that your sly way of asking me for my number?” she
asked. “You could have just asked without pulling the whole
I have to call
the bar
thing.”

“Well, I didn’t know if you’d want to give me your number
after pushing me away,” he said, holding his finger poised over the keypad. She
recited her number, watching as he punched it in. “And I really do need to call
the bar. Do you mind if I take it outside?”

“Not at all,” she replied as he stood up. “The reception’s
better outside anyway.” He disappeared through the front door and stood on the
front porch even though the rain had stopped. She watched the glow of his cell
phone light up the darkness. She smoothed out her dress and tucked her hair
behind her ear.

Damn it,
she chided herself. She didn’t know why she
even cared what she looked like. Nothing was going to happen between them.

He walked back through the door, letting it slam behind him.
“I’ve got to go. Some guys had too much to drink and are getting rowdy, but
I’ve got your number.” He held up the phone.

“Yeah,” she said, sliding her beer on the coffee table. She
tried to ignore the pang of disappointment she felt. “I’ll get your clothes
from the dryer.”

“Don’t worry about it. I’ll get them another time. Will you
walk me out?” Liam said, opening the door.

“Sure,” she replied as she walked through the door. She
didn’t know what to think about the idea of seeing him again. As far as she was
concerned, their business
should
be done, but she felt an inkling of
intrigue about a possible next encounter.

“Maybe you should buy a new car with the money you get from
the house,” he suggested. She cringed at her beat-up Corolla parked in front of
his shiny black Audi. He unlocked his doors with a chirp from the key fob.

“Yeah, I was thinking about it,” she said, putting her hands
on her hips. A hint of his cologne drifted toward her from the night breeze.

“Let me know if you need any help moving some of the heavy
stuff,” he said, standing by his opened door. “I wouldn’t want you to get hurt
or anything.”

“Lift with the legs, not the back. I know the drill. Jack
was a good forty pounds heavier than me, and believe me, he needed some
coercing at times.”

“If he was anything like me, I bet he did. Some of my fellow
squad members can attest to that,” he replied, twirling the key fob in his
hand. “Well, it was nice to meet you, Charla Taylor.”

“You too,” she said. “Drive safe and call me if you need
anything.”

“Anything?” he asked, raising his eyebrows. “That’s a pretty
wide open invitation.”

“You know what I mean.” She let out a nervous laugh. “I
still have your clothes.”

“Good night, Charla,” he said with a smile that made her
knees weak. Then he opened the door and climbed into the car.

“Good night,” she whispered as he shut the door. The bang
rattled the summer night and echoed in her heart. She watched as he backed out
of the driveway, his headlights shining on her the whole way down.

Maybe she could stand a little brooding Irish gunslinger in
her life after all.

Chapter 3

The faint ticking of the grandfather
clock in the living room hummed in Charla’s ear like a lullaby. She turned on
her side, gazing out the window of her bedroom at the glimmering shadows of the
lake. The full moon reflected on the surface in a sweeping line of pale white.
She closed her eyes, listening closely to the quiet thud that echoed with each
bang of the canoe against the dock.

Liam.

She couldn’t get him or his lips out of her mind. She was
still wearing the cotton dress she’d put on, not wanting to part with the idea the
night was over. She slid her hand under her head, and tried to let go of the
notion of having a relationship or
anything
with Jack’s son. She
wondered what Jack had said in the letter. Had the events he spouted off before
he died actually happened? It was more than twenty years ago, but she wondered
if people were still looking for Jack. Things like this just didn’t go away.
There were legacies to fulfill. There were vengeances to be paid. People like
this didn’t bury the hatchet; they didn’t forget. If any of it was true, she
might be in danger, and Liam might be, too.

She considered calling the Dirty Leprechaun, but she didn’t
know what she’d say. How could she explain over the phone that Liam was the son
of a long-time-ago mafia errand boy? He’d probably laugh it off, just like she
had. He was delusional.
It was the Alzheimer’s
, Charla reminded herself.
None of it made any sense. She had called one of her old nursing instructors
about it the day after he’d passed, and she confirmed the delusional or fantasy
world of Alzheimer’s patients. His mind couldn’t distinguish between reality
and fantasy. She had told Charla not to worry. It was all part of the process.

Some process
, she thought, looking back at the gentle
shimmer of the lake. She’d miss the sounds, the smells, and the serenity the
cottage offered. It was off the beaten path, tucked into a deep corner hidden
by massive evergreens. She’d slept with the curtains closed for the last two
years, but tonight she wanted to hang on to the view of the lake just a little
bit longer. The only thing missing was Jack’s laborious snores. She never
thought there would come a day when she’d miss that sound.

Her eyelids became heavy, blinking slowly as the ticking of
the clock softened in her mind. She could feel her breathing slow and her body fall
deeper into the bed. Then she gave one last desperate plea for her step-father
to leave her alone tonight. All she wanted was to sleep peacefully, just one
night. She caught a final glimpse of the canoe, its hull gleaming in the
moonlight, before her lids closed for the final time.

Then she saw herself in her dream like she had every night
since Jack’s death. She was standing in the living room of the run-down
apartment on Fifth Street. It was the one with apple wallpaper in every room.
When she thought of the apartment, that’s all she could remember: the faded
apples she could peel off the wall with a scratch of her fingers. She could see
her mother passed out in her bedroom down the hallway. Charla could see the
latest ring of black around her eye.

She looked down at the straps of her coveted Steve Maddens.
She worked extra hours at the hospital just to get these shoes. She was proud
to wear these shoes. All the others were a complete embarrassment to her as a
sixteen-year-old. She learned early that she’d have to take care of herself if
she was ever going to make it through school without being completely harassed.
She threw away the box and blacked out the label on the instep of the shoe
before her mother could get a glimpse. Her mother would make her return them if
she knew how much they’d cost.

Charla reached down to touch the shoes when her eyes fell on
a body face down just a couple feet ahead. She watched his back for a minute,
not seeing the slight rise and fall of the intake of oxygen. She recognized the
blue pin-striped shirt and the faded jeans. He wore that shirt every day even
though he’d long ago lost his job as a mechanic. She knew she should feel a
sense of urgency or a jolt of panic rush through her body, but all she felt was
this sudden warmth of relief. A sudden sense of liberation and hope. She waited
for another minute, still not seeing any sort of movement. She knew she should
call an ambulance, and she would,
eventually
.

She crept forward and bent down near her step-father. He’d
made her life a living hell for the last seven years. He never laid a finger on
Charla, but he unleashed all his anger on her mother’s face, arms, or whatever
he could get a hold of. He had beaten down and broken the woman who was
supposed to take care of her. Now here he lay, broken on the floor of the
living room. Charla had no will to fix him. She lifted his shoulder an inch off
the ground, but quickly realized she would have to put more weight into it. She
moved down to his torso and yanked with all her might, slowly gaining enough
momentum to flip him over.

The body flopped on its back, his chest still not moving.
Her eyes moved up to see the blank stare of Jack’s face…

Charla gasped, flicked open her eyes and shot up in her bed.
Her chest heaved in and out and sweat dripped down her forehead.

“Just a dream. Just a dream,” she whispered in a chant,
hugging herself. She knew it was time for Jack to go. She had done everything
she possibly could to help him. There was, however, more she could have done
for her step-father. She had found her step-father choked to death on his own
vomit after a night of drinking when she was fifteen. She had known she should turn
him over and swipe out his mouth, but she couldn’t. Instead she’d stood
paralyzed in the middle of the living room, unable to do anything but feel
overwhelming joy. As his lips turned blue, all Charla could see was light. She
had waited five minutes before calling an ambulance. Every second had ticked
like a step closer to freedom.

As she wiped the sweat from her brow, a loud creak sounded
in the house. She lay back down heavily on her pillow, ignoring the songs of
the old cottage. They no longer startled her like they had when she first moved
in. She pulled the covers up to her chin and stared at the shadows on the
ceiling, wondering if the memory of her step-father would ever disappear. They
had been quiet for the past three years as she cared for Jack and enjoyed the
solitude of the cottage, away from her past.