Read Somebody Wonderful Online
Authors: Kate Rothwell
Somebody Wonderful (16 page)
“Oh, it can be quite primitive. We often live in tents and in spots hundreds of miles from civilization. After Griffin left I was lonely. I would hate . . .” Her voice trailed off.
She frowned and her eyes seemed unusually somber. Mick straightened up and, with one arm, pulled her against him. His hug brought her smile back and caused the kids to start wailing like a bunch of banshees. Or maybe she grinned and they screamed with delight because the baby chose that moment to puke copiously down Mick’s shoulder.
They went to lunch soon after that, just the two of them, with no Tuckers, Lex, Eddy, or any other of Mick’s strays tagging along. Timona thought they might venture to a better restaurant, but these days Mick refused to go anywhere he could not afford.
“Not Colsun’s,” begged Timona. “Nor Miggies.”
So Mick led the way to a small, drab restaurant Timona hadn’t visited, tucked between two storefronts.
“I’ll not be reduced to being your dependent yet, Miss Calverson,” he said, prickly when she suggested she pay for the meal.
She groaned. “Please. Do not sound as if you are my victim, Mr. McCann.”
With obvious effort, he smiled back at her. “Aye. I’m at it again, aren’t I.”
“Yes. Once again you are practicing to be an irritable old curmudgeon.”
Mick’s smile grew more genuine. Timona loved the way he could be teased out of the sulks. Even when he was firmly determined to be grouchy or pigheaded he couldn’t maintain the attitude for long. He was too prone to good humor and fairness.
The waiter strolled over and slapped Mick on the back. “In the middle of the day, lad? Off duty?”
“Off the force,” said Mick. “I left. Timmy Calverson, this is Eamonn Dunellen.”
The waiter, a large man with dark hair and a full beard, resembled a young Father Christmas.
He smiled and bowed to Timmy. “Call me Eamonn.” He turned his attention back to Mick. “You left a marvelous job like that? You must be crazy.”
“No, no. I’m heading for the country.”
Eamonn looked at Mick and muttered something about how only fools leave New York.
He refused to take their order and announced sternly, “I’ll bring what I think you should eat. If you don’t like it, I’ll eat it myself.” He sauntered off the kitchen.
Timona looked at Mick, who still had that pinched and harried look he got whenever the subject of money or the future arose.
“I hope you don’t mind go Uncle David’s?”
He shrugged. “Seems like a fine plan. For me, anyway. I have thought it time to leave the city for a while. Losing my job must be a sign. But what of you, Timona? What, er, what will you want to do?” He asked slowly, and shy, as if unsure of his right to pry.
She looked at him for a long minute. The man was utterly dense. Didn’t he understand he would have to change into a different person or drive her away before she left him?
She considered telling him so again point-blank, but she would have to squelch the urge to punch him when he stared at her as if he did not believe her. And he already had the pained look in his eyes. Her heart lurched when she saw that look. At last she said, “I shall be fine.”
Their food arrived. Timmy had resigned herself to one of the dreadful-looking sandwiches she saw other patrons eating. But she was pleasantly surprised by the large platter of fragrant lamb stew the waiter set down in front of them.
Eamonn said something to Mick in Gaelic.
Mick laughed and shook his head.
“What did he say?” Timona asked.
“Oh. He told me if I regained my sanity and wanted a job I could have one. He’s the owner of the place.”
“How did you meet him?”
“His baby was ailing. I got Dr. O’Toole to help.”
Eamonn, swooping past with a plate of insipid sandwiches, must have overheard. He dumped the sandwiches and came back. “Dr. O’Toole did less than you yourself, McCann.”
He looked at Timmy and grinned. “When he came banging on the door, I thought, Lord, preserve me. On top of all my other troubles, I’m under arrest. We had no money a couple years back and we couldn’t pay for a doctor, so my oldest boy had stopped this lad on his beat and dragged him in. After his beat he came back and spent two days and nights caring for that baby. Who knew the angel of mercy would be dressed as a copper?”
Mick said something obviously disparaging. Eamonn laughed.
“Don’t give me such nonsense, McCann. You’re a clumping big oaf, but I say you’re an angel of God. Eat your stew.”
Someone yelled from the kitchen. Eamonn winked at Timmy and sauntered away.
Mick took a bite. “We should leave the city as soon as we possibly can, Timmy. I worry about Jenny. Maybe getting her out of that flat will help.”
“Do you know you were absolutely right that first morning when you talked to Rob about Jenny? She’s hopeless. Her milk has dried up, too, so poor baby Quinton is a wreck. We found someone to nurse him until we leave. And she’s delighted to have a baby to hold, poor woman.”
The pinched look was completely gone. Instead his wide smile glowed at her in a way that still made her insides grow warm and her heart beat almost too fast. “Timmy. You are something special. How do you do it?”
“Ho, Mick, I’m nothing special. You’re just fond of me.”
“You are special,” he insisted. Haltingly, not quite looking at her, he added, “I do indeed like you. Timmy you’re a grand woman and I, ah, am quite fond of you.”
She drew a deep breath. Close enough to the signal for which she’d waited. She could bring up the subject she’d avoided. Time to try again, if she could ignore the fear gathering in her throat. If he said no . . . she spoke before trepidation made her silent. “Do you remember when you asked to marry you? I now accept. Will you marry me?”
Mick’s smile broadened, then quickly faded. His mouth opened. Then closed. At last he answered, “Timmy you must see it wouldn’t be right.”
She blew out her lips, impatient, but relieved. Thank goodness she had seen that first reaction, one of his lovely smiles. He might get the picture eventually.
She said, contemplatively, “So that’s once you’ve asked, and I refused, and twice I’ve asked and you’ve refused. We’ll be on the same track some day.”
Mick took her hand between his, and began what Timmy suspected was a speech he’d thought up earlier. “You don’t see it, but I do, clear as day. I understood it when I—that day when I went to see your brother at that hotel. It wouldn’t be fair to you, chaining you forever to a man like me. Especially as I have no job just now. There is a chasm, Timmy love. You fly across it like an angel, but I can never cross it. Never in this life time . . .” He interrupted himself. “You asked me to marry you before? When?”
“Just after you first played your flute for me. That second day.”
He frowned, then laughed. “I’d forgotten. I thought you were having me on.”
“No, I most certainly wasn’t. You know I love your playing. It reminds me of all the wild places I’d seen. The very best places.”
“And here I thought you liked cities.”
“Yes, I like them too.”
He took the hand he still held and slowly and deliberately kissed her palm and then each of her fingers. Oh lord, she loved the way his soft strong mouth felt against her skin. “Is there anywhere you don’t like?”
She was distracted by the feel of his mouth, now on the sensitive skin of her wrist. It took a moment to think of an answer. “Oh, no. Other than the sheik’s harem and the bordello, I suppose. And Moscow in the winter.”
“And where is your favorite place? The spot you’ve been happiest?”
This time, she answered without hesitation. “Your room, your bed.”
He laughed, but she didn’t.
He stroked her arm and hand, and then, to her regret, let go of her to pick up his fork. “What about that tribe—the Mlylans? You liked that bunch, didn’t you?” he asked, startling her with the name of a group of friends she had known since she was a young child.
“Oh Mick! How do you know about them?”
He leaned back and smiled at her, she could see by the uptilt at the edge of his mouth he felt self-conscious. “I read what I can about you.”
Timona grinned back at him, pleased that Mick bothered to find out about her, and happy to recall her good friends, the Mlylans.
“They are wonderful. Griffin loves them too. That first visit, Papa had to drag Griffin away before he missed two full terms of school. Griffin goes back to the tribe any time he can. He says he feels that is his home.”
“The thing I read said you could never locate the village again.”
She waved a dismissive hand. “Oh, we said that so no one would go larking about their jungle. And we made them sound far more dangerous than they were.”
She sighed. Mick would love the Mlylans when she finally managed to lure members of her favorite foster family to visit her. He’d enjoy them far more than many members of her real family.
Someday soon, she’d have to tell him about the branch of her family that contained such specimens as Aunt Winifred, also known as the Viscountess of Windrow. She dreaded what Mick would think of Aunt Winnie. Timmy understood he was something of a snob about ranks and titles. He hated them almost as much as Mr. Blenheim adored them.
Chapter 15
Two days before they were to board the train west, two unpleasant events occurred: a heat wave gripped the city and four men in business suits showed up.
The men opened the door to their carriage and glanced around as if they were certain they would catch a disease, or worse, the moment they stepped out of the elegant carriage.
Timmy was off buying trunks and clothes and train tickets. Mick had given up trying to stop her from using her money on the Tuckers. He had to, since after sending money home he only had enough for his own travel and perhaps a month’s food and board, if he ate naught but oatmeal.
No breeze stirred. The day was hot, far too hot to be indoors. The sky was the gray of a long-dead fish’s belly. The air smelled about that rank, too.
Mick sat on the stoop, a small dog tucked under his arm and over his lap. He rewrapped the dog’s infected foot, all the while talking to the lads, Henry, Eddy, and Tick, who stood nearby watching anxiously. Tick had found the dog and brought it to Mick. Mick didn’t hold out much hope for the dog’s toe, but at least Eddy and Tick looked healthier these days.
Mick’s heart sank when he saw the men. No one in the building but his Timmy would know types like these.
One of them called out to him. “Hey, you. We’re looking for a man named Mr. McCann.”
He wished he’d shaved that morning. And he wished he hadn’t donned his old farm clothes. He looked the picture of an unemployed vagabond. At the time, it had made sense to wear the tattered linen overshirt while lancing a dog’s pus-filled foot.
He finished with the dog, carefully handed it to Tick and wiped his hands off on a rag. “Mebbe I know McCann. Who’re you?”
“Where is he?” Another one barked.
“Come now, Taylor, no point in being rude,” the first one said and turned back to Mick. “We can offer you a reward if you tell us his whereabouts.”
Henry opened his mouth, but Mick shot him a warning glance.
“Is he wanted by the police then?” Mick said mildly. “Well, well. What do you know? A criminal. Gracious!”
Eddy leaned close and whispered, “You are not, Mr. Mick. Aren’t you going to tell them who you are? ”
“Soon enough,” Mick said. “Just having a bit of fun.”
The group of men had obviously grown impatient with the loiterers hanging on the stoop. They walked away, off to Colsun’s.
Their carriage was still drawn up to the curb. The sight of the fine horses and rig alone was enough to lure the bored and curious of the block. Mick considered shooing the more aggressive kids off, but decided to go wash up instead.
The men were out front again.
“McCann,” one of the men said loudly as Mick returned from the outside pump where he’d cleaned himself. The group of kids around the carriage had grown larger.
“What’s it gonna be? An arrest?” One of the kids yelled out, excited.
“Mr. McCann, they want you, you know. What for? Does it have to do with that Miss Cooper you’ve taken up with?” Mrs. Welty, the old gossip from the second floor, leaned out her window, direly interested.
Mick wished he’d acted less of a fool and gotten rid of these finely dressed dolts earlier. He didn’t want to present a spectacle for the whole neighborhood.
“Aye, I’m McCann,” he said. He wasn’t going to let this bunch up to his flat, so he’d lead them back to Colsun’s. But no, that probably wasn’t quiet enough just now. He buttoned up his shirt, tucked it in, and yanked up his braces.
“There’s a tavern round the corner. We’ll go there,” Mick said. He pushed his wet hair out of his face—he needed a hair cut as well as a shave—and rolled up his shirt sleeves in a futile attempt to cool off. He turned to the boys. “Eddy and Tick, keep your eye on the pup. Henry, please come to fetch me if I’m needed, eh?”
McFee’s tavern stank of sour beer, stale smoke, and unwashed men, but at least it was dark, and cooler than the street. Botty was allowed in here, so he clicked in after Mick and the men.
Mick nodded to McFee and the men standing at the bar. The fancy gentlemen settled at a booth.
“I’ll just have a word with my friend McFee,” said Mick.
When he came back, the four men insisted on buying Mick a beer though he told them he didn’t want a drink.
“Come on, McCann,” one of them said as McFee went to fetch the beer. “Obviously you’re a regular here.”
Mick could hear them as if they spoke aloud.
It’s morning but the Irish’ll drink any time of day.
It’s morning but the Irish’ll drink any time of day.
He folded his arms across his chest and sat back in the booth and waited. And ignored the full glass sitting on the table in front of him.
The largest man with slicked-back hair, soup-strainer mustache, and a chin shadowed with stubble, leaned forward and squinted at Mick. He went straight into the attack. “We know you don’t have a job to go back to. You think you don’t need to work anymore, do you? Now that you’ve hooked up with Miss Calverson? We come from the Calverson Company, Mr. McCann. We know a great deal about you.”
Mick rubbed his chin and stared back at him. “What is it you want from me then? And who sent you lot? Griffin?”
The men exchanged surprised looks. Mick wondered if he was not supposed to have heard of Griffin. Or maybe not refer to the royal prince by his first name.
The big dark-haired man with heavy sideburns leaned forward, too—even more threatening in his posture. He was the rude one called Taylor. Well. Two men taking on a posture designed to intimidate one poor unemployed dope. Mick would have been impressed, but the big shots lost some of their effectiveness the way the sweat poured down their flushed faces.
Taylor growled. “You are messing with a very powerful organization and family, McCann. I don’t care to toss around threats lightly but—”
“Threats? Then it was bleeding Griffin? Funny, seemed to me that he didn’t mind me so much.”
The exchanged looks seemed even more surprised. “Do you mean you’ve actually met Mr. Calverson, Mr. McCann?” One of the other men, a skinny, graying guy with a trimmed Vandyke beard asked. He was almost polite. He must have drawn the short straw and had to play good cop to the other’s bad one. “When did you meet—”
“Right,” Mick interrupted. “And so at this moment I’m thinking it wasn’t Griffin that put you on to me. But who else would have a say about Miss Calverson? Other than that useless da of hers, naturally.”
Silence followed, broken by Taylor. “None of your goddamn business who sent us. Suffice it to say that we are here on Miss Calverson’s behalf. I’ll be blunt. We will offer you money. A great deal of money. More than you could earn in a decade. That is if you still had a job.” Taylor sneered.
“Twenty-five thousand dollars,” another man put in. This one was fat with mouse hair and a mole on his cheek. The roly-poly rodent man, Mick christened him.
“And what do I do for this money?” Mick asked. He idly watched McFee wipe down the table next to them.
“Disappear,” Taylor said.
“It is not in the best interest of Miss Calverson for you to remain a part of her life,” the kindly graying one said.
“Saints, I’m remembering now I saw a play on the Bowery about this once, an age ago. But the floozy they paid off was a woman. She got a cool one hundred thousand, I think. Terrible show,” Mick added thoughtfully. “A sloppy piece o’ writing.”
The biggest one spoke up. “Mr. McCann. You will not get any more money out of us. But we can make your life awfully difficult if you do not cooperate. We know she is staying with you.”
Mick sucked in a deep breath. He reflected they’d gone about this all wrong. If they’d dragged him into their territory of offices and educated wealth, he’d have been trembling in his hobnail boots. They would not have seen his fear, but he would been scared witless. On his own turf, they barely seemed worth the bother.
“You gentlemen say you want to help Miss Calverson. Shall we stroll back round the corner again? So you can have a chat with her? I expect her any minute.”
They looked at one another, dubious.
Mick did his best imitation a music hall comic’s Irish as he drawled, “Naow, gents, I poot it to ye thoosly. I say narry a ward. I don’t tell the rich lassy about the loovly prapasition you’ve affared me. Crass me hea-urt. And ye’ll explain to hur all aboot what a witless thing she do, keepin’ company with an oaf like meself. Let her chuse. She’s a groown lay-dee after awll.”
“I told you it was bad idea to approach him like this,” the friendly gray one said to Taylor.
Taylor shot him a glance of poison, then turned an even more hate-filled look to Mick. “Yes. We will go find her.”
The carriage still waited, though the nearly spooked horses nervously twitched their ears and occasionally backed. The driver had jumped down from his seat to chase off the kids who seemed determined to startle the horses.
Mick grinned at the driver’s harried attempts to grab at boys without leaving the horses’ heads.
Mick called out to the largest boys in the crowd, “Lex, Tom. A dime to each of ye if you protect this poor man and his beasts.”
Lex and Tom stepped forward, delighted. Tom held a makeshift club and gave it a few sharp practice swings in the air. That was enough to send the rest of the kids scurrying off a short distance.
“Thanks, boys. If you see Miss Timona, send her on over to Colsun’s. And Lex, don’t let them boys hurt Botty, please.
Mick pointed to Botty, then gestured to a spot near near Lex, “You, Bot. Stay.” The dog sat down and heaved a growling sigh.
Mick pointed to the men and made a similar gesture at Colsun’s. “You lot. Come. I’ll buy you a cup of the worst coffee you’ll ever have. Or so my Timmy tells me.”
Colsun’s wasn’t crowded. Mick strolled over to say hello to Colsun himself. Then he joined the Calverson men over at the table in the far corner near the door. He sat on the hard wooden chair, passive, but alert—an imitation of Griffin Calverson.
For a while they all sat in silence, but eventually the men began to talk. They talked about politics, the stock market, the heat spell. They even tried to engage him in the conversation. He ignored them and pulled out a pencil and his memo book, which he was still in the habit of carrying.
Timmy came through the door and stopped dead. In her pale blue muslin dress, she managed to look clean and cool, though at the sight of the men, her lips pressed tight as if she held back a cry of dismay.
She walked slowly toward them, and the men all stood with a scrape and whine of chairs.
Mick went to meet her. “These men are worried about you, Miss Calverson. I’ll let them talk for themselves, shall I? If you decide to leave with them, would you be so good as to come and tell me good-bye, lass?”
“Oh no, Mick.”
At once he felt ashamed. She looked so pale and distressed.
“What on earth have they been doing.”
“Nay, sorry,
a ghrá
. They must tell you. I swore I would not say.”
a ghrá
. They must tell you. I swore I would not say.”
“For pity’s sake.” Her fingers were chilly on the skin of his forearm as she grabbed at him. “Sit down, too. Don’t go, please, Mick.”
He nodded. After fetching a chair for her, he sat down again. He sprawled, hands behind his head, elbows out, legs stretched long, a working man settled in for a dull sermon.
In stark contrast, she sat straight-backed at the edge of a chair, as nervous as a defendant in a murder trial. She nodded to each of the men in turn. “Good morning, gentlemen. Mr. Taylor, good to see you again.”
They stared at her.
“Well, go on, lads. Speak your piece.” Mick said heartily. He wondered how they’d react if he pulled Timmy onto his lap to comfort her. Timmy clutched the strap of the purse in her lap till her knuckles turned white. He had never seen brave Timmy so fearful before and he wished he could drive off these dragons of hers.
Silence.
“Is there a more private place we can talk?” one of them finally asked.
“No,” said Timmy.
“Miss Calverson, I do not wish to embarrass you and I feel that—” another began.
“Then don’t. Embarrass me, I mean.”
“Christ,” exploded Taylor. “It’s—it’s this Irish fancy man. Are you aware that soon after he found you, Miss Calverson, he quit his job? Don’t you think that was more than a coincidence?”
Miss Calverson graceful, regal, stood up, the tension gone. “I thank you for your interest, but I believe you have said enough.” Her voice was calm but stern. A princess addressing minions.
Mick should have known she could take care of her own dragons.
“Miss Calverson, you must listen.” Tlor’s bellow was loud. “We are authorized to take you back to your father. There has been enough talk and we’re trying to stop more.”
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