Forever Mine: Callaghan Brothers, Book 9(21)
“Yeah, well, that’s when I was out of it, not when I was awake.”
Jake sat up straighter, his blue eyes alert. “What?”
Michael told him about what had happened in the OR. Jake was floored, gaping at him in disbelief. “You think he was talking to Mom? That he saw her?”
“I don’t know. I’d like to say it was the sedation, but you should have seen the look in his eyes, Jake. I haven’t seen that look since Mom died. He believes.”
“Jesus.” Jake stood up and started pacing. He made several trips around the office. Michael knew he was thinking the same thing he was: that the thought of seeing his croie again after all these years might be enough of an incentive to ignore the warning signs of an impending heart attack.
“What the hell do we do now?”
“Nothing. We could be way off base here, Jake. Let’s give it some time. Nothing is going to happen to him while he’s here.”
Jake blew out a breath. “Yeah, I guess you’re right.”
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February 1975
Pine Ridge
“Getting cold feet yet, young Callaghan?” Declan Kennedy chuckled when Jack slid the dark, frothy draft in front of him. “Your wedding is what, only two or three weeks away?”
“’Course he is,” nodded Fergus McCandless before Jack could respond. “What sane man wouldn’t?”
“Aye. I’d rather be shackled and staked out naked than go through that again,” claimed Bob O’Malley.
“Now there’s a fine visual,” shuddered Brody Mackenzie.
“Shut it, all of you,” said Brian O’Connell, rising to his defense. “His wedding can’t come fast enough for him.”
“Ah, a groom eagerly running toward the altar instead of away from it. ‘Tis a novel thing, that.”
“’Tis not the wedding, but the wedding night he’s running toward.”
A couple of regulars laughed; Jack smiled but said nothing. Yeah, he was definitely looking forward to that, but there was so much more to it. Kathleen was his croie, his heart, and every day his love for her only grew.
Danny Finnegan, owner of the establishment which had become his second home, said, “Brian, be a good lad and take over the bar for a wee bit.”
“I’m fine,” Jack said. His leg was aching something fierce from being on his feet so long, but he hated the sympathy he saw in their eyes. He was afraid that one day, someone was going to ask him what happened, but so far, no one had. He hoped they never did, because he never, ever, wanted to speak of that again.
“Aye, I know, lad, but there’s something I’ve been wanting te discuss with ye. Grab a couple of glasses and a bottle from the top shelf and come with me.”
Jack and Brian exchanged glances, then Brian took his place behind the bar. It was no secret that Danny Finnegan had been talking about selling the place. Jack wondered if this was the point where Danny took him aside and gave him the bad news, told him he’d have to look for another job.
Finding something suitable would be tough, at least until he settled back in and started feeling normal again. If that was even possible. With his wedding on the horizon he needed a means to support Kathleen. Conlan had offered him a job at the diner, but Jack’s pride wouldn’t let him accept. He wanted to care for his wife and future family on his own.
“Sit, lad, and pour us both a drink.”
Jack did as he asked. Danny put the shot to his lips, then tossed it back with the ease of a man who had been doing so for ages. Jack poured him another.
“Do ye know what the secret of running your own bar is, lad?”
“No, sir.”
“Doona drink the profits.” Danny laughed, then lifted the glass to his lips. “Go on then. Bottoms up.”
Danny waited until Jack drank his, then said. “This bar has been my home for over seventy years, Jack. My father owned it before me, and his father before him. She has a history, she does. Housed Union soldiers in the Civil War.” Danny’s eyes scanned the place, and having assured that he was among friends, leaned forward and spoke in hushed, reverent tones. “And was the secret meeting place of the Mollies for years.”
Jack said nothing. He’d heard these stories a hundred times if he’d heard them once. Danny loved telling anyone who would listen (as long as they were local and Irish) that quite a few of his not-so-distant ancestors had been part of the Molly Maguires. The Mollies, as they were known, were a secret society of poor Irish immigrants who slaved in the region’s anthracite mines and rebelled against the rich mine owners and their watchdogs in the latter part of the 19th century. The group went far underground when twenty of them were convicted of murder and other crimes and hung. Though a hundred years had passed, it was still a very sore subject among the locals, and only spoken of in trusted company.
“And before that,” Danny continued, “she was a fine hotel. Ach, I know she’s not much to look at now,” he said, waving his hand vaguely about, “but she was something back in the day.”
Careful to keep his expression neutral, Jack dutifully looked around, past the cheap tables and cracked vinyl, beyond the broken fixtures, and tacky linoleum. Thick hand-hewn beams ran the length of the ceiling and supported the upper floors in square-ish columns. Ornately carved-wood trim, now blackened with age and neglect, outlined the doors and windows. The once-white plastered walls were covered in layers of tar and nicotine residue, except in those places where it had fallen away completely.