“Come on. Lock the door and help me.” His sister already had his client’s lolling head on her shoulder, her flame-red hair bright against Rebecca’s gold. “We’ll put her to sleep in the office. She won’t be any threat to the family in this state.”
Aiden turned the bolts, then scooped up Rebecca and carried her upstairs. She weighed no more than a crate of Guinness and felt as soft as a down pillow. For a moment he fantasized what it would be like to take her to his room, but swerved into the office and the futon that awaited.
“I’ll get some sheets to make it up.” Mary Ann shot him a narrow-eyed look as he sat at his desk chair and held Rebecca tight. He wouldn’t risk her slipping and hitting her head again.
“Who’s that pretty lady?”
He glanced up, hearing his youngest sister’s voice. “A new friend who’s not feeling very well. And you should be in bed, Ella. School’s tomorrow.”
“I had an accident.” Her thin frame was wrapped in a towel, her hair wet, her mouth trembling.
Aiden mustered a reassuring smile. “Well, you’ve gone a long time. It’s been months...so things are looking up, aren’t they?”
Ella’s dark hair, similar in wave and thickness to his, slid in a tangle as she bobbed her head. Her long face transformed into a relieved grin. “Not since February.”
Aiden angled his body around an inert Rebecca and held out an arm for the little one. “There you have it. I’m proud of you, Ella.”
She smelled of soap and toothpaste as she nuzzled her head in the crook of his neck. “I love you, Aiden,” she whispered, then took off in a flash, passing their wandering mother in a series of twirls.
“Ellison!”
Aiden flinched, hating it when she mistook him for his look-alike father.
“What are you doing with this woman?”
“Mom. It’s me. Aiden. And this is a customer who’s had a few too many.”
“Is it Mildred again?” His mother’s anger faded to confusion and her hand wandered up to tangle in her white, shoulder-length hair. “For an Irishwoman, she can’t hold her liquor. Your father adds water to her whiskey, you know.”
“Oh, there you are, Mother.” Mary Ann entered with linens, dropped them on the futon and put an arm around their parent. “Let’s get you off to sleep now. I’ve got your pill and no spitting it out this time.”
Their voices faded and Aiden shifted Rebecca on his lap, gazing down at her peaceful, angelic face. If only his life was as worry-free as she looked, and that he could get to know a girl like this. But no woman would ever take on his responsibilities, and he’d never give them up. Didn’t have time to pay attention to one more person in his life on top of his family. And families stuck together, no matter the sacrifice.
A nightmare-induced shriek, Daniel’s by the sound of it, made Rebecca murmur and twine a hand in Aiden’s hair, her body snuggled so tightly against him he couldn’t breathe. He stood and gently laid her on the futon, savoring this quiet moment before dealing with Connor’s Xbox defiance and whatever other family crisis-of-the-moment waited—the worst of which would come tomorrow morning at the hearing.
For this moment at least, he’d be selfish. It felt good to imagine what life with a woman like Rebecca would have been like, before reality’s undertow sucked him under.
“AHHH, THERE’S MY elusive tenant.” Rebecca’s foot froze on the top step to her loft’s landing. Darn. First she’d woken in a stranger’s apartment, realized her cold was replaced with a pounding headache only caffeine could cure, except that she’d boycotted JavaHut, and now this. Her landlord.
She turned and forced a smile. “Good morning, Mr. Trotsky. I’m actually running a bit late. School’s back in session today.” And she hoped to arrive early and speak to her principal about her tenure...
The man peered up at her with eyes as black as the mustache he smoothed. A nervous tick that she and Laura had nicknamed “the groom of doom.” Her heart pinched at the thought of returning to her lonely loft. Would she ever get used to her friend’s absence?
“Have you got rent for me?” His fingers glided over his top lip once more. When a door opened behind him, his comb-over lifted in the stale breeze.
“I have something better,” she temporized. How much money did she have? Her fingers delved into her purse. Twenty bucks from last night’s tip jar and her white envelope from the Rosellis. Not even close. And she didn’t dare sell her aunt’s latest gift. The purse would be expected to make an appearance at their weekly luncheon, its presence debatably more important than hers. “How about those raisin oatmeal bars Laura taught me how to bake?”
“So you have money for groceries and—” he gestured to her rumpled outfit “—going out all night, but nothing for Trotsky, eh?”
Perspiration beaded her brow as she remembered her wretched evening capped off by a surprisingly nice end. She’d opened up to a warmhearted barkeep, a man who’d listened to her rattle on for an embarrassingly long time.
She wished she was back at the White Horse, making a fool of herself in front of the overworked man who’d made time for her. Now, there was no more charming her landlord. If she confided she’d lost her second job and was in danger of losing her first, too, he’d probably evict her on the spot. Not that she could blame him. He was running a business, not a charity. And she never wanted to be considered that.
“When my paycheck comes on Friday, I’ll sign it over to you. So sorry for the delay.”
How many more paychecks would she get? If the board denied her tenure, she’d have to leave at the end of the school year and then where would she go? Tenure meant a permanent position. It safeguarded against arbitrary firing. She could stay on and hope they’d grant it to her in year four, but typically educators were either “counseled out,” meaning convinced to resign, or fired before another vote was ever taken. A chill finger-walked up her spine and she shivered.
Mr. Trotsky’s mouth twisted to the side and his narrow eyes studied her. After a long, breathless moment, he nodded, his teeth appearing in a beaver’s smile.
“You’ve always been a good renter, Rebecca. And I’ll have that check, and the cookies, by Friday. Good day.”
With a sharp turn on polished dress shoes, he disappeared in a cloud of Old Spice.
She sagged against her wrought iron railing. Phew. That at least settled the potential homelessness problem...for now. But how would she pay the rest of her bills or eat for the next two weeks if she didn’t find another job, stat? As if on cue, her stomach rumbled.
A scratch at her door and a low, wheezing woof had her scrambling for her key. Poor Freud. Eating would have to wait until she took care of her pug’s needs.
Minutes later she was out in the morning sunlight, its pale gold gilding the brick, pre-war era buildings on her cobblestone SoHo street. A stream of chatting customers flowed in and out of JavaHut, she noticed, her grip tightening on Freud’s lead. The aroma of hazelnut and cinnamon buns floated across the street and Freud began to pull, his nails scrabbling on the pavement.
“No more banana walnut muffins for you.” She gazed down at her pet’s wet, bulging black eyes and felt the familiar heart tug that’d made her snap him up at a pet-shelter street fair last year. “The doctor says you need to lose a few pounds anyway, though I think beauty comes in all sizes,” she added then clamped her mouth shut when a passing couple looked from her to her pet, agog. Oops. When would she learn