Page 74 of Rake

I turn to Callan. “Patrick said he’d call Dad ‘Jimbo’ if I could use my masculine charms to keep the union out of Trinity.”

“We all see how that turned out,” Callan deadpans. “Still, the shades of red Dad would turn might be worth Patrick letting that one slip anyway. What do you say, big guy?”

“I’ll hold it in reserve,” Patrick says. “Ugh, I don’t know why Mom insists on cooking. She hates doing it and she can’t cook anyway.”

“I’ll see if she needs help.” I ease out of the chair and into the kitchen.

My mother pokes at some horrifying-looking roast that’s boiling in a pot of water.

“Oh, hi. Finn,” she says. “I have no idea why this won’t cook up.”

The pot is too small and there’s no reason to boil a roast. It’s called a roast for a reason.

“Let’s get it out of the water and into the oven.”

“You’ve always been such a good cook.”

I can’t do a lot with only one hand, but I help her salvage the meat.

“Do you love Dad?” I ask.

She nearly drops the spoon she’s holding. She’s working on wrecking some potatoes now. Jesus. It’s hard to wreck potatoes.

“Of course I love your father. Why would you ask me a question like that?”

Because I can’t ask if she loves me. Because I can’t understand why she let my father do what he did to me.

She narrows her eyes at me for a minute. “Is it that union girl? She had a thing for you. I can tell. Wouldn’t be the first woman who fell for you against her best interest.”

I flinch. “How could you say something like that?”

“Women are looking for someone who can give them stability. Are you interested in settling down?” She pokes at a potato with the spoon. Water spills over the top of the pot and hisses as it makes contact with the gas flame below.

“You know how I was raised,” I say.

She presses her lips together. “What is wrong with these potatoes? I’m going to complain to the produce department.”

I don’t move and she puts the spoon down. “We didn’t know what to do with you. You were too smart for your own good. We thought encouraging you to work toward seeking office would be a good use of your talents.”

“My talents,” I say. “Right.”

She goes back to the potatoes, and I give up, heading to the door.

“Finn.”

I turn to look at her.

“You have a lot to offer that girl, if that’s what you want. You have a lot to offer anyone.” She holds my gaze for a minute and goes back to torturing the potatoes.

It’s not the apology I wanted, but I know it’s the best I’ll get from her. And that’s enough for now.

We eat together as a family for the first time in a long time. Bridget and Rory seem more like twins than the actual twins of our family, Callan and Catriona, as they dare each other to eat a particularly bad-looking potato. Siobhan talks to my father about music while Patrick eats as much of the rescued roast as humanly possible. It’s strange how normal and domestic a scene it is.

I think about Sasha and wonder what she’s doing right now. I can’t stop thinking about her, and it disturbs me.

Eventually, Siobhan leans over. “You know, this is a time when you probablyshouldjust show up at her house. Bring some flowers, though. Nice ones.” She registers my surprise. “What? You’re brooding. Stop brooding and go get the girl,” she whispers.

After dinner, I excuse myself and head out. All of the nice florists are closed, but some of the higher end supermarkets will have something decent. It’s after eight when I pull up to Sasha’s house.

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