Page 12 of My Puckin' Luck
She continues this one-act play for Anastasia’s benefit. “Oh, my husband would have been a wonderful grandfather. I mean,I was never quite ready to be a grandmother. You know, I certainly don’t look like one.” She cackles in that haughty way that drives me insane as she slips out the door.
Esme grins at me like a conniving little witch. “I am glad to be done with this whole foundation business. It was too much work. After all, he wasn’t my father, was he?”
As she walks out the door, I spit, “You didn’t deserve a father like mine. Your father was a fucking plumber!”
The door shuts behind Esme, leaving Anastasia in a very awkward position, shifting heel to heel. I’ll bet the last thing she expected was to be privy to the St. James family dramedy.
I glance sideways at her, full of regret now that I pulled her into this night with me. “I’m sorry you had to witness all of that. Those two drive me insane, which is why I rarely deal with them if I can help it.”
I turn toward the window and stare out, trying to regulate my pulse to normal levels. The years tumble over in my head. We had some good ones as a family, others not so good. The relationship Mom and Dad had was not an ideal example of love.
I shove my hands in my pockets, the familiar feel of the rabbit’s foot giving me something to hold. To think there was a time I thought I could do better, and vowed to. But that didn’t turn out well. Getting lucky at love isn’t in the cards for me.
The room is painfully quiet for a minute until I hear feet softly padding across the carpeted floor.
“Are you okay?” Anastasia’s gentle voice comes from behind me and I turn with every intention to get her a car ride home and be done with this date. But she takes my breath away. My Angel is still the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.
I clear my throat. “I will be once I get a stiff drink in my hands. Look, I know we haven’t been here long, but can we get the hell out of here?”
“Oh. Sure.” She peeks down at her costume, running a hand down the front of it, hiding the disappointment that rings in her undertone. I can’t have that.
“Let me make it up to you. I know a great place where we can drink and dance, and turn this night around. Okay?” I release the rabbit’s foot in my pocket, and reach out with my finger and thumb, lifting her chin until her warm eyes lock with mine. “Tell me our date hasn’t expired yet, angel. It’s not even midnight.”
I take her grin as a yes and lead her by the hand out the door. We bale on this place, heading out of the building, when suddenly Anastasia stops in her tracks.
“Angel, what’s wrong?”
The look of pure horror crosses her face, eyes wide, mouth open.
“Dad?” She stares at a man coming toward us, his arm intimately around another woman. I recognize him, a famous actor my mother knows, but he doesn’t stop. She calls again. “Dad?”
The man passes her by, giving her barely a glance. “Oh, hello Anastasia.” Then he continues on, not stopping to hug or talk.
Devastation crosses her face, reddening by the second. Tears brim her eyes.
I lean down and look her square in the face. “What is it? Did he hurt you?”
“Get me out of here, please.” Teardrops stream down her cheeks and her lips wobble. Now there’s two of us needing a stiff drink.
I have a mind to go tap the man on the shoulder and introduce him to my right hook, but I don’t know if that’ll make things worse for her. But I will get to the bottom of this.
No one hurts the little angel and gets away with it.
7
JIMMY MCCOOL
ANASTASIA
Things arequiet in the car as I’m too absorbed in my own thoughts about seeing the man who is supposed to be my father. It’s been a while and even though he at least said hi, it was almost like I was invisible to him. But I’m used to it.
When Saint finally parks on the street in front of a neighborhood bar with a green neon sign out front reading Jimmy McCool’s Pub, I guess I don’t care where we are. Drinking away my misery for the night with Saint to lean on is fine by me.
“Hey.” He reaches up and swipes one last tear away from my cheek, his eyes searching mine. The touch is so…tender and unexpected that he’d care. This is Saint, the man who could have been with plenty of other women tonight, but I’m the one he asked to be here. “What did that man do to you? Did he hurt you?”
“He’s been hurting me since the day I was born.”
“How so?” He asks through clenched teeth.
