The Perfect Recipe for Love and Friendship Page 14

  “Have you looked him up? He’s probably on social media.”

  Aunt Mary smoothed away a wrinkle in her skirt. “Some things are better left in the past.”

  Even five decades later, Bridget could see that Aunt Mary still had a soft spot for Billy Donnelly in her heart. Maybe while she was staying here, Bridget could teach her aunt about Facebook. If nothing else but to see if Billy had maintained his good looks—or hopefully gotten fat and bald and lonely.

  “And you never married or settled down,” Bridget added.

  “Nope. One love of my life was enough.” Aunt Mary turned to Bridget. “Speaking of losing the love of your life, which I am so, so sorry about…how are you handling things, my dear?”

  “I’m not.” Bridget sighed. “I’m pretty much avoiding anything that seems like a decision. My mother thinks I should be donating Jim’s clothes to Goodwill and moving on. Like with some mission trip to Haiti or something. I keep trying to tell her I’m not ready for anything yet. I’m still…processing this.”

  Procrastinating was the real word Bridget should have used. But processing sounded better. More active.

  “Your mother…” Aunt Mary shook her head. “She only sees and hears what she wants to.”

  Bridget snorted. “Ain’t that the truth. She thinks we should all grieve the way she did—by not doing it at all and pretending everything is fine.”

  “Your mother grieved when Michael died. But she did it privately. She was so lost…” Aunt Mary’s voice trailed off. She cleared her throat. “Anyway, she is a good woman, Bridget. Who loves you all like a mother lion. Don’t ever doubt that.”

  Aunt Mary hadn’t been here when Ma had been on Bridget’s case every five seconds about the shadows under her eyes or what clothes she chose to wear or whether she took too many helpings of mashed potatoes. Maybe she did love her daughters, but she also loved to criticize them, and that was something Bridget could do without right now. “Let me go get you something to eat. Then we can talk some more.”

  “I’d like that,” Aunt Mary said. “I have so much I want to tell you. To tell all you girls.”

  As Bridget went inside, she wondered what her aunt had meant by business to attend to and things she wanted to tell them. For a second, she thought of Abby’s reference to a secret, then brushed off the thought. She’d watched way too many crime shows in the last few weeks because she was starting to think there was some kind of family-wide cover-up.

  Bridget fixed Aunt Mary a grilled cheese sandwich and added some grapes on the side. By the time she finished, Aunt Mary had fallen asleep in the chair with her dog on her lap, his tiny head tucked between his paws.

  A houseguest and a pet. Exactly the last thing Bridget needed right now.

  SEVENTEEN

  Colleen O’Bannon tightened her grip on her purse and strode out of church, her low, sensible heels clacking on the marble foyer and the brick stoop. Father McBride stood just outside the massive oak and stained glass doors, extending a hand to every parishioner leaving evening Mass.

  Every time she stepped through the doors of Our Lady, Colleen found peace. When her girls had been little, church had been the only time all four of them were quiet. Going to Mass several times a week gave Colleen an escape from the demands of four girls under ten, a bakery that required more than full-time effort, and a house that always seemed to need fixing. She’d come here, and she’d find a few hours to avoid the bottle of wine under her sink. She’d walk through these doors, look into the stained glass eyes of Mother Mary, and feel a peace settle over her. Her husband, God rest his soul, had died and left her alone, but at least here Colleen had always felt like she had someone looking out for her.

  She stepped up to the priest she’d known for forty years. When Father McBride first arrived at Our Lady, he had been a dark-haired, enthusiastic, hurried young man ready to make a change in the world. Over the last few decades, he had settled into his role, into Dorchester, into the lives of the parishioners. He’d almost become an extra family member in Colleen’s eyes. At Christmas, she brought him his favorite pecan pie, and when he looked a little drawn and tired, she’d leave a batch of brownies in his office. He was a good man, with a kind heart, a soothing voice, and a ready smile. And he had been there, with his calm wisdom, to give her the strength to pull herself together.

  “Father, thank you for another wonderful service,” Colleen said.

  He took her hand and then covered their clasped palms. The warmth of his hands was welcome. “I’m so glad you enjoyed it,” Father McBride said. “It’s always a pleasure to see you, Colleen.”

  The words made her feel as pleased as a child who had gotten an A from her teacher. “Thank you, Father.”

  He released her hands. A small line formed on her left, but Father McBride ignored it. “And how are your daughters? Bridget?”

  “They’re fine. We’re all fine. Thank you for asking.” Colleen nodded and smiled. She’d spoken the word fine so many times in her life that it should be engraved on her palm. But what should she really say? The truth?

  One daughter was struggling after her husband’s death. Another was lost, as distant as a European country. The third was always there, but in the last few months, her heart and mind seemed to be somewhere else. And her last daughter? She was always somewhere other than here. None of them were drug addicts or in jail or hobos on the street, so she considered that fine.

  Colleen drew her coat closer and fastened the top button. It was summer, but Colleen had noticed as she aged that she never seemed to feel warm. The never-ending New England winters were brutal, and summer never seemed to be hot enough to make up for the cold.

  “That’s wonderful.” Father McBride waved at someone inside, then turned back to her. “Colleen, could you wait a moment? There’s someone I’d like you to meet.”

  She wanted to say no, but the good Catholic schoolgirl breeding in her said yes. A part of Colleen wanted to just go home and relax, but she knew, as soon as she opened her door, she’d find something to occupy the hours until bed. Between the bakery and church and the house, Colleen was ten times busier than any other sixty-two-year-old she knew, but no matter how hard she tried, she was never busy enough.

  The remaining parishioners flooded out of the church, breaking like the Red Sea around Colleen and the priest. Down the center strode a tall man with a creased fedora and a tweed jacket. He had on a pressed white shirt but no tie, and his brown shoes—which didn’t match his black belt—could use a good polish. He pushed his glasses up on his nose and thrust out a hand. She’d seen him many times at church but never met him before. “Colleen O’Bannon, I’ve heard wonderful things about you from Father McBride.”

  She made a token effort at the handshake, but only because the priest was watching. “I’ve heard nothing about you.”

  The man chuckled. “Ah, that’s because I keep a low profile. Roger O’Sullivan.”

  Father McBride put a hand on Roger’s back and gave him a warm smile. “Roger here runs a transitional housing facility on Blue Hill Avenue. He’s helped a number of people make the leap from living on the streets to living in homes of their own. One of the true champions for Dorchester.” Someone called Father McBride’s name, and the priest pivoted toward a woman standing on the steps of the side entrance. “Goodness, that’s Dorothy, wanting my help to set up the chairs for the AA meeting. I’ll let you two get acquainted and let Roger tell you all about his brilliant idea.”

  After Father McBride was gone, Roger dipped his head. “Father makes it all sound grander than it is. I’m not doing this single-handedly. I work with a wonderful, dedicated team. They’re the magic behind the scenes. I just take all the glory.”

  “Well, that’s not very Christian of you.” Colleen had places to be, things to do, a warm home to get back to. She had no desire to stand in the cold and listen to this man spout off about himself. “If you listened at all today, you’d have heard Father McBride say we are to do the Lord’
s work and be humble about it. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I should be on my way.”

  “Wait. I think you got the wrong impression, Miss O’Bannon.”

  She scowled. “It’s Mrs.”

  “Oh, well, I apologize.” Confusion filled Roger’s brown eyes. “Father McBride mentioned once that you were widowed.”

  “I am, God rest my husband’s soul.” She crossed herself and issued a silent prayer to the man above. “But that doesn’t mean I run around acting free as a loon on a lake, dating every man in the city.”

  “Of course, of course. I understand.”

  Roger’s murmured words were like dozens of other similar trite phrases she had heard over the years. Those people who hadn’t lost a spouse didn’t understand. Couldn’t possibly see how the loneliness invaded every inch of her skin and how she’d learned to steel her heart so it could never ever be broken again.

  She looked for Father McBride, but he had gone inside. Only a few people lingered, milling around outside the church, their conversations carrying on the breeze. “I apologize, Mr.…”

  “O’Sullivan.”

  “But I must go, Mr. O’Sullivan.” She kept her tone firm, sure, ending the conversation with an emphatic period. “Have a nice evening.”

  She turned away but then he touched her arm, a mere flicker of his hand. She glanced up at him, surprised. His eyes softened, warming from coffee to mocha. “If you’ll give me just a second, I wanted to ask you a question.”

  Colleen gripped the strap of her purse and squared her shoulders. She should be leaving. Shouldn’t listen to this stranger a minute longer. But he seemed nice. Earnest even. And if Father McBride thought they should talk, perhaps it wouldn’t hurt to hear the man out. “So ask.”

  He chuckled. “You get straight to the point.”

  “I see no logical reason to stand outside on a chilly evening and waste my time with someone I don’t even know.” Two women brushed by. Colleen gave them a little wave.

  “Ah, but if you gave me a chance, you would know me, and I hope you will give me that chance.” Roger smiled at her. “How about we go across the street and get a cup of coffee?”

  “I am not in the habit of ‘going across the street’ with people I don’t even know.”

  “It’s late. You said you’re chilly. I could use a bite to eat, and I suspect you could too.” He put up a finger, cutting off her next objection. “And before you say that we’ll be alone or too hidden, the windows are big and bright, and if I were to accost you, the whole city would see it.”

  “Are you planning to accost me?”

  “I think if I did, you would have me flat on my back and begging for my life in five seconds flat.” Roger’s eyes twinkled, and that smile of his kept lingering on his face. “The way I hear it, Colleen O’Bannon, you are one tough cookie.”

  Every second she stood here made it harder to stand firm in her resolve. It had to be the chill in the air. Or the end of a long week at the bakery. “Well, I have no idea who is talking about me like that.”

  “Just a message on the back of the north wind.”

  Colleen let out a hiccup of a laugh. How ironic that Roger had referenced a novel she knew as well as her own name. “I read that book to my girls when they were little. Abigail was scared of storms until I told her it was just the North Wind, coming to invite her to play. She sat by the window so many nights, waiting to fly through the air, like in the story.” She caught herself and drew up as tall as she could against a man a solid foot taller than her. “I’m rambling. I’m sorry, Mr. O’Sullivan.”

  “It was a great story. Don’t apologize. My daughter loved that book too. I read it a lot to her. I still do sometimes. Just…well, just because.” A shadow dropped over his face, but then he brightened and waved toward the diner, and she realized the church parking lot had emptied while they’d been talking. “Let’s get you warmed up. I hear the diner has the best apple pie in the state.”

  “They do not.” She raised her chin. “I do.”

  “Ah, Mrs. O’Bannon, I daresay we could both take a lesson in humility.” He crooked his arm. “Come, let’s go see just how subpar that pie really is.”

  Colleen refused the offer of his arm and marched forward. She was chilled, and she could use a bite to eat. And it was only polite to hear the man out. But he didn’t have to treat it like a date. “I am perfectly capable of crossing the street on my own. I’ve been doing it for sixty-two years.”

  “And I’ve been doing it for sixty-five.” The light changed, giving them a chance to cross. “I’ve lived in this city all my life. Only not always in a house.”

  She glanced up at him. “You were homeless?”

  He nodded. “From the ages of thirteen to seventeen. It’s an experience I never forgot. Which is why I do what I do. Accolades aside.” He pushed on the door to the diner and released a whoosh of warm air.

  The diner sported typical fifties-style décor—yellow countertop, red chairs and booths, bright white tile floors. A dozen women from church filled three tables pushed together at the back of the small building. They looked up when Colleen entered and gave her a little nod. A few men sat at the long counter while two cops commandeered a corner booth. Waitresses in short pink dresses and white aprons bustled from table to table, calling out orders over their shoulders to the kitchen.

  Roger waited while Colleen slid into one of the booths, and then he slipped onto the opposite vinyl bench. He signaled to one of the waitresses and a moment later, a bubbly brunette showed up with two mugs and a steaming pot of coffee.

  “How are the kids, Juliet?” he asked the waitress.

  “Just fine. Beth is so damned excited to start that new job at the bowling alley, and Jeremy is driving me crazy, asking about when you’re going to take him to another baseball game.”

  “I’m glad he enjoyed it. Next time I get tickets, I’ll give you a call.”

  “Thank you. It’s nice to see him…” Her smile wavered. “Just nice to see him with someone who’s a good influence.”

  “He’s a good kid, Juliet. You’ve done a great job with him, and with Beth and Scott.”

  “I’m trying.” She flushed and dropped her gaze. She flipped over the mugs, filled them. “There’s coffee. I’ll be back with extra cream, Roger.”

  “Well,” Colleen began, settling a paper napkin across her lap after the waitress had disappeared into the kitchen, “she seems to know you quite well.”

  “Juliet is one of our success stories. Single mom of two, recovering heroin addict, left penniless by an asshole of an ex—pardon my French, Mrs. O’Bannon—and came to us as a last resort.”

  Colleen glanced again at the perky waitress, bouncing around the space behind the counter, shouting out orders, collecting checks, greeting customers. “She was a drug addict? And homeless?”

  “Not every addict goes around unwashed and speaking gibberish.”

  “I…I didn’t mean that. I just meant—”

  His hand covered hers. Colleen’s words caught in her throat. It was the second time he’d touched her, and this time, his touch lingered. “I know what you meant. It’s okay.”

  She withdrew her hand and wrapped it around her coffee mug instead. “You said you wanted to talk to me about something.”

  Juliet dropped off the extra cream. Roger thanked her and went on. “You own a bakery, Father McBride tells me. A very successful one.”

  Colleen drew herself up. The bakery, a business conversation. Her comfort zone. “Three generations strong. Started by my mother, and now my daughters work there.”

  “That’s awesome. So few businesses make it past the first generation.” He poured a sugar into his coffee and reached for the creamers. He held the bowl out to her, but Colleen shook her head. He started talking again as he opened the tiny creamers, one, two, three, four, five, and dumped them into his coffee. “I know we just met, but I’d like to ask you for two favors.”

  She stiffened. “Okay…”
>
  “It’s not as bad as it sounds.” He chuckled and took a sip of his lightened coffee. “You probably have some leftover baked goods at the end of the day. If you aren’t already donating them somewhere, I would appreciate it if you would consider donating them to Sophie’s Home. That’s the center I run. I can pick them up at the end of the day, and in exchange, I could provide some free intern labor.”

  “Oh, we don’t need any help. And we already donate most of the leftovers to the mission house,” she said, and then reconsidered. He seemed like a nice enough man, and clearly his facility was doing good work. It would only be right to support him. “But I can put some aside for you. If…if you really don’t mind coming by to pick them up from time to time.”

  “It would be my pleasure.” He smiled. “I realize you are probably well staffed but the help I’m offering is more of a selfish thing. Many of the women and teenagers who come to Sophie’s Home have no career skills. Some don’t even have a high school diploma. We’ve found that the number one way to help them get off the streets—and see hope at the end of the tunnel—is to equip them with job skills. I’ve already worked out partnerships with a local coffee shop, this diner, a nursery, and the bowling alley that Juliet’s daughter works at. Your bakery would be a wonderful fit.”

  “I’m not sure—”

  “Just think about it.” He signaled to Juliet. “Now, no more business. Let’s just enjoy some pie and conversation.”

  Juliet dished up two pieces of pie and brought them to the table. “Here’s your pie. Enjoy!”

  Colleen took a bite. The crust of the apple pie was good—moist, yet flaky, not overly sweet. The filling had a tad more cinnamon than she used, but overall, it was a good pie. “Not bad.”

  Roger grinned. “I told you that it would be good. I’ll have to swing by your bakery sometime soon and do a comparison.”