Pete got out and fed the meter. Connor sat still, hoping his father wouldn’t look his way.
“That’s a cute car,” Gail said.
“And that’s my father in it,” Connor said.
“Really?”
“Yeah.” Pete went across the street to another building—probably one of his properties—and went inside.
“What does he do for work?” Gail asked.
“He owns buildings,” Connor answered.
“Is that right.” Gail sucked on her straw again, smiled at Connor for no reason, then dropped her eyes. You had to wonder if she practiced that in the bathroom mirror. She checked her phone, then said, “Whoopsy! I have to meet some friends. Thanks for the drink!” She air-kissed him, and he said it had been nice to see her, and expected never to see her again.
The truth was, it was fine. She was gorgeous, yes.
But she was no Jessica Dunn.
A few weeks later, when Connor’s shift was over, he walked down the block to his car. Christmas was over, and Corning was quiet under the dark winter sky. A dog barked somewhere. The frigid cold felt good after seven hours in the steamy, hot kitchen, and Connor stopped for a second in the alleyway to the parking lot, taking a deep breath of the clean air.
Then he heard a familiar voice.
He turned, and there was his father in the doorway of the building he owned.
Kissing Gail, his hands on her spectacular ass.
It was one thing to have suspected his father was a cheater. It was another to see it.
All Connor could think about was his mother, his sweet, loving mother who adored her husband. Who’d made her traditional bacon and eggs on Christmas morning and beamed when Pete gave her a puffy red bathrobe as a present.
Gail was twenty-six; Pete was in his fifties. Hardly a new story, but slimy just the same.
Connor left.
At home, he tried to be extra nice to his mother and gave Colleen a wide berth so she wouldn’t pick up on anything on the twin radar.
He didn’t know what to do. Tell? If he told his mother, it would break her heart. If he told Colleen, ditto, and she’d tell Mom. Granted, this probably—definitely—wasn’t the first time Pete had cheated.
But this time, Connor knew for sure.
The fact that he’d inadvertently introduced Gail to his father made him feel sick.
He owns buildings, he’d said. Might as well have said He’s a sugar daddy.
He avoided his father, and doubted Pete even noticed.
And Connor decided not to tell. He thought about it a thousand times. Once, he even started to tell his mom, opening by asking if she was happy, and when she said, “Oh, my heavens, yes, honey! Why would you even ask such a thing?” And she smiled so sweetly that he just couldn’t do it.
That was a mistake.
In April, Pete dropped the bombshell. He was divorcing Mom.
Gail Chianese-Rhymes-with-Easy was pregnant.
Colleen was devastated. Mom was shattered.
Connor was not surprised. Not very, anyway.
He did his best to try to avoid his father and Gail. Told his father not to come to graduation, moved to Manhattan to work. But then one autumn day when he was home visiting his sister and mother, he ran into the happy couple, almost literally, right in front of the Black Cat.
“Son!” Pete said. “Uh...hey. How are you? You look good.”
Connor didn’t say anything.
“This is Gail.”
Connor looked at her, and saw the nervousness in her eyes. Saw her pregnant belly.
“Nice to meet you!” she said, giving a fake laugh. “Pete talks about you all the time!”
So she hadn’t mentioned him. Dad had no idea that his son had gone on two dates with Gail the Tail, as Colleen called her.
“You’re going to be a brother pretty soon,” Pete said. “Isn’t that great?”
Jesus. “I already am a brother.” He waited a beat, then added, “I hope it’s healthy.” That was the best he could do.
And that’s pretty much how it had been for the past ten years. Savannah was a great kid, and Connor saw her often. He and Colleen babysat once a week almost from the very beginning. When she was two, she started having dinner with them every Friday night at O’Rourke’s. When she was five, she started playing T-ball, and Connor went to every game he could. He gave her piggyback rides and took her swimming in the lake. Once a year, Connor took Savannah to Yankee Stadium, just the two of them. He bought her cool presents and sometimes stopped by her school to say hi at lunchtime, just because she loved when he did.
When she was nine, she was good enough to play on the town softball league, the youngest player in the history of the league to qualify, and Colleen made sure she was on O’Rourke’s team.
And he avoided her parents as best he could. Was polite if he had to see them, like at Savannah’s birthday parties or games. Gail made his skin crawl, and his father was worse.
Colleen had made her peace with their father. Connor had not. After what Pete put Mom through, Connor saw absolutely no reason to invite the slick bastard back into his life.
He certainly wasn’t going to give him the chance to invest in a business.
Well, he could sit here all day, or he could get out and do something. Go for a run, hit the boxing gym, see if Tom Barlow was around and up for a few rounds.
Running won.
He went home to change. He owned a two-family Victorian a couple blocks off the green. Until recently, Colleen had lived upstairs, and though he wouldn’t admit it, he missed having her there. Missed Rufus, her giant Irish Wolfhound mutt.
The downstairs apartment had always seemed too big. Three bedrooms, a living room, den and kitchen. Colleen called his style “Generic American Male,” but he didn’t see anything wrong with that. He’d bought his furniture in one fell swoop, basically ordering page 21 of the Pottery Barn catalog. He had three framed photos: one of him and Colleen the day they opened the bar; one of him, Mom and Colleen at Collie’s wedding last year; and a photo of Savannah at bat.
Not one of him and Jess.
Yeah. The place was too quiet. Too big, too quiet, too empty.
Then again, it was supposed to have been for a family.
“You’re an idiot,” he said aloud.
Maybe he’d get a dog. A new girlfriend seemed like too much work. Bryce Campbell, a former classmate, ran the local shelter; maybe he could hook Connor up with a new best friend.
He changed into running shorts and an O’Rourke’s baseball team T-shirt. Their slogan for this year was O’Rourke’s: Manningsport’s Reigning Champions. As Usual.
It was a perfect spring day in the Finger Lakes. Trees were in full flower, the sun was shining, the town bustling with tourists and townies alike. He waved to Julianne, the librarian, and Emmaline flashed her patrol car lights at him as she passed. He headed out of the Village—someone was cooking pork, and it smelled fantastic—then headed up to the Hill, where the vineyards sat like crown jewels of the area, the fields green against the bright blue sky, clouds slipping past.
Three miles of hard, uphill running cleared his mind. He’d get some investors and start the brewery, a place that would almost be a spin-off of the bar. Five or eight varieties to start with, a tasting counter, a few little tables. Maybe he could hire Faith Holland to design a little outdoor terrace. He had to finalize the loan from Sherry at the bank. Needed to investigate the real estate market and see about an old barn that could house the brewery, which would be the perfect building for such a place.