The Irishman's Christmas Gamble
Page 21

Surprise showed in the slight lift of Frankie’s eyebrows, but she held out her hand. “Nice to meet you, Owen. I’ve known your dad for a long time.”
Owen put his small hand in hers. “Nice to meet you too. Da says your chocolates are the best in the world.”
“Maybe you should find out for yourself. I brought some with me.”
Owen’s eyes went wide as Frankie pulled the sizeable Taste of Ireland sampler out of her shopping bag. “Da’s given me some before, but never this much.” He turned to Liam. “Can I have one before lunch? I’m so hungry.”
 

Frankie flinched before she could stop herself, as the child’s voice hurled her back into the bedroom she shared with her sisters. She forced herself to breathe through the sudden clutch of panic. “It’s a special occasion, so I think it can be allowed,” Liam said, his smile fading into a look of puzzled concern as he scanned Frankie’s face.
It had been hard enough to keep herself in the present when she saw Owen through the car window. Except for the child’s mop of dark blond hair, he was the spitting image of Liam as a boy with the same wiry body and coiled energy. When the boy had slipped into the car and turned Liam’s dark blue eyes on her, she’d nearly gasped.
Owen ripped the plastic off the box of chocolates and lifted off the top, giving Frankie time to fight down the memories of other small, but thinner hands, reaching for the occasional rejected chocolate she brought home from work at Balfour’s. Owen started to pick out a Minty Shamrock before pulling back and holding the box out to her. “Would you like one?”
“You’re a very polite young man, but they’re all yours. Are Minty Shamrocks your favorite?”
Owen took the shamrock before offering the box to his father. “I like the way the shape feels on my tongue before I bite into it and let the mint out.” He popped the chocolate into his mouth.
“A real connoisseur.” Frankie was impressed with the sophistication of his answer. “I think you’ll like this other gift then.” She pulled the chemistry kit from the shopping bag.
“Don’t I have to wait until Christmas to open it?” But Owen had already plunked the box of chocolates down on his father’s lap.
“It’s not wrapped in Christmas paper, so that eliminates the need to wait.” She transferred the large box to Owen.
“You’re cool,” the boy said, as he found a corner of the brown wrapping paper and pulled.
The pleasure on Liam’s face made Frankie’s heart twist with sadness. She could almost feel the power of his longing to have his son and his oldest friend take to each other.
Owen ripped the wrapping off the front of the box. “This is awesome! Is there chocolate in it?”
Frankie pointed to the chocolate wafers in the photo on the box. “But I’ll send you more since you have such a fine palate for it.”
“I do?”
“That means you don’t just know that the chocolate tastes good, you know why it tastes that way,” Frankie said.
“I have a fine palate,” Owen said to his father.
Liam ruffled the boy’s hair. “And she would know because she’s a professional.”
The limousine came to a stop by the curb. Owen leaned over Frankie to look out the window. “It’s Paddy’s Pub,” he said, his young voice vibrating with excitement.
“A pub?” Frankie had made too many trips to the neighborhood pub in Finglas to collect her father when he was too drunk to find his own way home.
“One of my mates from Team Ireland owns it, so Owen gets treated like visiting royalty,” Liam said, before he added in a low voice, “and it’s nothing like the Leprechaun.”
Her father’s favorite boozer to get plastered in. “Thank God.”
“They have the best chips in America,” Owen said. “Paddy’s secret recipe.”
The limo driver swung open the door and offered his hand to Frankie while Owen scrambled out behind her. Frankie eyed the half-timbered facade with mullioned windows and a bright green shamrock painted on the faux-Tudor sign. “Just like the Auld Sod,” she said, her tone as dry as desert sand. But relief loosened the clench of her shoulders. Liam was right. It was nothing like the Leprechaun.
“Americans like the atmosphere, according to Paddy,” Liam said. Owen was already at the door, looking over his shoulder at them. Liam held out his hand to Frankie. She took it, knowing he meant it to be a comfort to her. She regretted it when she saw the boy’s smile fade as he saw his father’s gesture.
Liam drew her forward and held the door open. Frankie waved Owen through in front of her, and the air exploded with a chorus of Irish accents shouting, “Owen! Liam!” followed by various abusively friendly greetings.
The interior continued the ye-olde-historic-pub theme with dark paneling, a long polished bar, dart boards, and brass lamps, all serving as a background for a shrine to Irish football. She couldn’t call it soccer here where photos, posters, framed jerseys, and scarves were all tributes to Team Ireland.
The din of welcome quieted to a single voice, as a blond man of about Liam’s age came toward them with his hand thrust out. He wore jeans and a button-down shirt striped in green and orange. His stride was fluid and efficient, reminding her of Liam’s. This must be his former teammate.
“Paddy Naughton,” the man said, taking her hand. “You’re much too lovely a lass to be hangin’ around the likes of Liam Keller, so I’ll be glad to rescue you.”
She put her hand in his warm, strong grasp. “Frankie Hogan.” It came out in full-on Irish, an involuntary response to Paddy’s deep accent.
“Ye’re a Dubliner, then. That deserves a kiss.” He leaned in to give her a smacking buss on the cheek.
“Away and pull yer wire,” Liam said, putting his arm around Frankie’s waist.
Paddy winked at her. “Don’t go actin’ the maggot, Kells. I was just bein’ cordial.”
Owen was already perched on a stool, chatting with the bartender. Liam tapped his son on the shoulder. “We’ll be taking a table today.”
The boy sighed but jumped off the stool and followed them to a high-backed booth. Paddy handed Frankie a menu and nodded to the wall beside her. “Thought you’d appreciate the Liam Keller table.”