Always (34 page)

"Yep. The kind with them little marshmallows." Jacob opened a drawer near the pantry door and removed the coloring books and crayons Mrs. Larabee had bought for him, then sat at the table.

"You're a good boy, Jacob Samuel Mulligan." Bridget's heart swelled with love for her son. She had no regrets for those few nights in her husband's arms. None at all. "Sometimes you look just like your father."

She never referred to the man who'd married her then left her alone and pregnant as Jacob's
daddy
, because he never had been. Sowing his seed didn't make a man a daddy.

But it sure as heck made a woman look the fool.

No, she didn't mean that. She had loved him in her own way. If not for that hurried trip to the Justice of the Peace and a honeymoon at the Super 8 out on the highway, Bridget wouldn't have Jacob. Besides, someday her son would want to know about his father, then she'd have to find the man.

She sure hoped someday didn't come too soon.

She'd chosen to keep her married name after the divorce, especially once she learned she was expecting. Culley Mulligan hadn't seen fit to respond to Mr. Larabee's letters or even acknowledge the divorce papers. Eventually, the law allowed the divorce decree to be finalized without his cooperation. Or child support...

Jacob flashed her one of his best smiles and she melted inside. She'd do anything for her son. Anything at all. Even look up that no-account father of his when the time came, and she reckoned it would. Kids were naturally curious about things. She just hoped Jacob took his sweet time about getting around to curious.

She blew her son a kiss and said, "I'll be right back, darlin'. Stay put."

"I will, Momma."

And she knew he would. She slipped through the swinging doors and passed through the dining room before she heard voices coming from the study. Mr. Larabee was home, too. They'd offered to attend Granny's funeral, but Bridget had asked them not to. She couldn't bear for them to see how skimpy the funeral had been, despite their generosity. With a sigh, she lifted her hand and knocked on the heavy paneled door.

"Come in, Bridget," Mrs. Larabee said, swinging open the door. "It's a dreadful day, but I suppose that's only appropriate. Considering."

"Yes'm." Bridget didn't bother to explain that Granny would've preferred a sunny day for her laying to rest, because her wishing it wouldn't change the weather. Besides, it was too late.

"Have a seat, Bridget," Mr. Larabee said, rising from his massive leather chair behind his equally daunting oak desk.

She swallowed the lump in her throat and willed her hands to cease their infernal trembling. Was she in trouble? Had she forgotten to do a chore she'd been asked to perform? No, never. If anything could be said of Bridget Mulligan, it was that she excelled at being conscientious.

Her knees turned to the consistency of that wretched green gelatin Granny'd loved as Bridget sat gingerly on a dark burgundy wingback chair across from Mr. Larabee. Mrs. Larabee stood beside her husband, and when he returned to his seat, she perched on the arm of his chair, her hand resting on his shoulder. They both looked solemn and Bridget gulped.

"I've been going over your grandmother's estate," Mr. Larabee said.

"Estate?" Bridget coughed and shook her head. "I don't hardly think we can call a trailer house older than me an estate."

"No, but with her insurance and such, everything together is her estate... for legal purposes." Mr. Larabee drew a deep breath and folded his hands on his desk in front of him, his eyes gentle as he stared straight at her. "Did you have any idea about your grandmother's gambling problem?"

"Gambling?" She shook her head, searching Mrs. Larabee's sympathetic expression. "Granny liked her Friday Night Bingo. Is that what you mean?"

"Yes, and I'm afraid she was betting on the ponies at the fairgrounds, too." Mr. Larabee bit his lower lip, then reached up to pat his wife's hand where it still rested on his shoulder. "However, the situation isn't all bad."

The flesh around Bridget's mouth went numb and her blood turned colder than the rain that had pervaded Granny's funeral. "Exactly what do you mean, Mr. Larabee? I have a right to know."

"Yes. Yes, you do," Mrs. Larabee said in her soothing way. "No matter what you decide, though, I want you to know you always have a position here, as long as you want it. Don't worry about that. And a room if you ever need it."

Thank heavens.
Bridget slumped back in her chair, her breath releasing in ragged spasms as she tried to make sense of nonsense. Girding her resolve, she pinned Mr. Larabee with a look she hoped would get to the bottom of this in short order. "Give it to me straight, sir. Please?"

"Fair enough." He leaned forward and leafed through a stack of papers on his desk. "After your grandfather died, your grandmother gambled away his life insurance money, then took out a loan from a finance company in Marysville."

"Oh, dear Lord." Bridget's heart thudded louder with every breath she took. "The trailer. She gambled away the trailer."

Mr. Larabee closed his eyes for a split second, then nodded. "In all honesty, the finance company never should've loaned her so much. I doubt the trailer's worth half of what she owed on it."

"How much?"

Mr. Larabee looked up at his wife, then faced Bridget again. "It was already in foreclosure before the accident. I'm sorry, Bridget, but it's no longer a matter of how much. There's a court order to vacate the premises by the end of this month."

"Granny knew?" She forced herself to breathe slowly. "But... she didn't know that truck would run her down."

"Of course, she didn't," Mrs. Larabee said in a gentle voice. "Bridget, we both know your grandmother was a dreamer. She probably thought—
believed
—the next time she would win enough to pay everything."

"Yes, I'm certain of it." Mr. Larabee cleared his throat. "I'm sorry. I know this is hard, but—"

"Hard? It's all I have—all I
had
." Bridget clenched her hands together in her lap, determined to maintain her dignity, no matter what.

"Not all, child," Mrs. Larabee said quietly. "Tell her the other, Donald."

"Other?" A nervous laugh came from Bridget's mouth, though that hardly seemed possible. "She had other debts?"

"No, except for her Sears card, but the balance on that was small. It's been taken care of."

Mr. Larabee made a motion of dismissal with his hand, and Bridget knew he had paid off Granny's Sears card. They were good folks, but she dearly hated taking charity.

Then she remembered her little boy coloring in the kitchen. Right now, she didn't have any choice but to take charity. Jacob came first.

"Thank you," she said steadily, though she felt anything but steady. "You'll both go to heaven for your generous hearts."

Mrs. Larabee moved away from her husband. "I'll entertain Jacob. Is he in the kitchen?"

"Yes'm. We were heating soup in the microwave."

"I'll dish it up and we'll have a nice chat." She paused at the door. "I bought some more of those little oyster crackers he loves." Her lower lip trembled and she bit it, then drew a shaky breath. "Chin up, Bridget. Everything's going to turn out fine. You'll see." She cast her husband another glance and left the room.

Bridget waited until the door clicked shut, then she faced the man again.
I told Granny she'd live on in my heart, but I didn't know it would be heartburn.
Guilt pressed down on her.
No. No, I don't mean that.

"I hope you won't be angry with me," Mr. Larabee said.

She looked up at her employer. "Why in tarnation would I be angry with you, sir? This isn't your fault."

Mr. Larabee's cheeks reddened. "I've kept something from you."

A chill permeated her bones, her heart, her soul. "Tell me everything, please," Bridget urged, eager to end this nightmare so she could determine where they would go once the trailer was gone. "What did you keep from me?"

"I finally heard from Culley Mulligan's family, but I... I postponed telling you until after the funeral."

She straightened, tilting her head to one side and holding Mr. Larabee's gaze. "So the scallywag decided to surface at last, did he?"

"Bridget..." Mr. Larabee's expression grew very sober. "Your ex-husband is dead."

"Oh." No other sound escaped her as she turned icy cold. Though she'd tried desperately to convince herself to hate the man who'd married and abandoned her within seventy-two hours, she'd never completely let go of the fantasy that Culley might return for her one day. Now she knew one day would never be. His wicked grin and roguish charm would remain forever silent.

"Dead." An odd tingling sensation spread across her face and down her throat. "How? When?"

Mr. Larabee drew a slow breath and pushed his glasses farther up on the bridge of his nose. "The same day you last saw him."

"
What
?" Disbelief thundered through Bridget. "How? What happened? He was healthy as a horse the night before." Fire flamed in her cheeks as the words left her mouth and the vivid memory of her brief but fertile honeymoon flooded her mind.

Mr. Larabee cleared his throat and she noticed the redness in his cheeks. He was too much of a gentleman to comment on her unladylike remark.

Avoiding her gaze, he said, "Car accident right outside of Marysville."

She nodded slowly. "He... he said he had some business over there."

"As far as the highway patrol were concerned, his identification indicated they had a dead Irish citizen on their hands in a rented car." Mr. Larabee shrugged and shook his head. "They had no way of knowing about your marriage or that you should've been contacted." He arched a brow. "You didn't notify the police about his disappearance. Remember?"

Scalding tears filled her eyes. "We... we had a fight that morning about what his family would think about me not being Catholic." Though she'd been more worried about it than he had. "I thought..."

Mr. Larabee sighed. "So you thought he changed his mind about being married?"

She nodded vigorously, unable to speak. After clearing her throat, she dabbed her eyes dry and lifted her chin. "So they sent him back to Ireland?"

"He's buried in Marysville, but his possessions were returned to his family in Ireland."

"He told me about his momma, a sister, and a brother. And his granny." Bridget's eyes burned and her throat clogged with unshed tears. "All these years I've raved at the man for leaving me... and he was dead. All this time. I can't believe it."

"I know."

"It's like losing him all over again." A thought made her breath catch. "What should I tell Jacob?"

"I'm not sure. He never knew his father." Mr. Larabee lifted one shoulder. "It depends on what you decide to do. Maybe it would be best to tell him nothing at all."

"And let him grow up believing his father—his daddy—abandoned him?" Bridget shook her head and lifted her chin a notch. "I'll tell him the truth. I've done the man wrong by believing the worst. I owe him this."

"Whatever you think best." A gentle and bewildering smile curved Mr. Larabee's lips. "You know I sent the divorce papers on to his last known address in Ireland."

"Yes, I remember."

"They've been hidden until now."

"Hidden?"

Mr. Larabee lifted an envelope with an unusual looking stamp. "According to this letter from Culley's mother, she found the envelope containing the divorce papers among her late mother-in-law's personal belongings."

"She hid them?" Perplexed, Bridget furrowed her brow. "Why?"

"Mrs. Mulligan said her mother-in-law probably thought it best the family believed her grandson died unmarried, rather than married to a woman who would, uh, 'stoop' to divorce."

Liquid fire suffused Bridget's cheeks. "That's hogwash. She didn't know what—"

"Of course, she didn't know, but that's past now," Mr. Larabee continued. "I received this letter the day
after
your grandmother died, and I wanted to wait until everything was settled."

"What's there to settle?" Her throat turned drier than August dog days. "I've lost my home, my granny, and learned my husband died instead of abandoning me. Mercy, what a lucky break." Bitterness edged her voice and her hands trembled.

"Don't you see, Bridget?"

"See what?"

"You and Jacob have family. In-laws." A shock of white hair fell across Mr. Larabee's forehead and he shoved it back with slender fingers. "And there's property."

Swallowing the lump in her throat, she wiped her sweaty palms and reached for the letter. "Property? I don't understand."

"Mrs. Mulligan believes you have a right to your share, especially since you weren't notified of your husband's death."

Culley's momma...?
"Is the property valuable? Can I sell it?"

Mr. Larabee smiled. "Being unfamiliar with Irish real estate, I can't—"

"
Irish
? Of course, it's Irish. I wasn't thinking." Bridget leaned forward. "So Culley's property is in Ireland."

"Yes. Culley Mulligan didn't own anything in the States."