Total pages in book: 95
Estimated words: 90642 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 453(@200wpm)___ 363(@250wpm)___ 302(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 90642 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 453(@200wpm)___ 363(@250wpm)___ 302(@300wpm)
That’s my main job. I listen to their problems and promise to help. Mom’s got the front room converted into a simple study for the purpose since it’s Sunday dinner when most of the neighborhood can show up and take some of my time. I wish I was in front of the TV or even in the back doing dishes, but instead I listen to old Mrs. Ryan complain about her neighbor’s dog again.
“You’re a good boy, you are, Brody Quinn,” she says, patting my cheek as I walk her to the door. “Good as your father was. I really mean that. He was a great man and you will be too, just you wait.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Ryan. I’ll see what I can do about the dog.” She disappears down the driveway, teetering off into the Mt. Greenwood section of the South Side. This place is basically Irish heaven. I can’t throw a damn potato without hitting someone with ancestry stretching back to the island.
“How many does that make?” Declan asks, leaning up against the wall as I come back inside. He takes a slug of beer and grins. Thirty years old and still acts like a kid sometimes.
“Too many,” I grunt at him. Although I know the number. That’s the thirteenth petition I’ve heard in the last hour alone.
“You’d think they’d leave you alone, seeing as it’s Sunday dinner and all.” He follows me back into the study. I sit behind the desk, just wanting a second to gather myself, but he plops in the chair opposite where Mrs. Ryan sat a minute ago. “None of them would approach me out in the street to ask some little bullshit favor. It’s like they think you’re the Don from The Godfather and it’s your daughter’s wedding day or some shit.”
I sigh and rub my face. “Dad used to do this,” I say and glance over at a picture of him from when he was young. Big and strong, my old man, with black hair and a broad smile. Everyone loved old Boss Quinn, and even though I’ve worked my ass off to fill his shoes, sometimes it doesn’t feel like I’m enough.
“You don’t have to keep all his routines, you know,” Declan says and his face goes serious. “You’re the head of the Quinns now. You can make those calls.”
“Give it some time. People need to get used to me, and if I start making changes all of a sudden, they’ll find more reasons to complain. I’ll ease into it.”
He shrugs and looks over his shoulder as Seamus cheers about something in the living room. “Fucker probably just won money off me,” he grumbles and gets to his feet. “By the way, Father Michaels wanted you to fix some shit at the church. I forget what it was, but he said to call him.”
“Yeah, okay.” I make a note of it in my little book of shit that has to get done. “Anything else?”
“Nah, I’m good, but I’m sure you’ll hear from the others eventually.” He grins at me. “You wanna place a bet? I’ll give you good odds.”
“Fuck off, Declan.”
He laughs and leaves me in peace. I lean back in my chair and close my eyes. Even though it’s been two weeks since I last saw my wife-to-be, every spare second I manage to find each day somehow finds her slipping into my head. I hear her laugh and feel her hip under my fingers and see the way her head tilted to the side as her mouth parted in that hallway at the country club, and I wonder for the thousandth time if she would’ve kissed me back.
But then there’s a knock at the door and it’s back to work.
I handle another dozen petitions before Mom finally shuts the front door and hangs a wreath on it, the universal symbol for fuck off, we’re closed. After that, I get a little calm, or what masquerades as calm in my family.
Molly and Caitlin are arguing about some stupid shit, while Seamus keeps saying Declan was cheating, and Nolan’s bugging me to give him more important jobs at the law firm, and foods get passed around, a drink is spilled, and nobody’s paying much attention to anything but themselves.
Except for me. I keep seeing Mom. Poor Orla Quinn, widow much too young. Her wrinkles look deeper and her hair seems grayer since Dad passed, and she barely eats anything, barely even lifts her head up to smile at a joke Seamus makes. Molly’s chatting at her too, and she makes little noises like she understands, but there’s been a distance in Mom.
She’s deep in grief. I think we all are. Dad was a hard man, but he was the center of our family, the star around which we orbited, and things are strange without him. I’ve contorted myself into his position, but I haven’t managed to fill the hole he left and I doubt I ever will.