The Chosen One (15 page)

Maya laughed and squatted on her haunches. “Hello, Grover.”

The terrier shamelessly smothered her with sloppy kisses, making her laugh even more.

“You wouldn’t believe it, but he’s actually a well-trained dog. Just not when it comes to meeting new victims.” I leaned down next to them, and Grover welcomed me in the same fashion.

“He loves people. Don’t ya, Grover?” Pat squatted to scratch the dog’s ear.

“I love dogs. I wasn’t allowed to have a pet growing up,” Maya said, speaking more to Grover than anyone else. It was clearly love at first sight for both. She retook her seat on the couch, and Grover jumped into her lap. “Aren’t you a handsome devil?” She rubbed behind his ears. “I love Bostons. Their coloring makes them look like they’re wearing tiny tuxedos.”

Fiona returned from the kitchen. “Shall we eat?” She ushered us to the dining area, and I noticed she’d set the table with normal plates, not the usual quirky dishes featuring presidential facts, which she’d purchased in a gift shop in Philly, outside of Independence Hall. However, unable to completely contain her presidential nerdiness, the placemats revealed photos of all forty-four presidents.

I eyed Maya as she took it all in: the placemats, Fiona’s apron with Obama’s body on it, the figurine of Teddy Roosevelt charging San Juan Hill as the table’s centerpiece, and all the other knickknacks on the counter and corner bookshelf, which contained only three cookbooks because the rest of the space was filled with presidential biographies. Fiona’s shrine-like apartment even included the presidents who were most hated. She may have been the only person who used busts of Milliard Fillmore and Warren G. Harding as bookends.

“How do you like the apron, Ainsley? Took me ages to track that one down.” Pat grinned. He celebrated Fiona’s obsession and was fond of saying, “Gotta love a woman with passion who isn’t afraid to show it.”

“You’ve outdone yourself, Pat.” I had my fingers crossed that my cousin would learn to appreciate Pat’s acceptance of her quirkiness. For years, Fiona’s mom had lectured her, “No one will want to settle down with a nutjob. Think about your future. Who in their right mind would want to live in a Graceland for presidents?”

Maya stood behind one of four chairs at the kitchen table. “How did you find all this stuff?”

“When we were kids, Fee’s parents started taking us on trips to visit the houses and cities of former presidents. The first was Mount Vernon, where Fiona purchased this.” I whisked a plaster head of Washington off one of the shelves. “It’s a piggy bank.” I rattled it, and Maya laughed when she heard the coins. “This”‌—‌I shook George‌—‌“morphed into this.” I waved to all the memorabilia.

“Last summer we visited Regan’s library in California.” Pat pointed out the Reagan coffee mug on the granite countertop.

“I take it that’s why Grover is named after the president.” Maya tapped Cleveland’s photo on a placemat while sliding into the seat.

I nodded as I took the seat next to Maya.

A plate piled high with BBQ ribs, corn on the cob, Boston baked beans, steamed vegetables, and corn bread sat in the middle of the table.

“Dig in, folks.” Fiona took her seat.

“It all looks wonderful.” Pat immediately tore into a rib, ripping half off the bone and smearing sauce over his face.

“Oh, that reminds me.” Fiona popped up and snatched plastic bibs from a drawer, tying one around each of our necks. As she finished tying Pat’s, I noticed she let her hand linger on his neck.

Maya turned to me with a shy smile. I wondered what she’d envisioned before arriving: china and crystal, I guess. With servants. Black servants.

Maya and I simultaneously reached for the steamed vegetables.

“Oh, no. Not another one.” Fiona smiled at me. “Every meal, Ainsley goes straight for the veggies.”

“Hush, Fee. That leaves more ribs for me.” Pat rubbed his belly, smearing more sauce onto his shirt. “Ribs are my favorite.”

Fiona waggled a finger in his face. “Pat, use the bib or a napkin. It’ll take me ages to get the stains out of your shirt.”

Fiona was doing Pat’s laundry? That was news to me. I knew he’d been staying over several nights a week since the start of semester, but I had no idea they were enjoying domestic bliss on this level. No wonder Fiona was on edge.

“Ah, just throw it on the fire. Don’t bother with washing it.” Pat once again used his T-shirt to clean his hands, and then gripped the silver serving spoon and ladled veggies onto his plate. “I have a million of these shirts.” He was wearing a faded Finnegan’s café shirt from his uncle’s joint.

Maya bit into a rib daintily at first, but then took a more savage bite.

“Good, huh?” Pat nodded and shoved a piece of corn bread into his maw, demolishing it in less than three seconds. He swiped the back of his hand along his chin and mouth. “Where’ya from, Maya? I don’t detect much of a Boston accent. A slight bit of a twang, perhaps.”

“Wyoming,” she said, tearing off a massive portion of rib. I wondered whether she had done that to prevent Pat from probing further into her past.

“I always wanted to go out there and visit a dude ranch. It would be fun to be a cowboy for a few days.”

“When I was seven, my mom took me to a dude ranch owned by Buffalo Bill’s grandson. He looked just like him with the flowing white hair and long beard.” Maya sipped her water. She hadn’t touched her wine.

“No kidding?” Pat’s eyes widened enviously, and then his gaze wandered to the window, lost in thought.

“What brought you to Massachusetts?” Fiona pushed.

“My mom. She always loved Revolutionary War history, and her passion rubbed off on me. I had this book on Paul Revere that I wore out from thumbing through, looking at the pictures.” Her guarded aura faded almost completely. “My great aunt used to live here.”

“Did she move?” I asked.

She looked down at her plate. “Oh, she died. Years ago.”

I got the message; she didn’t want to talk about it. I squeezed her leg under the table as Fee and I exchanged a quizzical look. Chuck hadn’t mentioned an aunt.

“Anyone need more wine?” Pat refilled his glass, which had been full two minutes before. “Ainsley?”

“No, thanks. I’m driving tonight.”

“What? I changed the sheets in the guest bedroom for you two.” Pat flashed a devilish grin.

Fiona flared her
I’m going to kill you
smile, and there was a scuffle of legs under the table.

“Ha!” Pat laughed after a second or two. “I never owned steel-capped boots until I started hanging out with Fiona. She doesn’t kick your shins. She stomps on your toes with the intention to pulverize.” He ground a fist into his other hand.

Fiona smiled sheepishly.

“My mom was subtler. She used to pinch the skin under my arm and twist it. No one saw.” Maya took a bite of corn.

“Like this?” Fiona tried out the new technique on Pat, who squealed.

“Just like that.” Maya confirmed.

Pat rubbed his arm. “I wouldn’t want to mess around with the women in your family. Tread carefully, Ains.”

I sipped iced water, trying to douse the fire reddening my cheeks.

Having Pat present was working for the most part, but he could be a loose cannon.

“Are you the Pat who fixed Ainsley up after the coffee incident?” Maya, her fingers smeared with sauce, pointed her rib toward the now-drunk Irishman.

Pat burped behind his hand before answering. “Yep. I’ve fixed these two up on a few occasions.” He half-covered his mouth again and whispered, “The press, you know.” He followed it up with an exaggerated wink. “Fiona’s pretty resourceful. If you ever need anyone for anything, she has a connection. Even if you need life support for a ferret.”

“It was a guinea pig,” Fiona defended John Q, her beloved pet named after John Quincy Adams, the seventh president and son of John Adams, the second commander in chief.

“A guinea pig?” Maya’s tone bordered on disbelief, but she eased into her uncomfortable smile, which I found oddly comforting. “How does that work? Oxygen tubes in his exercise ball?”

I tittered.

Fiona harrumphed. “I’ll have you know it worked. He lived another year.”

“Just like his namesake after he left the White House and got a second chance in the Senate,” I threw out there.

“Damn right!” Fiona slapped the tabletop.

Pat’s eyes clouded over. “She’s got a heart of gold, but don’t make her angry,” he told Maya. “That’s when the Scottish temper flares. The Carmichael women are especially dangerous.”

“You make us sound like gangsters, or hit men.” I avoided Maya’s eyes.

“And I ain’t stretching the truth.” Pat’s control was gone. “Ever hear of Liam? He was a dawg: prostitutes, drugs…”

The table bounced off the floor, making it obvious that Fiona was desperate to shut Pat up. No one outside the family was supposed to know about Liam. Actually, I was completely taken aback that she had even confided in Pat.

“Would anyone like more ribs?” I leapt out of my seat, afraid Maya would detect the shame in my eyes.

Pat’s arm darted into the air like he was in the first grade and dying to answer the teacher’s question. Just to make sure I understood, he shouted, “Yessum!”

“More ribs coming up.” The dining room table was off to the side of the kitchen, so while I didn’t escape the awkwardness, I did manage to divert Pat’s attention away from our “missing” uncle.

“Maya, what are the odds I can talk you into making us a cup of joe after dinner?” asked Fiona.

“Fee-own-a Carmichael! Maya’s a guest,” I whirled around, holding a heaped plate of ribs.

“Shut your trap, Ains. I hear her coffee is the best,” Pat said, wearing a whiskey-foozled grin.

Maya blinked, looking like she had no clue what to say or how to act around Fiona or Pat. “Of course.”

“Accourse,” Pat repeated, now in a drunken slur. “Wild horses couldn’t drag me away before sampling Maya’s brew.”

Fiona didn’t say a word, but her ashen face spoke volumes about Pat’s slurred speech.

Maya laughed. “Wild horses, huh? Never heard a compliment like that before.”

Maya hadn’t touched her wine, and I feared she’d run for the hills after Pat’s performance. I’d had no idea she was a teetotaler.

“So, Pat, what was it like growing up in Southie?” she asked, putting Fiona and me temporarily at ease.

“Exciting.” Pat leaned closer. “Ever hear of Whitey Bulger?”

“Oh, Irish! You didn’t know Bulger. He went into hiding when you were a speck of a boy, and repeatedly watching
The Departed
doesn’t make you an expert.” Fiona rested her chin on one palm, doing her best not to smile at her drunken fool of a boyfriend.

“Stop your jawin’, woman.”

“So did you know any mobsters?” Maya asked, amusement making her lips twitch.

He mimed locking his lips and throwing away the key.

“Yeah, right. Our Southie boy hates violence, avoids it at all costs. Just last week he talked down two BU students in the bar.” She pinched his cheek.

“Hey, now. I seem to remember taking care of a photographer for you two”‌—‌he gestured to Fee and me‌—‌“at the Cape this summer.”

I came to Pat’s defense. “Haven’t seen that man since.” Maybe he could take care of the mystery quote sender.

“And you won’t after the talkin’ I gave him. Taking photos of you topless in Truro on Longnook Beach. Not on my watch!”

Maya quirked an eyebrow at me.

I mouthed, “Not me. Fiona.” Her foot tapped mine under the table, but I wasn’t sure whether she meant that was good or too bad.

Pat turned to Maya, clearly ready to embellish some more, but the fire went out of his eyes and some clarity returned. “Pass me some corn bread, please,” he said in a hoity-toity way, causing all of us to laugh.

I suspected Fiona had given his underarm another good twist. Maya was right; it only took a couple of times to learn how to behave.

“You close with ya ma?” Pat asked her.

“I am. You?”

I considered her ability to steer conversations back to Pat quite impressive. She’d make a great politician.

“Yep.” He belched. “I’m the youngest of five, and the cutest, so naturally I was spoiled.” He tapped his head. “I was also the smartest. Everyone pitched in to pay for medical school. My uncle even held fundraisers at the café. I wanted to be a vet, but everyone decided medical school would be a better investment.” He hitched up a sad shoulder.

Maya turned to face me. “You don’t talk about your family much. What are they like?”

“Uh…” My throat seized.

“Oh, Ainsley won’t tell you much. If you want to learn the good stuff, check out Susie Q’s blog.” Pat’s eyes lit up. “Hey, you were there when she farted, weren’t you? How loud was it?”

Maya laughed. “Trust me, that was blown out of proportion.”

“From what I heard, Ains blew a hole in her panties.” Pat laughed.

I slumped down in my seat.

Maya must have noticed, because she changed the subject. “You have a brother and sister, right?” she asked.

I nodded.

Pat was about to sip his wine but waved it to interrupt. “Don’t forget Craig.”

“Craig?” Maya asked.

I cleared my throat. “My eldest brother died before I was born.”

“Murdered?” Maya’s eyes clouded over with concern.

I flinched. “No. Leukemia.”

“That’s awful.” She squeezed my hand. “I’m so sorry.”

“It’s because of Craig’s death and Hammie’s accident that Ains is here,” Pat blurted.

“What?” Maya blinked.

“She’s the Chosen One,” Pat whispered behind his hand.

Fiona and I sat frozen as if a line of skeletons had just congaed right out of the Carmichael closet. So much for the Southie boy’s ability to keep secrets.

Some recognition returned to Pat’s eyes and he stood. “Uh, anyone need more?” He opened the fridge, hunting for something‌—‌hopefully common sense.

Fiona perked up in her seat and shared a story about one of her first dates with Pat.

While Fiona chatted about their date, I pondered Maya’s question. Why had she thought Craig might have been murdered? Did Susie Q have another crackpot conspiracy theory on her blog? Or was that an automatic Mattapan thought?