CHAPTER 2 |

Pudgy Arms & Special Voices

 

 

Five o’clock.

Mom and Dad stopped by after a shopping trip at the Fisch Market, the little mom and pop grocery store owned by Connie Fischer’s husband.

Even the River Canyon supermarket had a cutesy name, and if you bought booze two days in a row, they would ask if you needed someone to talk to.

Not that I know this from experience or anything.

“Hey, can I get you guys something to eat?” I asked, as they approached the counter.

I watched as Dad gingerly touched the displays of wrapped brownies, cookies, and other baked goods. He sighed, eyeing the case of unsliced deli meats, and baskets of breads. He smiled sadly at the chalkboard menus and coffee pots, and I hoped they smiled back.

He turned to me, shaking the melancholy away with his twinkling eyes. “No, honey. We just thought we’d stop by, and—”

“Have you seen Patrick?” Mom interrupted her husband. She leaned against the counter, searching my eyes with urgency. “Please tell me you’ve seen him.”

I groaned, immediately turning from the counter in search of a distraction. Spotting a rag, I grabbed it and began to wipe down the meat slicer.

“Of course I’ve seen Patrick, Mom.”

“But when did you see him?”

Dad shook his head. “Oh, just leave her alone.”

Thanks, Dad. I nodded my relieved thanks in his direction before returning to my vigorous polishing. At this rate, I was going to need a new slicer by the end of the night.

Mom shooed him away with a wave of her hand. “But have you seen him to-day?”

I was honestly surprised Connie hadn’t hurried over to their place to fill them in on the details of our impending matrimony. Or that the whole town hadn’t already gotten together spreadsheets and a Pinterest board of wedding ideas for River Canyon’s childhood sweethearts.

Throwing my head backward, I sighed loudly. “Yes, Mom. I saw him today. I’ve seen him every single day for the past two years of my life, because he’s incapable of leaving me the hell alone—”

“Oh, good!”

“—and just so you’re not surprised, I’m seeing him tonight, okay? Now, just drop it.”

Her hand clapped over her mouth, just the way I thought it would, and, dammit, her eyes teared up.

“Oh God,” she said, her words restricted by her emotions. “I can’t wait to tell Collin and Helen.”

“Oh, don’t worry. I’m sure their sweet little Paddy has already clued them in on his victory.”

I instantly felt a touch of shame at the bitter comment aimed at his parents. They had never done anything but treat me like the daughter they never had, and I mentally took it back.

“He’s divorced, you know,” she threw in.

“I wouldn’t have agreed to going out with him if he wasn’t, Mom.”

My rag stopped moving. I realized too late what I had just said, that I expected something to happen between us, and I stood there, watching my reflection in the blade. Watching for the reaction. Watching for the flicker of hope that things could be better, different maybe.

“It’s okay to admit you still have feelings for him, honey. There’s still hope for you two.”

“Oh Christ, Mary …” Dad groaned. “Just leave her alone. It’s her life. Let her decide what to do with it.”

My reflection pouted, my lower lip trembled.

God, what a nice thought; the magical art of choice. But we never had one, did we? From the very beginning, I doubted Patrick and I ever stood a chance.

 

❧

 

We met when we were three.

My parents owned an old Colonial on the corner of Birch and Elm in River Canyon’s historic district. I was born in the town, two years after my sister Kate. We had a dog, a yellow Labrador named Molly, and a hefty black cat who we called Shadow. Shadow was a tramp, though, and often spent time next door, where he answered to the name Murdoch.

Later, when I was old enough to understand that Shadow wasn’t really Shadow, nor was he Murdoch, I decided to just call him Mister. Being a boy was the one thing he couldn’t change, and Mister was the only name that suited him.

Anyway, when I was three, our neighbors moved away—not the ones that called our Shadow their Murdoch—and in came the Kinney Family. A charismatic dad, a charming housewife, and three boys all under the age of four; Patrick and his twin baby brothers Ryan and Sean.

They hailed from a little town called Balbriggan on the coast of Ireland. I always found it funny that they had traded one coastal town for another when they moved across the pond to River Canyon, Connecticut. Why not try something new? You know, live a little?

But Mrs. Kinney’s family had already moved Stateside to Mystic, CT, and she longed to be closer to them. So, Mr. Kinney had gotten a job in the city, doing something with numbers I never quite tried to understand, and moved his family over.

Just like that.

The day they moved in, my parents each gripped a little shoulder and steered us across our front lawn onto theirs. My father, being the real charmer that he was, extended a sturdy hand toward the very tall, very fair Mr. Kinney, and uttered a groan-inducing, “Top o’ the mornin’ to ya.”

The beautiful, blonde Mrs. Kinney smiled down at my sister and me, kneeling swiftly with the two bundles of joy swaddled in her arms.

“What beautiful girls y’have,” she cooed in an airy voice that I immediately became infatuated with.

She spoke so differently, so eloquently, like a prettier version of that cartoon leprechaun touting his cereal on TV. She was a foreign creature from a far-off land, and I wanted her to love me the way I loved her voice.

“Oh, thank you!” My mother never took compliments well, and her thanks was a little shrill. She rested a hand on my sister’s head. “This is Kathleen, or Kate.” A hand came to sit over my pigtails, and she said, “And this is Kinsey.”

As my mother filled Mrs. Kinney in on our ages, my eyes had fallen upon a little boy, peeking through the long legs of his red-headed father. He was blonde, like his mother, and his skin was a stark white in the glow of the summer sun, just like his dad. After all this time, I have no idea how I can so distinctly remember a little boy, not to mention so fondly. But, in my mind, I can still see the way the light breeze tousled his bowl haircut. The way his little fingers clenched to the linen of his father’s pants. The tan and scuffed sandals that poked through the lively green of their front lawn, and the oceanic eyes that seemed to focus on mine with an old soul intensity. Too old for a little boy.

“Ah, she’s three, y’say? Like our Patrick here,” Mrs. Kinney seemed to sing in her melodic voice. “Come here, Paddy. Come say hi to your new friend.”

Ladies and gentlemen, meet Patrick Kinney.

Our fates were determined in that moment: your new friend. We didn’t have a choice, did we? We didn’t stand a chance.

Patrick was pulled from behind his father with an embarrassed chuckle over his boy’s reluctance, as the strong hand pushed him along faster than his little legs could move.

“Say hello to Kinsey, son,” Mr. Kinney commanded in his own special voice, wearing a friendly smile and mussing up the little kid’s hair.

“Hello.”

I hadn’t expected a kid my age to also speak in that special voice, like his parents, but smaller and higher pitched. I also hadn’t expected his pudgy arms would wrap around my neck, pulling me into him for a hug. I remember wondering why he was hugging me, and then, God, why did I hug him?

Our parents laughed and fawned over us, as we stood there on their front lawn in a tight embrace. Neglected due to her age, because three was the age to be, Kate had run off to play with a ball that had come all the way from Ireland and the babies in Mrs. Kinney’s arms were there, but forgotten as they slept.

Nothing mattered, except for Patrick and me.

“Looks like we’ll be planning a wedding soon,” my father said, clapping his hand on the shoulder of his new neighbor.

“Aye,” the freckle-faced Mr. Kinney replied, followed by another rumbling chuckle.

Like I said, we never had a choice.

We never stood a chance.