Kiss Me, I'm Irish Read online

  So she’d kept a simple spiral notebook, college-ruled and ragged at the edges. It never drew anyone’s attention; instead it blended in with her many schoolbooks, another tool of a brainiac child bound and determined to get to the Ivy League.

  But this was no ordinary notebook. The dates of the entries were far apart, but over the course of about a dozen years, it was just about full. Written on both sides of every page, in a script that had started out awkward, moved to a girlish flourish, and ended up as scratchy as a doctor’s prescription.

  She hadn’t looked at the book in at least four years. But tonight, her body still humming from the electrical charge of that kiss, she’d gone to the bottom of a box of rarely worn sweaters to find a piece of her heart that had never quite healed. Sliding her nail into one of the curled corners, she wet her lips, still warm from the taste of Deuce.

  The man could kiss and that was a fact.

  In truth, it had been right in the middle of that heart-tripping lip-lock that the notebook had flashed in her mind like a big red flag. Warning. Warning. Serious, severe discontentment and disappointment ahead.

  She lifted the cover. “Perhaps we need a little history lesson,” she whispered to herself.

  She opened it randomly, to about the fifth or sixth page.

  The words “Mrs. Deuce Monroe” decorated the margins. The O’s in Monroe were hearts. Kendra laughed softly. She had to. Otherwise, she’d cry. The penmanship was classic third-grade, early cursive.

  Tomorrow, my family is driving all the way to Fall River for my brother’s baseball tournament. And guess what???? Deuce is coming too!!! In our car!!! His parents said he could drive with Jack!!! I will be in the car with him for hours and hours!!! I’m excited and happy tonight.

  Kendra smiled, shaking her head. She remembered the trip vividly. Jack and Deuce had traded baseball cards and listened to the Red Sox game the entire time and never once said a word to her. Except when they rolled in laughter because she had to stop and go to the bathroom so often. And they’d lost the tournament on one of Deuce’s classic out-of-control pitches, so the trip home was real quiet.

  She flipped to the middle. Her handwriting had matured, and the date told her the entry was made when she was fourteen years old.

  I hate Anne Keppler. I just hate her and her black hair and her perfect cheerleader’s body. He calls her “Annie”—I heard him. She’s down there right now, playing pool and giggling like a hyena along with that completely dumb Dawn Hallet(osis) who runs after Jack like a puppy-dog. Oh, God. He likes her. Deuce likes Anne Keppler. I heard him tell Jack last night after everyone left their noisy party. He kissed her! I heard him tell Jack he got tongue. How gross is that?

  Her limbs grew heavy at the memory of Deuce’s tongue. Not gross at all, as a matter of fact.

  A series of broken-heart sketches followed that entry, but many months passed before she wrote again. A few words about entering high school, taking difficult courses, then…

  Oh, lovely little piece of paper…I’m holding my driver’s license. Yes! The State of Massachusetts and some really obnoxious old lady with orange hair agreed that I could drive (they were mercifully understanding about the parallel parking problem—the parallel parking that Jack swore I wouldn’t have to do). Mom said I could go to Star Market this afternoon for some groceries. Guess I’ll have to take a quick spin past Rock Field…there’s baseball practice tonight....

  She’d taken that drive about a million times. And she’d made up another million excuses to wander over to the stands, to give something to Jack, to watch Deuce out in the field, throwing pitches, getting chewed out by Coach Delacorte. Rarely, if ever, did Deuce notice her. Still, she was certain that if she just waited, if she just grew up a little more, if she just got rid of the braces, if she just could fill a C-cup, he would realize that he’d loved her all along.

  By the time she grew up and the braces came off and the bra size increased, Deuce had ditched Rockingham for the major leagues. She tried to forget him and, for the most part, with her focus on getting into Harvard, and staying there, she succeeded. It was even possible to work at Monroe’s in the summers and not think too much about him.

  Until Leah Monroe died, and Deuce came home, in need of comfort and love.

  She didn’t bother to look for a passage in the journal that described the night she lost her virginity on the beach. She’d never written about it, trusting her memory to keep every single detail crystal-clear in her memory.

  But as time passed, she did turn to her red notebook to write about the pain. The first entry was made when it began to dawn on her that she’d never hear from him again.

  Deuce has been gone for nine days. Like a fool, I check my messages every hour. I pick up the phone to see if it’s working. I run to the mailbox for a card, a note, a letter.

  The closest I can get to him is the box scores in the paper. He pitched last night. Lost. Does he think about me when he goes back to his hotel? Does he think it’s too late to call? Or does he have a girl in Chicago, in Detroit, in Baltimore…wherever he is right now.

  Oh, God, why doesn’t he call? How could he have been so sweet, so loving, so tender? Was it all

  an act?

  There was one more entry, but Kendra shut the notebook and tossed it on the table. The walk down memory lane was no pleasant stroll; the exercise had worked. She’d never meant any more to Deuce than Annie Keppler or any other girl in his past. Of course, since their paths were crossing again, being the professional player that he was, he hit on her tonight. One kiss in the dark. Another meaningless display of affection. He was just high on his packed house and she was the available female of the moment.

  He had no idea how their one night of pleasure had ruined her entire life. Evidently, Jack had never told Deuce his sister got pregnant and had to drop out of Harvard. Even though her brother had stuck by her and was still close to her, Jack had been as embarrassed by her stupidity as her parents. And the father of her baby remained the closest-guarded secret in her life. She’d never told anyone. Not even Seamus, who had never, ever passed judgment on her. He’d just given her a job when she needed one.

  Newman’s sudden bark yanked her back to reality, followed by a soft knock on her door. “Kendra? Are you still up?”

  Oh God. Deuce.

  She grabbed the red notebook and stuffed it into the first available hiding place, the softsided bag she took to and from work.

  “What’s the matter?” She asked as she approached the door. Her voice sounded thick. How long had she been lying there, dreaming of Deuce?

  “Nothing,” he called. “I wanted to give you back your key.”

  Slowly, she opened the door a crack and reached her hand out, palm up.

  He closed his fingers over hers, and pulled her hand to his mouth. The soft kiss made her knees weak.

  “We made over a thousand dollars tonight,” he whispered.

  She jerked her hand away and let the door open wider. “Get outta town!”

  He grinned in the moonlight, holding up her set of keys. “I did that already. And now I’m back.” Stepping closer to the door, he whispered, “Can I come in and tell you about what a great night it was?”

  How could he have been so sweet, so loving, so tender? Was it all an act?

  She swiped the keys dangling from his hand. “No. Just leave these on Diana’s kitchen table in the future. I’ll be sure you can find them on my desk at the end of the day.”

  Then she dug deep for every ounce of willpower she’d ever had and closed the door in his face.

  Something she should have done a long time ago.

  DEUCE LACED HIS fingers through the chain-link fence that surrounded Rock Field and sucked in a chest full of his favorite smell. Freshly turned clay and recently mowed spring grass. A groundskeeper worked the dirt around the mound, raking it to the perfect height for a six-foot pitcher to slide some fire in the hole.

  He didn’t have to be at the bar for ano
ther hour or so for his second full night of operation. All day long he’d fought the urge to go to Monroe’s and find Kendra to see what she really thought of his success the previous night. At the same time, he fought the urge to make a trip to his old stomping grounds.

  Eventually, he lost one of the fights, and drove the short distance to Rockingham High, knowing that he’d probably arrive on a practice afternoon. In April, every afternoon was practice.

  His elbow throbbed as he tightened his grip on the metal, pushing his face into the fence as though he could walk right through it. Come to think of it, he could walk right through it. All he’d have to do is whistle to the groundskeeper, who’d amble over and ask what he needed, assuming he was a parent or even a scout. Deuce would introduce himself, and watch the man’s face light up in recognition.

  Deuce Monroe? Rockingham High’s most famous graduate? Well, get on the field, Deuce!

  He heard a burst of laughter and turned to see half a dozen lanky high-schoolers dressed in mismatched practice clothes, dragging bat bags. One balanced three helmets on his head, another circled his arm over his shoulder to warm it up.

  Somebody swore and more laughter ensued; one boy spat as they started unloading their gear.

  After a few minutes of stretching out, some of the players took off for windsprints and laps. A guy who looked to be about forty, wearing sweats and a whistle, jogged onto the field. He eyed Deuce for a minute, then started calling out to the players.

  Rick Delacorte, the only coach who’d ever known how to handle him, had retired last year after twenty years at Rock High. Deuce had stayed in touch with Rick, knew he and his wife had headed out to Arizona to spend their golden years in a condo strategically located within driving distance of the Diamondbacks’ stadium.

  He couldn’t remember the name of this new guy, somebody Rick said had moved up from Maryland or D.C. to take the job. Deuce watched him needle a few players, sending some more for laps. A couple of catchers started blocking drills, and the infielders lined up for hit-downs and cut-offs.

  An easy sense of familiarity settled over Deuce as he watched a few pitchers warm up for a long toss. In less than three throws, Deuce could see one of the kids limiting his range of motion. The new coach didn’t notice, and Deuce bit back the urge to call out a correction. Instead, he sat down on the aluminum stands. Just for a minute. Just to see how they played.

  He only realized what time it was when batting practice ended, and the coach called for the last run. He was seriously late for the bar, but hell, this had been too relaxing. As he stood, the groundskeeper emerged from the afternoon shadows behind the visitor’s dugout.

  “Excuse me?” the man called out.

  Deuce acknowledged him with a nod.

  “You lookin’ for someone in particular, son?”

  “Just watching the practice,” he said, squinting into the sun that now sat just above the horizon.

  The older man approached slowly, an odd smile tugging at his lips. “What do you think of the new coach, Deuce?”

  Deuce started in surprise. “Do we know each other?”

  The man laughed. “I know you, but you probably don’t remember me. The name’s Martin Hatcher and I used to be—”

  “The Hatchet Man,” Deuce finished for him, taking the hand that was offered to shake. “I’m sorry I didn’t recognize you, sir.”

  The former principal of Rockingham High laughed easily. “Well, I’m not as imposing with a rake in my hand as I was waving your pink slips.”

  Deuce shook his head and chuckled. “What are you doing out here?” The juxtaposition of the feared and revered principal now in the position of field caretaker seemed preposterous.

  “I’m retired, Deuce,” he said, stuffing his hands in the pockets of his pants. “But I volunteer here just like a lot of ex-Rock High teachers and staff. I still love the school, so I do what needs to be done. Last week, I worked in the cafeteria for a few days. That’s always a bit of an education in human behavior.”

  Deuce took in the network of wrinkles over the familiar face, and the shock of gray hair. He’d done his share to add to the whitening of that head, he was sure.

  “Don’t feel bad that you didn’t recognize me, Deuce. I’m not sure I would have known you, either. But I heard rumors that your own retirement brought you back to town.”

  “Wasn’t exactly retirement,” he said with a grin. “More like lifelong detention.”

  That earned him another hearty laugh and a pat on the shoulder. “You always could charm your way out of anything, Mr. Monroe.”

  “I couldn’t charm the contract lawyer for the Nevada Snake Eyes.”

  “Their loss, our gain. It’s just too bad it didn’t happen a season earlier.”

  “Why? I had my best year last year.”

  “Indeed you did. I thought you could have been a Cy Young contender.”

  Deuce snorted. “Not that good.”

  “But if you’d have pulled your little race-car exploit before Rock High hired him…” He jutted his chin toward the dugout where the new coach stood, surrounded by ballplayers, some of whom listened to his lectures, while others looked anxious to leave.

  “What’s his name?” Deuce asked.

  “George Ellis. He’s teaching science, too, which I think he’s much better at than coaching.”

  Deuce’s gaze moved to the field, then back to Martin. “He’s not bad. Lots of energy. Seems to know how to get them to hit.”

  “You’d have been better.”

  “Me?” Deuce coughed back a laugh. “No, thanks. I have no interest in going out there and motivating guys who think they know everything.” Guys like him.

  They fell into pace together toward the parking lot. “So you’d rather run a bar.”

  Deuce heard the skepticism in his tone. “It’s called Monroe’s, Mr. Hatcher. And, since I am called that, too, it feels like the right thing to do.”

  “I’m not your principal anymore, Deuce. You don’t have to call me Mr. Hatcher, and you don’t have to give me your load of BS.”

  Deuce slowed his step and peered at the man who once had spent hours threatening, cajoling and teasing Deuce. “That was no load of BS.”

  “Monroe’s isn’t even a bar anymore.”

  “We’re working on that.”

  Martin chewed his lip for a moment, then lowered his voice. “Seems to me Kendra Locke has some pretty big plans for the place.”

  The Hatchet Man, Deuce remembered from numerous trips to his office, always had a subtle way of making his point.

  “I have plans, too.” But then, subtle had never worked that well on Deuce.

  Martin paused at the edge of the parking lot, crossing his arms and nodding. “Kendra was a favorite student of mine. Of course, she was a few years behind you.”

  “Her brother Jack was my best friend.”

  “Oh, yes. I remember Jackson Locke. A rebel, but very artistic. And he liked those basketball bombs over in the teacher’s lot.” He chuckled again. “Let you take the heat for the big one that dented Rose Cavendish’s old Dodge Dart, as I recall.”

  Deuce just smiled. “Ancient history.”

  “We got a lot of that around here,” Martin mused, his gaze traveling toward the red brick two-story building of the Rockingham High that sat up on an impressive hill. “Kendra has quite a history, too.”

  Kendra? Where was he going with this? Deuce waited for him to continue, as he would have if he’d been sitting across Principal Hatcher’s imposing desk, discussing his latest infraction.

  “She went to Harvard, did you know that?” Martin asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Didn’t finish, though.”

  “That seems a shame,” Deuce said. “She was real smart.” And kissed like a goddess, too.

  “I only had a few Harvard-bound seniors in my twenty-five years at Rock High. So I remember every one.”

  “Why didn’t she finish?”

  “You’ll have to
ask her,” he said, unlocking the door of an older model SUV. “And by the way, she’s still real smart.”

  “I know.”

  “And you still love baseball.”

  Deuce grinned. “I’m not going to coach.”

  The other man just laughed and climbed into the driver’s seat. “You spent a lot of time watching practice.”

  That Hatchet Man. He was always an observant dude. “Nice to see you again, Mr…Martin.”

  “I’ll stop in the bar sometime, Deuce. I heard you packed them in last night.”

  “News travels fast around Rockingham.”

  Martin nodded. “It sure does.”

  Deuce closed the driver’s-side door and said goodbye, watching his old friend and nemesis drive away. Then he turned to the field and took one more deep breath of baseball.

  But suddenly he really wanted to know why Kendra Locke had given up her dream, and why that one piece of news didn’t seem to travel like everything else around Rockingham.

  CHAPTER SIX

  FLAT ON HIS BACK, the cold dampness of the tile floor seeping through an old Yomuri Giants sweatshirt, Deuce swore softly as the broken nozzle of the soda spritzer slipped from his fingers and bounced on his chest. He’d been under the bar for half an hour and still didn’t have the damn thing working right.

  Five days into his latest endeavor, and he was fixing his own equipment. At eight in the morning, no less. A decision he made the night before when the sprayer had malfunctioned. As much as he’d like to sleep after a late night running Monroe’s, he wanted to get in before any of the Internet café customers showed up.

  Yeah. Right. He shook off a dribble of club soda that trickled onto his cheek and clamped his teeth tighter over the flashlight that shone on the unit.

  Who the hell was he kidding? Cybersurfers didn’t care if the bar was being worked on while they shopped online and played medieval trading games.