“Thanks, but I can’t take your money.” I grab the address and shove it into my corduroy jeans’ pocket, leaving the note untouched.
“Why?”
“Because you owe me nothing.” I hitch one shoulder up. “And you’ve already done enough.”
He looks up, the tenderness in his eyes leaving me with stupid thoughts—thoughts like I wish he’d adopt me. I wish he’d be my granddad. There’s nothing quite like feeling you don’t belong. Floating rootless on this planet, without anyone to fight for you. Well, there’s Mom, but she has a weird way of showing her love.
“Show me unfailing kindness like the Lord’s kindness as long as I live, so that I may not be killed. Samuel 20:14. We all owe each other a little kindness, Rory. A little kindness goes a long way.”
His teeth are as yellow as the shards of light cutting through the tall church windows. I swallow, not making a move for the money.
“Now, go before my grandson’s finished. Malachy rarely stays in one spot. There’s always a lady friend or two lurking, and they always drag him into hell-knows-where doing God-knows-what.”
I have a pretty good idea as to the what part. Anyway, his playboy grandson’s sex life is not something I want to talk about in a church. Or, you know, ever.
“How will I know who he is? There must be more than one singer on Drury Street.”
“Oh, you’ll know.” He folds the money between his fingers and hands it to me.
I hesitate, but take it. “And if I don’t?” I furrow my brows.
“Just yell his name. He’ll stop everything at once. Malachy never could resist a pretty girl or a stiff drink.”
I already dislike this Malachy guy, but if he can give me closure, I can ignore the fact that he sounds exactly like my father: a flirt, a drunk, and a man who avoids responsibility like it’s the plague.
“Can I take a few pictures of his grave before I go?”
He nods, looking at me with sheer pity, the type that crawls under your skin and takes residence. The type that defines you.
“You will prevail, Aurora.”
Aurora. I never told him my name. Only Rory.
“Aurora?” I lift an eyebrow.
His smile vanishes, and he clears his throat. “Your father told me, remember?”
Yes. Of course. So why does he look so…guilty?
Two things hit me in that moment as I regard Father Doherty:
- The man’s eyes are mesmerizing—a weird shade of violet dipped in blue that instantly warms you up.
- I will meet him again, someday.
Next time I do? He’ll change my life. Forever.
I shoulder past the thick wall of female bodies that crescents the street artist. Drury Street is an explosion of colors, scents, and sights. Red, exposed-brick buildings covered with vibrant graffiti. An Asian market peeking from a corner, a parking garage, a bus stop, and little hipster shops. It looks like a picture, and I can’t help but stop everything and make it one, capturing the beauty of the street with my old camera.