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grouchy mood he was in. Did something happen at work?”
    Steven’s smile disappeared. A noisy gust of air escaped his mouth as he perched on the arm of the sofa across the way with a fold of his arms. “I don’t know, Pop, but whatever happened put him in the foulest mood I’ve ever seen.” Steven peered up, a crimp in his brow that clearly indicated his concern. “I had to pull him off some poor guy who gave Emma a hug out in the hall. Apparently Sean lost his temper because he thought the guy was a drunk who was manhandling her, so he took several swings at him.”
    “What?” Marcy bolted up, hand to her throat. “Sean doesn’t even have a temper.”
    “Well, he does now,” Steven said. “Started pummeling Emma’s friend, Martin, like he used to pummel those kids in the ring at Clancy’s, remember, Pop?”
    Patrick nodded, an uneasy feeling gnawing in his gut. “Did he hurt him?” he whispered, eyes trained on Steven.
    “Naw, scared him mostly, because I’ll tell you what, he scared the tar out of me, railing on the poor guy like some madman. I got to him on the second swing, but even so, Martin left with a swollen lip, bruised jaw, and a black eye that will have him thinking twice before he ever hugs another woman again.”
    “Did you get a chance to talk to Sean? Ask him what happened?” Patrick studied the son whose own bad temper was buried deep, but definitely there. Like all of his children, he supposed . . . except for Sean, that is. His lips went flat. No, Sean had always been the peacemaker, not a fighter, the dutiful son Patrick depended on, obedient, compliant. A model son.
    “No, when I got back from helping Martin to the door, Sean was gone, back to work I assume since he said he had budgets to trim.”
    Marcy shifted to stare at Patrick, her eyes spanning wide. “Should we call him at the store? See if he’s all right?”
    “He’s a grown man, Marcy,” Patrick said with a pat of her arm. “Whatever is eating on him, he’ll talk to us when he’s ready.”
    “And if he doesn’t?” Alarm seeped into her tone. “This isn’t like him, Patrick.”
    “I know, darlin’, and if this passes without a word, I’ll get to the bottom of it when the time is right.”
    With a heavy sigh, she slowly nodded before sinking back against his chest.
    “Well, I’m off.” Steven stood to his feet. “You two want anything from Robinson’s?”
    Patrick eyed his son. “No, thanks, but I’d like to know why you’re home tonight in the first place. It’s Saturday night, for pity’s sake, and the Fourth of July—I expected you to be out with Joe and your buddies, or at the very least helping Sean coach his baseball team tonight.”
    Steven cuffed the back of his neck, suddenly looking more exhausted at twenty-four years of age than Patrick felt at fifty-three. “Yeah, I know, but Joe and the guys are going to Revere Beach for a dance marathon tonight, and I just wasn’t up to it. It’s been a pretty grueling week at work, so I figured I’d just turn in early.”
    “You think you’re going to like it—the Prohibition Bureau?” Patrick glanced up, feeling an edge of concern that the son who had burned the candle at both ends during college was now a nose-to-the-grindstone prohibition agent in bed by nine.
    “Yeah, I think so. It’s great, Joe and I being partners and all, although I don’t think he’s as enamored with the job as I am. I guess I like the idea of working for the Department of Justice, you know?” His lips quirked. “Like maybe it exonerates me from my questionable past.”
    Patrick felt a twinge in his chest. “Steven, you’ve already been long exonerated. Your exemplary behavior since my heart incident two years ago more than proves that. You’re a hardworking and honest man, son, and I’m proud of you.” He hesitated. “But you need to enjoy life too. Why don’t you go with Joe and the others to Revere Beach tonight and have fun. Who knows? Maybe