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skin.
    “A lawyer?” she said weakly. “But . . . but . . . Robinson’s . . .” The words seemed to adhere to her tongue, as sticky as the lemonade now coating her skin.
    He winked. “I fill in sometimes . . . for a good friend of mine.”
    “Katie, we’ll wait while you run upstairs and change,” Marcy interrupted. “Goodness, I hope that dress isn’t ruined. Cluny . . . sorry, Luke , it’s so good to see you again . . .”
    Her mother’s words faded as Katie stood, fixed in a hard stare, still in a daze.
    A gentle arm circled her waist. “I told you he changed,” Lizzie whispered in her ear, “so be good, okay? And speaking of changing, you better hurry upstairs – Mother won’t be able to keep Collin and Brady at bay forever, you know.”
    Katie blinked, then glanced down at the stains on the front of her dress. She nodded, still in shock that the soda jerk was conversing with her mother. The realization of what that could mean chilled her blood to the bone. As a boy, Cluny McGee had prided himself on besting her, taunting her at will, and clamoring for control. And today, the ghost of childhood past had returned to roost – harboring a secret that could chain Katie to the house forever.
    Which meant one thing. Cold prickles of fear iced her spine as she mounted the stairs. Cluny McGee had won – again . Because no matter how much she wanted to smack that smirk off his handsome face, she couldn’t. She was forced to be nice, hoping and praying it would seal his lips. Katie groaned and entered her room, thinking an ether-soaked gag would be more to her liking. She stared at her splattered dress in the mirror and scowled. Cluny McGee was indeed the “king” of misery. She grunted and hiked the dress over her head, sailing it across the room. Humph! Long live the king – a royal pain in the neck. And may he have lockjaw forever.

    Despite almost seven years since he’d been here last, Luke had the strange sensation he’d never left. He bowed his head at the O’Connors’ table, listening to the humble tone of Patrick saying grace, and a sense of gratitude seeped into his bones along with more than a bit of longing. This had been the type of family he had craved as a boy, and just being with them again made his heart race at the prospect of a family of his own. And one, hopefully, far different than what he’d known.
    His thoughts drifted to the mother who’d abandoned him when he was thirteen, preferring the company of a drunken boyfriend to that of her illegitimate son. To her, he was an unfortunate mistake, while to his Gram, he was little more than a burden and the evidence of sin in her wayward daughter’s life. His jaw stiffened. And to the families of the Southie neighborhood whose streets he roamed? Nothing but a bastard, unworthy of love.
    He released a quiet sigh, joining the others in the sign of the cross as Patrick finished his prayer. It hadn’t been until John Brady had taken him under his wing at the age of fourteen that he’d gotten his first real taste of being cared for, loved . . . his first true glimpse of family. And what he had seen, first with Brady and then the O’Connors, convinced him that family was worth everything he had to give . . . his love, his devotion . . . his life. A sense of longing rose within him so strong, it produced a sharp ache in his throat. He quickly reached for his folded napkin and shook it free, doing the same with the craving in his soul. He placed the napkin on his lap, laying it to rest along with his thoughts. A family of his own. Someday maybe, he reflected with a touch of melancholy, but certainly not for a long, long while.
    “So, Luke . . . how long have you been back in Boston?” Patrick reached for the mashed potatoes and heaped a mound on his plate, then passed the bowl to his left. A gentle breeze stirred a renegade strand of Patrick’s dark hair now glinted with silver at the temples. Damask window sheers fluttered behind him,