Chapter 21

Lucy

The bell rings, and the kids are out the door within seconds, typical for a Friday afternoon. I'm excited because Chance and I are staying at his place all weekend, and our plan is to be in bed. Maybe we'll even get some sleep. But then, as I'm gathering my things, my cell phone pings.

Dad: Can you come by the bar after school today?

My stomach sinks. Beatrice must be flaking again. I understand the allure of being young and free, but this is bordering on ridiculous. And Dad is ridiculous too. When she ruined my date with Chance on Wednesday, he promised I wouldn't be the one he called the next time.

Me: Sure, I'm on my way.

By the time I push through the front doors of Barney's, my frustration is simmering just below a calm exterior. I'm ready to confront my father about Beatrice's unreliability when I spot him behind the bar, a serious look on his face.

"Beatrice, take over for a bit, will you?" he calls over to her without breaking eye contact with me. "Lucy and I need to have a chat."

My mouth opens and then closes. My entire premise for being here has just dissolved.

"Sure thing," Beatrice responds, sliding behind the bar.

"Let's step into my office," Dad says, and there's a gravity in his tone that sets my nerves on edge.

"Is everything okay?" I ask as I follow, trying to decipher the unreadable expression on his face. He hasn't been to a doctor recently. Do we have a giant tax bill? What could have him so serious?

"Let's talk in private," is all he says.

Inside his office, I sink into the worn leather chair across from Dad's cluttered desk. He doesn't sit but instead leans his hip against the edge of the desk, his fingers gripping an envelope that looks too formal for this place of spilled beer and laughter.

"Lucy," he says, voice heavy, "this came for you." He hands me the envelope.

My name is written on the front in a script that is unfamiliar, the postmark a smudge from Ireland. I tear it open, extracting the thick fold of paper with fumbling urgency. A letter penned on legal stationery unfolds in my trembling hands.

My gaze lifts to my father, seeking some kind of anchor in the storm.

Dear Ms. Sheridan,

Re: Estate of James O'Conno r

I trust this letter finds you well. My name is Jack Murphy, and I am an estate attorney based in Dublin, Ireland. I am writing to inform you that you have been named as a beneficiary in the estate of the late James O'Connor.

As per the terms outlined in James O'Connor's last will and testament, you are entitled to receive the following:

A sum of ￡1,000,000 (One Million Pounds Sterling), to be transferred to your designated bank account An apartment building in Dublin; this property includes 115 (one hundred and fifteen) units and is currently fully occupied.

Verification of Identity and Documentation

To proceed with the transfer of your inheritance, please provide a copy of your identification (e.g., passport or driver's license) and proof of address. You may submit these documents via email or by post to our office.

Bank Account Information

Kindly provide your bank account details for the transfer of the monetary inheritance. All information will be handled with strict confidentiality.

Property Transfer Process

For the transfer of the apartment building, you will need to appoint a solicitor to handle the conveyancing process. Our firm can assist with this, or you may choose to appoint your own solicitor .

The letter goes on about estate tax considerations and how to contact them, but I'm confused. Why would this man I've never met be giving me so much money and an apartment building in another country?

"Who is James…" But when I look up at Dad, the rest of the sentence dies on my lips.

"Your biological father," he supplies, his voice almost swallowed by the hum of refrigerators behind us.

"Biological father?" I parrot, my mind refusing to process. The walls seem to tilt, and I grip the arms of the chair, fighting the surge of panic.

"Lucy, listen. I… Jimmy—James—he and your mam were…involved before she was with me. I was in love with her from the moment I met her, and I didn't care. I wanted you both."

The air in the room feels too thick, cloying. I blink at Dad, the man who raised me, who bandaged scraped knees and cheered at graduations. His face is a map of sorrow and resignation.

"Jimmy left her," he continues. "He is the head of an organized crime syndicate, and he didn't want that for your mam and you. It broke her heart. She always loved him, not me. But I—I loved her, regardless."

A twisted part of me wants to laugh; it sounds like a tragic play, not my life. "Then why are we here?" I ask. "Why Vancouver?"

He pushes off from the desk and begins to pace, each step measured and heavy. "We needed a fresh start. I did one last job, and we had enough to get away, start anew here."

"Here," I whisper, the word echoing hollowly. I think of Ginny, her praise of Chance, and suddenly, I'm not just grappling with my mother's past love, but my own precarious heart.

Dad stops pacing and looks at me. "I'll understand if you need time—to think, to…to find out about James. "

"Time," I repeat, the concept alien. A million pounds. Is my last name Sheridan or is it O'Connor? A legacy of crime and lost love. It's too much, yet somehow, I'm still here, rooted to the spot by a sense of duty that seems to have been woven into my very DNA.

"Lucy?" Dad prompts gently.

But all I can do is nod, clutching the letter as I try to make sense of a world that's shifted beneath my feet. Tears, hot and unbidden, stream down my cheeks.

"Your mother," he says, voice thick with emotion, "she loved you fiercely. There wasn't a day she didn't shower you with affection, trying to compensate for the absence of…of Jimmy."

I blink through the tears, seeing not the office around me but the past, the countless moments of joy my mother crafted from the simplest things. Yet beneath her laughter, there'd always been an undercurrent of sorrow. A sorrow born of rejection, a ghostly presence at every birthday, every holiday. Jimmy's shadow had loomed, though I'd never known its name until now.

"Lucy." Dad's voice is closer, and I feel his hand on my shoulder. "He came back once."

My breath catches. Another piece of the puzzle slots into place.

"Jimmy couldn't stay away. He wanted to take your mam back with him to Ireland. But he was too deep in it all, too entangled with organized crime and the IRA. It was no life for a family—for you."

The sobs come harder now, each one wracking my body with the force of revelations that reshape my childhood. My mother's eyes, always tinged with sadness, mourned not just a lost love but a life that could have been.

"He made sure they never touched us, though," Dad continues, his grip tightening. "The Irish mob stayed away because of him. But it wasn't enough to keep your mam happy, not really. She missed Ireland, her friends, her family. This city… It was beautiful, but it was never home for her."

And as I cry, I understand the true price of our fresh start. The high cost of safety and the void left by a love denied. My mother's heart had remained across the ocean, even as she built a life here with Dad and me.

I clutch the crumpled tissue in my fist, my tears soaking into its fragile fibers.

"Lucy, I did everything I could," he says, his voice like gravel. "Tried to fill the house with laughter, to make her feel loved. But there was always something missing for her. A piece of her heart stayed in Ireland." He pauses, his eyes distant. "I love her still, you know. Always will."

The thought that this man, who has been the bedrock of my existence, might somehow fade from my life now that the truth is out… It terrifies me. My chest constricts, a knot of panic lodging in my throat.

"Why didn't you tell me?" I rasp.

He looks up at the ceiling, his eyes avoiding mine. "Every time I tried, something made me stop. I talked to Jimmy about it after your mam passed, and he was worried for your safety. I swear, I was going to tell you."

"Dad…" My voice is barely a whisper, and I have to clear my throat before I can speak again. "What…what does this mean for us?"

He reaches out, his callused hand cupping my cheek. "Lucy girl," he says with such tenderness, "you are my daughter. You've always been my daughter. And nothing—not blood, not history—can change that."

His blue eyes, so like my own, meet mine, and they're filled with an ocean of love and reassurance. "If you need to go to Ireland to find out more about Jimmy, I'll understand. Take all the time you need. I love you, and I always will. I'll be here, waiting, no matter what."