customers hit a similar rough patch.
“Nope. I quit a very good job as an accountant for a corporation. I’m hoping to find something that’s more creatively satisfying.”
“Such as?”
She shrugged. “I wish I knew,” she said, then added with a note of total optimism, “but I’ll figure it out.”
“Ever considered psychology?” Ryan asked. “You’ve got the probing-question thing down pretty well.”
“I can’t be too good,” she retorted. “You didn’t answer most of them.”
“So what sort of career do you think you’d find creatively satisfying?” he continued. “Are there any options on the table?”
She grinned. “Trying to turn things around on me, Mr. Devaney?”
He laughed. “Every bartender has a bit of the psychologist in him. The difference is, we just ask questions and listen. We don’t dole out advice. Now let’s get this stuff inside before we both freeze to death.”
“We’ll go around back,” she said, leading the way. “A lot of this needs to wind up in the kitchen, anyway.”
He noted that there was a light on in one of the front windows, as well as another in the kitchen, beaming out a welcome for the latecomer. A little tug of envy spread through him even before a tall woman with a face only barely more lined than Maggie’s threw open the kitchen door and held out her arms.
“There you are,” she said, enveloping Maggie in a fierce hug. “I’ve been so worried.”
“Mom, I called less than forty minutes ago to let you know I was on my way,” Maggie reminded her, amusement threading through her voice. “I’m actually about ten minutes earlier than I predicted.”
“Which means you must have been speeding, young man,” the woman chastised, turning to Ryan with a twinkle in eyes as bright and as green as her daughter’s. “I’m Nell O’Brien. And you must be Mr. Devaney. It was kind of you to bring Maggie to us, even if you did exceed the speed limit getting her here.”
“No, ma’am, I can assure you there was no speeding involved,” he responded seriously. “I had it on cruise control the whole time.”
She laughed at that. “But set at what speed?”
Ryan met her gaze. “You’re not a cop, are you?” he teased, liking her at once. She reminded him of... He bit back a sigh. Best not to go there. He’d stopped thinking about his mother on the day she’d abandoned him. Or at least he’d tried to.
“No, but I’ve had a lot of experience at intimidating young men,” Mrs. O’Brien said. “I have four daughters and two sons, all of whom need to have someone in firm control.”
Ryan couldn’t help the grin that spread across his face. “If Maggie here is any indication, I imagine that’s true.”
“Hey,” Maggie protested. “I was the dutiful oldest daughter.”
“When it suited you,” her mother concurred. “Now get in here, both of you. I have coffee made, but if you’d prefer something else, I can fix it in no time.”
“Nothing for me,” Ryan said, already backing toward the door. The warmth of this big, cheerful kitchen, the teasing between mother and daughter—these were exactly the kind of things he tried to avoid. They brought up too many painful memories. “I need to be getting back to home.”
“Absolutely not,” Mrs. O’Brien said. “It’s much too late to be on the road, Mr. Devaney. You must be exhausted. I’ll make up the couch in the den. And before you try arguing with me, remember that I’m older and wiser and I will not be ignored.”
“If you’re not a cop, you must be a general,” Ryan said.
“Just a woman who knows what’s best,” Nell countered with a serene smile. “You two stay in here and have something to drink and a snack. I’ll go on up to bed after I’m done in the den. Your father will want to know you arrived safely, Maggie. Besides, I have to be up at dawn to cook that bird.” She winked at Maggie. “Your father bought a huge one that’s probably not going to fit in the oven, which means I’ll have to surgically dissect the thing, then patch it back together after it’s cooked so he won’t know.”
Ryan saw his chance for escape coming right after Mrs. O’Brien disappeared for the night, but one look at Maggie had him hesitating.
“Don’t even think about,” she said, her gaze locked with his.
“Think about what?” he asked vaguely, his thoughts scrambling.
“Sneaking away in the dead of night.”
“Any particular reason?”
“Because tomorrow’s going to be a busy day as it is. I don’t want to have to spend a chunk of it hunting you down and dragging you back here.”
“So this is purely selfish on your part,” he said, taking a step closer to the dangerous fire in her eyes. There was something about her—an exuberance, a warmth—that made him want to take risks he normally avoided.
“It is,” she said, her gaze unflinching.
“Maggie, I did you a small favor. You don’t owe me anything. Besides, I have plans for tomorrow, and the day starts early. I really do need to be getting back.”
Surprise flickered in her eyes then. “You have plans?”
He was vaguely insulted by her obvious shock. “I’m not totally hopeless and alone.”
She blinked and backed up a step. “Yes, of course. I should have realized,” she said, clearly embarrassed.
Ryan should have let her go on thinking that those plans involved another woman, which was clearly the conclusion she’d reached. That would have been the smart, safe way to go. Instead, he found himself explaining.
“I’m taking food to the homeless shelter run by St. Mary’s. Everything has to be set up by noon, which means an early start. And, as we discussed in the car, the pub opens at four for the regulars who don’t have anyplace else to go. Not to mention that tonight’s paperwork didn’t get done, nor were the receipts counted.”
She nodded and something that might have been relief flashed across her face. “What a wonderful thing to do,” she said, apparently seizing on the planned meal for the homeless. “Can you use some help at the shelter?”
Help was always in short supply, but Ryan hesitated. It would be better to stop things here and now with this woman who had the determination of a pit bull and who seemed eager and able to slip past all his defenses.
“Of course you can,” she said, without waiting for his reply. “We’ll be at the shelter by ten.”
“‘We’?”
“My family, except for Mom, of course. She’ll need to stay here with that humongous bird, but everyone else will want to pitch in. It works out perfectly. I’ll have one of my brothers bring along a spare for my car, too.”
Ryan searched desperately for a subtle way to change her mind. “Shouldn’t your family be pitching in around here?”
“Mom refuses to let anyone else into the kitchen. She says we just get in the way. Besides, I brought a lot of food tonight that only needs to go in the oven. Everyone else will bring dishes, too. She really has only the turkey to contend with.” Maggie regarded him intently. “Don’t even think of turning me down. I owe you.”
“You don’t,” he repeated, even though he knew he was wasting his breath.
Besides, one part of him—a very big part—was suddenly looking forward to Thanksgiving in a way that he hadn’t since he was eight years old. That was the last holiday his family had spent together. By Christmas