he’d told her about the Devaney secret, the one that had ripped him and his twin brother, Patrick, apart, the one that had caused a rift so deep, Patrick hadn’t spoken to their parents in years now.
As Daniel told the story, Connor and Kathleen Devaney had recklessly abandoned their three oldest sons in Boston and moved to Maine, bringing only Patrick and Daniel with them. For years they had raised the two boys as if the twins were their only children. Daniel had learned the truth only a few years earlier, when he was eighteen. He was still reeling from it.
With a father capable of abandoning three of his sons as an example, Daniel told her, how could he even consider becoming a parent himself? Any child would be better off without a Devaney in its life.
“I see too many kids whose lives are a mess because of lousy parents,” he’d added to bolster his argument. “I won’t do that to my own child.”
Molly had tried to reassure him, tried to tell him that he would make a wonderful father—wasn’t he a child advocate for the state, after all?—but he’d flatly refused to take any role in their child’s life beyond financial assistance. He’d insisted that she—and their baby—would thank him someday.
Rather than continue a fight she knew she couldn’t win, Molly had let her pride kick in. Convinced she could raise the child on her own and stunned by Daniel’s attitude, she had thrown his offer of money back in his face. Her baby would be a Creighton and proud of it.
And maybe it would have turned out that way, if Daniel hadn’t broken her heart and her spirit. It was almost as if her body had understood what her heart had tried to deny, that a life without Daniel would be meaningless. The very night they’d tried to hash it all out, she had miscarried and lost her precious baby.
It was Daniel’s brother Patrick who’d taken her to the hospital on that terrible spring night four years ago. It was Patrick who’d held her hand and tried awkwardly to comfort her. It was Patrick who dried her tears each year on the anniversary of that devastating loss. He’d been by earlier in the evening to check on her before going home to his wife. If she’d asked tonight, Patrick would have stayed.
As for Daniel, he and Molly hadn’t exchanged a civil word since that awful night. She doubted they ever would. She blamed him almost as much as she blamed herself.
Unfortunately, that didn’t mean she’d stopped loving him. Not a day went by that she didn’t think about him and what they’d lost—not just a child, but an entire future. Seeing Patrick, who looked exactly like his twin, was a constant reminder. Not that she needed one. Daniel was so much a part of her, she could have conjured him up entirely on her own.
She sighed heavily and took one last cursory swipe at the bar with her polishing cloth.
Suddenly a faint noise in one of the booths caught her attention. Widow’s Cove wasn’t exactly a haven for criminals, but Molly instinctively picked up the nearest bottle as a weapon and slipped through the shadows in the direction of the noise.
She had the bottle over her head and was ready to strike, when a petite, dark-haired girl, no more than thirteen or fourteen, emerged from the booth, alarm in her eyes and her mouth running a mile a minute with a tumble of excuses for being in Jess’s past closing.
Molly’s heart was still slamming against the wall of her chest as she lowered the bottle and tried to make sense of what the girl was saying. The rush of words was all but incoherent.
“Whoa,” Molly said quietly, reaching out, only to have the girl draw back skittishly as if she feared she was still in danger of being hit.
Molly set the bottle on the table, then held out her empty hands. “Look, it’s okay. Nobody here is going to hurt you.”
The girl stared back at her, silent now that the immediate threat was over.
“I’m Molly. What’s your name?”
Nothing.
“I’ve never seen you around here before,” Molly continued as if the girl had responded. “Where are you from?”
Still, the only response was that wide-eyed, solemn stare.
“Not talking now? Well, that’s okay, too. It’s a pleasant change after spending an entire evening with a bunch of rowdy men who can’t shut up, yet have very little to say.”
The girl’s mouth twitched slightly, as if she were fighting a smile. Molly grinned, sensing that she’d found a kindred spirit.
“I see you know exactly what I mean,” she continued. “Are you hungry? The grill’s shut down, but I could fix you a sandwich. There’s ham and cheese, tuna salad or my personal favorite, peanut butter and pickles.”
“Yuck,” the girl said, her face scrunched up in a look of pure disgust.
The reaction made her seem even younger than Molly had originally guessed.
Laughing, Molly said, “I thought that might get a response from you. So, no peanut butter and pickles. You are going to have to tell me what you do want, though.”
The girl’s shoulders finally relaxed. “Ham and cheese, please.”
“With milk?”
“A soda, if that’s okay.”
So, she’d been taught some manners, and from the look of her clothes, she’d been well provided for. They were wrinkled, but she was wearing the latest teen fashions, low-riding designer jeans and a cropped shirt that revealed an inch of pale skin at her waist. Her sneakers were a brand that cost an arm and a leg.
“I have money to pay for the food,” the girl said as she followed Molly into the kitchen.
“This one’s on the house,” Molly told her as she made the thick sandwich and found a can of soda in the huge, well-stocked refrigerator.
The girl took the sandwich and drink, then regarded Molly uncertainly. “Aren’t you going to have anything? You didn’t eat all night.”
Molly regarded her with surprise. “How do you know that?”
“I was kinda watching you,” she admitted shyly.
“Really? Why?”
“I thought maybe if I could pick up on what goes on around here, you’d think about giving me a job.”
“How old are you?”
“Eighteen,” the girl said brazenly.
Molly frowned. “I don’t think so. How about fourteen?”
“Close enough,” she responded a little too eagerly.
“Which means you’re only thirteen,” Molly concluded, sighing heavily. Not that fourteen would have been much better, but thirteen definitely meant trouble.
“But I look eighteen,” the girl insisted. “No one would have to know.”
“I’d know,” Molly said. “I try really hard not to break the law by hiring minors to work in the bar.”
“Couldn’t
