Page 97 of Welker

Murphy had been stripped of his feloniously granted sheriff’s badge, and even though none of the crimes could be tied to the man, all local law enforcement had let him know they’d be watching him from now on, along with the rest of the MC, who would be on a short rope.

“It’s the least I could do,” her father responded gruffly, bringing Moira’s mind back to the conversation she was having with him.

If someone had told her two months ago, that they’d be speaking every day, she would have called them delusional. Still, he had yet to?—

“I was a shit father, and I know it,” Tom said. “And I owe you an explanation and an apology.”

She heard him drag in a breath. “I was into…a lot of things up until about eight months ago. Women, gambling, drinking, uh…drugs.”

None of that was news to Moira. Some of it, she’d figured out early on in her life, the rest… She’d kept track of him over the past few years, anonymously gleaning information about her father around town, especially during her Bar Harbor investigations. Nobody, after all, had known—after them being estranged—that they were related, so her questions always got honest answers. The only thing that bolstered her opinion of him now, was that he’d never used his money for anything that even remotely smacked of illegal coercion of politicians or political appointees. Did he suggest courses of action to those with whom he hobnobbed, and donate to their campaigns? Absolutely. Did he grease any palms to get his way. Definitely not.

Tom cleared his throat. “I finally checked myself into a rehab down in Boston for help with all that, and after getting a whole lot of therapy, I’ve been trying to make amends to people I’ve wronged, ever since.”

Moira was puzzled. “Why didn’t you reach out to me, sooner?”

She heard, over the line, a long stream of air being blown out of her father’s mouth.

“I was afraid,” he finally admitted. “Afraid you’d outright reject me. But… I actually thought I might be making a good start, having Gladstone put you on the Bar Harbor robberies. That backfired, though, didn’t it?” He sounded disgusted with himself. “I thought I’d be furthering your career, and instead I put a target on your back.”

Moira would give him a pass on that one. “That wasn’t your fault, Father. You couldn’t have known.” That was all she was going to offer as encouragement. If he was going to keep talking, that was on him.

“It was kind of a hail-Mary, anyway.”

Moira could almost see him shrug.

“I felt certain that if I called you or came to see you, you’d tell me to fuck off. So I, um, might have driven by your house a time or two when I knew you were working, just to see how things were going there with your renovations.”

Moira’s brain froze. “You…? The bird food? Was that you?” Every few weeks over the few months before she’d moved in with Welker, she’d come home to find a large bag of seed on her front step. She’d thought it had to be one of her remote neighbors, appreciating that she had so many feeders and that she was taking care of their mutual feathered friends. But now…

“It was,” he said, ducking his head. “I thought maybe, eventually, I could tell you it was me, and that would be an opening for me to get to know you again.”

Moira didn’t know whether to feel invaded or pleased that he’d gone to the trouble. The words just slipped out of her mouth.

“Are you for real?”

Welker walked into the room just as she posed her rhetorical question, and the instant hardness that appeared on his face told her she must have sounded a little…upset?

Moira shook her head, and mouthed, “Father”, before giving him a thumb’s up and a smile. She didn’t want Welker interfering. This was a discussion that she’d needed to have, for a very long time.

“What would you have me do?” her father asked, and he sounded sincerely confused. Right. All of her social awkwardness hadn’t come from within. Her substance-dependent father had never known how to treat any of his so-called party-friends, and she’d watched all that mis-stepping from a very young age.

Moira huffed. She was done with pussy-footing around. “Maybe grow some balls? Just pick up the phone, call me and say you’re sorry?” she posited. “Which, by the way, you still haven’t done.”

The man had ruined her childhood, and she wasn’t letting him off the hook for any of his transgressions, easily.

There was no hesitation. “I’m sorry, Moira. Very sorry. I was selfish, mean, and oblivious. I can blame it all on my substance abuse, but a lot of the time I was aware of what I was doing, and I didn’t even attempt to make it better.”

“No. You didn’t,” Moira agreed.

“I deserve that.” Tom’s pained tone told him she’d scored a direct hit. “But in my defense, I was blindsided that day, thirty-four years ago, when you were dropped off at my door. I was young, stupid, and had no idea how to care for a baby. I also didn’t have the best taste in women, and I now know that leaving you to their care was reckless and risky; that you might have been irrevocably damaged. But look at you now. Somehow you managed to grow into the woman you are, Moira, and that speaks volumes about your tenacity.”

He didn’t yet give her a chance to respond.

“Later on, as you got older and didn’t need to be looked after any more, I knew you were hanging out in the garages to get away from…my drinking buddies. I saw the danger they might pose, so I encouraged that, along with the way you started to dress. I made sure you had funds to outfit yourself with your self-imposed manly wardrobe, and I told my mechanic to make sure you felt welcome; to show you the ropes with my cars if you were interested.”

Well, that was news to Moira. Mr. Sheffings had never let on that she had her father’s approval to tinker with his toys.

Moira’s stance softened a little.

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