Page 46 of Finding Home with You

“I doubt that,” she mumbles, even as she squeezes my hand in hers. “But fine,” she continues, exhaling loudly. “What do you want to know?”

“Well,” I say, glancing at her once more. “Tell me about where you’re from, originally I mean?”

Erin shoots me a look as though this isn’t what she expected me to ask and I offer her a quick smile of encouragement. “Atlanta,” she finally says. “It’s where I was born and raised.”

I nod, because I already knew this. “So what brought you to Rockport?” I ask. “Originally?” I add quickly, so she knows I’m referring to her summer vacations as a kid.

Erin shifts in her seat, propping her feet up on the dash. “We used to holiday there regularly,” she says, not looking at me. “Mostly it was just me and my mother,” she adds. “Although my father came on the trips, he spent most of his time in Boston. At first I didn’t realize why, but as I got older, all of that became obvious,” she says and I can practically hear the eye roll as she recounts this.

“What do you mean?” I ask, letting go of her hand as I indicate and take the highway off-ramp.

Erin rests her arms on her knees. “It was just an excuse,” she says with bitterness. “An excuse to come up here so he could do business.”

“What kind of business?” I ask.

“Ugh,” she says. “An antique dealer. Can you believe it?”

I glance in her direction and this time I see the eye roll as though even she can’t believe how clichéd this all is. I offer a small smile and can’t stop the laugh as she rolls her eyes again before sticking her tongue out at me.

“I mean it’s like a Hollywood mob movie or something,” she says. “Like I grew up as a member of the Goodfellas cast or some shit.”

“Well to be fair, babe,” I say. “That’s kinda cooler than The Godfather, don’t you think?”

“Whatever,” Erin says, punching me in the shoulder. I can tell she’s only teasing though and the laugh that comes from her mouth as she shakes her head and continues only confirms that. “It was all so ridiculous,” she says. “Like he somehow expected me to believe we came to Boston, or Rockport, six or seven times a year because he was looking for expensive pieces of furniture or art to sell to all his rich, corrupt friends down south. I mean, please.”

This time it’s me laughing. “So, what happened?” I ask, “Did you confront him about it or something?”

Erin blows out a long breath, dropping her feet from the dash as she shifts in her seat. “No,” she says tentatively. “Not at first anyway.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means,” she adds, curling her legs beneath her as she half turns to face me. “That I overheard some shit. Saw stuff I probably wasn’t supposed to see and started to piece everything together.”

“Fuck, Red,” I half shout, my foot automatically pressing on the gas as we start to speed up. “What did you see?”

“It wasn’t anything serious,” she adds, but the way she says it has me wondering. “It was just…” she trails off.

“Just what?”

“Just stuff,” Erin says, shrugging as though it’s no big deal. “People coming over all the time, large envelopes of cash being exchanged, everyone kissing my father’s ass, whispering things when they didn’t want him to hear or whatever,” she continues, an edge to her voice now. “But of course people at school weren’t quiet about it, especially when their parents started telling them to stay away from me.”

“You serious?” I ask, incredulously.

“Yep,” she says, nodding. “One by one, all of my friends started to disappear. Told me I wasn’t the kind of person their parents wanted them hanging around with. Sucked.”

“Babe,” I say, reaching for her hand again. “I’m really sorry.”

Erin shrugs as though it’s no big deal, even though I can tell it is. “I think that’s why I was always so close to Kelsey,” she continues, brushing her thumb across my knuckles. “She never really knew anything about my family. At first anyway. So there was never any judgment from her about them. And when I finally showed up in Rockport without them and needing her help, she didn’t even flinch. Even after I told her everything.”

“I’m glad you have her,” I say, lifting our joined hands to my lips.

“Me too,” she whispers.

“Can I ask why you eventually left?” I ask.

Erin takes a deep breath now, as though she’s steeling herself for what she’s about to tell me. “Well, finding out my dad was some sort of fucking mob boss was a big part of it,” she eventually says, running a hand through her hair. “I didn’t want to get involved with any of that shit and I knew the only way I was ever going to be free was to just leave.”

“Makes sense,” I murmur, glad she didn’t stay and wind up as some wife of a gangster, married not just to her husband but also the Irish mob.

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