Finn (Casella Cousins #3) - Kathryn Shay Page 0,3

no part in the planning?”

“Mother, I’m not getting into whatever’s going on with you and my sister.”

“You never do. I expect more from you Finn. You’re all I have left.”

That line made him crazy. She’d driven her other two children away with her domineering, sometimes cruel, treatment.

Judy approached them. “Finn, there’s a customer on the phone who has a question I can’t answer.”

“Thanks, I’ll be right there.” He stood. “I’m sorry, Mother, I have to get back to work.”

Bridget’s face flushed with anger. “I’m sorry you don’t have time for your mother.” She rose, picked up her purse and left the store.

Stoic, he took the call from the office phone. After he answered the question, he unlocked the file cabinet, removed his laptop, and sat back down in the office.

For a year now, unbeknownst to anyone, even Hayley, he’d started a book. Previously, he’d written short works, some of which were published under a pseudonym, but this was his first attempt at long fiction, with a high dose of autobiography.

He’d felt compelled to read the opening of this one, though there were more chapters finished.

From all appearances, Mick Gallagher’s life was perfect. He went to the private school, the best in New York, then on to Columbia College. But in reality, he’d been unhappy for as long as he could remember, trying to deal with his home life. The only place he felt good was out on his boat, The Freedom Flyer. It took him away from his mother in the Hamptons. After his brother Riker abandoned him when Mick was 14, he and his sister suffered even more from her manipulation.

Kiera, her name, would say when he was little, “Come here, my boy. You’re the only one who loves me enough.”

His father, Martin, would clap him on the back. “Son, you need to come out of yourself, if you hope to succeed.”

Succeed? Hell, he’d just wanted to survive.

Finn stopped reading. The text sounded like a Philip Roth novel, Portnoy’s Complaint, where the character was whiny, self-aggrandizing, and narcissistic. He’d best delete every word of this stupid thing.

But he didn’t. He’d just clicked out of the mess that was his first book when the back door opened. Millie walked to the doorway. He pushed out his chair and turned to her. Them. “Hey, Finn.”

“Hi, there.”

“This is my friend Emerson.” The man with her was tall and slim, about her age and wore ancient jeans and a T-shirt. His blondish hair was shoulder length and his face shadowed with scruff. Why women found that sexy was beyond him.

“Finn?”

“Sorry.” He stood. “Hello.” He shook the guy’s hand. “Finn Casella.”

“Emerson Clark.”

“After Ralph Waldo?”

“Absolutely. Hippie parents.”

Their son took after them.

“Emerson’s the director of the soup kitchen. We discussed some ideas for Fitzgerald’s helping to get donations.”

“Huh. Then take a seat.” He motioned to the break room, which he put in when he bought more space. The employees sometimes ate meals there. Millie went in behind the guy. He’d seen her with her hair down, of course, but it had gotten a lot longer, and fell in auburn waves way down her back. For a moment, he found himself mesmerized by it.

When they were seated, Emerson began, “Mr. Casella. The Broome Street Soup Kitchen needs your help.”

Mr. Casella. Now that made Finn feel old.

Which was nothing new.

* * *

In her cousin’s swank New York apartment, Alessia Casella Benatti sat at a table facing a panoramic view of the city. It was absolutely beautiful. And the size of this place! Wow! As she admired the sights outside the window, she heard the front door open, keys jangle and turned. Finn walked in.

“Hey, Finn.”

His face lit some. He was one of the most sober men she knew. Not that she’d known that many of male species. Either generally or in the Biblical sense. “Hey, Ali. Nice to see you. We seem to be ships passing in the night.”

“I hope so. You were kind to offer your place when I had to be on campus.” She was finishing her degree at City College in New York.

“I like having you here, Ali. I mean it. Are you going back to campus tonight?”

“No, I’m done for the day. I’m staying over, though. Did you want to do something?”

“I had a long day, so no. Thanks, though.” He got halfway to his suite, when she stood and called to him.

“Don’t go yet. I worry about you burying yourself alone in your suite.”

“You do?” His brows rose in genuine puzzlement. “Why?”

“It’s customary