I don’t intend to say anything about her food stash. I’ll just make sure the pantry is stocked so she can pack her duffel with whatever she wants.
Chapter 7
Saoirse
I stand on the corner of Division and Ashland with the credit card in my pocket and a plan I’m nervously uncertain about.
Four blocks north. Two west. I've mapped the neighborhood in my head—coffee shop, bodega, dry cleaner, pawnshop. A boutique with mannequins in the window wearing dresses I'd never look at twice.
Except I'm looking now.
I'm Mrs. Declan O'Rourke. The wife of a man who is important in this city. Walking around in thrift store jeans and a threadbare sweater sends the wrong message.
This marriage might be a farce, and I might be temporary, but I agreed to play the part, and I suppose that means not looking like an imposter every time I step outside.
Isn't that why my husband gave me cash and a credit card? I don't know why he did it, actually, but I would imagine it's because he wants me to dress better and do a better job of playing the part of his wife by flashing around some money.
The boutique door chimes when I push through. Inside, everything is cream and pale wood and expensive fabric onhangers spaced too far apart. A woman behind the counter looks up. She's in her mid 50s, looks elegant, and wears a strand of pearls at her throat.
I brace for it. The up-down assessment. The subtle shift in posture that saysyou don't belong here. The polite smile that isn't polite at all. The whole Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman schtick.
It doesn't come. Instead, she rounds the counter with her hands clasped.
"Mrs. O'Rourke." Her voice is warm and genuine. "We've been hoping you'd come in."
I freeze. "You know who I am?"
"Of course." She gestures toward a rack near the back. "Your husband called ahead. Said you might need a few things."
The floor tilts under me. "He called ahead?"
"Two days ago." She's already pulling items—a blouse, a pair of jeans, a jacket in soft charcoal. "He didn't specify sizes, but I can adjust if these don't work."
I stand there holding the blouse while my brain tries to process. Declan called. Declan, who barely looks at me. Declan, who times his movements around the house to avoid crossing my path.
"Try them on," the woman says, nodding toward a curtained alcove. "Take your time."
The jeans fit. So does the blouse. The jacket settles on my shoulders like it was made for me, and when I step out, the woman smiles.
"Perfect. I'll wrap those up. Would you like to see the dresses?"
"I don't need?—"
"Nonsense. A woman in your position needs options." She's already moving toward another rack. "Your husband is very generous with the neighborhood, you know. Fixed Mrs.Halloran's roof last winter. Paid for the Garcia boy's surgery. Never asks for anything in return."
I blink. "He did?"
"Oh, yes." She drapes a navy dress over her arm. "The O'Rourkes take care of this neighborhood. Always have."
I leave the boutique with three bags and a head full of contradictions.
At the coffee shop, the barista says, "On the house," as she hands me my latte.
“But I?—”
“I know who you are.” When she sees the alarm in my expression, her voice softens. “Your husband helped my brother last year. Got him a job when nobody else would hire him. All Darius needed was a fresh start, and Declan gave him one.” She pushes the cup toward me. “O’Rourkes don't pay here.”
I take the latte because I don't know what else to do.
