Free Comfort and Joy by Sandra Madden

wag of his head. “There’s a big bout bein’ scheduled. The pot is growin’ so heavy that it might make a man rich enough to buy his own boat.”
    “My brother wants to get off the docks and become a fisherman,” Maeve explained to Charles. “He yearns to work for himself.”
    “Someday I’ll have me own fleet,” Shea declared with a confident grin.
    “If ye live,” Maeve scoffed. “I’m not one for grown men fightin’ in the ring — or anywhere else for that matter.”
    “I have never met a lady yet who is fond of the sport,” Charles said.
    Maeve embraced her father. She worried at being away from him. She loved him dearly, this small curmudgeon of a man who was both her father and her child.
    Although Maeve had only been a ten-year-old lass when her mam died, Dad and Shea depended on her to take care of them. She’d done the mending and cooking, the cleaning and all that needed doing. For the past four years she’d brought home a steady income as well.
    “I’ll be cailin’ on ye before the week is out, Dad,” Maeve promised.
    Holding her father close, she kissed him lightly on the cheek, wishing he did not smell like Jamison’s. Essence of alcohol had clung to him for years. He wore it like some men wore cologne. While her father had always raised a few in celebration, the serious drinking began after Maeve’s mother died. Kathleen O’Malley’s death changed her dad forever and had everything to do with his decision to take his children to America before they starved. To this day, Maeve knew her father pined for his darlin’ Kathleen something fierce.
    On long, lonely nights, Maeve had yearned for a man to love her in the way Mick loved his Kathleen. Now she meant for that man to be Charles.
    Reluctantly releasing her father, she turned to Shea. Standing on tiptoe, she wrapped her arms around him. A strong and gentle giant, her older brother had always offered protection and comfort. To the end of her life, Maeve knew she would do anything in the world for him.
    The first time she’d seen Shea bruised, with his knuckles swollen following one of his professional boxing matches, she’d cried. Although Shea won more bouts than he lost, the results of his time in the ring always showed. As she wondered who would soak her brother’s big hands and rub ointment on his bruises now that she would not be there to do it, a lump as large as Faneuil Hall lodged in her throat. Maeve would sell her soul not to have Shea box again.
    “Thank you for bringin’ me things. If you need me, ye know where to find me now you’ve been here. And feel free to knock on Mrs. Gilhooly’s door. She’ll help you with Dad if I cannot be there,” Maeve added to Shea quietly. Mrs. Gilhooly lived in the rear of their South Boston building.
    “If yer fancy husband does anything to make ye unhappy, just say the word,” Shea whispered gruffly in her ear. “And I’ll be takin’ care of him for ye.”
    “Ye’11 be the first to know,” Maeve said with a wink as she stepped out of his arms.
    Taking each in hand, Maeve walked her father and brother to the door. She tugged at her father’s worn jacket and buttoned him up snugly against the cold. He’d gained weight round the middle and needed a new jacket.
    Mick pulled his black knit cap down over his ears as Maeve gave a yank to Shea’s bright red scarf. She would miss her O’Malley men dearly, every day.
    “Stay safe,” she said, blinking back tears as she pushed her family closer to the door.
    “Make sure ye keep yer promise, me darlin’. I expect to see ye before the week is out,” her father called over his shoulder as he and Shea started down the steps toward the street.
    Maeve watched silently until the figures of her father and brother disappeared into the silent, icy night.
    A shiver tore through her as she stood in the open door. Maeve felt rather than saw Charles move up to stand beside her. The heat of his body warmed her. The masculine, woodsy scent