One Spring Night

Prologue

No matter how long the winter, spring is sure to follow. 

–Proverb

Prologue

One Year Ago

Cheer rang long and loud in the little pub in Stonebridge. The sounds of happiness echoed off the old pine walls in walloping gusts, flittered through the air in a merry, meandering breeze, and barked loud and boisterous like a gregarious beast on a contrastingly soft spring evening.

Ben Roberts gazed over the crowd jammed into the Plumber's Pub, taking in the many smiling faces, most of them rosy from the gushing overflow of booze. There was barely room to lift an elbow to pull a drink, but somehow the people managed to get heartily plastered in the name of love just the same.

The loyal herd had come out to support his sister, Abigail, in her marriage to Declan Fitzgerald of the Connecticut Fitzgeralds. Not that Abigail would enjoy such a label, being part of the "anyones" of anywhere. She certainly wasn't known for her love of pomp and circumstance. Instead she was known for her fiery tenacity, generous spirit, and, now, for being the wife of one of the wealthiest men in the country.

A wife, Ben thought to himself. His sister was now a wife. Funny how quickly life could turn directions on you.

As the eldest male in the family, he had walked his beaming sister down the aisle and handed her over to the love of her life that afternoon. And, to his mind, his sister deserved all the love and happiness crammed into that after-party at their family pub, and more. Even after Abigail and Declan left on a private jet for their honeymoon, Ben dutifully continued pouring beer and whiskey for the motley crew of regulars, and he was as proud a man behind the bar as he'd been standing beside his sister in the ceremony.

The wedding itself had been enjoyable enough, though Ben hadn't attended any other weddings to compare it to. And he'd gotten through the whole tuxedo business without itching too badly. His younger brother Beckett had, of course, disappeared for a time with one of the perky blond wedding guests, while Ben had observed the elegantly attired crowd—the "important" acquaintances of the Fitzgeralds—with his usual, deep-rooted stoicism.

Beckett often referred to him as a stick in the mud, and—on most days—meant it in the most loving of ways. But Ben wasn't a stick in the mud. He simply knew what it was to ground deep and stand tall through whatever blew in his direction.

And because what had blown his way that day was a wedding reception, he'd found himself eating—and disliking—Beluga caviar, while comparing where he, Beckett, and Abigail had come from. The lavishly decorated, extravagantly orchestrated afternoon provided an anchor to look back at what their lives had been like not too long before. The three of them—the Roberts kids—had been dirt-poor outcasts from even the most trivial collections of society, had gone to bed hungry most nights, and had barely owned a thing to their name. And now the trio proudly owned and ran the Plumber's Pub—a local watering hole in their small Connecticut town. And their afternoon was spent surrounded by scents of flowers Ben couldn't have possibly known the names of, eating food fancier than any he'd ever seen, and being catered to by a staff of men and women clothed in white tuxedos and pressed gloves.

While they'd been on the verge of losing the pub the prior year, his sister's tenacity had ensured they not only kept the pub, but also could complete the construction renovations necessary to ensure the building was back in good standing with the health department. And somehow along the way, she'd managed to get engaged to her high school sweetheart who was, inarguably, the richest man Ben figured he'd ever know.