Saints and Sinners Read Online Free PDF

“You’d better be careful, Cleo. This leprechaun might claim your pot of gold for his lusty self.”

Chapter 3
    “Moira! Come help me with supper,” her mother called from the kitchen.
    Moira traced her finger along Clara Bow’s profile. The picture, torn from a movie magazine, curled at the edges. Oh, to be so carefree like the ‘It Girl’. Every man loved her laugh and looks.
    She examined her reflection in the mirror. Auburn hair framed her face in a bobbed style, something of which her mother fiercely disapproved. Moira recalled their conversation.
    “Too trampy. You look like a no-good. You’re always wastin’ money. Hell has a place for women who don’t keep their minds on things pure and simple.”
    Moira wiped away a tear and tried to blot out the memory. Her mother had said many other things and refused to speak to her for three days after that fateful visit to the hairdresser.
    From the bottom of her jewelry box, Moira removed a tube of lipstick and a pot of rouge. Really Red and Fire Flush. She puckered her lips into a pout worthy of her favorite screen idol. Reilly Dunne was a redheaded Rudy Valentino. Oh, to fall into that forbidden man’s arms and be swept away into a world filled with seduction and satisfaction. He’d love her covering his cheeks and mouth with reddish-orange kisses.
    Moira went to the closet and pulled her newest purchase from the back of the rack. A gorgeous dress fit for any Flapper.
    Red like Reilly’s heart.
    Again, her mother’s voice carried upstairs to the smallest bedroom. “Are you havin’ trouble hearin’ me, girl? Come on, now, before your father gets up here.”
    Resigning herself to kitchen work, she replaced the dress in the dark recesses of the closet and closed the door. Her black wool winter coat would cover that naughty thing. How swell, her first drop-waist dress. A daring number that skimmed the bottom of her knees.
    * * * *
    Moira tried to concentrate on the Irish soda bread she was preparing. Her thoughts drifted to the Continental Club and Reilly Dunne. To her, Reilly was the handsomest man in Manhattan. Sullivan Street didn’t boast any real stunners, except for the Manucci’s. Sicilian twin brothers who lived up the street. Gossip had it that they were hung as well as the policemen’s horses that clopped about the neighborhoods of Lower Manhattan.
    Moira licked her lips. She’d never seen a male completely naked. No, not true. The memory stirred in her mind. Not unless she counted the time her brother Aidan, two years her senior, ran screaming from the bathtub when her father tried to wash his ears. She leaned back against the stove and relived the day.
    Aidan, in all his rust-haired scrawniness, ran from the bathroom. All legs and lungs. His mouth opened wide, he hollered so loud he woke up the O’Riordan twins.
    “No, Papa! No!”
    He collided with Moira on the staircase. Between his legs flapped a strange appendage and a pouch of skin. Moira followed him downstairs and asked her mother about the difference. For her efforts, she ended up with a mouthful of lye so ap.
    “Ouch. Damnu ort .” Moira staggered away from the oven and sucked her index finger. Carried away by daydream, she’d neglected to gauge the proximity of her hands to the oven. Even worse, she’d failed to keep her mouth closed and wished damnation on the bread.
    “That’ll do!” Her mother stirred the vegetables with more vigor than usual. “Are you wantin’ a taste of that soap again?”
    Her mother would treat a woman of twenty-three the same way as a child? Moira winced at her use of Irish profanity and the blister forming on her finger. “Sorry. I wasn’t paying attention.”
    “That’s all the time anymore. I don’t know what you have to be dreaming about so much.”
    “Hallo.” Reamonn Monaghan’s Irish bass boomed throughout the dwelling. “Smells like I landed in Heaven tonight.”
    Oh, yes. Shepherd’s Pie was his favorite dish. It usually graced