Wild Irish Rose

by Ava Miles

  Yes, she would call.

  It was early in New York, but she could wait until the office opened. She looked the doctor up on her computer in the meantime and almost cried at some of the testimonials in his online reviews from other patients. Then she fussed with other paperwork, “fussed” being the operative word—she couldn’t process anything other than the changing numbers on the clock. The moment his office opened, she picked up the phone and dialed.

  “Dr. Poread’s office.” The voice had a crisp, slightly nasal accent she’d heard in movies set in New York.

  “I suffer from agoraphobia and would like to make an appointment with Dr. Poread over the phone. I…live in Ireland.”

  “Oh, Ireland. I’ve always wanted to go there.”

  “It’s a grand place.” But America was too, and wouldn’t it be incredible to go there someday and see the Statue of Liberty and the Grand Canyon?

  “Must be the luck of the Irish. We just had a cancellation. Otherwise, you’d have to wait two months.”

  It was another sign, and Becca was finally able to release a breath.

  “How does next Wednesday at one sound? You’re ahead of us, right?”

  “Yes.” It would be closing in on dinnertime, but Aileen and Cian would happily cover for her. “Thank you.”

  The woman took her information and then surprised her by asking more about Ireland. She ended the call with a sweet compliment about Becca’s accent.

  Becca set down the phone and fingered the paper and the handkerchief. One contained her hopes while the other had collected her tears.

  From now on, she planned to have more of the former than the latter.

  Chapter 21

  After saying goodbye to his aunt and uncle and Hargreaves, Trevor closeted himself in his room. His first call should have been to J.T. about the land issue, but it was the middle of the night, and all he could think about was finding Becca the best green dye for her wool. Okay, he was evading the land issue a bit. As the sun rose high over the sea and morning turned to afternoon, he dug into the sometimes wacky, sometimes incredible world of hand-dyeing yarn. When it was eight in the morning in New York, he texted Caitlyn to see if she was awake. She promptly responded, so he called her.

  “How’s the alpaca lover?” she asked when she picked up.

  “Get it out of your system,” he said, leaning back, happy to hear her voice.

  “Was it her eyes or her pretty little head that did it for you?”

  “Haha. Listen, what do you know about dyeing wool?”

  She snorted. “Other than the fact that’s it really hard, not much. I don’t go back that far down the clothing chain. Why?”

  “The woman I love is starting her own hand-dyeing enterprise, raising animals and the like.”

  “Hence the alpaca. Wait! Did you say the woman you love?”

  He knew he’d have to needle her to keep it quiet—it absolutely could not get back to Connor yet—but he couldn’t contain himself. He wanted his family to know about Becca. Hell, he wanted them to meet her. “I did, and you’re going to love her.”

  “Holy shit! Okay, fill me in. I want to know everything. How long has this been going on?”

  He gave his sister the CliffsNotes version. “She says greens are the hardest to make,” he told her, changing the subject back to his present project. “Do you know anyone I can talk to about plant dyes? Surely we employ an expert or two in the organic line, right?”

  “Dozens,” she said, making a humming noise. “Let me see what I can drum up for you. I’ll talk to our French experts when I meet them for dinner tonight.”

  So she wasn’t in New York. But who could keep track? Sometimes she was in New York or L.A. publicizing a new product line with various celebrities, but she preferred the City of Love. “You’re in Paris?”

  “Yes. Nowhere I’d rather be.”

  She’d loved the Madeline books as a kid and dressed up like the character for Halloween three years running. “Same time zone. Convenient.”

  “This will be fun for me,” she said. “I’m looking into creating a line of perfume. I need something new creatively, and the perfume market keeps killing it. Did you know that nearly two million Americans spent more than five hundred dollars on perfume this year?”

  “Quinn must love your new idea,” he said. His brother was the one who approved new product lines and companies. Again, he remembered Connor’s threat to have Quinn replace him. It wasn’t normal.

  “I haven’t pitched him yet, so don’t say anything. You know Quinn. You need a file so thick he grunts when he lifts it.”

  Indeed. “I won’t say anything about it if you’ll swear on our mother’s life that you won’t tell anyone about Becca.”

  “Does J.T. know?”

  “You know he does, but he’s the only one except you.”

  She made a delighted sound, like she’d just eaten a chocolate. “And you told me second. I’m feeling all squishy inside. If you were here, I’d kiss you.”

  “Funny.”

  “You’ll have to settle for alpaca kisses instead. Or Becca’s. Becca and Trevor sitting in the tree, k-i-s-s-i-n-g…”

  He moved the phone from his ear as she sang, knowing better than to try to stop her. Sometimes it was hard to imagine she’d just turned thirty-two. “You done?” he asked when she finished.

  “For now,” she said, a smile in her voice. “I’m really happy for you. Tell Becca I can’t wait to meet her. I’ll get back to you on the green dye.”

  “You’re a sweetheart. Talk to you soon.”

  “Love you.”

  “Love you too.”

  When he hung up, he puffed out his chest. He was already feeling better. Being proactive, that was the key. Liking the feeling, he put in a web search for green dyes to see what he could find out on his own. He had a couple hours until he could call J.T., but really, what was there to say? Becca’s land was the best place for them to drill in Ireland. Every time he thought about it, worry edged itself under his ribcage like he’d swallowed the wishbone. Becca was right. She was sitting on a goldmine, and others were going to come calling, and they might not balk from using unsavory tactics.

  Would she sell the property to him for safekeeping? He was in a better position than she was to keep it safe. No, she didn’t trust him enough for that yet.

  How did one go about protecting property in Ireland, anyway? He only knew of two types of protected land offhand: natural heritage sites and wildlife preserves. Could they use that to their advantage?

  And yet, he found himself continuing his quest for the perfect green dye rather than searching for property laws and loopholes…

  God, if his brothers could see him now.

  He’d already made a page of notes on plants and vegetables that produced greens when he realized he needed to know which ones Becca had already tried. He left his room, wishing he could seek her out and suggest a walk, but he suspected she’d turn him down flat. The woman worked as much as he did, if not more, and while he respected that, he was planning on making some changes in his schedule to spend more time with her. He hoped she’d do the same.

  Hatshep stared at him with her freaky green eyes as he entered the main hall. Maybe he needed to buy her a treat to bring her around. Hell, now he was bribing her animals. Ridiculous. He went to the rear door and headed out the back, making his way toward the old kitchen. Becca had shown him where she kept her logbook about the dye. He’d take a peek.

  He heard a loud humming sound behind him and braced himself, knowing who it was. Then he smiled. At least someone at The Wild Irish Rose still appreciated him. He decided he needed a different perspective on his lovesick friend. Maybe it would soften Becca up if he formed a friendship with Buttercup. The alpaca was coming toward him, a spring in its step. He stood his ground and lifted out a hand, hoping to prevent her from licking him—it was a her, and he supposed it was time to start thinking of Buttercup that way. She stopped when she reached him, tur
ning her head to look at his hand.

  “Okay, let’s be nice about this.” He lowered his hand gently. “No licking.”

  The animal hummed, righting her head, and then padded forward. His muscles locked in response, but he stayed still, waiting to see what she would do. When she lowered her head and rested it on his shoulder, he almost laughed. “We’re a right pair.” He petted her neck, and she started a symphony of hums.

  The sunshine was bright and the sea breeze cool and salty. All around him were shades of green, from spring greens to the deep moss variety. God, he loved this place. He was starting to think of it as his too. Hopefully, Becca would see it that way soon.

  “I need to go now, Buttercup. You go back to your friends.” He still didn’t know why the other alpacas stayed inside the fence when this one didn’t, but he knew the guests liked to visit them. He’d heard a young boy giggling like crazy at the fence the other day, laughing as a trio of alpacas tried to lick his face. In fact, there was a lot of laughter here, he realized.

  “Your owner is one hell of a businesswoman,” he told Buttercup, patting the alpaca’s head one more time before heading in the direction of the old kitchen.

  Glad no one was around, he opened the door. He’d hoped she didn’t lock it. People often didn’t lock up in the smaller towns outside of Dublin. He rather liked the thought of living somewhere people didn’t have to lock their doors.

  There was a strong earthy scent in the old kitchen, and he sniffed to make out more notes. He identified lavender, rose, and juniper—hard to miss that last one for someone who enjoyed the occasional gin and tonic.

  Strands of wool were drying next to their individual dye bath stations. Some people preferred to keep a separate drying station, she’d told him, but she liked to keep the wool situated beside the bath from which it had emerged. He thought she had it right. There was something novel about seeing the final product alongside the dye in the water. Usually the water was darker, but not in all cases. The rusty yellow yarn next to the dye bath with the yellow onions looked largely the same to his eyes.

  Heading over to her desk, he drew out what she called her dyeing book. She had it organized by color types, and he quickly found the section on green thanks to the tab she’d stuck to it.

  “What are you doing in here?”

  He straightened immediately at the accusing tone. Aileen shut the door behind her.

  “Don’t tell Becca, but I’m trying to find the formula for the best green. My sister Caitlyn’s on the case too. She works in our family business with organic plants.” He held up the record book. “I thought it might help us narrow our search if we knew what you and Becca had already tried.” He made sure to smile, hoping she wouldn’t throw him out of the old kitchen—or worse, tell Becca he was up to no good.

  “You’re looking to find a green color for my girl?” She gripped the bottom of her shirt so hard her knuckles turned white.

  She wasn’t mad, he realized. She was upset. “Yes. I hope that’s okay. I wanted to do something special for her. She’s so busy around here, and I know it’s hard for her to get away.”

  Tears appeared in the woman’s eyes, alarming him. Good Lord, was she that sentimental?

  “I thought this might be just the thing given her schedule.”

  She turned around quickly and muffled a cry. His insides tightened at the sound. “It’s only a dye, Aileen.”

  She only shook her head, wiping her nose with her sleeve as she turned to face him. “Oh, you dear man. You don’t understand.”

  No, he sure as hell didn’t.

  She sniffed. “It’s a grand thing, what you’re doing for our Becca. I’m sorry I doubted you. I didn’t think you were a dosser.”

  No, he hadn’t been up to no good, and thank God she knew it.

  “I’ll leave you then,” Aileen said, yet she stayed where she was, studying him.

  He seemed rooted to the ground. What the hell was she looking at him like that for? “I meant what I told you. I love her.”

  “I believed you then, and I sure as heavens believe you now,” she said, a smile lifting her face. “Why else would I be crying?”

  He would never understand women. “Someday soon, when she’s ready, I’d like to take Becca to meet my family. In California. If I gave you enough notice, would you and Cian be able to handle things here?”

  Fresh tears spilled down her cheeks, and she shook her head from side to side. He waited, nerves dancing in his belly. She opened her mouth to speak before pressing a hand to it. It almost looked like she was physically stopping herself from saying something.

  Before he could say anything, Aileen left, crying softly.

  Chapter 22

  Becca was going over Chef Padraig’s weekly specials when Aileen entered her office. The woman’s face was wet with tears, and she immediately stood.

  “What’s wrong?” she asked, coming around the desk.

  Aileen pulled her into a tight hug, causing her breath to whoosh out of her lungs. “You need to tell him, Becca. Oh, my dear, you really need to tell that wonderful man.”

  Her heart thudded in her chest. She didn’t have to ask who Aileen meant, and she certainly didn’t have to ask what she was referring to.

  “I can’t tell you why I feel so strongly about this,” Aileen said, “I only know you must.” Then she took Becca’s face in her hands, and everything inside Becca seemed to drop to the ground, almost as though her friend’s very gaze had made her protective cloak fall away. There was no hiding from this look.

  “I want to,” Becca said, knowing it was the truth, “but I need a little more time. Aileen…” She gripped the woman’s hands. “I had a miracle today.”

  As she revealed what Hargreaves had done for her—the tangible help he’d placed in her lap, so to speak—the older woman cried more tears. By the time she finished sharing the testimonials she’d read, they were both crying softly. Many of the patients said they’d tried everything, from medicine to various forms of therapy, and nothing had worked for them—until Dr. Poread. He specialized in helping people whose condition was as acute and long-term as Becca’s.

  There was no doctor like him in the Emerald Isle.

  Aileen bundled her up like she was a human blanket and rocked her in place. “Oh, that dear, dear man,” she whispered.

  “I have hope again, Aileen,” Becca said, her voice raw. “I feel as though this miracle came right when I needed it.” Trevor and love had entered her life, and God or the Universe or whatever you wanted to call it had sent her the keys to her cage.

  “My dearest Becca,” Aileen said, kissing her cheek. “It’s everything I’ve been praying for and more.”

  “So you see why I want to have a few appointments with Dr. Poread before I tell him. I want to be able to show Trevor I’m getting better, and if I wait, I can share our long-term treatment plan with him.” Because she knew it would be a process, and should he decide to stay, it would affect him too.

  It was the only way she thought he would be able to handle the news. To learn the woman he loved was condemned to this very narrow place in the world would be a shock.

  “He would be happy to know you have new help, Becca,” Aileen said. “He’ll stand by you.”

  “I hope so.”

  “I know I should cajole you into telling him now, but this news is so grand, I simply can’t manage it.”

  “It is grand, isn’t it?” she said, wiping her tears, a smile on her face. She hadn’t felt this spectacular in…well, forever.

  “The grandest,” Aileen said with a firm nod. “We must do something for Mr. Hargreaves.”

  Becca didn’t point out that the man preferred the simple use of his surname. “I’m going to knit him something extra special.” She could have it done by the time he returned from Waterford if she put in a few more hours. Arthur’s sweater was half-finished, but she hadn’t had much time to work on it since Trevor came to her rooms each night. She shivered. The very thoug
ht of him filled her with a wave of love and desire. Oh, to feel this hopeful again. It was a grand miracle, indeed.

  She floated on clouds the rest of the day, and when dinner rolled around, even the guests noticed her happy mood. A couple from Boston commented on her contagious smile, and she simply said, “There was magic in the air.” She forced herself not to look over to where Trevor was sitting, having dinner alone.

  He’d been watching her too, she knew. Her insides seemed to be aware of his every look, and by the time dinner was through and she’d sent Chef Padraig off with a cheeky, “Bonne soirée,” she was eager to find Trevor.

  When she didn’t find him in one of the public rooms of the inn, she looked outside the windows. He wasn’t on the cliffs like he had been the other night, so she decided to head to her chamber and wait for him. This way she could start on Hargreaves’ sweater.

  As she walked back, she laughed because Boru seemed to have caught her grand mood. He pranced beside her, his tail wagging happily. Hatshep, too, rubbed her head against Becca’s leg, purring softly as they arrived back in her tower. Yes, they knew she was happy, and they were happy too.

  She wandered into the spare room where she kept her yarn. Scanning the shelves, she let inspiration touch her. Hargreaves would want something elegant and not too colorful. It struck her that a sweater wasn’t the right gift at all. He had his butler’s uniform, which he wore religiously, if his dress on vacation was any indication. But he wore a coat, she expected, when he went outside. Which meant he would wear a scarf. That was perfect. Colorado was cold, after all.

  She selected her newly dyed Angora wool of the palest gray blue, dyed from elderberries. The color was rich yet not showy, and the texture was silky soft. And the stitch? Maybe Trinity? She examined the wool. What about Cat’s Paw? He might like the small and large eyelets. Then she remembered the stitch was also called Crowns of Glory, which seemed perfect. He’d given her the most treasured of gifts, almost like he was bestowing her glory back to her, the glory of being a human being, one who could run through the green hills and face off against the wild wind from the sea, her hair blowing madly behind her.