by Ava Miles
And at their age, stress couldn’t be good. The way Connor had talked to Aunt Clara had totally been out of line. Thank God, the old girl had handled herself.
“How is it you knew about Becca’s agoraphobia when I didn’t?” He felt like shit for having missed all the signs. Looking back on recent events—like her avoidance of the outdoors, or the way Aileen had stared at him in the old kitchen, or even Becca’s refusal to go to dinner in Cork City—so many things made sense now. Why hadn’t he guessed?
“As I told Becca, I knew someone who didn’t leave the house for some time, and I grew concerned enough to research various possible ailments. That wasn’t her problem, I concluded in the end, but I had found her the best specialist in the country in case.”
Trevor started to speak, only for his voice to fail him. He cleared his throat, then said, “You’re resourceful, Hargreaves. There are no words to express my full gratitude, but if there’s anything I can ever do to help you…”
Hargreaves remained completely unflappable, his smile as polite as ever. “When it comes to family, it’s my job to help, sir.”
Family. Yes, Becca was family now. Hargreaves had known that, and he was humbled all over again.
“She’s a fine woman, sir.” He bowed.
“She sure as hell is.” Extending his hand, he waited until Hargreaves shook it. The clasp was brief and perfunctory, but Trevor could tell it was meaningful to them both. “I have more fires to put out, so I’ll let you get back to your reading.”
He nodded, and Trevor took his cue to leave. Weaving his way back through the main hall, he stopped Cian, who’d just come in the front door. He looked harried. Tired.
“What can I do to help you and Aileen?” Trevor asked. “I’m not an expert on running a bed and breakfast, but I have two hands, and it looks like I’m about to have plenty of time. Put me to work.”
The man ran his hand through his silver hair. “You’re no longer a guest of The Wild Rose.”
Trevor almost took a step back in shock. “What?”
“Do you need help moving your bags out of your room?” Cian asked.
Something tickled the back of his neck. Had he offended Cian in some way? He’d thought they finally understood each other. “What do you mean? Where am I moving to, Cian?”
“To Becca’s chambers, of course.” He made a rude noise as if Trevor were slow. “You belong there.”
Crap. He was going to get emotional. First, Hargreaves and now this man. He was like Becca’s father, and Trevor knew what this meant—he had earned the man’s full approval at last. For the second time in five minutes, he held out his hand.
Cian clasped it hard. They shared a timeless look, the kind of understanding and appreciation between a father and the man his daughter loved.
“Shouldn’t we ask Becca? She had some serious opinions about being with me now that I know about her condition.”
Cian snorted. “She’s always had opinions. In this case she’s wrong, and I’ll tell her so if she objects.”
Trevor had another ally. He was going to need it.
“Looks like I’m moving.”
Chapter 35
Cracking his knuckles, Arthur surveyed the rough draft Op-Ed he’d written for The Irish Times. Damn, it felt good to do something in a crisis. He had to be honest with himself, it also felt good to write: to weave words, to express facts and opinions, to raise questions.
“You’re sounding pretty pleased with yourself from all the grunting and groaning over there,” Clara said from the couch. “You about done?”
He surveyed the stack of Wild Irish Rose stationery he’d written on. The pretty rose symbol in the corner had given him fits at first, but he’d forgotten all about it after finishing the first page. “I feel alive, and it’s a damn fine feeling.”
“You didn’t look dead before to me,” Clara said, still holding her damn phone.
What in the world was she doing on it? Texting, likely. She’d been unusually quiet, and he’d given her space to settle. Still, she might need some prodding. “You going to see Becca? I wonder where Caitlyn and Flynn went off to.”
“Caitlyn is learning how to knit with Becca. Talk about a good way to keep that poor woman occupied. Caitlyn texted to say she still hasn’t left the closet. It’s heartbreaking.”
He pushed his papers aside. “She’s strong, and she’s made it this far.”
“I keep telling myself that,” Clara said, setting her phone down. “And yet, there’s no denying the family is in crisis. Flynn is trying to talk some sense into Quinn at the pub. J.T. is on his way. Caroline will stay with Natalie and the new baby.”
“Good,” Arthur said, sitting back in his chair. “The whole lot of them need to hash things out.”
“Yes,” Clara said, laying her head against the sofa. “I don’t want them to…”
When she broke off, Arthur rounded the sofa and took her in his arms. “What happened between you and their father is different, and it’s over.” His mind had gone there too—he’d tried to mediate the feud between Clara and her brother all those years ago, to no avail. Neither of them wanted to see something like that happen to the kids. “Don’t let the past creep into this. This is their issue, and they have to work it out.”
After seeing the hard line Connor had taken earlier, bolstered by plenty of attitude about Becca, Arthur knew warm fuzzies weren’t going to work, not when everyone had their blood worked up, but it wasn’t his business. He’d drafted the Op-Ed because he would protect Becca’s land if called upon to do so. It would be ready to go if Connor tried something funny. What kind of a man didn’t honor a woman’s wish not to sell? A ruthless one, he feared. Emmits Merriam had been tough, ambitious even, but never ruthless. But worse, what kind of a man didn’t embrace the woman his brother loved with open arms? A cynical, broken one. Not an easy thing to fix.
“I hate this,” Clara said, leaning on his chest. “I feel like I should be doing more to help.”
He stroked her long white hair. “You’re here. Maybe you should go to Becca and learn how to knit too.”
She laughed brokenly. “You angling for more sweaters?”
“You think you could knit a straight row?” he asked, hoping his teasing would comfort her.
“Who knows? I’ve surprised myself a lot lately.” Sitting up, she said, “I think it’s time I went over there. What are you going to do?”
He thought about it. “I’m going to find Cian and see if they need some help. With Becca…” He didn’t know how best to cast her situation.
“I’ll text Hargreaves and have him meet you in the main hall,” she said. “The least we can do is to help out with the running of things.”
“I can wash dishes,” he said, rolling his sleeves back.
“I’m sure that’s covered, Arthur, but you’re a dear to say so.”
Trevor and Becca didn’t need any matchmaking right now—they’d done an admirable job of finding each other on their own—but they were going to need help keeping Connor from going after her land. His heart ached at the thought of how Emmits would react to this kind of family friction. In some ways, he was glad his friend wasn’t alive to see it.
Arthur didn’t want to go against a Merriam, but he would go to battle if Trevor made a war cry.
* * *
Becca had known what Caitlyn was about, swinging by to breezily ask if she’d teach her how to knit. As if she weren’t sitting in a closet, unable to leave.
Becca soon realized the distraction would be good for them both. She was high-strung from the attack, her symptoms worse than they’d been in ages, and Caitlyn’s brothers were having a row, and she was in the middle of it.
When Clara arrived with a gin and tonic in her hands, requesting a knitting lesson as well, she arranged them on the floor of her closet near the window, where the natural light was best, and equipped them both with medium-sized wood needles and thread. Her worries seemed to evaporate as she showed them how
to hold the needles and make a simple slip knot.
Clara was a natural, they discovered, but Caitlyn had trouble holding the needles at first, and all three of them ended up laughing hysterically as she cursed up a storm. By the time Trevor appeared in the doorway, she felt more herself.
Cian was behind him, and he popped in his head. “A knitting lesson? What a grand idea.”
It was grand, but she could no longer pretend nothing was wrong. She was shirking her duties, her role as innkeeper. “How’s everything for dinner? Is the staff—”
“We have more help than we need, love.” Cian clasped Trevor’s shoulder. “Your man here has been helping, and Arthur and Hargreaves have been pitching in too. Aileen is ordering everyone about.”
“She’s got everything in hand,” Trevor said lightly, but Becca knew they were trying to keep her from fretting.
“I’m sorry I’m not out there,” she said. “I sent Chef a message, but if he needs—”
“He’s sending up a tasting of tonight’s specials for you to see if there’s anything you’d like to add,” Cian said. “Becca, we’ve done this before. Nothing will suffer.”
But it was her place and her responsibility. Guilt was always her companion in this sanctuary.
“Don’t focus on the negative,” Trevor said, forcing a smile. “Keep your spirits up. That’s the best remedy, Aileen tells me. When you’re ready, you’ll come downstairs. In the meantime,” he added, speaking quickly, “Cian and I moved my things in here. We’ve checked a walk-in guest into my old suite. Well, we need to be off.”
Moved his things in?
“Wait,” she called as the men disappeared, much like she imagined they’d meant to do.
Trevor reappeared. “Yes?”
Caitlyn and Clara kept their heads down, focusing on their knitting, but she knew they were listening eagerly.
“Did you not hear what I said earlier?” She was purposefully vague, not wanting to hash their troubles out in front of the women.
His cheek moved like he was biting it on the inside. “And I said what I said. It so happens Cian agrees with me.”
She dropped her knitting needles. “He does?”
Crossing to her, he leaned down and kissed her sweetly on the cheek. “He does. I’ll be back in a while. Lots to do.” And to punctuate his point, he picked up Hatshep, something he’d never done.
First Buttercup, now Hatshep. She’d make an animal lover of him yet.
Her infernal cat curled into him, stretching like she was lying in the sun.
“See. Hatshep agrees too. Have fun, ladies.”
With that power move, he left.
The darn man.
“He seems to have outmaneuvered you, my dear.” Clara handed her the knitting needles she’d dropped. “Take it from an old woman who was alone for much of her life. You don’t push love like that away when it comes knocking on your door.”
“Even if the door he had to knock on was her closet?”
“If he loves you, he’ll knock on any door,” Clara said. “Trust me, when you get to my age, you think about these things. If Arthur had to go to a nursing home, God forbid, I would knock on his door every day.”
That left her speechless.
“If Trevor can’t get in, he’ll knock it down, he’s that stubborn,” Caitlyn said. “Oh, and my mom wanted me to tell you that she can’t wait to meet you.”
“J.T., Trevor’s twin brother, also said he’s excited to meet the woman who’s finally made his brother wax poetic,” Clara got in while she was making yet another perfect slip knot.
“J.T.’s coming to the inn,” Caitlyn said. “You’re going to love him. Caroline had to stay behind, but she’s so nice. I mean, his first wife was a total bitch. Trevor called her Sin City. We thought Trev might never want to marry anyone after seeing what that she-devil did to our brother.”
Hearing that made her feel deflated. She’d thought she was right to push him away—that it would be best for him—but everyone else thought otherwise.
“J.T.’s also bringing the letters Grandpa Noah and Grandma Anna wrote each other during the war,” Caitlyn said. “They’re going to make you swoon. Until you read them, you can’t imagine what they were up against. I mean, imagine falling in love with someone who might die any day in the war. Grandma Anna had the bravest, biggest heart ever, Grandpa Noah used to say.”
What had Trevor said about them? Her tireless love had healed the man suffering from PTSD. Oh, to trust in such a love.
She reached up and clutched the medal he’d placed around her neck, looking at the closet door. Maybe it was time to image herself leaving this place and resuming her life. Yes, that was it. She vowed it wasn’t going to take her weeks this time.
She had a new motivation, and his name was Trevor Merriam.
Chapter 36
Trevor offered Chef Padraig his assistance with anything from cutting vegetables to taking out plates to the guests.
“I can see what Becca sees in you,” the dark-haired man said, “but I do not need your help cutting vegetables. Merde, alors.”
Since he knew French, he replied, “Très bien, parce que je suis maladroit dans la cuisine.”
A trace of a smile appeared on the man’s face, little more than a lifting of his lips, before he pointed to the door and said, “Allez!”
Trevor didn’t mind being ordered out, especially after confessing he was clumsy in the kitchen. Flynn was sitting alone, drinking from a full tumbler of whiskey, when he appeared in the dining room. He took the seat across from him.
“That bad?” he asked.
“Yeah.” He shoved his glass toward Trevor, who took a drink. “They’re giving ‘pigheaded’ new meaning. Oh, and Quinn wants to know when he can have his chopper back. He and Connor don’t see any reason to hang around.”
A server brought him a highball glass and poured him his own whiskey, leaving the bottle. Apparently word was out that everyone had had a bad day. “If they think I’m going to let the pilot turn on that helicopter and freak Becca out again, they have another thing coming.”
“That’s what I thought,” Flynn said. “It’s not like Quinn doesn’t have more of them. How about I hire someone to tow it off the property? It’s an eyesore. Besides, my rabbit friends can’t be happy to have it so close to their shed. Cian came by before you left the kitchen. He said they were still shaking like crazy when he visited them earlier.”
The older man hadn’t mentioned it. Probably wise or he might have lost it on his older brothers for scaring Becca and her animals.
“We probably won’t find someone to tow a helicopter until tomorrow since it’s after work hours around here,” Trevor said, downing his whiskey. “J.T. is on his way.”
“So I heard,” Flynn said with a heavy sigh. “Mom is flying out of Chicago too, apparently. Dad has a Merriam plane picking her up. Caitlyn’s call stirred the nest.”
No doubt. “Is she flying into Cork City?”
“Yeah,” Flynn said. “I told her I’d pick her up.”
“Thanks. I don’t want to leave Becca right now.” Trevor poured them both more whiskey. “I’m not sure if it’s a good or bad thing that Mom is coming.”
“Mom’s outraged,” Flynn said. “Caitlyn tried to call Dad, but he’s not answering. I think he’s weighing both sides or trying to keep out of it. He was really adamant about us handling company business on our own after he retired.”
But this wasn’t only company business, and they all knew it.
Uncle Arthur and Cian walked over to their table and wearily sat down. Another server brought more whiskey glasses straight away, and Flynn poured drinks all around.
“The women are still up with Becca,” Uncle Arthur said, his wrinkles pronounced from fatigue. “Should we eat without them?”
“Chef is sending up dinner for them,” Cian said. “I need to help Aileen, but you should all eat now.”
After he left, Trevor looked at Arthur. “Where�
��s Hargreaves?”
“Greeting guests at the door,” the older man said, craning his neck in that direction. “Let’s order. I don’t have much of an appetite, but I know the body needs fuel. How did it go with Quinn?”
“Not good,” Flynn answered, turning his glass in a circle.
They ate dinner mostly in silence, and Trevor asked Aileen twice if he could do more to help. She was firm about him staying put. When the restaurant settled down, Cian joined them for another drink.
“Everything seemed to go off well with dinner,” Trevor said.
“We’ve done this a few times,” he said, lifting the whiskey Trevor had poured him. “Slainte. It’s good to have the extra help. Hargreaves and Chef are speaking French and having a brandy in the kitchen. The guests loved him.”
“You can keep him if you’d like,” Uncle Arthur joked, although he looked ready to fall asleep.
Trevor waited until his uncle had finished half his drink before rising and stretching. “I’m going up to Becca and plan to send the women out. Flynn, can you take Caitlyn? She might need a shoulder.”
“And she’ll want to know about my talk with Quinn,” Flynn said, standing up.
“I guess it’s time to stop the knitting party,” Arthur said, leaning heavily on the back of his chair when he stood.
Upon entering Becca’s bedroom, Trevor noticed his suitcases were gone. Had she ordered them out? “Cian, do you know what Becca did with my clothes?”
“Clara had Hargreaves put them away on the sly,” Arthur answered, his mouth tipping up. “He commandeered a few storage shelves and placed the empty cases under the bed.”
On the sly? He was going to have to find a way to thank all of them for helping.
Uncle Arthur opened the closet door after tapping softly on it. Aileen had joined the party, and all four women were sitting on the floor in a circle. Aunt Clara had the makings of a scarf in her lap, and she was knitting with surprising speed and skill while Hatshep lay on her leg. Caitlyn was going slower, but her brows were pinched in a concentration he’d seen before. She was bound and determined to succeed, and so she would. Boru was snoring softly behind Becca.
