by Zara Keane
“I hope you don’t mind having a tour in the dark.” His deep voice was hesitant.
“Not at all. At least it’s not raining.”
They strolled down the cobblestoned lane. The pub was located on a small side street off the main square. Each building in the center of Ballybeg was painted a different color. The forest green facade of MacCarthy’s was tame in comparison to some of its brightly colored neighbors. The rainbow effect should have looked garish. Instead, it lent the town a cheerful appearance in spite of the inclement weather.
When they came to the square, she pointed to a stone edifice of a tall man wearing a twenties-style suit. “Who’s the statue?”
“That’s Michael Collins. He was one of the leaders during Ireland’s fight for independence. He grew up not far from here and was killed in Cork during the Irish Civil War.”
They crossed the square and took another side street. She was painfully aware of every slippery cobblestoned step. Reaching the smooth surface of the curb would be a relief. “How far does the pedestrian zone extend?”
“Not far. It’s confined to the lanes around the town square. Patrick Street—that’s the main street through Ballybeg—allows vehicles.”
They walked in silence, past flashing neon signs, pungent takeouts, and little stores with gorgeous window displays. She paused to admire one such display—traditional Irish pottery bowls, jugs, and cups. Some were decorated with glossy swirls of color; others had delicate hand painted patterns.
Ruairí’s arm slipped through hers, startling her. “Planning a shopping spree?”
“I definitely want to visit this store when it’s open. The pottery is gorgeous.” She adjusted quickly to the familiar sensation of walking arm-in-arm with her husband.
A few feet farther down the street, they stopped before a bookstore. It was situated in a lovely turquoise building with beautiful bay windows. Spotlights lighted up a huge display of mystery novels. “Hey, I know that author.” She leaned closer to get a better look. “I have a couple of his books on my ereader. They’re good.”
“Jonas O’Mahony is from Ballybeg.”
“Really? I didn’t know that. His mystery series is set in Dublin.”
“Yeah, but he grew up here. He’s a pal of mine. I’m sure I can persuade him to sign a book for you.”
“That would be cool.”
“I didn’t realize you liked mysteries,” he said, giving her a quizzical look. “I thought you only read literary fiction.”
“I started reading mystery and romance when I was in…” The hospital. She stopped herself in time. This was neither the time nor the place to tell him what had happened. “Let’s just say the past year was stressful. Reading genre fiction helped me unwind.”
He nodded slowly, his intelligent eyes processing her every word, gesture, and intonation. “Did we move too fast, Jayme? Is that why it fell apart so easily?”
“I don’t know. Six months from first date to wedding vows isn’t breakneck speed.”
“But it’s pretty close. We were so caught up in the high of being in love. Maybe we skipped a few steps.”
She drew in a shaky breath. He was right. They’d fallen for one another hard and fast, and that was how they’d conducted their entire relationship. They both had high-pressure jobs and worked long hours. What little free time they’d had, they’d spent on extravagant dates and big gestures. Had they been so busy working and making love that they’d failed to appreciate the little things? When had they spent proper downtime together? How many conversations had they postponed?
They continued their walk, Ruairí pointing out various buildings of historical importance. He was a gifted tour guide with an interesting tidbit or amusing anecdote for every place they stopped. Eventually they reached Beach Road. They stood in front of Mrs. Keogh’s bed-and-breakfast, the scent of seaweed drifting up from the seashore. It reminded her of the vast expanse of water separating them from her home in New York. She shivered in the chill night air and slipped her arm free from his. “Thank you for the tour.”
“My pleasure.” He was staring at her intensely, his face close. Leaning in, his lips brushed her cheek. “Goodnight, Jayme. Thanks for helping me in the pub today.”
Her breath caught in her throat. “No problem,” she said hoarsely. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
With a parting smile, he turned and retraced his steps in the direction of the town center. She watched his retreating back—so broad and strong—and caressed the cheek he’d kissed. Perhaps there was hope for them after all.
By the middle of her second day helping out at the pub, Jayme’s feet were screaming for a massage. She stretched her stiff bones and rubbed the small of her back. When was the last time she’d been on her feet this long? Probably not since her residency at New York-Pres.
Ruairí poked his head around the kitchen door. “How’s it going?”
She gave him a warm smile. “It’s going.”
“Can I tempt you with a coffee?”
“Coffee sounds wonderful.”
“Coming right up.” He hovered in the doorway. An emotion she couldn’t pinpoint flickered across his face. “Want to come out to the bar for a break? It’s pretty quiet at the moment. Most of the lunchtime customers have left.”
“Yeah. That would be great.” She untied Marcella’s crazy apron—a green, white, and gold monstrosity featuring a picture of a demented-looking leprechaun drinking a pint of Guinness atop a pot of gold—and hung it on the hook by the door.
Out in the main bar, John-Joe and Buck were playing a game of cards with a couple of their drinking pals. An attractive redhead of about thirty sat at a window table, leafing through a glossy magazine. Otherwise, the pub was deserted.
“Trade will pick up again this evening,” Ruairí said, reading her mind. He placed a cappuccino in front of her and handed her a teaspoon and a packet of artificial sweetener. “But Marcella will be back by then, and she can deal with the throng.”
Jayme tore open the packet and stirred the sweetener into her coffee. “Any word on how her interview went?”
“Not so far.”
The redhead approached the bar, clutching a gorgeous purse. It was a Gucci model Jayme had admired in Saks a few months back. The woman gave her a warm smile and extended a hand. “You must be the mysterious Mrs. MacCarthy. I’m Olivia. Welcome to Ballybeg.”
Jayme blinked and accepted the handshake. “I… thank you.”
“News travels fast in this town.” Olivia’s dark blue eyes twinkled. “Did Ruairí tell you Ballybeg literally means ‘small town’? It comes from the Gaelic baile beag. As you’ve probably discovered, it more than lives up to its name.”
“No, I didn’t know that. The only Gaelic I know is sláinte.”
The other woman laughed. “That’s the only Gaelic you need to know around here.” She slid a banknote across the bar to Ruairí. “Thanks for the lunch. I’d better get back to the office.”
“Any word from Gavin and Fiona?” he asked.
“I had an e-mail from Fiona yesterday,” the woman said. “Seems they’re having a grand old time in Australia.”
“Good to hear it.”
“Say, Jayme.” Olivia leaned on the counter. “If you’re staying in Ballybeg for a while, maybe we can do coffee. The Book Mark Café is a good spot to meet for a scone and a chat.”
“I’m not sure how long I’ll be here,” Jayme said, deliberately not looking in Ruairí’s direction, “but if I extend my vacation, I’d love to meet up with you.”
Olivia’s smile widened. “Excellent. Ruairí has my number. Give me a call and we’ll sort something out.”
As Olivia opened the pub door to leave, Marcella marched in. She had a triumphant grin plastered across her wide face. Her black pants and shirt would have looked conservative had they not been accompanied by a multicolored top hat. A pretty woman a couple of years Marcella’s junior lagged a few steps behind her. She gave Jayme a tentative smile.
<
br /> “I totally rocked my interview.” Marcella beamed at Jayme. “Thanks a million for filling in for me. I owe you one.”
“No problem.” Her delight was infectious. “It was my pleasure.”
“This is Máire, my girlfriend.” Marcella jerked a thumb at her shy companion.
“Pleased to meet you,” Jayme said with a smile.
“To show how grateful I am for you filling in for me at such short notice, Máire’s offered to help me run the pub for the next couple of days. Sharon says she’s already volunteered her services on Monday. That means you two can go do touristy stuff before Jayme heads back to the States. What do you say?” Marcella looked from Jayme to her brother.
“Oh, I…” Actually, it was a fabulous idea. Sharon’s forecast had proved accurate, and they were enjoying delightfully mild spring weather. She’d loved exploring Ballybeg with Ruairí yesterday evening. The prospect of seeing more of Ireland sounded fantastic.
She slid him a hopeful look. He was regarding his sister with a strange expression, some silent sibling communication passing between them. Finally he turned and met her gaze. “Would you like to see a bit of Ireland before you fly back? Beyond the daytrip we’d planned for Monday?”
His expression was hard to decipher. Did he want her to say no? Was he hoping she’d say yes? She hesitated before giving her response, hope warring with the reluctance to lay herself open to being hurt all over again.
“Of course Jayme wants to see the sights,” Marcella said, nudging her brother in the ribs. If Ruairí’s wince were any indication, his sister’s elbow packed a punch. “And you’re just the man to show her around.”
“Ruairí’s great on local history,” Máire added. “He’ll know where to take you.”
Jayme caught his eye. “Are you sure? If you’ve got other plans…”
“No,” he replied quickly. “I’d be delighted. I’ll collect you from Mrs. Keogh’s after breakfast tomorrow. Say about nine o’clock?”
Anticipation turned her stomach into a dance recital. She grinned at her kinda-sorta-still-husband. “That sounds perfect.”
Chapter Seven
AT NINE O’CLOCK the following morning, Ruairí collected a bouncing Jayme from outside Mrs. Keogh’s bed-and-breakfast. She’d swapped her high heels for sensible flats and wore a bright orange windbreaker.
“I went shopping,” she explained breathlessly when she slid into the passenger seat. “I didn’t think my feet could cope with a day of wandering around tourist sights if I didn’t buy new shoes. And I’m so over Mrs. Keogh’s raincoat.”
He smiled at her. “I certainly won’t lose you in that ensemble.”
She laughed and pulled a tourist guide from her coat pocket. “The choice in Ballybeg is somewhat limited. I took the only one I could find that was small enough to fit me. I drew the line at venturing into the children’s department.”
Ruairí flipped the indicator and pulled out into the sparse traffic. “So where would you like to go today? Has your guidebook given you any ideas?”
“Well,” she said, flipping through the book thoughtfully, “we’d talked about visiting Blarney Castle. Is it far from here?”
“Not at all. It’s about an hour’s drive, give or take.”
“Could we go there today?” Her tone was plaintive.
He laughed. “Sure. Why are you so keen on Blarney Castle?”
“It looks gorgeous in the photos. The nearest thing I’ve ever seen to a medieval castle was at Disney World.”
Ruairí snorted with laughter. “I think we can find you something a little more authentic, but I will warn you that there’s not much to see of the castle itself. It’s mostly a ruin, but you can visit the dungeon, the battlements, and explore the structure.”
“And it has the Blarney Stone.” Jayme gave a dreamy sigh. “It sounds so romantic. I can’t wait to kiss it.”
Frankly, he’d far prefer she kissed him than a filthy stone. “You must be joking. That’s only for tourists.”
“Ruairí, I am a tourist.”
Yes, she was… and one who was set to return to America in a few days time. His gut twisted at the thought of her leaving. Apart from skirting around the topic, they’d avoided discussing the divorce. With the date of her departure looming, they couldn’t put it off much longer.
“All right,” he said with a smile. “Let’s find you a dirty stone to kiss. Just don’t expect me to follow suit.”
She teased him with her eyebrow. “Come on. Live a little. I promise I won’t tell anyone in Ballybeg that one of their own deigned to kiss the Blarney Stone.”
“That thing is probably diseased.”
“Coward.”
“I am not.” He slid her a look and caught her grinning at him like the Cheshire cat. “Oh, all right. If you kiss the damn thing, I will, too. To be honest, the stone’s not my favorite part of the castle. It’s a great way to attract tourists, to be sure, but the legend’s a crock of shite in my opinion.”
“What is your favorite part of the castle?”
They’d left Ballybeg behind them now and were winding their way toward the N71. “Rock Close. It’s part of the grounds of Blarney Castle. The whole area’s gorgeous, but I particularly like the Blarney Dolmen.”
Jayme flicked through her guidebook. “What’s that?”
“A megalithic portal tomb. Great slabs of rock positioned in the shape of a door. The Celts built them all over the British Isles and beyond.”
“It sounds magical.”
She was magical. “It is.”
“This is so exciting. I can’t wait to tell my friends I saw a real castle. And kissed the Blarney Stone!”
Her enthusiasm was infectious. He recalled the same bouncing enthusiasm when they’d visited Mexico on their honeymoon. “Don’t get too excited,” he cautioned. “It’s really not all that.”
“Oh, you’re only saying that because you’re Irish. You take such a national treasure for granted.”
He chuckled. “The stone is rumored to be a fake, you know.”
“Even if it is, it’s an historical fake.”
“I don’t follow your logic, but okay. Let’s go see your historical fake.”
She was examining her guidebook. “It says here the castle was built in 1446 by Dermot MacCarthy, King of Munster. Are you really descended from a king?”
He gave a bark of laughter. “Yeah… me and everyone else around here named MacCarthy. Trust me, there are quite a few of us.”
Jayme flipped to the map. “Where’s Munster? I don’t see it on the map.”
“You’re in Munster. Historically, Ireland was divided into four provinces: Ulster in the north, Leinster to the east, Connacht to the west, and Munster to the southwest. For a time, the MacCarthy clan ruled Munster. The provinces still exist, but they have no political significance anymore.”
“That’s fascinating. Despite what my mother would have you believe, our ancestors hardly came over on the Mayflower. My father’s family was English and my mother is a Swiss-Irish-Welsh hybrid. Neither of my parents have any interest in visiting Europe.” She shook her head. “I can’t understand why.”
“They like sailing in hot climates,” Ruairí said. “For that sort of vacation, the Caribbean is far more suitable.”
“Ruairí?” Her tone was hesitant.
“Yeah?”
“I owe you an apology.”
He glanced at her, noting her suddenly serious visage. “What for?”
“For not standing up for you when my parents were rude to you. I should have told them not to speak to you like that instead of making excuses for them and simply trying to keep you guys apart.”
“It’s okay. Really.” He traced the grooves of her palm with his fingertips. “Frankly, I don’t care what they think of me. I only ever cared what you thought of me.”
“But you stood up for me to your father.”
He grimaced. “To be fair, your parents’ snide comments and icy disda
in are a little easier to tolerate than my father’s obnoxious behavior. All I can say is that it’s not personal. He’s like that with everyone. He’s a deeply unhappy man who takes pleasure in bullying others.”
She digested this a moment. “Was he in prison a lot?”
“He did two spells when I was a kid. Five years for armed robbery and another three for assault and battery.”
“Wow. He was away for eight years of your childhood?”
“Yeah. I didn’t miss him. Those were the happiest years. After a time, I got to hoping he’d never come back. But he always did.” Back like the proverbial bad penny.
“Why didn’t your mother leave him?”
“I don’t know. I don’t think she knows either. It wasn’t done in her generation, and she had so many kids. By the time Sharon graduated school, Ma was sick.”
“I don’t ever want to feel I’m living my life for someone else, not even for my children.”
“Neither do I. But you’re not Ma. You’re well educated and independent. You’re not reliant on anyone.”
Ruairí drummed the steering wheel. Was that part of their problem? Did he feel she was so self-contained that he was afraid to admit his own insecurities to her, to lay his soul bare, warts and all? Or was he just thinking of piss-poor excuses for not having tracked her down months ago and forced her to listen to him?
They passed the rest of the journey with small talk and historical vignettes. There was little traffic, and made they good time. Shortly before ten, he pulled into the car park at Blarney Castle.
Jayme, spying the castle in the distance, was in raptures. “Look at its little turrets. Aren’t they darling?”
He regarded the castle’s facade critically. “You’ll be glad of those flat shoes by the end of today. If I recall correctly, the castle itself is around a ten-minute walk from the entrance, and it takes a couple of hours to walk around the grounds.”
She slipped her hand into his. The heat from her small hand sent shock waves of awareness through his veins. He’d missed this. He’d missed her. And unless he got his act together and told her how he felt, he’d be missing her permanently. “Come on,” he said, tugging her forward. “Let’s go exploring.”
