Quinn's Deirdre

by Lee Ann Sontheimer Murphy

  Tears clogged her throat and threatened to flow from her eyes. “I love you too, Quinn.”

  Deirdre leaned down, kissed him, then grabbed her purse, all she dared take, and walked out of the room and out of his life. She drove to Bannister Mall, left her car in the lot, and met the marshal. He loaded her into his SUV and drove her far away.

  She cried now, parked in the lot of a convenience store, the way she hadn’t then. If she’d wept then, she doubted she could have ever stopped. Her new life began, but she’d left Quinn behind. Worse, the WITSEC program faked her death, something off the record and seldom done. They’d insisted, citing the extreme danger, and she had agreed because she had come too far to back out. Months later, she had looked up the newspaper reports online. Although it never happened, she’d been reported as taken at gunpoint from the mall parking lot. Her car had been found down along the Missouri River, burned. A woman’s body, scorched beyond recognition, had been inside. The authorities identified Deirdre. A photograph taken at her faux funeral captured Quinn, head bowed with grief. His sister, Eileen, stood beside him with one hand on his back to offer apparent comfort.

  Unable to read any more, Deirdre kept the clipping. It and her favorite picture of Quinn had been the only two physical ties to her old life. She reached for the snapshot now, thinking it might ease her hurt but instead, when she glanced down at his familiar, dear face, her pain increased. In the photo, his bright smile reminded her of the happiness they once had. I robbed him of joy. I took it away and gave him grief. He thinks I’m dead and God only knows how he’s managed. If he’d died, God forbid, I don’t think I could’ve handled it. He may hate me for what I did, but he’s alive. I want him to stay that way. Maybe I shouldn’t go back. Three years has been an eternity, but not long enough for the baddies to have forgotten me.

  The sudden realization that the danger she fled might remain, as potent and possible as ever, hit her with force. In her sudden decision to resume life as Deirdre, she’d never considered the same factors which sent her on the run and wrecked her life hadn’t gone away. The danger remained, ready to rear up and bite her ass hard. Quinn’s too.

  But she’d come this far and although she hadn’t hit a point of no return, it hovered ahead. For a moment, Deirdre considered giving up, becoming Mallory again, but she couldn’t. Incapable to continue living a lie, she had to go back. She needed Quinn, if he’d still have her, more than oxygen or food or shelter. He loves me. He won’t hold a grudge. He’ll be too happy I’m alive to mind I wasn’t really dead.

  Uncertain but committed, she headed into the convenience store and locked herself into the tiny restroom. Deirdre washed her face to remove the tear tracks and ruined make-up. She redid her face, then headed north. Each mile brought her closer to Quinn and the moment of reckoning.

  She prayed to all the angel and saints, even the ones she couldn’t believe in anymore that she could stay alive long enough to find Quinn. If she could manage that, no small feat, everything else would fall into place and make sense.

  Maybe.

  Chapter Two

  Traffic increased as Deirdre rolled through Grandview, and by the time she entered Kansas City proper, her shoulders were tight with tension and her hands grasped the wheel with enough force it hurt. Living in the small town of Siloam Springs, a place all too reminiscent of Mayberry, the setting for the old Andy Griffith Show hadn’t provided much opportunity to drive in multi-lane, traffic. Vehicles of all descriptions, sports cars, luxury sedans, pickup trucks, utility vans, and eighteen wheelers merged onto the highway, heedless of the autumn darkness. Although the worst of evening rush hour ended an hour earlier, plenty of motorists were going about their routines. She sped up to keep pace and watched for the Truman Road exit.

  Once out of the worst traffic, her nerves eased as things felt more familiar. Deidre recognized supermarkets and discount stores where she once shopped. A Mexican restaurant she had called a favorite remained in business and judging by the full parking lot, it was still popular. As she drew closer to the Power and Light area downtown, she could almost forget she’d been away, living another life as someone else. Here, she was comfortable in her skin.

  The neon signs, bright lights, and busy traffic quickened her blood. She’d missed the pace of a city, the vibrant and hectic spirit. Small town life failed to suit her and no man she’d met during her time in Arkansas came anywhere close to Quinn. The deer hunters, the avid fishermen, the would-be musicians who played twangy music, the camouflage wearing men all lacked appeal. If Deirdre never spent time again with anyone wearing cowboy boots or Western hats, she’d be good with it.

  Following Truman Road reminded her of greeting an old friend. The familiar route evoked memories but the closer she came to the corner of 14th and Grand, the more her nerves jangled. She longed to see Quinn again, but Deirdre feared his reaction. Although she dreamed of a romantic, picture perfect reunion, a movie moment, she knew it might not happen the way she wanted.

  Deirdre spotted the County Tyrone sign when she turned the corner onto Grand. Rather than the shamrocks and shillelaghs Americans expected, the stark red, black, and white of the county’s coat of arms stood out below the pub’s name. Quinn’s place was as Irish as he was, as traditional and as much like a pub back in Ireland as it could be. He’d managed to recreate the look and atmosphere of an Irish pub in the middle of a very American city. She found a parking spot down the block and before she could change her mind, she got out of the car.

  She entered the pub and stopped short. The familiar smell of an Irish pub filled her nose, a combined aroma of Guinness and Jameson’s, perfume and aftershave, baking brown bread, and Irish food. A dull roar of conversation and laughter reached her above the Irish folk instrumental playing in the background. Little had changed, she thought, as she peered around the bar area and into the first of the two dining rooms. The dark woodwork, the framed photos of Ireland and Irish patriots, and the displays of old books and bottles were the same. Her eyes scanned the room and searched for Quinn. She’d half expected to find him behind the bar, holding court, pouring drinks and making conversation, but the two people there were strangers.

  “In or out, woman, in or out.” Someone spoke from behind her, his voice flavored with an Irish lilt. “You’re blocking the way.”

  “I’m sorry,” Deirdre said and stepped to the side. The older man, his hair and whiskers gray with age, moved past her and claimed a seat at the bar. She watched the patrons for a few minutes and when she still didn’t see Quinn anywhere, her heart sped up with concern. He seldom took a night off, and she wondered if he’d made a trip back to Ireland. Deirdre stepped up to the bar.

  “What can I get for you, dearie?” the red-headed young woman said.

  Deirdre forced the question through her lips. “Where’s Quinn?”

  The bartender’s smile diminished. “He’s around, but he doesn’t like to be disturbed. Would you like a drink?”

  She could use one, but Deirdre shook her head. “I need to see Quinn. Where is he?”

  The woman shrugged. “He’s in the back dining room, table in the corner, but I wouldn’t bother him if I was you. He’s likely to take your head off and hand it back to you on a platter.”

  It didn’t sound like her Quinn, the affable, garrulous Irishman, but Deirdre nodded. “Thanks.”

  She made her way through the bar and into the first dining room, stepping aside to make way for the servers with their laden trays and maneuvering around tables. The weeknight crowd seemed lighter than she remembered, and by the time she made her way into the rear dining area she moved away from most of the customers. Deirdre paused in the doorway when she saw Quinn.

  He sat at a corner table in the back, head down and held between his hands. She couldn’t see his face, but the way he slumped over seemed so unlike Quinn. She wondered if he didn’t feel well. Maybe he had a headache, she thought, or might be sick. If so, it would explain his absence up front and the bartender�
�s cryptic comments. Deirdre walked past the sole occupied table and stopped at Quinn’s. She expected him to glance up but he didn’t so she said his name.

  “Quinn.”

  Like a man awakening from a deep sleep, his reaction was slow. For a moment, she thought he hadn’t heard her speak, but he sighed, a deep, long exhale. He lowered his hands and turned toward her. “For the love of Christ, can’t whatever it is wait?” he said in a thick voice. Waves of Jameson’s fine whiskey rolled toward her on his breath. Deirdre noticed the near empty bottle and glass on the table.

  “I don’t think so,” she said. “Quinn, it’s me.”

  When he turned toward her, she gasped at his haggard face. He’d changed more than she expected. In three years, he’d aged a decade. A few harsh lines cut deep into his face, and his mouth drooped in a frown. She remembered his dark blue eyes as bright, always sparkling, but he gazed at her with red-rimmed, dull dead eyes, cloudy and unfocused. He blinked twice and shook his head.

  “Jesus, I’m drunker than I thought. If I’m dreamin’ up my dead darlin’, then I’ll be seeing giant cats or dancing dogs or leprechauns with pots of gold next.”

  I hurt him so much more than I ever dreamed. “Quinn, you’re not dreaming. It’s me. It’s Deirdre, and I’m really here.”

  Quinn reared his head back with a gesture she remembered. The new line between his eyes deepened as he peered at her. “So it’s dead I am, then? You’ve come for me?”

  The hope in his voice slashed across her heart, keener than any knife blade. Deirdre couldn’t imagine Quinn welcoming death, but he seemed to do so. “I’m back,” she told him. “Quinn, I’m alive.”

  He stared at her with his bleary eyes as if he failed to understand. Deirdre touched his arm, then took his hand in hers. His cold fingers curled around hers, more reflex than response. Something shifted in his face, and his eyes narrowed, suddenly alert.

  “Mother of God, it is you.”

  Deirdre nodded and smiled. “It is, Quinn. I’ve missed you more than I know how to say, and I’m back, whatever happens.”

  Her stomach tightened as she waited, expecting him to grin or rise to take her into his arms. Instead, he jerked his hand out of hers and made a fist. He pounded the table with force, three times and roared. “You’re back are you, you bitch? Back from the dead after I’ve mourned ye and wept for three long years? And you’re standin’ here with the cheek to tell me you were never really dead? Tell me, what I am to make of it, because I surely don’t know.”

  The beautiful romantic reunion moment she hoped they’d share wouldn’t happen, not now. His anger crackled between them, so potent she swore she could almost see its fiery glow enveloping him. “Aren’t you glad I’m alive?”

  Blue eyes glared at her, his gaze sharp and piercing. “Well, Deirdre, while I’m glad ye’re not dead, it would’ve been nice to know these years past. I’ve grieved for ye, woman, and all the while you’re not in the black grave after all but tripping through the world without a care. Where in bloody hell have ye been and why come back now?”

  She couldn’t deny his right to ask, but his questions were difficult ones. Short answers wouldn’t do, so she answered from the heart. “I came back because I missed you and I love you, Quinn. I’ll tell you why, all of it. We need to talk.”

  His brogue thickened more than she’d ever heard it. “Feckin’ right we do. But first I need another drink.”

  Quinn grasped the bottle of whiskey and poured the remainder into his glass. He lifted it to his lips and knocked it back in a swift, single motion then shuddered. “Ah,” he murmured. “’Tis nice indeed.”

  “You’re drunk,” she said. She should’ve realized it sooner.

  “Aye, I am and I’ll be drunker still. It’s the many the night I’ve passed out here at this table or another, too drunk to make my way upstairs. Get me another bottle, would you then?”

  Deirdre shook her head. “No, I won’t. You need something to eat, Quinn, so we can talk. If you keep drinking, you’ll have such a hangover tomorrow, you won’t be fit for anything.”

  “It won’t be the first time nor the last.”

  One of the servers ventured into the back dining room to serve the diners at the one occupied table. Deirdre didn’t recognize her. Quinn waved his hand at her, and she trotted over. “Yes, sir?”

  “Bring me another bottle of Jameson’s,” he said.

  “Don’t,” Deirdre said. “Bring two orders of bangers and champ with coffee.”

  The young woman glanced from one to the other. “Quinn’s the boss,” she said, looking at Deirdre.

  “Not tonight,” Deirdre said, an edge in her voice. “Bring our order or you’ll answer to me.”

  Quinn said nothing so the server shrugged. “I’ll be back with it in a few minutes, then.”

  “I can’t eat,” he said as she slid into a seat across from him. “I seldom do these days.”

  She studied him at close range, noted how much thinner he’d become. “You need to eat something. You look terrible, Quinn.”

  “I’ve been that bad and worse. I’ll do.”

  The ravages of heavy drinking were obvious. The red-rimmed eyes, a few broken blood vessels in his face, and his combative manner all related to his intake of alcohol. Deirdre noticed more, his pallor, the heavy fatigue in his eyes and face, and the way he slumped. He hadn’t shaved, either, and his dark whiskers stood out stark against his white face. “You look so tired, Quinn. After we eat, maybe you should go to bed.”

  He snorted. “Bed, is it ye’re wantin’? I’m none so good in that department these days, and I don’t sleep much.”

  And I doubt you laugh or smile or make jokes much either. Oh, Quinn, what did I do to you? I left to save you, to protect you, but I’ve all but destroyed you instead.

  Their food arrived, smoking hot sausages paired with champ, Irish mashed potatoes laced with onion. The server put a pot of coffee between them and two cups. “Will there be anything else?” she asked.

  “No, thank you. Is Desmond around?”

  The server’s eyes widened. “Yes, he’s in the kitchen. Did you want him?”

  “I’ll talk to him later,” Deirdre said. At least Des remained here. So far, she’d seen no one she recognized except Quinn. Quinn’s uncle had come from Ireland to work in the pub. He’d pulled pints at the bar at first but had a knack for creating Irish dishes, so he took over some of the culinary tasks. He’d been a friend to her, treated her like family, but that had been before she died.

  She poured coffee and handed Quinn a cup. He stared at it, then took a sip. “It might go down better with a wee drop of whiskey,” he said.

  “It’s better without.” Without asking, she took his hands in hers and said the simple blessing she’d used all her life. “Bless us, oh Lord, and these thy Gifts, which we’re about to receive through thy bounty, through Christ our Lord, amen.” Halfway through, she noticed Quinn mumbled the words with her.

  Deirdre forked a bite of sausage and ate it, savoring the taste. The champ proved to be delicious, too. Quinn sipped coffee before he deigned to eat but once he began, he ate all four sausage and the potatoes. He ate with slow precision, as if he’d almost forgotten how. Quinn pushed the empty plate away and leaned back, eyes closed. One hand rested on his abdomen and prompted her to ask, “Are you all right?”

  “I’m full,” he said. “I’ve not ate so much at one time in longer than I can remember.”

  “I haven’t had anything so good in a long time.”

  He nodded, then pointed at the coffee pot. “Would you pour me another, love?”

  His casual use of the endearment touched her. Maybe there might be hope for them yet. “Sure.”

  Quinn drank it, the cup cradled in his left hand, his eyes intent on her face. After a few long moments, he nodded. “My head’s a wee bit clearer now than before and I see it ‘tis you. I did think at first ‘twas a hallucination or dream. I’ve had my share of those and woke in sor
row when I remembered you were dead. But you’re not and I’m not at all sure how that came about.”

  “I’ll tell you,” Deirdre said in a cracked voice. “Are you glad, Quinn, I came back?”

  His blue eyes met hers and he nodded. “I am, Deirdre, but I don’t understand at all. Why did you come now when ye never did before?”

  “I wanted to, but I worried I’d put you in danger. I couldn’t stand being apart any more, so I came. I’m sorry I hurt you so much, Quinn. I didn’t mean to cause you such pain.”

  For the first time, his lips twitched into a half-smile. “Ye near destroyed me, woman, but would you rather I hadn’t mourned for you at all?”

  “No.” His soft voice, tempered with the sweet music of Ireland, salved some of her own inner hurts. She adored the way he still used ‘ye’ and ‘you’ interchangeably, but he’d yet to say he loved her.

  “I’ve lived in hell, since,” he said, in a matter of fact voice. “And I don’t know what to think or how I feel yet. I need more drink, I’m thinkin’.”

  “Please, don’t.” If he drank more, the food and coffee would be for naught.

  Quinn ignored her plea. The other diners had gone, so he rose to his feet and stumbled toward the front. She watched his unsteady gait and almost followed but didn’t. He returned with a new bottle of Jameson’s and poured some into his glass. “Slainte,” he said and drank it. “Would you like some?”

  One of them ought to keep their head, but she reached for the glass since there was only one. “Yes,” she said. The smooth whiskey purred over her tongue and down her throat in a rush of warmth. “One more, please.”

  He finished the rest and retreated into silence, although his eyes remained locked on her. After a long time, he lurched to his feet. “I’ve a need to piss,” he said. He took two steps and stopped. His face turned paler than white.

  Alarmed, Deirdre rushed to his side and grabbed his elbow as he swayed. “What’s the matter?”

  “I’m about to boke,” he gasped. “Help me make it to the bog.”