Quinn's Deirdre

by Lee Ann Sontheimer Murphy

  “Zombies.”

  “Aye, those,” Des said with a nod. “Ye drink too much, and ye’re giving out to any and everyone for no reason. Ye’ve been mean as a hurt pig and in desperate shape.”

  “Don’t be an auld arsewipe, Uncle Des. I’ve never been that bad.”

  “Nay, ye’ve been worse.” The older man glowered at Quinn. “And my heart’s fit to bust with joy seeing you like ye are now, but I’m afeard she’ll skedaddle again and hurt ye more.”

  Deirdre stepped behind the bar. “I won’t leave Quinn again, not as long as I live.”

  Both men turned to gape, then Quinn moved forward. He pulled her into his arms and kissed her, sweet but with a touch of heat. “I’ll hold ye to that,” he said, voice light, but she could tell he wasn’t joking.

  Desmond glared at her. “Aye, so will I. It’s not that I’m not glad ye’re back—I am, Deirdre. I’m just worried for Quinn here. He’s had a bad time of it, these few years past.”

  An old man wearing a tweed flat cap, face lined with decades of wear and weather, pounded the bar with one gnarled fist. “Is it a soap opera I’m watchin’ or are we in a pub? I’d like a pint of Guinness if you’d be so kind.”

  Quinn laughed. “Guinness it shall be, Mr. O’Garrity.”

  He pulled the pint, the froth on top perfect, and slid it over to the customer. O’Garrity nodded and took his first sip. Des rolled his eyes. “I’m back to the kitchen, then.”

  “Where are my bartenders?”

  “April didn’t show up this fine morning,” Des said. “Riley’s watching over the kitchen whilst I rail at ye. I’ll send him to the bar.”

  “Do,” Quinn said. “I’ll help him here until April comes or someone does.”

  His arm remained around Deirdre’s waist and she liked it. “What about me?”

  A twinkle brightened his blue eyes until they sparkled. “I’ll pull ye a pint too if you like.”

  She loathed the black stuff and he knew it. He’d often teased her about it, before. “I’m not thirsty,” she said with a genuine smile. “But I’m hungry.”

  “Go on to the kitchen and Des will fix whatever ye want. As soon as I can, I’ll come join ye upstairs.”

  “I’d rather wait for you, Quinn.”

  His eyes met hers and he grinned. “So be it if it’s what ye want. Go back and talk to Des, then. He’s never as fierce as he sounds, and he’ll enjoy the company. Ask him to call April, and if he can’t get her see if David will come in early.”

  “All right,” she said.

  Deirdre wandered into the large kitchen and Des handed her a knife. “Peel me some praties, would ye?” he said and she nodded. He pointed to a heaping basket of potatoes and she began. The simple task calmed her and after a few moments, Desmond, always garrulous, began talking to her in a steady stream. She listened, nodded, and responded when she could get a word inserted into the conversation.

  “So I don’t suppose ye’d be tellin’ me just where in the hell ye’ve been so long,” he said without preamble. “Or why you let poor Quinn think ye were dead.”

  “I need to tell him first.” Deirdre replied as her deft hands used the knife with skill. “After I talk to Quinn, I’ll answer any question you have for me, I promise.”

  “’Tis right ye should square it with him first, I suppose.” He emitted a long sigh. “Cut the praties into wee bits, now would ye? They’re to cook down in a fresh pot of soup, this batch.”

  “Okay, sure. Quinn wanted you to call April, I think he said.”

  “I did already and she’s on her way or so she says. She’s a flighty young thing, April, but she shows up often enough for Quinn to keep her on the payroll. I tried to interest yer man in her, but he had none at all. He’s lived like a monk, celibate as far as I’d know. There’s been no other woman good enough for him but you.”

  As much as Deirdre disliked the thought of Quinn lonely, she hated the idea of him with another woman more. She tried to find the words to express the idea but couldn’t, so she nodded and kept peeling potatoes. It must’ve served as enough encouragement because Uncle Desmond continued to natter, all the time stirring pots, checking the ovens, and plating orders without a hitch.

  “Are ye goin’ to be on the telly again, since ye’ve come back from the dead?”

  His question caught her short. Surprised, Deirdre fumbled to answer. “I don’t know. I hadn’t thought about it,” she said. “It probably wouldn’t be a very good idea, not now anyway.”

  “Oh?” Des tasted the stew and made a wordless sound of appreciation. “Why ever would ye not? Ye were popular as I recall with yer face on billboards and all.”

  “It might be dangerous,” she said without thinking first.

  He reared back his head and gave her a hard look. “Dangerous is it? Is that why ye bolted like a rabbit chased by hounds? Were ye afraid?”

  Old Des proved to be more astute than she would’ve guessed. “Well, yes, I was. I never told Quinn, but a man threatened both me—and him.”

  “A mhuirnín, ye should’ve said something to yer fella. He fretted over ye when ye were a witness and when ye didn’t come home from shopping, was it? He near lost his mind, sick with worry. And then, when he got word ye’d been taken, then yer poor body found, I thought sure grief would put him in the grave beside ye. If ye’d told him there was danger, things might’ve been different.”

  His calm tone never wavered. He might have been discussing the weather, but when Deirdre caught sight of his face, a ripple of anxiety tightened her chest. Des wore a bland expression, a poker face. He’s hiding something from me but what?

  “How?”

  “Ah, ‘tis water under the bridge now, Deirdre,” Des said. “What’s done is done.”

  “What was done?” She didn’t understand, but it sounded dire.

  “Nothing worth the tellin’,” the older man replied. “There, now, that’s enough praties. Can you cut onions for me too or will ye weep?”

  “I’ll cry, always do.”

  He shrugged. “Never ye mind, then. I’ll do it meself.”

  “What can I do?”

  Des pointed at the pile of dirty pots and pans beside the rear sinks. “Ye can wash up if ye like, but ye don’t have to do it. Ye can go wait for Quinn in the pub if ye’d rather.”

  Time would drag if she did. “I like being busy. I’ll wash them. Are you shorthanded these days?”

  “Oh, aye, we are at times, dearie. If ye plan to stay, ye can help as needed.”

  His uncertainty about staying rankled, but she kept her mouth closed. She deserved it, after the way she’d left without a word and left them all to think she had died. “I do and will.”

  “That’s grand, then. I can use the help most days. Eileen helped when she was here. She came for yer funeral, ye know.”

  “I did, yes. I saw a picture.”

  With a snort, Des nodded. “And kept it, I bet.”

  “Yes.”

  “Humph.” He shook his head. “Aye, she came to bury ye and help her brother. She’s been back every year since, always tryin’ to talk Quinn into going home. I’ve an idea he’d go, too, if he hadn’t wanted to leave what was left of ye out at the graveyard. Too many memories, here, he told Eileen, and he couldn’t leave.”

  Deirdre’s heart clenched. Of the many scenarios she’d envisioned while living in Arkansas, Quinn returning to Ireland for good hadn’t been one of them. “I never thought he’d want to leave Kansas City and the pub anyway.”

  The pungent smell of cut onions filled the kitchen and rankled her nose as Desmond chopped them into bits with more force than necessary. He exhaled a long-suffering, rather Irish sigh. “He might at that. There’s times the lad is homesick for Ireland. ‘Twas different when he had ye and the pub, but the pub alone is scarcely enough to fill his heart. If he didn’t have the pub with so many Irish ex-pats who come in and the many Yanks who love all things Irish, I doubt he’d stand here at all. But now ye’re back, so ma
ybe it will change and he’ll be more content.” His tone sounded skeptical.

  “I hope so.” More than anything, she wanted Quinn to be happy and safe.

  “We’ll see, I suppose. I’m sure our Eileen will have a deal to say when she learns you’re alive.”

  “Won’t she be happy, at least for Quinn?”

  “Maybe, but she’ll be mad first, I’m thinkin’. She’s the temper ye’d expect from a red-headed Irishwoman.”

  Eileen Sullivan, now Mrs. O’Brien, possessed the brilliant auburn hair and her brother’s blue eyes. She also owned the temper of an irate banshee or total bitch. Deirdre had been on the receiving end of her tongue more than once, and there’d been little love lost between the two.

  “I remember.”

  A clatter at the rear door opening into the alley distracted Desmond. Deirdre recognized April from the night before. Dressed in the pub’s quasi uniform of black trousers and white blouse, April rushed through the kitchen with apologies. “Go relieve Quinn,” Des called as she passed. “He’s needed elsewhere.”

  “I know and I’m sorry I’m late,” April said as she halted. “My babysitter wasn’t available, and it took me awhile to find one.”

  “Tell it to him, not me,” Des said. “Deirdre, dear, won’t you hand me a stack of clean plates? I’ve orders coming in to plate and send out to the paying customers.”

  April’s expression shifted from apologetic to astonishment. “You’re Quinn’s Deirdre?”

  “I am.”

  “Oh, my god, I should’ve recognized you last night,” April said, babbling. “I should’ve known you from the picture in the pub.” Her smile became a frown. “I thought you were dead.”

  “So did everyone else,” Des barked. “Go on now, Quinn’s waitin’. Ye can gape at Lazarus here some other time, but keep yer bloody mouth closed. Don’t be tellin’ the tale to anyone.”

  “Oh, right. Pleased to meet you, I guess,” April said and vanished through the swinging door.

  Coming back from beyond was proving to be more difficult than Deirdre had imagined. The questions, the explanations, and the stares were almost too much. “What’s she mean, my picture in the pub?”

  Des rolled his eyes upward. “Quinn has a picture of the two of youse framed and hanging in the first dining room. Sometimes he leaves a rose below it or did. A few times, he’s pointed ye out to someone as his lost love. I don’t suppose he ‘twill now.”

  “He left roses?” His sweet gesture stabbed her heart and wrecked her conscience. I should have told him something before I left or called him or written a letter, not abandoned him to his grief.

  “Aye, roses,” Des said with a downturned frown. “Why fuss about a single flower once in a while when he carted them to yer grave by the dozens to put in the vase there? Red ones, pink ones, white ones, even those ones ye like so well, the white ones with the pink tips?”

  “They’re fire and ice roses.” Her favorites, the name described her emotions. She burned with fire for Quinn, a love and passion combined, but ice coated her heart when she realized the depths of his mourning, the intensity of his pain.

  Unshed tears burned in her eyes and she resisted an urge to rub them with her dishwater hands. Instead, she grabbed a heavy pot and scrubbed at it with force.

  “Do ye want roses, mo ghra?” Quinn’s voice whispered in her ear. He’d entered the kitchen without her noticing and heard the last sentence. “I’ll buy ye all ye want.”

  He spoke with quiet affection, enough to banish her tears. “Lunch will do for now,” Deidre said without turning around.

  He wrapped his arms around her and kissed the back of her neck. Deirdre dried her hands and turned into his arms as he asked, “What would ye like?”

  “Irish stew with boxty,” she said without hesitation. She hadn’t had either in a very long time.

  “Uncle Des, can ye dish up both for us?”

  “Aye, I can if ye’ll give me a minute. I’ll be all the more hammered when ye take my new kitchen girl away to eat. Deirdre’s said she’ll be happy to help in the kitchen each day as needed.”

  Quinn’s blue eyes met hers, warm and bright. “Did ye?”

  She nodded. “Yes, I did.”

  “Good. I thought ye might want to go back to doing the news, but I’d like having you here better.”

  He took a loaded tray from his uncle and led Deirdre into the rear dining room. En route, several customers called out greetings and Quinn returned them. As they settled into the same table as the night before, Deirdre glanced around. No one else shared the space. It used to be busier than this. I’m sure of it. I wonder if business is down. She resolved to ask him later, but they had other things to discuss for the time being.

  Without asking, he took her hands in his and asked the blessing, then they ate. The stew tasted delicious, the vegetables tender, the meat lean and filled with flavor. Deirdre enjoyed the boxty, the Irish version of potatoes cakes, most of all. Des brought out a pot of tea with two cups.

  “I thought ye might like some tea,” he said, pronouncing it ‘tay’ rather than the American ‘tee’.

  “Thank you,” Deirdre said. He flashed a brief smile, then vanished back into the kitchens. Although she and Quinn held a conversation as they’d eaten, it’d been small talk about the food and pub. Although the rear dining room had been empty when they entered, a few tables were filled as they ate. The server checked twice to see if Quinn or Deirdre needed anything more. Riley, the bartender, appeared at the table to ask for Quinn’s signature on a liquor delivery. Deirdre now understood why he’d suggested they go somewhere to talk because in the pub, the interruptions were continual. He hadn’t said when, however, and she wondered if they would today. He appeared to have recovered from the worst of his hangover, but Quinn also seemed busy and in demand. I’d like to get it over with and behind us.

  “What now?” she asked after they finished the tea. Once, she wouldn’t have had to ask—she would’ve known. “Can we get away for while to talk?”

  The moment his lips twisted into a quirky frown, Deirdre knew they couldn’t. “I’ve a great deal to do today,” he said. “I’ve got two distributors coming and a salesman, then a band who wants me to book them for Saturday nights. I won’t be done until late, acushla. Tomorrow, though, I’m planning for us to take the whole day.”

  She heaved a sigh, disappointed. “All right, we’ll go tomorrow.”

  Quinn reached over and grasped her hand. “I thought ye might need a day to adjust,” he said. “I’ve no notion where you’ve been, love, but it must be strange coming back after so long away. Ye say ye plan to stay —”

  “I am staying.”

  “I’m glad of it, but if there are any loose ends to tie up from wherever ye’ve been, maybe this afternoon would be a good time to do it.”

  He thought of the things she didn’t. Deirdre’s single-minded focus had been coming straight to Quinn, like a pigeon released to its homing. She probably should contact the paper and let them know she wasn’t coming back. And she’d have to call her WITSEC handler, or she’d think the worst. She glanced up to see Quinn’s worried eyes trained on her. I think he’s glad I’m back, but he’s not sure I’m here to stay. I can see it, the way he looks at me like I’ll vanish again.

  “I was in Arkansas,” she said. “It was a little town, Siloam Springs. And I suppose there are a few calls I need to make.”

  His forehead wrinkled and his stare darkened. “Arkansas? What in hell’s name were ye doing there? Ye didn’t have a fella, did ye?”

  Deirdre tightened her grip on his hand. “No, I didn’t. There was no one who ever mattered to me but you. You’re all I thought about for three years, damn it, and when I couldn’t stand being apart from you any more, I came.”

  Quinn exhaled through his nose with force. “Arkansas.” He said it with some distaste and as if it were a million miles distant. Deirdre supposed in some ways it had been. And, anything he knew about Arkansas came fr
om movies. They’d watched the most recent version of True Grit more than once and Lonesome Dove, a movie featuring a Fort Smith sheriff. Sling Blade had both horrified and fascinated them both, she recalled. As if he’d caught the thought, Quinn said, “Was the place like the town in Sling Blade?”

  She thought about the film, the dollar store, the Tastee Freeze, and the townspeople depicted. Deidre nodded. “It was something like it, yes.”

  “Jesus and Mary, how’d ye stand it?” Quinn said and shook his head. “And why did ye ever go there?”

  Deidre opened her mouth to answer, but he held up a hand. “Save it for when we’ve the time,” he said. “I can’t think about it now or I’ll go crazy. Ye can go up to the flat if ye want.”

  Earlier, he’d been in a fine mood, but it had faded. Talking about what happened might prove to be more difficult than she’d thought. “Are you angry with me?” she asked. He had plenty of reason, but she didn’t want him to be mad.

  “Woman, I’m not. Or maybe I am, a wee bit, but I love ye more. I wish I could take off now to talk with ye, but I can’t.” Quinn paused and rubbed his forehead with his fingers. “My head still hurts, though ‘tis not as bad.”

  So his shift in mood wasn’t entirely her fault. Good. “Did you take something for it?”

  “I haven’t. Nothing helps much but a drink.”

  “Then why haven’t you had one?”

  His frown lightened and he flashed a sheepish little grin. “I didn’t want ye to think I’m always a drunken sot and scare ye away.”

  Somewhere inside, her sunshine returned. “I don’t scare as easy now,” Deirdre said and stood up. “I learned my lesson the hard way.”

  “Where are ye goin’, then?”

  “To get you a drink, of course.”

  Quinn smiled and she basked in the warmth of it all the way to the bar.

  Chapter Five

  Upstairs, alone, Deirdre kicked off her shoes and tucked her feet beneath her on the sofa. She dug into her purse and pulled out the cell phone, Mallory’s phone, not hers. Deirdre turned it on, then off and sat with it cradled in the palm of her hand for a few moments. Today is Tuesday, she thought, and she had missed work yesterday. Her boss, Bob Emory and his wife, Eva, probably had called. As Mallory, she’d never bothered with a landline phone. I need a story to tell them, something plausible before they get too many wild ideas. I want them to forget Mallory ASAP. Fifteen minutes later, she turned on the phone. Bob had left two messages, Eva one. Jeff, her sometimes so-called boyfriend, a man she’d dated maybe half a dozen times had called, too. Deirdre listened to the messages before she phoned the paper.