Oh Danny Boy: A Sweet Contemporary Romance

by Josie Riviera

  “I’ll pay my own way if I ever have the opportunity to go,” Clara responded matter-of-factly, as if accepting charity from anyone was unthinkable. “And while a trip to Italy sounds exciting, it’s also terrifying.”

  “Are you afraid of flying?”

  “I’ve only flown once in my life, and I was young when I traveled from Italy to Ireland. I hardly remember the flight, although we landed in Dublin.” She straightened and set her glass down, perfectly aligning it with his.

  “Aren’t you curious about your Italian roots?”

  “Of course. It’s the memories … my poor judgment …” Tears brightened her eyes and she made no attempt to hide them. “Forgive me. I didn’t sleep well and last night’s events—” She accepted his offer of a linen napkin and dabbed at her eyes. “Only the present counts, right? That’s what everyone says. Keep looking ahead.”

  “Your past mistakes will haunt you if you don’t confront them.”

  Who was he to give advice? his conscience admonished.

  She smiled wryly and placed the napkin on the table. “Have you ever thought about writing your sage words down in a song?”

  “I’ve written several songs. Perhaps you’ll inspire me to write another.”

  “First, a title is essential.”

  Clara. The title came instantly to his mind. Her name meant bright and clear. A perfect title for a woman who brightened any room.

  “Write a song about coffee beans.” She offered an audacious grin. “You can begin with ‘How warm and robust is the scent of coffee.’”

  He laughed. Forget the coffee. I’d rather sing a song about you.

  She continued to the tune of “Irish Rover,” and he hummed along. He knew the melody well.

  She exaggerated the high note of the chorus and raised an elegant brow. “No word rhymes with coffee.”

  “Toffee?”

  She took a breath and continued singing.

  Her deep set eyes were ringed by thick black lashes and sparkled with amusement. Once, he’d been looking for a woman like her—a woman who was beautiful, kind and brave.

  Once. Not anymore. Kyla, his ex-wife, had cured him of pursuing relationships with women. Women were better kept at arm’s length. He enjoyed their company, but in the end they’d only betray him, betray his trust. He’d grown immune to their charms.

  He rubbed his forehead. He'd tried to make his marriage work. And he’d failed. All his relationships with the people he cared about—his parents, his siblings, even his ex-wife—had proven disastrous.

  However, not his business. His businesses flourished and never disappointed him.

  So what was it about Clara Donovan that started a thaw in his frozen heart?

  He folded his arms and admired her entrancing face as she sang several more bars. “‘Convincing me to like Irish lattes is your intent.’” She hesitated and looked at him. “What rhymes with intent?”

  “Relent. ‘If you try my latte, you’ll relent.’”

  She chuckled. “Or you’ll lament … the loss of a sale.”

  “Money doesn’t mean everything to me,” he said.

  The room grew quiet, the silence interrupted by the murmur of the television.

  “I think it means a great deal,” she said softly.

  His thumbs longed to stroke the blush of enjoyment highlighting her smooth, unblemished features. She was a compelling woman, a surprising treasure he’d never expected to find when he came to the unsophisticated town of Farthing. Firmly, he reminded himself that he’d only be in town a short while; and treasures proved fleeting and were seldom worth the effort because whatever shimmered on the surface was rarely found inside.

  “I can’t think of any word to rhyme with ‘lament,’” she said.

  “Neither can I.” Perhaps it was because he couldn’t tear his gaze away from her moist lips. “Am I forgiven for all my missteps today, luv?”

  “Some of them.” She smiled, that same vivid smile when he’d teased her about the rain the previous evening.

  He relinquished his plan to return to the coffee shop in fifteen minutes.

  As if on cue, his cell phone buzzed, intrusive and insistent.

  “Are you needed downstairs?” Clara attempted to tuck an errant strand of hair behind her ear, though it wouldn’t cooperate.

  “In a wee bit.” He wanted to spend time with her, not his unrelenting business. “What do you do for a living, Clara Donovan?”

  She seemed to make a valiant attempt to keep her features impassive. “I try to keep my brother out of harm’s way, which is a full-time job. I also work in a factory, RJ Dougal Restaurant Supplies, plus I teach dance classes at the dance studio in town.”

  “That’s a lot of work for one person.”

  “I like my factory job, but I adore teaching dance because I love children. You should see how enthusiastic the kids act when they practice their ballet steps, their little faces all puckered with concentration.”

  Danny noted the gentleness that had crept into her voice when she spoke about children, her cheeks stained with a spark that also lit her eyes.

  “So, you’re a dancer,” he said. “Last night on the bridge, I noticed how graceful you were.”

  She settled back in her chair and gave a self-deprecating chuckle. “You must’ve been looking at someone else. I slipped more than once.”

  He lightly pushed that wayward strand of hair from her face. “And I was there to save you.”

  “Thank you.” Her expression softened.

  “No bother.” He shifted. Perhaps if she sat on his lap, she could thank him with a kiss.

  A clicking and clattering of heels echoed from the corridor.

  “Quite an impressive business here, Danny!” Anna announced, strolling into the boardroom with a moon-struck Ian behind her. “And all these pink roses.” She nodded to the vase on the table. “Nice touch.”

  “And I just learned pink roses are your sister’s favorite flower,” Danny said.

  “Yeh, she’s always loved roses,” Anna said. “I got restless staring at that one Francis Bacon painting so Ian showed me the kitchen. I didn’t realize there was an art to making coffee or that there was so much equipment required—coffee grinders, espresso machines, refrigerators, dishwashers. And you sell your CDs in the lobby.”

  At Clara’s inquiring gaze, Danny explained, “They’re mostly instrumental CDs.”

  “And more money in your pocket,” Clara murmured.

  He chuckled.

  “Your employees are extremely helpful and knowledgeable,” Anna continued.

  “My staff is very dedicated,” Danny said.

  Ian’s thick blond brows furrowed. “What the boss isn’t telling you is that he works sixty hours a week alongside his employees, and that’s why they’re so dedicated.”

  “I’ll submit an application to help you out, Danny,” Anna dove in. “Both my sister and I need jobs. I’ve always wanted to try waitressing.”

  “I could certainly use good waitresses,” Danny said. “And I offer complementary food and beverages to all my employees before and after their shifts.”

  “As you know, I already work two jobs, although thanks for the offer,” Clara demurred.

  “I don’t work any jobs and I love free food.” Sitting down, Anna grabbed her chicken salad sandwich, coffee cake, and latte. She peered at Clara over her cup. “Wouldn’t it be brilliant to make ends meet for a change? The government doesn’t pay me nearly enough money for the pain and suffering caused by my terrible accident.”

  “That was a year ago, and you’ve conceded you’re much better. And you can’t work in the coffee shop until you’re off disability allowance,” Clara reminded her sister.

  “The allowance ends very soon,” Anna said.

  “Let me know when you’re available, Anna,” Danny put in. “The offer’s open.”

  “Perhaps you’ll consider hiring Seamus instead of me,” Clara said to him.

  “You should k
now up front, Danny,” Anna said, “before you do a security check, that Seamus spent some time in Farthing prison. It was nothing serious.”

  Clara glared at Anna. “After Seamus finished secondary school, he enrolled in computer classes online. He’s very smart when he applies himself.”

  Danny hesitated. His business didn’t call for office help because he employed professional accountants. And Seamus could cause serious problems if he reported for work drunk. However, if Ian befriended Seamus, then Ian could recommend a good rehab. Knowing her brother was safe and employed would lighten Clara’s emotional, as well as financial, load.

  Danny extracted a business card from his wallet, dashed off his phone number and handed the card to Clara. “Assuming Seamus can stay on the rails, he’s hired once I interview him. I don’t require a computer person, but more kitchen help is always appreciated. Here’s my cell phone number.”

  Ian grinned and snatched up his sandwich. “The boss fancies you, miss. He never gives his private number to women. They’d badger him relentlessly.”

  She leveled a stare at Ian and then Danny. “Please tell your boss that he never need fear badgering from me.” She examined Danny’s script, then stashed his business card in her purse. “Assuming Seamus is agreeable, I’ll send him around tomorrow. I promise I’ll keep him straight.”

  “And I’ll want a job as soon as my disability allowance ends,” Anna said. “Someday I’ll tell you all about my accident and how I wasn’t at fault.” She lifted a forkful of Guinness cake. “And that the paltry sum the government awarded me wasn’t nearly—” She broke off as she ate a bite of cake. “Wow, this cake is deadly. Do you give out your recipes?”

  Danny shook his head. “Sorry, my company doesn’t share any recipes.”

  “Top secret?” Anna barked a laugh. “Crack on, because I don’t bake.”

  “My specialty is lemon scones,” Clara said, “and I’m not giving away any of my secrets, either.”

  Danny smiled. “I’m intrigued.”

  “Nothing else to say,” she averred. “That’s why they’re secrets.”

  “I’d consider buying your recipe.” Very quietly, very slowly, he whispered, “If I’m around you much longer, you’ll be privy to all my secrets.”

  She quickly looked away and toyed with her bowl of fruit.

  Between alternating bites of sandwich and cake, Anna pointed to the television screen. “Hey, Danny, you’re on TV.”

  Ian grabbed the remote and turned up the volume.

  The television came alive. A familiar face, the reporter from the bridge, came into focus.

  “I’m on the scene of a suicide attempt,” she said into the microphone. “The incident happened around midnight on Farthing Bridge, and Channel Four News arrived first at the scene. Fortunately, this story has a happy ending, thanks to Mr. Danny Brady, owner of The Ground Café.” The camera panned out to the bridge, showing a dejected Seamus and furious Clara, shouting and shaking her hand at the camera.

  Clara stared at the television screen, and her face whitened. She shoved back her chair and stood. Danny came to his feet as well, reluctantly watching the TV screen.

  “Mr. Brady is considered one of the wealthiest men in Ireland,” the reporter was saying. “He’s in Farthing to open his fiftieth coffee shop.” She extended the microphone to Danny. “Can you tell us what happened on the bridge?”

  The camera focused on Danny’s face. “I was nearby and immediately phoned the garda.”

  “And you bravely came to a desperate man’s rescue,” the reporter chimed in.

  “I did what I could to help.”

  The camera swung to the reporter. “Whether he’s in the kitchen brewing his famous coffee or saving a despondent man, Danny Brady is Ireland’s national hero. This is Maeve Flanagan reporting from Farthing Bridge.”

  Ian grinned as he strode over to Danny and clapped a hand on his boss’s shoulder. “Fair play! That’s a load of brilliant publicity. The customers will surely rush the place.”

  True. Except that Clara’s nostrils were flaring and fury blazed from her eyes, which wasn’t quite so brilliant.

  “You and I know that’s not what happened,” Danny said to her. “The media sensationalizes everything.”

  Her hands were braced on the table. Her look was hurt and reproachful. “How dare you use my brother’s desperation to promote your wretched coffee chain? Is that the reason why you were so insistent on helping me?”

  “Of course not. I’d never circuit a terrible situation into one for my advantage.”

  Clara threw her purse over her arm and marched to the doorway. “Let’s go,” she directed Anna.

  “I haven’t finished my absolutely divine dessert.” Anna was attacking her orange Guinness coffee cake like she’d never eaten before. “Besides, Mr. Brady promised us all jobs.”

  Clara spun. “You’d actually work for this swine?”

  Anna put down her fork. “If I hope to attend university, then, yeh, I’d gladly work for him. Ian said Danny pays excellent wages.”

  “You’d go against your own family?”

  “Have you noticed there’s no jobs in this town?” Anna’s gaze raked furiously over Clara’s stung expression. “I don’t see any dancing schools beating down your door. Now sit down and wait for your Irish latte.”

  “I’ve waited long enough.” Clara’s gaze fired up as she whirled on Danny. “You’ll lose customers in droves if your barista spends an hour preparing one latte.” She grabbed her coat. “Money isn’t as important as families sticking together.”

  “And our family needs to eat,” Anna said. “Anyway, how are you getting home? I drove.”

  “I’ll ring a taxi.”

  “I’ll take you home after you’ve finished your lunch,” Danny said, walking over to Clara. “Please don’t leave.” He placed a hand on her shoulder, assuming she’d shrug it off.

  He was right.

  “I won’t accept charity from a good-for-nothing bowsie.” She quit the boardroom, almost knocking over a stone-colored wastebasket set near the tall fern by the doorway.

  “Don’t go after her,” Anna advised as Danny started for the hallway. “Give her time to cool off. You’re better off waiting until tomorrow.”

  Ian sank into his chair and pulled a roll of antacids from his pocket. He popped one into his mouth. “And send a bouquet of roses to Clara’s house in the meantime.” He clutched a linen napkin and mopped the perspiration settling on his forehead. “I didn’t intend to offend her, although it’s brilliant you’re the town hero, right, boss?”

  Danny sighed, crossed his arms, and slumped against the doorway. “Aye, just brilliant.”

  Chapter Seven

  He was riding the city bus, Clara was sure of it. She’d been walking to the dance studio to teach her evening ballet class when she’d spotted him.

  Jack Connor’s thick features had been pressed against the bus’s grubby window. He’d waved, and she’d almost lifted her hand to wave back, a reflexive reaction. Then she’d shivered, drawing her jacket close around her shoulders.

  Those cold, leering eyes, that lecherous grin. She’d recognize Jack anywhere. But he was locked away in a prison near Cork, miles from Farthing. Wasn’t he?

  She rubbed at her eyes. Seamus hadn’t slept well the previous night, alternating between shaking uncontrollably and cursing her for being a “rugger bugger” and separating him from his whiskey. Which, in retrospect, meant she hadn’t slept well because she’d lectured and cajoled him, insisting he required lots of rest so that he’d be clear-eyed for his interview at The Ground Café.

  Yes, she’d relented, because Anna had been right. Their brother needed a job.

  Seamus had phoned the coffee shop to schedule an interview, and Clara rang a taxi for him, although her flat was only a short distance from the shop. A threat of rain was in the forecast, and she’d wanted him to look his best. Her car’s brakes were still being repaired, and, cell phone in hand,
she’d decided to take a chance on the rain and walk. Her quilted jacket sported a hood to keep her dry.

  She’d treaded across a handful of puddles left over from a recent rainstorm while her cell phone buzzed three times, the caller ID flashing Danny Brady. He wasn’t phoning from the coffee shop. He was ringing from his private cell phone number.

  When she reached the dance studio, she changed into her leotard and tights and retrieved the three missed calls. Danny’s first message sounded professional, confirming that he looked forward to meeting Seamus at the interview.

  Expectation and optimism had brightened Seamus’s eyes when she’d assured him that he’d probably be hired, and would keep the job as long as he never reported to work ossified, drunk.

  The second voice mail from Danny assured her that Seamus had interviewed well and had gotten the job.

  “Your brother is very intelligent and witty, exactly like his sisters,” Danny said. “I’m starting him off as a dishwasher, though he can easily work his way to a more lucrative position—depending on his interests—whether they be in the office or interacting with customers.” Then, in an apparent side note, Danny added, “I trust you enjoyed the dinner I sent last night and didn’t throw it out your flat window. I’m hopeful you’ll come by the coffee shop after you’re finished teaching your ballet class, because I’ve thought of some new lyrics for our song. I’m tied up with business appointments for a few hours and I’ll ring you when I’m finished. Seamus told me about your ballet class, in case you were wondering how I knew. He said you finished around seven o’clock.”

  She frowned, bristling like an out-of-sorts porcupine. Why was her brother so long-winded and loose-tongued? She valued her privacy, and Danny Brady didn’t need to know where she was every minute of the day.

  The third message from Danny was brief. “I apologize for the article in the newspaper. There’s a photo of us when we walked through the coffee shop, although I had shielded your face. And I’ve refused to give your name to the reporter who wrote the article.”

  There was a newspaper article with a picture of her and Danny? Clara groaned aloud.