Oh Danny Boy: A Sweet Contemporary Romance

by Josie Riviera

  Assuming Danny wouldn’t answer his phone because of his meetings, she punched in his number and left a brief message. “Hi. It’s Clara. Pink roses were sitting on my doorstep last night when I returned home. Thank you, they’re cheery and … extravagant, and dinner was lovely. Oh, and I’m certain your song will be the next top hit and receive loads of radio play. Sorry, tonight isn’t good for me.”

  She was meeting her brother outside The Ground Café so they could walk home together. Danny would be preoccupied and never know that she’d come and gone. She’d learned that trick from her orphanage days, slipping in and out of places quickly and unseen.

  Clara wiped the sweat from her hairline, exhilarated and exhausted from teaching her ballet class. The five-year-old girls in matching pink tights and black leotards, the boys in black leotards and tights, had been squirmier than usual. She’d abandoned her lesson plan, instead engaging the children in imaginary play and movement games, twirling about with them on the hardwood floor. Afterward, several parents had detained Clara with endless questions regarding the upcoming dance recital. Her phone had buzzed and she hadn’t dared answer the call.

  Madame Sophie, the director of the dance studio, had stood at the rear of Clara’s class and taken copious notes, presumably assessing Clara’s teaching. Madame Sophie held absolute control, partly because of her longevity, and partly because her late grandfather had founded the studio three decades earlier.

  Once the parents and students had departed, Clara stepped to the side of the ballet barre and retrieved her voice mail message:

  “Your class was done at six forty-five. Where are you? You always pick up your phone and it’s only a short walk from the town centre to the coffee shop,” Seamus said.

  I’m leaving now, she texted quickly. That is, as soon as she’d spoken with Madame Sophie. The woman now stood at the far end of the ballet barre, her platinum-white hair pulled into a tight bun, which only emphasized, rather than enhanced, her scowling features. Her top-heavy body was hidden beneath a hip-length tunic. Her long blue-grey jacket and matching pants disguised her stout midriff.

  I got the job, Seamus texted back. The boss is grand.

  Clara choked on her salty retort. Why did everyone raise Danny Brady to such an exalted position? So he’d deigned to step down from his lofty boardroom to offer Seamus a job as a dishwasher. It was insulting, degrading. Nonetheless, it was a stable job in a depressed town offering little employment.

  She managed to text back, Congrats, Seamus!

  As soon as Clara closed her phone, Madame Sophie trooped over. She adjusted her blazing-blue reading glasses while blasting a barrage of complaints, concluding that “Ms. Donovan’s” recital choreography wasn’t on par with the studio’s standards. Another half hour went by, and Clara had rearranged the choreography six times before Miss Sophie finally nodded her approval.

  In the employees’ locker room afterward, Clara changed into street clothes. She was ready to leave when Colum O’Brien, a fellow dance teacher, entered. Colum had been a principal dancer for the Dublin Ballet. Nearing fifty, he’d returned to Farthing to care for his troubled nephew, a nineteen-year-old boy who’d launched a graphic design business.

  Clara could always count on Colum to come to her defense, and oftentimes she believed that he was the only reason she still held her teaching position.

  Now he regarded her with his kind, green-eyed gaze. “My dear girl, have you had a rough day? You look as weak as a kitten.”

  With a sigh, Clara leaned against her locker. “Nothing I do seems to satisfy Madame Sophie.”

  “She’s tough on you because she sees your talent.”

  “Either that, or she’ll only be satisfied when she drives me out for good. I’m certain she’ll keep me on probation forever.”

  “Two years have passed since you were arrested.”

  “Yeh, and my one night in jail was wretched.” Clara rubbed a hand through her hair. She’d been so frightened, her fear of being locked in a small, airless space. “Do you recall when Madame Sophie told me that she kept me employed part-time as a favor, because ‘convicts shouldn’t be around small children’?”

  “Since that incident, you’ve taught so many dance classes at no charge that I’ve lost count,” Colum said. “You’ve more than made up for your mistake and I don’t believe that Madame Sophie feels that way about you anymore.”

  “I want the children to embrace dance and movement, to be comfortable in their bodies.” Clara scanned her surroundings, taking in the studio she’d come to feel such affection for. The worn pink ballet shoes and cotton balls strewn on the floor, all those years dancing with bloodied toes and aching muscles, because she’d valued the discipline and art of dance.

  “You’re an excellent teacher who clearly adores children.” Colum threaded a hand through his salt and pepper hair, revealing trim, muscled arms, the result of lifting ballerinas in the air for twenty-five years.

  She smiled. “How do you always know the right thing to say?”

  “Age and experience oftentimes brings a wee bit of knowledge.”

  “Thanks for being one of the nicest men I’ve ever met.” Clara buttoned her jacket. “I’m meeting my brother at the new coffee shop in town. He got a job.”

  Colum bent to retrieve a pair of light pink ballet slippers and fiddled with the elastic drawstrings. “I hope he sticks with it.”

  “He will.”

  “You’re his sister, so you should know him better than most.” Colum set the ballet slippers near the changing cubicle and grabbed his camouflage-colored parka. “I’ll walk you out and grab a smoke before my next class.”

  “You realize that a dance teacher who smokes in front of a dancing school sticks out. Kinda like selling candy outside of a health club.”

  Colum tossed a contrite smile. “I’m quitting next week.” He pulled out a pack of cigarettes as they left the locker room. With a quick farewell, Clara headed in the direction of the coffee shop.

  Her wristwatch showed seven thirty, and she followed a short cut through one of the alleyways to make up time. The neighborhood was safe, and the Keegan sisters, who were Clara’s former school chums, had lived on the street for years. The night sky was somber and overcast, the streets silent. Wild, overgrown brush haphazardly lined the broken sidewalks, a litter of mismatched, cracked cobblestones.

  Clara peered at the Keegans’ second-story flat windows. All the rooms were dark. She’d heard that their grandmother had been hospitalized recently, and made a mental note to ring them.

  That was why, she later rationalized, she hadn’t heard heavy footsteps pounding through a puddle she’d just crossed. She’d been pondering Grandmother Keegan’s ill health.

  “Howya, Clara. Are ya on your way to meet that fancy guy from Dublin?” Behind her, the man’s voice rang frighteningly familiar.

  Jack Connor.

  She felt the gut-wrenching slice of fear, a chunk carved from her belly, before she whirled around.

  Too stunned to move, she stared into his pale eyes. The lurid tattoo of a spider seated on a web ran along Jack’s neck, a manifestation of the man himself. His hulking body sported a stained leather coat, the collar frayed. She had bought him the coat three years earlier from a thrift shop, that first Christmas when he’d exuded charm and chivalry.

  She blinked, shuddered. She’d been a dense fool. She should’ve realized all that trumpery was for show. But somewhere deep inside, in a place she didn’t want to admit, she’d been secretly pleased that a guy had showered her with gifts and undivided attention.

  “You’re a cute one, ain’t ya?” Jack’s furry brows knit in a glower, a predictor of the utterly callous fury sure to follow. “Surprised to see me? Or upset that you’re on the front page of the newspaper again?”

  “I haven’t seen the papers.” It was a miracle she spoke so calmly when her insides were churning like mad. Surely he could hear her shallow breathing.

  He stepped closer, sm
elling of old sweat and cheap leather. “I’ll steal you a paper. Then we’ll go for a cold pint and laugh at the want ads, just like old times.”

  She retreated a step. Her terror came with her.

  “I don’t drink anymore. I don’t steal, either.” She attempted to scoff and wheezed instead. And the wheeze, she noted distractedly, sounded far away. “Why are you here?”

  He kept his hands beneath his coat. “The weather’s nicer in Farthing than in County Cork.”

  “And what about your prison sentence? You’re supposed to be behind bars.”

  “My brother knows the judge. We appealed, and I was released for good behavior.” Jack’s menacing sneer sent a string of goose bumps along her arms.

  Silently, she chided herself. She hadn’t kept track of Jack’s prison sentence. Instead, she’d trusted a judge and legal system to keep him locked away.

  “The court ordered me to rehab,” Jack said.

  “Did you go?” she asked.

  They were a scant three feet apart. Her gaze flew to the main road, and she counted off the number of seconds it would take to reach the intersection.

  “I don’t need more rehab and I don’t take orders from no judge. You and me, we make our own rules, remember?” Jack’s chilling monotone pinned her to the sidewalk. “Now I’m homeless, Clara. You were an orphan and you know what it’s like. Will you take me in? I still love ya.”

  “Leave me alone. Our relationship was over a long time ago.”

  Why had she once confided to him that she had been a waif, wandering the streets of Italy, then stealing after she was placed in a neglectful orphanage? And why had he conveniently forgotten that she’d subsequently been raised by a loving family?

  She lifted her chin. If he saw her fear, he’d use it against her. “You’re a grown man, and I haven’t been homeless for a long time.”

  “We’re alike, you and me.” He slurred each word. “Our past is who we are.”

  Time stopped. She scanned the overcast sky and gathering clouds. Somewhere in the distance, thunder rumbled. She assessed the alleyway, the clumps of open dirt behind random shrubs. The intersection was closer, a few yards in the opposite direction. She could outrun him.

  Before she could take a step, his fingers clamped down roughly on her arm. “You can try, but I’m faster.”

  She flung off his hand. “Stay away or I’ll call the garda.”

  “I can handle the garda, as long as your yoke of a brother doesn’t come near me. He’s touched in the head, you know.”

  “I’m leaving.”

  “Without this?” He reached into his coat and brandished her purse. “Didn’t even know I’d lifted it, did ya?”

  Her purse had been hanging from her shoulder, and she hadn’t even realized he’d taken it. He’d always been able to whittle her down with threats, quick actions she didn’t expect, so that she felt like a complete idiot.

  Despite her fluttering nerves, she managed to speak dismissingly. “You’re a disgrace.”

  “I’ve been called worse.” There went his high-pitched laugh before he narrowed his glassy stare. “You were good at stealing, remember?”

  Remember this. Remember that. She’d pushed it all away to a locked compartment in her mind, and now he was forcing every horrific occurrence to the surface.

  She stiffened her spine. No. She’d promised herself that she’d never be controlled by a man again.

  “I’m not proud of what I did,” she said.

  Jack sighed dramatically. “I’m locked away for a couple donkey’s years and now you’ve grown soft. Guess I can’t fault ya because you’re surrounded by such good friends.” He inflated his words by scanning the dark flat windows. “Although the Keegans moved out a while ago, so maybe you need new friends.”

  Her cell phone rang incessantly from inside her purse.

  She stretched out her hand. She was shaking. “Give me my purse.”

  “Is that your new fella ringing, that Brady millionaire?” Tauntingly, Jack swung her purse in front of her. “He’d better not fancy my fine oul doll or he’ll be digging himself an early grave.”

  “It’s Seamus,” she said.

  And Danny was most likely a billionaire, not a millionaire.

  “I saw you on TV,” Jack went on as if she hadn’t spoken. “They’re making that Brady fella out to be a Holy Joe for saving your crazy brother. Seamus was about to jump off that bridge.”

  “Go back to Cork.” This was the brave new Clara, fortified by a strong will, protected by a restraining order. “You’ll be thrown in jail if you stay in Farthing.”

  “I’ll be here a while. There’re some scores needing settling.”

  A garda drove past the main roadway and idled at the traffic light.

  Jack’s eyes widened. He wavered. Clara grabbed her chance and screamed as she dashed for the garda. “Please help! This man is—”

  With one vicious jerk, Jack ripped the sleeve of her jacket and hauled her into the bushes.

  The traffic light changed, the garda kept going, the distance between them widening.

  But there was another car, and she heard the engine before Jack did. A metallic-silver Mercedes sped directly down the alleyway. And the garda had reversed to the other end of the alleyway. Clara and Jack were blocked from both sides.

  The Mercedes bulleted in their direction, its headlights blinding them.

  “My darling Clara,” Jack growled, “you’ll be lookin’ at heaven’s gates for this.”

  “Stay away from me!” she shouted.

  A deluge of rain soaked through her jacket as the skies parted.

  Jack raised his fist, and she winced, an old reflexive reaction, preparing for his hard blow. Instead, he shoved her. As she fell to the ground, he threw her purse into the bushes and sprang into the shadows.

  Chapter Eight

  Danny screeched his Mercedes to a stop. He vaulted from the car, his breath freezing in his chest. In the pouring rain, Clara was lying on the ground face-down.

  He knelt beside her. “Clara!” He lifted her, shook her shoulders. “Clara, are you all right?”

  She wiped at her face, smearing mud across her temples. “I … I’m grand.”

  She didn’t look grand. She looked dazed, her complexion ashen.

  With an anxiety that made his hands shake, he searched her face for signs of bleeding and ran his hands along her torn jacket sleeve. Big droplets of rain ran down her face, her hair. There were no cuts and no bones seemed broken. He jerked off his wool coat and tucked it around her, wiped the mud from her temples with his shirtsleeve. “Does anything hurt?”

  “I … I don’t think so.” Sobbing, she mumbled and ferreted through the bushes. “Where’s my purse? I can’t find my purse.”

  “I’ll get your purse.” He retrieved it and guided her to her feet.

  “I’m cold,” she whispered.

  “Aye, it’s damp.” His legs were unsteady as he brought her to his car. Pure, blind fury had surged through him when he saw the hulking man shove her.

  Danny eased her onto the passenger seat and bit back his fury beneath a reassuring smile. He set her purse on the floor mat. “You’ll be warmer in a wee bit when you get out of this night air.”

  She wrapped her arms around herself and rocked. Water dripped from her clothes. “Thank you for—for finding my purse.”

  He leaned into the car. “It’s more important that I found you.” He closed the door, catching his breath, gripping the handle until his knuckles whitened.

  The garda was walking from his car at the end of the alleyway toward him. “It’s necessary that we file a report, sir,” he called out.

  Disregarding the rain, Danny stalked to him. “This woman was attacked and all you’re concerned about is filing a report? Find the man who attacked her!”

  “We need names.” A thick fringe of bangs hung beneath the garda’s peaked hat. He peered at the Mercedes. “I recognize the woman. Clara Donovan, correct?”
>
  “How would you know her?”

  “She’s been at the prison before.”

  Most likely Clara had visited her brother when Seamus had been in prison.

  “What your name?” Danny asked.

  “Doherty. Jimmy Doherty, sir.”

  In a sharp, authoritative tone, Danny said, “The only report you’ll be filing is when that man is thrown in prison, Garda Doherty!”

  “Aye, sir.” The garda got back into his car and gunned down the roadway.

  Danny’s fury was interrupted by a heavier rain bucketing down as he strode to his car. He pushed his wet hair from his forehead, settled into the driver’s seat and set the heat blasting. The windshield fogged, and he switched on the defroster.

  He focused on Clara. “Better?”

  “A little.” She was trembling, shaking her head as if in denial. He wanted to hold her tightly in his arms, although she looked so fragile, he feared she might break if he squeezed too hard.

  Instead, he gazed at her wet, tear-stained face and took her hands in his. “We’ll sit in my car a while.”

  “All right.” Her soaked hair curled in ringlets around her heart-shaped face. Her dark eyes were overly bright. She licked her lips. “How did you find me?”

  “My appointment finished early, and I noticed your brother waiting outside the coffee shop. He kept checking the time and mentioned you were meeting him and that you were late. The weather looked like rain, so I volunteered to pick you up at the studio. One of the instructors, Colum, I believe, was standing outside on the stoop, smoking, and said you’d left. We chatted a bit. He seemed like a nice chap.”

  “Yeh, I consider him a trusted friend. We’ve worked together at the dance studio for a while, and he always looks out for me.”

  “He pointed toward this alleyway,” Danny continued.

  She leaned against the seat. “And you alerted a garda.”

  “Aye, a precaution. You didn’t answer your phone, and Seamus and I were concerned.” Danny shook his head. That was an understatement. His pulse was still racing.

  She stared straight ahead at the windshield wipers swishing away the rain.