“Always the businessman, yeh?” Clara had said, grinning while she’d sat in his car and dabbed at her eyes, the night Jack Connor shoved her.
Or when she’d sat pertly, engrossed in Entrepreneur magazine, a frown of concentration on her beautiful face. She’d mentioned her hope to someday open a dance studio in town, and that she required money for expenses.
Danny crushed the napkins in his hands. His mouth twisted. Perhaps Seamus had convinced her that they would split the fifty thousand euros so that she could open her own business. After all, Jack had convinced her to steal from the friends.
Danny threw the crushed napkins in the wastebasket.
No.
His exquisite Clara would never have stolen from him, certainly not for her own gain. Moreover, he’d offered the money outright to open her business. She’d looked him straight in the eye and refused his offer.
Women couldn’t be trusted, a small voice argued in his sleep-deprived brain. Hadn’t his ex-wife, Kyla, proven that? Women wanted him for his wealth, the prestige of dating an up-and-coming billionaire. No woman wanted him for himself.
Except for his Clara. She’d been furious at his deception when she’d found out his real identity that first day at the coffee shop. The bittersweet memory made his heart skip a beat. He’d vowed that he wouldn’t fall in love, because love had no place in his demanding, stressful life.
But he had. He’d fallen in love with a magnificent, tenacious woman who saw the good in everyone. Once, he’d dreamed about marriage to a woman like her, settling down in a small town, having children.
Restlessly, he paced the soundless room which no longer radiated with her disarming humor and jaunty animation. Hours earlier, she’d chatted and laughed, her splendid silk dress rustling gracefully as she’d engaged with her guests. Now she’d walked out of his life.
And with her departure, he felt empty.
Perhaps the mellowing effect of the rain against the window was why he’d slumped on the couch and eventually closed his eyes. He awoke to the harsh sound of Ian knocking on his flat door. He opened his eyes with a start and gazed out the window. Dawn was streaking across the early morning sky.
“Ready, boss?” Ian stepped in and peered at Danny. “I’ll drive. You look terrible.”
“Thanks,” Danny said wryly. As quickly as he could, he packed his bags and briefcase, and then went to the kitchen and grabbed Clara’s hand-written recipe, putting it in the inside pocket of his sport jacket. He’d have just enough time to shower in Dublin before boarding the plane for London.
“Remove the Francis Bacon painting and deliver it to my home in Howth,” he instructed Ian as they passed the watercolor in the hallway. “And instruct Kathleen to return to my Dublin shop by the end of the week, then meet me in Italy. She wants to work there a few months and brush up on her Italian, because she met some Italian guy online. I assume you’ll be in Farthing a while longer to look after the coffee shop?”
“Aye. Anna lives here.” Ian bent a thoughtful eye toward Danny. “Does that mean you won’t be returning to Farthing, boss?”
“Never again will I set foot in Farthing.”
The men rode the lift to the main floor of the coffee shop in silence.
He wouldn’t look back, Danny told himself. He wouldn’t look back.
Mist swirled around him as he stepped outside. He slid into the passenger seat of his silver Mercedes and Ian took the wheel. As the car glided through rain-slicked streets, Danny snapped open his briefcase and leafed through a stack of documents, looking for the paperwork he’d need in London. Only once did he peer out the window to admire the early sun rising against a crimson sky. The way the sun filtered through tawny clouds signaled an end to the rain, at least for a day or so. Clara wouldn’t need to worry about a downpour when she walked to the bus stop.
The quaint town of Farthing was Clara’s town. It had never been his town, just as she had never been his damsel in distress, because she hadn’t been the one in distress. In the end, he’d needed her more than she’d needed him.
Muttering an Irish curse, Danny extracted his gold pen and a pad of white paper featuring The Ground Café logo from his briefcase. He ignored Ian’s brutal set-down that he get some sleep before he collapsed from exhaustion.
“I am so exasperated,” he said, shaking his head. “So frustrated with Seamus. Doesn’t Clara see he’s the problem? He’s impossible. He’s an addict. Why doesn’t he change his behavior?”
“Perhaps you can’t change him,” Ian said softly. “Perhaps you can only change yourself.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
Ian’s sigh was polite. He added a small shrug.
With unswerving determination, Danny wrote up a formal deed, including instructions to draft a check to Clara Donovan in the amount of thirty thousand euros. On a separate sheet, he added a note: “Per our agreement, this check is for your lemon scone recipe, and to assist Seamus in repaying his gambling debts. It is my hope that you enjoyed our time together as much as I did.”
He hesitated. She would probably be furious when she received the check. However, the thought of her struggling each day to make ends meet was intolerable. If, by God’s good grace, her brother actually stayed on the rails, then Clara wouldn’t need to keep bailing him out of debt, and she could use the funds to make her life more comfortable. She deserved this check, and so much more.
He folded the papers, instructing Ian to get them to his solicitor in Dublin and tell him to draft the check to Clara immediately.
“The funds may take a wee bit longer to clear because of the cybercrime and resultant investigation,” Ian reminded him.
With a clipped acknowledgement, Danny shoved the deed and note in an envelope, sealed it, and placed the envelope on the dashboard. Leaning his head against the leather seat of his Mercedes, he resisted the impulse to rip the envelope open and write the words to Clara that were in his heart:
“Please, luv, can we start again? I’m sorry for my hurtful accusation. It was so wrong. This wasn’t the way I wanted your birthday celebration to end. If I can take you in my arms once more, I promise I’ll brighten every hour of your life with love and laughter. I’ll make it up to you. We can visit Italy together, the Egadi Islands, and you can show me …”
No.
Danny discovered that he could swear fluently in Gaelic. Disregarding Ian’s scowl, he reached for the documents in his briefcase that he’d neglected. He’d plunge himself into the minutest of details involving each franchise in Europe and America, thereby occupying every second of his waking hours with one mission in mind.
Forgetting Clara.
Chapter Nineteen
As the following week went by, Clara found that she could sometimes go an hour or two without thinking about Danny. Anna knew better than to mention him, or her new waitressing job at the coffee shop, or Ian, for that matter, although Clara knew that Ian was still in Farthing.
Gradually, Clara was finding a quiet stability in her routine, although her eyes were continuously red from crying and her heart was broken. Danny had called every day, his caller ID flashing across the screen of her cell phone. She’d refused to pick up the phone. She’d told him not to contact her, but he made his own rules. Besides, she didn’t want to risk speaking with him, fearing that she’d burst into tears before she was able to utter a word.
In her flat one damp, grey evening, she lit a fire in the hearth. On impulse, because she missed hearing Danny’s voice, she played his CD, the one he’d given her from the coffee shop.
His soft Irish ballad brought her to her knees, and she wept so hard that she feared she might never stop. When there were no more sobs left inside her, she stared at the cheery fire in the hearth and forced herself to stand. Her throat ached as she vowed she would never cry for him again. She was self-reliant, dependent solely on herself. Stiffly, she placed the CD in its case and tucked it in the bottom of her bedroom bureau.
To make m
atters worse, Seamus had grown more difficult. Since losing his job at the coffee shop, his temperament had been surprisingly mellow. That is, until he erupted in anger and aggression because of something she’d unintentionally said. He’d blame her, and she’d apologize. Somehow, his mood changes were always her fault.
He slept in most mornings, often waking famished, and constantly sipped from a coffee thermos. Despite his overeating, he seemed to be rapidly losing weight and spent a great deal of time in the bathroom.
Her workweek ended with the same routine she’d established before she’d met Danny: walking to her preschool dance class. The days were getting longer, and for a change, the twilight sky was devoid of clouds. The warmer weather had soothed her cough, and her disposition lifted with each step. Teaching dance gave her such delight and took her mind from her melancholy. If only she could do it full-time. She so enjoyed her young students’ energy and imagination, their bright-eyed sparkles of giggle.
When she arrived at the dance studio, Colum O’Brien stood in the middle of the rehearsal room amidst seven active preschoolers.
“Who can jump on one foot all the way to the barre?” he was asking.
A freckle-faced little boy hop-scotched to the ballet mirror and made a funny face, while another ran in rapid circles around Colum.
Giving Clara a wave, Colum wiped his sweaty brow and declared, “I am so relieved you are here, Miss Donovan. Things were getting a wee bit chaotic.”
“My pleasure, Mr. O’Brien,” she returned with a laugh. “Children, let’s join hands and sing our good-bye song. Show me how slowly you can move.”
When the parents entered several minutes later, Clara hugged each departing child. Afterward, Colin perched his slim hip on the reception desk and silently applauded. “One would think that a grown man with over twenty years of professional dance training and experience could handle a group of four-year-olds,” he said.
Clara grinned. “The key is structure. Children like routine, including a clear beginning, middle and end.”
“I prefer teaching adults. At least they listen to my instructions.” Colum grabbed his parka. “After that energetic class, I need a smoke.”
“I thought you were quitting?”
“Next week.” He dug around in his pocket and drew out a cigarette and lighter. “Can we chat?”
“Sure. My class doesn’t begin for another hour.”
They made their way to the front stoop.
While cars whizzed by, Colum assessed her with an astute, green-eyed gaze. “So, I enjoyed your birthday party,” he said, a bit too pacifyingly.
The slight wind burned her puffy eyes and sent the hood of her jacket fluttering behind her. She jammed her hands in her pockets. “Thanks. Everyone seemed to have a good time.”
“Your Brady fellow worked hard to pull off the surprise. He wanted each detail to be perfect and rang nearly everyone himself, making them promise to keep your party a secret.”
She stared fixedly at a rut in the road and pinched her lips together.
Colum paused, seeming at a loss for words, and blew a ring of smoke in the air. “I caught one of his interviews on television the other night. He was leaving London and flying to ...”
“Spain,” she provided. She’d memorized Danny’s itinerary. “And before you ask, he won’t be returning to Farthing.”
“So I’ve heard.” Colum scowled, then patted her shoulder. “If you ever want to talk about what happened, I’ll be happy to listen. I like Danny Brady. He’s a good chap.”
She bent her head, attempting to dull the longing she felt whenever she heard Danny’s name.
Colum was so understanding. Their friendship made her want to babble, to tell him that her heart had been shattered, but the words lodged in her throat.
“Danny’s doing what he does best,” she replied tonelessly. “He’s making a fortune and—”
Colum checked her words. “He rang me this week. He wants to talk to you. He said he’s called you numerous times and you haven’t picked up.”
“He never left a message.”
“A hollow excuse and you know it.” Colum waved one hand in the air. “You can’t resolve a disagreement by not speaking to one another. Mr. Brady and I enjoyed a lengthy chat the night of your party, and he couldn’t take his eyes off you the whole while. It was obvious that he’s in love with you. In my opinion, his love is so strong that even he doesn’t recognize it.” Bleakly, Colum smiled. “Judging by the shuttered look in your eyes every time his name is mentioned, you feel the same way about him.”
“He’s undoubtedly regretting the day he ever met me.” Ruefully, Clara dragged her thoughts away from her first meeting with Danny at the bottom of Farthing Bridge. “He came to our town for one reason, the successful opening of his fiftieth coffee shop.”
Colum’s forehead knit into a frown. “Don’t fault him for his ambition. Recently, I read a magazine article featuring an account of his early years and his very difficult upbringing. He’s accomplished everything on his own.”
She rolled her eyes. She wasn’t in the mood to extoll Danny’s virtues. “As a result, his priorities are expensive homes and cars and his precious money. Not people. Not—”
Before she could finish, a yellow taxi pulled to the curb. Madame Sophie stepped out, scowled at the cigarette dangling from Colum’s fingers, and marched to the stoop. Neatly installing her matronly form between Clara and Colum, Madame Sophie adjusted her hip-length kimono wrap and greeted them.
“Good. I need to speak with both of you.” She peered over yellow reading glasses at Clara. “Ms. Donovan, your teaching this year has been—”
“I’ll pack my things,” Clara broke in, blindly grabbing Colum’s arm for support. Her feelings were raw, and two letdowns within a few days would undo her. Wildly, she rehearsed how she was going to accept the fact that Madame Sophie was firing her in front of Colum without running down the street like a blubbering fool.
“Ms. Donovan, your teaching this year has been exemplary,” Madame Sophie finished. “So, I loathe being the person to break bad news on such short notice. However, I’m closing the dance studio at the end of March. We can’t afford to make ends meet and I’m retiring gracefully.”
“Which means that both Clara and I will be losing our jobs in less than a week.” Colum’s ruddy complexion turned so ashen, Clara feared he might get sick. Already, he was reaching for another cigarette.
Madame Sophie’s index finger pointed reprovingly to a rundown building across the street, another building with its paint peeling, the potholes in the street. “This little town doesn’t have the resources to support the arts.”
Tears brimmed in Clara’s eyes. “What about our end-of-the year dance recitals? The students will be so disappointed. They’ve been practicing all year long.”
Madame Sophie cast the dance building a swift, faultfinding perusal. “I’ve exhausted all our resources—fund-raising, begging for corporate donations, raising our tuition. Maintenance costs are rising. The studio requires a major updating.”
Colum leveled Madame Sophie a furious gaze. “I’ve taught dance my entire life, plus, my nephew relies on me. His graphic design business is in the beginning stages. If you had shared the studio’s dire financial problems, I would have been looking for another job.”
He inhaled a final puff and threw his cigarette to the ground. Head down, his shadow lengthened as he stalked away.
There were two reasons why Clara scrubbed her flat the following day.
The first was because she was upset about the dance studio closing, and her restless fingers needed something to do.
The second was because the diamond necklace that Danny had gifted her the night of her birthday party had gone missing. Panicking, she’d retraced her steps and scoured every inch of her bedroom. After she’d returned to her flat the night of her argument with Danny, she’d been certain that she’d placed the necklace in her jewelry box.
She took
a few deep breaths, trying to focus and keep her mind clear. She’d chased away Seamus’s clutter and checked under every piece of furniture.
Perhaps Seamus had seen the necklace. She made a mental note to ask him when he slipped in for the evening. If he slipped in for the evening. Offhandedly, he had mentioned that he and Liam had gambled all week because Seamus was on a winning streak. He’d assured that the pastime took away his thoughts of suicide and depression, and that gambling was harmless. After all, he wasn’t bringing illegal drugs into her flat.
Clara had lectured him about the dangers of addiction before he’d stormed out and slammed the door behind him.
She’d brushed off his terseness. He was still having a hard time coping with Fiona’s death. Plus, he was under stress because he’d lost his dishwasher job and was having difficulty finding employment.
In the meantime, he’d purchased an orange sports car to “cheer him up,” and had parked the car ostentatiously outside her flat. And the car wasn’t an old banger, as he’d initially claimed. When she’d questioned the expense—a new convertible, no less, in a country that experienced rain over two hundred days a year—he’d snapped that he’d received a generous compensation from Mr. Brady and needed transportation because he was looking for a job.
All of her cleaning hadn’t turned up the necklace, so she went to the kitchen to bake. She started to dice lemons for a batch of scones, and then switched on the television in the living room. The low hum was company in her quiet, lonely kitchen while she measured flour, baking powder, and sugar for the dough. She set the dough to settle and reached beneath her kitchen cupboard for cleanser to scour the sink, surprised to find a half-empty bottle of clear liquid that she hadn’t noticed before.
Detergent? She opened the bottle and sniffed.
No. She wrinkled her brow. Her stomach clenched. Vodka.
A deep, familiar Irish brogue coming from the television brought her into the living room with the half-empty bottle of vodka in her hand. Danny Brady appeared on the screen. Sounding like a Dubliner, he spoke at length into a microphone, explaining— to a well-known, gorgeous female newscaster—his newest coffee franchise in the south of Spain.
Oh Danny Boy: A Sweet Contemporary Romance Page 18
