Clara lowered her eyes. “I’ll wait in the lobby.”
Anna’s exasperated frown swung in Clara’s direction. “I was in the boardroom earlier because I brought Aiden a cup of tea while he labored over the coffee shop’s yearly audits. I left it unlocked, so you won’t be blamed for breaking in. No worries.”
Anna’s bluntness jerked Clara out of her tortured reverie. “No, I’ll—”
Too late. Anna was already pushing her in the direction of the door marked Private, then onto the lift to the third floor.
“Francis Bacon is gone,” Clara noted as they crossed the hallway.
“Ian returned the painting to Danny’s home in Howth,” Anna explained as the women stepped into the boardroom. She tossed her hands to her hips. “Now where could my forgetful cupcake have misplaced the keys to his flat?”
While Anna went through computer desk drawers, Clara examined the drooping fern by the doorway. She knelt and began pulling dried leaves off the bottom stem. Out of the corner of her eye she spotted a familiar looking men’s cap, half hidden and wedged between the fern and doorway. Doing a double take, she slowly and deliberately fingered the stiff brim and plaid tweed. Then she gasped.
Anna hurried over. “Nice cap.” Her statement held a question.
Clara moved back slightly, staring at the cap as if it were about to begin speaking. “This cap belongs to Seamus. He bought it in Donegal.”
And when had she last seen Seamus wearing the cap? Surely it must’ve been before her birthday.
Anna lifted her eyebrows and grabbed the cap from Clara. “What’s it doing here? He worked in the kitchen.”
Absently, Clara rubbed her forearms. All the pieces of Seamus’s never-ending mysteries registered in mere seconds. His excuses, his denials, slipping in and out of her flat at all hours. The missing diamond necklace. The half-empty vodka bottle.
Her mouth opened, closed. Her chest tingled. “Seamus was in the boardroom on March eighteenth.” She tried to rein in her disbelief, heard her voice choke up. “I can’t believe this. Seamus lied to me. He’s lied all these months.”
Anna’s face had gone pale. She openly gaped. “Seamus stole the fifty thousand euros?”
Clara’s thoughts scrambled. No, it couldn’t be true. No one could spend that amount of money, although Danny had said that gambling debts added up quickly.
Feeling lightheaded, she rushed to the leather sofa and sank into the cushions.
Anna followed.
“This explains …” Clara covered her face with her hands. “This explains Seamus’s new sports car … and all the other unanswered questions that have baffled me.” Repeatedly, she shook her head. “I chose to ignore what I didn’t want to see.”
Dear saints in heaven. Seamus, her dear brother, was an addict. A gambler, an alcoholic and a liar. And his suicide attempt had been a cry for help.
She dropped her hands. Her job title as loving sister hadn’t been sufficient. She hadn’t helped him. She’d only enabled him.
Anna was gaping at her. “Now what?”
Clara leapt from the couch, grabbed her sister’s hand and dashed for the door. “Now we can only hope it’s not too late.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
“Boss, where have you been?”
Danny leaned forward in the ripped bus seat, straining to hear Ian’s voice crackling through his cell phone’s static interference. He rubbed his bleary eyes. He’d had little sleep, and weariness had taken a firm hold in his veins.
The small airport where the plane had landed three days earlier had boasted no showers, rigid benches that ensured impossible sleeping, and a near-empty vending machine selling stale candy and bottled water. The bus was the opposite of luxury, smelling of chewed tobacco and diluted diesel. With any luck it wouldn’t break down, Danny thought, although the brakes squeaked at every twisted turn in the road.
“I’ve been holed up at an Italian airfield in a remote town with no cell phone connection,” he explained.
“I thought you and Kathleen were flying directly to Rome.”
“We hit a bad storm as we approached Italy. One of the plane engines stalled and we had to make an emergency landing. They found significant damage on one of the blades. No worries,” Danny hastened to assure Ian. “Our pilot was very competent and got us safely on the ground. I was able to shower at a youth hostel in Cosenza this morning. However, I’ve lost three days of valuable time, plus have been virtually unplugged from the rest of the world.”
He’d found a quiet seat in the rear of the bus, setting his briefcase and carry-on luggage beside him to dissuade anyone from joining him. Intent on working the entire six-hour bus ride, he’d extracted the Spanish permits from his briefcase. Sleep would have to wait.
The talkative businessman and Kathleen had … well, never stopped talking since they’d landed at the small airfield. Danny flashed a look at them a few seat ahead of him and grinned slightly. Heads together, they sat deeply engrossed in conversation. Again.
“I’m in Farthing,” Ian was saying through the static. “Anna and I are engaged.”
Squelching his unexplainable annoyance at that announcement, Danny asked a bit too abruptly, “Should I be surprised?”
“Not at all. You are aware of how close Anna and I had gotten.”
He seemed to be waiting for a reply.
Danny tried not to sound irritated. He tapped his gold pen on his knee. “Ian, I am genuinely happy for you both. However, to ring me with this news when I have so many important matters facing me seems—”
“Have you … spoken to Clara?”
“Not since the night of our argument.” Danny softened his curt tone. “I’ve tried, although she hasn’t responded.”
“She’s staging an intervention for Seamus.”
Danny sat straighter. “What? When?”
“Seven o’clock this evening. I’ll be there with Anna and Colum. We’re meeting at the dance studio in Farthing.” Ian hesitated. “You should be there too, boss.”
Slowly, Danny set down the permits and pen on the empty seat beside him and stared out the graffiti-stained window. He shifted in his seat, and one shoe seemed stuck to the floor. He lifted his foot. A thick wad of bubblegum was stuck to the sole of his shoe. He picked at the gum with his fingernail. It had to be at least ten years old. “I’m in Italy, remember? Once I arrive in Rome, I’ll only have three hours to open my new franchise.”
An uncomfortably long silence ensued.
“You should be in Farthing,” Ian said again.
Danny’s jaw tightened. “I leave for America in the morning.”
“We all have a copy of your itinerary, boss.”
Was there really a note of sarcasm in Ian’s voice, or was it the terrible static on the line?
“So then you know what you’re asking is physically impossible. My franchise agreements are all legally signed and sealed, and my biggest profits await across the pond.”
“She found Seamus’s tweed cap in your boardroom.”
Danny was silent as he envisioned Clara’s pain at that discovery.
“You charged Seamus with stealing, and you were right,” Ian continued.
Of course he was right. Seamus needed professional help. Clara had attempted to solve Seamus’s problems, deflecting his troubles by taking on his burdens.
Danny forced a laugh. “I saw through Seamus’s lies all along. If she’d only listened instead of—”
More static.
“What’s that, boss? I can hardly hear you.”
“I said that she should have listened to me.”
The phone went silent. Ian hadn’t hung up, had he?
He resisted the urge to fling it out the bus’s grimy window.
He shook his head, steepled his hands. He should be feeling satisfaction.
Instead, he felt shallow.
Why?
Seamus was the reason he and Clara were separated, and, if Danny was honest, he resented Seamus. Alt
hough resentment didn’t feel very good.
Didn’t matter. How could he let Seamus off the hook after the havoc he had caused? Danny could never forgive him. Just as he couldn’t forgive his parents. They’d caused Glenna’s untimely death. How could he ever forget their mistakes?
He reached for his permits, intending to drown himself in his work.
A picture came to mind, frozen in his memory.
Clara, at Glasnevin cemetery: You’re not forgetting. You’re finding your own happiness. Otherwise, these resentments will gnaw at you and you’ll never be at peace.
This anger. These resentments. He blew out an exhausted sigh and set the permits aside. He had to let it all go.
He didn’t understand people’s mistakes. And he didn’t need to understand. Or judge. He couldn’t change Seamus nor his parents. He could change his reactions. Perhaps he’d been angry at them because of his own addictions and inability to forgive himself.
He drew in a long breath. Seamus had held Clara as an emotional hostage, manipulating her so that she felt guilty whenever she confronted him. However, enabling Seamus had come from a good place in her heart, and she’d freely forgiven him for his mistakes. Sure, she’d been sidetracked and in denial. But she was also the closest Danny had ever come to meeting an angel.
His sweet, non-Irish damsel.
She had tried to tell him that she loved him and what he had done? He’d held up his hand to interrupt her. All he’d offered in return was his distrust and crippling accusations.
And still she’d rallied, dauntless and spirited.
He grinned. She could be a real spitfire.
He placed the pen and permits in his briefcase and retrieved her lemon scone recipe from his jacket pocket. Aye, he’d carried it with him, Clara’s recipe written in her scholarly hand.
He ran his thumb along the recipe and pressed it to his lips. He detected a subtle fragrance of lemon, cheerful and uplifting. Clara’s fragrance.
His heart thumped in slow, aching beats.
He missed her desperately. He missed their connection. They’d been separated far too long.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Clara pushed open the doors of the dance studio with her spine straight and her shoulders set. Today was the day.
She had told Seamus to come by after her class ended at seven o’clock. She hadn’t told him why, giving only a brief excuse about seeing her new studio.
Two days earlier, she had contacted the Flyaway Treatment Center to stage his intervention. She had presented the center with a large donation, thanks to Danny’s generous check. Bryan, the interventionist, had arranged everything, beginning with choosing Ian to act as the point of contact. The plan was for Ian to meet Seamus at Clara’s flat, then the two men would ride Ian’s motorcycle to the dance studio.
Liam hadn’t been informed, as Clara had feared he might sabotage the intervention. And, she suspected that Liam was also involved in the cybercrime. Perhaps he had guided Seamus on the phone through the entire process when Seamus had been in the boardroom.
She took a calming breath, arranged bottles of water on a round table, and glanced at her watch. Time ticked slowly, although only a few minutes remained until the men were scheduled to arrive.
For the umpteenth time, she straightened the five chairs she’d set in a circle. One for herself, Ian, Anna, Seamus, and Bryan, who would orchestrate the intervention. Colum would wait outside the building, standing by to lend moral support. These were the team members. Together, they’d rehearsed a consistent message and well-thought-out plan. They’d gathered their information and shared it with one another. The entire picture of Seamus’s destructive behaviors was now clearly mapped out. Besides his gambling and alcohol addiction, he’d been stealing. The diamond necklace and hacking into Danny’s accounting system still hadn’t given him enough funds. He’d obviously risked his money gambling beyond his ability to pay, because Seamus owed a large amount of money to numerous bookies reaching as far as Donegal.
The previous day, the team members had staged a rehearsal, deciding who should speak and in what order, and the general thrust of what each person would say. It had been a long and intense training session. There would be no room for indecisiveness once the intervention began.
An addiction specialist had counseled the team, and Clara had gained a better understanding of Seamus’s compulsive actions. His suicide attempts had been an effort to alert those around him that something was seriously wrong. He was obviously depressed. Despite the negative consequences, he had been struggling to find an escape from his grief and hopelessness after Fiona’s death. He’d denied and hid and refused to acknowledge that he had a problem.
Clara had arranged for Seamus to travel directly to the treatment center following the intervention. His admission was set, his suitcase packed. A specialist stood ready to escort Seamus quickly out of the studio through a side door.
Bryan drew Clara and Anna aside. “No half measures. No caving in,” he reminded the women. “Your brother has fallen off his tightrope for the last time. He’s holding on by the proverbial thread. Don’t waste this opportunity, and keep in mind that it’s not your job to help him back up. I’ll guide you through the confrontations.”
Clara nodded. She wanted her brother to be able to walk with his feet firmly planted on the ground. This intervention was his opportunity.
The outer door slammed. All heads jerked up.
“Here they come.” Anna gestured to the lobby and grabbed a bottle of water. “Remember, I’ll go first.”
Clara glanced at the note to Seamus that she had drafted, and then nodded to Bryan that she was ready.
Seamus and Ian walked in, their shoes echoing on the new floating dance floor.
“What’s the craic?” Seamus’s bewildered gaze shot around the studio.
Clara wiped her sweaty palms on her slacks, pushed her hair from her forehead, and rose swiftly to her feet. She looked at Seamus. Her gaze never flinched.
Danny told himself that if the garda wanted to stop him for speeding, first they’d have to catch him. He pressed his foot on the Mercedes’s gas pedal, grateful for the long stretch of open road. He was not grateful, however, for the rain that had decided to beat against his windshield, nearly blinding him as he took the last curve into Farthing too fast.
He found a spot a half block away from the dance studio, and parked behind a familiar
candy-blue and yellow motorcycle. The rain had stopped as quickly as it had started.
Ireland. Who said it always rained?
He checked his watch. Seven thirty. He was late for the intervention, although considering he’d flown from Italy to Dublin, then raced to a Dublin florist shop to pick up two dozen red roses, he’d completed the journey quickly. The one-hour time difference between Italy and Ireland had worked in his favor.
He observed an unfamiliar sign hanging above the entrance as he approached.
Miss Clara’s School of Dance.
He grinned, mesmerized for a moment.
Colum O’Brien, wearing a camouflage-colored parka, was perched on the stoop. He held a cigarette in his hand and seemed to be having a love/hate relationship with it.
Danny nodded a greeting. “How are ya?”
“Grand.”
“Is Clara inside?” He attempted to step past Colum, who was doing a brilliant job of blocking the doorway.
“Of course she’s here. She owns it.” Colum eyed Danny with a suspicious frown and then glanced at the roses. “And where has the likes of you been lately?”
“Traveling.”
Danny was preoccupied in trying to find the best way around Colum without shoving the man out of the way.
Colum scraped back his thick salt and pepper hair. “Now you’re in a hurry? After breaking her heart?”
Silence for a beat.
“Let me pass.” Hadn’t he said that once already?
Colum rose, staying right in front of Danny. “You left her in
Farthing to deal with Seamus, to pick up the pieces of her life after your accusations. I hope she tells you how much she’s accomplished since you decided to disappear.”
Danny glanced at the sign, then meaningfully toward the door. “That answer is perfectly obvious.”
“You’d better be planning to make it up to her.”
Danny had immediately liked Colum when he first met him. And, although it was absurd, he was coming to like Colum even more. The man was proving to be Clara’s devoted friend, a man of honor who expected the same integrity from those around him.
“That’s why I’m here,” Danny replied evenly. “I’m going to try very, very hard, as soon as you let me in.”
Colum’s expression softened. With a sigh, he threw his half-smoked cigarette to the ground. “It’ll take more than roses.”
“I can’t change what I’ve done, but I can learn from her how it’s supposed to be done. I’ll do whatever’s necessary. I love her.”
“I know.” Colum appeared to smile, although he crossed his arms. “Sorry. I still can’t let you inside. There’s an intervention going on, and only family is allowed.”
“Ian’s back there. He’s not family.”
“Ian and Anna are engaged. He’s considered family.”
“Clara and I are engaged too.”
Or at least they would be, if he ever was able to actually talk with her.
Colum’s eyebrows flew up. “You and Clara are engaged? Since when?”
Danny paused. “We’ll be engaged in less than two hours.”
The last of the hostility in Colum’s face faded. Mischief flickered in his green eyes.
“I’ll hold onto your flowers and walk you inside. You may need a friend with the crowd you’re about to face.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
Oh Danny Boy: A Sweet Contemporary Romance Page 20
