Wild Irish Witch

by Tricia O'Malley

  “Thank you. For all of this, really,” Fiona said, hugging her mother quickly.

  “Have fun,” Bridget said brightly, as Fiona moved across the cottage to the door.

  “I’ll do my best,” Fiona said, before opening the door.

  John stood at the door, his dark hair combed wetly down, a clutch of flowers wrapped in wax paper in his hand.

  Fiona looked around.

  “No lamb today?”

  “No, I penned him up, though he wasn’t happy with me,” John admitted with a laugh. He wore a brown jacket with a crisp white shirt, and Fiona felt a little flutter in her stomach when she looked at his lips.

  “Are those for me?” Fiona finally said after they had just stared at each other in silence for a moment.

  “Och, yes, I’m sorry,” John said, a flush coming over his face as he jerked his hand forward with the bouquet. “I was too busy admiring how pretty you look tonight.”

  Now it was Fiona’s turn to blush.

  “Thank you, let me just put them in water,” Fiona said, turning back into the cottage.

  “I’ll do that for you, love. Hello, John. You two have a nice evening,” Bridget said, giving Fiona a little nudge forward and closing the door firmly behind her.

  John laughed, throwing his head back a little, and Fiona caught her breath just looking at him. She was so lucky to have a date with such a handsome man.

  “John, you look nice as well,” Fiona said.

  “Well, then we’re quite the pair,” John said, reaching out to pull her arm into the crook of his own as they exited the courtyard and began to stroll down the hill into the village. The sun was dropping low in the sky, bathing the village in a warm light, and turning the water a deep blue. The mild night saw the streets packed with people going about their way, and more than one eagle-eyed villager raised an eyebrow at them as they passed.

  “I do believe we’re drawing attention,” Fiona finally pointed out, after the third villager stopped to whisper to her friend as they walked by.

  “Do you care?” John asked.

  Fiona tilted her head up and twinkled at him.

  “Not in the slightest.”

  John let out a booming laugh, and a woman leaving the market glanced up at them. Fiona stilled.

  “Mrs. Brogan. How are you this evening?”

  Mrs. Brogan pulled her grocery sack closer to her body and offered Fiona a smile, though Fiona could read the wariness behind it.

  “Hello, Fiona, John. How are you this evening?”

  “Good, thank you. It’s a lovely evening for a stroll, isn’t it?” Fiona said gently, realizing that the woman was terrified she would say something about Sinead.

  “How’s Sinead doing? I haven’t seen her around in a bit,” John said affably, and both Fiona and Mrs. Brogan froze.

  “That’s right, Mrs. Brogan, I don’t think I’ve seen Sinead since that day you bought my face cream at the market.” The words rushed from Fiona’s mouth, and she kept the smile fixed on her face.

  “Aye, she’s gone off to stay with a cousin in Dublin, actually. She might enter uni in the fall,” Mrs. Brogan said, hiking the strap of her bag further up on her shoulder.

  They had shipped her off out of the village then, Fiona thought. Probably to avoid any embarrassment. She wanted to ask if Sinead had healed up all right, but couldn’t do so without betraying the Brogans confidence.

  “Please be sure to send her our hellos the next time you speak, then,” Fiona said easily, and she saw Mrs. Brogan let out a small breath.

  “I will, at that. You two have a nice night; I’m off to get dinner on,” Mrs. Brogan said, nodding at them both as she hurried on.

  “Sinead doesn’t strike me as the uni type,” John observed as they continued on. “I’d put her more for the marrying and having babies type.”

  “Well, one doesn’t have to be mutually exclusive of the other now,” Fiona pointed out, as they came to a stop in front of a large house with big glass windows in the front, bordered by bright blue window boxes. Cheerful yellow flowers poked out of the boxes.

  “Of course not. This is the place for dinner,” John said, pointing at the house.

  “Isn’t this the O’Reilly’s house?”

  “Yes. They’ve opened up a small bed and breakfast, and are offering meals on the weekends now,” John said, pushing the bright yellow door open.

  “Is that so? I hadn’t heard,” Fiona said excitedly.

  Any time a new restaurant, shop, or pub came to the village, it was cause for excitement. Sometimes the sameness of everyday life in a small village needed to be broken up with new things.

  “Mrs. O’Reilly, lovely to see you then,” John said, smiling at a plain round woman with twinkling blue eyes and close-cropped grey hair who came out of the kitchen wiping her hands on a towel.

  “Just in time, John. I’ve just pulled the brown bread from the oven.”

  “Hi, Mrs. O’Reilly,” Fiona said shyly. She’d known the O’Reilly’s for years. With no children, the couple had been sort of adopted by the village, and were often busy babysitting and watching over their neighbor’s children. They’d always been kind to Fiona’s family, so she was even more excited to give back to them a little bit.

  “Fiona, don’t you just look the picture? Come, sit, sit!” Mrs. O’Reilly ushered them into the small front room, which held four tables set for two. Fiona imagined they could be pushed together for larger groups if needed. Each table had a pristine white linen cloth, pretty lace placemats, and bright green napkins. A small lantern sat in the middle of each, casting a warm glow on the table. Mrs. O’Reilly showed them to a table in front of the window so they could look out over the village.

  “Tea? Coffee? Wine?” Mrs. O’Reilly asked, as she poured them each a glass of water.

  “Wine?” John asked, raising an eyebrow at her Fiona.

  “Sure, that’d be lovely, thanks,” Fiona smiled. She’d probably had wine only once or twice in her life― communion at church didn’t count. But she wanted to appear sophisticated for John, so she went along.

  “Lovely, I’ve got a bottle of red breathing in the back. Tonight’s options are monkfish with potatoes or a shepherd’s pie,” Mrs. O’Reilly called back.

  “This is nice,” Fiona said shyly, looking around at the room. The walls were painted a robin’s-egg blue, and gilt-framed paintings of the coast crowded the wall. It was homey and charming, and just perfect for Fiona’s first date.

  “Isn’t it? They’ve just opened so I doubt we’ll be crowded in here,” John said, smiling across the table at her.

  Mrs. O’Reilly bustled back in with two wine glasses and a bottle in her arms.

  “Bread should be up shortly; Mr. O’Reilly is just slicing it as we speak. Now, what can I get for you tonight?”

  “Monkfish,” they both said at the same time, then smiled at each other.

  “Ah, perfect. We’ve a lovely catch this evening,” Mrs. O’Reilly said, beaming as she swept from the room. Fiona sighed at her words, wondering when her father would get back to fishing again.

  “Something wrong?” John asked, tilting his head at her in question.

  “No, nothing,” Fiona said, shaking it off. It would just cloud the evening if she brought up her father’s inability to get out on the water.

  “So, Mrs. Brogan seemed pretty tense tonight. I wonder what’s going on there?” John said, picking up his wine glass and raising it to hers.

  “Sláinte,” they both said and clicked glasses. Fiona allowed the robust flavors of the wine to settle on her tongue before answering John.

  “John, you know some people aren’t comfortable around my family. That’s something you might have to get used to if you spend more time with me,” Fiona said delicately.

  They paused as Mrs. O’Reilly swept back into the room with a basket holding the bread wrapped in a linen cloth, and a small jar of butter.

  “I’ll leave you two to chat now. Dinner should be read
y shortly,” Mrs. O’Reilly said brightly as she left the room.

  “Maybe you can tell me more about your family then― so I can understand,” John said.

  Fiona thought about it as she unwrapped the bread from the cloth, offering a slice to John first. The bread was still warm, the butter melting almost instantly when it touched the bread, and Fiona moaned when she bit into it.

  “This is delicious,” Fiona said, carefully putting the half-eaten piece of bread back on her plate before she devoured the whole slice.

  “It is,” John said, his eyes on her as he waited patiently for her to speak.

  “Why don’t you tell me more about your family first?” Fiona asked, dodging the question. “How did you end up with the land?”

  John raised an eyebrow at her, but, obviously deciding to let it drop, he took another sip of wine before answering.

  “You know we’ve been in the area for a while― at least a hundred years. I think the O’Briens actually came from County Mayo though. Strong stock; we’ve bred well through the generations. We were once brave warriors, but now find our strength comes from working from the land and fishing the waters that surround it. We may be salt of the earth, but we’re a proud bunch, and always willing to put in a hard day’s work for what we get.”

  “You’ve an older sister, yes?”

  “Yes, Patty. She’s moved to Kinsale with her husband’s family. She’s pregnant now, a little one on the way,” John said, a smile sliding across his face.

  They paused as Mrs. O’Reilly came in from the kitchen with two steaming plates in her hands. She placed the plates down carefully in front of Fiona, then John, and then stepped back, wringing her hands a bit.

  “Oh, just taste it, please. I’m dying to know if you like it,” Mrs. O’Reilly blurted, and Fiona laughed.

  “Well, it certainly looks pretty as can be,” she said. The fish was swimming in a butter and garlic sauce, with pretty green coriander sprinkled across. Small red potatoes accompanied it, with a dash of warm spinach on the side. Fiona quickly cut into the fish, speared a sliver with her fork, and tasted it.

  “You’ve outdone yourself. This is wonderful,” Fiona gushed, meaning every word. “It’s light, but packed full of flavor. The coriander was the perfect touch.”

  “I agree,” John said.

  Mrs. O’Reilly clapped her hands together in front of her ample bosom, her eyes shining in delight.

  “I’m so pleased. Save room for sticky toffee pudding, though; that will be up next.” Bobbing her head once, she left them alone.

  “She’s such a nice woman,” Fiona said, taking another bite of her dinner.

  “She is at that,” John agreed.

  “You looked really happy about your sister’s baby. Is that something you want then? A wife, children, a farm of your own?” Fiona asked, studiously examining her potato as she cut into it, a part of her desperately wanting to know where his head was at.

  “Yes, I’d like to be a father someday. It’d be nice to come home to a wife, a family. To have someone to share experiences with,” John shrugged.

  “Yes, I could see that,” Fiona said, as she thought about leaving her house and living elsewhere. Starting her own little family. It hadn’t been much of a thought before, but now the idea seemed to take hold inside of her, warming her core.

  They smiled across the table at each other, their heart and minds in unison.

  “Fiona… I―” John began.

  “And how’s the dinner? Would you like more wine? The toffee pudding is almost ready,” Mrs. O’Reilly interrupted.

  Fiona could’ve kicked the poor woman. She immediately felt bad for the thought, as it was clear she was exuberant at serving her first customers.

  “Dinner is excellent. We’ll have more wine and the pudding,” John said with a smile.

  “I’ll be right back. And Mr. O’Reilly wants to pop in for a chat too,” Mrs. O’Reilly said as she breezed out.

  So much for their alone time, Fiona thought, almost annoyed. But she found it impossible to be irritated when Mr. O’Reilly popped in, his suspenders straining over his shirt and his white mustache muffling his words. She couldn’t begrudge the couple their happiness.

  Someday maybe that would be her and her husband.

  Maybe even her and John.

  Chapter Sixteen

  “Fancy going to the pub?” John asked eagerly after they’d finally left the O’Reillys’ with effusive promises to share the word about their new restaurant. Her stomach was full, and a warm haze of contentment enveloped her from the two glasses of wine she had finished.

  “Aye, that’d be nice. Though I probably shouldn’t drink too much more,” Fiona admitted, leaning on him a bit as they walked. He felt solid next to her, and Fiona realized it would be nice to have someone to rely on to hold her up.

  The sun had set while they were at dinner, and now the stars were just beginning to peek out in the midnight blue sky. Soft lights shone from windows all over the village, dotting the hillside with their warmth. They walked in silence for a while, simply enjoying the nice evening and the beauty of the village at night.

  The lilting sound of a pipe reached them as they drew close to the pub.

  “Sounds like a session’s on,” John said.

  “It’ll be great fun,” Fiona agreed.

  Light spilled from the front windows of the pub and a merry tune caught her ears, making her want to dance. John held the door for her and they stepped inside the packed room. Fiona’s eyes were immediately drawn to the snug at the front of the room where five musicians were crammed around a table, instruments in their hands. The light was warm, the crowd was clapping, and drinks were flowing.

  “Here, let’s go to the bar,” John said, grabbing Fiona’s hand and pulling her through the crush of people until they could weasel into a spot at the bar. Fiona shivered as her body pressed close to John’s and they flagged the bartender down.

  “Two whiskeys. Neat,” John ordered over the noise and Fiona wondered if she would be able to handle the whiskey on top of the wine. Granted, she had been sipping on whiskey with her mother for years, but she wasn’t one for drinking a lot.

  Maybe because she was naturally suspicious of what too many drinks could do to a person, or maybe because she had learned to be.

  The bartender slid them two glasses of amber-colored liquid, and John handed over some money. Turning so his back was to the bar, he casually slipped his arm around Fiona’s shoulders. They both leaned back and took in the crowd.

  “Sláinte,” John said in her ear, and Fiona looked up at him with a smile, clinking her glass against his.

  The crowd cheered as the music wound to a rousing finish, two teens jumping into a step dance in the middle of the room. Fiona laughed at their agility as they tossed their hair and bounced to the beat, so vibrant and full of energy.

  Calls for another song went up, but the band waved them away so they could take a short break. Probably to get another beer and catch a smoke, Fiona thought with a smile as she turned back to look at John.

  “Should we try to find a seat during the break?”

  “I’d like that,” Fiona said.

  “I’ll have you take your grubby hands off my daughter!”

  A shout went up from across the room and Fiona stilled, closing her eyes a moment before turning. She could’ve kicked herself. Of course her father would be at one of the pubs. He always was.

  Cian stood across the room, his arms straight against his side, his shirt un-tucked and his hair unruly. His bulbous nose seemed to darken even redder as spittle flew from his mouth.

  “I said, unhand my daughter!”

  “Cian, leave her be,” a man next to Cian said gently.

  Cian stormed across the room, pushing people out of his way until he was face to face with John. Well, not quite face to face. More like face to chest, Fiona registered just before her dad cocked his arm back and took a swing at John.

  “Father!”
Fiona screeched, but John jumped deftly out of the way. Cian had overcommitted to the swing, and when his fist met air, the momentum pulled him around so fast that he fell, hitting his head against the corner of the bar. Fiona screeched again and knelt beside him.

  “Father, stop this nonsense. Are you all right then?” Fiona asked, anger and embarrassment making her short with him. A thin line of blood began to trickle from above her father’s hairline.

  “Damn O’Brien, thinking he can touch my daughter,” Cian mumbled as his eyes began to flutter closed.

  “John, we’ve got to get him home,” Fiona said, as John crouched beside her.

  “I’ll lift him up,” John said easily, hooking one of Cian’s arms over his shoulder and pulling him up to a standing position.

  “I’ll have another,” Cian slurred, and Fiona just shook her head at him. She wound her arm through his and, cheeks burning, stumbled with her father from the pub.

  What an end to a first date, she thought as they half-lifted, half-dragged Cian back to their cottage. Luckily it wasn’t all that far. But by the time they had reached it, Fiona was working up a good head of mad and doing her best to hold back tears. John wasn’t going to want to put up with a father-in-law like this. Assuming they would even progress that far in the relationship after this.

  “Mum,” Fiona called as they reached the courtyard, dropping her father’s arm and racing ahead to open the cottage door. “Mum, Father’s in the cups again. He’s hit his head as well.”

  Bridget was at the sink, washing a plate. Concern creased her face, but it was for her daughter, not her husband.

  “I’m so sorry, love. How did you find him?”

  “He tried to hit John at the pub and missed, and smacked his head on the bar instead,” Fiona said tightly.

  “That man,” Bridget muttered, ushering John in. “This way please,” she said, pointing towards the bedroom.

  Fiona stood where she was, unsure what to do, her stomach flipping over in knots.

  John came back out of the bedroom, his face unreadable.

  “Fiona dear, why don’t you say good night to John. I’ll need your help in here,” Bridget said.