Bailey's Irish Dream

by Debby Conrad

  Trying to look grief-stricken and heartbroken, Bailey lowered her eyes and managed to blink a few drops of moisture into them. “You’re right. Stanley’s a loser. I guess it just hit me. Do I know how to pick them, or what? I’ll probably end up being an old maid.” She sighed loudly for effect.

  “Maybe you’d be better off. Marriage isn’t all it’s cracked up to be anyway.”

  Bailey’s eyes grew huge with concern. “Katie, you don’t mean that. You and Mark have a perfect marriage.”

  “I used to think so too.” The tears in Kaitlyn’s eyes were real.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing,” she said, looking away and rubbing beneath her eyes with her fingertips. “It’s just hormones. You’d think I could forget about my own problems long enough to get you through this crisis.”

  “Forget about the wedding. It’s not a big deal.” Bailey realized she was serious. For some reason, knowing she wasn’t getting married in eleven days was a welcomed relief instead of an earth-shattering disappointment. In fact, she’d yet to cry over Stanley, which had her wondering if she’d loved him as much as she thought she had.

  “And then there’s Mom.”

  “What about Mom?” Bailey asked, her stomach churning. “Is something wrong I should know about?”

  Kaitlyn smoothed her hair in place. “I have such a big mouth. Forget I said that. I promised Mark I wouldn’t say anything that might worry you.”

  “Katie, don’t do this. First you hint there’s something wrong between you and Mark, and then you drop this on me. She’s my mother too. Out with it,” she demanded.

  “Mark and I will be fine. We’re just . . . not getting along,” she sobbed, dropping her head on Bailey’s shoulder.

  Wrapping her arms around her sister, Bailey said, “Oh, Katie. I’m so sorry. Do you want to talk about it?”

  Kaitlyn mumbled something that sounded like “no”, then lifted her head and pushed her hair back from her face.

  “It’s nothing. Like I said, it’s probably just my hormones. I’m imagining things, like Mark doesn’t love me anymore.” She sniffed.

  “Don’t be silly. Of course he still loves you.”

  “I know.” She waved a hand in the air, as if to dismiss the entire subject. “Hormones,” she said again. “About Mom . . . Dad’s concerned.” She pulled a tissue from the pocket of her black maternity dress and dabbed at her eyes.

  “What’s wrong with her? She looked okay to me.”

  “I’m not sure. Dad told me she hasn’t been herself lately. And that she’s been seeing a doctor but she won’t tell him why.”

  “A doctor? Why wouldn’t she tell Dad?”

  “I have no idea, but when I asked her about it, she said Dad had no business worrying me, and that she was fine.”

  A suffocating sensation clogged Bailey’s throat. Her mother might be sick, and here she was playing a rotten trick on her. How could she have done such a thing? “Oh, God. What have I done?”

  Kaitlyn smiled sympathetically and patted Bailey’s arm. “It’s not your fault. You haven’t done anything.”

  “Oh, Katie, you don’t know the half of it.” Maybe she should just admit that she’d been dumped again and get it over with. She thought about it for a minute, then decided to spill the beans. “That man--who you think is such a loser--isn’t Stanley.” She proceeded to tell Kaitlyn about the rest of her wild scheme. There, she’d said it. Getting the truth out felt much better than lying.

  Kaitlyn’s eyelashes stood out in wet spikey clumps. “Don’t tell me. This was Gwen’s idea, wasn’t it?”

  “Initially, but don’t blame Gwen. I’m the one responsible for this whole mess.”

  Kaitlyn continued to stare at her for a moment, then burst out laughing.

  “What’s so funny?”

  Bringing her hands to her face, she laughed harder, tears rolling down her pink cheeks. “You,” she said finally, massaging her belly. “I can’t believe you did all that just because you were afraid you’d disappoint Mom. Bailey, the perfect little daughter. Always trying to stay on Mom’s good side.”

  “Me?” Bailey asked, shocked by her sister’s accusations. “You’re the one who’s perfect. Look at you. Married to Mark. Three beautiful children. Another on the way. You’re doing exactly what Mom expects of you.”

  “Well, not anymore.” Kaitlyn stood and made her way to the dresser mirror. “And I suggest you start standing up to her too.” She dabbed at her damp eyes and pinched her cheeks.

  “What do you mean not anymore?” Bailey got to her feet and smoothed the wrinkles from her dress. “What are you going to do?”

  “Nothing. We’ll talk later. But right now, we’d better go rescue Mom. That fiancé of yours is liable to make her faint with one of his off-color remarks.”

  Bailey shuddered at her sister’s comment. She hadn’t thought of that. That was all she needed. Her poor mother. “I’m going to tell her the truth.”

  “No, you’re not!” Kaitlyn said sternly. “We’re going to play this out.”

  “But what about Mom? If she’s really sick--”

  “Mom’s never been sick a day in her life.” She opened the bedroom door and paused. “Oh,” Kaitlyn said, spinning around. “You and Quinn aren’t really involved, are you?”

  Having been caught off guard Bailey felt her face flush. “Involved? Of course not.” Unless those erotic kisses meant they were involved. “I barely know the man. Why would you think something like that?”

  Kaitlyn studied her a moment. “I don’t know. Something about the way you two look at each other.” Amusement flickered in her green eyes. “I bet he’s a great kisser.” Winking, she turned and headed out of the room.

  “He’s a fabulous kisser,” Bailey whispered, her spine tingling with the memories. Taking a deep calming breath, she followed her sister down the hall.

  * * * * * * * * * *

  Bailey and her sister had been gone for a long while, which had given Quinn plenty of time to get dinner ready and on the table. As they ate he found himself wondering what they’d talked about. Him, no doubt. Kaitlyn had probably told Bailey to dump his ass. And although that was the plan, Quinn decided he didn’t like the idea much. He had his pride, after all.

  The lady must be getting to him, he thought, watching as Bailey tasted each of the foods on her plate. She took small bites, chewed daintily, thoughtfully, as if she were going to be quizzed about the experience later on. Why did she have to make everything she did look so damn erotic?

  At any rate, he wasn’t interested in her, or so he told himself. He had a business to run, and didn’t have time to get involved with a woman who didn’t know her own mind. She’d been engaged three different times, for chrissakes. It would do him good to remember that. And she’d been willing to marry those yo-yos just to please her mother. What ever happened to marrying for love?

  While Quinn watched Bailey, he noticed she kept glancing at her mother across the table. Was she nervous, or just looking for approval? The rest of the family members kept their eyes trained on him, including the kids, making him pretty uncomfortable. Surely they must hate having a scumbag at their dinner table, even if he had prepared the meal.

  Other than the few compliments about his cooking talents, no one had spoken much. It was so quiet he could hear them chewing. He prayed the night would soon be over, so he could get back to his own life.

  What life? He was married to the bar. But it was either that or take a chance on another partner ripping him off. No, thank you.

  Something rubbed against his leg and Quinn jumped, banging his knee sharply against the table. “Ow!” The family watched as he lifted the edge of the tablecloth and peered underneath. “Jade,” he said simply, glaring at the white ball of fur. The cat glared back at him, and ran off toward the kitchen.

  “Afraid of cats, are you?” Doyle Maguire challenged. The man clearly detested him.

  “No, sir.”

  “Do you
have any pets, Uncle Stanley?” Patrick asked, a hopeful expression on his freckled face.

  Uncle Stanley. The name was enough to make him gag. “No, I don’t.”

  “Aunt Bailey said you have goldfish,” Kelly said, looking at her aunt for confirmation.

  Quinn glanced at Bailey who smiled apologetically. She’d forgotten to mention the fish. “Oh yeah, that’s right. I forgot about the fish,” he said.

  Doyle snorted. “It’s no wonder, if you forgot about your own kids.” Quinn was surprised the man didn’t just throw him out.

  “What’s your fishies’ names?” Kelly asked sweetly, her eyes wide and expectant.

  Shrugging, Quinn said, “They’re fish. They don’t have names.”

  Unconvinced, the little girl looked at Bailey again.

  “Stanley,” Bailey said softly as if she were talking to a child, “don’t you remember? You named them Bach and Beethoven.”

  Bach and Beethoven. “No, I don’t remember that.”

  “Your uncle likes to tease,” Bailey said, smiling at her niece.

  Doyle looked at Mark. “I just remembered that joke I was going to tell you. There was this guy--Fred--who went to visit his doctor,” he began. “Old Fred complained that he hadn’t been feeling well and that he’d been forgetting things lately.”

  He grinned, waving his fork in the air, getting into it. “So the doctor ran some tests on the guy. The doc says, I’m afraid I have some bad news for you, Fred. It seems you not only have terminal cancer but Alzheimer’s disease, as well.” Maguire snickered, building up to the punch line. “And Old Fred says, What a relief, Doc. Thank goodness I don’t have cancer.” He tilted his head back and howled just as several beeps sounded.

  Mark reached for the pager at his hip. That was the second time it had gone off during dinner. After reading the display, he said, “Excuse me, everyone. I need to make a phone call.”

  Kaitlyn didn’t look pleased. “Mark, can’t it wait until after dinner?”

  Glancing at the display again, Mark said, “I’ll just be a minute.” Standing, he kissed his wife on the cheek and left the room.

  Doyle looked pointedly at Quinn. “Didn’t you get it? Fred said, Thank goodness I don’t have cancer.”

  Quinn looked as if he were trying to figure it out. Shaking his head, he said, “No, I don’t get it.”

  Maguire pushed his plate away. “I’ve had enough,” he said. Quinn wondered if it was meant as a double entendre.

  Dillon stuck his bottom lip out and turned to his mother. “I thought Dad wasn’t going to work while we’re here. I thought this was supposed to be a vacation.”

  Forcing a smile to her lips, Kaitlyn looked at her oldest son. “Daddy will be right back. Finish your plate.”

  The boy looked at his plate and scowled. Picking up his fork, he jabbed at the salmon and moved several bites discreetly beneath his beans. He obviously didn’t like fish. Or beans.

  “You’ve told that joke a dozen times. Twice in the car on the drive here,” Mimi reminded her husband, then looked at Kaitlyn. “Mark sure makes an awful lot of phone calls. On the drive here, he must have made a dozen. And while you and Bailey were telling secrets in the bedroom, he made several more calls.” She lifted her wineglass to her lips and drank, then resumed eating.

  Kaitlyn stabbed a bean with her fork. “We weren’t telling secrets, Mom. We were discussing Bailey and Stanley’s wedding plans.” She gave Quinn a look.

  “Well, since I’m the mother of the bride, perhaps I should have been included in the discussion.” Looking offended she laid her fork to rest on her plate and dabbed her lips with a white linen napkin. “No one’s asked me for help, or advice, or anything.” She looked at Bailey and said, “And why aren’t you having any wine?”

  Quinn didn’t like the implication of that question. Quickly his eyes cut across to Bailey.

  Bailey ignored the question about the wine. “Of course we want your help, Mom.” She tapped Quinn’s thigh. “Don’t we, Stanley?”

  “Uh, sure. We need someone to clean up after the reception.” Everyone stared at him, open mouthed. He was getting so used to insulting people; it was starting to come naturally.

  Mark returned to the dining room. “What did I miss?” he asked, looking directly at Quinn as he took his seat. “Who did you insult this time?”

  Quinn felt like crap. This wasn’t his idea of a good time. “Anyone ready for dessert? Key lime pie.”

  Dillon grabbed his half-eaten plate and stood. “I’ll have some. Do you have whipped cream?”

  Mimi pushed her chair back. “I’ll help clear the dishes. I can certainly use the practice before the reception,” she said icily, her nostrils flaring with fury.

  Quinn grinned at her and winked for effect. “That’s a good sport.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  After dinner, Quinn, Bailey and her parents retreated to the formal living room while Kaitlyn and Mark took the children for a walk on the beach.

  “Can I get anyone anything?” Bailey asked, wringing her hands together, clearly growing more uncomfortable as the evening wore on. “Coffee? An after dinner drink?”

  “I’d like an Irish whiskey,” Doyle said. “How about you, Stanley? You like a toot once in awhile? Or do you just sip on sissy wines?”

  It was a direct challenge, Quinn thought. “I’ll have a toot with you, old man.”

  “I’ll get it,” Bailey offered.

  Doyle lifted a hand to stop her. “No, allow me. You go sit down with your fiancé,” he said, stressing the word fiancé as if it were a dirty word.

  While Quinn had been cleaning the kitchen mess, Kaitlyn had dragged Bailey off to have another private chat. When they were through, Bailey had dragged Quinn off to relay what Kaitlyn had told her. Apparently Mrs. Maguire decided Bailey must be pregnant, otherwise her daughter would never agree to marry someone as awful as him, or Stanley rather. She and Mr. Maguire had also decided not to voice their disapproval of their daughter’s fiancé for fear it would only encourage Bailey to defend him.

  “Let Bailey wait on us,” Quinn said, giving her butt a pat. “She needs the exercise.”

  Bailey shot him a look over her shoulder as she made her way to the bar. A look that said she was embarrassed by his outward display of affection. Hadn’t she been the one who’d said they should kiss and touch beforehand so they’d look comfortable with one another?

  “Yep,” Quinn said, carrying on the charade. “That’s what happened to old Bambi. Too much sitting around. She got the middle-age spread when she was only seventeen. That’s one of the reasons I insisted she should work. The other was so that she didn’t become a leech. I hate when women think that men should support them.”

  “Seventeen? You married a seventeen-year-old?” Bailey asked, looking furiously at him. If Quinn didn’t know better, he’d swear she was jealous.

  “Well, not really. Bambi was sixteen when I married her. We got divorced when she was seventeen.”

  “How old were you?” she asked.

  “Well, that was a year ago so I was . . . thirty-three,” he said wiggling his fingers and pretending to subtract.

  “That’s disgusting.”

  “Yeah, that’s what her mom said. In fact, it should have been Bambi’s mom and me tying the knot, but I took a liking to the kid.” Quinn looked at Doyle and winked. “You know what I mean?”

  Mimi fell into a Queen Anne chair and fanned her crimson face with her hand. “I think I’ll have a whiskey too, dear.”

  Doyle helped Bailey distribute the drinks and came to stand next to Quinn by the piano. Holding up his glass, he clinked the edge against Quinn’s glass and said, “Here’s to you and Bailey.” He lifted his glass and took a good belt, watching Quinn over the top of his glass, assessing him. “Do you golf?”

  Golf? Quinn stared at the man. What the hell was wrong with this guy? Why didn’t Doyle Maguire just punch him in the nose and throw him out? How much of Quinn’s insolence was t
his guy going to take? Didn’t he have any respect for his daughter?

  “No, I don’t golf,” he lied. Well, it wasn’t a total lie. He hadn’t golfed in over two years. Who had time?

  “Hmmm. I thought Bailey said you golfed. My mistake. Why don’t you play something for us?” Doyle suggested, nodding at the white baby grand.

  Uh, oh. Now he was in trouble. He hadn’t touched a piano since he was ten years old. “Maybe later.” After a few more drinks, or at gunpoint.

  “I’m sure my wife would like to hear something now, before she passes out.” Doyle looked at Mimi who had already downed her whiskey. To Quinn, he said, “I’ll hold your drink while you play.”

  Quinn tried again to dissuade the man. “I’m kind of shy in small crowds.”

  “Shy?” Doyle laughed. “Stanley, you’re about as shy as Lady Godiva. Why don’t you play Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony?”

  Snorting, Quinn said, “Everyone plays that. How about something more original?”

  “Sure. Whatever.”

  Bailey gave him the eye as if to say, ‘Are you out of your mind?’ Quinn met her look with one of his own. His said, ‘I must be. I’m here, aren’t I?’

  Taking a seat on the white bench, Quinn stretched his fingers, stalling. Then, with his index fingers, he struck the keys two at a time. Chopsticks was one of the only two songs he knew how to play. The other was Happy Birthday.

  Doyle nodded, his lips tilting slightly upward in a snarl, as if he knew some secret. “You certainly have talent, Stanley.”

  “I try.”

  “Yes, you certainly do.”

  “Bravo!” Mimi shouted and clapped her hands together, her empty glass lying on its side on the floor by her feet. “Did you write that song, Stanley?”

  “No, ma’am. I’m afraid not.” The Maguire women certainly couldn’t hold their liquor, Quinn thought, remembering Bailey the night before. “Do you need some help getting Mrs. Maguire upstairs?” he whispered to Doyle, forgetting to act like Stanley the Jerk.

  “Nah.” Doyle returned Quinn’s glass. “I don’t want to spoil her fun. This is the happiest I’ve seen her in months. How about another drink, Mimi?”