by Zara Keane
He raised his eyes to the blackboard on the wall behind the counter and perused the menu. Her heart sank. “I think I’ll have a coffee before I catch the bus to Cork.” His smile was forced. “Seeing as I’m here and all.”
She ground her teeth. Looked like she was stuck spending more time with Philip before he buggered off out of her life once more.
He sloped over to James Joyce and flopped into a chair. Gavin and Ruairí nodded to him when he passed them by, but he ignored them.
Yet another difference between Dublin and Ballybeg. Everyone greeted one another here, and strangers earned a passing nod. Obviously, Philip didn’t know this—or if he did, he didn’t care.
Ruairí sat at Oscar Wilde, the table opposite Philip’s. Gavin approached the counter.
“Morning Fiona,” he said with a friendly grin. In stark contrast to Philip’s practiced smile, Gavin’s unaffected but infectious grin warmed her from the inside out. “A double espresso for Ruairí, please, and a regular coffee for me.”
“Would you like something to eat with your coffee?
“No, thanks.”
“Okay, I’ll be right over with your order.”
She turned her back on the men and busied herself with the coffee machine. She served Philip first. He’d grabbed a copy of today’s issue of The Irish Times from the magazine rack and was pretending to read. He didn’t look up when she placed his coffee cup in front of him.
Please, please, let him leave! Between Muireann and Philip, she’d been obliged to deal with two people she’d rather not have anything to do with, and both on the same morning. And now Gavin was thrown into the mix. All this stress early on a Monday was doing nothing to alleviate her headache. Quite the contrary.
“Thanks,” Gavin said when she served their coffee. He and Ruairí were studying something on a laptop. Floor plans, by the look of things.
After what seemed like an eternity but was barely ten minutes, Philip stood to leave. He tossed a couple of coins onto the table without bothering to check his bill. “I’ll be seeing you, FeeFee,” he said loudly enough for Gavin and Ruairí to glance up from what they were doing.
She prickled at his use of the nickname. She loathed FeeFee, and he knew it. “Won’t you be going back to Dublin after the audition?”
He shrugged, a belligerent jut to his jaw. “I’ll see. Maybe I’ll stick around for a couple of days. It’s not like I’ve got anything else to do.”
With that parting shot, Philip exited the shop—but not, alas, her life.
Chapter Twenty-Five
GAVIN WATCHED THE MAN Fiona had called Philip leave the shop and cross the road toward the bus stop. This must be the actor ex. He was being daft, but he’d hated the guy on sight.
He approached the counter. Fiona was lost in contemplation, the cute little worry line between her brows visible. He had a sudden urge to touch it. He cleared his throat. “Your ex?”
“Yeah. He lives in Dublin.” She didn’t elaborate.
He smiled. “So I gathered from his plummy accent.”
“What were you and Ruairí staring at with such intensity?” She flicked a tea towel over her shoulder and began to clear up used cups and plates.
Keen to change the subject—interesting. His hunch that this Philip guy had had a significant impact on Fiona’s life couldn’t be too far off the mark.
“Ruairí’s offered me a job.”
Her eyes widened in surprise. “Is he renovating the pub?”
“Yeah, but that’s only part of it.” He flashed her a rueful smile. “You’re looking at Ballybeg’s newest temporary barman.”
“Seriously?” She bent over to load the dishwasher, reminding him—and his groin—of how horny her backside made him.
“Why not? I need the money, and he needs someone to help with the Christmas rush. I paid my way through uni working in bars.”
“I’m impressed. I would have thought you’d consider a job in a pub to be beneath you.”
He laughed, hearing a tinge of bitterness in its echo. “A man with as much debt as I have can’t afford to be picky. I’ve had an offer of a few teaching hours at the university starting next semester. Until then, I need something to tide me over. It’s not like I’ve got job offers flowing in, nor has anyone expressed interest in buying Clonmore Lodge.”
“So you’re staying in Ballybeg?”
“For the time being. I’m not ready to give up yet. There’s still the possibility I’ll find a buyer for the cottage.”
“Gosh,” she said. “Do you want to sell the cottage? You love living there.”
He shrugged, his gaze moving to his feet. “If things don’t go my way within the next few months, I’ll have no choice.”
“Hey, Fiona.” Ruairí approached the counter, used cup in hand. “Heard anything from the police about the break-in?”
“No, and I doubt I will. As far as Garda Glenn is concerned, if he can’t pin it on Sharon, it must’ve been random kids.”
“Aye,” he said with a frown. “That’s Glenn’s attitude, all right.”
“Listen, Gavin,” Fiona said. “You know how you said you’d help me haul boxes for the Christmas Bazaar?”
“Yeah.”
“Muireann will be working the bookstall, too.”
He sucked in a breath.
“If it’ll be an issue for you, don’t worry about helping out. We can manage between the two of us.”
He burst into laughter. “Muireann haul boxes? That’ll be the day. Trust me, she’ll stick you with all the heavy lifting. I’ll come by here at about a quarter to twelve, and I can collect you and the boxes.”
Her eyes creased in concern. “Are you sure it’s no trouble?”
“I’m sure.” On instinct, he reached for her hand. “Don’t worry about it. I was bound to run across Muireann eventually.”
Behind him, Ruairí snorted. Gavin shot him a warning look.
His new boss looked from him to Fiona, then back again. “Ah,” Ruairí said. “So it’s like that then. I had my suspicions.” He clapped Gavin on the back. Coming from a man as strong as Ruairí, a friendly clap on the back was sufficient to dislocate shoulders. “Bye, Fiona. Later, Gavin.” He winked and exited the shop.
“The damage in here is worse than I’d hoped.” Gavin indicated the rain-stained walls.
“Yeah,” Fiona said. “I’m going to paint them over the Christmas holidays. We can’t afford to close for a couple of days this time of year, but the walls need to be repainted soon.”
“Do you have experience painting walls?”
“Well… no.”
“Then let me help you. Get Bridie to pick out the color, and I’ll borrow the supplies we need from Liam O’Mahony.”
“Are you sure?” She frowned. “It’ll be a lot of work.”
“Work that will go faster with the two of us doing it.”
Her old wary expression was back. “Why are you doing this, Gavin? Why do you want to spend so much time with me? It’s not like you lack for friends.”
“Because I like you,” he said honestly. “And because I owe you.”
He regretted his word choice as soon as they were uttered. She stiffened, and the wariness developed hostile overtones. “The only thing you owe me is a divorce. And we both know that will take years.”
The last remaining customer approached the cash register. Fiona plastered a smile on her face and rang up the customer’s order. She was a terrible actress. Her every gesture projected her moods, and her attempts to hide them were comically stilted.
After the woman left, Gavin flipped the open sign to closed and locked the door.
“Hey,” she said. “What are you doing? I can’t take a break.”
“I’m sorry. Once again, I’ve been an eejit and said the wrong thing.” He took her into his arms. She was stiff as a board but soon relaxed into the embrace.
“I might have overreacted,” she said. “It’s been one hell of a morning.”
“I meant that I feel I owe you because I’ve wronged you. It was my screwup that led to the mess we’re now in. I didn’t mean I’m spending time with you out of a sense of duty. I like you, Fiona. I always have. You make me laugh.” He stroked her hair and let the silky curl slip through his fingers. “And you’re genuine. I don’t feel I have to pretend with you.”
She snuggled into his chest. “You realize, Maguire, that daylight snuggling might lead us into dangerous territory?”
He nibbled her ear. “Why don’t we head into the stockroom for a few minutes?”
“You’re a terrible influence,” she said, laughing into his chest. “I’m supposed to be a responsible shop manager. I can’t shut midmorning.”
“Come on. Just for a few minutes.” He took her arm and kissed her wrist the way he knew she liked. He slid her shirt up her arm and feathered kisses all the way to the crook of her elbow.
“Gavin… people can see in the window.”
“Why do you think I suggested we go into the stockroom?”
“Oh, all right,” she said. “But we’ll have to make it quick.”
“I can do quick. I can do slow. I can do it any speed you like.” He grabbed her hand. “But for what I’ve got in mind, let me take the lead.”
“Intriguing,” she said as he pulled her into the tiny stockroom and closed the door. “Should I be worried?”
He laughed. “Extremely.” He unzipped her jeans and tugged them down, quickly followed by her knickers.
Holy Moses, she was gorgeous.
He leaned between her legs and kissed her.
“What the… Gavin!”
“Shh,” he whispered. “I’m taking the lead, remember? You’re supposed to at least pretend to be docile for a few minutes.”
“I am never docile.”
He grinned and silenced her by toying with her clit ring, alternating tugging and massaging the soft skin. From this vantage point, he couldn’t see Fiona, but he could hear her breathing change, hear the soft gasps as she neared orgasm.
He felt her pulse around his tongue when she came, pressing her back into the wall. She let out a muffled moan, then collapsed.
“Was I quick enough for you?” he asked as he pulled up her knickers and jeans.
“Uh-huh,” she replied, breathing heavily. Her eyes were glassy, and her face was deliciously flushed.
“Excellent.” He kissed her hard. “In that case, I’ll be on my merry way.”
Fiona sagged against the stockroom wall, basking in the heady afterglow.
Holy feck. What an orgasm!
“Fiona? Are you here?”
She yanked her clothes into place and checked her appearance in the small mirror. Her cheeks were pink-tinged with a healthy glow. Her hair was wild. She pulled a brush through it before venturing back into the shop.
Olivia stood before the counter dressed in a chic black-and-white suit. She’d removed her coat and was hanging it on the coat stand.
“Hmm,” she said when she caught sight of Fiona. “You look delightfully flushed. What were you reading in the stockroom?”
“What are you doing here? Didn’t you say you wouldn’t be able to get away until the afternoon?”
“So I did, but Aidan’s buggered off with a golfing crony, and I decided to switch on the voice mail and take a break.” Olivia sat down at the James Joyce table and perused the menu. “I’d love to know what’s tickled you pink.”
“You can wonder all you like,” Fiona said. “You’re getting nothing out of me.”
“Such a bore,” her friend said with an exaggerated sigh. “I’m dying for a decent gossip.”
“You might be in luck.” She made two cappuccinos and set them on the table. “As long as I’ve no customers, I can talk.”
“Oh, yes,” Olivia said eagerly. “You said you had something to tell me.”
“Yes, but you have to promise to keep it quiet.”
“Fee,” Olivia said in mock sincerity, “I am the soul of discretion.”
“When you like the person confiding in you,” Fiona said with a laugh.
“You know you qualify.” Her friend dumped two sugars into her coffee and stirred. “So spill.”
“Were you aware that Aidan was my grandmother’s solicitor?”
“Yeah,” Olivia said, licking foam from her lips, “but that was way before my time at the practice.”
“Do you know if he kept her file?”
“I’d imagine so. It would be in the archives by now.” Olivia narrowed her eyes. “What are you getting at? Do you think there was something amiss with how the estate was handled?”
“I don’t know. I recently learned my grandmother always told her children they’d each receive a third of her estate after her death.”
“But—”
“When she died, her will left everything to Bernard.”
“Families can be odd, Fee. Who knows what she was thinking when she cut your dad and Bridie out of her will.”
“Until Bridie mentioned it to me, I’d never questioned the division of the estate. To be honest, I had no idea my grandparents had owned so much land. I assumed Bernard had bought most of his property by himself.”
Olivia stirred her cappuccino. “You’re not mercenary, Fee, and I’m not stupid. I’m guessing you have reason to believe there was something other than a vindictive old lady behind the will.”
“That’s just it. My grandmother was the gentlest soul you could meet. There wasn’t a vindictive bone in her body.”
“So what’s made you suddenly question the validity of her will? What exactly did Bridie say?”
“She said my grandmother’s will was written a couple of months before she died. The witnesses were my aunt Deirdre and a nursing home carergiver named Ann Dunne.”
“Deirdre?” Olivia blinked in surprise. “Didn’t your grandmother loathe her?”
“Exactly. That’s what’s so odd about it. Plus, I did a little sleuthing at the nursing home and found a porter who remembered Ann Dunne, the second witness. He implied Ann was known for coaxing monetary gifts out of patients, and she left the job after having supposedly won the lottery.”
Olivia shrugged. “It happens. Just not to me, alas.”
“All the same,” Fiona said, “it’s odd.”
“How can I help you?”
“Would you be able to check if Bridie’s description of the will is accurate? The division of the property and the names of the witnesses?” Fiona wrinkled her nose and lowered her voice. “I know I could ask Aidan directly, but he’s still Bernard’s solicitor.”
The bell jangled, and two women came into the shop. Fiona stood hastily and cleared away their coffee cups.
When Olivia had put on her coat, she approached the counter. “I’ll have a look and let you know what I find.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
ON THE MORNING of the Christmas Bazaar, the town hall was a hive of activity.
The hall was located in a building dating from the middle of the nineteenth century. Fiona remembered the hall vaguely, but it had been many years since she’d been inside. The floors were a rich polished wood. High ceilings made the room appear larger than it was. An enormous Christmas tree stood in one corner of the hall, and the walls were festooned with decorations. Speakers played Christmas carols in the background although the songs were barely audible above the hum created by the hall’s occupants. If it hadn’t been for the prospect of spending the day with Muireann, Fiona would have looked forward to the bazaar.
Why had she agreed to go along with her cousin’s plan? A weird sense of owing her a favor? But what kind of favor was this? Another chance for Muireann to humiliate her? Just a few hours, she reminded herself, and I’m off for a drink with Olivia.
Two teenage boys placed a large table next to her pile of book boxes. “Thanks, lads,” she said with a smile. “Which one of you is which? I never could remember.”
“I’m Kyle,” said the slightly taller one.
“And I’m Ronan,” said the other.
Both boys sported shocks of red hair and cheeky grins. Olivia’s little brothers weren’t so little anymore. At some point during Fiona’s eight-year absence from Ballybeg, they’d grown from freckled urchins into gangly young men—something her own little brother never had the chance to do. She swallowed past the hard lump in her throat. Grief hit her at unexpected moments. Not as often as it had a few years ago, but when the emotion hit, it had the power to wrench her out of the present.
“Kyle! Ronan!” Nuala O’Mahony, the official organizer of the bazaar, bore down upon them, her lips pursed into a line of disapproval. “What’s taking you so long? Hurry up and help Ruairí MacCarthy carry drink crates in from the van.”
“We’re on it.” The boys winked at Fiona and scurried off to do Nuala’s bidding.
“Honestly,” Nuala said, a frown marring her smooth forehead. “Those two are as foolish as their father.”
“That’s rather harsh.” Fiona had never warmed to Nuala, although she admired her dedication to honoring her late son’s memory by raising funds for cystic fibrosis research. Despite a few extra lines etched around her eyes, she was exactly as Fiona remembered. She favored floral-print dresses and brown leather brogues and held her long, dark hair in place with a hair band. The girlish appearance was deceptive, hiding the personality of a termagant.
She was rescued from further conversation with Nuala by the timely arrival of Gavin and Jonas with the last of her book boxes. “Thanks a million, lads. I appreciate it.” She smiled at Jonas. “I didn’t know you were down for the weekend.”
He grinned. “I daren’t miss the bazaar. Mum would kill me.”
“Jonas,” snapped his mother. “Why aren’t you helping Susanne set up the drinks stand? Go on, boy. What are you waiting for? There’s work to be done around here, and everyone needs to pitch in.”
If Jonas was less than thrilled to be commandeered in such a manner, he hid it well. He aimed a mock salute at his mother and headed across the room to a blond woman who was unloading crates of beer and fizzy drinks.
Nuala soon found someone else to criticize. Before another moment could pass, she was advancing toward a group of hapless schoolchildren who were attempting to hang colorful Christmas decorations on the walls. “No! Not there. Oh, for heaven’s sake. Do I have to do everything myself?”
