by Zara Keane
Gavin observed Nuala’s retreating back in amusement. “Don’t worry,” he whispered as he deposited more boxes on the ground behind Fiona’s designated tables. “Her bark is worse than her bite. She wants everything to be absolutely perfect, and of course it rarely turns out that way. She always gets stressed about the bazaar.”
“She’d better not snap at me.”
“I doubt she’d dare.” His voice was a deep burr. She caught a whiff of his aftershave as he set another book box on the floor. Adrenaline kicked into action, as did her hormones. X-rated memories of their encounter in the stockroom flooded her mind and brought a blush to her cheeks.
He glanced around the hall. “Muireann not here yet?”
“No,” Fiona said crisply. “She’s late.”
She’d sensed Gavin’s tension the moment he’d met her at the Book Mark that morning to collect the boxes. It rolled off him in waves. They’d gone through the motions of pretending the easy camaraderie and flirtation of the past couple of months was unaffected, that today held no more significance for either of them than it did for anyone else present at the bazaar.
But they both knew it for a lie.
Muireann would be there—the woman Gavin could’ve, would’ve, should’ve married. In spite of her current gaunt state, Muireann was stunning. Fiona scrubbed up nicely enough, but she paled into insignificance next to her beautiful cousin.
And that was what this was about, wasn’t it? It had come to Fiona last night in a moment of clarity. Muireann intended to pose them, put them on display beside one another and show Gavin what he’d lost through his colossal cock-up.
He sneezed a few times in succession. No wonder his voice sounded even deeper than it usually did.
“Do you have a cold?”
He took a clean tissue from his pocket. “I guess so. It came on me last night. I was hoping it wouldn’t develop into anything beyond a sinus headache, but I was obviously bang out of luck.”
“Perhaps a glass of mulled wine will help.”
Gavin laughed. “Yeah, especially after taking a painkiller. I’d be out for the count for the rest of the day.”
“The Major is larruping into the rum punch,” Fiona said, nodding toward Olivia’s grandfather. “So you’d be in exalted company.”
“I can just imagine what Nuala would have to say about that. Besides, I’m meant to be serving buns and cakes to the good folk of Ballybeg. It wouldn’t do to go dropping a cream cake on the floor, would it?”
“You’d probably have a few crying children to deal with if you did.”
He grimaced and blew his nose. “I’d better head over and help Nora Fitzgerald with the cakes. If I dawdle, she’ll go nuts. She’s already pissed with me over the wedding suit.”
“Speaking of suits… what have you done with Wiggly Poo?”
“Did Bridie not tell you?” He cocked an eyebrow. “She offered to look after him.”
Fiona laughed. “Poor Bridie’s in for a fun morning.”
“Gavin,” screeched Nora Fitzgerald from across the hall. “Are you helping me or not?”
He grinned at Fiona through watery eyes. “I’d better get going.”
“Thanks again for hauling boxes.”
She watched him stride across the hall. So this was it, then. He’d see Muireann and come to his senses. He’d decide to win her back. She swallowed past the lump in her throat. Did she really believe he was so fickle? And if she did, what did it say about her self-esteem?
Her mind racing, she unloaded the various boxes of used books, old annuals, and magazines. They took up two of the large tables provided by the town hall, and she had surplus supplies in reserve for later.
She’d finished arranging her wares to her satisfaction when Muireann made her entrance. Her cousin swanned into the hall, stopping to air-kiss everyone she passed.
“Hello, Fiona,” she said when she reached the bookstall. “You’re looking festive.” She smirked at Fiona’s red pullover.
“It’s warm,” Fiona said tersely, “and the town hall is not.”
Muireann’s peach cashmere pullover and light gray slacks looked perfect on her slender frame.
“You’re late.” She didn’t bother to disguise her impatience.
“Only by a few minutes.” Her cousin rooted through a box of old magazines.
“Here’s a calculator, in case you need it. The cash box is here. It should never be left unattended. If one of us needs to leave the stall, the other has to be here. Understood?”
Muireann nodded absently, flicking through a magazine.
Fabulous. She must have had a moment of insanity when she agreed to work with her cousin. “Look, either get to work or leave. I’m not shouldering your share of the work in addition to mine.”
Muireann arched an overly plucked eyebrow. “From what I can see, you’ve set everything up. Why can’t I read a magazine until the bazaar starts?”
Fiona bit back a retort. She itched to slap the smug expression off her pretty face. The only thing keeping the impulse in check was the knowledge it was exactly what her cousin wanted her to do. She gritted her teeth and willed patience.
When the bazaar opened at two o’clock, there was a crowd of people waiting at the doors. Over the next couple of hours, they were run off their feet, which kept Fiona from dwelling on her guilt and resentment toward her cousin and her deepening feelings for Gavin.
Muireann proved to be a surprisingly good worker. She was a natural with the customers, particularly the men. To Fiona’s amazement, she’d read a number of the more popular authors and was happy to chat with customers about their favorite books. She’d never work her cousin out. The woman was an enigma.
“Is it okay if I go on a break?” Muireann asked when the throng had eased.
“Yeah, go on,” Fiona said, wrestling with a stubborn roll of two-euro coins. “Be back in fifteen minutes, then I’ll take my break.”
Her cousin sauntered across the hall in the direction of the cake stand.
A cacophony of barking drew Fiona’s attention away from the unfolding drama of Gavin and Muireann’s first post-non-honeymoon encounter to the hall entrance.
Oh, no.
Aunt Deirdre, Bridie, and their respective canine companions stood underneath the mistletoe, glaring at one another. Deirdre carried Mitzi and Bitzi in an oversized handbag while Bridie had Wiggly Poo on a lead.
Fiona exhaled a sigh. This was all she needed.
Aunt Deirdre tottered through the hall on her stilettos, giving a regal nod to people she deemed worthy and the cut direct to those she did not. She halted in front of the bookstall and gave Fiona a haughty once-over. Mitzi and Bitzi stared at Fiona through their beady eyes. “Fiona,” her aunt trilled. “What a lovely pullover. It’s amazing what bargains one can find these days at Oxfam.”
Fiona exhaled slowly. If suggesting she’d found her pullover at a charity shop was the worst insult Deirdre was going to throw at her, she could cope.
Deirdre leaned closer, presenting Fiona with a close-up of her artificially frozen forehead. “I know why you’ve always needed to compete with Muireann. You have an inferiority complex. Understandable, given your history.”
“I miss my parents, but rest assured I don’t envy Muireann you as a mother.”
Her aunt’s thin lips twisted. “The police told Bernard what happened. We know Eamonn’s death was your fault.”
The words hit Fiona like a punch to the solar plexus. “It wasn’t my fault.”
“I’m sure you tell yourself that, my dear, but Eamonn wouldn’t have died if he’d been wearing his seatbelt. According to Bernard’s police contact, he took it off because he was fighting with you in the back of the car.”
Hot tears stung Fiona’s eyes. She blinked them back. What a bitch. What a complete and utter cow.
“So tell me… how do you live with yourself?”
“Stop it.” Her tears were falling as fast as her rapid breathing. “Just stop it. I
know you hate me for what happened at the wedding, but don’t drag Eamonn into this. His death was not my fault.”
Deirdre sneered. “If it wasn’t your fault, why do you feel guilty?”
“Shut your miserable gob and leave Fiona alone.” Bridie and Wiggly Poo stood side-by-side, united in indignation. The puppy growled at Deirdre and his archenemies, Mitzi and Bitzi.
“Get that rabid beast away from my babies,” snapped Deirdre. “He ought to be put down.”
“The only one who ought to be put down is you,” Bridie said. “How dare you spout such vicious lies? I know you’re bitter about the broken engagement, but Gavin and Muireann were never a good fit. In a few years time, they’ll consider this a blessing.”
“What would you know?” retorted Deirdre. “You’re a miserable old spinster whose tepid love interest is a man even more ancient than yourself.”
“I clearly know more about your daughter’s feelings than you do,” Bridie said, bristling. “You direct all your attention to those fecking Chewbaccas.”
Through her tears, Fiona choked back a laugh.
Deirdre’s frozen forehead struggled to emote, but it was a losing battle. “My what?”
Fiona blew her nose. “She’s referring to those bloody rat dogs you cart around with you everywhere.”
At that moment, Mitzi and Bitzi made a leap for freedom and scampered across the hall.
Wiggly Poo gave a delighted bark and yanked on his lead. Determined to rid Ballybeg of vermin once and for all, he took off in rapid pursuit.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
GAVIN’S DAY HAD GONE from bad to worse. His throat felt like he’d swallowed razorblades, and his swollen sinuses were making his head throb.
Muireann was here. This was no surprise. He was grateful to Fiona for forewarning him, but foreknowledge hadn’t lessened the impact of seeing her in the flesh. She’d lost a lot of weight and looked peaky in spite of her tan.
Here was the woman he’d intended to marry standing next to the woman he had married, albeit unwittingly. Muireann was wealthy, connected, and effortlessly beautiful. Fiona, in contrast, was everything Muireann was not: funny, sharp, sexy, and irreverent. She was neither wealthy nor connected, nor—in the traditional sense—beautiful. Yet she had the power to truly reach him, to awaken a depth of emotion he hadn’t thought himself capable of.
“Oy.” Jonas grabbed a cream bun from the tray in his arms. “Do you want to trade places? Your dripping nose is putting people off the cakes.”
“Really?” Gavin laughed. “More like you want to escape your significant other.”
“Come on, man, please?” His friend mimed a hangman’s noose. “I’m desperate. You know I’d do it for you.”
“Yeah, okay. It makes no difference to me whether I serve food or drink. Your mother won’t be impressed, though.”
“You mean because her oh-so-subtle attempt at encouraging harmony between me and Susanne backfired? Seriously, Gav, if I don’t get away from her soon, there’ll be a public fight. Definitely not what my mother wants at the bazaar.”
Gavin moved over to the drinks stand, where Susanne was occupied filling plastic cups with Coke. She was the blandly attractive type with dyed blond hair and clothes two sizes too small for her figure. Her smile of greeting was tight and unwelcoming. “You look like hell,” she said, giving him a wide berth. “Why aren’t you home in bed?”
“I promised Nuala I’d help out. I didn’t want to let her down.”
“So instead you decided to share your germs with us?”
“I didn’t feel this bad when I woke up. It’s gotten worse over the past few hours.”
“You should go home. You don’t want to be ill for Christmas, do you?”
“Why don’t I stick around for another half hour? The rush should be over by then.”
She nodded, already turning her attention back to the line of thirsty customers.
Gavin poured himself a glass of lemonade. He needed something to quench his thirst and give him an energy boost. He’d just taken a large gulp of his drink when Muireann appeared before him.
“Hello, Gavin.” Up close, her complexion was green beneath her tan, and dark shadows formed bags beneath her eyes.
“Hey. How are you?” He looked over at Susanne in the hope of salvation, but she was busy serving customers. Resigned, he faced his ex-fiancée. “What do you want to drink?”
“I’ll have a diet cola.” She peered closer at him. “Are you sick?”
“I could ask you the same question. Are you coming down with something?”
“Jet lag and a cold. You?”
“Also a cold.” He eyed her warily. What should he say next? Continue the charade of meaningless small talk? They’d been a couple for years yet could find nothing better to talk about now than their respective winter ailments?
He handed her the cola. Her fingers were cold as icicles.
“You should be home in bed,” he said. “Not stuck here in a draughty hall.”
“I wanted to get this over and done with. The whole town is staring at us, waiting to see what we’ll do.”
She was right. He sensed the collective gaze of the crowd boring into his flesh.
“I’m done hiding in the house,” she said. “The sooner we’re seen together in public, the sooner they’ll find something else to gossip about.”
She wasn’t far off the mark. He loathed being the center of attention, especially as the result of personal drama. He’d been there, done that a thousand times during his childhood, courtesy of his mother and her numerous break-ups.
He opened his mouth to say something, but he was parched. Grabbing his glass of lemonade, he took a gulp.
A scream worthy of a banshee stopped him mid-swallow.
Holy hell. Mitzi and Bitzi streaked across the floor with Wiggly Poo in hot pursuit. Deirdre was by the bookstall, framed by an ashen-faced Fiona and a puce Bridie.
“Someone stop that dog,” cried Deirdre. “Save my babies.” Then she resumed her banshee wail.
Bridie stepped forward and walloped her sister-in-law across the face. “Stop your caterwauling, Deirdre. You’ve only yourself to blame for bringing those rats to the bazaar.”
“Aw, shite.” So much for not being the center of a public scene. He leaped over the drinks stand and legged it after his naughty pet.
Over by the Christmas tree, Aidan Gant was holding court with a sullen-faced Olivia at his side and a few of his political cronies as his audience. The Chihuahuas shot between his legs and hid beneath the tree.
“Aidan, do something,” shouted Deirdre, tottering across the hall. “Hold them up out of Wiggly Poo’s way.”
Aidan rearranged his facial features from slack-jawed to smarmy. “Don’t worry. I’ll have them out in a jiffy.”
Gavin caught Wiggly Poo by the collar just as Aidan was crawling beneath the Christmas tree to forcibly remove the Chihuahuas.
Out of the safety of their carrier bag and the cooing ministrations of their mistress, Mitzi and Bitzi were in no mood to be manhandled by Ballybeg’s up-and-coming politician. Aidan, clearly clueless when it came to dogs, chose that moment to stage a cheesy campaign photo. “Will you take a snap of us, Gavin?”
“What, now?” Was the man totally mad or completely self-absorbed and oblivious to the chaos around him?
“I’ll do it,” Olivia said and took her mobile phone out of her coat pocket.
The flash sent the Chihuahuas wild. One sank its jaws into Aidan’s nose, while the other attacked his cheek.
Aidan spun around yowling, the dogs clinging to his blood-streaked face.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
FIONA WRAPPED THE LAST of the pre-packaged gift sets in cheery Christmas paper. In the week since the mayhem of the Christmas Bazaar, the festive shopping frenzy had begun in earnest. Good news for the Book Mark’s coffers but bad news for her feet.
Unfortunately, her hectic days didn’t prevent her mind from dwelling on her r
elationship with Gavin.
After much soul-searching, she’d reached to a decision. She was going to end their fling. It wasn’t just the awkwardness of having Muireann back in Ballybeg. Nor was it the ridiculousness of their non-marriage and impending divorce. She’d fallen in love with him all over again. Her heart skipped a beat whenever she saw him. She got butterflies in her stomach whenever she thought about him, and his barest touch turned her into a molten mess. She had to get out before she lost her mind as well as her heart.
“Ow!”
She looked up to see her aunt hauling a box of books into the book room. “Bridie! Let me.” She wrested the box out of her aunt’s determined grasp. “Why on earth did you decide to help out today? You know what the doctor said.”
Bridie glared at her, hands on her broad hips. “I’m sixty-four years old, missy, not four,” she retorted. “I can judge for myself whether or not I’m fit to work.”
She shook her head in defeat. “You’re impossible.”
“If you’re not going to buy something or help out, you can shoo!” Bridie growled at Olivia, who was perched on a stool behind the counter, flipping through a glossy magazine. Aidan was away at a conference, and Olivia had volunteered to help out at the Book Mark for a couple of hours each afternoon.
“Oh, give over,” Olivia teased. “Sure, aren’t I adding deco to the place?”
Bridie snorted. “Some deco. Cleavage is what that is, young lady. In my day, young women were taught to dress modestly.” She shook her head in disapproval. “Nowadays, every female over the age of twelve is going around with bare bellies and bosoms on display.”
“Now, Bridie,” Olivia said with a wicked grin. “Surely not every female over the age of twelve. I’m sure the ladies of the Ballybeg House and Crafts Society would be scandalized to learn one of their leading members was displaying her blubber to the world. Are you planning on starting a trend?”
