by Zara Keane
“Why don’t I invite a few extra people round to act as buffers? I know The Major’s not keen on spending Christmas with his daughter’s family.”
“You do that,” she said dryly. “Make sure you get as many as we can feed. I don’t care if they’re fossilized. Get them to come. With a bit of luck, the golden oldies will scare Philip away.”
The peal of the doorbell broke through Bridie’s laughter. “I’ll get it,” Fiona said.
When she opened the front door, a red-faced Olivia and a sheepish-looking Kyle and Ronan stood on the doorstep.
It took her a fraction of a second to size up the situation. “Do you boys have something to say to Bridie about her shop window?”
They exchanged guilty glances. Their sister prodded them in the back. “Yes, they do. Right, lads?”
The boys nodded in unison.
Fiona stood aside. “In that case, you’d better come in.”
They trooped into the kitchen with obvious reluctance. Olivia bristled with embarrassment. “I don’t fucking believe this, Fee. Of all the stupid things for them to go and do!”
At the sight of her visitors, Bridie raised both bushy eyebrows. “Will I make more tea?”
“No, thanks,” Olivia said. “We’re not staying long. Kyle and Ronan have something to tell you.”
Ronan danced on the balls of his feet. Kyle cleared his throat. “We… well… we sort of…”
“…broke the Book Mark window,” Ronan finished.
“And the door,” Kyle added and bit his lip.
“Is that so?” Bridie’s face was devoid of expression. “Would you boys care to tell me why you trashed my shop?”
“It was an accident,” they said in chorus.
“The daft eejits got hold of a bottle of vodka and were out drinking on the night of the storm,” their sister said.
“We were drunk.” Ronan’s cheeks burned as red as his hair. “Not that it’s an excuse. Anyway, it was too far to walk home in the floods, so we decided to take shelter. The Book Mark seemed as good a place as any.”
“After downing a bottle of vodka between you, I’d imagine breaking into my shop seemed like a logical decision.”
“We’re really sorry, Miss Byrne. We totally screwed up. When the shop door wouldn’t open properly, we busted the window.”
“And then the alarm went off and scared the bejaysus out of us,” Kyle said. “We scarpered before the cops arrived.”
“My parents will pay for the damages.” Olivia drew a pen and notebook from her handbag. “Here’s my father’s phone number. Tally up the costs incurred and let him know what he owes you.”
Bridie took the piece of paper and gave a stiff nod. “What should I say to Garda Glenn? He’s in charge of the case.”
Olivia paled and stole a glance at Fiona.
“Since he realized he can’t pin it on Sharon,” Fiona said hurriedly, “Garda Glenn has no suspects. Frankly, I doubt he’s devoting a lot of time to finding out who broke into the Book Mark. Why burden him with more paperwork?”
Bridie considered for a moment, then inclined her head. “All right. We’ll keep this to ourselves.”
“Aw, thanks, Miss Byrne,” Kyle said.
“We’re really sorry,” added his brother.
Bridie held up a palm. “Not so fast, boys. I’m not letting you off the hook that easily. The walls of the café were damaged during the storm. Fiona and Gavin are due to paint them after Christmas. I expect you two to help.”
“Yeah, defo,” they said. “We can paint.”
“And I want you to help me tend my garden for a couple of months come spring. After my operation, I’ll have trouble bending for a while. I’ll need someone to help me weed and dig my flower beds.”
“That sounds more than reasonable,” Olivia said. “Right, boys?”
Her brothers nodded in reluctant agreement.
As they trudged out of the cottage, Olivia turned to Fiona. She was flushed with embarrassment and lacked her usual poise. “I can’t believe they did this. If they keep up their antics, I swear they’ll give me gray hairs.”
“It’s not your fault. Let’s get together after Christmas, okay?”
Her friend nodded. “Sure. Dinner’s on me.”
“In the meantime, call me if you need to vent.”
Olivia enveloped her in a floral-scented hug. “Thanks, Fee. It’s so good having you back in Ballybeg.”
“I’ll have a pint of the black stuff.”
“Coming right up.” Gavin grabbed a pint glass from under the bar counter and prepared the Guinness. He did it slowly, letting it sit, then topping it up, then letting it sit a while longer. Most barmen rushed the job these days, but not in Ruairí MacCarthy’s pub.
“Here you go.” Gavin set the pint in front of the heavyset man and input his order.
He’d been working there for a few weeks now and had developed an easy routine. It wasn’t the job he’d dreamed of, true, but the staff were a laugh and the punters mostly decent folk. Plus the opportunity to work on the plans for the pub renovation provided an excellent distraction from his worries. He and Ruairí had finalized the plans, sticking as closely to the original look of the pub back when it first opened in 1927. The first stage of the renovation was due to start in January, right after the Christmas and New Year rush.
“Managing all right, Gav?” Ruairí was polishing glasses and surveying his domain.
“I’m grand.”
“You’re a shite liar.”
“Ah, you know how it is. I should be relieved someone wants to buy the cottage.”
“But?”
“But I wish they wanted to buy Clonmore Lodge instead.” The offer had come through the previous evening, ensuring he’d not had a wink of sleep. It was lower than the asking price, but unless a miracle occurred within the next couple of weeks, he’d have no choice but to accept.
Last week, he’d used the money he’d saved from the sale of the BMW and his severance pay to reimburse the Byrnes their share of the wedding costs. He was down to the wire. The money he earned at the pub kept food on the table. His earnings from the renovation job would cover a few mortgage repayments on Clonmore Lodge and keep the bank at bay for a couple more months. After that, he was fucked.
“We’ll be run off our feet in the next hour or so. Take a break while you can.” For a man of few words and even fewer demonstrative gestures, Ruairí was a shrewd judge of people.
“Right-o,” he said.
“And help yourself to some food from the kitchen.”
Gavin grabbed a plate from the kitchen and sat down at one of the tables out in the pub. Although the customers were quick to approach him for a chat while he was working, they respected his space when he was on his break. He appreciated the peace. It gave him time to think, and thinking was an activity he’d been doing a lot of these past few days.
He bit into the thick bread of the sandwich and gave an appreciative moan. The cheese, chutney, and ham combo hit the spot. His gaze strayed to the local newspaper lying abandoned on the table next to his. Splashed across the front page was a photograph of Bernard Byrne, Aidan Gant, and a couple of other men. Gavin reached for it and skimmed the article.
Local property developer, Bernard Byrne, introduces the new design director for their soon-to-be constructed shopping center. Declan O’Keeffe said he was “Honored to be approached by Mr. Byrne back in June and delighted to start work on this ambitious project.”
Gavin choked on his cheese. What the actual fuck? Bernard approached O’Keeffe in June? The lying, scheming bastard.
He’d promised Gavin the position as far back as April, yet never got round to formalizing the arrangement. Had he ever intended to sign those papers?
Gavin forced his food down his throat. He knew the answer to that question. Bernard’s plan was to dangle a carrot in front of his eager son-in-law-to-be, only to yank it away the moment he returned from his honeymoon. Why should Bernard pay him a higher sa
lary when he was aware Gavin’s loyalty to Muireann made him unlikely to quit in favor of a more lucrative position?
“Penny for your thoughts.”
Gavin jerked at the sound of Bridie’s voice. “You wouldn’t want to hear them. Trust me.”
She lowered herself onto the stool opposite his, grimacing as she did so.
“Are you okay?” he asked. “Should you be in pain this long after the operation?”
“Ah, I’m grand. The damp weather always makes my arthritis worse. But I’m not here about my hip. I have a favor to ask of you.”
“Fire away.”
“I’m after letting that young pup Fiona used to go out with persuade me to invite him round for Christmas dinner. Fiona wants backup, and I’ve promised to find a few more guests. Unfortunately, most people already have plans. Can I count on you to come to our rescue?”
He laughed. “Consider it done.”
“I’m not dragging you away from prior commitments?”
“Ah, no. The O’Mahonys invited me round to theirs, but I said I’d go over for lunch on Stephen’s Day instead, right before Fiona and I start clearing the Book Mark.”
“Excellent.” Bridie heaved herself to her feet. “You can bring your little dog if you like.”
“Are you sure? He’s not exactly tame.”
Bridie leaned heavily on her cane. “Any dog that loathes Deirdre and her rats as much as I do is more than welcome in my home.”
Chapter Thirty-One
CHRISTMAS DAY DAWNED bitterly cold with a piercing wind.
Fiona helped Bridie prepare the last trimmings for the meal and mount the last of the numerous Christmas decorations.
“Doesn’t the place look grand?” Bridie beamed at her handiwork.
“It’s…” She struggled to find a tactful phrase. “…festive.”
Her aunt preferred tack to taste when it came to Christmas decorations and quantity over quality. The Christmas tree sagged under the weight of china figurines and tinsel. Colorful streamers adorned the ceiling. The crowning glory was the light-up Virgin Mary strategically placed in the hall to scare the crap out of unsuspecting visitors.
“Who did you find to invite for Christmas dinner?” she asked, sliding a ginormous turkey into the oven. “I need know how many places to set.”
“A few people. The Major. Philip. Oh, and Gavin Maguire.”
“You invited Gavin?” She jerked with such ferocity that she burned her hand against the side of the oven. “Ouch!”
“Best get your hand under cold water.”
Fiona shook her sore hand and held it under the ice-cold stream from the tap. “Why did you invite Gavin?”
“He’s a neighbor, isn’t he? Besides, despite your ageist comment about not caring if the guests were fossilized, I thought you might appreciate people your own age.”
She narrowed her eyes in suspicion. “Is this another one of your matchmaking attempts?”
“Now, haven’t I already said you should steer clear of the lad?” Bridie’s innocent expression was faker than her latest hair color. “In the romantic sense, that is. Besides, aren’t you well able to find a decent man yourself? You’ve told me so often enough. Not that you’ve actually found one, mind.”
Fiona bit back a laugh. “Thanks for the vote of confidence.”
“It’s kind of Gavin to offer to give up his Stephen’s Day to help you box books, not to mention him helping you paint the shop.”
She slathered ointment on her injury. “Guilt is a great motivator. He feels responsible for trusting that drunken eejit in Vegas to remember not to register our marriage.”
“Harrumph,” Bridie said. “Who’s making him feel guilty? You are, missy. Why didn’t you make sure the man wouldn’t register the papers?”
Fiona looked up in exasperation. “Because I assumed Gavin had taken care of it.”
“In other words, you both messed up, and you’re equally to blame for the consequences.”
“Bridie—”
“No.” Her aunt grabbed wine glasses from the cupboard and set them on the table. “You’re an adult, Fiona. You, and you alone, are responsible for sorting out your life. If you don’t want that nincompoop Philip here for Christmas dinner, why didn’t you turf him out of the Book Mark weeks ago? You clearly do want Gavin in your life, so why on earth are you sabotaging your one shot to put things right?”
“It’s… complicated.”
Her aunt rolled her eyes and threw her arms heavenward. “Life’s complicated. Get used to it.”
Fiona flicked on the kettle and made another cup of tea. Bridie was exasperating. And the most exasperating part was how right her aunt was. Why hadn’t she told Philip to feck off the moment he walked into the Book Mark? She should have made sure Drew Draper shredded the marriage papers that morning in Vegas. As for Gavin, she never should have kissed him in the cave, let alone slept with him. She knew how she felt about him, and she should have known better than to think she could keep their relationship a casual fling.
She sipped her hot tea and stared out at the weak winter sun. Christmas was a difficult time of year for her. The forced cheer and festivities acted as a sharp reminder of the family she’d lost. Clearly, she’d let the stress of the season cloud her judgment.
In a few days, the New Year would begin, bringing with it the chance of a fresh start for all of them. By the end of January, she’d make her belated escape from Ballybeg and head to Australia for the adventure of a lifetime. It was what she’d always dreamed of. So why did the prospect leave her feeling hollow inside?
At one o’clock on Christmas Day, Gavin pressed the doorbell of Bridie’s cottage. Wiggly Poo danced at his feet, tail wagging, tongue lolling.
Fiona opened the door. For a moment, he forgot to breathe. She was wearing a knee-length black corduroy skirt and a formfitting green roll-neck pullover and was absolutely gorgeous.
“Come in.” She stood to the side to let them pass. He brushed against her on his way in and saw her intake of breath. They stared at one another in awkward silence, neither sure how they should proceed.
Wiggly Poo had no such reservations. He launched himself at Fiona.
“Hey,” Gavin said. “Down, boy.”
Fiona laughed and bent to pet the little dog, giving him an excellent view of how nicely her skirt accentuated her curves. If only it were just her curves that had such an affect on him. In the days since their talk outside the Book Mark, he’d missed her like crazy.
“As you can see, we failed obedience school,” he said. “Or rather, he did. We’ve to retake the class next month.”
“You don’t say?” She grinned at him, and his heart skipped a beat. “Come through to the kitchen. The Major’s already here.”
“Merry Christmas, Gavin,” Bridie said. “Will you have a glass of mulled wine?” She was already sloshing a generous amount of the potent red liquid into four mugs.
“Hello, Major,” he said, taking a mug from Bridie.
“Fancy one of these scrumptious mince pies?” The Major asked, handing him a tray. “I believe Fiona made them.”
Fiona laughed. “Under your granddaughter’s strict instructions. I wasn’t born with Olivia’s knack for pastry, alas.”
“Nonsense,” The Major said. “You’ve done splendidly. If the smell wafting from the oven is any indication, your roast turkey will also turn out a treat.”
The doorbell rang, and Fiona excused herself to answer it. A minute later, she returned to the kitchen, her posture tense.
“Hello, folks.” Philip sloped into the room behind her, standing closer to Fiona than Gavin liked. He’d made zero effort with his outfit—ripped jeans and an ancient pullover. His hair looked as though it had seen neither shampoo nor a brush in the last few days. His gaze roamed over Fiona’s body in lewd appreciation. “Nice outfit, FeeFee.”
Gavin’s free hand balled into a fist.
“Wish I could return the compliment,” she said, taking a step aw
ay from Philip.
Wiggly Poo growled at the new visitor and bared his teeth.
Philip backed into a chair. “I’m not exactly a dog person.”
“Apparently, neither is he.” Fiona crossed her arms across her chest. “How come you didn’t go home to Dublin for Christmas?”
The guy shrugged. “I’m performing in the matinees over the next couple of days. There’s no time to make it to Dublin and back.”
“Your family won’t come to Cork?”
He flushed. “Actually, we’re not on speaking terms at the moment.”
“Fiona!” called Bridie. “Can you help me with the turkey? I think it’s done.”
The guests trooped into the tiny dining room and took their seats. The Major’s prediction about the turkey proved accurate. It was delicious, as were the various side dishes.
Gavin was having seconds when Bernard Byrne barged into the house. His face was red, his eyes were bloodshot, and the whiskey fumes were evident to everyone.
“Bernard?” Bridie asked, getting to her feet. “What are you doing here? Why didn’t you ring the doorbell?”
Bernard stubbed a sausage finger on the festive tablecloth. “You!” he snarled and lunged at Gavin.
He held Bernard at arm’s length, the smaller man going wild from his efforts to get in a punch. Seeing his owner under attack, Wiggly Poo raced to the rescue. He launched himself at Bernard and sank his teeth into his ankle.
“Argh!” Bernard roared “Get that animal off me.”
Fiona grabbed a piece of turkey from the table and waved it at Wiggly Poo. “Come on, boy. Look what I’ve got for you.”
Not releasing his grip on Bernard’s ankle, Wiggly Poo considered his options. Continue to gnaw the nasty’s man’s leg, or eat some yummy turkey? He let Bernard go and bounded toward the meat.
“Traitor,” Gavin said.
“My foot.” Bernard was scarlet with rage. “I’ll get gangrene.”
“What the feck is wrong with you?” Bridie demanded. “Why did you come barging into my house on Christmas Day?”
Bernard opened his thick lips to speak, panting through the pain. “Muireann’s pregnant.”
