The Gallaghers of Ardmore Trilogy

by Nora Roberts

  TWO

  AS THE AIR was raw and the wind carried a sting, Shawn set out the makings for mulligan stew. The morning quiet of the pub’s kitchen was one of his favorite things, so as he chopped his vegetables and browned hunks of lamb, he enjoyed his last bit of solitude before the pub doors opened.

  Aidan would be in soon enough asking if this had been done or that had been seen to. Then Darcy would begin to move about upstairs, feet padding back and forth across the floor and the ghost echo of whatever music her mood called for that day drifting down the back stairs.

  But for now Gallagher’s was his.

  He didn’t want the responsibility of running it. That was for Aidan. Shawn was grateful he’d been born second. But the pub mattered to him, the tradition of it that had been passed down generation to generation from the first Shamus Gallagher, who with his wife beside him had built the public house by Ardmore Bay and opened its thick doors to offer hospitality, shelter, and a good glass of whiskey.

  He’d been born the son of a publican and understood that the job was to provide comfort of all sorts to those who passed through. Over the years, Gallagher’s had come to mean comfort, and it became known for its music—the seisiun , an informal pub gathering of traditional music—as well as the more structured sets provided by hired musicians from all over the country.

  Shawn’s love of music had come down to him through the pub, and so through the blood. It was as much a part of him as the blue of his eyes, or the shape of his smile.

  There was little he liked better than working away in his kitchen and hearing a tune break out through the doors. It was true enough that he was often compelled to leave what he was doing and swing out to join in. But everyone got what they’d come for sooner or later, so where was the harm?

  It was rare—not unheard of, but rare—for him to burn a pot or let a dish go cold, for he took a great measure of pride in his kitchen and what came out of it.

  Now the steam began to rise and scent the air, and the broth thickened. He added bits of fresh basil and rosemary from plants he was babying. It was a new idea of his, these self-grown herbs, one he’d taken from Mollie O’Toole. He considered her the best cook in the parish.

  He added marjoram as well, but that was from a jar. He intended to start his own plant of that, too, and get himself what Jude had told him was called a grow light. When the herbs were added to his satisfaction, he checked his other makings, then began to grate cabbage for the slaw he made by the gallons.

  He heard the first footsteps overhead, then the music. British music today, Shawn thought, recognizing the clever and sophisticated tangle of notes. Pleased with Darcy’s choice, he sang along with Annie Lennox until Aidan swung through the door.

  Aidan wore a thick fisherman’s sweater against the cold. He was broader of shoulder than his brother, tougher of build. His hair was the same dark, aged chestnut as their bar and showed hints of red in the sunlight. Though Shawn’s face was leaner, his eyes a quieter blue, the Gallagher genes ran strong and true. No one taking a good look would doubt that they were brothers.

  Aidan cocked a brow. “And what are you grinning at?”

  “You,” Shawn said easily. “You’ve the look of a contented and satisfied man.”

  “And why wouldn’t I?”

  “Why, indeed.” Shawn poured a mug from the pot of tea he’d already made. “And how is our Jude this morning?”

  “Still a bit queasy for the first little while, but she doesn’t seem to mind it.” Aidan sipped and sighed. “I’m not ashamed to say it makes my own stomach roll seeing how she pales the minute she gets out of bed. After an hour or so, she’s back to herself. But it’s a long hour for me.”

  Shawn settled back against the counter with his own mug. “You couldn’t pay me to be a woman. Do you want me to take her a bowl of stew later on? Or I’ve some chicken broth if she’d do better with something more bland.”

  “I think she’d handle the stew. She’d appreciate that, and so do I.”

  “It’s not a problem. It’s mulligan stew if you want to fix the daily, and I’ve a mind to make bread-and-butter pudding, so you can add that as well.”

  The phone began to ring out in the pub, and Aidan rolled his eyes. “That had best not be the distributor saying there’s a problem again. We’re lower on porter than I like to be.”

  And that, Shawn thought, as Aidan went out to answer, was just one of the many reasons he was glad to have the business end of things in his brother’s keeping.

  All that figuring and planning, Shawn mused, as he calculated how many pounds of fish he needed to get through the day. Then the dealing with people, the arguing and demanding and insisting. It wasn’t all standing behind the bar pulling pints and listening to old Mr. Riley tell a story.

  Then there were things like ledgers and overhead and maintenance and taxes. It was enough to give you a headache just thinking of it.

  He checked his stew, gave the enormous pot of it a quick stir, then went to the bottom of the steps to shout up for Darcy to move her lazy ass. It was said out of habit rather than heat, and the curse she shouted back down at him was an answer in kind.

  Satisfied altogether with the start of his day, Shawn wandered out to the pub to help Aidan take the chairs off the tables in preparation for the first shift.

  But Aidan was standing behind the bar, frowning off into space.

  “A problem with the distributor, then?”

  “No, not at all.” Aidan shifted his frown to Shawn. “That was a call from New York City, a man named Magee.”

  “New York City? Why, it can’t be five in the morning there as yet.”

  “I know it, but the man sounded awake and sober.” Aidan scratched his head, then shook it and lifted his tea. “He has a mind to put a theater up in Ardmore.”

  “A theater.” Shawn set the first chair down, then just leaned on it. “For films?”

  “No, for music. Live music, and perhaps plays as well. He said he was calling me as he’d heard that Gallagher’s was in the way of being the center of music here. He wanted my thoughts on the matter.”

  Considering, Shawn took down another chair. “And what were they?”

  “Well, I didn’t have any to speak of, being taken by surprise that way. I said if he wanted he could give me a day or two to think on it. He’ll ring me back end of week.”

  “Now why would a man from New York City be thinking of building a musical theater here? Wouldn’t you set your sights on Dublin, or out in Clare or Galway?”

  “That was part of his point,” Aidan answered. “He wasn’t a fount of information, but he indicated he wanted this area in particular. So I said to him perhaps he wasn’t aware we’re a fishing village and little more. Sure, the tourists come for the beaches, and some to climb up to see Saint Declan’s and take photographs and the like, but we’re not what you’d call teeming with people.”

  With a shrug, Aidan came around to help Shawn set up. “He just laughed at that and said he knew that well enough, and he was thinking of something fairly smallscale and intimate.”

  “I can tell you what I think.” When Aidan nodded, Shawn continued. “I think it’s a grand notion. Whether it would work is a different matter, but it’s a fine notion.”

  “I have to weigh the this and that of it first,” Aidan murmured. “Likely as not, the man will reconsider and head for somewhere more lively in any case.”

  “And if he doesn’t, I’d talk him ’round to building it back of the pub.” As it was part of the routine, Shawn gathered up ashtrays and began to set them out on the tables. “We’ve that little bit of land there, and if his theater was in the way of being attached to Gallagher’s, we’d be the ones to benefit most.”

  Aidan set down the last chair and smiled slowly. “That’s a good notion altogether. You’re a surprise to me, Shawn, working your mind around to the business of it.”

  “Oh, I’ve a thought in my head every once in a while.”

 
; Still, he didn’t give it much of another thought once the doors were open and the customers rolling in. He had time for a quick and entertaining spat with Darcy, giving him the pleasure of seeing her flounce out of his kitchen vowing never to speak to him again until he was six years in his grave.

  He doubted he’d have luck enough for that.

  He scooped up stew, fried fish and chips, built sandwiches thick with grilled ham and cheese. The constant hum of voices through the door was company enough. And for the first hour of lunch shift, Darcy kept her word, glaring silently as she swung in and out for orders, and giving new ones by staring at the wall.

  It amused him so much that when she came in to dump empties, he grabbed her and kissed her noisily on the mouth. “Speak to me, darling. You’re breaking my heart.”

  She shoved at him, slapped his hands, then gave up and laughed. “I’ll speak to you right enough, you bonehead. Turn me loose.”

  “Only after you promise not to brain me with something.”

  “Aidan’ll take the breakage out of my pay, and I’m saving for a new dress.” She tossed back her cloud of silky black hair and sniffed at him.

  “Then I’m safe enough.” He set her down and turned to flip over a hunk of sizzling whitefish.

  “We’ve a couple of German tourists who want to try your stew, with brown bread and slaw. They’re staying at the B and B,” she went on as Shawn got thick bowls. “Heading toward Kerry tomorrow, then into Clare, so they say. If it were me, and I had holiday in January, I’d be spending it in sunny Spain or some tropical island where you didn’t need anything but a bikini and a coating of sun oil.”

  She wandered the kitchen as she spoke, a woman with a stunning face, clear, creamy skin, and brilliant blue eyes. Her mouth was full, unapologetically sexual whether it was sulking or smiling. She’d painted it hot red that morning to keep herself cheerful on a chill and dreary day.

  She had a figure that left no doubt she was female, and her love affair with fashion had her outfit it in bold colors and soft fabrics.

  She had the Gallagher yen to travel, and the determination to do so in the style to which she longed to become accustomed. Lavish.

  Since today wasn’t the day for that, she picked up the order and started out just as Brenna came in. “What have you been into this time, then?” Darcy demanded. “You’ve black all over your face.”

  “Soot.” Brenna sniffed and scrubbed the back of her hand over her nose. “Dad and I’ve been cleaning out a chimney, and a right mess it is. I got most of it off me.”

  “If you think so, you didn’t look in a mirror.” Giving her friend a wide berth, Darcy went out.

  “She’d spend all her days looking in one if she had her choice,” Shawn commented. “Are you wanting lunch, then?”

  “Dad and I will have some of that stew. Smells fine.” She moved over, intending to ladle it up herself, but Shawn stepped between her and his precious stove.

  “I’d just as soon do that for you, as you didn’t get off as much of that chimney as you might think.”

  “All right. We’ll have some tea as well. And, ah, I need a word with you later.”

  He glanced over his shoulder. “What’s wrong with now? We’re both of us here.”

  “I’d rather do it when you’re not so busy. I’ll come back after the lunch shift if that suits you.”

  “You know where to find me, don’t you?” He set the stew and the tea on a tray.

  “I do, yes.” She took the tray from him and carried it out to the back booth where her father waited.

  “Here we are, Dad. Stew hot from the pot.”

  “And smelling like heaven.”

  Mick O’Toole was a bantam of a man, small and spare of build with a thick thatch of wiry hair the color of sand and lively eyes that drifted like the sea between green and blue.

  He had a laugh like a braying donkey, hands like a surgeon’s, and a soft spot for romantic tales.

  He was the love of Brenna’s life.

  “It’s good to be warm and snug now, isn’t it, Mary Brenna?”

  “That it is.” She spooned up stew and blew on it carefully, though the scent of it made her want to risk a scalded tongue.

  “And now that we are, and about to have our bellies filled as well, why don’t you tell me what’s worrying your mind.”

  He saw everything, Brenna thought. That was sometimes a comfort, and other times a bit of a nuisance. “It’s not a worry so much. Do you know how you told us what happened when you were a young man and your grandmother died?”

  “I do, yes. I was right here in Gallagher’s Pub. Of course, that was when Aidan’s father manned the bar, before he and his wife took off for America. You weren’t more than a wish in my heart and a smile in your mother’s eye. There I was, back where young Shawn is right now, in the kitchen. I was fixing the sink in there, as it had a slow and steady leak that finally made Gallagher give me a whistle.”

  He paused to sample the stew, dabbing his mouth with his napkin, as his wife was fierce on table manners and had trained him accordingly.

  “And as I was on the floor, I looked over and there was my grandma, wearing a flowered dress and a white apron. She smiled at me, but when I tried to speak to her, she shook her head. Then lifting a hand in a kind of farewell, she vanished. So I knew at that moment she’d passed over and that what I’d seen had been the spirit of her come to say good-bye. For I had been her favorite.”

  “I don’t mean to make you sad,” Brenna murmured.

  “Well.” Mick let out a breath. “She was a fine woman, and lived a good and long life. But it’s left to us still living to miss those who aren’t.”

  Brenna remembered the rest of the story. How her father had left his work and run down to the little house where his grandmother, two years a widow, lived. And he found her in her kitchen, sitting at the table in her flowered dress and white apron. She’d died quiet and peaceful.

  “And sometimes,” Brenna said carefully, “those who pass on miss others. This morning, in Faerie Hill Cottage, I saw Lady Gwen.”

  Mick nodded, and shifted closer to listen as Brenna told him.

  “Poor lass,” he said when she was finished. “It’s a long time to wait for things to come ’round for you.”

  “Some of us do a lot of waiting.” Brenna glanced over as Shawn came out with a tray piled with food. “I want to speak to Shawn about this when the pub quiets down a bit. Darcy says there’s an outlet up in her rooms that isn’t working proper. I think I’ll go see to that after we’ve had our meal here, then take some time to talk to Shawn. Unless there’s something else you have for me to do today.”

  “Today, tomorrow.” Mick lifted his shoulders. “What we don’t get to at one time, we’ll get to another. I’ll just take myself up to the cliff hotel and see if they’ve decided on which room they want renovated next.” He winked at his daughter. “We could have ourselves a nice piece of work there for the whole of the winter. Where it’s warm and it’s dry.”

  “And where you can sneak down and check on Mary Kate in the offices where she’s fiddling with a computer all day.”

  Mick grinned sheepishly. “I wouldn’t call it checking so much. But I’m grateful she decided to take a job close to home since she’s done with university. I expect she’ll find work that suits her better in Dublin or Waterford City before much longer. My chicks are all flying the coop.”

  “I’m still roosting. And you’ll have Alice Mae for years yet.”

  “Ah, but I miss the days when my five girls went tripping over me every time I turned around. Here’s Maureen a married woman, and Patty going for a bride come spring. Don’t know what I’ll do, darling, when you hitch yourself to a man and leave me.”

  “You’re well stuck with me, Dad.” She crossed her booted feet as she finished off her stew. “Men don’t lose their heads or their hearts over women like me.”

  “The right one will.”

  It took all her effort not to l
et her gaze wander toward the kitchen. “I won’t be holding my breath. Besides, we’re partners, aren’t we, now?” She looked up and grinned at him. “So man or no man, it’s always O’Toole and O’Toole.”

  Which, Brenna thought as she used Darcy’s bathroom to wash away the rest of the soot, was just the way she wanted it. She had work that pleased her, and the freedom to come and go that no woman could manage with a man attached to her.

  She had her room at home as long as she wanted it. The companionship of family and friends. She’d leave the fussing with keeping a house and pleasing a husband to her sisters Maureen and Patty. Just as she’d leave office work and marking her time by a clock to Mary Kate.

  All she needed to get by were her tools and her lorry.

  And her wanting Shawn Gallagher brought her little but frustration and annoyance. She imagined that one day, eventually, it would pass.

  Knowing Darcy well, Brenna made certain she cleaned up every spot of dirt. She left the little white sink gleaming and used her own rags to dry her hands and face rather than the frilly fingertip towels Darcy had on the rod. Which, to Brenna’s mind, were a complete waste of fabric, since no one who really needed to use them would dare.

  Life would be simpler if everyone bought black towels. Then no one would shriek and curse when their fluffy white ones ended up grubby.

  She spent a quiet few minutes replacing the broken outlet in the living area with the new box she’d brought along. She was just screwing on the cover when Darcy came in.

  “I was hoping you’d get to that. It was irritating.” Darcy dumped her tip money in what she called her wish jar. “Oh, Aidan said to tell you that he and Jude want to have some work done in what will be the baby’s room. I’m going over to see Jude now, if you want to come along and see what she has in mind.”

  “I’ve something to do first, but you can tell her I’ll come ’round in a bit.”

  “Damn it, Brenna! You’ve left dirty boot prints all over the floor here.”