Winters & Somers

by Glenys O'Connell

  The big man was silent, slumped down on the bench for a few minutes. Then he jumped to his feet, fumbling in his jacket pocket for change.

  “Where are you going?”

  “I'm running to get the bus – I'd better go home and straighten things out with Mary.”

  I always was a sucker for a romantic story. “Listen, Sean, go tell your boss you'll be gone a while, then come back here. I'll give you a lift home.”

  “Thank you!” Sean leaned forward and caught her up in an unexpected bear hug.

  “You're welcome,” she said, trying to breath against his shoulder, “All's well that ends well.”

  Of course, she wasn't allowed to keep those fuzzy warm feelings for long. A Dublin Corporation parking attendant had left a little something to the tune of €50 on her windscreen. She wasn't going to mention the fine, not wanting Sean to think he should dip into his holiday money to pay his share, but he'd already seen her snatch it from under the windshield wiper.

  When he said: “Aw, it could have been worse, they could have clamped this little beauty!” she did consider borrowing one of his wife's fine kitchen knives.

  * * *

  Her good deed for the day done, she headed back home to change her clothes and call Mary Margaret to see if she'd like to go out for a drink.

  “Well, you know, in my condition I can't take alcohol – it’s bad for the baby. But if you really need company, I'll come and have a glass of orange juice.” Mary Margaret's virtuous words had Cíara gagging at the other end of the line.

  But she agreed to meet her friend because she needed some time out – and she needed to be away from the flat in case Winters prowled back. Avoiding the man was among her top priorities right now. Especially as the work she'd insisted on doing had netted nothing more than a fifty Euro fine. After all, she couldn't rob Mary and Sean of their dream holiday by billing them at her usual rate, could she?

  * * *

  Cíara sipped a cup of coffee and munched on toast, savoring the delights of having her flat to herself. Smokey and Small Eddie had taken off sometime during the day, and please God had found some other sucker to take them in. And Winters - his whereabouts was like an itch in the back of her mind.

  Where was he, and who was he with? Jealous, my girl, that's what you are. And jealousy is just one more emotion you can't afford to have with that man!

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  “So, how are you doing with your man, then?” Mary Margaret, clad in a low cut loose blouse that screamed 'maternity!' with a sexy edge, stretched in her seat and eyed Cíara shrewdly.

  “First, Winters is NOT my man. Second, he's mud sucking pond scum. Third, I can't wait to get him out of my life,” her friend snapped, adding another helping of orange juice to her whiskey. By her standards, this made it health food. “What are you grinning at?”

  “You've really got a thing for this fella, haven't you?”

  Cíara glared, and then shrugged her shoulders. “Yeah. I've got it really bad. And you know what? He's full of promises about some bedtime romps he's planning for us – but he won’t follow through!”

  “Given him the opportunity, have you?”

  She blushed. “Well, sort of.”

  “Well, if you've given him the opportunity, given him plenty of encouragement, and he's not following through, then there's really only one answer.”

  “Suddenly you're an oracle of knowledge about the opposite sex?”

  “Well, I am an engaged woman and about to become a mother,” Mary Margaret said smugly.

  Cíara bit back a retort. She was getting desperate for anything that would shed light on Winters’ behavior. “Well, what would you say is the problem?”

  “Like I said, there can only be one answer. The man is gay.”

  Cíara choked on her drink, coughing and spluttering and spraying a nearby couple with a fine mist of whiskey and orange. A small crowd gathered to help and advise, and after much back patting from interested watchers and an offer of the Heimlich Maneuver from a pimply youth – an offer Mary Margaret firmly declined on Cíara's behalf – she was back to herself again.

  “You have got to be kidding! Winters? Gay? Have you seen this man?”

  “No, you've been keeping him under wraps. But looks don’t mean a thing. Remember Paddy Doherty – Mad Pat, we used to call him? Gorgeous hunk of manhood if ever there was one.”

  “No – get away with you! Pat Doherty's gay?” Cíara stared.

  “Keep your voice down – he's sitting over there! Of course Pat Doherty's not gay – been married twice, he has, and has about ten kids. No, I meant that friend of his, Connor Jones. Always used to hang around Pat, he did, and Pat stopped the other boyyos from beating on him. Well, everybody knew that Connor was gay as a bird,” Mary Margaret said with the air of one who knows whereof she speaks.

  “Why’d you think he's gay? Just because he wouldn't go to the grad dance with you!”

  Mary Margaret's eyes narrowed. “Well, at least I didn't go to the grad dance in a – Jesus, Mary and Joseph, would you look at that!”

  At that moment Cíara was ready to kiss anything that distracted Mary Margaret from finishing the sentence about the grad dance. She swiveled around in her seat to follow her friend's drooling gaze – right to where Jonathon Winters sat comfortably in a big leather chair. And with a big, leather skirted floozy draped all over him!

  “Ohmigod, Mary Margaret – that's him!”

  “You're mistaken, love, that's not Connor – “

  “No, you eeijit, that's Jonathon Winters! I've gotta get out of here.”

  “I thought we were friends, Cíara Somers! What kind of a friend keeps something like that hidden away from her best friend? You are not leaving this pub until we've been formally introduced!”

  She sighed. Grinding her teeth, she wondered exactly how to extricate herself from this mess, while her heart was doing a little gasping sobbing at the sight of Winters smiling at the woman by his side. They seemed pretty close, too. Damn the man!

  A closer inspection of the woman brought a nasty, wolfish grin to her lips. “Oh, yes, Mary Margaret – I'll introduce you. But first of all, I have to get rid of a little trash.”

  The woman with Winters was hip-swaying her way to the ladies room, turning from time to time to give Winters a cute little smile. A chill ran up Cíara's spine and heat rushed to her cheeks – this performance was much too close to her own pickup routine for comfort. Did she really look like that?

  No wonder her temptress success rate was so high – and no wonder Anton Wallace had the wrong idea!

  But now was time for a little fun. She followed the woman into the ladies' room, and leaned against one of the washbasins. When the woman came out and started to primp and preen, she leaned towards her conspiratorially.

  “Listen, love, I couldn't help but notice you with that fella...”

  The leather-skirted blonde gave a smug grin. “He is pretty noticeable, isn't he?”

  Cíara would have ground her teeth together if she hadn't been having such a good time. Taking a deep breath, she leaned even closer to the other woman, trying to ignore the eau de cheap perfume that tickled her nostrils. “Well, you see, that's why it’s all such a crying shame. Especially for someone in your line of work.”

  “Whaddya trying to say? You cheeky mare, coming out with such….” The other woman was bigger than Cíara and blocked out the light as she leaned indignantly over her.

  “I was just trying to let you know, as one working girl to another, that that man's a copper. Constable Plod. The Bill. You know, a policeman.”

  Blondie went pale under her pancake makeup. “Get away with you!” she snarled.

  “Sorry, love, but it’s true. You know how they have these pretty little banGardaí who go out and stand on street corners and pick up johns and then throw 'em in jail? Well, our friend out there is the boyyo equivalent of an undercover policewoman working vice.”

  “Well, the lying, underhand s
on of a –”

  “It's hard, isn't it? But you know, I would have wanted someone to tell me,” Cíara said, her voice dripping with sincerity, “Who wants to spend a night in the cells?”

  “Thank you, love. Sorry I was a bit sharp there. Men are such bastards.” She swung out of the women's room, Cíara in her wake. No way was she going to miss this!

  The blonde strode right up to Winters, picked up his nearly half full glass and emptied the contents into his lap. Without a word, she strode away, leaving him red with embarrassment and trying to mop up the beer from his pants.

  “Tut, tut, you know, if you must hang with the likes of that,” Cíara said, strolling over and handing him a wad of paper tissues.

  He took them gratefully, but something in her voice made him look sharply at her face. “You wouldn't have had anything to do with that now, would you?”

  “Me?” If there was one thing growing up in the backstreets had done it was teach a girl how to say “Me?” in several degrees of outraged innocence. “Believe me, you fell into that little mess all by yourself.” She started to stalk away, but he grabbed her hand. “Let go of me – you're making a spectacle,” she hissed.

  The ring of avidly watching faces enjoying the scene - everyone but him – convinced him to drop Cíara's hand. But he still harbored suspicions about her role in all this. He'd happened on the pub by accident – it was near the office – and had never dreamed she would come in here. He'd just been wondering how to extricate himself from the blonde's clutches when everything had landed in his lap. And he just knew Cíara was behind it. But he'd have revenge, just wait and see…

  “You know, you should go home and change, but first I want you to meet a friend of mine.” She led the way over to where Mary Margaret was sitting avidly watching the proceedings.

  “Delighted to meet you.” The Madonna like smile hovered around her lips. “And what a dreadful thing to happen! Shameful behavior! Good job Cíara was there to help you out.” And then the Madonna like smile was gone and she was roaring with laughter. “I'm sorry – it was just so.. so..”

  Scowling, Winters handed her one of the paper tissues to wipe her eyes. “Yeah, I know, it was just so funny.” And the look he gave Cíara would have blistered paint. “I guess it’s kind of soured the evening. Can I give you ladies a lift anywhere?”

  Cíara longed to say no, but Mary Margaret was ahead of her. “What do you drive?” she demanded. Cíara groaned.

  “I drive what the rental company calls a sports utility vehicle. Why – is there more than two of you? Do I need a Dublin bus?” At which Mary Margaret collapsed in giggles.

  “I think she's had a little too much to drink, take no notice of her,” Cíara said, grabbing her friend's arm. “And she's pregnant too. Pregnant women can't take the drink, you know. Makes them have funny fantasies.”

  Fortunately for her, Mary Margaret fell asleep in the back seat of the SUV while still admiring the vehicle. “Very, very nice,” she was cooing as sleep took her. “So much better than that Bobby Mallory…”

  They dropped her off at the small house she was sharing with Joe who, to give him credit, came out and gently helped Mary Margaret inside. “We're having a baby, did you know?” he announced proudly.

  Cíara made a note to maybe revise her opinion of him slightly upwards. He was certainly treating Mary Margaret like spun glass, and definitely happy to be about to become a Da.

  But the evening wasn't done with Cíara yet. Back at the apartment, she found that Smokey and Short Eddie were once more in residence.

  “I thought you were supposed to get yourself another gaff?” she demanded through the reek of prohibited substances, “I said one night and I meant it, Smokey.”

  “Aw, Cíara, one more night. We were supposed to stay at Alice's but she had company..”

  “Okay, okay. I can imagine. One more night.”

  Smokey turned to a disgruntled Winters, still standing by the door looking as if he wasn't sure whether he wanted to be there at all. “Hey, man, is that lovely piece of machinery yours?”

  Winters looked puzzled for a moment, realized Smokey was talking about his car, and grinned acknowledgement.

  “Beautiful motor, that. So much better than what Cíara usually gets lifts in. Right, babe? Do you remember the grad dance...”

  She grabbed him by the shirtfront. “No, I don’t remember the grad dance and you'd better not, either, if you know what’s good for you.”

  To Winters she added: “Hadn't you better go and change your pants? The stink of beer's enormous in here.”

  He raised his eyebrows. “You can smell spilt beer over the weed in here?” he asked, adding: “Besides, I think this just got interesting. I'm tired of people asking me what I drive. Tell us about the grad dance, Smokey.”

  “Don't you dare,” Cíara hissed.

  Smokey looked anxiously from one to another. “Er, do you still have that gun?”

  Winters gave a victorious grin and pulled up his pants leg just enough to let the leather holster show. Smokey swallowed audibly.

  “Sorry, honey, but... well, the gun gets it. You see, Cíara was all high and mighty about our grad dance at the end of secondary school, 'cos she had a boyfriend who's Da had a car. The rest of us were going on the bus, but Miss Prissy here was swanning around in a car. Bobby Mallory's dad had a regular job, you see, and they had money.”

  Winters heard Cíara make a choking sound. He was definitely enjoying this.

  “Well, at the end of the dance we all piled outside to wait around for the bus. The better off kids had pooled their money for a taxi, but some of us would have to walk or get the Dublin Corporation bus. The next thing is Bobby's dad arrives – in a garbage truck. That's his job; he works for the corporation as a bin man. Seems his car had been stolen from right outside the pub where he'd been passing the time before picking Bobby up and, being a good dad, he wanted to keep his promise to his little boy that he'd pick him up from the dance. He'd also had a couple of pints too many. So he borrowed one of the corporation bin trucks….”

  There was a moment of silence. “What did you do?” Winters asked.

  “I climbed up into the bloody truck and went home,” Cíara said, “And got stains all over my best party dress. I went home from the grad in a garbage truck. You happy now?” She turned and fled to her bedroom, slamming the door hard behind her.

  Winters wanted to laugh. It was funny, really. But the image of a proud teenaged Cíara all dressed in her finery ending her special evening in a garbage truck somehow touched his heart.

  “Gee, now, how'm I ever going to sleep? What if she comes out after me in the night?” Smokey muttered.

  “Just yell and I'll come out and rescue you,” Winters told him, and went to bed himself.

  But he couldn't sleep. Finally, he padded out of bed and gently tapped on Cíara's door.

  “Ummph'way,” came the grunt from inside. So he went in. She lay in bed with the moonlight washing over her like a silver aura, her red hair bronzed and her skin a soft ivory. Winters sucked in a deep breath and sat on the edge of the bed.

  “If you've come to gloat or make bin truck jokes, you can get lost. I've heard them all.”

  “No, I haven't. In fact, well, I didn't think it was all that funny.”

  “You didn't?” she sat up in bed, blinking at him.

  “I actually thought it must have been quite hurtful to you. Not exactly a young girl's dream ending, was it? “

  Cíara narrowed her eyes suspiciously, but there was nothing on his face to suggest that he was putting her on.

  “I went home that night, dumped the dress in the trash, and cried my eyes out. And I've never told anyone that – and if you tell anyone, I'll…”

  “I won't tell. Let's consider the whole thing closed.”

  She was silent for a moment, and Winters thought he saw a tear in her eye. But she covered it well. “You know, Winters, you're not totally the insensitive, self-centered jerk y
ou pretend to be, are you?”

  “Don't be too sure.” He grinned, then leaned down and gave her a gentle kiss on the cheek, inhaling her sleepy woman fragrance. It took him all his willpower to turn and leave her there in her warm bed.

  But back in his own room he fell asleep in a moment, with Cíara's face, her softness and her sweet smell dancing on his senses.

  To be woken very early in the morning by a panicked call from Liam Henley.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Winters knocked on Cíara 's door and went right in.

  “Whatever you want, I'm not interested,” came a sleepy voice from beneath the covers. She was lying about the wanting part. She'd been dreaming about him, actually. When he'd first come into her room and talked the New Man talk about how hurt she must have been on grad night, she'd thought he was trying to soften her up. And wasn't sure that she wouldn't have let him. But he simply kissed her cheek and walked away, and thoughts of him had driven her crazy all night.

  Now she opened one eye and glared at him.

  “Cíara, we've got to go. Your grandmother's in hospital – there was a break-in at her house last night.”

  “Granny Somers? Who did she kill?” She struggled awake.

  “No, not Lillian. Mrs. Henley. Seems she arrived home very late at night and disturbed a burglar. Liam Henley called, asked me to get you to the hospital as soon as possible.”

  Cíara was wide awake now, and pulling on her robe. The idea of Margaret Henley in hospital shouldn't bother her – but it did. “How was she hurt? How bad is she?”

  “I don't know. Liam was too upset to give me any details. Seems he arrived some hours after it all happened and found her unconscious. She's in the emergency room right now.”

  Less than ten minutes later they were in the four-wheel drive, careening through Dublin's awakening streets. Cíara couldn't hide the fact that she was frantic with worry and furiously angry into the bargain. What if something should happen to Margaret Henley, just as she was beginning to see a whole new side of her grandmother?