by Jo McNally
“Ladies first.”
“Not a chance. I have a cousin in real estate, and she told me to never turn my back on a stranger.” Why was she telling him about that? To his credit, he didn’t laugh at her, or take offense. He simply considered her words, then nodded and walked by her and into the apartment. “Is that why you only rent to women?”
“Umm...I don’t know how rentals work in Ireland, but here in New York, I can’t admit to discriminating based on gender.”
Finn’s eyes shone even brighter. “Cleverly put, Miss McKinnon. You can’t admit it, but you didn’t deny it.” He looked around the space that served as living room, dining room and kitchen. “More modern than I would have thought.”
No surprise there. The house was built in the late 1800s, and the original lacy gingerbread trim still lined the roof edges and crowned the porch posts. But the interior had been updated back in the 1980s. It was almost jarring compared to the exterior, and that was another thing on her someday list—redecorate. It was way down low on a very long list, though.
“Probably more frilly than you’d like.” But if she hoped the curtains and ruffled pillows would chase him off, she was clearly mistaken.
“’Tis fine. Reminds me of my ma and da’s house in Sallins. Not a lot of room for my books, but I can deal with it.”
They walked back toward the small kitchen tucked behind a laminated peninsula. She pointed to two doors on the left. “Bathroom. Bedroom. Nothing fancy.”
Finn inspected the rooms. She thought maybe the peach-colored walls in the bedroom would put him off, but he didn’t even blink.
“I’ll take it.”
“Uh...I haven’t said I want you to take it.”
She had no reason not to rent to him. Lord knew, she needed the money. Yes, he was a man, but he didn’t give off any obvious alphahole vibes. And he sure was easy on the eyes. But having him living downstairs felt risky somehow. There was something about him. In what little interaction they’d had, he had a way of looking at her that made her feel...seen. And she’d worked really hard to build defensive walls to protect herself. She had too much to do to be vulnerable to anyone.
He turned and gave her a long look. There was less humor in his eyes now. He looked more guarded than before. She cleared her throat and started a very firm lecture.
“I don’t allow any parties or nonsense down here. I don’t want people coming in and out, especially at night. No one gets a key other than the tenant. That front door to the house stays locked all the time. And I mean all. The. Time. The walls aren’t exactly paper-thin, but there’s not a lot of soundproofing, either. I expect quiet after ten. If you’re using the laundry area in the basement instead of a laundromat, it’s an extra twenty per month. And it’s my laundry area, too, so you can’t leave stuff around. There’s absolutely no smoking. I get the driveway parking, since it’s only one car wide. You can park in the bar lot and walk over.” She scrunched her eyes tightly shut. Why did she keep using you like it was some kind of done deal?
She knew why—she needed a tenant and fast. Finn had walked back out to the kitchen, and was now opening and closing the refrigerator and stove. He looked over his shoulder.
“Like I said, I’ll take it.” Her mouth opened, and he held up his hand to stop her. “No parties. Quiet. Can’t park here. No smoking. Lock the door. Don’t leave my laundry in the dryer. I got it. I want the place.” He slid his hands into his jean pockets. “Look, I need a place. I’m livin’ at the Taggart Inn right now, and the college thinks I’m some kind of flight risk because of it. I’ll lay low and stay out of your way. My credit...” He hesitated, and Bridget tensed. She should have known he was too good to be true.
“And there it is. Your credit sucks, right? Let me guess—you need a little time to scrape together the security deposit? But I should trust you for it and let you move in anyway? Thank you—next.” More than one student had suckered her in with their tale of woe. She waved her hands toward the door. “Bye.”
“Easy there, Quick-Draw.” He chuckled as he straightened. “I’ve got the money. I’ll give you cash today if that’ll do it. It’s just that my...uh... divorce...” His voice trailed off as quickly as his smile did. “Stuff happened. My credit took a hit. But I’ve got enough cash to handle this. And steady income from the college.”
She studied him through narrowed eyes. She knew how hard it was when a relationship ended unexpectedly. Clark was out in California enjoying the furniture, rugs and lamps that she’d paid for. But she relied on the income from this place to cover most of her mortgage. Her previous tenant, Cyndi, had been a student. A junior, so Bridget had figured she was pretty stable when she moved in last August. But Cyndi had transferred in from a school in Texas. After raving all through the fall months about how excited she was to see snow, she went home to Houston for the holidays, and never came back. A couple early winter snowstorms were all she’d needed to see.
Bridget had to find a new tenant. Finn wanted to be one. It would be weird to have a man living down here, but it’s not like she’d ever seen much of her previous tenants—just the occasional pass in the foyer or bumping into them doing laundry. But if this guy had credit issues... She brushed past him and went to the front window, pushing the curtains aside. Her dad used to insist she could learn a lot about a person from their vehicle.
“What do you drive?”
“What?” His footsteps came closer, but stopped a few feet away. She had to give him credit—he was careful not to invade her space. “A Forester. Why?”
She saw the Subaru SUV behind hers in the driveway. It was newer, but was so covered with salt from the roads that she couldn’t tell if it was blue or black. The same was true of any other vehicle in Upstate New York this time of year. Not the type of vehicle some broke loser would be driving. Or some flashy playboy. It was...practical.
“Owned or leased?”
“Um...owned. And paid for.”
She turned, surprised to find him closer than she’d thought. His hands were back in his pockets again. Did he do that on purpose, just to look super-cool and unruffled? One hand slid out, and he ran it through his hair, leaving wavy curls standing up in its wake. She had a sudden and nonsensical urge to see what those curls felt like.
“I can go to the bank, get two month’s rent in cash, and be back here in half an hour.”
She glanced at her watch. “Should have thought of that before you showed up so late. I have to get to work.”
He huffed out a soft laugh. “The bank doesn’t open ’til nine. I wasn’t gonna stand at an ATM after midnight last night to get that kind of cash. You’ve got a tenant standing here ready to sign on the dotted line or whatever it is you Yanks call it. I’m basically a hermit, which translates to a perfect tenant.”
He was making good points, but instead of agreeing, she grabbed for the tiny red flag she’d just heard.
“A hermit? You mean the kind of guy everyone always describes as ‘quiet and keeps to himself’ after he goes on some murdering spree?”
The slanted smile returned, along with the spark of laughter in his eye. “No. The kind of hermit who teaches history and finds curling up with an eight-hundred-page book on the subject of hygiene in the Middle Ages to be a fun Friday night.”
“You’re not the type of professor who hoards piles of books and papers and stuff, are you? I expect this apartment to be kept clean...”
Finn’s head tipped to the side in that way he had. She barely knew the man, but she could already tell this was another trait of his. “Do you ask your female tenants if they’re hoarders, Bridget?”
Oh, touché.
“It’s a brand-new question on my tenant application.”
He released a long sigh. “With the way you’re waiting to pounce on my answers, I think I’ll confine myself to a simple yes or no from now on. As in no—I’m not a hoarder
. But yes, I own a lot of books. Any more questions?”
She did her damnedest to come up with one, but couldn’t. He gave a quick nod.
“Right. I’ll go to the bank and be right back. Will you be here or at the pub?” He started to turn, as if wanting to escape before she could object. But he caught himself and stopped. “Any chance I can get in before the first? Like...next week? I’ll pay a prorated amount, of course.”
She’d kept Cyndi’s security deposit, which covered the surprise loss of January’s rent. But still, a little extra wouldn’t hurt. “I guess it’s okay. I’ll give you the key when you come back with the cash. And I’ll have a lease ready for you to sign.”
He thanked her and walked out the door, leaving the flat feeling suddenly lifeless. It was as if Finn O’Hearn had lit the place up, then extinguished the flame on his way out. She had a hunch he was going to bring more than just energy to the house.
She headed upstairs to print out a lease agreement and finish getting ready for the longest day of her week. Although being wintertime, it should be a moderately slow Saturday, especially after the big Turn the Page party last night.
She thought of Finn’s face when he was in her kitchen at the Shamrock, grimacing at the mention of green beer. She agreed completely, of course—the stuff was gross. But it was a McKinnon tradition. Even she wasn’t brave enough to ask their regulars to give that up.
Bridget texted her cousin Mary, to see how Nana was doing today. The response was slow in coming, and did nothing to reassure her.
Chemo’s kicking her ass this week. No appetite. Freaking out about her hair.
She took a deep breath, blinking rapidly. Her grandmother had basically raised Bridget after her mom died. Bridget had been ten at the time, mad at the world and everyone in it. It was Nana who’d diverted all that anger into cooking. For Bridget, there was great comfort in precise measuring and planning. That little bit of control had given her peace. Nana knew what she’d needed back then. It was up to her to return the favor now. She typed her reply.
Tell her I’ll make a shepherd’s pie for her with no spices.
Spice was one of several things Maura McKinnon couldn’t handle since she’d started chemo. She used to love hot wings and Bridget’s Irish tacos with jalapeño peppers. But now any spice at all set off her nausea. The woman was barely eating as it was, and couldn’t afford to lose more weight. Bridget slipped her jacket on, figuring Mary wasn’t going to reply. She was on her way across the parking lot when the phone vibrated in her pocket.
She’ll love that. She’s finally agreed to let me cut her hair short this week. Even her eyelashes are shedding.
Bridget unlocked the back door to the pub kitchen, then locked it behind her. She hung her coat and started flipping light switches to get the place ready for whatever lunch crowd they might get in this snow. Once she had the lights on and the ovens, steamers and fryers warming up, she pulled her phone back out and stared at it. Nana was so proud of her gleaming auburn hair. They’d all known hair loss was likely, but Nana kept finding posts on the internet from people who didn’t lose their hair, and she’d read them out loud to Bridget and her cousins.
“See?” she’d say. “Not everyone goes bald!”
If anyone could will themselves not to lose their hair during chemo, it was Maura McKinnon. Bridget looked at the phone again, as if she could find an answer to the dilemma there. When Kelly showed Nana a catalog of human hair wigs a few weeks ago, their grandmother had thrown it into the corner in an uncharacteristic show of anger. Temper tantrums were more Bridget’s thing than Nana’s. But she knew Nana wouldn’t want to walk around bald, either. And it was wintertime. She tapped on her phone screen.
Want me to bring her a new hat or scarf to try?
She could picture Mary, probably sitting at her desk and designing a website for someone, in spite of her children creating chaos all around her. She was almost as driven as Bridget was. But without the quick temper. A few wavy lines appeared on her screen as Mary typed.
Can’t hurt. Something bright. Not pink! She hates that color more every day.
Bridget stared out the window for a minute, watching big soft snowflakes drift down from a gray sky. Across the lot she could see her house, a narrow blue-gray shadow in the snow. Her father had left her the house along with the bar, but neither were exactly a prize.
Daddy had always said the Purple Shamrock would be hers someday, even in the days when she’d lived in California and insisted she didn’t want it. Maybe that’s why he’d included her cousins in the will, with Bridget holding a controlling share. When Dad died, she’d had no choice but to move back home to Rendezvous Falls. It had all been for the best with Nana getting sick and needing her. And it allowed her to find out just how little Clark had actually cared about her, since he let her go with barely a wave goodbye. He’d moved another woman in within weeks. She tapped her fingers against her thigh. So much for being soul mates.
Finn’s SUV pulled up to the side door and he hopped out, fixing a testy look at the sky that wouldn’t stop snowing. Letting him have the apartment felt like a colossally bad idea.
But she couldn’t help thinking that her grandmother would love this handsome Irish guy with the crooked grin and the lilting brogue.
* * *
MAURA PUT HER right hand into the hands of her best friend, Victoria Pendergast, and sighed as Vickie started massaging her fingers. Having breast cancer was bad enough at her age, but when she got the news, she figured she was up for the fight. After all, she’d given birth to her first of three children at eighteen. She’d buried her husband at thirty. She’d helped her son Patrick run the family pub for decades, and did her best to keep him from running it into the ground completely. Then she’d discovered him there one morning, dead of a heart attack at only fifty-two. Maura had dealt with all of that, damn it. She could surely take on cancer.
But no one told her it wasn’t just the cancer she’d be fighting. Despite her brave talk, she knew she’d probably lose her hair, but never considered that meant losing her eyebrows. And now her eyelashes were falling out, too. Somehow, that made it so much worse. Even after she gave in last week and conceded to wearing a pretty scarf, her face looked like a chalky mask, with no sign of her there anymore when she looked in the mirror. There were days when she couldn’t feel her own hands or feet. It felt like she was losing her body, and it scared the hell out of her.
She expected chemotherapy to make her sick, but she didn’t know she’d end up with this awful neuropathy. Vickie gently rubbed Maura’s fingers and up across the back of her hand to her wrist. The chemo caused a numbness that made her feel clumsy and awkward. Sometimes the tingling was more like sharp needles stabbing into her flesh, but today was “just” a tingling day. The massaging helped, although some articles said that was all in her head. Whatever—it made her feel better and that’s all that mattered. The doctor said the neuropathy wasn’t in her head, though. It was her nerves sending off haywire signals because the chemicals killed good cells as well as bad ones, especially nerves. That was just great.
Her eyes fell closed as Vickie started working on her wrists, rubbing her skin gently, but pressing just enough to make the tingling stop.
“Hey,” Vickie’s voice was soft and low. “If you’re too tired and want me to come back later, I...”
Maura blinked, then felt her face flush when she realized she’d almost nodded off. That happened a lot these days. She shook her head with a smile.
“No, Vick, don’t stop. This is by far the best part of my week.”
Vickie snorted. “You really need to get a life.”
“I’m trying to.”
Vickie arched a brow at Maura’s dark humor, then smirked. “You couldn’t pick a life with hair?”
Maura barked out a laugh. This was what friends gave her that family could not. The ability to be...h
er. To laugh. To be snarky. To be normal. Her family loved her, but they couldn’t hide their fear for her. They wanted to make things soft and easy and quiet and relaxing. That was sweet. But none of those words had ever described Maura before cancer, and she’d be damned if she’d let them describe her now. She ran her hand across the blue silk scarf covering her scalp.
“Well, I heard that post-chemo hair grows in thick and curly, and I have always wanted thick and curly hair. I figured flooding my body with poison and being sick for months was a small price to pay.”
Vickie’s fingers hesitated just a fraction, recognizing the slight bitter edge to Maura’s voice. But her friend pursed her lips and played along. “Doesn’t surprise me. I’ve known you all my life, and you’ve always taken the most pigheaded path possible to anything you’ve ever wanted.” Vickie looked up. “Speaking of pigheaded, how’s Bridget doing with her plans to bring the Purple Shamrock into the twenty-first century?”
“Oh, she’s determined, that’s for sure. She wants to add a beer garden behind the pub this summer. I guess it’s the ‘in’ thing now. Her cousins aren’t convinced, but of course they will be. Bridget’s a force of nature.”
“Gee, I wonder where she got that from?” Vickie was putting lotion on Maura’s hands now, rubbing them together between hers. She held one hand up and examined it. “You ready for a manicure? I brought hot pink...” Vickie winked, knowing Maura had a slightly irrational dislike for the way everyone wanted her to wear pink all the time. As if she was supposed to suddenly love a color she’d never liked before just because she had breast cancer. Vickie held up another bottle of polish. “Or we could use this pretty coral?”
“I’ll take the coral. It’s like a slice of summer in January.”
Maura enjoyed having Vickie do her nails. There was something touching—and amusing—about the wealthy thrice-married divorcée dressed in head-to-toe Ralph Lauren and sporting her own expensive acrylics, doing someone else’s nails. People thought Vickie was a snob, and she could be, but Maura had learned long ago that it was her friend’s defense mechanism. If people couldn’t be bothered to get to know the real person behind the carefully coiffed facade, then Victoria Pendergast couldn’t be bothered with them.
