Barefoot on a Starlit Night

by Jo McNally

  “Yes. No. And yes.” He smirked at her look of confusion as she tried to apply the answers to her questions. Her eyebrows rose.

  “You have a question? What is it?”

  “Wanna join me for pizza?” After she’d tossed it at him, he’d noticed the exhaustion in the lines around her eyes, and the invitation came out without thinking.

  Her mouth fell open. “Me?”

  “Uh...yeah.” He wasn’t much of a social butterfly these days, but it couldn’t hurt to make peace with his landlady. To reassure her that she was safe with him. “I assume you eat meals like a normal person, and this is a meal...not a fancy one, but still...”

  She shook her head sharply, her lips pressed tight together. “I don’t think that’s a great idea. We’re not roommates. We don’t need to be friends.” Her voice softened. “I mean...thank you. But...no. Besides, I’m working tonight. I just came over to change.”

  He knew she ran the pub, but Rick said her whole family was involved. “Do you work every night?”

  “Not quite, but I may as well. We’re closed on Mondays, and have a limited kitchen menu Tuesday through Thursday, so sometimes I can let one of my cousins step in.” Her face twisted. “On a really good week, I might even have a cook on staff, but...”

  Finn had heard her reputation for not keeping staff. “But good help is hard to find?”

  She hesitated, then nodded with a soft smile. “Something like that.”

  “Well, I worked in a chipper as a lad in Dublin, so if you ever...” Her forehead wrinkled and he realized she had no idea what he was talking about. “I worked at a fry shop...we did fish and chips...or fish and fries, whatever you want to call it. It’s the Irish equivalent of a fast food joint, but everything cooks in a vat o’ bubblin’ grease.” He shrugged. “If you’re in a bind, just ask.”

  She gave him a head-to-foot scan as if she wasn’t sure he was real. There was a glint of offense in her eyes. “I do not need anyone’s help. I either hire someone to do a job or I do it myself.” She gestured toward him with her hand. “I don’t even know you. And you think I’m just going to say, ‘Oh, Finn, I need your help with the fryer!’ Why? Because you’re a man? Uh, no.” She glared at all the boxes on the floor. “I don’t know what you thought was going to happen once you moved in, but we are not pals and I don’t need any of your favors.” He opened his mouth to speak but she shut him down. “Seriously. Don’t be charming. Don’t be friendly. Just be quiet, don’t set the place on fire and keep the door locked, okay?”

  And she was gone, leaving Finn holding a cooling pizza and wearing a wide grin. Getting Bridget McKinnon fired up was just too easy to resist—she reminded him of his wee sis, Sally, at home. He used to bet his friends on how fast he could get Sally to throw something at him in anger. His smile faded. Pissing off his landlady was a bad idea. She could throw him to the curb. He needed to keep this place. He looked around at the cardboard boxes and ruffled curtains. Home Sweet Home.

  * * *

  “HE OFFERED TO COOK, Nana! Or fry, or...something.” A week later, Bridget was still fuming. “Like I’m some damsel in distress who needs my tenant—a total stranger!—to come rescue me.” She knew she was making too big a deal of Finn’s offer, but he’d thrown her off kilter by getting her to talk about that awful night when that kid showed up in her bedroom. Hell, her own family didn’t even know that. Her friend, Kareema, was the only person she’d told. Then he’d asked her to eat with him and offered to help. Was he trying to be her white knight? Because she definitely didn’t want one.

  Besides, she was a trained chef, and didn’t need some dashing Irishman to come fry her freaking food. Her eyes closed. She really needed to stop thinking of how good Finn would look sweating over the commercial fryer in her kitchen, dark hair curling around his face and his sleeves rolled up to expose arms she now knew were rock solid.

  Last night she’d watched from her apartment as he carried yet another box of books into the house. It was one of those rare almost-warm February days and he’d pushed up the sleeves of his rugby shirt, exposing a surprising Celtic tattoo wrapping around his forearm. The professor had a tat. Interesting.

  He was actually an ideal tenant so far. She barely heard him downstairs. No loud music. Not even the murmur of a television most nights. And ever since she’d lambasted him about leaving the door unlocked, he’d been meticulous about that. He’d even swept out the entry hall and had taken the trash to the curb last week. He was the type of tenant landlords dreamed of. And that was the problem. She couldn’t stop dreaming about him.

  “Bridget! Are you listening?” Nana’s voice cut into her daydreaming.

  “What? I’m sorry, Nana.”

  “So this tenant of yours offered to help, and that annoyed you because...?”

  Why indeed? Lord knew she needed help at the Shamrock these days. Jimmy and Marta had “quit” before, but they always came back. Until now. Bridget was determined not to beg, but handling the kitchen alone was wearing her down. She might have to swallow her pride and call Jimmy this week. She gave her Nana a half-hearted smile.

  “I don’t know. I’m just...tired.”

  Nana’s mouth slid into a grin. “That look in your eye when you were complaining about this Finn guy had nothing to do with being tired, girlie. Tell me more about this annoying tenant of yours. He’s actually from Ireland, right? Is his brogue delicious?”

  “Yes.” Bridget’s eyes went wide in horror. “I mean, yes, he has a brogue.” And it’s delicious. “But he’s just a tenant. We have a contractual agreement and nothing more.”

  “Nothing more, eh? Is that why you’re still talking about the man today?”

  Her grandmother laughed with more energy than Bridget had seen since the chemo started. She had one of Kelly’s thin ski caps on. She said it was for warmth, but Bridget knew it was to hide her newly shaved scalp. They were sitting at Nana’s kitchen table in the rambling Victorian she shared with only Kelly these days. But this house had seen several generations of McKinnons grow up, including Bridget after her mom died. It hadn’t changed much. The kitchen was a sunny yellow, with a greenhouse window over the deep porcelain sink. The old wooden cabinets had been painted a creamy white about ten years ago, which brightened the room even more.

  “I’m talking about him to keep you happy, you nosy ninny.” Bridget shook her head. “You ask about him every time I see you, and today I finally had a story for you. You’re just obsessed with his Irishness, admit it.”

  “Maybe. I’d like to meet this Irish tenant of yours. When is he usually home?” Nana took a sip of her tea, doing her best to look innocent, and failing. Badly.

  Bridget’s laughed. “Why? What are you planning? Just to knock on his door and introduce yourself?”

  “Why not? That used to be my son’s home, and the last I knew I was welcome to use my key to gain entrance.” Nana’s brow, hairless as it was, rose high enough to make her point. Bridget held up a hand in surrender. Her grandmother didn’t have Bridget’s quick temper, but the woman sure had a way of getting what she wanted.

  “You know you can use that key anytime. But it won’t get you into his apartment.”

  “I would hope not. I’m not looking to rifle through his things. Your hot Irish boy needs his privacy.”

  Bridget sat very still, juggling those words in her head and trying to decide which to tackle first. “He’s definitely Irish, but he is not mine, and he’s no boy.”

  He’d put his birthdate on his rental agreement, so she knew he would turn forty in the fall.

  Her grandmother leaned forward with a sharp twinkle in her eye. “Ah-ha! You don’t deny he’s hot! He’s a looker, eh?”

  Bridget let her head fall back and stared up at the ceiling in defeat. “You are relentless. I don’t know if I’d call him hot...” She totally would, but not to her grandmother. “But he’s not u
gly, either. An interested woman would definitely be...interested. But I’m not. Interested.”

  Nana’s smile softened. “And why is that, honey?”

  “Seriously? I don’t have the time or energy for anything like that.”

  “And why is that, honey?” Nana’s repeated question had a bit of an edge to it now.

  Wasn’t it obvious?

  “Nana, you know why. I’m barely keeping up with the bills. I’ve been doing all the cooking since Jimmy and Marta quit. The house needs work. And with you being...”

  There was a beat of silence.

  “With me being sick? Don’t you think you’re taking care of enough without trying to control my illness, too?” Nana sighed, her fingers tapping on the table as if she was playing an invisible piano. “If you keep taking on all the worries of this family, you’ll never have time to take care of yourself, Bridget. You don’t have to manage the McKinnons.”

  But...didn’t she, though?

  “Who else is going to step up? Your children have scattered across the country and have their own careers, and your grandchildren still in town have their own lives, and aren’t interested. Mary’s ready to pop. Kelly is in school and working at the pub. Timothy’s getting ready to be a dad. And Michael thinks if he ignores things long enough at the pub that they’ll take care of themselves.” She paused for a breath. “I’m the one with the organization skills and the time to do it, because I don’t have...”

  “A life?” There went Nana’s naked brow again. It wasn’t a lie, but Bridget wasn’t ready to admit it.

  “Because I don’t have some man to worry about. That’s what we were talking about, remember? I have the pub and...the family at large. Including you.” She patted her grandmother’s hand. “And that’s a good thing. I’m the best at managing, so let me manage things and don’t worry about my personal life. I’ll have time for that when you’re better and I’ve got the pub making money again so I can relax.” She had no idea when that magical moment would arrive, but surely it would...someday.

  Her grandmother stared at her for so long that Bridget had to fight the urge to squirm in her chair. She’d often wondered if her grandmother had some of those mysterious Celtic powers, as her father had often claimed. Dad swore his mother could see the future and spot a lie faster than any machine ever could.

  The woman nodded slowly and grasped Bridget’s fingers.

  “Okay, hon. You’ve always had a need to be in charge, and I can’t deny you’re good at it. Maybe too good, but that’s a talk for another day.” She took a deep breath, and Bridget noticed a grayish pallor to her face.

  The chemo was taking its toll. Nana was exhausted most of the time. She was having a hard time maintaining her appetite, so she’d lost some weight. That made her look even more frail. Some days she was in pain. Other days, she seemed disoriented. Bridget blinked and looked away for a moment, collecting her emotions and getting them under control. She wanted to make things better. She needed to. She’d lost her mom way too early, and the thought of losing Nana filled her with a bottomless sorrow, as well as a fierce determination to fix things.

  Nana’s gaze sharpened. “Girl, you can’t put off livin’ your own life until the timing is perfect. You might just wake up some morning to discover time’s up. I know you never planned on coming home to run the Shamrock. It wasn’t your dream. You gave up California. You gave up what’s-his-name.” Bridget smiled. Clark had never once come back to Rendezvous Falls to meet her family. That should have told her something, but she’d missed the warnings. Nana leaned forward and continued. “Don’t make yourself a martyr for the McKinnons. We’re tougher stock than you give us credit for. Remember that, okay?”

  She started to speak, then thought better of it. There was a lot of wisdom in what her grandmother had just said. She knew that. But she couldn’t help thinking the wild McKinnons would have spun out of control if Bridget hadn’t worked so hard to keep them on track. She ran the business. She organized the family events. She’d established a schedule when Nana was diagnosed. She kept the family focused on priorities. Maybe Bridget had put some of her own dreams aside, but that was her choice. She had plenty of time to look for love. She just didn’t have time to do it right now. And she definitely didn’t need to do it with the Hot Irishman—thanks, Nana, for that name—living in her house. Or with the Hot Irishman, period.

  There was a sharp rap on the kitchen door, and it opened at almost the same instant. Nana’s best friend, Victoria Pendergast, walked in. She seemed surprised to see Bridget there, but recovered quickly. The woman was all about the fast recoveries and social niceties. A society maven—as much society as there was in Rendezvous Falls—Vickie was Nana’s opposite in so many ways. Vickie was all about appearances. In the middle of a weekday afternoon, she was clad head-to-toe in designer clothes, probably from her last shopping trip to Manhattan. While Nana had been married once and still pined for her late husband, gone forty years now, Vickie had been married at least three times that Bridget knew of, and always seemed on the cougar-like prowl for another.

  “Hi, Bridget.” Vickie smiled, then turned to Nana. “Maura, I was driving by and wondered if you might reconsider the book club meeting tomorrow night. It’s up at the winery, and Helen said she’d love to see you. We all would.” Vickie pulled out a chair and made herself comfortable, tugging off her leather gloves. “I could pick you up around six thirty?”

  Bridget spoke up before Nana could answer, eager to protect her. “I’m sure she’ll be too tired by that hour, Vickie. She needs to conserve her strength.”

  Her grandmother bristled, sitting ramrod-straight in her chair and giving Bridget a look that could freeze burning oil.

  “Just because I said you’re good at being in control doesn’t mean I want you trying to control me.” Her words were clipped and sharp. “I’m perfectly capable of making my own decisions.”

  She felt her cheeks flame. It wasn’t like Nana to scold her like that in front of someone else. Bridget had gone a step—or three—too far. But she did it out of love and concern. Why couldn’t anyone see that she was just trying to take care of things?

  Vickie cast a quick, sympathetic glance at Bridget, then chuckled at Nana. “Well, you haven’t lost your salt, old girl. Does that mean I’ll be picking you up?”

  Nana’s eyes narrowed. “Having cancer doesn’t make me incapable of driving, you know.”

  “Maybe not technically.” Vickie stared down her friend, not in the least intimidated. “But you know you shouldn’t drive with the meds you’re on, and I’ll be driving right by here. Six thirty?”

  Now it was Bridget’s turn to bristle. It felt like Vickie was pressuring Nana. She started to object, but then she saw a warmth in Vickie’s eyes that stopped her. She reminded herself that Nana and Vickie had been friends for decades, and they knew how to deal with each other without her help. Nana thought for a moment, then nodded.

  “I’m tentatively saying yes.” Her glance slid to Bridget, who was smart enough to keep her mouth shut. “I’ll text you if I don’t think I’m up to it, but you were right about me needing to get out of this house for a bit.”

  Bridget lowered her head to keep her emotions to herself. She didn’t approve, but Nana was right—she didn’t need Bridget’s approval. There were only so many things Bridget could control, and her grandmother’s friendships weren’t on that list.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  “PROFESSOR O’HEARN!”

  Finn was walking across the frigid campus quad when Christina Moore called his name. He’d just left Howard Greer’s office, where he’d let his boss know his move was completed and his long-term commitment to staying in Rendezvous Falls was secure. Hopefully that meant his job—and his visa application—were secure, too. He turned and greeted the sophomore who’d called his name, wondering again if students were getting younger every year. Christina was out
of breath when she caught up with him, but it didn’t slow her words any. Her long blond hair blew across her face, and she swept it back with a laugh.

  “There you are! I went to your office but it was locked and I was afraid I’d missed you completely since it’s Friday and you don’t have any classes this afternoon and oh my God it’s so freakin’ cold! Is it this cold in Ireland? I swear I’m going to transfer to a Florida school as soon as I can convince my parents to let me go somewhere warm...”

  She finally paused for a breath. Finn had no idea what her point was.

  “Christina, I’m on my way home for the day. And yes, it gets this cold in parts of Ireland.” The winter winds howling off the Irish sea could freeze a man to the bone. “Do you have any other pressing questions to ask?”

  Her smile brightened exponentially. Christina was one of those students who were just as clever as any other classmate, but didn’t want to overexert themselves too much. She’d probably perfected this winning smile as a lass in public school. It was full of charm, but her eyes had a glint of desperation every teacher recognized. She wanted something.

  “Professor, I need my history credits for pre-law, but this medieval stuff is killing me. You rejected my idea for my final paper, so now I don’t know what to do. I thought my idea of showing the historical accuracy of Highlander would be really interesting. Maybe let me do a paper on something that isn’t so...you know...medieval?” Her voice went up another octave to sell her suggestion. “I’m a visual learner, so I’m better watching movies than listening to lectures.” Yeah, he found that easy to believe. “Can you recommend a show I could write about? No offense or anything, but this class is such ancient history.”

  Finn had been teaching at university level for ten years now, and he’d heard variations on the same theme a hundred times. He still had to concentrate to avoid rolling his eyes at the young woman, so clearly looking for an easy way out.

  “There are tutors for most subjects posted on the college website. I haven’t been here long enough to recommend anyone, but most are seniors who could probably help you. As for your other thoughts...” He tried to smile but knew it was a thin one. “Since the class is called Medieval History 101, options for your paper can not be ‘less medieval.’ And while I don’t necessarily object to analyzing history against contemporary media, Highlander is not even set in the medieval period. Which, by the way, is not ‘ancient history.’ That’s another class entirely.”