Barefoot on a Starlit Night

by Jo McNally

  “Look,” she said, working to steady her voice. “I don’t know you, and my family is none of your business. So the next time my grandmother comes calling...”

  Turns out Finn’s anger hadn’t cooled one little bit.

  “The next time your grandmother, or your cousin, or your friends, or the goddamn pizza guy comes knocking on my door—” he stepped toward her, and she fought the urge to step back from the coldness in his eyes “—I will decide who comes in and who doesn’t. This may be your house, but I’m paying rent here, and if you think you can just unlock that door and stroll in here anytime you want to...” He pointed to the open door behind her. She felt herself deflate inside. He was right. Again. She swallowed hard, willing herself to hold strong.

  “I’m sorry about that.” She met his eyes. “I was just so upset when I found out Nana had walked over here in that cold...”

  His brows gathered. “Why? She had a coat, and the woman seems in full control of her faculties.”

  “Oh, she is definitely just as sharp as she ever was.” Bridget sighed, still stinging from Nana’s dress down. “But she really is sick, and I worry about her. Hell, I worry about everything these days.”

  “Why is that?” His voice lowered. He wasn’t radiating anger anymore.

  How could she explain?

  “I’ve always been the...the one who sees three steps ahead and tries to avoid trouble before it happens. But lately...” She stared at the corner of the room, not really focusing on anything. “Lately I’m running three steps behind and losing ground. And no matter how hard I run, I can’t catch up. I can’t get there.” Wherever there was. “And I have no idea why I’m telling you this.”

  What was it about this man and his damnable green eyes that made her spill her guts?

  “Your grandmother would blame my Irish accent and charm. She warned me not t’ use it on you.”

  She stared at him in shock, then started laughing. “Did she really? I think she’s the one with a weakness for Irish blarney.”

  Although Bridget was wondering if maybe she’d inherited that weakness, because right now she wanted to just walk into this man’s arms and forget the world for a little while. He had a way of getting her to talk. And talking relieved some of her pressure.

  Finn put both hands on his chest in fake offense, giving her a wide grin. “Blarney? Dinna’ throw that word at me, lass, or I’ll have to turn my full leprechaun charms on you.”

  Yes, please. She blinked. No, she didn’t want any leprechaun charms. She was afraid she might not be strong enough to resist them. She shook her head, and noticed the still-open door behind her.

  “Unlocking your door was...so wrong.”

  “Agreed.” He ran his fingers through his thick black hair. “Look, the last thing I want—like literally the very last thing—is drama. I’ve had enough to last a lifetime, and I don’t need anyone else’s. Maura seems like a lovely woman, but...” He glanced around the apartment, which was overcrowded with books, furniture and papers. How did he relax with so much...stuff? “I have my own nutty family back in Ireland, and I truly have no interest in taking on you or yours.”

  Was he calling her nutty? She closed her eyes. Of course he was. She’d just caused a scene in the apartment he paid rent for.

  “Fair enough. Like I said, I’m sorry, Finn.” She shook off her strange urge to ask for a hug. As if. “I’ll leave you alone.”

  She turned to the door, but his voice, suddenly as warm as an Irish coffee on a cold day, stopped her.

  “I’m sorry, too. I’m not saying you were right to barge in, but...I get it. You were worried about Maura. That’s not a bad thing.” She bit back a grin. She liked the way that word always sounded like ting when he said it. He surprised her by extending his hand. “I was a bit of an arse, too. I don’t handle confrontation well.” A troubling shadow crossed his deep green eyes. She wondered just how ugly his recent divorce had been. She took his hand, and immediately felt an odd surge of...something. Energy? Attraction? Agitation? He released her quickly, as if perhaps he’d felt the same thing. Ting. She had no idea why her brain went there, but she couldn’t hold back the smile this time.

  His head tipped to the side. “What?”

  She couldn’t tell him she was laughing at his accent. Rude.

  “Uh...nothing...just...” Her eyes went to the clutter behind him. “Why do you have all these books?”

  Finn chuckled, rubbing his neck as he scanned the room. “Oi, I ask myself the same question most days. I cherish the feel of a real book in my hands, especially a history book. There’s some sort of disconnect for me when I’m reading about the Battle of Clontarf while staring at a cold blue electronic screen.” He picked up a nearby reference book that had to be three inches thick. “The good news is most people don’t feel the same, so I can get great deals on these big old volumes. The bad news is I can’t resist a great deal.”

  “So...is there a special store for these? Maybe Giant Dusty Books R Us?”

  His laughter was full. Damn, this man had one fine laugh.

  “Sadly, no. I have to troll the internet for out-of-print textbooks and the like. Technology is an evil necessity, and I know how to use it to my advantage.”

  “You’re such a nerd.” She clapped her hand over her mouth in shock at both her laughter and her words, but Finn didn’t seem to be offended at all. In fact, he flashed a devastating grin at her. Maybe Nana was right in warning him to harness that charm of his.

  “I teach history, much of it medieval or pre-medieval, so I think nerd comes with the territory. I’ve been known to wear glasses, but I’ve managed to avoid the tweed jacket with elbow patches.” He set the book back on a stack of other thick volumes. “So far, at least.”

  “Are you saying you’re more of an Indiana Jones type?”

  “Only in my dreams.” Was he blushing right now? “But Indy was an inspiration when I was a lad.”

  She tried to imagine Finn as a teen, with a tousle of black hair and such a sharp mind. She couldn’t help thinking he probably had to beat the girls off with a stick. But apparently his ex-wife hadn’t been the staying kind. Or maybe Finn hadn’t. She took him in for a moment without saying anything. She didn’t know him, but she could already tell he was serious. Thoughtful. Kind with her grandmother. He didn’t seem the type to step out on his wife.

  Was that why she was having all these weird...feelings...about Finn? Maybe because he was the first man in the apartment, and thus this close to her life, since she’d found out Clark had been the kind of guy to cheat?

  “Uh-oh.” He smiled. “I nerded out and lost you with the Indiana Jones confession, didn’t I?”

  “No. My dad and I watched those movies together all the time. All except Temple of Doom—that was a little too graphic for me with the monkey brains... Ew.” She shuddered. She and her dad had had their issues, but there were fun memories, too. Like popping a movie into the DVD player and watching it on a Sunday afternoon. She glanced at her watch. “Oh, damn. I need to get back to the pub and finish setting up for tonight.” She pulled her key from his door, shaking her head at herself. “I promise not to use this again unless I think you’re dying in here. Other than that, I’ll knock and wait for you to invite me in.”

  He dipped his head. “I appreciate that. And I’ll do my best not to disturb your life any further. But I do have one favor to ask.”

  She had to give him credit for good timing. She owed him one. “What is it?”

  “That office across the hall...do you use it?”

  She hadn’t expected that. Dad had tried to convert the small library into a studio apartment, but it was too tiny to be practical. There was a sofa bed in there, but you’d have to slide the heavy antique desk aside to open it. The so-called kitchenette was just a mini-fridge Dad kept his beer in, and a microwave sitting on a wheeled cart. With t
he original mahogany bookcases lining two walls, and deep window seats Bridget had always adored, it felt even smaller than it was. So it had sat empty for years, used as basically a storage room. Every house needed a junk room, right? She couldn’t imagine why Finn would be interested in it.

  “Why do you ask?”

  He lifted one shoulder. That was another tell of his. He did that little shoulder twitch—it wasn’t quite a shrug—when he wasn’t sure of himself.

  Why do I know this stuff about him?

  “As you can see, I have a few books.” That was an understatement. The apartment had mountains of books on every surface and covering much of the floor. “I’m working on a paper to be published... Part of the whole professor thing, ya know?” She didn’t, but she nodded for him to continue. “The door across the way was sitting open last week, and I saw the desk and the bookcases, and wondered if I could rent the space to use as an office.”

  “Doesn’t the college give you an office?”

  His jaw worked back and forth. Then he blew out a breath.

  “The truth is, I’m a bit of a night owl. I’ll wake up with an idea and run with it, even if it’s two in the morning. I like to keep my school office for class resources and meeting with students. When I’m researching a paper to publish, I tend to...spread out.” He gestured widely with his arms, as if spreading papers across the desk. “Having a room where I can close the door to the mess, but go back to right where I left off whenever I get the urge...well, ’twould be helpful. If the room’s available, that is.”

  She thought about it for a moment. “I store some seasonal stuff in there, like Christmas decorations from the pub, but if you can work around that...”

  “No worries. I only need the desk and bookshelves.”

  She nodded. “We can work something out. I’ll get you the key.”

  “What do you want for rent?”

  “Nothing. You’re already paying rent, and the room is just sitting there. Consider it a gesture of goodwill after all the stuff I’ve had to apologize for.”

  “There has to be something I can do.” His hands slid into his pockets again, and he studied the floor again with a frown. Then he looked up with a glint of humor in his eyes. “You said you didn’t want my help in the kitchen, but maybe I could help. Luke Rutledge said there was some debate about the direction of the Purple Shamrock. Remodeling? Rebranding?”

  Bridget narrowed her eyes. Where was he going with this? Finn splayed his hands in front of him.

  “If you want to make it a true Irish pub, who better to advise than an Irishman?”

  She was annoyed that Luke had been talking about her business, but she knew he, Rick and Finn had shared a few beers together. It’s not like Luke had broadcast it far and wide. She was skeptical of Finn’s offer, but was that because she doubted his knowledge, or because she didn’t like anyone advising—telling—her what to do?

  “You’re saying that just because you come from Ireland, that you—a college professor—can advise me—a pub owner with a culinary degree—on how to run my business? As if I don’t already have a whole bunch of relatives doing that? Am I supposed to think that’s some kind of gift?” She crossed her arms with a laugh. “Full of yourself much?”

  “Your pub is American-Irish, like you. I can help you make it Irish-Irish.” He held his hands up. “Or not. Just an idea. But one thing I can do is tend bar for you if you need it. One of my many jobs to pay my way through university as a lad. Luke said he’d be getting busy at the vineyard once spring arrived.”

  She did need a bartender. She’d interviewed a few, but none of them felt right, and most wanted more money than she could afford.

  “That might work. If you can give me one night a week at the bar—assuming you know what you’re doing—that can be your rent for the office. And you can keep the tips, of course.”

  “That’s a deal then.” He nodded once. “And I’ll do my best not to interfere with your life too much.”

  Her life. She struggled to picture exactly what that was anymore. Lately it felt like a mindless scramble to stay ahead of the bills, her family, the pub and the house.

  I’m really tired...

  She didn’t realize she’d said it out loud until his eyebrows rose.

  “Maybe you need a vacation. Or a few days off.”

  Bridget straightened, her hand grasping the doorknob tightly.

  “I don’t have the luxury of taking days off, Finn. I’m majority owner of the pub, and I’m the chef, so I have to be there. I’m trying to single-handedly drag both my family and the business kicking and screaming into the twenty-first century.”

  “Why single-handedly? No one’s on your side?”

  It was a good question, veering this conversation quickly into uncomfortable territory. And leading her to a deeply personal confession.

  “I guess I don’t play well with others.” She shrugged. “That’s why I stay back in the kitchen and let everyone else man the front of the pub.”

  He digested that for a moment. This was something she’d rarely, if ever, discussed with anyone. Much less examined in depth herself. She was startled when his mouth slid into a crooked smile.

  “We’re not that different, you and I.”

  Her shocked laughter bubbled up. “Excuse me? We are nothing alike, Finn O’Hearn. You’re a nerdy Irish recluse, and I’m a...” Her voice trailed off. What was she exactly? Finn answered for her.

  “And you’re a cranky Irish-American recluse?”

  “I...” She stopped, unable to come up with one damn objection. Her eyes narrowed. “Like I said, I have work to do.”

  He was still grinning when she slammed the door.

  Bastard.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  “WE’RE SO GLAD you’re back, Maura!” Cecile raised her glass in Maura’s direction across the table in the tasting room at Falls Legend Winery. “I’m sorry you and your granddaughter argued today, but good for you for standing your ground.” Vickie raised her glass, too. Their host, Helen Russo, stared at the table as if lost in thought after Maura told them about her argument with Bridget. Then she smiled and joined the toast.

  “It’s good that you let them know you’re still you,” Helen said. “I got lost after my Tony died, and after a while, people just saw ‘Sad Helen’ and started tiptoeing around me and talking in hushed voices. It didn’t help. If anything, it made me more convinced I’d never be myself again. Too many people let me fade away.”

  That was exactly what Maura feared. It was bad enough she’d always have the specter of cancer in her own mind. She hated the idea that everyone else in her life would see her disease before they saw her.

  Rick Thomas, tall and lanky, scoffed as he drank his wine instead of pretending to toast. “For the record, I didn’t let you fade away, Helen. And neither did Vickie. Or Iris.” He looked at Maura. “And we won’t let you fade away, either. My sister is a survivor and she’s been active in the prevention charities. She wanted to control her own narrative and she has. You’ll figure out your narrative, too. But don’t expect it to be the one you had before cancer.”

  “But I don’t want to be different.” She raised her hand to stop any comments. “I know, I know. Tough luck, right?”

  Vickie patted her hand. “Everything changes us, sweetie. Illness. Divorce.” She nodded toward Helen with a gentle smile. “Death. But Rick, as much as I hate to admit it, might just have a point.” He rolled his eyes and Vickie stuck her tongue out at him before turning back to Maura. “You need to control how it changes things.”

  She thought about that. “Right now, all I can focus on is getting through this damn chemo with my dignity intact.” She brightened. “And nights like this help. You guys help me keep it real, so thanks for taking me back.”

  Rick waved her off. “We never considered you gone. And speaking of gone
, where’s Iris tonight?”

  Cecile giggled, making her bottle-blond curls bounce. “Believe it or not, she’s babysitting! Logan and Piper went up to Syracuse for the night to see a show, and Iris is watching Ethan and Lily.”

  Rick’s forehead wrinkled. “Isn’t Ethan a teenager?”

  Lena Fox sat down after pouring herself a drink, shaking the gold bracelets circling her wrist so they settled near her hand. Lena had joked earlier that her hairstyle was closest to Maura’s, with a tightly clipped Afro hugging her head. Her dark eyes shone with amusement. “It’s the teenagers that need watching, Rick. Ethan’s a thirteen-year-old boy. My guess is Ethan is watching Lily, and Iris is making sure Ethan stays put.” She turned to Maura. “I missed some of your story earlier. What did Bridget say after you told her off?”

  She thought of the devastated look on her granddaughter’s face in Finn’s apartment. “I didn’t really give her a chance to say anything. I went back to the pub and left her and Finn to fume at each other. Kelly took me home to get ready for tonight. And here I am, back with the infamous book club again.” She didn’t want to discuss her blowup with Bridget anymore. “Vickie tells me you helped Logan and Piper get together?”

  Lena picked up her paperback and ruffled through the pages to her bookmark. Her long brown fingers were tipped with bright red nails. Lena was an artist, and more recently, a fashion model for a designer in Manhattan trying to appeal to mature women. She’d entered the contest last fall to appease her friends, but she’d kept insisting a black woman would never make the cut. She’d not only made the cut—she’d won, and signed a contract.

  “I think we nudged more than anything,” Lena said. “And we got Piper’s former mother-in-law out of their way.”

  Maura laughed. She’d met Susan Montgomery a few times, and the woman was formidable. “That sounds ominous.”

  “Not like that!” Lena waggled her eyebrows. “Although I think Iris would have considered it.” Heads bobbed in agreement around the table. “Susan just needed to see she wasn’t doing her grandchildren any favors by making their mother unhappy. That Iris’s grandson, Logan, wasn’t replacing their father’s memory. He’s a good man, and we...um...urged Susan to recognize that.”