Briarwood Cottage (11 page)

“It’s grand to meet you, Cassandra Carpenter,” Patrick Brennan said.

“Patrick,” the older woman called out. “Why don’t you deliver those pints and quit bending the girl’s ear, so I can be meeting her.”

“Aye, Mrs. Murphy,” Patrick called back. “Don’t forget,” he told Duncan, “the snug’s in the back when you want a bit of privacy and quiet.”

As if sensing her nerves, Duncan took her hand as they wove through the crowd that had come to hear the music. Given the number of tourists she’d seen earlier, Cass was surprised that, except for Duncan and her, they all appeared to be locals.

Elizabeth Murphy was wearing a white blouse with a lacy tie, a green tartan skirt that fell to her ankles, and the type of black lace-up shoes a nun might have worn. She gave Cassandra a long look from the top of her head down to the pointed toes of her red boots, then back up again.

“You’d be the bride this one made the romantic breakfast for,” she said.

Deciding not to get into an argument about whether or not she’d considered the breakfast romantic, which, dammit, she actually had, Cassandra merely said, “Last I heard, I was the only wife he has.”

The stern look dissolved as the woman cackled. “And why would he make any other when he has such a lovely wife? I like your hair. I, personally, am too old to change my ways, so I’ll be sticking with my bun.” She patted the steely bun in question. “But if I were younger, I might let Moira Kelly, the lass who runs Hair Holiday by the harbor, take her scissors to me.”

“I think you look very elegant just the way you are,” Duncan said.

“Oh, my. Aren’t you the charmer? Just like my late husband, Doyle,” she said on what came close to a girlish giggle. “You’d best keep him,” she advised Cassandra. “While charmingly cocky men can be a challenge, you’ll never lack for compliments. Not that you don’t deserve them… The pair of you will make beautiful children.”

The breath backed up in Cassandra’s lungs at that, but as Duncan reassuringly squeezed her fingers, she reminded herself to breathe. Surprisingly, unlike when she couldn’t bear to have him in the same apartment, for some reason she’d think about later tonight, when she was alone and her thoughts weren’t spinning, right now she found his presence eased the loss she’d come to accept would always be a part of her.

“Thank you,” she said mildly.

“Well, it’s been lovely to meet you, Mrs. Murphy,” Duncan said as the woman tilted her head and, as if sensing something amiss, gave Cassandra a sharper, more probing look. “But we’d best let you warm up for the session. Hopefully we’ll be seeing you again.”

“Oh, you can count on that,” Elizabeth Murphy said. “I hope you’ll enjoy the
craic
,” she tacked on as she went back to tuning the fiddle.

Just as Patrick Brennan had promised, the snug door had a
reserved
sign on it. It wasn’t large—just a booth and a pair of wooden benches that looked as if they might have been reclaimed from one of the many stone churches Cassandra had passed on her drive to Castlelough—but set in the back of the pub as it was, it offered privacy while allowing them to see the wooden dance floor where the musicians were setting up.

“I’m sorry about that,” he said as they sat across from each other.

Cassandra shrugged. “She had no way of knowing. She was being kind.”

“But it still hurts.”

“Yes,” she said softly. “It does.”

“And I suspect it always will,” Duncan said. In the beginning, he’d told himself that he’d suffered in silence in order to not make Cass’s pain even worse. Then, as the days went on, he’d used the excuse of her having retreated even deeper into that remote, icy shell. How could they have a conversation, he’d reasoned, if she refused to say a damn word?

But he’d belatedly accepted that the reason he’d remained silent was that it hurt too much. And even if she
had
been willing to talk about the miscarriage, he’d have had not a clue what to say. Especially since the one thing his numbnuts brain had come up, the promise of another child, had only made things even worse.

He’d told himself when he heard she was coming that he was going to take things slow. Not force her into a discussion that she wasn’t ready for. But he could see for himself that Sedona Sullivan had been right about her having gotten stronger.

Having vowed, during the long, sleepless night waiting for her arrival, that he was going to be totally honest this time and not hold anything back, he decided the time had come to share something personal that he’d never told anyone.

“My mother had a miscarriage.”

She’d obviously been stumbling into telling Cass herself, that night she’d called while sounding as if were making her way through a bottle of Bombay Sapphire. He’d known that her call had been well intended, but her timing and delivery had sucked. Which was why he’d abruptly cut her off before she’d gotten to the crying jag. Which Cassandra so hadn’t needed.

She turned toward him, her surprise obvious.

“She did? When?”

“The summer I turned thirteen.” And all these years later, talking about those days still tangled his gut into knots.

His mother had called her pregnancy a surprise miracle, seemingly excited at the prospect of dirty diapers, a crying infant, and no sleep. Of course, the McCaraghs could easily afford to hire a nanny to take over the unpleasant parts of parenting. But one night, Duncan had been awakened by a loud argument about his mother’s desire to tend to her child herself. It had been the first time he’d ever heard his coolly remote father raise his voice.

The following morning at breakfast, his mother’s eyes had been red-rimmed, but she’d kept the appointment with the first of the selection of nanny prospects the gold-star employment agency had lined up.

“That’s quite a gap between children,” Cass said.

“It was. And being a teenager, not to mention an only child, I’ll admit that I wasn’t looking forward to the changes an infant would bring to our lives.”

“Your life,” she guessed.

“Bulls-eye. You never knew my mother before.”

“I don’t know her now,” Cass pointed out.

“Touché.” It was something he was going to have to figure out. Later. “She was a warm, outgoing woman who filled our home with sunshine.”

“Really.”

It was not a question, but he heard the skepticism in her tone. “Really. It was only after I’d grown up that I realized how much of an effort she’d made to try to compensate for my father’s coldness.

“Anyway, I’ll admit to being mad as hell. But there must have been a lot of chapters on sibling rivalry in all those baby books she bought, because she spent her pregnancy lavishing me with extra attention.”

“That’s sweet,” Cass said, even as her eyes shone with moisture. Worrying that his timing sucked as badly as his mother’s drunken phone call, Duncan experienced a wave of relief as Patrick Brennan knocked on the door before opening it to ask if they’d like something from the bar.

After a bit of discussion, they ordered a pint of the Brennan Brewery Brian Boru Black Ale for Duncan, Pirate Queen Red Ale for Cass, a deep-fried St. Brigid’s cheese appetizer, and cod and chips with lemon aioli to share.

“I hope all that fried food comes with a defibrillator for the heart attack we’re risking,” Cass murmured after Patrick left with their order.

“Don’t worry. If you do happen to be struck down with a heart attack, I know CPR.”

“I’ll bet you do.” The tears that had been threatening turned to indulgent laughter. “Mrs. Murphy was right. You’re a cocky charmer
and
a challenge. You just want to get your hands on my chest.”

“Guilty as charged.” He flashed a grin. “And feel free to do the same to me if I keel over.”

She tilted her head. Chewed thoughtfully on an unpainted nail. “I’ll consider it.”

Duncan was remembering all too well how those slender, long-fingered hands had felt on his chest. His abs. And lower still.

Damn. He wasn’t sure about charming. But as the five metal buttons pulled at the denim of his jeans, he’d definitely turned achingly cocky.

And from the teasing smile in her eyes and the hint of a dimple he hadn’t seen since their honeymoon, she knew exactly how that finger in her mouth thing had affected him.

“Now who’s making the move?” he asked.

“Tit for tat,” she responded. Then blushed as she realized the unplanned double entendre.

Despite what had begun as a serious topic, Duncan couldn’t hold back his grin. “That’s too easy, even for a cocky charmer like me.”

They were seated across an old wooden farm table from each other, the vibes bouncing back and forth the same way they had over dinner that first night in Kabul. But along with the heat, there was something else going on here. Friendship. And once again, the deep emotional connection that he’d been missing for so long.

“This is nice,” she said. “I’m glad you talked me into it.”

“Me, too.” Unable to resist, he reached across the table, cupped her cheek in his hand, and felt it warm his palm.

“Duncan.”

“It’s not a move.” She felt so soft. So familiar. The ache returned. In his heart and in his groin.

“I wasn’t complaining. I was just telling you that our beer’s here.”

He turned and followed her gaze to the door, where Patrick Brennan stood with the green metal tray holding their ales, appetizer, and two side plates. Once again he seemed undecided whether or not to interrupt.

Duncan waved him in.

“Sorry,” he said.

“No problem,” Duncan assured him. If nothing else, the beer would hopefully lower his body heat to something a few degrees cooler than the Sahara in summer. “That looks great.”

“The cheese is from Michael’s farm. There are some who say that his Camembert is the best in all Ireland.”

“I have a question,” Cass asked as he placed the glasses and plates on the table. “It’s obvious your pub is successful.”

“It does well enough,” Patrick said mildly.

“So many locals being here tonight attest to that. So,” she asked, “where are all the tourists?”

“I wouldn’t know, but my guess is that they’re at The Irish Rose, given that it’s declared itself
Lady Central
with all sorts of raffles, giveaways, theme nights and other such inducements, which isn’t my business style.

“The Irish Rose was the only other pub in the village while I was growing up. Then Brendan O’Neill, who’d taken over from his father, moved to America. An O’Neill cousin tried to make a go of it, but unfortunately he enjoyed his Guinness a bit too much, so the business was failing. I’d already established my microbrewery and was in the process of buying him out so I’d have a place to serve my own beers, when a wealthy American came to town with a hefty checkbook and all sorts of grandiose plans to turn The Rose into an American style Irish pub.”

“Isn’t that a contradiction?” Duncan suggested. “Like the old ‘carrying coals to Newcastle’ expression?”

“Aye. You’d think so, wouldn’t you? But Desmond—he’d be the cousin—didn’t care about that as much as he did scoring himself a grand payday. So, despite us having a verbal agreement, he sold to the American.

“Which turned out for the best, given that this larger building came available the very next week. It had gone vacant and fallen into disrepair after the collapse of the Celtic Tiger, so I managed to negotiate a good price and had Bram, my builder brother, bring it back to what it once was.”

“Bram was the one who restored Briarwood Cottage,” Duncan told Cass.

“Really?” Her eyes lit up. “He did a wonderful job! The moment I walked in this morning, I felt as if I’d come home.”

“And isn’t that the point of any house?” Patrick asked. “To make it feel like home? At any rate, after I opened for business, the locals migrated here, while The Irish Rose has, in turn, carved out a fine tourism business for itself.”

“Sounds like a win/win for you both,” Cass said.

“It is, indeed,” Patrick agreed with a bold smile that revealed his pride in Brennan’s. “And now I’d best be about getting your dinner made. Enjoy your ale and cheese.”

Once they were alone again, a companionable quiet settled over Duncan and Cass as she split the appetizer onto the two smaller plates.

“To being back in the Emerald Island,” Duncan risked saying as he lifted his glass of dark ale. “Together again.”

She hesitated a heartbeat. Then lifted her own glass. “To being back here.”

Duncan duly noted that she hadn’t added the part about being back together, but since she’d already said she was glad he’d talked her into coming here tonight, he was feeling a great deal more positive than he had even twenty-four hours ago.

“You were telling me about your mother,” she reminded him, proving that her depression hadn’t had any long-term effect on that steel-trap mind he’d always admired.

“Yeah.” Buying time to drag his mind back to that topic that, on his list of least favorite things, would rank between waterboarding and spending eternity locked in a room watching Justin Bieber music videos, Duncan took a long drink of ale.

“Like I said, I was jealous. So, in retaliation, I became more and more like my father.”

She eyed him over the rim of her glass. “How? I don’t know your father, either,” she reminded him.

Cass might currently be writing tabloid
gee whiz
stories, but she still thought like a journalist. Every statement risked a follow-up question. “I started distancing myself from her. Became cooler and monosyllabic. Which, looking back, was cruel.”

“You were thirteen,” she reminded him. “Not exactly the age of reason. It could have been more because of your age. I remember boys I’d grown up with becoming nearly mute once hormones started kicking in.”

“It’s a nice excuse. But the fact was, I was pretty much just a douche.”

Duncan still remembered the way his mother had laughed with almost giddy pleasure between contractions as she left their Main Line home for the hospital. He hadn’t exactly resisted when she’d hugged him good-bye. But he had stiffened and held his arms at his sides.

Even worse than the remembered resentment was the guilt he’d suffered when she’d returned home the next day, pale and wan, without her surprise miracle baby.