Love and Shamrocks: Ballybeg, Book 5 (12 page)

Marcella nodded, clearly satisfied with, or at least accepting of, Clio’s abridged version of events. “How many hours a week do you want to work?”

“I clean Clonmore House every morning until lunchtime, but I’m free after that.”

“I’m looking for someone who can work the odd lunch hour in addition to evening shifts.”

“I can make that happen.” It would mean getting up earlier to get all the cleaning taken care of, but she’d manage. Thank feck Helen had had the good sense to hire a gardener—Clio and plants were not a good mix.

Marcella returned her attention to the resume. “Not much call for cocktails in Ballybeg.”

“So I’ve been informed.”

Marcella raised a questioning eyebrow.

“I asked around the town for jobs. The manager of the Chew and Chat burger restaurant indicated that cocktails weren’t popular around here.”

“Jim Green?” Marcella snorted. “The man is a prick. Big fish, little pond, entrenched opinions. Just to piss Jim off, why don’t we try a cocktail hour as an experiment? Anyone in Ballybeg who wants something fancier than a pint or a glass of vino has to go all the way to Cork City.”

“Sounds like a fantastic idea. We could offer a few options to start with and focus on drinks that use ingredients you’d likely have in stock in any case.”

“All right. I’ll need to talk to my brother first though. He’s the owner and manager.”

“How many people work here?”

“Mostly it’s just me and Ruairí. Our sister, Sharon, does a couple of shifts a week, as does our brother, Shea. We don’t usually need to hire extra staff unless it’s for a one-off event, but Ruairí’s wife is in the third trimester and on medically ordered bed rest. He’s trying to juggle work with looking after her, and I’ve started a part-time cookery course. We need someone to pick up the slack.”

“If you’re willing to give me a chance, I’d be delighted to be that someone.”

Marcella grinned. “I’m leaning toward it. Now for the crucial question. Can you pull a decent pint of the black stuff?”

“No,” Clio said frankly, eyeing the Guinness taps, “but I can learn.”

“In that case”—Marcella lifted the counter flap and ushered her through—“there’s no time like the present.”

BY LUNCHTIME, the sweat was rolling off Clio. She was making a balls of her trial shift, that was for sure. At this rate, she’d be fired before she got hired. The sight of Seán Mackey striding into the pub didn’t exactly elevate her mood. Her stomach twisted painfully. She needed to apologize to him for lashing out earlier. It wasn’t his fault she was paranoid at the moment.

He stopped short at the counter, his eyes widening in surprise. “Hey. I didn’t expect to see you behind the counter.”

“New job.” Clio threw a furtive glance over her shoulder to where Marcella’s brother, Ruairí, was pulling a pint. “At least, I hope it will be my new job. Listen, Seán…” She hesitated for a second. “I’m sorry for snapping at you earlier. It’s not your fault I’m sensitive where Tammy is concerned. She’s…vulnerable at the moment, and I have a tendency to be overprotective as a result.”

He stared at her for a moment, curiosity writ wide across his handsome face. Her breath caught in anticipation of the inevitable questions she didn’t want to answer. And then he beamed—a warm, comforting smile that turned the cramping in her stomach into butterflies. “No worries,” he said in his deep bass. “If you say Tammy is vulnerable, I’ll tread carefully around her. I’ll make certain Garda Glenn and the reserves know to do the same.”

“It’s—” She broke off, quelling the impulse to elaborate. “It’s a long story. Anyway, I overreacted at the bookshop.”

“No worries. I’m sure having us hanging around the house every weekend isn’t ideal.”

She choked back an hysterical laugh. He had no idea
how
awkward it was going to be. “I’m sure we’ll manage.”

His gaze meandered to the pint glass in her hand. “How’s the new job going?”

“It’s going.” Clio pushed a runaway lock of hair behind one ear and gave a rueful smile. “Did you want to place an order?”

“Yeah.” He perused the chalkboard menu behind her shoulder. “I’ll take the cottage pie and a mineral water.”

Further down the bar counter, John-Joe raised his pint glass in greeting. “Hey there, lad. Aren’t you going to say hello to me?”

Seán’s expression underwent a series of slow-motion changes, starting with surprise, morphing into pain, and ending with a shuttered reserve. His reaction to the older man was both strange and strangely intense. “Hi,” he muttered before nodding to Clio and retreating to a table near the door.

How odd.
“Not your greatest fan, John-Joe?”

A pained look flickered over the older man’s fleshy features. He took a deep drink from his pint glass before responding. “He used to like me well enough when he was a boy. Times changed.”

Clio blinked. How had John-Joe known Seán when he was a kid? Hadn’t Garda Glenn said that Seán had moved to Ballybeg last year? His accent certainly held no trace of Cork.
Interesting…

The next quarter of an hour flew by in a flurry of pints and food trays from the kitchen. When she brought Seán his order, he was flipping through one of the pub’s copies of the local newspaper.

“Any news on your mother’s stalker?” he asked, putting the paper down and picking up his cutlery.

She shook her head. “I’m becoming more and more convinced that she imagined the whole thing.”

Seán paused, forkful of cottage pie halfway to his mouth. “She didn’t imagine the memorial card.”

“True, but the story seems farfetched. I know she has a few rivals at the TV station, but most people regard her as a has-been.”

“Out of touch with the times?” The corners of his mouth twitched.

“Out of touch with reality.”

“Not much support for conservative Catholicism these days,” he said in a dry tone. “Not after all the Church scandals.”

“No. I don’t know how much my mother believes in it all, to be honest, but her old-fashioned slant on topical issues is the basis of her career.” It certainly hadn’t prevented Helen from having affairs, she thought cynically. Not that her stepfather had been a saint, either. If she were the marrying kind, theirs wasn’t the sort of marriage she would want to emulate. Picking up the empty tray, she said, “Enjoy your meal. I’d better get back to the kitchen to collect more orders from Marcella.”

She turned to walk back to the bar, and her stomach lurched. A big, burly man lacking a discernible neck slid onto a bar stool and ordered a pint from Ruairí.

He spoke not a word and barely touched his drink. His eyes were trained on Clio. She could feel their menace as she moved around the pub, taking and delivering lunch orders with shaking hands. She didn’t recognize his face but she didn’t need to. He had to be one of Ray’s enforcers. His presence in Ballybeg could only mean one thing: bad news.

Heart pounding, she glanced at her latest drinks order. The tonic water was located in a small fridge underneath the counter—directly beneath where No-Neck was sitting. Taking a deep breath, she kept her eyes down and crouched to open the fridge. When she stood, he grabbed her arm.

“Hello, Clio.” Mr. No-Neck’s fingers dug into her forearm, making her grateful for the thin pullover that prevented him from touching her skin.

She tried to pull free from his grasp, but he held tight. “What do you want?” she asked in a shaky voice.

His teeth-baring sneer made her pulse pound. “Just checking up on you. My boss was wondering how you’re doing.”

With a quick wrench, she disentangled herself from his grasp. “As you see, I’m doing.” She lowered her voice to a harsh whisper. “You can tell your boss he’ll hear from me soon. If he wants this job done properly, he’d better stop breathing down my neck. I told him I’d be in touch when I had news.” With a bit of luck, Emma would dig up something useful soon. Her latest text message hadn’t been promising though.

“Is there a problem, Clio?”

She spun round at the sound of the deep, gravelly voice. Seán was eyeing No-Neck with suspicion.

“Nothing I can’t handle.” She forced a smile, aware that her wobbly tone was not giving the firm and confident impression she wanted to exude.

No-Neck took out his wallet and placed coins on the counter. “Keep the change.” Although he’d lost the sneer, his threat-laced tone sent an icy trickle of fear down her spine.

Neither she nor Seán spoke until the pub door closed behind the man.

He raised an eyebrow. “Still going to tell me nothing’s the matter?”

“Yep.” She busied herself with swiping a cleaning cloth over the counter, avoiding eye contact.

“Looked to me like that man was threatening you.”

She tossed the cloth into the laundry bag beneath the counter and straightened. “You’ve been assigned to guard my mother against a stalker who may or may not exist. Your duties don’t extend to me.”

He leaned closer, near enough for her to catch the spicy scent of his aftershave. A shiver of awareness shook her like a tremor. “That’s where you’re wrong, Clio. My duties extend to everyone who falls under the jurisdiction of Ballybeg Garda Station.”

“I don’t need protecting,” she whispered.

“You sure about that?” His warm breath tickled her neck, making her nipples pebble.

Taking a steady breath, she gripped the edge of the counter. “I can look after myself.”

“What are you running from?” He’d dropped his voice to a low rumble, presumably so that other customers wouldn’t overhear. “Why are you back living under your mother’s roof?”

Her eyes flew to meet his, brimming with fire. “What do you know about my life?”

He stared back at her, a determined tilt to his jaw. “Enough to know you’re not at Clonmore House willingly.”

For a moment, panic froze her tongue. Did he know what had happened in Dublin? About her accusations against O’Leary? Or even worse, what Ray had done to him?

No, he couldn’t possibly know anything. She needed to get a grip and control her reactions, or she’d truly ignite his suspicions.

“What’s so strange in me taking a job as my mother’s housekeeper?” she parried. “The job market in Dublin isn’t exactly booming.” This, at least, was true. “I agree that living with Helen isn’t ideal, but I have a daughter to support. I swallowed my pride and accepted my mother’s offer of a home and a job.”

The corners of his mouth twitched. “How’s it working out for you?”

“I’m sending my daughter to a good school, and we have food on the table and a roof over our heads. I’d say it’s working out fine.”
For now, at least.

He toyed with a beer mat, flipping it deftly between his fingers. “You planning on living at Clonmore House long term?”

“Define ‘long term.’ Once I have money saved, I’ll look for a place of our own.”

“Not in Ballybeg?” he asked in surprise.

“I don’t know. I’m not keen on Cork, but I’m reluctant to force Tammy to move schools again.”

Seán returned the beer mat to the counter. His gaze was direct, its intensity riveting her in place. “If something’s bothering you, you can talk to me. On or off the record.”

“Thank you,” she said, touched by his sincerity.

“I’d better get back on the beat.” He pushed back from the counter and replaced his police hat. Normally she didn’t like hats on men—or uniforms, for that matter—but Seán wore his police blues to perfection. “See you soon, Clio. Good luck with the job, and remember what I said.”

“Bye, Seán.”

He strode toward the exit—strong, sexy, dependable.

Ruairí appeared at her shoulder. “Hey, Clio. Marcella needs you to collect food from the kitchen. You gonna serve my customers or stand here flirting?”

“I wasn’t flirting, I was…” Her cheeks grew warm. “Sorry, I’m on it.”

“Steady on, kid.” The big man grinned, lessening the harshness of his strong, uncompromising features. “I was teasing you. You did well today. If you want the job, it’s yours.”

“Thanks, Ruairí. I won’t let you down.” She released a breath, and her shoulders sagged with relief. Thank goodness. She’d be able to pay Emma back soon. Now if only finding a solution to the Ray situation were so simple…. 

BY THURSDAY, Clio had worked three shifts at the pub and was becoming a passable pint-puller.

John-Joe Fitzgerald—one of the pub’s most faithful customers—took a cautious sip from his glass. “Not bad. Not bad at all. Much better than the shite you served me on Tuesday.”

Clio laughed. “High praise indeed, coming from such an experienced Guinness drinker.”

The man patted his considerable beer gut. “Given the amount of time and money I’ve invested in the company over the years, they ought to give me shares.”

“Do you do anything besides drinking pints?” Clio asked, polishing glasses with a cloth and arranging them neatly on a shelf. “You’ve been in here every shift I’ve worked so far.”

“I’m an entertainer.” He jerked a thumb at a poster on the wall—the same one she’d observed on the day she’d first visited the pub. “I cover Elvis songs and dance.”

“
You’re
the Swimming Elvis?” A vision of a half-naked John-Joe performing “Jailhouse Rock” sprang to mind.
Ugh.
She reached for the mental eye bleach.

The man beamed with pride. “That’s me. I was a champion swimmer in my youth and sang at all the best clubs. These days, business ain’t as rosy as it once was, but I still get the odd gig.”

Right.
Clio gave an internal shudder. That was one act she’d pay good money
not
to see.

Ruairí emerged from the kitchen carrying a tray laden with soup and thickly cut soda bread. He seemed like a nice bloke, albeit gruff and not particularly inclined to chat. Clio put it down to stress about his pregnant wife.

“How’s it going?” he asked when he returned from serving the food. “Did you figure out the cash register yet?”

“Yeah. Marcella showed me all the programs yesterday.”

The man nodded, distracted by the beep of an incoming text message. A frown line formed in the center of his brow when he scanned his phone’s display. “I need to get home. Jayme’s not feeling well. I’ll call Sharon to cover for me, but I don’t know how long it’ll take for her to get here. Can you manage on your own until then? Marcella prepared most of the food before she left for her course. All you need to do is warm it up.”