Love and Shamrocks: Ballybeg, Book 5 (17 page)

A knock sounded, making her jump. Helen peered round the door. “I’ve made sandwiches. You said you’d like one before you headed to work.”

“Uh, okay. Thanks.” Her mother let loose in the kitchen was a frightening prospect, but surely even Helen couldn’t screw up a sandwich. Plus it would be an opportunity to have a chat with Helen, sound out if telling her about Ray was a smart move.

When she entered the dining room, all plans to talk to her mother evaporated. Seán sat at the table, wearing a pained expression. In the seat next to him, Tammy regarded her sandwich with the trepidation one might feel when approaching a vicious animal.

Clio’s heart thudded in her chest. “Hey, Seán. I thought you were leaving after you dropped us home.”

A half smile played at one corner of his mouth. “My boss made it clear that I’m to stay for another couple of hours.”

Helen struggled into the dining room with a platter of sandwiches. Jeez. How many did she expect them to eat? She’d made enough to feed an army. She dumped it on the table and said breathlessly, “Sergeant Mackey is keeping Tammy and me company until Superintendent O’Riordan arrives at seven o’clock.”

Tammy, Seán, and Clio exchanged amused glances.

“That’s…gallant…of the superintendent,” Clio said tactfully, ignoring her daughter’s choke of laughter.

“He’s a gentleman,” Helen said with prim dignity. “And I think he’s lonely. Did you know he separated from his wife last year?”

Seán’s expression turned to granite. “A man without strings must be a novelty,” he said in a hard tone.

Clio stared at him. His delivery seemed…off. What did he care who his boss chose to date?

“At my age, single men are hard to come by,” Helen replied, seemingly oblivious to the bitter undertone. “Help yourselves to sandwiches. Ham and pickle is on the left,” she said, breathlessly. “Smoked salmon is on the right. Chicken salad is in the middle.”

Clio opted for ham and pickle. One bite and a forced swallow later, her gut rebelled. Her mother had been liberal in the application of mustard. At this rate, her dormant ulcer would come out to play.

“Do I have to be at the housewarming party?” Tammy was making a show of picking up her salmon sandwich and putting it back on her plate but was careful to avoid consuming it.

“I’d appreciate it if you put in an appearance, Tamara. Why don’t you invite some of your little friends from school?”

“I don’t have friends, little or otherwise.”

“Come, now. You’ve been at Glencoe College for a whole week. Surely there’s someone you eat lunch with.”

Tammy’s silence echoed. Clio exchanged a sympathetic glance with her daughter. Helen was one of those irritatingly confident individuals who assumed everyone would like her and collected companions wherever she went. She refused to accept that navigating a new social environment was less straightforward for her granddaughter.

Helen took a bite of her chicken sandwich, gagged, and took a discreet gulp of water. “You’re not eating, Sergeant Mackey. Would you prefer another flavor? Perhaps smoked salmon and cress?”

“I’m fine, thanks.” Seán avoided meeting Clio’s eye. “One sandwich is plenty. I’ve been invited to Garda Glenn’s house for dinner after my shift. Don’t want to spoil my appetite.”

Abandoning all pretense of eating her culinary creation, Helen whipped a pencil and notepad out of her ever-present handbag. “Right,” she said in a determined voice. “Let’s start planning the menu for the party.”

“Didn’t you say you’d hired a caterer?” Clio asked in confusion.

“Yes, but I always come prepared with my own ideas. The caterer then makes suggestions, and we adjust the menu accordingly. Do you have no experience at hosting events?” Her mother wrinkled her nose. “No, I suppose not.”

Clio recalled the impromptu get-togethers she’d hosted in Barcelona. Not exactly on the same scale as her mother’s parties.

Helen spent the next quarter of an hour chattering about hors d’oeuvres and suitable wines. Clio nodded at what she hopped were appropriate intervals and zoned out. Seán made civil-but-disinterested responses when required. Tammy was visibly restless, playing with the string bracelet around her thin wrists.

The mention of food reminded Clio how thin her daughter looked. She’d lost even more weight. The sooner she had her first appointment with the new therapist, the better. After her worrying weight loss earlier in the year, Tammy had gone from puppy fat to gaunt. It didn’t suit her. Clio hoped it was a temporary circumstance and not the start of an eating disorder, but every time she broached the subject, Tammy clammed up. Yet another taboo topic between them. At this rate, the only safe subject for conversations would be the weather.

“Would a dessert buffet be too gauche, do you think?” her mother asked.

Clio shrugged. “I have no idea how people entertain in West Cork.”

“I doubt the locals would know the difference between pâté and
foie gras
, but my Dublin friends certainly do.”

“
Foie gras
is inhumane,” Clio said with quiet determination. “I’d rather you left it off the menu.”

For a moment, it looked as though Helen would argue the point. Then she gave a haughty sniff. “Very well. I suppose we can come up with a suitable alternative.”

Seán was manfully nibbling on his inedible sandwich. “What are your plans for the weekend, Ms. Havelin?” he asked between bites. “I’ll be with you tomorrow, and Garda Glenn will be here on Sunday. If possible, I’d like to put in an appearance at the Valentine’s Day fair at the town hall. Things don’t usually get raucous, but it’s smart to show a police presence.”

Helen raised an eyebrow. “In other words, it would suit you if I went to that fair.”

A thin smile appeared on Seán’s lips. “Precisely.”

“All right,” her mother said with a nod. “I can manage that. I know you’ve been pulled off your regular duties to guard me. Besides, Tamara will be there with her school class. Won’t you, dear?”

“For my sins.” The girl looked morose. “They’re making us sing. I hate singing.”

“Nonsense,” her grandmother said with forced cheer. “You’ll have a lovely time. It’ll give you a chance to get to know your new friends better.”

Tammy glanced in Clio’s direction and rolled her eyes. The gesture, the girl looked so like her grandmother that Clio almost laughed.

She wiped her mouth with her napkin and stood. “Thanks for the sandwich. I have to get going to the pub.”

Helen’s expression dripped disdain. “I can’t believe you took a job at a
pub
.”

“It’s honest work, Mother, and it pays weekly. I’ve sent applications for translation jobs and taken out a couple of ads, but it will take time to build my clientele.”

“Good luck with the cocktail hour,” Seán cut in, deftly steering the conversation before Helen could utter any more critical comments. “I saw the posters you made. You’re a talented artist.”

Clio smiled. “Thank you. It’s a fun hobby.”

“Mum’s helping me paint a mural on my bedroom wall,” Tammy added. “We’re starting work on it this weekend.”

Clio dropped a kiss onto her daughter’s cheek. For once, the girl didn’t flinch. “I’ll pop in to check on you when I get home from work.”

“Bye, Clio,” Seán said, holding her gaze a little longer than strictly necessary. “See you tomorrow.” 

THE FIRST COCKTAIL evening at MacCarthy’s pub was a roaring success. Marcella and Clio had brainstormed a trial menu featuring six basic cocktail recipes that utilized the liquor the pub always had in stock. The only extra expense was for a few fruit juices and cocktail glass decorations.

Clio put her artistic talent to good use and created a beautiful poster in addition to prettifying the chalkboard outside the pub’s entrance. By nine o’clock, the cocktail hour was officially over, but customers were still clamoring for fancy drinks.

Olivia, the red-haired woman Clio had met in the bookshop on Monday, ordered her second mai tai of the evening. “These are excellent. Well done, Clio.”

“Thank you. I’m sorry I had to cancel our night out. I didn’t know I’d get a job working here when we arranged it.”

“Don’t worry about it. I’m sure we’ll get another opportunity.” Olivia gave Marcella a wink. “If this slave driver ever gives you a break, come on over to our table.”

“Trying to lure away my staff, Olivia?” Marcella sidled up to Clio with a tray full of freshly washed cocktail glasses. “All right. I can take a hint. Clio’s due a break in any case.”

“Are you sure you can manage on your own?” Clio asked, eyeing the queue of customers.

“Not a problem. Máire, my girlfriend, just walked through the door. She can help me out while you take your break.”

“Follow me,” Olivia said. “I’ll introduce you round.”

Olivia led the way to the neat little snug in the corner of the main lounge. Three steps descended to a little room that had been wallpapered with vintage newspaper highlighting events from Irish history—some serious, some inane. Olivia’s friends were seated at a table in the corner. She indicated a handsome dark-haired man Clio recognized from TV interviews. “This is Jonas, my husband.”

“Hi.” Clio shook his hand. “I stayed up late last night finishing the first of your DI Brady mysteries. Very well done.”

The man gave a slow smile. “I hear Bridie put in a good word for me.”

“It paid off. Now I want to read the rest in the series.”

“Have you met Gavin and Fiona yet?” Jonas nodded to the couple seated across from him. “Fiona is Bridie’s niece.”

“Welcome to Ballybeg.” Fiona was a pretty, slightly plump woman with long, curly dark hair and a warm smile. “Are you settling into Clonmore House?”

“We’re still unpacking,” Clio said, taking a seat next to Olivia. “My plans to be finished by the weekend were scuppered by getting this job.”

Gavin, Fiona’s husband, was tall and blond with an athletic build. He looked vaguely familiar. “Didn’t we pass one another jogging the other day?” he asked. “Out on the promenade?”

“Probably. I’m trying to get back in shape in time for the Cork City Marathon. I ran marathons when I lived in Spain and kept up my training when I moved back to Dublin. Since we arrived in Ballybeg, I’ve barely managed a quick jog.”

“Marathons?” Gavin perked up visibly. “Say, you don’t want to train with us, do you?”

“Oh, no.” Fiona wagged a finger. “You suggested we get in shape for the Ballybeg Sports Day. You never mentioned us running
marathons
.”

“Sports day, marathon.” Gavin shrugged. “If we keep at it, who knows what we might achieve?”

Fiona rolled her eyes. “Gavin is always trying to recruit people to train for the annual Ballybeg Sports Day. As you can see”—she grabbed a little excess flesh around her midriff—“he hasn’t been successful with me.”

Her husband flashed her a wicked grin. “New Year, new goals, Fee. Why don’t we all arrange to go for a morning jog a couple of times a week?”

Clio gave her schedule a mental check. Getting back into a running routine would be wonderful. Squeezing a run into the days she worked at the pub would be tough, but she could manage it on the other days. It would be good for her asthma and good for her head. “I can do a run on the days I’m not working here. My current schedule has me working Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Fridays.”

“How about next Wednesday morning?” Gavin beamed at the assembled company. “I’m sure Jonas would love to join us, and Olivia will be free then too.”

“I run my own café,” Olivia explained. “Wednesday is my morning off.”

“Okay,” Clio said. “Sounds like a plan. When and where do you usually meet?”

“Seven a.m. at the carousel on the promenade.” Gavin knocked back the remainder of his whiskey sour. “Do you know where that is?”

“I think so. Just off the main square and toward the seafront?”

“That’s the place.”

“In that case, I’ll see you then.” Clio glanced at her watch. “I’d better get back to work. Enjoy your evening.”

She strode back to the bar with a spring in her step, whistling a tune under her breath. Finally, something was going right. While working at MacCarthy’s was a temporary solution, she liked the other staff, and a job in a pub was an excellent opportunity to get to know her new neighbors. The tune she was whistling faltered when her phone buzzed with an incoming message. With a sinking heart, she scanned the display:
March 14.

SEÁN STOOD IN LINE at the drinks stand and suppressed a groan. The people of Ballybeg used any event as an excuse to party, and Valentine’s Day was no exception. The town hall was full of people with forced cheer and jollity, overindulging in cheap sweet wine and even sweeter treats. The walls were festooned with cheesy red hearts, cupids, and streamers. Liberating a few coins from his pocket, he paid for three drinks and then began to navigate the crowd.

Ballybeg’s town hall was located in a building dating from the mid-nineteenth century. He recalled the hall from his childhood, especially from attending the annual Christmas bazaar with his family. In those days, the high ceilings seemed to stretch to impossible heights, and the rich polished wood floors were a wide expanse. When he’d seen the hall again for the first time in over twenty-five years, he’d been shocked to observe how much smaller it was than in his memories.

To the left of the entrance, Clio and Helen Havelin stood waiting for him, the former wearing a bored expression, and the latter surprisingly on edge for one used to public attention.

“Not your scene?” he asked, handing them their drinks.

“Not exactly.” Clio took a sip of her sweet drink and winced. “You’re one to talk. You were regarding the crowd with all the enthusiasm of a man faced with babysitting sextuplets.
Incontinent
sextuplets.”

He smiled down at her. “No,” he said wryly. “This is definitely not my idea of a fun Saturday excursion. I’m here in my professional capacity. I’m due to take over from Brian in a few minutes. He’ll drive you home after the fair.”

Helen was clutching her drink in one hand and her handbag in the other. Her eyes grew wide as she scanned the crowd. “Some of the visitors seem on the rough side. Do fights often break out at these events?”