Quinn's Deirdre (6 page)

“I’ve no idea what you’re blethering about,” he
said, his voice husky with emotion. “But you’ll tell it all to me soon enough,
I’m sure.
 
Whatever you’re so sorry
about, I forgive
ye
, but I need to hear your story.”

“Oh, Quinn, I should’ve told you then.”

He put one finger over her lips. “Aye, ye should’ve
done, but ye’ll tell me later.
 
I’m not
up to it just yet, and I’d rather we go somewhere where no one will come
knocking at the door or ringing the phone.”

“Quinn…”

“Hush, woman.
 
It’s near noon and I’ve got to go down to the pub.
 
I’m surprised old Des hasn’t been up to rouse
me.
 
If ye weren’t here, he would’ve
been.
 
Come down when ye’re ready and
we’ll make plans.”

Deirdre hated to leave his arms.
 
In them, she felt safe but she nodded.
 
“All right, Quinn, I’ll be down later.”

 
She watched
him walk through the door and the thought struck her.
 
Quinn said he’d forgiven her and he’d
accepted her return rather well.
 
He knew
nothing more than her violent and terrible death had been a lie.
 
She had strolled back into his life and
dropped a bombshell, but he didn’t hate her.
 
He still loved her and after he heard the details, Deirdre hoped he
still would.

Despite the fact she’d found him drunk and
dissolute, no matter how rocky their reunion might yet prove to be, coming back
had been the right thing to do.
 
She
didn’t regret it and she hoped she never would.

Chapter
Four

Dressed in a pair of her black jeans from Quinn’s
closet and an emerald green blouse, Deirdre descended the back stairs into the
pub. Delicious aromas wafted upward.
 
Chatter and conversation sounds were audible along with the clink of
china and rattle of silverware.
 
She
paused and listened for Quinn’s voice.
 
She followed the sound of it and found him behind the bar, his uncle at
his side.

“I tell you I don’t know yet, but she’s back and I’m
glad of it,” Quinn said as he added fresh bottles to the shelves.

“And I’m glad for yer sake, lad, I am, but don’t ye
find it strange? Ye thought her dead and buried.
 
I watched ye grieve and mourned with
ye
.
 
Ye’ve been like
one of those terrible creatures, the walkin’ dead.”

“Zombies.”

“Aye, those,” Des said with a nod. “Ye drink too
much, and ye’re giving out to any and everyone for no reason.
 
Ye’ve been mean as a hurt pig and in
desperate shape.”

“Don’t be an auld arsewipe, Uncle Des.
 
I’ve never been that bad.”

“Nay, ye’ve been worse.” The older man glowered at
Quinn. “And my heart’s fit to bust with joy seeing you like ye are now, but I’m
afeard she’ll skedaddle again and hurt ye more.”

Deirdre stepped behind the bar. “I won’t leave Quinn
again, not as long as I live.”

Both men turned to gape,
then
Quinn moved forward.
 
He pulled her into
his arms and kissed her, sweet but with a touch of heat. “I’ll hold
ye
to that,” he said, voice light, but she could tell he
wasn’t joking.
 

Desmond glared at her. “Aye, so will
I
.
 
It’s not that I’m
not glad ye’re back—I am, Deirdre. I’m just worried for Quinn here.
 
He’s had a bad time of it, these few years
past.”

An old man wearing a tweed flat cap, face lined with
decades of wear and weather, pounded the bar with one gnarled fist. “Is it a
soap opera I’m watchin’ or are we in a pub? I’d like a pint of Guinness if
you’d be so kind.”

Quinn laughed. “Guinness it shall be, Mr.
O’Garrity.”

He pulled the pint, the froth on top perfect, and
slid it over to the customer.
 
O’Garrity
nodded and took his first sip.
 
Des
rolled his eyes. “I’m back to the kitchen, then.”

“Where are my bartenders?”

“April didn’t show up this fine morning,” Des said.
“Riley’s watching over the kitchen whilst I rail at
ye
.
 
I’ll send him to the bar.”

“Do,” Quinn said. “I’ll help him here until April
comes or someone does.”

His arm remained around Deirdre’s waist and she
liked it. “What about me?”

A twinkle brightened his blue eyes until they
sparkled. “I’ll pull
ye
a pint too if you like.”

She loathed the black stuff and he knew it.
 
He’d often teased her about it, before. “I’m
not thirsty,” she said with a genuine smile. “But I’m hungry.”

“Go on to the kitchen and Des will fix whatever ye
want.
 
As soon as I can, I’ll come join
ye
upstairs.”

“I’d rather wait for you, Quinn.”

His eyes met hers and he grinned. “So be it if it’s
what ye want.
 
Go back and talk to Des,
then.
 
He’s never as fierce as he sounds,
and he’ll enjoy the company.
 
Ask him to
call April, and if he can’t get her see if David will come in early.”

“All right,” she said.

Deirdre wandered into the large kitchen and Des
handed her a knife. “Peel me some praties, would
ye
?”
he said and she nodded.
 
He pointed to a
heaping basket of potatoes and she began.
 
The simple task calmed her and after a few moments, Desmond, always
garrulous, began talking to her in a steady stream.
 
She listened, nodded, and responded when she
could get a word inserted into the conversation.
 

“So I don’t suppose ye’d be tellin’ me just where in
the hell ye’ve been so long,” he said without preamble. “Or why you let poor
Quinn think ye were dead.”

“I need to tell him first.” Deirdre replied as her
deft hands used the knife with skill. “After I talk to Quinn, I’ll answer any
question you have for me, I promise.”

“’Tis right ye should square it with him first, I
suppose.” He emitted a long sigh. “Cut the praties into wee bits, now would
ye
? They’re to cook down in a fresh pot of soup, this
batch.”

“Okay, sure. Quinn wanted you to call April, I think
he said.”

“I did already and she’s on her way or so she
says.
 
She’s a flighty young thing, April,
but she shows up often enough for Quinn to keep her on the payroll.
 
I tried to interest yer man in her, but he
had none at all.
 
He’s lived like a monk,
celibate as far as I’d know. There’s been no other woman good enough for him
but you.”

As much as Deirdre disliked the thought of Quinn
lonely, she hated the idea of him with another woman more.
 
She tried to find the words to express the
idea but couldn’t, so she nodded and kept peeling potatoes.
 
It must’ve served as enough encouragement
because Uncle Desmond continued to natter, all the time stirring pots, checking
the ovens, and plating orders without a hitch.

“Are ye goin’ to be on the telly again, since ye’ve
come back from the dead?”

His question caught her short.
 
Surprised, Deirdre fumbled to answer. “I
don’t know.
 
I hadn’t thought about it,”
she said. “It probably wouldn’t be a very good idea, not now anyway.”

“Oh?” Des tasted the stew and made a wordless sound
of appreciation.
 
“Why ever would ye not?
Ye were popular as I recall with yer face on billboards and all.”

“It might be dangerous,” she said without thinking
first.

He reared back his head and gave her a hard look.
“Dangerous is it? Is that why ye bolted like a rabbit chased by hounds? Were ye
afraid?”

Old Des proved to be more astute than she would’ve
guessed. “Well, yes, I was.
 
I never told
Quinn, but a man threatened both me—and him.”

“
A mhuirnín
, ye
should’ve said something to yer fella. He fretted over ye when ye were a
witness and when ye didn’t come home from shopping, was it? He near lost his
mind, sick with worry.
 
And then, when he
got word ye’d been taken, then yer poor body found, I thought sure grief would
put him in the grave beside
ye
.
 
If ye’d told him there was danger, things
might’ve been different.”

His calm tone never wavered.
 
He might have been discussing the weather,
but when Deirdre caught sight of his face, a ripple of anxiety tightened her
chest.
 
Des wore a bland expression, a
poker face.
 
He’s hiding something from me but what?

“How?”

“Ah, ‘tis water under the bridge now,
Deirdre,” Des said. “What’s done is done.”

“What was done?” She didn’t understand,
but it sounded dire.

“Nothing worth the tellin’,” the older
man replied.
 
“There, now, that’s enough
praties.
 
Can you cut onions for me too
or will ye weep?”

“I’ll cry, always do.”

He shrugged. “Never
ye
mind
, then. I’ll do it meself.”

“What can I do?”

Des pointed at the pile of dirty pots
and pans beside the rear sinks. “Ye can wash up if ye like, but ye don’t have
to do it.
 
Ye can go wait for Quinn in
the pub if ye’d rather.”

Time would drag if she did. “I like
being busy. I’ll wash them.
 
Are you shorthanded
these days?”

“Oh, aye, we are at times, dearie.
 
If ye plan to stay, ye can help as needed.”

His uncertainty about staying rankled,
but she kept her mouth closed.
 
She
deserved it, after the way she’d left without a word and left them all to think
she had died.
 
“I do and will.”

“That’s grand, then.
 
I can use the help most days.
 
Eileen helped when she was here.
 
She came for yer funeral, ye know.”

“I did, yes.
 
I saw a picture.”

With a snort, Des nodded. “And kept it,
I bet.”

“Yes.”

“Humph.” He shook his head. “Aye, she
came to bury
ye
and help her brother.
 
She’s been back every year since, always
tryin’ to talk Quinn into going home.
 
I’ve an idea he’d go, too, if he hadn’t wanted to leave what was left of
ye out at the graveyard.
 
Too many
memories, here, he told Eileen, and he couldn’t leave.”

Deirdre’s heart clenched.
 
Of the many scenarios she’d envisioned while
living in Arkansas, Quinn returning to Ireland for good hadn’t been one of
them.
 
“I never thought he’d want to leave
Kansas City and the pub anyway.”

The pungent smell of cut onions filled the
kitchen and
rankled
her nose as Desmond chopped them
into bits with more force than necessary.
 
He exhaled a long-suffering, rather Irish sigh. “He might at that.
 
There’s times the lad is homesick for
Ireland.
 
‘Twas different when he had
ye
and the pub, but the pub alone is scarcely enough to fill
his heart.
 
If he didn’t have the pub
with so many Irish ex-pats who come in and the many Yanks who love all things
Irish, I doubt he’d stand here at all.
 
But now ye’re back, so maybe it will change and he’ll be more content.” His
tone sounded skeptical.

“I hope so.” More than anything, she
wanted Quinn to be happy and safe.

“We’ll see, I suppose.
 
I’m sure our Eileen will have a deal to say
when she learns you’re alive.”

“Won’t she be happy, at least for Quinn?”

“Maybe, but she’ll be mad first, I’m
thinkin’.
 
She’s the temper ye’d expect
from a red-headed Irishwoman.”

Eileen Sullivan, now Mrs. O’Brien,
possessed the brilliant auburn hair and her brother’s blue eyes.
 
She also owned the temper of an irate banshee
or total bitch.
 
Deirdre had been on the
receiving end of her tongue more than once, and there’d been little love lost
between the two.
 

“I remember.”

A clatter at the rear door opening into
the alley distracted Desmond.
 
Deirdre
recognized April from the night before.
 
Dressed
in the pub’s quasi uniform of black trousers and white blouse, April rushed
through the kitchen with apologies.
 
“Go
relieve Quinn,” Des called as she passed. “He’s needed elsewhere.”