Wild Irish Roots (The Mystic Cove Series) (8 page)

A knock at the door startled her. Wiping her eyes quickly, Fiona glanced at the clock on the mantle. It was 9:00 in the evening. Who could be knocking at her door now?

Straightening her back, she went to the door and cracked it open.

Her heart dropped.

Sean stood there, his hat in his hands.

"Ma'am," Sean said, bobbing his head respectfully at her.

"Oh no," Fiona said, shaking her head back and forth.

"What? Oh, please, I know Margaret hates me, but I've come to apologize to her. Is she around?" Sean looked over Fiona's head eagerly.

"Sean. Come in," Fiona said and turned, heading straight for her cabinet that housed her whiskey.

"Thanks, is she here?" Sean said, anxiously turning his cap in his hands.

"Sit," Fiona ordered.

Sean took a seat next to the pile of baby clothes that had fallen from the bags that Fiona had dropped. He glanced at the clothes and looked away. Fiona sighed as she thought about how she would have to handle this.

"Sean, Margaret's gone," Fiona said, deciding on brevity.

"Okay, when will she be back? I can wait," Sean said.

"No. Gone, packed her bags, left town," Fiona said. She watched as Sean's face dropped.

"She went to Dublin without me, didn't she. I knew that I should have come to see her sooner," Sean said morosely.

Fiona poured him a small glass of whiskey.

"She's not in Dublin."

"Where is she?" Sean asked, confusion crossing his handsome face.

"Why don't you tell me what happened first?" Fiona asked and watched Sean's face poker up. She sighed.

"I'm well aware that you had sex with my daughter. Tell me why you left."

Sean gaped at her for a moment before picking up the glass and downing the whiskey in one gulp.

"Um, it wasn't her. I never really wanted to leave her. I love her. But, it was something that happened."

Fiona gestured with her own glass of whiskey for Sean to continue.

"The water. It just glowed. I know this sounds crazy. But one moment it was normal and the next it was shining this brilliant blue light. We ran for our lives. I...I turned on Margaret. Blamed her for it. I left her there to walk home alone," Sean said sheepishly.

Fiona reached out and poured Sean another glass of whiskey. She swallowed a lump in her throat, knowing now that her daughter flew away from her one true love. The cove had been trying to send them both a message.

"What made you come back?" Fiona inquired, bypassing the reason for the cove glowing blue.

"Well, I kind of asked around town about. Seems like it might just be this phenomenon that happens there. But, it wasn't Margaret, I'm sure of that now." Sean said.

Fiona closed her eyes as she thought about the pain her daughter had been in. Sean running from her had only confirmed Margaret's belief that she was a freak. It was the perfect storm.

Knowing that she was about to rock this boy's world forever, Fiona drained her glass of whiskey.

"She's on a plane to Boston. For good," Fiona said and watched Sean's face drop.

"No," Sean shook his head, the color draining from his cheeks.

"She left." Fiona said.

"Then, I'll go get her." Sean said determination ringing in his voice. Fiona sighed.

"Sean, what do you see sitting next to you?"

"Baby clothes. So?" Sean shrugged and played with his glass. His hands stilled as realization washed over him.

"Yes, Sean. Baby clothes. Do you think that I'm pregnant?" Fiona inquired of him.

"Baby...Margaret. Margaret's pregnant? And, she left? Just like that?" Sean slammed his fist onto the table and got up to pace. "I have rights as a father, you know. She can't just leave!"

"Well, I'm sorry, Sean, but she did. She didn't believe in you. Frankly, neither did I."

"I'm going after her," Sean declared.

"No," Fiona said forcefully. Sighing, she handed him Margaret's letter and watched as his heart broke in front of her.

Sighing, Fiona pulled him into her arms as he sobbed. Together, they both cried for a love lost, a life lost, and for an unknown future.

––––––––

M
argaret stared out the window as they approached Boston. She'd stayed awake the entire flight, questioning her choice. Every time, she came to the conclusion that she'd had none.

This was her new life.

Smiling, she patted her stomach and watched Boston's downtown come into view. It was a whole new world for her and her baby. Together, they'd make it.

******

Read on for an excerpt from Wild Irish Heart:

Book 1 in the Mystic Cove Series:

T
he ping of the doorbell startled Keelin O'Brien from her daydream of chartering a dive boat through the Great Barrier Reef. Blinking, she shoved herself up from her messy desk and padded quietly in her Irish cottage socks to the door. Peering through the hole, she saw that it was Frank, her overly friendly mailman.

"Hi, Frank," Keelin said as she eased the door open, careful to hide her clutter from his view.

"Hi, Keelin. I've got a special package for you today," Frank said. "International!"

"Really? I haven't ordered anything. How interesting." Keelin signed for the package and Frank raised his eyebrows at her. Keelin knew that he expected her to open the package in front of him.

"Thanks, Frank. Gotta run!" Keelin shut the door with her foot and examined the small package as she wandered towards her kitchen. The cheerful blue of her kitchen walls contrasted with the pile of dishes in her sink. A small window with soft yellow curtains allowed a ray of sunlight to pick up the layer of dust on her sideboard. With a sigh, Keelin made a mental note to clean.

Brushing a pile of papers aside, Keelin sat at her table and looked at the package. Rectangular-shaped and wrapped in butcher paper, it wasn't the typical international envelope found at the post office. Twine wove around the package and what looked like an honest-to-God wax seal closed the twine. Keelin's name and address were written in a deep brown ink, the handwriting a beautiful old calligrapher style. Keelin squinted at the return address and remembered her reading glasses, tucked in her shirt. 

Interesting, Keelin thought she examined the address more closely. The address was smudged. It seemed almost deliberate. Keelin wondered why she suspected that it was deliberate. Only one word was easily readable: Ireland.

Keelin lifted the package and gingerly broke the seal. An image flashed into her head. There was a fire. Voices chanting. A midnight-blue cove that glowed from within. And eyes. A sharp, crystal-blue pair of eyes stared at her through the flames.

Keelin gasped and dropped the package. Her heart pounded quickly and she tried out some of the deep-breathing techniques that she had learned in yoga. Though her hands trembled, Keelin shook her head and laughed at herself. Her mother always sighed at what she termed "Keelin's Little Fancies" and clucked that Keelin would never find a man if she was always daydreaming. Keelin wished that these images were just daydreams or the result of an overly creative brain. Unfortunately, Keelin's talents ran more to the science side of things than the creative, daydreamer type. Yet, Keelin never knew how to describe the images she would see when she touched certain things.

Things? Who was she kidding? Keelin thought. It didn't just happen with objects. It happened with people, animals, and even places. She had recently started to wonder if she needed to take her mother's not-so-gentle advice to go see a therapist. Her gut told her that a therapist would do little to shed light on Keelin's problems. She'd learned long ago to shelter herself and to keep these images that flooded her brain quiet. Living in Massachusetts had implemented in her a healthy fear of the repercussions of being different, if the history of the Salem Witch Trials indicated anything. 

She held the package and took a deep breath before she immersed herself back in the image. This time, she focused on the feelings it brought.

Dark images slashed at her. A fishing village at night. A lone dog wandering a hill. A man tying a fishing line. As Keelin waded through the images she decided that there was a sense of foreboding, yet also of homecoming, that threaded through the images. It wasn't evil, yet there was a sense of stepping over a threshold.

It was almost as if she was being pushed away and pulled in. Her fingers trembled as she peeled back the paper. In some respects, she had been waiting for this. There had always been something in her life left unsaid – undiscovered even. Keelin wondered if this was finally her answer.

A small book lay nestled in the paper. A rich brown leather cover, creased with age, and with hand stitching at the binding, encased the yellowed pages. Keelin marveled over the beauty of the simple craftsmanship. No words or symbols marred the soft leather, yet years of scratches from use weathered the cover to a perfect patina.

The book seemed to speak volumes without a word on its cover.

This book was old. Really old. Keelin wondered if she needed gloves to touch it. A book like this belonged in a museum, she thought. She gently opened the cover and gasped at the pages. These were vellum pages. Her hands shook as the enormity of the delicacy and strength of this book struck her. Keelin had known the book was old but writing on vellum dated back to the Book of Kells days. This was a book that was not to be taken lightly. Who had sent such a gift to her? Keelin suspected she knew the source of this gift. The real question was: why now?

A folded piece of paper that was tied with the same twine and matching seal as the wrapping lay tucked in the front of the cover. Keelin gently pulled it out and unfolded it.

The words struck her like a punch to the gut. 

It is time.

Keelin stared at the letter in shock. In recognition. She tucked her strawberry-blonde hair behind her ear. Her socialite mother carefully tinted the red from her hair, sniffing, "It's too Irish." But Keelin secretly loved her hair color and always refused to have it dyed when her mother's second-favorite stylist discreetly suggested the change each month.

It is time.

The words bored into her brain. Had she known this was coming? She held the letter up to her face. It smelled faintly of lavender and something deeper. Smoky, almost. Visions of a moonlit cove and a fire crackling, with strong voices chanting flashed through her mind.

It is time.

Keelin held the book and marveled at the beauty of the detailing. She closed her eyes and inhaled the scent of the worn leather. The book seemed to warm to her touch and a feeling of love spread through her arms and curled its way through her core. She caught a glimpse of an old woman gathering herbs on a sloping hill near the water. Her sudden insight confirmed her suspicion. This was her maternal grandmother's book. Her grandmother lived in the hills of Ireland, just north of a small fishing village on the southernmost peninsula of Ireland. Reported to be crazy and aloof, Keelin had had little contact with her. Keelin's mother had insisted on moving to the States before Keelin was born and was proud to raise her daughter on Boston's reputable Beacon Hill. They had never returned to Ireland.

She had often wondered why her mother had refused to discuss her upbringing with Keelin. At the time, she had put it down to her mom's obsession with pedigree and socialite parties. There wasn't much place for a poor Irish upbringing amongst the wealth of her mother's friends. Now Keelin wondered what vital details she may have missed about her mother's life before Boston.

The book seemed to call to her. Keelin traced her fingers over the soft leather. She picked it up and the image of blue eyes popped into her head again. This time a small thrill of sexual excitement curled through her. 

"Whoa, this is a little ridiculous." Keelin laughed and got up. She needed to pace. Two thoughts raced through her mind. The first was that her grandmother was dead. The second was that this was a book of power.

Keelin needed answers and there was only one blonde socialite that had them.

She pulled on knee-high brown boots over leggings that hugged generous hips, threw on a long fair-isle cardigan, and picked up the book. Keelin dug in her closet for a wool scarf and gently wrapped the book before tucking it in her leather satchel. It was time to hunt down her mother. Then she would deal with the implications of the book.

––––––––

M
argaret Grainne O'Brien lived in a two-story brownstone in the coveted Beacon Hill neighborhood of downtown Boston. Keelin enjoyed the cobblestone streets and the cherry blossom trees in the spring. She hated the severe lack of parking and the miniscule living spaces that the high-rent neighborhood offered. Wondering, again, why anyone would pay an obscene amount of money to live in seven hundred square feet of space with one parking spot, Keelin rang her mother's bell.

"Keelin, darling! What are you doing here?" Margaret asked. A coolly lovely blonde in her mid-fifties, she was dressed for tea in a pale gray cocktail suit with a deep pink shirt. Pearls winked at her ears and a leather watch peeked discreetly from her sleeve.

Margaret ushered Keelin in and began making distressed noises.

"Keelin Grainne. Are you wearing leggings outside of the house again?" Margaret asked.

"Mom. Stop. Everyone wears leggings. And my sweater is long. They are like tights but with even more coverage." Keelin rolled her eyes and stomped to her mother's front room. Graceful arched windows boasted a view of fashionable shops. Keelin settled on the settee and actively hated the room. Everything was white and gold. Too much opulence, she thought.

"Mom. We need to talk." Keelin reached into her bag to pull out the book.

"You're pregnant! I knew it. I knew that Todd was bad news. What were you thinking?"

"Whoa. What? No! Mom, ugh, God, just stop. Gross. I never slept with Todd to begin with. You set me up with him, which should have told you that he was not a good match for me. Would you please just stop with trying to set me up?" Keelin said. It was a constant aggravation for her. Margaret enjoyed arranging blind dates with the sons of the town's elite. Keelin loved her too much to embarrass her and ditch out on the dates. Inevitably, every Todd, Chad, and Spence she dated failed to get her juices flowing. Idly, she wondered if she even had any juices anymore. It had been so long since she had truly been passionate about anything except her work.