There was no actual proof that Eddie was dead, he told himself. Eddie had taken out a single passenger and hadn’t come back for the party. Then the Coast Guard had discovered the Sea Maiden. Nothing wrong, nothing out of order. Sails furled.
Except that neither Eddie nor his passenger had been seen since.
Cal closed his eyes, exhausted. It was winter, but the weather was good, so people kept wanting to go out, damn them. And with Eddie missing and Sean sick over in Ireland, he’d been left to manage everything himself. Now he was exhausted.
And he was scared.
At his side, Marni stirred.
He didn’t want to wake her.
Too late.
“What’s wrong?” she asked him.
“I don’t know. I just…woke up.”
She reached out and stroked his face. “It’s all right, Cal. Sean will be back soon. Kat sent that friend of theirs, Zach Flynn, to bring him home.”
Cal felt a flash of annoyance. His own wife would feel secure if Sean—a sick old man!—came home. She was supposed to feel secure with him. But she doted on Sean.
Then he wondered if he was annoyed because Zach was coming. Sean, in turn, doted on the Flynns, especially Zach.
He took a deep breath and told himself to watch it. Jealousy was a curse.
“Cal?” she urged when he didn’t say anything.
“I saw Eddie,” he whispered, feeling a strange trembling inside. He had liked old Eddie. What hadn’t been to like?
“What?” Marni sat up with a jerk. “You saw him? Where? You have to tell the cops. Everyone thinks that…that…”
“They think he’s dead. I think he’s dead.”
“Then what are you talking about, Cal?” Marni asked, a quiver in her tone. “You just said you’d seen him. You’re sounding crazy, you know that?”
“I had a nightmare, that’s all. Go back to sleep.”
She fell back on her pillow, but he knew she wasn’t sleeping. She was studying him.
He winced. His wife was beautiful, and he knew he was a lucky man. Sure, Sean was rich and he was just the junior partner, but he should be glad that his wife was so fond of Sean, that they got along so well. He didn’t need to worry about her, didn’t need to be jealous. She was a good wife, and Sean…wasn’t interested in her that way. He had his own wife. Amanda.
What the hell was it about Amanda? Women just naturally seemed to hate her. Men couldn’t help but notice her. There was something about the way she walked. Sashayed, he thought. Whatever. It was sexy.
He noticed—he couldn’t help it—but…
She wasn’t Marni. No, she was nothing like Marni, with her down-to-earth, natural beauty. Or Kat. Kat was a beauty, too. Vivacious, and refreshingly unaware of her own assets.
Between the three of them, though—Kat, Amanda and Marni—there were definitely some strange dynamics. Kat seemed to like his wife, though, and that was all that mattered to him.
He leaned over and kissed Marni’s forehead. She wrapped her arms around him, pulled him down and kissed him back, slow at first, then deeper, and finally totally insinuating, as she pressed the curves of her body against him. He felt the tension left over from the nightmare slip away.
She could make love like a high-priced call girl, and in a matter of minutes he had forgotten about his horrific vision of Eddie. A bout of hot-and-heavy sex wiped away thoughts of anything other than his desire to feel himself inside her again soon.
After their lovemaking, she curled against him and he glanced at the bedside clock. Only two o’clock, not as late as he had thought. Seven in the morning in Ireland. Soon time for them to get up there, getting ready to board their plane for the States.
But tonight, Sean would be back and could start taking charge again, even if he was still stuck in bed.
Cal closed his eyes. He needed to sleep.
Just as he drifted off, he thought that he heard the wind rising again and opened his eyes.
Eddie was back, dripping saltwater and seaweed, standing at the foot of his bed and staring at him.
5
Dublin was alive and beautiful by night. Lights from pubs, restaurants and trendy cafés spilled out onto the sidewalk. In the southwest section of the city, the ancient blended with the merely old and the downright new. They headed past Dublin Castle, going toward Temple Bar, the area between Dame Street and the River Liffey. It was a place he knew well, having come often enough in the past few years, since it had filled with shops, restaurants and museums.
Caer looked at him. “You know the area?”
“Not as well as you do, I’m sure.”
She smiled. “It’s called Temple Bar because the land was acquired by a man named Temple in the sixteen-hundreds. And the ‘bar’ is the path along the river. And luckily, it’s not far from the hotel.”
“Luckily,” he agreed. “Though I usually take mass transit, I admit.”
She flashed him a grin. “Aye, but when the weather’s fair, it’s a fine walk.” She frowned. “So, is the weather as fierce in New England as they say?”
“They say it’s fierce in New England?” he asked her.
“Well, the pilgrims all died, didn’t they?”
He laughed. “Not all of them—and not from the weather. I have to admit, I’ve always lived in the South, but I’ve visited the O’Rileys often enough to have experienced a few New England winters firsthand. He and my father were friends, and Sean was like an uncle to me and my brothers after our parents died. So New England in winter? You just never know. It can get cold, a lot colder than it usually gets here. But on the coast, unless a storm is coming in, the days tend to be temperate enough. When there is a storm, though, it can get pretty wild. I actually like a good storm—watching from a nice warm room, of course. I’ve been caught in a few gales off the coast and it’s not my idea of a good time, but the old salts—guys like Sean and Eddie—they love the wind and the whip of the waves.”
“Sounds dangerous,” Caer said.
There had been no storm when Eddie headed out, Zach thought.
“The elements anywhere can be dangerous,” he pointed out.
But man could be far more dangerous, he added silently.
“You’re thinking about Eddie, aren’t you? You’re thinking that he’s dead, and you’re worrying about Sean,” she told him.
“Yes.”
“You know Eddie?”
“Yes.”
“Do you think that maybe…I don’t know? That he’s maybe gone into hiding for some reason?” she asked.
“I wish I did,” he answered.
She was silent; then she pointed to one of the spires rising into the night sky and said, “Christ Church Cathedral. It was built by a man known as Silkbeard. He was actually Sitric, a Norse king of Dublin. Did you know the city was founded by the Norse? Then there were the Normans, the Norman English and the English. Can you imagine all the plotting and fighting that’s gone on here?”
He was surprised; she sounded as if she were actually trying to lighten his mood.
“You really love this city, don’t you?” he asked her.
“What’s not to love?” she replied softly. “Dublin is one of the most wonderful cities on earth.”
He laughed. “You told me you’d never been outside the British Isles.”
“I’ve seen the Travel Channel,” she said defensively.
“I’m not arguing. It’s a wonderful city,” he assured her, trying not to laugh at her indignation. And she was right. Dublin was an amazing city. So much history, a lot of it tragic, but nowadays the city was as alive and cosmopolitan as any place he knew. Walking along the street, he could hear people speaking in foreign languages, just like in New York, London or Paris, though the majority were speaking in English with the same Irish lilt that made everything Caer said sound so melodic. “The pub is right ahead,” she said, breaking into his thoughts. “See? Irish Eyes.”
Caer led the way through the groups gathered o
utside to smoke, and Zach noticed that every eye followed her as she passed. She was not just beautiful but strikingly beautiful.
She would be noticed wherever she went.
He followed her inside, realizing that everyone was looking at him, as well.
Because he was with her.
As they walked in, he was certain that she was about to apologize and tell him that her friends hadn’t been able to make it after all.
He was wrong.
She was recognized the minute they walked in. An attractive woman of about forty headed straight out from behind the bar, wiping her hands on an apron with “Irish Eyes” handsomely embroidered on the edge.
“You came!” she said with pleasure.
“I said I would,” Caer told her.
He introduced himself. “Zach Flynn.”
“American?” the woman said.
“Yes. Wretched accent, sorry. Caer invited me along. I hope you don’t mind.”
“Mind?” Why ’tis lovely, ye’ve come. I’m Mary Donovan, Mr. Flynn.” She turned back to Caer. “Sit down now. You must be hungry, spending all day in the hospital and all.” She waved her hands at a couple of young men in tweed caps sitting at the bar. “Make way, you two scalawags. ’Tis Caer. I told you she might be coming in tonight.”
The place seemed to be hopping. There was a family in one corner: parents, a grandfather, what looked like an aunt, a teenager, two smaller children and an infant. A group of blue-collar workmen sat next to them, and a group of thirty-something men in suits was next to the workmen. The various parties didn’t seem to be segregated, though. Someone popped up now and then to take ketchup or mayo from one table to another, and now and then one of them called out to someone at another table.
“Caer,” one of the men at the bar said, as he tipped his cap. “Glad to hear you were there to be so kind to the old missus.”
“It was nothing,” Caer demurred.
“We don’t need to take your seats,” Zach said. “We’re not in that much of a hurry.”
But the bar stools had already been vacated for them.
“Sit,” Mary said.
“Well, thank you,” Zach told the pair whose seats they were usurping.
“Dale has to be gettin’ home, he’s a brand new wee babe waitin’ there with his wife,” Mary explained.
“I was just droppin’ in,” the man identified as Dale added, quickly finishing his pint. “I’ll be on me way, then. Hope to see you again,” he told Zach.
“Thanks, congratulations,” Zach said.
“Caer, hope to see you soon,” Dale said.
“It will be a bit. I’m leaving for the States tomorrow.”
“The States? Well, and isn’t that a fine trip, then? Stop in on Mickey Mouse. Glad the wife and I went when we did,” Dale said. “It’ll be a bit ’til we travel again.”
“Good journey,” said the man who had been sitting by Dale, grinning. “Guess I’m leaving, too. Dale married me sister, so I’ll be stoppin’ by their flat to see the babe. Good to meet ya, then.”
“Tomorrow? You’re leaving tomorrow?” Mary asked. She looked stricken.
Zach could only assume that Caer hadn’t said anything to her friends about her trip. A bit surprising, but it had only just come up.
“But I’ll be back,” Caer assured the older woman, patting her hand where it lay on the bar. “And don’t you worry, your mum is going to be fine for years to come.”
“She’s a dear, she is,” Mary said. “Worked so hard for all of us, especially after me da died. Ah, well, this is your last dinner in old Dublin town for a while then. I’m honored ye came here for it. I’ll start ye off with the house brew, and it’s a fine one, I tell you.”
A minute later, Caer sipped her beer with enthusiasm, assuring Mary that it was the best she had tasted since she didn’t know when.
It was a very good beer. Chilled, it would have been even better, Zach thought. Once again, he found himself inexplicably bothered as he studied Caer. She had friends, obviously. And it seemed she was considered something of an angel at the hospital. But there was just something…off about the way she behaved, as if she hadn’t had a date or a drink in years.
When Mary left to get them some of the pot roast that was the daily special, Zach turned to Caer. “Is her mother really going to be all right?”
“For now. No man—or woman—is on earth forever.” She seemed strangely intent on her beer.
“Old, I take it?”
“Oh, aye. But she’ll be all right. Just a wee touch of pneumonia, but they got it under control right away.”
“I’m glad to hear that.”
He was glad, at least, that she wasn’t chugging what she appeared to think was the finest glass of anything she’d ever tasted. Rather, she studied her beer, its color, the way it moved in the glass when she tipped it. And she sipped it as if she were tasting fine champagne.
“I can see that you’ll miss home,” he said.
He was startled when she turned to him with a sharp gaze. “And I can tell that you’re chafing to get back to your home.”
“Not home. Rhode Island. But for tonight, let’s just enjoy being in Dublin.”
She nodded at him sagely. “All right.”
It was then that the music started. Zach was pleased that the group on the dais eschewed the latest pop hits in favor of Irish melodies. One man had a beautifully decorated Irish drum, and Zach longed to get his hands on it. The guitars were something he saw every day; the drum was one of the most unusual he had ever seen.
Caer noticed the focus of his attention and leaned toward him. “Symbols of the old and new.” She smiled. “The colors of the flag, see? Green for the Republic. Orange for the Orangemen—the English—and white for the hope of peace. There, on the left, the shamrock, for luck. The rainbow, for the belief that dreams can come true. A leprechaun, because what could be more Irish?”
Mary came back with steaming plates of food. “Homemade,” she assured them.
“Zach was admiring that drum,” Caer told her.
“Do ye play?” Mary asked him.
“Guitar,” he told her. “I just dabble with other instruments.”
“That’s my Eamon there on that drum. I’ll tell him you’ve a fondness for it.”
“It’s all right,” he said. Too late. Mary had already headed over to the band.
Caer’s eyes were bright, and she actually grinned. “Get up and play, why don’t you?”
“Because…I’m in an Irish pub. And dinner was just served.”
“You do play, don’t you?”
“I do.”
“Then get on up, will you? Dinner can wait.”
To his surprise, she rose, dragging him from the stool.
At the same time, the lead singer made an announcement.
“We’ve an American fellow in the house,” he said.
Zach wasn’t sure what to expect. He’d never experienced anything but courtesy and hospitality in Ireland, but you never knew.
“The American fellow who gave Davie Adair his big break, working with Kitty Mahoney, when he crossed the pond. We’ll be having him up here to play with us now.”
The place was filled with applause.
Zach seldom felt awkward, but he did then. He noticed that Caer was frowning at him, clearly as shocked as he was that he was known here.
“I didn’t know you were such a big deal,” she said.
“I’m not. Trust me,” he replied.
“Whichever, you have to get up there now,” she told him, her lips curved in a wry smile. He suddenly felt as if the tables had turned—against him.
There was nothing to do. He went to the stage, where the lead guitarist, a young guy with long ink-black hair handed over his guitar with a grin. “What’ll it be?” Zach asked.
Eamon said, “We’ll just do some of the old standards. You okay with that?”
Zach was, and in a few bars awkward became a touch of magic. Music was
a language that always connected people. When he was playing, Zach could forget almost anything. At one point, his fingers caressing the strings, he looked up at Caer, who had moved to the front of the stage to watch him. Her smile was dazzling as she swayed with the music. There was a second, just a split second, when it was possible to imagine that they were more than wary strangers. That life could be like this, being in a place where a welcome was as expected as the sun rising come the morning, and where he felt as if the most striking and enigmatic woman in the world was doing nothing but waiting. For him.
He loved music. It was like breathing for him. He kept his hand in with the studios he owned and the small label he ran, but these days his main focus was on pulling his weight in the investigations business he ran with his brothers.
And with that thought, reality came crashing back.
When the number ended, he undid the guitar strap and waited for the guitarist to retrieve his instrument—a top-of-the-line Fender—then started to step down. But Eamon, Mary’s son, stopped him, handing him the Irish drum. “It’s yours, man.”
“I couldn’t take it,” Zach said.
“You must. I make them. Maybe you can send some new customers my way.”
Eamon grinned and went back to the standard set of drums that also sat on the stage.
“That was great,” Caer told Zach with enthusiasm.
“And I have an Irish drum now,” he said ruefully. “I didn’t mean to take it.”
“But you must always accept a gift from the Irish,” she told him gravely. “You’re not offered a gift unless it’s really meant, and it’s considered churlish to refuse it.”
“Then I’ll just be grateful to have it,” he told her.
Mary had taken their food back to the kitchen to keep it warm, but she brought their plates to them as soon as they sat back down at the bar. Since the pub was busy, she only had a moment now and then to stop by and check on them. As they ate, Caer told him more about the city she so clearly loved. He found himself listening to her, enjoying the sound of her voice as much as—maybe more than—her tales of a history he had known, at least to a degree, but perhaps never really appreciated.
She broke off suddenly, as if aware of the way he was looking at her, and he quickly turned his attention back to his pot roast.