A Woman's Heart (8 page)

And his heart.

 

“So, how are you and your handsome boarder getting on?” Kate asked Nora three days later. They'd gone shopping together in the village, taking time for tea at O'Neill's.

“We're not.”

Nora pretended grave interest in stirring sugar into her tea. Though she was truly fond of her sister-in-law, she didn't want to admit that she'd actually been a bit depressed by the American's disappearing act after their outing to the lake.

Despite the fact that his rental fee included meals, he left the house every morning before breakfast and returned late at night. If she was still sitting up in the parlor—not waiting for him, Nora told herself, merely working on the account
books or mending Celia's jumper or some such necessary task—he'd merely give her a curt nod, a grunt she supposed was meant as a greeting, then go straight upstairs to his room.

“Mr. Gallagher is a source of much-needed income, nothing more.”

“So that's why he was looking at you the other morning as if you were a custard topped with clotted cream.”

“He was not! He wouldn't even be staying at the house if Da hadn't gone behind my back and rented out my room. Besides,” Nora added, “I'm not his type.” Hadn't the man told her that himself?

“You're not his usual type of woman, perhaps.” Kate's smile managed to be both smugly knowing and sympathetic at the same time. “But I could tell he fancies you.”

“Even if he did—and I'm not saying he does, mind you—nothing could ever come of a romance with the likes of Quinn Gallagher.” The tea tasted bitter on her tongue, so Nora added another spoon of sugar. It didn't help. “We're from different worlds.”

“Who says anything has to come of it?” Kate argued. “You've been widowed for five long years, Nora. I'd say it's high time for you to be kicking up your heels, so to speak.”

Unlike Kate, who'd once been the most sought-after fun-loving girl in the county before her marriage to Cadel O'Sullivan, Nora had never been one to kick up her heels. Not for the first time since Quinn Gallagher's arrival in Castlelough, was she forced to consider how impossible it was to fight nature.

“Are you saying I should just fling caution to the winds and go to bed with him?”

Kate appeared surprised by the question. “Has it already come to that?”

Nora felt the blush—the bane of all redheads—flood hot as burning peat into her face. “He may have mentioned it the first night. But he'd been drinking, so I didn't pay any heed.”

“But you were tempted.”

Nora knew better than to lie to this woman who was, in many ways, closer to her than her own sisters. A woman who could see beyond the obvious.

Hadn't she even foreseen Conor's horrible accident? Discovering that fact at the wake had strained their friendship for a time, because although Kate had attempted to warn her brother—who'd always considered himself impervious to injury—she'd never uttered a single word to Nora.

“And what would it have done,” she'd argued at the time, “but only make you fret more?” She hadn't suggested Nora might talk her hardheaded husband out of steeplechase racing; they'd both known that would have been impossible.

Eventually the resentment had faded, enough so that now Nora was able to understand how difficult it must have been for her sister-in-law to have been burdened with such painful knowledge.

“All right,” Nora said now as Kate continued to look at her in her steady knowing way, “I'll admit to a passing thought, just for an instant, mind you, about what it would be like to make love with Quinn Gallagher.”

“Mr. Gallagher has the look of a man who'd be a grand lover,” Kate said.

“I suspect Laura Gideon would be knowing about that better than I.”

She'd seen the photograph of Quinn and the stunningly beautiful actress on the front page of yesterday's
Irish Independent.
The couple had been standing on the bank of the lake, their heads close together in a way that suggested intimacy. They were laughing, obviously enjoying them
selves immensely, and his arm had been around her waist in a casually possessive way that spoke volumes.

“Ms. Gideon told the reporter that she and Quinn are merely friends.”

“They certainly looked friendly enough,” Nora muttered.

“Surely you're not jealous?” Kate's eyes narrowed as she studied her old friend and sister-in-law. “Oh dear. You can't have fallen in love with the man so fast?”

“It's not love.” Nora shook her head and swallowed the rest of the too-sweet still-bitter tea. “It can't be love. I don't even know him. Besides, we have nothing in common,” she said firmly, wondering who she was trying to convince—herself or her sister-in-law.

“Except lust,” Kate suggested.

“Well, there is that,” Nora admitted reluctantly.

“Some people might say lust is a good beginning for a relationship.”

“Kate O'Sullivan!” Nora hissed, looking around the small tearoom, terrified Mrs. O'Neill or one of the other patrons might have overheard the scandalous remark.

“Just because I'm married doesn't mean I can't appreciate a good-looking man. And remember how exciting—and terrifying—it is to fall in love.”

Her tone was suddenly touched with sadness, making Nora wonder, not for the first time, if Kate had ever truly loved Cadel O'Sullivan. Since she didn't want to hurt her lifelong friend, she decided not to point out that illicit lust for that American horse trainer who'd come through Castlelough seven years ago was, in a roundabout way, responsible for Kate's marriage in the first place.

If Kate hadn't gotten pregnant, Nora doubted she ever would have married the man who'd been more enamored with the Thoroughbred stud farm Kate and Conor had inherited from their father, Joseph Rory Fitzpatrick. The irony
was that Cadel proved to have no talent at all for handling horses.

Fortunately Kate's trainer had stepped in, revealing her bridegroom's unnecessarily heavy hand with a whip. It was then Kate had sold a promising stallion to get the money to buy her husband the fishing boat he'd been working until recently.

Nora often thought how ironic—and sad—it was that a woman possessed with the gift of Sight should prove to be so blind when it came to her own life.

“It's not love,” she insisted, dragging her thoughts back to the matter of her feelings for her elusive American boarder. It couldn't be. She wouldn't
let
it be.

“Would that be so bad?” Kate asked quietly, proving yet again her unnerving ability to read her best friend's mind. “Falling in love with Quinn Gallagher?”

“Yes. Because if I were to go falling in love with any man, I'd want to marry him.”

“And you don't believe your American is the marrying kind?”

“No. He's not. And he's definitely not my American. And while we're on the subject of marriage—” Nora lowered her voice “—how are you and Cadel doing?”

Kate began fiddling with her cutlery. “He's upset about the Americans.”

“I'm sorry.” Nora could see how the invasion of Americans might remind Cadel that he'd not been the first to bed his wife. Then again, she'd always thought that the horrid man latched on to whatever excuse was handy to justify his bullying behavior.

It was Kate's turn to look away. “I think it's partly envy. They're all so rich. And brash.”

“Aye, they are that,” Nora agreed, thinking of the outspoken seductive way Quinn had talked to her.

For the first time in her life Nora understood what Kate Fitzpatrick had been thinking—and, more importantly, feeling—that fateful night she'd given her virginity to a stranger she'd known would be moving on in the morning.

Although Andrew Sinclair's name had never been mentioned again since Kate's decision not to write to him about her pregnancy, the man suddenly hovered in the air between them, like an unwelcome visitor who'd come to tea.

Feeling as if she were walking on eggshells, Nora reached across the table and covered her friend's hand with her own.

“You can't go on this way.”

“And what would you have me do?” Kate's eyes brightened with unshed tears. “I can't leave him, Nora. Not after what he did for me.”

“Cadel had his own reasons for marrying you while you were carrying another man's child. He might not be the smartest man God ever put on this green earth, but he was surely clever enough to realize that you'd inherit the stud when your da died.

“You said at the time that you were willing to do anything to save your reputation and avoid bringing dishonor to the Fitzpatrick name. Did you ever think that none of your family would have expected such a sacrifice from you? Your reputation isn't worth your life, Kate.”

“It won't ever come to that.”

“And you're quite sure of that, are you?”

“Of course. I may be a foolish woman, Nora, but I've never possessed a martyr complex.”

“If Conor were still alive, he'd kill Cadel for what he's done to you.” Heat flashed in Nora's angry tone and in her eyes.

“It's not that bad. Sometimes when he's drinking, Cadel may get a wee bit rough, but he's never really hurt me.”

“Have you already forgotten about last winter's sprained wrist?”

Kate unconsciously rubbed the wrist in question. “I tripped over Maeve. Which is why Cadel suggested we give the dog to Rory.”

“You told me at the time that Cadel had pushed you after a night of drinking,” Nora countered. “Which made you trip over that poor sorrowful mess of a dog anyone can tell has been mistreated.”

Kate didn't even try to argue the point. “I can't leave,” she said again. “What would Jamie and Brigid do without their da?”

“Perhaps sleep a bit easier.”

“Those are harsh words, Nora.” Kate's chin lifted ever so slightly in a way that gave Nora the feeling there just might be a little fight left in her sister-in-law, after all. “I love my children more than life itself.”

“I know you do,” Nora soothed. “But did you ever think there's a chance that if you separated from Cadel, your son might not be so deathly afraid to shake a man's hand?”

Kate's complexion went as white as the sugar in the pottery bowl. “You noticed.”

“Aye.” Nora took a deep breath. “He's a wonderful boy, Kate. I remember the night he was born as if it were yesterday. And he was so bright and happy when he was a toddler.

“But then he seemed to lose his joyful gift of laughter. And this past year it's as if he's living under a dark threatening cloud. I hate seeing Jamie this way. I hate seeing you so unhappy.”

Kate sighed heavily. Her shoulders slumped. “When it turned out that Cadel didn't have a knack for horses, I'd hoped that fishing might be his salvation. But ever since he
lost his boat to those Dublin bankers, it's been difficult for him, being a man dependent on his wife's income.”

“And what will it be next year? What will your husband's excuse be when he begins beating his son?”

“How can you say that? You know I'd die myself before I ever let such a thing happen!”

“And don't you realize that's exactly what may happen?”

Rather than answer, Kate looked at her watch. “Where has the time gone? If we don't get to the butchery, that old harridan Mrs. Sheehan will bolt the door and we'll have no fresh meat for dinner.”

Realizing she was knocking her head against a stone wall and not wanting to get into a public argument, Nora nevertheless vowed to somehow get her sister-in-law out from under Cadel O'Sullivan's brutal thumb. Before it was too late.

A Man You Don't Meet Every Day

“I
hear you have one of those movie people staying at the farm,” Lena Sheehan, proprietor of Sheehan and Sons' Victualers, greeted Nora the moment she and Kate stopped into the butcher shop. “Did he bring along his own food?”

Nora blinked. “No. Why would you think he'd be doing that?” She might not be a gourmet chef, like those who were making a name for themselves in trendy Kinsale, but she'd certainly managed to feed her family for all these years without poisoning them.

“I read in a magazine about a Hollywood film star who always had his food shipped in whenever he was filming on location.”

The butcher woman's pink face, which had seen too much weather over her sixty-some years, furrowed into a worried frown. Her salt-and-pepper hair was pulled in a tight bun at the nape of her thick neck.

“Well, Mr. Gallagher isn't a film star. He's a writer.” And a very good one, too, Nora had discovered. After fin
ishing Quinn's banshee novel late last night, she'd been almost afraid to turn off the bedside-table lamp. Not even Brady could have created a more terrifying tale.

“I still think they should have stayed home where they belong. Aren't the usual monster trackers bad enough?” Mrs. Sheehan asked scathingly. “Witless city folk traipsing across the fields, leaving gates open and letting the cows out to be run down. And all for what? A burning desire to see some creature that doesn't exist in the first place.”

She shook her head and went on, “Wouldn't a person be more likely to have the Holy Mother herself appear in one of the hillside bogs, holding her baby boy wrapped in swaddling clothes, surrounded by the flaming tongues of the Holy Spirit, than see Castlelough's Lady of the Lake?”

Nora and Kate exchanged a look. When Kate lifted a brow, Nora had to bite her lip.

“I'd like a rasher of bacon,” she said, her voice choked with the laughter that was clogging her throat. “And seven chops. Lean ones, please.” Mrs. Sheehan was notorious for her parsimony; why carve away the fat when you could get customers to pay for it?

“Lean you asked for, lean you'll get,” Dermott Sheehan said around the stem of his pipe as he came out of the back room and selected the leanest-looking chops.

Nora couldn't remember ever seeing the butcher without the briarwood pipe that added a vaguely smoked flavor to the meat bought at Sheehan's. His apron was stained with dark splashes of blood from his day's work.

“And not that I'd be pushing you ladies into anything,” he added, “but we've got two nice plump stewing chickens Galen McPheran brought in from his farm. Killed them fresh just this morning, he did.”

Nora beamed a smile at the man who never failed to
throw in a juicy dog bone for Maeve at no extra charge. “I'll take one, thank you, Mr. Sheehan.”

Her own hens were layers, none old enough at the moment to waste to the pot. Well, there was Cromwell, the nasty banty rooster, but he was too skinny to make a decent mouthful. And as mean as he was, there probably wasn't enough sugar in the county to sweeten his bitter taste.

A chicken stew would also be healthier than the pan-fried chops, which, although she'd never admit it to one of the biggest gossips in Castlelough, she'd recently cut back on serving at Dr. Flannery's suggestion.

Nora didn't truly believe the new doctor could be right about her father's increased risk of heart attack. Having married late, like so many Irish bachelors, Brady was certainly no longer a young man. But he seemed as inexhaustible as ever. And didn't everyone in the county always remark that Brady Joyce had the energy of a man half his age?

Still, Nora thought, better to be safe than sorry.

“And I'll take the other hen, thank you, Mr. Sheehan,” Kate said, her cheery smile revealing neither her domestic problems nor their earlier serious conversation.

“I'm thinking of getting in some fresh pheasants for the movie folk,” Mrs. Sheehan revealed as she wrapped the bacon in white waxed paper and tied it with a string. The announcement was made in a tone that Nora thought should properly have been accompanied by a blast of trumpets.

“Pheasants?” The butcher shop had always featured plain, affordable fare. The kind of cuts favored by the ordinary people of Castlelough. “Gracious. Are they even available this time of year?” Surely Mrs. Sheehan wasn't thinking of sending her husband and sons out to do a little poaching?

“They're dear,” the older woman allowed. “But I can
order them from a wholesaler in Cork. Hollywood types like that fancy stuff.”

“Next she'll be ordering in Russian caviar,” her husband, who appeared less than thrilled by the notion, muttered darkly.

“That's not such a bad idea, Dermott.” The sarcasm appeared to slide off Mrs. Sheehan like water off a swan's back. Her face lit up with an avid enthusiasm Nora, who'd first come to the butcher shop as a toddler with her mother, had never before witnessed. “Beluga is the best, isn't it, Nora?”

“I wouldn't know.” Nora had never understood why any sane person would want to eat something best used for bait. If Quinn Gallagher expected to be served fish eggs at her table, he was in for a disappointment.

“Beluga,” Mrs. Sheehan repeated firmly, answering her own question with a brisk nod of her gray head. “And some of that fancy pâté from France.”

“Isn't pâté nothing but goose livers?” her husband pointed out. “And don't we have our own geese right here in Castlelough? Why would you want to be paying to import it?”

“Because no one's ever heard of Irish pâté. Those movie folk are going to want French.” Her narrow back went as straight as the handle of a spade as she finished wrapping the chickens and handed them over the top of the counter.

“You'd be paying for nothing more than a fancy image,” her husband argued.

“I won't be paying. The movie people will be the ones who pay.”

“You don't even know if they like pâté,” he said. “We could end up with a bucket of expensive French goose livers rotting in the freezer. And what good will that do us then?”

“We'd best be going.” Nora managed to break into the
argument when Mrs. Sheehan took an angry breath. She flashed her best smile as she and Kate paid for their purchases, thanked Mr. Sheehan for today's bone, then escaped the shop, leaving the couple to their bickering.

“I wonder if Mrs. Sheehan has ever smiled in her life,” Kate mused as they drove back to the farm.

“Brady swears she wasn't always so sour,” Nora said. “Once, when I was complaining about her, he told me a story about a summer crossroads dance, when men from all over the county stood in line to dance with the lovely young Lena McDuffy.”

“Surely he was making that up!”

“Brady said she was a pretty girl. With a laugh that always brought to mind angels.”

“The dark angel, perhaps.” Kate shook her head. “That sounds like another of your da's tall tales.”

“I thought so myself at the time.” Nora couldn't imagine the dour woman ever laughing. Let alone dancing. Lena Sheehan ran her family—including her husband—the way she ran her butcher shop. In a strict no-nonsense way that brooked no argument. “But Brady swears she was a popular girl and that Dermott was considered a lucky man to win her.”

“He must have been talking about some other Lena. Can you imagine that woman ever loosening up enough to have sex?”

“Her sons are proof she must have slept with poor old Dermott at on at least five occasions.” The four eldest Sheehan boys worked with their parents in the Castlelough victualers and in another one the family had recently opened in Fallscarrig, on the road to Galway.

It had, of course, not mattered a whit that two of the boys had professed a desire to go to Dublin and work in the hotel business. The Sheehans had been butchers going back at
least six generations, and once she'd married into the family, Lena McDuffy Sheehan had become determined not to be the first wife to let tradition fall by the wayside.

“Dolan was lucky to escape,” Kate said. “I suppose he has the Church to thank for that.”

Dolan, the fifth and youngest Sheehan son, had been born with a sensitive nature that had prevented him from being able to saw up a bloody carcass, let alone kill a live animal. He'd miraculously escaped his brothers' fate by joining an order of missionary priests and hadn't returned to Castlelough for more than a decade.

“I always thought Dolan made an intelligent decision,” Nora agreed. “Given the choice of living beneath Lena Sheehan's iron thumb or surviving in the jungles of New Guinea, I'd certainly take my chances with cannibals any day.”

Kate laughed along with Nora, the tension that had lingered between the two best friends dissolved.

 

“Have you ever seen anything like it?” a wide-eyed Jamie O'Sullivan asked his cousin as they stared down at the army of people who'd taken over the east bank of the lake. It was midafternoon and they'd come here straight from school after picking up Maeve.

“Never in all my life,” Rory said.

“It's bigger even than the carnival that came through Castlelough last summer!” Jamie breathed.

“Aye.” Rory lifted the binoculars to his eyes again and scanned the teeming crowd, looking for Quinn Gallagher.

“You're lucky, having the American staying at your house. You get to hear all about the moviemaking.”

“Mr. Gallagher's hardly ever there, except to sleep.” The truth was, Rory had only caught sight of him one other time after that first Sunday. It had been early in the morning,
when Rory had been taking the cows out to the field before going to school. He'd seen the writer practically sneaking out of the house by the front door, as if he wanted to avoid running into the family gathered each morning in the kitchen. “I guess moviemaking is hard work.”

“I guess so.” Both boys fell silent, enthralled to be watching a piece of Castlelough history unfold before their very eyes. “Shall we go closer?” Jamie asked.

Rory hesitated, mindful of his mother's words not to disturb their boarder. But then again, it wasn't as if they were the only townspeople who'd come to watch the movie being filmed. The hills were covered with onlookers, including, he'd noticed with surprise, that gossipy old Mrs. Sheehan.

“I suppose there'd be no harm in that,” he decided.

Ten minutes later they were sitting atop a large rock, watching as a man in a green baseball cap opened the back door of a large truck.

“It's the creature!” Jamie exclaimed as a trio of bulky laborers hired from the village unloaded a huge green fiberglass sea serpent. “Did you think it would be so large?”

It was enormous, nearly the size of three lorries. And as green as emeralds. But it was all wrong.

“It's not the Lady,” Rory said with a frown. He knew that movies were only make-believe, but it bothered him that his best friend should be portrayed as being so vicious-looking. This one had a huge yellow snout, like all the dragons in the picture books he'd liked to look at when he was a little kid. “I wonder if they're going to make her spout smoke and fire?”

“Something wrong with smoke and fire?”

The deep voice, coming from behind them, made both boys jump.

“Jaysus!” Jamie exclaimed, ducking his head.

Rory didn't—couldn't—say anything. He felt the heat
flooding into his face and wished
he
was at the bottom of the lake.

Maeve, obviously delighted with her new friend's arrival, pushed herself to her huge feet and stretched forward, then back. Then bounded the few feet to Quinn, tail wagging, tongue lolling.

“I—I'm sorry.” Rory's apology came out on a croak. His mam was going to kill him if she found out about this! “I didn't mean to offend you, Mr. Gallagher.”

“No offense taken.” Quinn obligingly rubbed the huge furry head Maeve had stuck beneath his hand. “I suppose I'm just surprised. I would have expected boys your age to enjoy special effects like fire-breathing dragons and explosions.”

“Will there be explosions?” Jamie asked, his enthusiasm for that idea overcoming his timidness toward Quinn.

“Toward the end, when the scientists are trying to take the Lady's baby away for their research and the soldiers set charges into the lake to distract her. The director thought it would be dramatic.”

“It sounds cruel,” Rory murmured.

Quinn took in the furrowed brow and saw Nora in the boy's worried face. “Life isn't always cakes and cream,” he said.

“That's true, sure enough,” Rory agreed glumly. Beside him, his freckled face far more serious than a small boy's should be, Jamie solemnly nodded. “But I was hoping that the movie Lady might look more like the real one.”

“I suppose you've seen the real Lady?” Quinn asked with amusement. Deciding Rory must be a chip off Brady Joyce's block, he folded his arms and prepared to hear a tall fanciful Irish folktale.

“Aye.” Rory lifted his chin in a way that once again reminded Quinn of the boy's mother and met Quinn's teas
ing gaze straight on with nary a flinch. “I have. And she doesn't look at all like your monster.”

“Creature,” Quinn corrected absently, remembering Nora's distinction. “So…” He sat down beside Rory, drew his knees up to his chest and wrapped his arms around them. The wolfhound lay down beside him with a huge sigh of pleasure. “Why don't you tell me a little about her?”

Rory paused, as if remembering his mother's admonition not to bother the American writer.

“Well, in the first place, she looks more like a sea horse than a dragon,” he said warily. “But you do have the color right. Her scales are as green and shiny as emeralds.”

The ice broken, he began warming to his subject. For the next twenty minutes, Rory rattled on, describing the supposedly mythical creature in amazing detail, and although it went against every logical bone in his body, Quinn began to wonder if the stories could possibly be true.