The Emerald Isle (23 page)

“She has a mind of her own, Paddy.” Mrs. O’Neil smiled in exasperation. “And she’ll be wanting to make Taylor happy before she finds a job. Don’t you worry about her—tend to your own business.”

Gently rebuked, Patrick lifted his mug to his lips while I looked down at the table and hid a smile. Patrick O’Neil sounded like a bona
fide pioneer for women’s rights, but I doubted that such liberal notions would be welcomed here in the country. Ireland, after all, was staunchly conservative, one of the few nations in the world where divorce and abortion remained illegal.

“I’ve been encouraging Maddie to consider social work,” Taylor said, looking at Patrick with something like an apology in his eyes. “She’ll have to get her master’s degree, of course, but I think she has a natural temperament for counseling.”

“Aye, she’s a great one to listen to other people’s troubles,” Patrick agreed, one shoulder lifting in a shrug. “She’s heard enough of mine over the years.”

No one responded to that cryptic comment, and the house seemed to fall silent around us, as if it were listening. The wind blew past the kitchen window with soft moans. Then the back door creaked, and Erin Kelly blew into the kitchen, her face flushed, her eyes bright, and her sweater most decidedly low cut. She paused on the threshold to pull her long hair forward over one shoulder, then stepped inside and stared at Patrick like one dazed. “Hello,” she said, her voice a breathy whisper in the room.

Every O’Neil greeted her, but Erin had eyes only for Patrick. He lowered his coffee cup and gave her a twinkling smile. “Hello, wee one. Shouldn’t you be home and safely tucked in at this hour?”

“Patrick, that’s no way to welcome Erin,” Maddie scolded. “Go give the girl a proper hug.”

Sighing heavily in mock reluctance, Patrick slid his long frame off the bench and stood, opening his arms to the girl. Erin stepped into his embrace and rested her bright cheek on his chest, her eyes closed.

I shaded my eyes, then glanced at Taylor and shared a smile. I’d never seen such an extreme case of puppy love. I’d had a bad case myself when I fancied myself in love with my tenth-grade science teacher, but never would I have dared to touch him, much less advertise my interest with a daring sweater and sparkling eyes.

I leaned toward Maddie and lowered my voice. “How’d she know
he was home? You can’t see this farm from the road, and you certainly can’t see it from the Kelly house.”

A secretive little smile softened Maddie’s lips. “I called Erin and told her Patrick was coming home.” Almost as an afterthought, she added, “She’s very fond of him. Like a little sister.”

Little sister, my big toe. No little sister I knew would dress like
that
to greet a brother.

Mr. O’Neil tasted his pipe, then twinkled up at Erin. “Will you sit and have some tea with us then? And have you had your dinner? We’ve plenty to share.”

“I’ve eaten, thank you.” With obvious reluctance, Erin pulled herself from Patrick’s embrace and slid onto the kitchen bench in the space that had existed between me and Patrick. I looked from Mr. O’Neil to his wife and saw them exchange a knowing smile.

I clicked my nails against the handle of my teacup. Wasn’t this cozy? Tea and coffee for two couples—three, counting the O’Neils. Patrick and Erin on this side of the table, Taylor and Maddie on the opposite, Mr. and Mrs. at each end.

I was suddenly overcome by an urge to flee the room.

I gave Maddie a twisted smile. “I’m sorry to leave this little party, but my ankle is throbbing. I think I’ll excuse myself for a bit of reading.” I slid to the end of the bench and balanced on my good ankle. “Thanks for the dinner, Mrs. O’Neil.” My eyes moved into Patrick’s, and I stiffened when I saw him squint with amusement. “And thanks for your help, Patrick. Good night, everyone.”

As I hobbled from the room, I noticed that no one protested my departure.

T
aking care to favor my ankle, I limped upstairs to my room and sat on the edge of the bed, wondering if I could sleep. Though the sky outside my window was black and icy with a wash of brilliant stars, the afternoon was only just beginning to wane in New York. My biological clock, still set on Eastern daylight-saving time, wasn’t ready to wind down.

A heaviness centered in my chest as laughter from downstairs seeped through the floorboards. Defying my own melancholy, I picked up a library book on Irish history, then decided to hobble back down to the sitting room. My room, bare as it was, seemed unsuitable for anything but sleeping and dressing; the sitting room would be infinitely more comfortable. This afternoon I had noticed logs stacked in the fireplace, so perhaps the O’Neils wouldn’t mind if I lit a fire and settled into one of the easy chairs. From the look of that cozy tableau in the kitchen, I suspected they might sit around the table and talk for hours.

I found the sitting room deserted, so I dropped my book on the sofa and shuffled to the fireplace. A log and a pile of kindling lay ready for lighting, and it only took a moment to find the box of matches on the mantel. I knelt by the fireplace, lit a match, and held it to the pile of kindling…then watched the flame disappear.

“You’ll be needing a bit of paper.”

The deep voice startled me, and my hand shook as I dropped
the dead match and glanced up. I expected to see Mr. O’Neil, but Patrick himself stood behind me, an amused expression on his face.

My nervousness shifted to irritation. “Well—do you have a scrap of paper?”

“Right so.” He bent and took a section of newspaper from a stack near the easy chair, then crumpled the top sheet and leaned forward to place it between the log and the kindling. Uncomfortably conscious of the fact that our shoulders were practically touching, my fingers trembled in earnest when I took another match from the box and struck it. Fortunately, the paper caught instantly and flamed to life, and within a moment I heard the snap and crackle of burning kindling.

Patrick rose and dropped his tall frame into the easy chair, then extended his arm toward the sofa, wordlessly inviting me to take a seat. I picked up my book, displaying it rather obviously as I sank into a corner of the sofa. I didn’t want him to think I wanted company or that I was alone and feeling sorry for myself, though both were truer than I wanted to admit.

“The light is much better here than in my room.” I reached out and switched on a lamp, just to prove the point. “And I have so much reading to do.”

Patrick didn’t speak but fastened his gaze to the fire. So—maybe
he
was the one feeling melancholy, though I couldn’t think of a single reason he should feel anything but content. I opened my book and began to read but couldn’t concentrate on the text before my eyes. My rebellious thoughts kept circling around the man sitting across the room.

I shifted my position, propped my book on a pillow, and studied him above the book’s edge. His blue eyes were wide and blank as windowpanes, as though the soul they mirrored had long since ceased to care.

Where were his thoughts? They weren’t with me, and I doubted they were with the joyfully noisy group in the kitchen. The expression in his eyes seemed as remote as the ocean depths.

“Did Erin go home?” I asked, daring to break the silence. He lifted his gaze from the fire and turned to me. “What?”

“Erin. Did she go home?”

“I expect she’s still in the kitchen.”

He stared at me, probably wondering what had prompted such a comment, and I lifted one shoulder in a shrug. “Then I would guess she’s wondering where you went. She seems quite fond of you.”

One corner of his mouth pulled into a slight smile. “She’s like a little sister.”

I laughed, amazed that such an intelligent man could be so blind when it came to understanding the feminine heart. “I’d say she’s in love with you. And she’s plenty old enough to know how she feels.”

His thick brows nearly shot up to his hairline. “Love? She fancies me perhaps, but that’s all. She’s not old enough to know her own mind on the matter.”

I remained silent, turning his words over in my mind.
She fancies me.
I liked the word
fancy.
It implied a feeling stronger than
like
but not as strong as
love.
We Americans needed an intermediate word because I knew too many people who married because they more than liked a person, then bailed out when it became clear their feelings had nothing to do with love.

“My sister thinks you fancy Taylor, you know.”

This time he caught me by surprise. Shock caused words to wedge in my throat, and I had to force a light cough before I could speak. “Me, fancy Taylor? I might have once, but I don’t now. We’re friends, that’s all.”

“’Tis a bit extraordinary, a man having a woman for his best friend.”

I shrugged. “Taylor’s not an ordinary guy, and we’re a lot alike. But that’s it. We’re just friends.”

“So tell me”—he leaned back into the chair cushions and folded his hands across his chest—“are you happy about the marriage? I know my sister, but I don’t know this Yank. I want to be sure Maddie’s marrying a good man.”

“This Yank, as you call him, is as Irish as you are—genetically, at least. He can trace his ancestors all the way back to Rory O’Connor, Ireland’s last high king.”

Images of the firelight smoldered in his gold-flecked eyes. “Lass, half the people in Ireland can trace their lineage back to the O’Connors. I was more concerned about his character than his roots.”

“Taylor is a good man.” My voice softened. “I know him and Maddie, and I believe it will be a good marriage. I didn’t think so at first, but I do now.”

Patrick’s glance sharpened. “Whom did you doubt? Taylor or Maddie?”

“Neither. I just thought they were too different. But now I see that differences can be good. They will complement each other.”

He sat there for a moment, just smiling at me, then he said: “True enough. Maddie is stubborn, like Dad. So I’m really surprised she invited you here, especially if she knows how you once felt about Taylor.”

I felt an unwelcome blush creep onto my cheeks. “I offered to go home, but Maddie wants me to stay. For Taylor’s sake.” I laughed softly. “But I can’t help but feel a bit in the way here. Maddie and Taylor are trying to prepare for a wedding and plan their lives together, and here I am, stuck in the middle of everything like a useless fifth wheel.”

“I don’t think you could ever be useless. You’ve already made it clear you might be useful if——how did you say it? If a ‘creep’ comes calling.”

Patrick’s eyes twinkled at me, and something warmed in the depths of my spirit. Why, when this man wasn’t shouting about American tourists, he could be quite charming! And he might be willing—if I made it clear I merely wanted to stay out of Maddie’s way—to take me around to some of the Connacht sites I wanted to incorporate in my Cahira story. I had seen a good-sized suitcase in the back of his car, so perhaps he intended to stay awhile.

“How long will you be home?” I began, trying not to seem too
obvious or desperate. “Are you visiting just through the weekend? Or for longer?”

A spark of some indefinable emotion filled his eyes, then he looked toward the fire and rubbed his stubbled jaw.

“If all goes well, I expect I’ll be here until the wedding.” His voice flattened out. “Maddie wants me around, and Dad needs the help, though he won’t admit it.”

“If it’s not too much trouble”—I looked away as another blush burned my cheek—“perhaps you could tell me about some places I ought to visit for my project on the O’Connors. I don’t know how much Maddie told you about my work, but I’d like to explore some of the old castles and ruins in County Roscommon.”

“So you’re looking for a tour guide?”

I glanced toward him, expecting to encounter a hostile glare, but his eyes were dark and smiling. I felt myself relax. “I don’t want to put you to any trouble, but I have a feeling Maddie wouldn’t mind me making myself a little scarce. She’d like to have Taylor’s full attention as they plan the wedding.”

“As luck would have it”—he placed his hands on the arm of his chair and began to push himself up—“Dad wouldn’t mind me becoming invisible either. Sure, I’d be glad to take you around after I see to the milking. I promised Mum I’d do that much for her as long as I’m home.”

“And how many times a week do you milk the cows?” I leaned forward as he stood and moved toward the doorway. “Is tomorrow a milking day?”

“Every day is a milking day.” He turned and smiled at me as if I were a small child. “The cows are milked every morning and every night without fail. So we’ll do a bit of sightseeing, but the tourin’ will have to work around the cows.”

He left me then, and I sank back into the sofa cushions, amazed that I had effortlessly acquired a handsome escort and a little perplexed that I would play second fiddle to a cow.