Chapter 2

As soon as she was through Customs, Claire saw a beret-wearing older man holding a sign with her name on it. This must be the driver Donald had promised. Not wanting to keep him waiting, she hurried to greet him. “I’m Claire O’Brien. I’m waiting for my luggage.”

The old guy was red-cheeked with white tufts of hair peeking out from the side of his plaid beret. “Not a problem, Missy. Take as long as ya need. I’ll be here to help ya,” he said, then added, “By the way, me name is Martin. My friends call me Marty.” His smile was as genuine as the accent with which he spoke.

Claire couldn’t help but laugh at the old guy. A friendly twinkle in his eye, and a happy grin, she liked him instantly. “Marty, then. Give me a few minutes, and we can be on our way. I don’t want to keep Mr. Flynn waiting. Will we be going to the hospital first?” she asked before checking the board to see which carousel her baggage was on.

The old man looked as though she’d knocked him upside the head. “Why in the world would you think Flynn was in the hospital?”

He truly looked perplexed. “I was told by the man himself that he’d been diagnosed with a deadly disease and it was only a matter of time before he”—she didn’t want to say died to this old man because he appeared to be in a state of semishock—“well, he said there wasn’t a lot of time left and asked that I come to Ireland immediately.”

“That old coot, I knew he had something up his sleeve.”

Claire stared at him. “What do you mean?”

“I’ll let Mr. Flynn explain himself to ya,” he replied.

Clearheaded now after a few hours of sleep and several cups of hot coffee, Claire was her old self again, yet she wondered if she’d somehow misunderstood Donald’s words. No, she thought to herself, she had not. Something wasn’t right, but until she met with the man face-to-face, there wasn’t a thing she could do but wait and hear him out. Maybe Martin, Marty hadn’t been told of his employer’s imminent death.

She saw her flight number and the designated carousel on the board, and, lucky for her, it was just two rows down. Within a couple minutes, she spied her luggage, yanked it off the conveyer belt, then returned to follow Martin to the car.

Outside, the weather was cold and damp, the skies a slate gray. Claire shivered as she removed her jacket from her duffel bag and slipped it on while Marty took care of her luggage.

Though he was older, Marty hefted her luggage in the vehicle’s trunk as though it were light as a feather. Maybe he looked older than he actually was, Claire thought. She laughed when she saw Marty slide into the driver’s seat as it appeared completely foreign to her. “I don’t think I could ever drive a car like this,” she said as soon as she was settled in the backseat.

“Aye, it’s what I’m used to, don’t know nothin’ else, Miss Claire. I’ve never traveled across the pond to America, and don’t mean to be rude, but I ain’t never wanted to. I love ma country.”

“A man should be proud of his country. There is certainly no shame in that. My ancestors are of Irish descent, yet I’m the first one in my family to have the opportunity to travel to Ireland. I can’t wait to see the countryside, all the shades of green.”

“Aye, there’s about forty of ’em, maybe more. It’s a grand old place to be,” he said as he maneuvered his way out of the line of traffic. “If you want to see the countryside, I’ll drive as slow as I can. Though it’s cold, and we’ll see fog all over, it’s still unlike any beauty ya’ve ever seen, lass.”

Claire wrapped her arms around her waist, unused to the biting cold. “Is it always this cold this time of year?” she asked.

“Aye, and it’ll get colder, too. Am used to it, though, as are most Irish. That’s why we spend sa much time in the pubs. A tall Guinness or a hot whiskey warms the soul.”

After her experience with alcohol yesterday, there was no way she was going to imbibe any form of booze while in Ireland. After all, she was here on business. At least that’s what she’d been led to believe. She now suspected Donald Flynn had called her across the pond for reasons that had nothing to do with his supposed imminent death. And if he’d called her away from her family at Christmas unnecessarily, she would show him her Irish side. She grinned at the thought, but still, if Donald hadn’t been truthful, she wasn’t going to let him get away with it, wealthy client or not.