Chapter Four

The one who is idle is generally making mischief.

—Irish Proverb

 

Friday was one of those off days in the kitchen: bad timing, bad temper, bad choices. Jenna placed the blame at the expensively shod feet of Dev Gilvane. She'd spent all of Thursday waiting to find him skulking about outside, or worse yet, ensconced like royalty in her dining room. He had never appeared, and that had served only to heighten her frustration. The only thing worse than dealing with a problem was the anticipation of having to do so.

By noontime Friday she and Aidan had twice come to words over the lamb entree. By one o'clock, even Roger had done the sensible thing and taken refuge. He was hunkered down under the scrubbed-oak table in what had once been Muir House's minuscule original kitchen, but had more recently been transformed to sort of a war room where Jenna tested recipes and fed the troops.

Jenna herself had retreated there by four, only to have the dishwasher storm in, announce that the busboy had grabbed her bum and she wasn't that sort of girl, and then flee Muir House. Given the several witnesses to the bum-grabbing, Jenna had sent him packing. With luck, she'd persuade Emer, the dishwasher, to return tomorrow. The dust had scarcely settled from Emer's and the busboy's hasty departures when it was time for family dinner—the meal the staff shared just prior to the restaurant's opening hour.

While the staff ate, Jenna reviewed the night's menu with them, making sure everyone could recite the ingredients, down to the smallest whisper of cumin in the medallions of lamb tenderloin. She would, of course, corner Evie and privately quiz her again before the guests arrived—Remedial Table Waiting 101.

Aidan, who had stepped out of the room to take a phone call, came back in just as Jenna was launching her descriptions of the farmhouse cheeses new to the night's menu.

"Ah, Jenna," came Aidan's hesitant voice from behind her. "You've someone here to speak to you."

"Tell them I'm not here," she said, impatient to get through the detail work.

"I can't do that." He gestured to the doorway behind Jenna. "She can see you."

Jenna turned and looked at the tall and slender young woman standing in the kitchen doorway. She had the nervous look of a job-seeker. The baseball cap pulled low over her face made Jenna think "American," but the rest, including unwashed, almost-dreadlocked dark hair, worn jeans, and too-tight shirt could have been any college student sitting on a sidewalk anywhere from Bourbon Street to Dublin's O'Connell Street, offering to braid hair for beer money. Much as she needed a dishwasher, Jenna had a rule about not hiring people who wouldn't meet her eyes, and this one had her head tipped down and was starting at her shoes.

"I'm sorry, we've filled all of our open positions," she said.

The girl ran shaking hands down her jeans and raised her head. "Jen, it's me."

Jenna stilled. "Reenie?"

It was like a hammer to the heart, seeing her sister again. Jenna moved closer. It had been six years since she'd seen Reenie in person, but only a matter of weeks since she'd glimpsed a candid photo of her in the "Celebs" section of a weekly magazine. That Maureen had possessed golden hair, designer clothing, and an aura that exuded glamour.

Jenna ushered her a few steps outside the war room's doorway. "Has your father seen you lately?"

"He's your father, too," Maureen replied.

She couldn't have chosen less conciliatory words.

They stared each other down. Jenna wasn't sure whether she was supposed to hug her or even if she wanted to, so she settled for giving her sister a tentative pat on the arm.

"It's good to see you. Are you visiting in the area?"

"Sort of."

"That's interesting, Reenie. How do you sort of visit?"

Hazel eyes so like hers showed a flash of irritation. "No one's called me Reenie in years," she said, drawing out the last word as though it had been decades since she'd abandoned her childhood name. "My name is Maureen."

"Fine. Maureen, then. But you still haven't answered my question."

Maureen toyed with her silver thumb ring. "I'm looking for a place to stay."

"I'm surprised you thought of coming here."

"Is it such a big deal to want to visit my sister?"

It was a huge thing, and they both knew it. Too much had stood between them for too long.

A sheen of tears glimmered in Maureen's eyes. "I thought it would be nice."

Reenie was her father's child, a solid ten on a scale of ten in drama and charisma. Jenna had been on the outside of her father's circle of interests, unable to please and ultimately not caring whether she did. If she let Reenie in, Jenna was giving up privacy and having her messy past plunked down in front of her. But if she turned her away...

"You're welcome to stay," she said, knowing she'd never be able to stomach the guilt of booting her sister—no matter how estranged—to the street.

"Okay," Maureen said, her vulnerability disappearing as quickly as free food in a pub.

Jenna absorbed the blow that always came with being manipulated by a family member. She should have been used to it, but in a way, she was relieved to still feel the hurt. It let her know that despite life's blows she hadn't lost touch with her heart, even if she was a little too obsessed with guarding it.

"Is there someone who can carry my backpack up to my room?" her sister asked.

"You mean, other than you?" Jenna clarified.

Maureen nodded.

"No," Jenna replied. "And there's no maid to clean up after you and no one to do your laundry. If you stay, you'll have to take care of yourself, and then some."

Her sister looked around as if seeking the fastest route of escape. "I could pay you room and board and you could hire someone."

Apparently the retro-grunge version of Maureen remained allergic to work. No surprise there, Jenna thought, remembering the joy that child Maureen had taken in creating havoc and then watching others clean up after her.

"We both know where your money comes from," she said.

"Since when do you care if it's Dad's money?"

"I've always cared," Jenna replied. "I just haven't always had the choice. You'll have to pitch in or stay someplace else. This is my home, and I make the rules."

Maureen laughed. "You sound just like Dad."

Apparently Maureen still liked to shake things up. But Jenna wasn't going to be rattled. "Don't push your luck, okay?"

"Whatever," Maureen said with a shrug. "Where should I put my stuff?"

"Just a second," Jenna said before stepping into the war room, where everyone was doing their best to act as though they hadn't been avidly eavesdropping. She asked Aidan to cover the rest of the night's menu before rejoining her sister.

"I'll show you to your room," she said. If this was another bad choice, she could at least take solace in knowing it had been her only choice.

Maureen allowed herself to relax as she stepped in line behind Jenna. Visiting her sister wasn't much of a plan. She wasn't usually much of a planner, either, but since her current situation required it, she was catching on. Now that she had a place to hide, she could lose the disguise she'd bought straight off a girl's back in Paris. With luck, the temporary hair coloring she'd used would live up to its billing, too. And tomorrow she could contact a friend who wouldn't rat on her. She could send her real clothes to… What was the name of this town, Bally-something?

Not that she'd actually seen a town—more like a few blocks of buildings. Of course, she'd been in shock at the time over actually having taken public transportation. By the time she'd climbed off the Dublin-to-Tralee bus, by way of every miserable village the driver could find, she'd had enough of the common life. Finding someone to drive her the rest of the way to Jenna's had cost her close to the last of her cash. No big deal. She still had her very best friend, credit.

"Where's your bag?" Jenna asked as they walked down a posh hallway.

"Outside, by the front door."

"You might as well get it."

They returned to the front of the house. Maureen grabbed the backpack before Jenna changed her mind and sent her curbside, and then followed her up a curved, sweeping staircase. This place definitely wasn't the dive that her father's passing, amused comments had led her to expect.

As for her sister, Maureen expected nothing—literally. It had been years since she'd seen her, and that had been just a quick hello. Jenna had been working in Paris, and Maureen and her mother had been staying in the family apartment for Easter vacation. Back then, Maureen had been a geeky teenager, thrilled to have a glamorous big sister who was a Parisian chef. Except Jenna really hadn't been much more than a glorified slave with no time at all for Maureen.

And that much didn't seem to have changed. It wasn't as though Maureen wanted rose petals strewn at her feet, but a hug or something might have been good. She lacked the energy to be angry, though. If she didn't focus on the basics, like food and rest, she was afraid she was going to lose it.

Soon, though, she'd have that bed to fall into. From what she could see, the second floor of her sister's house wasn't as done-up as the first. There was no art on the walls and the carpets weren't the hand-knotted, antique Persians she'd seen below. Jenna passed a number of closed rooms before stopping.

"I haven't had this suite open in a while," her sister said while opening a door. "It could probably use an airing-out. The shower works well, though. I had the plumbing upgraded a few months ago."

They stepped inside. The room was stark in its simplicity, just a large bed with a lofty black comforter, and an armoire and a pair of armchairs of dark wood. The plaster walls and moldings were painted white, and the drapes hanging over a long bank of windows were white, too. The only notes of contrast were a ceiling painted a rich crimson and an antique, gilded mirror above the bed. Not exactly what she was used to, but not so shabby, either.

"The bathroom is through the door to your left," Jenna said. "You might want to give the shower a try."

Okay, so she was a little ripe. Sam, the king of scummy ex-boyfriends, was a believer in Method acting, and she was beginning to see his point. At least as it pertained to getting in character, not as it pertained to screwing actresses. Shoving the miserable creep out of her thoughts, Maureen walked to the bed and ran her hands over the comforter.

"Black—my favorite color."

Her sister looked half-amused and half-annoyed at what she'd considered the most non-confrontational words she could come up with.

"Figures," Jenna said.

"What figures?"

"What if I told you that someone you don't even know said you'd be coming?"

"I'd say that you're crazy. I didn't even know I was coming here until..." Maureen trailed off, looking around the room.

"Until what?"

She didn't want to say it and sound as totally off-the-deep-end as her sister. So she walked over to the armoire, opened its doors, and stared into the emptiness. But the words escaped on their own. "Until I had this really vivid dream the other night, okay?"

"Welcome to Ireland," Jenna replied.

 

Well past eight, Dev sat in on a conference call with the London and New York offices. It was a blessing he'd gone the full distance and picked up a new phone for Muriel. If he'd been lacking a speaker-phone, his left hand would have been locked into a claw and his ear fallen off by now.

Did these people never stop talking? He didn't know who to blame: the Americans, the Japanese, or the international business community as a whole, but he was damn tired of sixteen-hour workdays. At least back home the knowledge that he had a night with some excitement awaiting him had taken a bite out of the pain.

As Sid in New York again worried about the Costa Rican numbers and how resort occupancy rates were tanking, Dev glanced at his watch. His dinner reservation at Muir House was for eight-thirty. Last night he'd been late in returning from traveling all the possible routes to Muir House from Shannon Airport in County Clare and had been forced to eat pub grub. He deserved a decent meal and perhaps a bit of diversion with Jenna Fahey.

"Trevor," he said to his boss in London, "I've another meeting I need to attend. Could you reach me by cell if there's something requiring my input?"

The answer was "yes," the first one he'd gotten tonight.

Minutes later, as Dev drove the coast road to Muir House, he stewed over the negative responses that Trevor had given him. No, Dev couldn't return to London and finish his site report from there. No, he wasn't needed on the wrap-up of the Costa Rican deal. No, there was no reason to pop back to the city to attend the monthly divisional meeting. He was to relax in Ireland.

Relax? The idea was absurd.

He'd spent his first eleven years "relaxing" in a drab suburban outpost of Dublin, and it wasn't a memory he cherished. Then his mother had come into some money and packed him off to boarding school in England. At first he'd hated her for making him leave home, and he'd hated everyone at school, too. He'd been a miserable little bastard until he'd learned to fit in. After that he'd never looked back.

What most disturbed Dev about the strange undercurrents in tonight's call was the thought that this Ireland assignment might be a prelude to a permanent post. He had no intention of adjusting to Ireland's sluggish pace. He was a Londoner by choice. He'd made a full life for himself, including the boon of female companionship who shared his goal of ultimate pleasure with minimum impact on work schedules. And when it seemed that they risked becoming too intimate, he would neatly move on. No pain. No commitment.

Dev pulled into one of the two available spots left in the gravel car park adjacent to the restaurant. A full house tonight, it seemed, and a glorious night for it, too. Dev found himself in no particular hurry to dash up the walk. The breeze carried a mysterious hint of tropical warmth, and the skies were remarkably clear. Tonight, banishment to the terrace would be little punishment.

Once in the house he glanced at his watch. He was nearly ten minutes past due, but it seemed he needn't worry. Niamh the hostess was graciously apologizing to a group of six that they'd have to wait a wee bit for their table, now that they were an hour-and-a-half beyond their scheduled arrival. Apparently ten minutes late was considered early in Ballymuir.

"I'll be right with you, Mr. Gilvane," Niamh said before ushering the other party to the library.

When she didn't return straightaway, Dev waited as patiently as he knew how—which was saying little. "Curiosity killed the cat" his mum would always chide after rescuing him from one childhood scrape or another. Pity about that cat's fate, but curiosity was what kept him moving. It was a ravenous hunger, and just now he wanted not only a meal but a better sense of Muir House's interior layout.

The difficulty with buildings this old—and not of especially notable origins—was that it was nearly impossible to find a set of architectural plans. He'd done his best to guess what might be behind the windows in the photos he'd taken, but it had been just that—a guess.

The hostess was still missing. He could ask for no better invitation to go wandering. Instead of following the main hallway toward the bar and dining room, Dev branched off to the right. Kitchen sounds grew louder. He glanced down a short hall where the floor was covered in terra-cotta tile rather than the thick runner under his feet and wisely passed it by.

Farther down on his right was a door with a brass plaque that read Private. He assumed it was part of the house's living quarters. He could have honored the sign, but then he wouldn't have been Dev Gilvane. He slowly turned the knob, wincing as it squeaked. He'd have thought that everything in the Jenna's world would be well-oiled and running to perfection. Dev pushed the door open just enough to peek inside.

Jenna Fahey stood in profile, her head bowed and her arms wrapped about her midsection, pulling her white jacket closer to her curves. His first inescapably male thought was that he hadn't before noticed what fine breasts she had. Yes, she possessed a perfectly perky American shape. And he was a drooling dog to be noticing such things, especially when he was no better than a trespasser.

She lifted her head and looked to the doorway. He considered retreating, but it was too late. He was well seen. Her arms had dropped to her sides and she'd tucked back her shoulders.

"Mr. Gilvane." She sounded less than thrilled. He, on the other hand, was looking forward to another of their friendly chats. He wondered if he might have been a prizefighter in a prior incarnation.

"Call me Dev."

"No, thank you," she said as though she were passing up dessert. "What are you doing in here?"

"Looking for the loo?"

"Behind a door marked Private?"

"It seemed a possibility."

"Sorry, but no. I try to be straightforward. This is my office. You'll find the men's room marked—amazingly enough—Men, in the opposite wing."

Her hair shone under the light of the small crystal chandelier hanging in the center of the room. There seemed to be so many shades of brown in her curls, everything from chestnut to a glint of deep auburn. He wondered if it could be as impossibly soft to the touch as it looked.

"Am I losing you, Mr. Gilvane?"

It was then that Dev took note of another drooling dog, this of the canine variety, sitting at Jenna's feet.

"So you've freed him from his noose?"

She glanced down, almost as though she'd forgotten she owned a dog. "Oh, you mean Roger. He's come to see things my way."

From the direction of the kitchen, the clanging sound of metal hitting an object equally hard drew their attention. Jenna muttered something under her breath that could have either been a curse or someone's name.

"Are you all right?" he asked.

"I'm fine."

Fine was one of those terrifying, catch-all female words, applied to a rainbow of truths ranging from "I'm truly doing well" to "In less than a nanosecond I shall implode." She looked to be leaning toward the darker end of the spectrum. Odd as it was, he felt an impulse to comfort her.

"Really, is there anything I can do to help?" he asked.

"Unless you're willing to take over for the world's worst dishwasher, no."

He glanced down at tonight's iteration of a black suit. "Sorry, but I didn't come dressed for it."

He wasn't accustomed to women looking him over and finding him lacking, but this one clearly did.

"How about this, then?" she said. "You could tell me why you're nosing around Muir House. You're not the horse-and-hound, country-lord type."

For the first time in as long as he could recall, Dev dipped into the well of banter and came up dry.

"I guess you meant to ask if there was almost anything you could do." She shook her head. "One thing about you, Dev Gilvane, is that you never fail to disappoint."

Dev worked up a mock hiss of pain to cover true sting of her dart. "Hit dead on."

Niamh appeared in the doorway.

"So we haven't lost you altogether," she said pleasantly.

"Not for lack of trying," her employer said. "Mr. Gilvane is ready to go to his table."

Niamh was hardly an armed guard, but the effect was the same. Dev was escorted back to the public domain. And in what he could only view as a punishment, Evie of the endless chatter appeared to be his waitress again tonight.

After he'd settled in with his obligatory single-malt Scotch, Evie leaned closer, thrusting her bosom at him. "I traded off with Brien, over there, to get you again tonight."

Dev wasn't quite sure, but he thought the waitress might have winked at him. Then again, it could have been a facial tic, which he found a far preferable explanation. There was something sly, almost feral, about her that set his teeth on edge.

Just then the sound of breaking glassware cut into conversations, bringing a momentary, startled silence to the room. Dev's curiosity must have shown on his face.

"Oh, that's the owner's sister," Evie said in confidential tones. "She's washing-up the dishes and doing a right poor job of it, too."

"I didn't realize Ms. Fahey's sister worked here," he replied while mentally riffling through the family information that Margaret had sent him. Beautiful and quite spoiled, Maureen Fahey was supposed to be a full-time party girl.

"You're ahead of us if you even knew she had a sister. Jimmy—he's the busboy who was let go today, all because of that cow, Emer—anyway, Jimmy and I were guessing that Jenna had been hatched from a pod. She's not even human. Everything has to be perfect. She had a bloody fit when I couldn't remember that tonight's farmhouse cheese was a Gubeen. Like milk from a Ballycotton cow would taste any different."

Dev watched to see if she'd even draw a breath, but her lung capacity seemed to be up to the task.

Evie yattered on. "So then herself's sister shows up at the door, and she's no sooner unpacked than she's put to work behind the—"

In a case of classic timing, Dev's cell phone chirped the opening notes to "A Soldier's Song." Thank God he'd remembered to change the tones to Ireland's anthem. Bad enough that Evie's over-solicitous hovering was earning him jaundiced looks from his neighbors.

After giving the closest diners an apologetic grin and shrug, he waved off Evie.

"Gilvane here."

"Dev, it's Trevor. A few questions have popped up on the Ballymuir site. Do you have a second?"

"Yes," he said, while thinking, and possibly not much more, given Muir House's chef.

"So you say this house is outside town?"

He kept his voice low and eyes down, better to go undetected. "By a few miles along the coastline."

"And the roads? Will there be access problems for coaches?"

"The road is tight, but no more so than on the Ring of Kerry," Dev said, referring to the county's more heavily visited Iveragh Peninsula.

"Grand. Get to work, then. Though we all agree with you that thirty acres is too small a site. Start talking to adjacent property owners. We need to be certain we can get our hands on enough to build a golf course. Is there sufficient open land?"

Dev briefly mourned his ruined shoes. "To the extent one can call rocks with the occasional clump of topsoil land, yes, there's plenty open. I'll go visit the neighbors tomorrow."

"Start with Mr. Horrigan," Jenna Fahey advised from the spot she'd taken just behind him. He wondered how long she'd been there. The way his luck had been running since landing in Ireland, his guess was too long.

"I'll ring you back later." Dev ended the call without waiting for an answer.

Jenna greeted neighboring tables, with a special smile for a silver-haired man, before pulling out a chair opposite Dev. He was quite impressed by the genial expression she'd pinned on, as though they were old friends about to chat.

She opened his menu and pointed to the pretty little script at the bottom about cell phones.

"How'd you know I took a call?" he asked.

"You annoyed Evie, which is never a good move."

The tongue-flapper scorned, Dev thought.

"Hand it to me," she said, her gazed fixed on the phone currently sitting above his dessert fork.

"I've switched it off." It was a lie of which he'd grown fond.

"And you'll turn it back on as soon as I leave the room."

He smiled his most charming smile and got a deadpan stare in response.

"I can excuse the occasional phone call," she said in a soft voice intended to stay between the two of them. "What I can't excuse is the sheer amount of guts it takes for you to sit in my house and talk about wanting to buy it out from under me."

He opened his mouth to deny the charge, but she stopped him.

"I know you were talking about Muir House. I'd ask you to leave, Mr. Gilvane, but it would cost me too much in gossip. Now give me the phone."

Dev handed it to her. As she rose and looked down at him, he felt an uncomfortable emotion, one so old and unfamiliar that it took him a moment to name it: guilt. It was enough to put a man off his food.

Jenna left. A chastened man, Dev ordered and ate in silence, then retrieved his cell phone and returned to Cois Na Mara. There, he lay awake long into the night contemplating the female capacity for mucking up a male's mind. Business was business, damn it all.

 

Muir House on a Sunday was meant to be a peaceful place; it was the first of the two days each week that the restaurant was closed. Jenna usually began her time off by attending morning Mass at St. Brendan's in the village. Even without looking at a clock, the light in her bedroom this particular Sunday was enough to tell her that she'd overslept. She felt groggy, almost drugged, and her head pounded as though she'd drunk her way through the Bordeaux section in the restaurant wine cellar, when she hadn't touched liquor in over five years.

She stretched and nudged Roger with her foot. He was still out cold, curled in a nearly perfect doughnut O. Amazing. She'd had no idea that dogs could snore so loudly. Of course, she'd also had no idea that she'd ever permit a dog to sleep on her bed. Roger hadn't deemed the topic open for negotiation.

Jenna folded back the covers without smothering Rog and then sat up. That simple move pushed her far enough to consciousness that last night's unsettling events returned to her—Maureen and Dev Gilvane. She flopped back against her pillows, gave it a heartfelt "feck," and slept an hour more.

When Vi came to retrieve Roger just past noon, Jenna was awake, if not pleased happy about it. Princess Maureen was still in her chamber, no doubt waiting for a handmaiden to come tend to her. Jenna and Vi settled in the blue salon, another of the rooms Jenna kept off-limits to guests. Here she kept her personal mementos—family pictures, a candid shot of her with Paul Bocuse, one of her idol chefs. It was a warm, cheerful place that she'd taken care to make her own, and not simply an amalgam of her mother's decorators' tastes.

On a day when her skull wasn't threatening to split open, Jenna would have enjoyed the daylight shining through the room's mullioned windows. Today it hurt. Keeping to the shadows, she edged her way to a chair. Once settled, she took a major sip of her espresso, hoping the caffeine jolt would help her.

"So, how was Kilkenny?" she asked Vi.

Feline that she was, Vi had draped herself across a pale blue velvet settee and reveled in the sun. Roger stretched out on the Aubusson rug, nose on paws, ready to nap.

"Kilkenny was grand," said Roger's mistress. "I saw quite a bit of an old friend—all the interesting parts."

Jenna, who hadn't seen the interesting parts of a male in quite some time, decided to forego that line of chat, and just maybe punish Vi a bit in the bargain. "And your mom, how is she?"

"Mam was on her best behavior. We bypassed the career speech and covered only marriage." Vi's red brows drew into a slight frown. "Though she did threaten a visit to see how Pat and Danny are getting along—as good an incentive to get them to call her as I can imagine."

"I'll bet."

Vi's mother had been in Ballymuir last summer for Michael and Kylie's wedding, which Jenna had catered. Mrs. Kilbride had been talented at letting everyone know how put out she was to be there, without actually saying so.

Jenna downed the last of her coffee and considered having some more, with an aspirin chaser to kill the headache.

"So has that Dev Gilvane been about?" Vi asked.

Jenna's heart kicked up a notch. She was trying to string together an answer that had nothing to do with what she really felt—not that she'd even pinned that down—when Her Royal Highness strode into the room. Today's wardrobe choice was a ripped T-shirt with faded lettering about "Sorority Rush Week" and what looked to be a pair of army surplus pants—definitely not the Fashion Week material Jenna had seen in those Paris candids of her sister.

Reenie's hair was strange, too. Her attempt at dreadlocks was gone, and it was no longer yesterday's muddy brown. Unfortunately, neither loss was grounds for improvement. Now her hair flirted with a scary, streaky almost-gray. Jenna tried not to stare.

"Vi, this is my sister, Maureen," she said.

Vi's gaze rove between the array of family photographs on the mantel and the girl in front of her. Jenna thought her friend did an admirable job of not sounding a variation on the "whatever the hell happened to you?" theme, as she had yesterday.

Vi stood and extended her hand. "It's grand to meet you."

Maureen ignored the offered hospitality and squinted at Vi. "Right. You, too."

This was the product of serial expulsions from expensive boarding schools and private colleges? Their father should have offered to build a wing on a charm school.

Reenie turned the same hostile look on Jenna. "Food?"

"Kitchen."

"I looked there. Nothing's cooked."

"So cook it." Paybacks were indeed a bitch; she'd spent two hours after closing taking care of the carnage in the dishwashing area.

"Can't cook."

"Eat fruit," Vi suggested in a tone that made it clear she was thinking of less palatable offerings. Jenna held back a laugh.

Maureen was less amused.

"Phone?" she snapped.

"My office."

"Which is?"

"By the kitchen."

Maureen stalked out of the room, Vi laughed, and Jenna decided on another espresso.

"And, yes, before you ask, black's her favorite color," she said to Vi.

Vi smirked. "I wasn't feeling the need to ask." She bent down and scratched Roger behind his ears. "Despite the rain cloud following her, it's grand she's here. Did she tell you why she's come?"

"Not really. Talking to her is like talking to Dev Gilvane. You get answers, but none of them are real."

"Well, I won't be opining on Gilvane since I've not been around him when his guard is down, but with your sister, everything you need to know is right there."

"Such as?" Jenna asked.

"She's angry, for one."

"Who isn't? I'm working enough for three people trying to keep this place running smoothly. And even then, it's not enough."

"What happened?" Vi asked.

"Emer walked out last night, so I persuaded Reenie to be the dishwasher."

Vi laughed. "Persuaded? You mastered subtlety while I was gone?"

"Fine, I coerced. But it's not as though it would kill her to pitch in for a night."

"Ah, so now we come to the thick of it."

Jenna let loose some of her frustration. "There is no thick. Between Maureen and me, there's nothing. She's my sister, but when you come right down to it, I know half of Ballymuir better than I know her, and I'm okay with that."

"You're lying to yourself," Vi said.

Jenna ignored her. "If Maureen thinks I'm going to change a single damn thing I'm doing just because she decides to waltz in, she's dead wrong. No one messes with my system. No one. Besides, I've been here two years and not one family member has come to visit."

"And it's not bothered you at all, I take it?" Vi asked with more than a shot of sarcasm.

Jenna rose and picked up her cup and saucer. "I need more caffeine."

Maureen stood in the doorway, her face pale and mouth pulled tight. Time looped its way around Jenna and pulled itself tight. She saw a pouting Reenie at age four when Jenna didn't want to play dress-up, an angry Reenie at age eight when Jenna was sixteen and had no use for her or anyone else, and a crying Reenie at age ten as Jenna packed her bags and left.

"Maureen..."

Reenie at twenty-one gave it a blunt "Bite me."

After she was gone, Jenna set down her cup, walked to the window and looked down to the shore. The tide was in, and the water lapped at its upper boundary of round, storm-washed boulders. Too many people, too many problems. At least when she was alone, she could deal with her own issues. She wasn't sure that held true when everything around her was becoming so complicated.

"Spring is on us," Vi said from behind her. "I was thinking this morning that we need a bonfire."

"Any reason in particular?"

Her friend's answer was simple. "It's Beltane Eve and there's much to burn."