Chapter Six

A cowpat is all the wider for stepping on it.

—Irish Proverb

 

On Beltane morning in Ballymuir, it seemed that God got down to business. Jenna woke with a start and took stock of her surroundings. She couldn't lose the feeling that something had shifted. Even the sunlight sneaking between the drapes was finer, clearer. If she were Vi, she'd call this new acuity of her senses magical. But she was a practical woman, so she'd credit the first restful night's sleep she'd had since Dev Gilvane's arrival.

Jenna pushed aside her covers and padded to the bank of windows overlooking the shore. She tucked the central window's drapes into the bronze arms fashioned to hold them, then unlatched the windows and pushed them out, bringing a spring-laden breeze and the music of a songbird into her home. She breathed deep.

Little remained of the Beltane Eve gathering. The remnants of its fire were now reduced to ash resting neatly within the stone circle. No people cluttered the landscape, and Jenna loved the simplicity of it.

Mise en place—everything in its place—a crucial concept in both cooking and life. Last night's fire would be consigned to memory and last night's kiss dealt with. She wasn't insane enough to think that she could forget the feel of Dev's mouth on hers or the thrumming of a long-sleeping pulse that had come fully, instantly to life. But she could work around the inconvenience and deal with it as she had so many other events not occurring according to plan.

After all, it was May, promise was in the wind, and all things were possible. Even a measure of personal peace. Jenna let the sunshine kiss her face and permitted herself to daydream. Between one heartbeat and the next, blaring music shredded her thoughts. A screaming, Jimi-Hendrix-come-back-to-haunt, guitar riff filled the house.

She wheeled away from the window. "Mau-reen!"

Shouting had felt good, but accomplished nothing. Jenna sprinted downstairs to the library, where the house sound system's controls were hidden. She pushed the concealed latch to the cupboard built seamlessly into the wainscoting and cranked down the receiver's volume knob.

She turned to her sister, who was reclining on her side like Cleopatra awaiting a perfectly peeled grape. Her wet hair was twisted into a tight knot at the back of her head. Jenna couldn't quite catch the color—maybe not as scary as yesterday, but still miles off normal.

"So how long did you have to feel out the woodwork to find the sound system?" Jenna asked.

"Good speakers," Maureen replied.

If this was to be a battle of non sequiturs, she might as well land a few of her own. "What's up with the hair?"

"I need to go into that thing people around here call a town."

Picking on Ballymuir was never a wise choice. Jenna wrenched up the drooping shoulder strap to her camisole, then marched off. In the sanctuary of the kitchen, she poured some coffee from the pot Maureen must have managed to make all on her own. Who said pampered rich girls didn't have marketable skills?

"I said I need to go to town," Maureen repeated from behind her.

So much for sanctuary. Jenna walked to the war room and sat at the oak table. Her sister moved to the opposite side and glared down at her.

Jenna sifted through various diplomatic approaches she might take, but none suited the opposition as well as the truth. "Reenie, I still have no clue what you're doing at Muir House."

"Okay, how's this? I'm here because I didn't know where else to go." The comment was no less sarcastic than her others, except this time Jenna detected a whisper of truth.

"Are you in trouble?"

Her sister laughed but didn't meet Jenna's eyes. "Like there's something Dad couldn't buy my way out of? I just needed a break, okay?"

Jenna had learned long ago that her father's dollars came with a high emotional price. "If you're in trouble, you can tell me."

"And I'd know that based on the ten minutes of conversation we've had in the past six years, right? You've made it pretty clear that you have no use for me."

"I'm sorry for what you overheard me saying to Vi the other day, but at least I'm trying. Why don't you do the same?"

"I'm here, aren't I?"

Jenna ran her thumb up the handle of her coffee mug, feeling a rough, worn spot in the thick pottery's glaze. "Do you remember what it was like when I lived at home?"

Maureen shrugged. "Kind of."

"If you think back, you'll agree that just being someplace isn't always the same thing as trying."

She knew from Maureen's shuttered expression that she was getting nowhere. A cowardly sense of relief at not having to discuss those last, ugly days outweighed the regret that her sister and she had never learned to communicate.

"I said I need to go into town. It's after eleven. I was in your room twice this morning and even held a mirror in front of your face to make sure you weren't dead. Since you're not, would you give me a ride?"

Loud music...high drama...everything amplified. She wondered whether Reenie saw their father's reflection when she looked in her mirror. If she did, the thought apparently didn't weigh as heavily into her choices as it did into Jenna's.

"Are you going to answer me?" Maureen demanded.

Jenna sipped her coffee and winced at its bitter taste. "I hadn't planned to leave the property."

"Hiding from someone?"

The rhythm of Jenna's heart lurched. She looked closer at her sister, trying to decide whether Maureen's comment had been based in knowledge, perception, or guesswork.

"I'm not hiding, just kicking back for the day," she lied. "Why don't you take my car?"

"Can't drive. Never had a reason to."

"Incredible." No driver's license but probably enough frequent-flyer miles to open her own airline, such was the life of the Fahey Princess Royal.

"Now will you take me, please?" The obligatory politeness was followed by a facial expression that didn't quite pass as a smile. "Or are you really hiding?"

Jenna wasn't philosophically opposed to a little hiding; that was how she'd happened across Ballymuir in the first place. She refused, however, to let her baby sister get away with this dominant-female, leader-of-the-pack routine.

"Be ready in half an hour," she said.

 

The road to Ballymuir was narrow and often made tighter yet by stray sheep or oncoming trucks that required both lanes. Over time Jenna had learned that the best way to drive it was with a measure of good-natured fatalism. Since there was no way of knowing what was around the next curve, she might as well own the stretch she was on.

Beside her, Maureen flinched from the tall hedgerow lining the roadside as though green, leafy claws were about to push through the car's window and rip her from her seat. Her face was chalky-white, and Jenna regretted that her sister was wearing sunglasses. She would have loved to have seen a little abject terror in her eyes. Closer to the village, where the houses grew more numerous and sheep fewer, she almost got her wish.

"Holy sh—" Maureen gasped at the same time Jenna eased out of a curve and braked in order to avoid a bicyclist coming at them in the center of the road.

Jenna smiled at the sight of Brendan Mulqueen, one of her favorite customers, who over the past year had become a friend, too. He was no Irish country gentleman in tweeds and a cap pedaling to town with pipe clenched between yellowing teeth. Nearing sixty, Brendan was handsome, vital, and also incredibly fit from his years as a sculptor. With his black racing gear and high-tech bike, he looked ready to join Team Ireland and seize the yellow jersey in the Tour de France.

She moved closer to the roadside, rolled down her window, and waited for him to pull even.

Brendan dismounted from his bike. Holding it with one hand, he leaned down a bit to greet her. "Grand fire last night, Jenna, though I missed you at the end." His broad smile reminded her of another man's, one she was struggling mightily not to think about.

"Mulqueen, you'd live longer if you took the side of the road."

He chuckled. "I'd rather bolder than longer. Besides, all it takes is one tour bus sending you into rose briers to make you start claiming the middle. I have more trust in those drivers' instincts than I do in their goodwill."

She smiled. "You've got a point." Sometimes it felt as though the locals were viewed as speed bumps impeding the tourist flow.

Maureen gave an impatient sigh and a low, muttered, "Any time now."

Seeing no way around it, Jenna made introductions.

"Brendan, this is my sister, Maureen. Maureen, this is Brendan. You might have seen him at the fire last night."

Maureen slid down her sunglasses to check him out, and then nodded.

"You're welcome to Ballymuir," Brendan said. "What do you think so far?"

"I think I'm looking forward to getting out."

He laughed. "Thirty years ago I said the same thing."

"And you're still here. You must be a slow learner."

"A leisurely learner," he corrected. "There's much to sample in Ballymuir if you know where to look."

She nudged her sunglasses back up the bridge of her nose. "Okey-doke."

Brendan shrugged. "All the less to take over our corner of paradise," he said to Jenna. "I'll be seeing you tomorrow night. Stop by my table and have a chat if you could. I've a few questions for you about Mr. Gilvane."

"You'll find better authorities in town."

He laughed. "So they'd be thinking. Slan," he said, friendly Irish for "see you." He mounted his bike and pedaled off.

Jenna shifted back into gear and took the final two tight turns into the village proper, hiding her smile as Maureen braced her hands against the Nissan's dashboard.

"If you drive like this, what do you do for fun—walk blindfolded off cliffs?"

Jenna's answer was simple and not without certain parallels. "I run a restaurant."

"That's your job, not fun."

"Believe it or not, the two can coincide from time to time."

Her sister scoffed. "I'll stick with a life of leisure, thanks."

Jenna pulled into a spot in front of O'Connor's Pub. She turned off the car and looked at her sister. "Across the street from the harbor, you'll see some low, white buildings on a hill. I'll be in the one at the top of the group. That's Vi's studio."

"Stocking up on potions?"

"No. Patience," Jenna said. "Be there by two, okay?"

"Like I can blow that much time in three blocks of civilization. I'll see you at one." Maureen climbed from the car, slammed the door, and stalked off.

Potions were sounding better by the second.

 

As far as Maureen was concerned, walking in Ballymuir was like stepping into a twisted Irish version of Brigadoon. She'd seen a cell phone sign on a store as Jenna drove into town, and an ATM, too, but those were about the only pieces of evidence that let her know she hadn't been sucked back in time.

And the word sucked hit dead-on. As she trudged up a hill that would freak out a mountain goat, she checked out store windows. There wasn't a piece of clothing that someone under eighty would voluntarily wear. But forget clothes. She needed news—current news—and she had a sneaking suspicion that she was screwed.

Some old guy tottered out of a doorway painted bright yellow.

"Hey," Maureen called, "is there an Internet cafe around here?" She didn't plan to ask her sister if she could use her computer. All Maureen needed was Jenna peering over her shoulder at evidence of how massively she'd screwed up her life.

"Dingle's the nearest, and that's five miles off," he said. "Though if you go down by the harbor, stop to see Vi Kilbride in the arts village. She'll get you a message home, if that's what you're lookin' for."

Not even close.

"Thanks," she said, keeping the "for nothing" to herself.

He nodded and walked on.

She looked another block up the steep incline to where she'd seen the phone sign. With luck, it hadn't been a hallucination. She'd left her phone in Sam the scum's suite at the Ritz. Using Jenna's telephone, Maureen had managed to get hold of Afton, one of a few friends she was sure she could trust. Afton had promised to send Maureen the clothes she'd left behind. In exchange for a favor to be named later, of course. Maureen knew that when Afton came up with a payback, it would be big-time, but Maureen had no choice. She was out of what her father defined as the world's most valuable commodity: leverage.

Maureen paused a moment to catch her breath. God, she was out of shape. Maybe it was time to focus less on being a size two and more on getting some muscle tone. Or not. She stepped into the store, which was about the size of one of her walk-in closets back in her family's Lake Forest home. It held not only cell phones but televisions, stereo equipment, and power tools. No wonder the place was called O'Connor's Everything.

Behind the counter she found one of her favorite kinds of people, a guy anxious to please. He was also young enough to still have a pulse, and decent looking, with black hair and deep brown eyes. Too bad he was a male and thus, by definition, scum.

"Well, this rules out ritual sacrifice." At his blank look she explained, "You're the first person I've seen in town who isn't old enough for retirement. I figured you'd all been taken to the mountainside last night and sacrificed. Where is everyone?"

"Working," he said with a shrug. "Some here, some in Tralee. I'm Lorcan O'Connor and you'd be Jenna Fahey's sister, Maureen."

She liked the way he pronounced her name, so she decided not to give him too much crap. "How did you know who I am?"

"The same way as everyone else. You had Johnny O'Shea drive you to Muir House."

She guessed that was supposed to be an explanation.

"Here to visit, are you?" he asked.

Might as well give them something to talk about. She'd hate for Ballymuir to be left out when there was a ninety percent chance that the rest of the world was gossiping about her.

"I'm on the run from the Hollywood mafia."

He laughed. "Sure you are."

"So, Lorcan, can you set me up with a phone?"

He could and did in less than twenty minutes, ten of which he used to hit on her. As if she'd be going with him to his da's pub to hear a session—whatever that was. She was seriously done with men.

She pocketed her phone, pleased that she had a connection to the real world. "One last question, where can I find a newspaper around here?"

"There'd be Spillane's Market," her new best friend offered. "Down the hill and on the opposite side of the street."

"Thanks."

"Are you sure you won't be comin' to the pub tonight?" Lorcan asked as she opened the shop door. "There's a group of us, so you don't need to think of it as a date unless you're wanting to."

She'd give him points for determination. And really, when it came right down to it, anyplace was better than sitting at Muir House, waiting for Jenna to say something nice. She turned back.

"I don't suppose you could give me a ride?" she asked.

He let loose an involuntary sort of ha!—as though she'd knocked the wind from him. His face turned a dull red as he struggled to hold in laughter.

She was so damn sick of finding herself the butt of jokes. "What?"

He tamed his grin. "You'd best be saying lift instead of ride. If I were to give you a ride, it would mean, well...we'd have to be getting naked first."

Maureen felt scarlet creeping up her face, too. English as a foreign language was making Paris seem bizarrely appealing. At least there she knew the slang, including how to bilingually tell Sam Olivera to get stuffed.

"Thanks for the tip," she said.

"Eight o'clock, then?"

Both hope and testosterone apparently sprang eternal in the Irish male. Maureen knew she'd regret this, but she was becoming so skilled at regret that she didn't even care. "Sure. See you then."

She gave him her best smile and was gratified in an impersonal sort of way to see that it still worked.

Screw you, Sam.

 

Jenna was walking down Patrick Street toward the harbor when Eamon Nolan, her heating and cooling man, leaned out of his shop's doorway, looked up the street and down and then furtively motioned her over.

"Hi, Mr.—"

She trailed off when he shook his head.

Really curious now, she crossed to his side of the street. She smiled when, like a spy from a B movie, he took a quick drag from the cigarette he held pinched between his fingers and thumb before disappearing into his shop. She wondered if she was going to be expected to pass some sort of "the black swan flies at midnight" code.

The shop door's hinges squealed as Jenna opened it and stepped inside. She took a moment to let her eyes adjust to the dim light. Boxes of parts lay in a huge heap halfway up the front windows, and everything was coated with both the scent and yellowish haze of cigarette smoke.

Despite the mind-bending mess, Eamon Nolan was a magician with all things mechanical. He'd never had to order a part to fix either her house's ancient furnace or her restaurant's state-of-the-art systems. It was all in here, somewhere. As was Eamon himself.

"Mr. Nolan," she called.

He stepped from behind a black curtain shrouding a doorway at the back of the shop. She didn't want to speculate on the level of chaos deemed necessary to be hidden from customers.

He stubbed out his cigarette in an enormous ashtray filled with its dead kin. "Just checking to be sure Evie hadn't come in the back way. She's supposed to be cleaning today."

Jenna was sure the odds were better on thirty rain-free days.

"Anyway," he said after another look over his shoulder, "I thought you should be knowing that Dev Gilvane was here first thing this morning. He's after the plans for Muir House."

The news shouldn't have stung. Last night had been a momentary madness. She still knew nothing about him, except that he was semi-Irish, could kiss to start a dead woman's heart, and was a total bastard for wanting what she'd fought so hard to make hers.

"I see," she said to Mr. Nolan. They were short words, easier to push past the tightness gripping her throat.

"I told him I didn't have any such thing, that I was a 'do it as you go' sort of man even though I've got a full set of plans right in me desk."

"Well, thank you."

"Word at the pub is that he's looking to build a private hunting retreat," he said in a conspiratorial tone. "Wild game and birds and such. Do you think—" From somewhere in the mess a telephone rang. "Don't leave," Mr. Nolan commanded before disappearing behind the black drape.

Jenna took a moment to push aside the irrational hurt and think her way through the problem. The outcome was apparent; if Dev wanted plans, he'd find a way to obtain them. She was far better off controlling the information.

From the back room came the elevated noise of Mr. Nolan yelling at someone, ending with the sharp smack of a phone being treated with minimal respect. He reappeared, his expression sour.

"Evie," he said.

Jenna responded with a diplomatic "Ah."

"So about this Gilvane," Mr. Nolan said, "what have you heard?"

She was smart enough to work her advantages, whether the advantage might be especially fine spring lamb for the restaurant or knowing Ballymuir's hunger for gossip.

Jenna moved a little closer. "Between us, I heard that he's establishing his own religious sect. He needs land for a—how shall I put this delicately?—retreat house." At Mr. Nolan's blank look, she added, "Have you noticed how he's always wearing black?"

"Aye, now that you mention it...."

Jenna waited as the seed she'd planted took root. The older man's horror was both apparent and gratifying. "Jesus, are you talking about a cult? Animal sacrifice and devil worship and the like? You'll not be selling to him, will you?"

"Never."

"I was right to send him away with nothing."

"He'll be back," she said. "And when he shows up, I want you to sell him the plans for the mechanical systems."

Mr. Nolan's dark brows chased after his receding hairline. "What?"

"Do it for a lot of money. Take the most ridiculous sum you can think of and double it." All the better to empty Dev's pockets.

"And you're sure about this?"

"Very," she said. "But you might want to remove an update or two, and tell him about the faulty wiring and how the plumbing has never worked quite right."

"And should I be dropping word of a wee problem with the roof?"

She laughed. "I do believe we've reached an understanding, Mr. Nolan."

He shook her offered hand. "Indeed we have."

Jenna smiled as she returned to the street. Here at least she had Dev Gilvane beat dead cold.

 

Maureen knew that it wasn't especially rational to be afraid to look in a bunch of newspapers. It wasn't as though events could be erased just because she chose not to acknowledge them. Still, she was taking the chicken's path through Spillane's Market—a random selection of aisles that didn't include her ultimate goal.

An old guy who looked as if he might have once been a professional wrestler stood behind the counter of the single check-out lane and watched her.

"Grand day, isn't it?" he said as she passed by him yet again.

"Yeah, wonderful."

She should have stayed away from Sam Olivera and never should have opened her heart to him. Now that he'd hurt her, she'd still have to see his image on television, in the papers, and all over the Internet. And since she couldn't blame Sam for that, she chose to blame the media. Her love/hate relationship with the press had swung to hate. In fact, if she stopped to think about it, pretty much all her life had taken that turn. But she had to stay mad because the alternative of heartbreak was unacceptable.

Maureen strolled down an aisle filled with canned goods, pretending rapt interest in the oxtail soup. Who the hell would eat that? On to the jams and jellies. She stopped. The chocolate spread didn't look half bad, and she had a sinking feeling that very soon she'd need its comfort. She grabbed a jar and moved on.

Done with the coward's waltz, Maureen forced herself to walk to the end of the aisle and stop in front of the piddling display of magazines and papers. The bottom shelf was filled with teen pop garbage and a really scary number of anglers' magazines. Why the obsession with fish? Maureen flinched as she realized how central that question was to her current disaster.

The next shelf up held the tabloids. She wished she had the self-control to just walk away, to know that anything in them was beneath her notice. Except it wasn't. Maureen set the jar of chocolate spread at her feet and pulled the first bottom-feeding rag from the rack.

There was nothing about her on the front page, though that was usually reserved for claims of stars impregnated by aliens. Hand shaking, Maureen prepared to peek inside. She wasn't much of a praying girl, but figured that the shock value of a Maureen-to-God page just might get the Big Guy's ear.

Please, God, let me duck this one, and I'll be better, I swear I will. I'll—I'll—

She racked her brain for some kind thing she could do, something that wouldn't involve being near sick, germy people or take up too much of her time, but came up blank.

I'll do something really good.

Vague, but better than nothing.

She thumbed one page in and still found nothing. She was relieved enough to remember to breathe. Maybe this bargaining-with-God thing really worked.

One more page...

Shit.

She didn't look at the photo very carefully before closing the paper. She'd lived the moment. Sam with that tramp of an actress. Said tramp's hand resting where it was most likely to get a rise. The waiter passing by with the tray of fish....

Grabbing the tray had been sheer fury, dumping it on Sam and the tramp, incredibly satisfying, and the flash of the photographer's camera, horrifying. No, Maureen really didn't need a picture to remember. She squeezed her eyes shut against angry tears. The bright side was that now she didn't have to think of anything good to do for God. The dark side was that for the rest of her life, she was going to be haunted by one stupid picture. And Sam Olivera was going to kill her.

She'd spent the past five days telling herself that it was going to be okay. Maybe the paparazzo hadn't gotten a clear shot. Maybe no one would bother to pick up the photo even if the scum-wad did. Yeah, and maybe she'd wash her sister's dishes for the rest of her natural life.

She lifted the stack of papers from the rack and carried them to the counter.

"All of them?" the old guy asked.

"I'm not finished," she said before returning to check out the competition. There they were: she, Sam, the fish, and the tramp.

She carried the full load to the counter and smacked it down before going back to retrieve her fix of chocolate.

"Do you take credit cards?" she asked when she returned.

"Aye." He counted the number of copies in each pile of papers before focusing on her with sharp green eyes that seemed to carry something she wasn't used to seeing: pity.

"The news is no different in the fifth copy than the first," he said.

"Unfortunately."

"So you'd be Jenna Fahey's sister?" he asked as he rang up the items.

She supposed it was better than being known as a fish flinger.

"Let me guess. Johnny O'Shea told you," she said.

"Nah, I saw your photo on page five. You're much prettier in person. And if that boy would rather be with the other girl, he's not only a right bastard but a fool, too."

Holy shit, she was going to cry!

Maureen grabbed the charge slip, scrawled her signature, and hurried from the store with a bagful of humiliation.

Outside, she pulled the chocolate spread from the bag and dumped the papers in the closest trash bin, her contribution toward keeping Ireland clean. She hugged the jar against her chest and glared at the glorious blue sky.

Next time she'd stick with Satan.