Chapter Nine

Everyone having a go at the head of a hake.

—Irish Proverb

 

As Dev Gilvane disappeared over the horizon, Jenna and Maureen grabbed the photo album, stowed the shovels, and retreated. Once again within Muir House's sturdy walls, Maureen went to the computer to catch up with the world. Jenna stuck to the kitchen. The news inside Ballymuir was wild enough for her.

Because it was still the restaurant's slow season and the meat order was correspondingly small, Aidan had finished his butchering some time ago. He now stood at his spot on the line rapidly cutting carrots into julienne sticks for Muir House's herbed, upscale version of Irish stew.

Niamh had arrived. She was reading through the night's menu and simultaneously joking with Emer, the dishwasher who'd kindly returned after the grabby busboy had been "made redundant," as she'd put it. Jenna found that particular Irish turn of phrase gallingly inaccurate since redundancy had nothing to do with it—the busboy's position remained unfilled.

The sharp sound of clattering metal captured Jenna's attention.

"Mother of God," Aidan said from between clenched teeth. His knife slid from the work surface to the floor. Under the best of circumstances, the man was pale, but now he'd taken on a grayish cast. He had one hand clamped over the other. Blood seeped from between his fingers. Jenna calmly led him over to the old porcelain sink by the back door.

"Let me have a look," she said.

He took the good hand off the bad. Blood welled from a deep cut at the base of his thumb and dripped into the basin. His breath hissed from between his teeth when she gently prodded one side of the sullen wound. It was deep enough that Jenna, who had her share of scars from cuts and burns, felt squeamish.

Niamh, well accustomed to the emergency drill, handed Jenna a clean towel, which she clamped over the cut. Emer, who'd come to peek over Niamh's shoulder, squeaked at the sight of all the blood.

"Go get yourself a drink of water, Emer," Jenna directed. She could hardly afford to have her dishwasher faint.

Jenna looked back to Aidan. "Felled by a carrot, huh?"

He scowled. "It's nothing. A bit of tape and I'll be right enough."

His response was part of the secret code. Short of a severing a finger, chefs never admitted to pain.

"Nice try. It's deep enough that you might have gotten a nerve. Niamh, drive him to Dingle."

"You think I'm needing Dr. Mclntyre?" he snapped, referring to the physician who ran the closest clinic. "That I'm some sort of bloody pansy boy?"

"I wouldn't argue the bloody part, okay?"

"I've got no time for this," he said.

"If I don't send you, Deirdre will be after me with an ax." Deirdre was Aidan's wife and as high-strung as he was low-key. "Now, stop wasting my time. Go to Dingle, get sewn up, and come back."

This, Aidan could appreciate. "I'll get me jacket," he said to Niamh. To Jenna he added, "Not a word to Deirdre."

After he walked away, Niamh said in a low voice, "She's expecting again and already angry as hell."

That, at least, explained Aidan's bleak mood.

"You'd think by now they'd have figured out what causes pregnancy," Jenna said, earning a laugh from Niamh. Aidan and his wife had three boys under the age of four. Jenna could see why Deirdre might be feeling a bit testy at the thought of adding another to their pack so soon.

Once Aidan and Niamh had hurried out the back door, Jenna thoroughly cleaned the accident scene, then checked out her remaining kitchen staff. It was not an attractive picture. Saul hadn't shown up, and Hector looked as though he'd been scraped out of a gutter after a night of partying. Which, knowing Hector, probably wasn't far from the truth. With Aidan now out of action, it looked as though tonight she'd be in front of the fire. The thought cheered her. Now she'd have no time to dwell on Dev Gilvane.

Jenna set up her favorite tools and then adjusted the small bins and dishes of chopped chives, capers, julienned vegetables, and the like that made up Aidan's mise en place so that they suited her work habits. She'd corralled the best of the sauté pans, knew her equipment was calibrated to perfection, but still something wasn't quite right. Jenna rolled her shoulders like an athlete readying for competition, but that in-the-zone ease still eluded her. She needed to break out the big guns.

"I'll be right back," she said to Hector, who briefly turned his bloodshot eyes her way.

Jenna cruised to her office, where she kept her lucky hat, a vintage 1994 Chicago Cubs cap. Maureen had apparently seen enough of the world. The chair in front of the computer was vacant. Jenna pushed it back into its appointed spot. On the desk to the right of the monitor, the printer's little red light was flashing, signaling its hunger for more paper. She wasn't surprised that Maureen lacked the manners to restock what she'd used.

Jenna pulled out the printer's paper drawer and refilled it. She was about to turn away when the printer began to hum, readying to spit out another page. Curious, she lingered. An image emerged of a gorgeous guy with an equally beautiful woman. After it dropped into the tray, Jenna picked it up and read its caption: Newlyweds? Sam Olivera and Starlet Chloe Weston.

She shrugged. Her access to American films was limited to say the least. She set the paper on the desk, in front of the monitor with its screen saver of a chorus line of dancing carrots. Aidan would love that.

The printer began to hum again. Hooked, Jenna waited. This time three people were in the-photo: this Sam person, Chloe, and Maureen! Make that Maureen and what looked to be some lovely fresh trout she was raining on the seated couple.

"Jeez, Reenie, you don't mess around," Jenna murmured.

She felt a hesitant sort of admiration for her sister's ability to seize the moment. Jenna had never allowed herself that kind of anger or passion, except maybe when she'd lobbed dirt at Dev Gilvane, but even that had been a pale shadow of Maureen's act. She set the picture atop the other and briefly considered hunting down Reenie, but rejected it as unwise. With her track record in matters of the heart, what advice could she possibly offer?

Jenna opened her desk's bottom right drawer, pulled out her lucky hat, and jammed it, bill to the back, on her head. There was one place where she still stood first. It was time to rock and roll.

 

At precisely eight o'clock in the evening, Dev presented himself to Niamh. After a look at her reservations book and one at her watch, she gave him a smile and a shake of her head.

"You're allowed to be a bit late, you know," she said as she reached for a menu. "It can't be good for you, being on time as often as you are."

Though he'd not raise it with the hostess, he suspected that showing up at Muir House at all would prove to have ill effects. Until Jenna he'd never had a woman try to knock him from the sky. Of course, until Jenna he'd never given a woman reason to want to.

"What would you recommend tonight?" he asked Niamh as they strolled toward his usual cocktail location in front of the fire.

"Anything," she said. "Jenna's cooking this evening, and you can do no better in all of Ireland."

He'd do better by being able to talk to her, but if she was to be anchored in the kitchen, he had little hope.

Frustrated, Dev settled in his armchair. Soon Muir House commenced its magic, and the tension began to leach from him. Odd, but the scent of the peat fire had begun to seem almost soothing. Niamh had a tumbler of single-malt to him before he'd even had a chance to ask. There was a comfort to this place that he'd sorely regret to see lost. He swallowed his Scotch along with a gulletful of guilt—a bitter drink, but what he deserved.

Vi Kilbride slipped into the companion to his chair. "I've been waiting for you and your cash to come back to the studio," she said. "Where've you been?"

"Off earning more." And for the first time ever, taking no pleasure from his efforts.

"So you're one of those men who thinks he can never have enough money?"

"There are limits."

Her smile spoke of a knowledge he didn't especially want her to share.

"I saw some of your work in a gallery in London yesterday," he said with hopes of distracting her.

"It travels here and there," Vi replied, dismissing his effort with a casual wave of her hand. "So have you kissed Jenna again?"

"And this would be your business?"

She smiled. "Since your announcement the other day, I'm thinking it is. But if you're feeling shy, I'll just ask her."

Dev blew out a slow breath as he considered the ascending degrees of hostility in the words Jenna might use to describe him. "I'm a topic best not addressed."

Vi nodded her thanks to Niamh, who had just brought her a glass of red wine, then said, "But you're also a topic not easily ignored, both here and in London. I've been doing some asking about, and hearing things that worry me."

He saluted her with his Scotch. "It's kind, your concern for my welfare."

Vi watched him with a formidable intensity. "You'd do best to tell Jenna the truth, and quickly, too."

He didn't require Vi Kilbride to know that. Tonight was to have been about the truth, had he found the time and place alone with Jenna.

Dev's cell phone chirped and his hand went automatically to his pocket. He'd meant to leave the phone in his room...had been sure he'd done it, in fact.

It would no doubt be Sid Barrett, who had magically appeared in the London office yesterday. Of course Dev wasn't supposed to have been there. He had parlayed his visit with Honoria Weston-Jones into a stop at headquarters, where he'd found Sid behind his desk, looking far too comfortable. Dev was no fool. A power play was being made at Harwood, and he had been dismissed from the battlefield—sent back to Ballymuir with only his lieutenant, Margaret, left to protect his flank.

He bit down on his anger and managed a civil hello.

"Dev?" asked a female voice.

"Mum?" The hell with unexpected, this was shocking. Had Margaret forgotten to send the monthly flowers? Or more dire, transfer the usual funds to his mother's account?

"I've been leaving messages at your flat," Katherine Gilvane said. "Not even that Fifi girl answered."

He smiled. Mum was never subtle in her disapproval. "Her name was Marie-Christine and she's back in Monaco now."

"Permanently, I hope."

Dev leaned forward to glance around the chair and see if Jenna's cell phone radar had homed in on him. So far he was in the clear, though Vi Kilbride looked all too interested. He pulled back into the shelter of his chair and kept his voice low.

"Look, Mum, I'm in the middle of something at the moment, but I promise I'll ring you up—"

"Well, that's why I'm calling you. I'm in London and thought perhaps we could have a visit tomorrow."

"Normally, that would be grand, but I'm afraid I'm away from home just now."

"Oh."

Her disappointment nibbled at his patience.

"So where are you?" she asked.

"Ireland."

"What?"

"Ireland," he repeated, giving every syllable its due.

"Anyplace in particular or just touring?" Her voice was so dry that Dev wondered if the floor beneath his chair was about to become parched and crack open.

"Mum, I've been nowhere near Dublin. If I were, you know I'd call."

"Where in Ireland?"

Dev massaged his forehead with his free hand. This would lead to nothing but grief, but a man could hardly lie to his own mother. "I'm in Ballymuir."

She laughed. "No, really. Belfast is it? Or Cork?"

"Ballymuir."

"Well now, isn't this an interesting twist?"

Vi waggled her fingers at him. "You'd best finish up." She smiled and waved to an approaching someone.

Dev followed Vi's line of vision. Jenna, was, of course, taking the direct route. Her hair was wild, as though she'd just dragged both hands through it with no thought as to direction, and her face was rosy and warm looking. He wanted to taste the salt on her skin. Not that she'd be letting him.

"I'll ring you in the morning," he said to his mum, "but just now—"

He offered no resistance when Jenna neatly removed the phone from his hand. Actually, he knew some relief. Explaining why Ballymuir and why now to his mother lingered low on his list of enjoyable acts. Ah, but Jenna, she ranked high indeed.

"I'm sorry," she said into the phone, "but Mr. Gilvane has developed an unhealthy attachment to his phone. As his therapist, I'm afraid I have to terminate this call for his own welfare, you understand?"

She ended the call and looked at Dev. "More business?"

For once, truth was his ally. "My mother, actually."

"Right."

Vi Kilbride watched the exchange as avidly as he might a balls-out brutal rugby scrum.

"Jonquil yellow, I'm thinking," she said.

"What?" he asked at the same time Jenna said, "Don't start."

"Jonquil yellow is your mam's favorite color, am I right?"

Mam. He hated the provincial sound of the word. "Yes," he said, "my mum likes yellow." At least that's what Margaret had told him.

"You'd best get someone painting," Vi said to Jenna. "And soon."

"First, this," Jenna replied with a tip of Dev's cell phone to the two of them.

"So what's the phone's fate?" Dev asked. "Is it to be locked away in a safe?"

"That would be too kind."

She turned heel and marched. Dev followed out a morbid sort of curiosity. When she pushed her way through the kitchen door, he hesitated. A foreign land awaited, one where he would be at a disadvantage. But she did have his phone.

"Brave," Jenna commented after the door had swung shut behind him. She walked to a holding tank containing one grossly oversize lobster in his—or was it her?—dotage. Once there, she slipped the battery from the back of Dev's phone and tossed it to him.

"This shouldn't hurt a bit, Harold," she assured the creature in the tank before dropping the guts of the phone into the water. Dev stood beside her. They both watched Harold languidly wave an antenna in the direction of his new companion.

"So be honest, who were you talking to?" Jenna asked.

"My mum. Really."

"Your mother?"

While it hardly brought them even for the truths he had yet to give her, Dev was pleased at the level of alarm in her voice. Better a confession to a fellow sinner.

"Mum, mother... One and the same," he said.

She muttered something just under her breath and then grabbed a cap and an apron from the corner of a nearby countertop.

"Okay, that was a screw-up," she said as she tied the apron into place. "And much as I'd like to grovel, it will have to wait. I need to get back to work."

Such were the spoils of his moral victory.

Dev pocketed the battery to his cell and made his way back to his seat by the fire, only to find that he was now alone. He didn't really regret Vi Kilbride's departure. In her presence he felt as though he were being held to a higher standard, one he wasn't willing to attain. At least, not for her. Jenna, on the other hand, made him wish that he could give her mountains green with meadows, rivers rich with fish, a kingdom to call her own. Instead, he was bargaining a rocky one from beneath her feet.

Dev reached for his Scotch glass on the small, round table where he'd left it before witnessing the murder of his cell phone. The drink was gone, no doubt taken to his dinner table to wait for him. A quick glance to the bar with thought of a replacement drink turned to a longer look. The bartender had been cornered by a weeping woman. It appeared to be one of those ugly end-of-the-affair encounters. She clutched a purse of some sort with both hands, as though holding on tightly would serve to right the rest of her life. As with any man trapped in a hopeless situation, the bartender wasn't saying much. No words were preferable to the wrong ones.

The woman's weeping rose to a full wail. Dev glanced about the room to see if any other diners were watching. Other than a gathering of amused staff, he saw only the gray-haired man from whom he'd lured Jenna the night of the bonfire. Again tonight, the man bore the expression of one who'd seen it all and had learned to laugh at most of it. His gaze met Dev's and he gave a subtle, rueful shake of his head.

The woman's wail gave way to a torrent of French. Unlike Irish, Dev knew this language. It seemed that Padraig, the bartender, hadn't been honest about his marital status. The woman, half burly Padraig's size, began swinging her handbag with the lethal accuracy of a martial-arts weapon.

Dev stood. He was of two minds, one to flee and one to somehow intercede. One thing was certain, after witnessing this, he'd have a care when crossing a Frenchwoman.

"Cochon," she howled, and then added a shrill translation of "p-e-e-e-g," should the bartender have had any doubts. She swung again, just tagging a hideous blue-and-white porcelain pug that had been decorating the corner of the bar. The dog toppled and shattered on the wood floor. No great loss, to Dev's eye.

The third blow was the Frenchwoman's finest yet, catching the bartender square on the face. He reeled backward, and then, like any good Irishman, bled with great flair. One hand clamped over his nose, he left the room.

Just then, Vi Kilbride reappeared. She took the distraught woman by the hand, and in perfectly accented French even a Parisian couldn't scorn, told her she'd run her home now, that with sleep, all wouldn't be so bleak, and that the Frenchwoman had been right, Padraig was more pig than prize.

After they left, the room was silent except for the whispers of the gathered staff.

The gray-haired man looked at Dev. "I'll be checking on Padraig," he said.

Dev nodded, assessed the situation, and issued orders. While Evie fetched Jenna and another waiter picked up shards of pug-ugly china, Dev surveyed the remaining staff.

"Any bartenders among you?" he asked.

"No, and we're running short tonight as it is," answered a girl wearing the black-and-white of the restaurant's serving staff. "We've two down in the kitchen and no busboy, which means the food's coming slow, and the rest of us are clearing as well as serving."

Opportunity beckoned. Lending a hand would pacify a certain American chef, who, dead phone or not, was no doubt preparing to go for his throat over today's helicopter flight.

"I'll play publican tonight," Dev announced.

He wasted little time deciding whether this impulse was grounded in the desire for good community relations on behalf of Harwood, or in the hope of a more intimate reward from Jenna. It was a grand thing when one could be both honorable and efficient in the same act.

At his offer the few staff members still milling about gave "whatever suits you" shrugs and left.

Dev stepped behind the bar and made note of its setup. He slipped out of his suit jacket, draped it over a low stool tucked in the corner, and then poured a half-shot of Scotch.

"Here's to a grand night," he said, and then downed his drink.