Chapter Seventeen

Youth cannot believe.

—Irish Proverb

 

On a romantic moonlit night, how long could two very angry people sit on the boulders edging the shore and say nothing at all? Long enough that Maureen's butt was beginning to ache.

Not that she was about to move. Sam had been pretty clear with his "stay" command. And if she had to be honest with herself—which she really hated doing—she didn't want to leave.

She could hear Sam, one cold, hard rock away, fumbling with his cigarette pack. Then a match flared, which was a definite provocation. She'd have to break the silence for the sake of the jerk's health.

"Don't light that. You know I hate it when you smoke."

"That's rich. Besides, there's a lot of things you that I hate."

She noted that despite his protest, he'd left the cigarette unlit.

"Name one," she demanded.

He put the cigarette back in the pack, and the pack away. "Running off because you're too scared to face me."

Maureen scooted off her boulder. "I did not run," she said, then picked her way across the uneven blanket of smaller stones until she stood at the water.

Low laughter sounded from behind her. "Right, like you're not running now."

Okay, so he had her on that count.

"Look, I'm going to say this once—and just once—even though I think you already know it. I didn't sleep with Chloe. She was making a move, and I was getting around to rejecting her."

Maureen felt tears welling. She hated them. Hated Sam. "You sure as hell were taking your time about it."

He came up from behind her. "No, I wasn't, and you also know that Chloe's not the real reason you left."

She hugged her arms about her midsection. "Do I? Want to remind me what that reason might be?"

"I've been trying to since I got here."

"Well, here's your big shot."

She heard him release a long, slow breath. Was it relief or resignation? She didn't know and told herself that she didn't care.

"You're scared, Maureen. The fact that you can't say two words without being sarcastic proves it. You've never felt this way about anyone and you don't like it." His voice was nearly hypnotic. Her eyes slipped closed as she listened. "You wake up alone in the morning and you feel incomplete. Your plans, your dreams, everything seems wrong now—like it just doesn't fit. In fact, you're sure that if you'd never met me, you'd be one hell of a lot happier."

She couldn't stand being so transparent, every thought and emotion out there for people to read. Maureen fixed her gaze on the water, dark and mysterious. "Nice try, but you're wrong."

"No, I'm not. And do you want to know how I've figured all of this out?" He paused, and Maureen stilled, trying to catch his next words. "It's because I'm scared, too."

Now she'd heard everything. She turned on him. "Don't treat me like a child. I might be younger than you, but I'm not stupid, okay? Like anything about me could scare the great Sam Olivera."

He said nothing but took her hand and placed it over his heart, which slammed a rhythm faster than even hers. "I'm scared of losing you and I'm scared of having you. Jesus, Maureen, I should have been back to Paris days ago, but I'm still here because I'm afraid to leave. So don't tell me—" His voice broke, but she was already a sniveling, sorry mess. "Don't tell me that I'm trying to play you."

If she tried to talk, she was going to screw this up, so she flung herself at him instead. She kissed him. It wasn't a very together kiss, since she could hardly breathe for her tears, but she was pretty sure that he was getting the message. And when she was done kissing him, she said something she'd never said to him before.

"Please come to my room with me."

He pulled her hips tight against his, and based on the action between them she knew that he wasn't exactly opposed to her suggestion. He kissed her throat, her cheek, and then her mouth again.

"No."

Maureen stepped back. "Did you just say no?"

He stood with his hands propped on his hips, head tipped toward the stars. "Yeah," he said, with something in his voice that Maureen could only describe as wonderment. "I think I did."

This was not working out at all the way she wanted it to. "Why?"

"Because I love you?"

Okay, at least that was really good, even if a little confusing. "And?"

"And some things are too important to mess up, you know?" He took her hands. "I'm not going to lie to you and say that before you, I've never told a girl that I love her, but this time is different. I want this to be perfect. There's no way I'm spending the night making love to you when I know that I'm leaving in the morning."

"You're leaving? But—"

"No, wait. It's my turn to talk. Yes, I'm leaving and I'm sure as hell not taking you back to Paris, with Chloe and the groupies and a pissed-off producer all waiting to make my life suck. We need a better start."

"It's cool the way you're getting all assertive, but nothing's stopping me from showing up there," she pointed out.

"Except you know that it's not right. This is serious stuff, Maureen...the biggest I've ever dealt with. I want us to begin as we mean to continue."

And she wanted him now because she knew he couldn't really mean any of this. She'd dumped fish on him, ignored him, and acted like a bigger diva than even Chloe. The way Maureen saw it, this was her last chance at stealing a memory to live on forever. "Come on, Sam, what difference will it make if we go upstairs and—"

He used a kiss to cut off what was going to be the most detailed description she could summon.

"What I'm asking for is some faith, okay?" he said. "You didn't show it by running, and I think we both need to see it now. You love me, right?"

"It's looking that way," she admitted.

"Then you have to trust me." At her choked sound of disbelief, he pulled her close. "I swear to God, I'll be back for you in two weeks, three at the most. And then I'm taking a few months off. It will be just the two of us, Maureen. We'll figure out how to build our future."

She briefly closed her eyes. How could she ever believe him? And without giving up on love, how could she not?

"Anything you want. Anywhere you want. Name it," Sam said.

His voice was shaking, Maureen realized with a start. Hell, he was shaking! Vulnerability was something she'd never associated with Sam. But what she saw under the wash of the moonlight made her love for him absolute and irrevocable. With one hand she smoothed the tightness of anxiety from his features. He folded his hand over hers and, eyes closed, kissed her palm.

"All I want is you," she said.

Maureen felt the tension leave him and joy return. Laughing, he hugged her hard. "Just me? You're far too easy, love of my life."

Kisses and promises later, they walked hand-in-hand to Muir House.

They were nearly there when Maureen gave it one last shot. "So you're really sure about this no-sex-tonight thing?"

"Positive," Sam said without slowing.

"Major bummer." The love of her life wasn't proving easy at all.

 

By mutual, unspoken agreement, Jenna and Dev did not make love. Jenna wasn't certain whether she should be happy or sad for the fact. She did know, however, that it had been the right choice. Physical release was too easy a way around his mother's story when they needed to get through it.

Jenna shifted beneath the bed's covers, trying to find a comfortable spot. She had left the window open, and along with the slight scent of wood smoke, one of Vi's songs drifted in. It wasn't a happy tune, and it seemed to Jenna that the house mourned with it. Fire, music, and mood, this night could be taking place now, or just as easily, three hundred years ago.

Jenna rolled onto her side and watched Dev sleep. He was a decidedly modern man, with his features unscarred by battle or grueling physical labor. No, he could not be Aine's Englishman any more than she could be Aine. She was, however, vulnerable.

A strange knot of fright or maybe foreboding seemed to have settled at the base of her throat, making it difficult to breathe. She tried again to resettle, and must have disturbed Dev, because his eyes opened.

He smiled a bit, then reached out to rub one of her curls between his fingers. She loved the tilt to his eyes and the small laugh lines that angled out from their corners. Jenna scooted closer, trying to focus on this moment and put the rest behind her.

"Can't you sleep?" he asked.

"I guess I'm feeling a little restless."

"And myself, too," he agreed. "But I've been trying to pretend otherwise. I don't think it will work, though, until I say what I need to."

And now she felt a lot restless. She laughed, but the sound was forced. "You make it sound so ominous."

"It's not, or at least I don't think so. God, I'm making a mess of this," he muttered, then sat up, propping a pillow behind himself. "All I'm trying to say is that I love you."

Jenna closed her eyes. "You don't have to do this."

"Do what?"

"Say things you don't mean. It's just this night and that story of your mother's. You're saying it because you think it might make me feel better." She curled onto her other side, facing away from him.

"So you think I'd tell you that I love you to separate myself from Mum's tale of the Englishman?" He moved closer, pulling her against the warmth of his body. "I thought you knew me better than that. I'm too selfish to feel that I must do anything. I love you and I don't give a damn about my mother's ungodly meddling, Aine, her Englishman, or anything else outside this room."

She wanted so very much to believe him.

"Jenna, would you please at least look at me?"

She turned to face him again.

"Do I look like a man who'd lie to you? I've said I love you and I mean it. I don't think you have the vaguest idea of how rare you are, or how special. You've made a world for yourself and filled it with beauty. You've made me see all I've been missing, all I could be. How could I not love you?"

He looked strong and sure, all things she wasn't at this moment. What he asked was even a greater leap of faith than the one she'd taken to find pleasure.

Dev shook his head, the motion almost imperceptible. "All right, then. I won't give you the words if you're not ready. But at least think of this, Mum's Englishman—who, by the way, I'm not believing was real—he'd have told the girl that he loved her, too."

Jenna's pulse jolted. She'd been imagining a seduction, a smooth plying of the land from beneath Aine. She hadn't considered that the Englishman would have claimed love, too.

"You're right," she said, feeling oddly cheered.

He nearly smiled. "And in being right, I've done myself no favors. Forget the story. Listen for the truth in my words, and ask yourself what's in your heart. Because I felt it this afternoon, and I know it's real."

He was her heart. With the dark mood of the night stripped away, it was that simple. Admitting that she returned his love still might be nothing more that whistling her way through the unknown, but she'd whistle.

"I love you, too, Dev."

"Thank God." His kiss was hungry and confident. "See, I'll just take it and not argue that you don't mean it. Now, shall I try telling you one more time, and let's see if you can get it right?"

"That would be nice," she replied, as though he'd asked her to take a stroll.

"Just nice? How about brilliant or wonderful or the best thing that's ever happened to you?" he teased.

Smiling, she nodded. "Okay, those, too."

He took her hand and kissed it. "Jenna, I love you."

"Of course you do. Who wouldn't?"

His eyebrows arched. "Getting bold already?"

Her smile grew truer now, easier. "Trying, at least."

He wrapped her in his arms and then laughed. "God in heaven, you're wearing those yellow smiling-face pajamas again. I didn't even notice when you climbed into bed."

"I suppose we could get rid of them," she suggested.

He ran his fingers down a camisole strap. "A ritual burning under a full moon might do the trick."

"There's always this." She tugged off her top.

"You American girls always were clever," he said, gazing at what she'd bared.

Smiley-bottoms disappeared as easily as the smiley-top. Very soon Dev's black silk boxers were gone, too. As she lay beneath him, their limbs twined and hearts pounding, Jenna knew she'd never tire of the feel of him deep inside her, of the shattering joy they shared.

He'd painted her outlook on the world with incredible hues. Possibilities were infinite, bright, and astounding.

"I love you," he whispered as their bodies rocked together.

She climbed higher, cresting on a wash of emotion so vast that she hoped it would never end.

"I love you," he groaned as she urged him onto his back, took him once more into her body, and rode him hard.

Jenna cried out as a climax seized her, leaving her sprawled atop Dev's strong chest. There she lay, weak but not wanting, for she had love.

 

Maureen woke early on Monday. She picked through her wardrobe, seeking a farewell outfit that would make Sam so totally sorry he'd been noble and slept alone last night.

Giving a critical eye to her choices, she settled on her favorite flame-red Versace dress. Maureen wriggled into it and scrutinized her reflection in the wardrobe's mirrored door.

She frowned. She'd always loved this dress; it was undeniably the hottest thing she owned. But today something was wrong. She turned sideways to see if maybe she'd gained weight from Jenna's cooking, and that was why it didn't seem to fit. No, it still skimmed her perfectly. It just wasn't working its usual magic.

Maybe the vintage Dior, then? She stripped down and tried again, but no.

Armani? No.

Clothing landed in heaps.

Stella? After all, McCartney had never done her wrong. Another critical look in the mirror. Maureen's palms grew clammy. Could it be that she was experiencing her first-ever fashion crisis?

Fine, then, she'd go all-out with Alexander McQueen. When she'd finished lacing, the verdict was kinky, but seriously no.

Chanel? Understated, yet still wrong.

Maureen's panic grew. Jesus, how could a girl own so many clothes and still have nothing to wear? She looked at the bedside clock. It was already seven.

What if while she was up here playing princess, Sam had left without saying goodbye?

Panic doubled.

From the wardrobe's lower drawer—which remained fairly unmolested—Maureen grabbed a white silk V-neck sweater with three-quarter length sleeves. She pulled it on, and it settled sleek and simple against her skin. Her heart slowed. She reached into the wardrobe and brought out one of the few items still hanging—a plain black skirt. She slipped into it and exhaled a slow breath.

Yes, she thought, taking in her reflection. This was who she'd been looking for all along, who she wanted to be.

A knock sounded at the door.

"Come in," Maureen called.

Jenna stepped inside. Her eyes widened as she took in the mess. "What are you doing?"

Maureen smiled at her sister. "Changing."

 

Just before five Monday evening, Dev found his mum in the garden, taming a knotted bramble of raspberries by the far wall. It seemed she had taken full liberty of Maureen's wardrobe, for now she wore a ragged pair of denims and a red T-shirt that appeared to have seen even more use.

"Brendan Mulqueen has fathered four children," he said as he approached.

His mother started at his voice, but quickly recovered her composure. She turned to fully face him and then closed her clippers. "So we're just dancing by 'Hello, Mum, I'm sorry I was an ass last night'?"

"I could have chosen my words more carefully," he said. Actually, last night he'd been doing his damndest just to stay ahead of the storm.

"Fine, then," she said with a stern nod. "And yes, Brendan has fathered four children. With three different women, too, from what he tells me."

"And married none of them."

"My, but you've put poor Margaret through her paces today, haven't you? Did it occur to you that I'm old enough to tend to my own affairs?" She gave a small smile before adding, "Literally."

"I'm concerned, Mum."

His mother set down her clippers and pulled off her gloves, tucking them into her back pocket. She gestured at a broad stone bench against the garden's east wall. "I'm sure you are. Let's sit and talk, shall we?"

Following her, he said, "Mulqueen has a reputation with the women."

"You're a fine one to be pointing this out," his mother replied as she settled on the bench. "Until Jenna, the best way I had of knowing where you were or who you were seeing was to pick up a newspaper—and I don't mean the business section."

It was impossible to argue against years of salacious press, though he was so changed from the old Dev Gilvane that he scarcely recognized himself.

"Then I'm the right one to be pointing this out," he said as he sat next to his mother.

"Feel free to point it out, but don't expect his reputation to change my mind. I've carried Brendan Mulqueen in my heart every day since I was eighteen years old," his mother said. "I know he's far from perfect, but I love him and I'm not going to turn my back on that."

Love. It was mucking with all and sundry. "And you're sure it's love?"

"Of course I'm sure. At my age, I'm also quite clear on the distinction between love and lust. And, I might add, capable of feeling both."

Dev wished that his conservative Dublin mum would reappear. He'd known what to expect from her. But either way, her happiness mattered. "I know you're not looking for my blessing, and that you're well in charge of your own life, but I don't want to see you hurt."

"Better a broken heart than a cowardly one," Mum said.

"True," he replied.

His mother's smile was brief. "I'm glad you found me because I was going to come looking for you. I've been pulling together my thoughts while I tidy the garden."

"Is something wrong?"

"Not so much wrong as needing righted." His mother looked down at her hands, which were tightly clasped in her lap, before she met his gaze straight on. "Brendan fathered five children, not four."

It took less than a heartbeat for Dev to grasp the truth in what she'd said. And once it hit him like a punch to the gut, he could hardly think. Yet a dispassionate part of his mind was saying, "So now it all makes sense." How long he sat there, silent, he didn't know. Time was a triviality.

"Did my father know?" he asked once he could put together the words.

"Obviously," his mother replied.

Dev winced. Without thought, he'd just accused her of the worst sort of treachery. "I'm sorry. I should have already known the answer. It was wrong of me to ask."

His mother sighed. "It feels to me as though I deserve worse. This has never been easy to carry."

"I'm sure it hasn't," he said. There had never been a hint in his mother's comportment that something had been amiss.

"They were complicated times, Dev," she said. "When I was pregnant with you, it wasn't all that rare for an unwed, teenaged mother to be put in a home, and the baby taken away. I was terrified that would happen. Your grandparents were devout, conservative people, God rest their souls. Telling Brendan, let alone marrying him, wasn't an option, and I felt I couldn't stay in Ballymuir."

"I can understand that." He was sure the village had been even smaller and more inclined to gossip back then.

"I lied to my parents and said I'd found a job in Dublin. They saw me off on the train, and that was that. I was in the city for a few weeks before I found a position as a store clerk and met your father, who was a customer. He loved me, and I was so grateful, Dev. So very grateful. He didn't want you to know. He wanted to be my husband and in all ways the father of my child."

Dev thought of the way life had been, of the knowledge he'd held as a boy that no matter what he did, good or bad, he could never seem to make his father fully engage. Dev had been too young to think very long on why this was so; he'd simply accepted it as part of his father's reserved personality.

"Even when he was there, he wasn't there," Dev said.

Mum nodded. "I know, but he loved you the best he knew how to love. And after he was gone..." She trailed off for a moment. "Well, it seemed best to honor his decision. I didn't expect to ever see Brendan again. We didn't part well all those years ago."

Dev let his mother's words settle in. What she'd always told him about going to Dublin and meeting his father was true. She'd just changed the most essential fact. "Does Mulqueen know?"

"With all that's happened, I could hardly keep silent," his mother said. "I told him last night after the bonfire. I can't say that went as well as I would have hoped, either. But my main concern is you, Dev. I want you to know how sorry I am for any pain I might be causing you."

Dev tipped back his head and looked up at the sky, with its beginnings of rain drifting in. He felt strangely hollow. "It's not pain I'm feeling. It's..." Hell, he didn't know what it was. He looked at his mother. "I'm going to have to think on this a while, Mum. While I understand why you did it, it's not every day a man finds out his father's not his father. I'll need time before I even know if I want to say anything to Mulqueen."

She patted his knee as she had when he'd been little. "Of course. I wasn't expecting any grand family reunion. It's up to you and Brendan to decide what, if anything, you wish to be to each other. I just want to go forward with honesty. We all deserve it."

He rose. "We do. Now, if you don't mind, I think I need to be taking a walk." He was halfway to the gate when he stopped and looked back at his mother. "I've one more question for you."

"Yes?"

"That story last night of Aine and her Englishman, was it true?"

She nodded. "It was."

As Dev left the garden, he had but one thought: Both the past and the truth were bitter brews.

 

Rain fell brutally hard in the darkness, bouncing off Muir House's slate roof. Jenna shifted restlessly in her bed, listening to it. She'd left Dev in front of the fireplace an hour ago, when he'd said he needed some time alone. This was the first time they hadn't gone to bed together. She tried not to attach too much significance to the fact, but the gloom outside the house had worked its way under her skin.

Another sound joined the rain, that of Dev's footsteps as he walked toward her room. The door opened, and he stood in a wash of light from the hallway. His usually perfect hair was mussed, as though he'd just run his hand through it. And while Jenna couldn't read auras, or whatever the heck it was that Vi did, she could sense an easing of Dev's mood since she'd left him downstairs.

"Good timing, as always," Jenna said, sitting up. "I was feeling lonely."

"I thought you'd be asleep and was trying not to disturb you," he replied.

She patted the bed. "I sleep better when you're here."

"I know what you mean," he said while reaching into the hallway for the light switch.

The room went dark, except for the scant light coming from between the partially open curtains. Jenna turned on her small bedside lamp. Dev had closed the bedroom door and was stripping out of his clothes. While neither of them seemed to be in the mood for breathless, wild love-making, she still had to appreciate how fine he looked.

He gave a deep sigh of comfort as he settled into bed. Jenna drew closer and cuddled into her favorite spot, with her head on his chest and his arm around her. He absently rubbed her hip.

"Mum and I had an interesting talk today," he said.

"About what?"

"Brendan Mulqueen."

"And you've given your approval, I hope," Jenna said. "He's really a nice man.... One of my all-time favorite customers."

"Well, that's grand to hear since it turns out he's also my biological father."

Jenna shot upright. "What?"

Dev smiled and drew her back down. "It's all fine, mo chroi. I've done my thinking on it, and knowing this doesn't change who I am. Maybe it explains why my father always kept a half-step back from me, but I wouldn't change any of my past. Not that I could, in any case."

"And you managed to come to this conclusion in the course of an evening?" She settled her hand against his chest and felt the steady beat of his heart. "It took me hundreds of hours in therapy to even come close to that sort of attitude about my past."

He chuckled. "You should have tried a peat fire. It's cheaper. But before you start thinking I'm such a miracle, I'll add that I still don't know what I'm going to say to Mulqueen. We're a little old for father-son bonding, you know?"

"Yeah, I doubt he'll be coaching you in a Little League team."

"Little League?"

Jenna smiled. "Baseball. It's an American thing."

"Ah." He turned on his side and rearranged her so they were facing each other. "No baseball, but I'm thinking a talk and a plan might be in order."

"And quickly, too," Jenna said. "You know how gossip travels in Ballymuir." She paused as she thought of how she'd noticed that Brendan's and Dev's smiles were the same when she'd seen Brendan on his bicycle, not so long ago. "And it's going to go even faster since your mother and Brendan are an item."

"Why would that matter?"

"You and Brendan have the same smile."

Dev shifted his pillow and yawned. "Hmm. Never noticed." He reached out and brushed his fingers against her cheek before giving her a kiss. "And now, if you don't mind, I'm going to sleep, my heart. It's been one educational day."

Men, Jenna thought with an affable sort of irritation. What I'd give to have my mind to work more like theirs. And long after Dev slept, she listened to the rain fall.