Love and Blarney (6 page)

“So? As long as you’re comfortable, that’s all that I care about.”

They stared at one another in silence. Would it have been that simple? Why hadn’t he told her the ring was bothering him instead of adding it to the mountain of things they simply didn’t discuss? Jayme was sweet and caring and a great listener. So why had he felt it necessary to bottle up his emotions and hide his feelings from her? Force of habit? Growing up with Colm MacCarthy as a father, he’d mastered the art of affecting a neutral mask from an early age.

The sound of John-Joe hacking up phlegm broke their connection. She let go of his hand and stepped back, shoving a stray lock of honey-streaked hair behind one ear. “I guess I’d better get a start on lunch.”

“It won’t be too much for you?”

“As long as we stick to the plan of serving soup and sandwiches instead of the full menu, I’ll manage. Even my limited culinary skills extend to sandwiches.”

On impulse, he grabbed her hand. “Want me to show you around Ballybeg this evening? I was going to walk you back to your bed-and-breakfast in any case. Might as well combine the two.”

Her heart-shaped face broke into a smile. “I’d love that. Thank you.”

Ruairí released her, and she disappeared into the kitchen, leaving him with a still-outstretched hand and a hollow sensation in his stomach. He stared at the space she’d occupied. Twenty-four hours ago, he’d been fooling himself that he was content with his lot, despite the gaping hole left by Jayme’s absence. Today, he had no idea how he was going to cope when she left him for good and returned to her reality on the other side of the Atlantic.

AT SIX O’CLOCK that evening, Ruairí’s youngest sister, Sharon, strutted into the pub. Under her short denim jacket, she wore a tight sequined top cut so low that even Jayme was riveted by her cleavage.

Ruairí tossed Jayme her coat. “Now Sharon’s here, we can go for our walk.” “Sounds great,” she murmured. The sight of the girl’s hair was distracting. Had it been that bouffant the previous day? Or that blond?

“Extensions.” The younger woman patted the peroxide bird’s nest with pride. “Do you like them?”

“I…” she stammered. “Well…”

Ruairí emerged from behind the bar and examined his sister’s hair. “They look like shite.”

Sharon was unperturbed by her brother’s blunt assessment. “Sure, what do you know about women’s fashions?” She shrugged off her jacket and slipped behind the bar.

Jayme pulled on her coat and reached for her purse. The pub was quiet apart from Buck and John-Joe and two men in police uniforms who were seated at a corner table. “Will you be okay on your own? I’m not sure I’d want to run a bar at night by myself.”

The girl’s scarlet-rimmed mouth curved into a smile. “I’ll be grand. Sure, don’t I have the local police to come to my rescue if necessary?” She jerked a thumb at the cops’ table. “Do you hear that, Brian Glenn? You’re responsible for maintaining law and order in this establishment.”

The younger of the policemen blushed a fiery red. “The only risk to the peace I see is you, Ms. MacCarthy.”

Sharon roared with laughter. When she’d calmed down, she turned to Jayme. “Are you two off on a date?”

“Your brother is giving me a tour of the town.”

“In the dark?” The girl flashed a cheeky grin. “Sounds romantic.”

“Come on.” Ruairí placed a hand on Jayme’s shoulder and nudged her into motion.

“Enjoy yourselves,” Sharon called after them. “Don’t worry about a thing. The pub will still be standing come morning.”

Outside, Jayme pulled her coat tight across her chest to ward off the damp night air. She observed her surroundings. Despite the dark sky, the town was well illuminated by inside lights and street lamps.

“I hope you don’t mind having a tour in the dark.” His deep voice was hesitant.

“Not at all. At least it’s not raining.”

They strolled down the cobblestoned lane. The pub was located on a small side street off the main square. Each building in the center of Ballybeg was painted a different color. The forest green facade of MacCarthy’s was tame in comparison to some of its brightly colored neighbors. The rainbow effect should have looked garish. Instead, it lent the town a cheerful appearance in spite of the inclement weather.

When they came to the square, she pointed to a stone edifice of a tall man wearing a twenties-style suit. “Who’s the statue?”

“That’s Michael Collins. He was one of the leaders during Ireland’s fight for independence. He grew up not far from here and was killed in Cork during the Irish Civil War.”

They crossed the square and took another side street. She was painfully aware of every slippery cobblestoned step. Reaching the smooth surface of the curb would be a relief. “How far does the pedestrian zone extend?”

“Not far. It’s confined to the lanes around the town square. Patrick Street—that’s the main street through Ballybeg—allows vehicles.”

They walked in silence, past flashing neon signs, pungent takeouts, and little stores with gorgeous window displays. She paused to admire one such display—traditional Irish pottery bowls, jugs, and cups. Some were decorated with glossy swirls of color; others had delicate hand painted patterns.

Ruairí’s arm slipped through hers, startling her. “Planning a shopping spree?”

“I definitely want to visit this store when it’s open. The pottery is gorgeous.” She adjusted quickly to the familiar sensation of walking arm-in-arm with her husband.

A few feet farther down the street, they stopped before a bookstore. It was situated in a lovely turquoise building with beautiful bay windows. Spotlights lighted up a huge display of mystery novels. “Hey, I know that author.” She leaned closer to get a better look. “I have a couple of his books on my ereader. They’re good.”

“Jonas O’Mahony is from Ballybeg.”

“Really? I didn’t know that. His mystery series is set in Dublin.”

“Yeah, but he grew up here. He’s a pal of mine. I’m sure I can persuade him to sign a book for you.”

“That would be cool.”

“I didn’t realize you liked mysteries,” he said, giving her a quizzical look. “I thought you only read literary fiction.”

“I started reading mystery and romance when I was in…” The hospital. She stopped herself in time. This was neither the time nor the place to tell him what had happened. “Let’s just say the past year was stressful. Reading genre fiction helped me unwind.”

He nodded slowly, his intelligent eyes processing her every word, gesture, and intonation. “Did we move too fast, Jayme? Is that why it fell apart so easily?”

“I don’t know. Six months from first date to wedding vows isn’t breakneck speed.”

“But it’s pretty close. We were so caught up in the high of being in love. Maybe we skipped a few steps.”

She drew in a shaky breath. He was right. They’d fallen for one another hard and fast, and that was how they’d conducted their entire relationship. They both had high-pressure jobs and worked long hours. What little free time they’d had, they’d spent on extravagant dates and big gestures. Had they been so busy working and making love that they’d failed to appreciate the little things? When had they spent proper downtime together? How many conversations had they postponed?

They continued their walk, Ruairí pointing out various buildings of historical importance. He was a gifted tour guide with an interesting tidbit or amusing anecdote for every place they stopped. Eventually they reached Beach Road. They stood in front of Mrs. Keogh’s bed-and-breakfast, the scent of seaweed drifting up from the seashore. It reminded her of the vast expanse of water separating them from her home in New York. She shivered in the chill night air and slipped her arm free from his. “Thank you for the tour.”

“My pleasure.” He was staring at her intensely, his face close. Leaning in, his lips brushed her cheek. “Goodnight, Jayme. Thanks for helping me in the pub today.”

Her breath caught in her throat. “No problem,” she said hoarsely. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

With a parting smile, he turned and retraced his steps in the direction of the town center. She watched his retreating back—so broad and strong—and caressed the cheek he’d kissed. Perhaps there was hope for them after all.

By the middle of her second day helping out at the pub, Jayme’s feet were screaming for a massage. She stretched her stiff bones and rubbed the small of her back. When was the last time she’d been on her feet this long? Probably not since her residency at New York-Pres.

Ruairí poked his head around the kitchen door. “How’s it going?”

She gave him a warm smile. “It’s going.”

“Can I tempt you with a coffee?”

“Coffee sounds wonderful.”

“Coming right up.” He hovered in the doorway. An emotion she couldn’t pinpoint flickered across his face. “Want to come out to the bar for a break? It’s pretty quiet at the moment. Most of the lunchtime customers have left.”

“Yeah. That would be great.” She untied Marcella’s crazy apron—a green, white, and gold monstrosity featuring a picture of a demented-looking leprechaun drinking a pint of Guinness atop a pot of gold—and hung it on the hook by the door.

Out in the main bar, John-Joe and Buck were playing a game of cards with a couple of their drinking pals. An attractive redhead of about thirty sat at a window table, leafing through a glossy magazine. Otherwise, the pub was deserted.

“Trade will pick up again this evening,” Ruairí said, reading her mind. He placed a cappuccino in front of her and handed her a teaspoon and a packet of artificial sweetener. “But Marcella will be back by then, and she can deal with the throng.”

Jayme tore open the packet and stirred the sweetener into her coffee. “Any word on how her interview went?”

“Not so far.”

The redhead approached the bar, clutching a gorgeous purse. It was a Gucci model Jayme had admired in Saks a few months back. The woman gave her a warm smile and extended a hand. “You must be the mysterious Mrs. MacCarthy. I’m Olivia. Welcome to Ballybeg.”

Jayme blinked and accepted the handshake. “I… thank you.”

“News travels fast in this town.” Olivia’s dark blue eyes twinkled. “Did Ruairí tell you Ballybeg literally means ‘small town’? It comes from the Gaelic baile beag. As you’ve probably discovered, it more than lives up to its name.”

“No, I didn’t know that. The only Gaelic I know is sláinte.”

The other woman laughed. “That’s the only Gaelic you need to know around here.” She slid a banknote across the bar to Ruairí. “Thanks for the lunch. I’d better get back to the office.”

“Any word from Gavin and Fiona?” he asked.

“I had an e-mail from Fiona yesterday,” the woman said. “Seems they’re having a grand old time in Australia.”

“Good to hear it.”

“Say, Jayme.” Olivia leaned on the counter. “If you’re staying in Ballybeg for a while, maybe we can do coffee. The Book Mark Café is a good spot to meet for a scone and a chat.”

“I’m not sure how long I’ll be here,” Jayme said, deliberately not looking in Ruairí’s direction, “but if I extend my vacation, I’d love to meet up with you.”

Olivia’s smile widened. “Excellent. Ruairí has my number. Give me a call and we’ll sort something out.”

As Olivia opened the pub door to leave, Marcella marched in. She had a triumphant grin plastered across her wide face. Her black pants and shirt would have looked conservative had they not been accompanied by a multicolored top hat. A pretty woman a couple of years Marcella’s junior lagged a few steps behind her. She gave Jayme a tentative smile.

“I totally rocked my interview.” Marcella beamed at Jayme. “Thanks a million for filling in for me. I owe you one.”

“No problem.” Her delight was infectious. “It was my pleasure.”

“This is Máire, my girlfriend.” Marcella jerked a thumb at her shy companion.

“Pleased to meet you,” Jayme said with a smile.

“To show how grateful I am for you filling in for me at such short notice, Máire’s offered to help me run the pub for the next couple of days. Sharon says she’s already volunteered her services on Monday. That means you two can go do touristy stuff before Jayme heads back to the States. What do you say?” Marcella looked from Jayme to her brother.

“Oh, I…” Actually, it was a fabulous idea. Sharon’s forecast had proved accurate, and they were enjoying delightfully mild spring weather. She’d loved exploring Ballybeg with Ruairí yesterday evening. The prospect of seeing more of Ireland sounded fantastic.

She slid him a hopeful look. He was regarding his sister with a strange expression, some silent sibling communication passing between them. Finally he turned and met her gaze. “Would you like to see a bit of Ireland before you fly back? Beyond the daytrip we’d planned for Monday?”

His expression was hard to decipher. Did he want her to say no? Was he hoping she’d say yes? She hesitated before giving her response, hope warring with the reluctance to lay herself open to being hurt all over again.

“Of course Jayme wants to see the sights,” Marcella said, nudging her brother in the ribs. If Ruairí’s wince were any indication, his sister’s elbow packed a punch. “And you’re just the man to show her around.”

“Ruairí’s great on local history,” Máire added. “He’ll know where to take you.”