Love and Shenanigans (Ballybeg, Book 1) (The Ballybeg Series) (23 page)

“What’s up with you, missy? Your face is more changeable than the Irish weather. Can’t you decide whether you’re in a good or a bad mood?” Bridie lowered her morning newspaper and regarded her niece with concern.

“A headache,” she said, slipping into the seat opposite her aunt. “I’ll be grand once I have breakfast.”

She grabbed a triangle of toast from the rack on the table and slathered it with butter and marmalade. The rain outside the kitchen window was relentless. If she’d left for her trip on schedule, she’d be in sunny Perth right now. She bit her lip and tasted the bittersweet tang of regret.

“Harrumph!” Bridie said. “I didn’t come down in the last shower. Man trouble is what you have, and I’m betting the man causing the trouble is Gavin Maguire. Come on, spill.”

She jerked to attention. So much for hoping her aunt wouldn’t notice. “There’s nothing to say.” She helped herself to tea from the pot on the table and warmed her hands around the mug.

“I might be old,” Bridie said, “but I’m not senile. I’ve seen the way you and Gavin look at each other. Not to mention Ruth Cotter from across the road, telling me you and Gavin were up to all sorts of shenanigans while I was at the nursing home.”

So the twitching curtain they’d spotted hadn’t been the wind. She squeezed her eyes shut. Damn nosey neighbors. Anonymity was something she loved about Dublin. She didn’t know her neighbors’ names, never mind their sexual partners’. “Mrs. Cotter ought to mind her own business.”

Her aunt sighed. “I’m fond of the lad, Fiona, but he’s the last person you should be getting involved with.”

“Point taken. Can we move on? Do you need anything from the shops when I come home for lunch?”

“No.” Bridie grudgingly allowed her to change the subject. “Is everything organized for the book club?”

“Yeah, we’re good to go.”

The inaugural meeting of the Ballybeg Book Club would take place at the Book Mark at seven o’clock that evening. Fiona had chosen a prize-winning novel by an Irish author and regretted her choice after the first paragraph.

“How many people did you say signed up?”

“Fifteen.” She smiled over the rim of her mug. “Stop micromanaging. I have it under control. Olivia’s helping with the refreshments, and The Major will collect you an hour before the event.”

The Major, Olivia’s grandfather, was the Earl of Clonmore but rarely used his title. When he’d returned to Ireland after several years in the British army, the locals had nicknamed him The Major, even though no one was certain what rank he’d held, and he hadn’t seen fit to enlighten them. The name had stuck.

“At least The Major finished the book.” Bridie shook out her newspaper and turned to the crossword. “What were you thinking, Fiona? No one wants to read such shite, no matter how many awards it’s won. Most readers round these parts are more into Richard and Judy Book Club picks than Man Booker Prize winners.”

“It was a poor choice, I admit, but it’s too late to change it now.” She yawned and glanced at the kitchen clock. “Time to get to work. If you need anything, let me know, and if it’s urgent, call Mrs. Cotter.”

The cool morning breeze on her walk to the Book Mark helped her headache, but the pain returned in full force when she turned onto Patrick Street and saw what—or rather who—awaited her outside the shop.

On instinct, she slowed her gait, buying a little extra time to prepare for the inevitable.

Muireann was leaning against the bookshop door, smoking one of her trademark Marlboro Reds and flicking ash carelessly onto the pavement. Despite the bitter winter wind, she wore a thin pink jacket and matching linen trousers. They complemented the deep tan she’d acquired in Australia.

Australia…
the place
she
was supposed to be right now.

A pang of envy twisted her gut, but she gave herself a mental shake. Moping was a waste of time and emotion.

Her cousin’s eyes narrowed to slits at her approach. She wore the sapphire ring her parents had given her for her eighteenth birthday in the place of her engagement ring. “Good morning, cuz.” She sneered and blew smoke in Fiona’s direction. “Or should I say Mrs. Maguire?”

Fiona took a deep breath and willed herself to remain calm. “I’m guessing this isn’t a social call?”

Her cousin’s disdainful gaze raked her ensemble. In contrast to Muireann’s colorful outfit, Fiona’s was black, warm, and practical. “I wouldn’t come near this dump unless I had to.”

She checked the smart response hovering on the tip of her tongue. Arguing with Muireann had never gotten her anywhere, and she didn’t suppose the weeks since their last encounter had changed the situation. “Look, get to the point. Why are you here? Let’s not pretend we’re about to kiss and make up.”

Muireann tossed her cigarette butt on the pavement and ground it out with her heel. “I’m here about the Christmas Bazaar. Mummy says you’re organizing the bookstall this year.”

“Yes…” Fiona eyed her cousin warily. “What about the bazaar?”

Muireann tossed the straight blond hair Fiona had spent her childhood coveting over her shoulder. “I’ve helped Bridie with the bookstall for the past five years.”

Fiona had the sneaking suspicion this conversation was not going to end on a positive note. “I hardly think—”

“And I intend to help out this year. Mummy and Daddy are known for their charitable work, and I try to do my bit. Everyone will expect to see me at the bazaar.”

“Can’t you find another stall? Don’t they sell cakes you could flog?”

“Everyone knows I work the bookstall. If I don’t, they’ll talk.” Muireann pursed her lips. “I’m sick of them talking about me behind my back.”

“Feck everyone,” Fiona said. “Let them talk.”

Her cousin sniffed. “Easy for you to say. You don’t live in Ballybeg. Besides, it’s your fault I’m the target of gossip. You owe me the chance to put it right.”

“So what are you saying? We should work the bookstall together? You are joking, right? We’d tear each other’s hair out within the hour.”

“Speak for yourself,” Muireann said coldly. “You’re the hotheaded one.”

Fiona crossed her arms across her chest. “So says the woman who trashed her ex-fiancé’s belongings and chucked his books in a fish pond.”

Muireann stiffened. “Gavin jilted me at the altar. He deserves all he gets.”

They regarded one another in stony silence, neither willing to capitulate. When they were growing up, Muireann had been the undisputed beauty of the family, and Fiona the smart one. Her cousin’s long blond hair was straight and tame in comparison to Fiona’s unruly dark mane. Muireann was petite, whereas Fiona was tall and gangly. By the time she’d hit puberty, Muireann had boys eating out of the palm of her hand. Fiona, on the other hand, was the quintessential geek. She was more likely to be found curled up with a book in the library than snogging boys in dark alleys. By the time she’d left school, the pinnacle of her dating experience had been accompanying Charlie Hutchinson to his orthodontic appointment.

“Why don’t we let Bridie decide?” Her cousin said smoothly. “The stall represents
her
shop.”

“Fine,” Fiona said. “If you want Bridie to decide, talk to her yourself. Meanwhile, I have to do the job your oh-so-charitably-minded self landed me with.”

“In that case, I’ll leave you to it. Have fun.” Muireann smirked, and pivoted on her heel.

Fiona had barely opened the Book Mark’s door when Aidan Gant’s sleek Mercedes slid to a halt outside.

Fanfeckingtastic. Please don’t let him start on about the divorce.

Olivia climbed out of the passenger’s side and waved.
Thank goodness.
“Morning, Fee.”

“What are you doing here this early? Won’t Aidan kill you if you don’t get to work?”

“Feck Aidan.” Olivia waved a dismissive hand in the direction of the car. “I come bearing gifts.” She handed Fiona a plastic container. “I went on a mad PMS-induced baking spree last night. I figured you could sell the extra banana-walnut muffins in the café.”

Fiona peeked inside the box. They looked divine. “Thanks, Liv. These smell delicious. Listen, would you have time to call into the café later today? Sharon will be here in the afternoon, and we can have a quick chat. There’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you.”

Aidan leaned on the horn. Olivia spun round and flipped him the finger.

They were the picture of marital bliss.

“Yeah, fine,” her friend said. “I’ll pop over during my afternoon coffee break.”

When the bell above the shop door jangled indicating the first customer of the day, Fiona was behind the counter writing a to-do list and eating one of Olivia’s muffins. She wiped crumbs off her jumper and plastered a smile across her face.

However, the sight of the person standing in the doorframe made her smile wither and die.

“PHILIP?” HER PEN FELL to the counter with a clatter.

“Hey, babe!” He slouched into the shop, wearing an oversized Abercrombie & Fitch hoodie and jeans. His wavy russet hair was in desperate need of a cut, and he’d acquired a scraggly goatee since she’d last seen him. In short, he was his usual incongruous mix of unkempt yet fashionable. How had she ever found him attractive?

“What are you doing in Ballybeg?” she asked without inflection. Philip was a Dublin boy through and through. He deemed anyone from outside the city to be a bogger. Indeed, anyone beyond South County Dublin was treated with suspicion and derision. That he’d deigned to venture beyond the perimeters of Dublin’s fair city was a surprise. In the four years they’d been together, he’d never once visited Ballybeg. Not, she thought with a twinge of guilt, that she’d visited often herself.

He shrugged, as easygoing as ever and most probably stoned. “I came down for an audition. A panto in Cork City.”

“You in a pantomime?” Times must be tough if he was considering such a job.

He flushed. “It’s work, isn’t it?” He shoved his hands in his jeans pockets. “I need something to put on my acting resume. It’s not like I’m having much luck in Dublin. Not since my soap opera character was killed off.”

“Which panto is it?”

He fixed his gaze on the polished wooden floor. “
Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs.
”

“And your role would be…?”

Philip winced. “Dopey.”

“Oh, no.” She choked back laughter. “Not Dopey!”

The role would fit Philip to a tee. Sad thing was, the irony was probably lost on him. He was good-natured but obtuse, and ambitious but lazy. What he possessed in IQ—he was smart enough to get a decent degree from Trinity—he lacked in emotional intelligence. For a man who was remarkably good at channeling emotions on stage, he was useless at recognizing them in real life.

“Yeah,” he grunted. “Have a good laugh, why don’t you? Sure, weren’t you always telling me I ought to branch out and go for less serious roles?”

“Gosh, I hope the pay is decent.”

He gave a noncommittal shrug—a half-hearted, one-shouldered twitch. “It’ll do.”

Two elderly ladies entered the shop and nodded to Fiona before heading into the book room. At least her crappy morning had the potential to be offset by paying customers.

She retrieved her pen from the counter and started to doodle. “So what brings you to Ballybeg?”

“You said we could stay friends, didn’t you?”

She had said that, but she hadn’t meant it. It was one of those platitudes one said when breaking up with someone, particularly when the parting wasn’t mutual. “Yeah, but I didn’t expect to see you here.” She glanced at the clock pointedly. “Especially this early in the morning.”

“Actually, I’m staying in Ballybeg. At a little hotel.”

Her heart plummeted. It was one thing to have him call in to the café on a one-off, but quite another to have him staying in the town. “Let me guess—Glebe Country House Hotel?”

“That’s the name.” He shoved his hands in his pockets and bounced on the balls of his feet. Philip found it impossible to stay still. It was a trait that had driven Fiona batty when they were together.

“Why didn’t you find a place to stay in Cork City? Surely it would be more convenient.”

He gave another lazy half shrug. “I left it too late to book a decent hotel in Cork City, and Ballybeg isn’t far to commute.” He flashed her what was meant to be a charmingly irresistible smile. “Plus I figured I could catch up with you.”

Fiona chose to ignore the last comment. She was under no illusion that Philip was in love with her. Otherwise, he couldn’t have done what he did. The familiar mix of hurt and anger churned in her stomach. The hurt was the sting of the woman betrayed. The anger was directed at herself. Why had she put up with him for so long? How could she not have seen what the world and her aunt had recognized immediately? No, his reappearance in her life most likely indicated he was broke and his parents were refusing to bankroll him.

She eyed him warily, took in the expensive clothes. Philip always managed to find the cash to buy nice clothes, drugs, and cigarettes, yet he rarely saw the necessity to pay back the people foolish enough to loan him money. No way in hell was she falling back into that trap.

“You couldn’t have stayed in a youth hostel in Cork?” she asked archly. “Or were they also booked out?”

His features crumpled. “A youth hostel? Me? You can’t be serious.”

Dear old Philip, ever the snob. Her doodles were becoming more aggressive, her pen stabbing through the paper. If it weren’t for the customers listening to their conversation with rapt interest, she’d throw him out on his arse. Hell, if he continued to piss her off, she still might.

He looked around the shop with a contemptuous expression. He wandered into the book room, critically surveying their wares. She steeled herself for the inevitable condescension.

“So this is your aunt’s shop?” he said, picking up a book from the front window display. “Not exactly Waterstones, is it?”

“Did you expect it to be? It’s a little new-and-used bookshop in a small Irish town.”

“You have to admit it’s not what you’re used to.”

Not what
he
was used to, more like. “I grew up in Ballybeg. I knew what the shop was like when I agreed to help Bridie.”