The Selkie Spell (Seal Island Trilogy) (2 page)

She knew better now.

Her fingers brushed the advertisement in her pocket as she spotted the Guinness sign hanging from the thatched roof of
O’Sullivan’s
pub.  The wind pushed it back and forth; the squeak of rusted metal hinges the only sound drifting through the deserted streets of the village.

Two weeks, she thought.  Two weeks was all she needed to pocket enough cash for her next ticket.  She walked to the door, grasped the cool brass handle and pulled. The scent of malt vinegar and pipe-smoke wrapped around her, tugging her into the dark, wooded barroom.  A turf fire snapped in the hearth. Boots were piled up in front of it, drying from the wet day’s work.  Pints of Guinness—dark as molasses topped frothy white like a milkshake—cluttered every flat surface.

She strode toward the bar, focusing on the tall, dark-haired man behind it, as islanders glanced up from their tables and their conversations—a cheerful jumble of Irish and Gaelic voices only moments ago—spun out in a quiet murmur.

Behind the bar, Dominic O’Sullivan caught sight of the newcomer, a wisp of a woman in ill-fitting jeans and a worn sweater draped over sparrow-thin shoulders. “Little early in the season for tourists.”

Tara pulled out the crumpled advertisement. She knew the risks, the dangers of picking a place where visitors didn’t come and go unnoticed, a place where people talked, asked questions and expected honest answers.  But she needed time to think, to come up with her next plan.

All it would take was one tiny mistake.

“I’m here about the job,” she said, setting the ad on the bar and gazing up into eyes the color of liquid silver. Thick black hair, still wet from the shower, swept back from the bartender’s ruggedly handsome face, revealing a scar etched into his left eyebrow.  He’d forgotten to shave, and a shadow of stubble darkened the strong line of his jaw.

Dominic looked down at the ad he’d posted in the Galway Gazette a few days ago, then back up at the woman who wore no makeup, nothing that would draw attention to a face that made his eyes want to linger just the same.

“I’m Tara Moore,” she said, extending her hand.

“Dominic O’Sullivan,” he said, marveling at the soft, pampered palm that met his, a direct contrast to the second-hand traveler’s clothes.

“Are you still hiring?” Tara asked.

Twisting the top off a Harp, Dominic slid it down the counter to a customer.  A simple white T-shirt stretched across his broad shoulders, revealing the hard muscles of his arms and chest.  “That depends.”

“On what?”

“On what an American wants with a job in an Irish pub.”

There were so many ways she could answer that, Tara thought.  But when she looked back into his eyes, she settled on the truth.  “I needed to get away.”

“From what?”

“From life.”

Dominic leaned his arms on the bar.  “Anything in particular?”

Tara shook her head.  “Just in general.”

Dominic pushed back from the bar and ran a wet rag over the counter.  “In my experience, life has a way of catching up with you.  Wherever you go.”

“In my experience, life is what you make of it,” Tara countered.  “Right now, I’m looking for a job as a waitress in Ireland.  Are you hiring, or not?”

Dominic set the rag down.  It was a compelling combination—that rich, cultured voice, those soft, sensual lips, the cool confidence of a woman used to getting what she wanted.  If she’d arrived during the regular tourist season, he’d already be laying the groundwork for a long, lazy summer seduction.  He was about due for one of those anyway.

But it wasn’t summer.  And she wasn’t the first attractive woman to come to this island with nothing but the clothes on her back.  He’d fallen for it the first time.  He wasn’t stupid enough to fall for it again.  He turned, pulling a bottle of Jameson’s off the shelf.  “Sorry, but the position’s been filled.”

“By who?”  Tara pointed to a loaded tray sitting on the bar.  “I don’t see anyone delivering these drinks.”

Picking up the tray, Dominic smiled and slipped out from behind the bar.

Tara watched him set the drinks down on a nearby table and caught the curious glances the islanders threw at her.  “I don’t understand.  Did you change your mind after you put the ad in the paper?”

“I changed my mind when I saw you.”

Tara tensed.  “What is it about me that made you change your mind?”

“You’ve a look about you.”

“What kind of look?”

“Like you’re running from something.”

“I’m just looking for a quiet place to spend the summer.  That’s all.”

“Dom,” Jack Dooley called out from across the room.  “Can you do us a whiskey and a Smithwicks?”

“And two more pints over here.”  Kevin Brady held up his empty glass.

“And what did Caitlin put in this stew?”  Donal Riley yelped as a dish towel sailed out of the kitchen and smacked him in the chest.

“I never claimed to be a cook, Donal Riley! And you can keep your mouth shut until Fiona gets back next week!” The kitchen door swung open and a plump red-head stormed out, holding up seven fingers. “Seven days, Dominic!  You see this.  Count them.  Seven more days and I’m done.  And you,” she turned back to Donal Riley.  “You’re going to eat what’s put in front of you and you’re going to like it!”

Turning on her heel, she stalked back toward the kitchen, pausing in the doorway when she spotted Tara.  “Hello there.”  She took in the backpack and shifted direction, strolling over to the newcomer.  “Don’t get many travelers to the island in April.”  She set a coaster on the bar in front of her.  “Have you been helped?”

“She’s not looking for a pint,” Dominic called back.

“What’s she looking for?”

“I’m here about the position,” Tara explained.  “Are you Mrs. O’Sullivan?”

“Me?”  Caitlin’s face broke into a grin.  “No.”  She wiped her hand on her apron and held it out for Tara to shake.  “I’m Caitlin Connor.  The
friend
.  I just fill in from time to time.”

“Tara Moore,” Tara said, offering her hand.

Caitlin frowned.  The other woman’s grip was firm, but her hand was so bony, she felt like she’d crack it if she squeezed any harder.  “Is that an American accent?”

“Yes.”

Caitlin withdrew her hand, regarding the newcomer warily.  “Excuse me for asking, but haven’t you got enough jobs of your own?”

“I’m looking for a change of pace.”

“Bit of a drastic change, isn’t it?”

“We all need to get away now and then.”

“Do we?”  Caitlin angled her head.  “Never felt much of a need to leave the island myself.”  Caitlin’s gaze lifted, her eyes meeting Dominic’s across the room.  He shook his head, just the smallest movement from side to side.  “I wish we could help you.”  Caitlin shrugged.  “But I don’t think we’re hiring anymore.”

Tara bit back her frustration as the front door swung open and three children burst into the room.

“Dad!”  Breathless, Kelsey O’Sullivan rushed to the bartender’s side.  “Ronan kicked the ball over the edge again!”

“It wasn’t me!”

“It was, too!”

Dominic arched an eyebrow.  “Ronan?”

“Okay,” Ronan muttered, “It was me.”

“How far did it go?”

“I heard a splash,” Ashling piped in.

Dominic crossed his arms over his chest.

Kelsey tugged at her father’s sleeve. “Ashling and I were winning.”

The slightest smile tugged at the corner of his lips.

“Dad, this is serious. Ronan threw the game on purpose.”

“What do you want me to do about it?”

“I think you should help us find the ball.”

“You want me to scale the cliff wall?”

“I bet you could if you wanted to,” Ronan muttered.

Dominic smiled and mussed his daughter’s hair. “I’m sure there’s another upstairs.”

“That was the last one.”

“What about the one I gave you for Christmas?”

“We lost it.”

“What about the one your grandmother gave you?”

“We lost it.”

“What about the one Ronan’s mom gave you a week ago?”

His daughter’s eyes lit up.

“It’s on top of the fridge.”

Her face fell.

“You found it?”

“That’s the one we just lost.”

Dominic hooked his arm around her daughter’s waist and swung her upside down so her blond curls just brushed the floor.

“Dad!” she protested, giggling and trying to wiggle free.

“You know what you are?” he asked, still holding her upside down.

“What?”

“Trouble.”  He flipped her right-side up and set her back on her feet.  “Now go upstairs—all three of you—and wash up.  I’ll ask Caitlin to fix you something to eat.”

When Ronan stuck out his tongue, Tara couldn’t help but laugh. Dominic’s eyes snapped to the sound, his smile fading as he caught the wistful expression on the newcomer’s face.

“They’re adorable,” she said, her gaze lingering on the stairs after the children clamored up them.  “Are they all yours?”

“No.”  Dominic stepped back behind the bar.  “Just Kelsey.”

“How old is she?”

“She turns eight next month.”

Caitlin poked her head through the window connecting the kitchen to the bar.  “Did I just see Ronan O’Kelly stick out his tongue at my cooking?”

Dominic tossed an empty bottle of whiskey into the trash and glanced at Caitlin. “I don’t know, but I think you could take him.”  He ducked as a dish rag flew past his head.  Smiling, he twisted the cap off a bottle of stout, slid it down the bar and turned, pulling another bottle off the highest shelf.

Tara picked up the plates Caitlin slid through the window.  “Where do these go?”

Dominic took the plates from her hands, set them back on the counter.  “Like I said, the position’s been filled.”

“Why don’t we treat it as a test run?” Tara offered.  “If I do okay tonight, you’ll hire me.  If not, I’ll leave first thing tomorrow.”

“I’ve made up my mind.”

“It’s one night,” Tara protested.

“Then why not enjoy it?  I’ll bring you a pint. You can sit here and listen to the music that’ll start up soon enough.  Then you can be off in the morning and find work somewhere else.  There’s other islands to choose from.  Coastal villages on the mainland if all you’re looking for is a quiet place.”

“I want to work here.”

“Why?”

“Because… it feels right.”

“Right?”  Dominic started another pint of Guinness, then leaned back from the taps.  “Is that how you live your life, then?  Doing what feels right?”

“Yes,” Tara replied, slowly.  “Recently that is exactly how I’ve been living my life.”

“Well, I’m sorry to disappoint you.”  He finished the pint and set it on the bar.  “But the only thing I’ve to offer at the moment is a bar stool and a pint.  You’ll have to look for work somewhere else.”

A sensible person would take the hint.  A sensible person would bow out gracefully, track down a room for the night, and take the bartender up on his offer of a stool and a pint.  But Tara was sick of deferring, of following orders, of letting people push her around.

Squaring her shoulders, she stepped back up to the bar, pausing when a crash of pots and pans and a thin female scream burst from the kitchen.

Dominic cursed, snapped the taps back into place, and shoved the door open.

Tara flinched when she spotted the red-head on the floor, holding her hand awkwardly in her lap.  When Dominic groaned, dropping to his knees, Tara craned her neck around the doorway to see.

“What have you hurt this time?” Dominic asked.

“My hand,” Caitlin bit out.  “And I wouldn’t have to go climbing all over your furniture if you’d put things in a place where I could reach them!”

“Let me see.”

She held it up, and Tara winced at the crooked way the middle finger bent.

“Come on.”  Dominic pulled Caitlin to her feet.  “We’ve got to get you to the mainland.”

The mainland?
  Tara watched the islanders surround the pair as Dominic helped Caitlin out of the kitchen.

“Are you sure it’s broken?” Sarah Dooley asked, concern knitting her wrinkled face.

“I’m sure,” Dominic answered, pushing past her toward the door.

“Do you want Jack to take a look at it first?” Sarah trailed after them.  “Remember he fixed that calf’s leg last year.”

“That calf walked with a limp for the rest of its life!” Caitlin objected.

“The rest of its very
short
life,” Dominic added.

Jack Dooley wove through the crowd, handing Caitlin an ice pack.  “I wasn’t the cause of that calf’s death.”

“That’s still up for debate,” Dominic murmured, opening the door to the pub just as the ferry captain walked inside, shaking the rain off his jacket.  “Finn, we need a ride to the mainland.”