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Even though she constantly hummed and sang her never-ending repertoire of old Irish songs, I’d only hear the notes of that particular song when she was alone, tending her garden. As her voice roamed across beds of beloved plants, her eyes would drift to the clouds and for those few moments she’d retreat into a memory kept all to herself. For all my adoptive grandmother shared, there were depths of a lifetime before me she locked away.
Like a tiny spark, the title of the song glows in my memory as I study Sion. “Dear Irish Boy.”
Sion is ruggedly attractive overall with shadings of a gentler appeal: ringlets and bowstrings like the song. He’s a contrast to Jeremy’s more refined good looks.
The forkful of delicious breakfast heading into Colleen’s mouth drops with a clatter onto her plate when she catches me watching Sion in the doorway.
“Are you nuts? That guy is dear Irish nothing.”
I flush, realizing I spoke the song title aloud.
I concentrate on cutting my sausage into smaller bites. “It’s the title of a song I was trying to remember.” A song whose sweet sentiments definitely do not match the rude Irish man in the doorway.
Colleen’s foot nudges me under the table none too gently. She nods toward the bar where Jeremy Olk sits on a stool, chatting up a rosy-cheeked, barrel-shaped man with a laugh loud enough to fill the room. “La, don’t waste any of your attention on that rude wood chip when the personification of your dream man sits at the bar. Per your specifications, I might add. Complete with round professor glasses.”
She’s got a point. Staring at Sion is a waste of my time. My chest tightens. Then why is it hard to switch my gaze from this annoying temporary addition in my life to the man who has the potential to be someone interesting?
Looking at Colleen is a safe alternative. “La? That’s where you landed on my name?”
“I’m not going to call you Owlie.” She purses her lips and gives me a look of disapproval. “And you won’t let me call you Ellie anymore.”
I take a breath in and out. Ella O’Dwyer vanished with Máthair. I’d like to think they’re together in Tír na nÓg, partaking in whatever Faeries do in the land of eternal youth. Eala Duir is the one left behind—again.
“Did you catch the red bow tie Professor Adorbs was wearing at dinner last night?” Colleen taps the back of my hand. “Look. He’s actually got a red handkerchief sticking out of his jacket pocket.” She gives her chest a quick pat over her heart. “Red, the color of love.”
“Or blood.” I blow out a breath. “You’re too much.”
“I’m just trying to keep you on track,” she says, kissing my cheek.
I point my fork at her. “You may encourage, but not embarrass.”
As I look at Jeremy, the idealized future I’ve always dreamed of pops into my head—a small life in an old house on the outskirts of a New England college town. My professor husband and I watch through the picture window of our kitchen nook as deer saunter through the backyard. After we finish breakfast tea and homemade biscuits, we don matching wool coats and plaid scarves to walk under crimson and gold leaves on our way to teach classes at the university. As a pair of PhDs, we’ll call each other doctor as we hold gloved hands and swap anecdotes of student antics.
Colleen leans closer. “He’s thirty-eight by the way. I asked him last night while he was asking me quite a few questions about you.” She raises her finger. “No arguments. Who cares if he’s a couple of years outside your ridiculously rigid dating range?”
I bite into a piece of toast.
Colleen shakes her head. “You act a hundred years older than you are anyway.” She refocuses on Olk. “A meeting of the minds is ageless.”
“What did you tell him about me?”
“Calm down. I gushed with finesse. I firmly believe if the attraction is going to stick, it should be organic.”
Olk turns our way and smiles a greeting. Colleen waves and lowers her voice. “I’m just saying, if Charlie wasn’t in the picture, Prof Olk would definitely be on my ‘defile me in Ireland’ list.” She touches a finger to her bottom lip. “That bow mouth is perfect for kissing.” Her head tilts to one side. “The upper lip is a little thin, but I’ll bet he knows how to compensate.”
Thankfully, Jeremy turns to the bar and sheds his jacket. He rolls up the sleeves of a scarlet and brown flannel button down, revealing wiry yet solid forearms. It appears Professor Sauce works out.
“Make that top of my ‘defile me in Ireland’ list,” says Colleen.
“Your what, Flutter?” asks Charlie, sliding onto the bench next to her.
Colleen snuggles against his side. “My never mind.” Her face squinches, changing from gooey to salty as Sion claims the seat across from Charlie to sit next to me. “There are plenty of seats in the other part of the pub,” she says, tossing her head at an already crowded section of the room.
Sion chews on a twig sticking out the corner of his mouth as he gestures toward the bar. “This here’s the mess hall. That way’s the pub.” He nods at the jolly fellow who chatted up Jeremy earlier. “Ole Robbie knocked out a wall and converted the other part of the old place into this soup kitchen for school groups such as yours.” He nods approvingly. “Genius way to fill the tourist lulls when it’s not St. Patrick’s Day, Beltane, Samhain and the like.” He leans his arm on the table and beckons us closer with a crook of his finger. “You want to see a real pub? I’ll take you for a drop of drink.” A distinct whiff of alcohol comes off the twig stuck in his mouth.
“You smell like a pub,” says Colleen, wrinkling her nose.
Sion extracts the sliver of wood and waves it at her. “Whiskey on a stick. Best thing for toothache.”
