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had been about his homeland. To Trevor’s recollection, the man had shown no sentiment about anything.
But Trevor had inherited the heart and hands of the builder as much as the cool, hard sense of the businessman, and had learned to use both.
He would use them both here, and a dash of sentiment as well, to build his theater, a traditional structure for traditional music, using as its entrance the already established pub known as Gallagher’s.
The deal with the Gallaghers had been set, the ground broken for the project before he’d been able to hack through his schedule for the time he wanted to spend here. But he was here now, and he intended to do more than sign checks and watch.
He wanted his hands in it.
A man could work up a good sweat even in May in such a temperate climate when he spent a morning hauling concrete. That morning Trevor left the cottage he’d decided to rent for the duration of his stay wearing a denim jacket and carrying a steaming mug of coffee. Now a handful of hours later, the jacket had been tossed aside and a thin line of damp ran front and back down his shirt.
He’d have paid a hundred pounds for one cold beer.
The pub was only a short walk through the construction rubble. He knew from stopping in the day before that it did a brisk business midday. But a man could hardly quench his thirst with a chilly Harp when he forbade his employees to drink on the job.
He rolled his shoulders, circled his neck as he scanned the site. The concrete truck let out its continual rumble, men shouted, relaying orders or acknowledging them. Job music, Trevor thought. He never tired of it.
That was a gift from his father. Learn from the ground up, had been Dennis Junior’s credo, and the thirdgeneration Magee had done just that. For more than ten years, fifteen if he counted the summers he’d sweated on construction sites, he’d learned just what went into the business of building.
The backaches and blood and aching muscles.
At thirty-two, he spent more time in boardrooms and meetings than on a scaffold, but he’d never lost the appreciation, or the satisfaction of swinging his own hammer.
He intended to indulge himself doing just that in Ardmore, in his theater.
He watched the small woman in a faded cap and battered boots, circle around, gesture as the wet concrete slid down the chute. She scrambled over sand and stone, used her shovel to rap the chute and alert the operator to stop, then waded into the muck with the other laborers to shovel and smooth.
Brenna O’Toole, Trevor thought, and was glad he’d followed his instincts there. Hiring her and her father as foremen on the project had been the right course of action. Not just for their building skills, he decided, and they were impressive, but they knew the village and the people in it, kept the job running smooth and the men happy and productive.
Public relations on this sort of project were just as vital as a sturdy foundation.
Yes indeed, they were working out well. His three days in Ardmore had shown him he’d made the right choice with O’Toole and O’Toole.
When Brenna climbed out again, Trevor stepped over, extended a hand to give her a final boost.
“Thanks.” She sliced her shovel into the ground, leaned on it, and despite her filthy boots and faded cap looked like a pixie. Her skin was pure Irish cream, and a few curls of wild red escaped the cap.
“Tim Riley says we won’t have rain for another day or two, and he has a way of being right about such things more than he’s wrong. I think we’ll have the slab set up for you before you have to worry about weather.”
“You made considerable progress before I got here.”
“Sure and once you gave us the high sign there was no reason to wait. We’ll have you a good, solid foundation, Mr. Magee, and on schedule.”
“Trev.”
“Aye, Trev.” She tipped back her cap, then her head so she could meet his eyes. She figured him a good foot higher than her five-two, even wearing her boots. “The men you sent along from America, they’re a fine team.”
“As I handpicked them, I agree.”
She thought his voice faintly aloof, but not unfriendly. “And do you never pick females then?”
He smiled slowly so it seemed humor just moseyed over his face until it reached eyes the color of turf smoke. “I do indeed and as often as possible. Both on and off the job. I’ve put one of my best carpenters on this project. She’ll be here next week.”
“It’s good to know my cousin Brian wasn’t wrong in that area. He said you hired by skill and not gender. It’s a good morning’s work here,” she added, nodding to the site. “That noisy bastard of a truck will be our constant companion for a while yet. Darcy’ll be back from her holiday tomorrow, and I can tell you she’ll bitch our ears off about the din.”
“It’s a good noise. Building.”
“I’ve always thought the same.”
They stood a moment in perfect accord while the truck vomited out the last yard of concrete.
“I’ll buy you lunch,” Trevor said.
“I’ll let you.” Brenna gave a whistle to catch her father’s attention, then mimed spooning up food. Mick responded with a grin and a wave, then went back to work.
“He’s in his heaven,” Brenna commented as they walked over to rinse off their boots. “Nothing makes Mick O’Toole happier than finding himself in the middle of a job site, the muckier, the better.”
Satisfied, Brenna gave her feet a couple of stomps then headed around to the kitchen door. “I hope you’ll take some time to see the area while you’re here, instead of locking yourself into the job at hand.”
“I plan to see what’s around.” He had reports, of course, detailed reports on tourist draws, road conditions, routes to and from major cities. But he intended to see for himself.
Needed to see it, Trevor admitted to himself. Something had been pulling him toward Ireland, toward Ardmore for more than a year. In dreams.
“Ah, now there’s a fine-looking man doing what he does best,” Brenna said when she pushed open the kitchen door. “What have you for us today, Shawn?”
He turned from the enormous old stove, a rangy man with shaggy black hair and eyes of misty blue. “For the special we’ve sea spinach soup and the beef sandwich. Good day to you, Trevor, is this one working you harder than she should?”
“She keeps things moving.”
“And so I must for the man in my life is slow. I wonder, Shawn, if you’ve selected another tune or two for Trevor’s consideration.”
“I’ve been busy catering to my new wife. She’s a demanding creature.” So saying, he reached out to cup a hand on Brenna’s face and kiss her. “Get out of my kitchen. It’s confusing enough around here without Darcy.”
“She’ll be back tomorrow and by this time of the day you’ll have cursed her a dozen times.”
“Why do you think I miss her? Give your order to Sinead,” he told Trevor. “She’s a good girl, and our Jude’s been working with her. She just needs a bit more practice.”
“A friend of my sister Mary Kate is Sinead,” Brenna told Trevor as she pushed open the door that swung between kitchen and pub. “A good-natured girl if a bit scattered in the brain. She wants to marry Billy O’Hara, and that is the sum total of her ambitions at this time.”
“And what does Billy O’Hara have to say?”
“Being not quite so ambitious as Sinead, Billy keeps his mouth shut. Good day to you, Aidan.”
“And to you.” The oldest of the Gallaghers worked the bar and had his hands on the taps as he looked over. “Will you be joining us for lunch then?”
“That we will. We’ve caught you busy.”
“God bless the tour buses.” With a wink, Aidan slid two pints down the bar to waiting hands.
“Do you want us to take it in the kitchen?”
“No need for that unless you’re in a great hurry.” His eyes, a deeper blue than his brother’s, scanned the pub. “Service is a mite slower than our usual. But there’s a table
or two left.”
“We’ll leave it to the boss.” Brenna turned to Trevor. “How will you have it?”
“Let’s get a table.” The better to watch how the business ran.
He followed her out and sat with her at one of the mushroom sized tables. There was a buzz of conversation, a haze of smoke and the yeasty scent of beer.
“Will you have a pint?” Brenna asked him.
“Not until after the workday.”
Her lips twitched as she kicked back in her chair. “So I’ve heard from some of the men. Word is you’re a tyrant on this particular matter.”
He didn’t mind the term tyrant. It meant he was in control. “Word would be correct.”
“I’ll tell you this, you may have a bit of a problem enforcing such a rule around here. Many who’ll labor for you were nursed on Guinness and it’s as natural to them as mother’s milk.”
“I’m fond of it myself, but when a man or woman is on my clock, they stick with mother’s milk.”
“Ah, you’re a hard man, Trevor Magee.” But she said it with a laugh. “So tell me, how are you liking Faerie Hill Cottage?”
“Very much. It’s comfortable, efficient, quiet, and has a view that rips your heart into your throat. It’s just what I was looking for, so I’m grateful you put me onto it.”
“That’s not a problem, not a problem at all. It’s in the family. I think Shawn misses the little kitchen there as the house we’re building’s far from finished. More than livable,” she added, as it was one of their current sore points, “but I figure to concentrate on the kitchen there on my off days so he’ll be happier.”
“I’d like to see it.”
