AllFreeNovel
Share Us
It thrilled and it stunned her that it should be as wild, as near to feral as it had before. A storm brewed inside her, wanted to whip high and free. And God, she wanted to ride it, even at the risk of finding herself battered and wrecked at the end.
Here, now, what did it matter where they were, or who they were or why it seemed so desperately right?
When his lips left hers to trail to her temple, into her hair, to rest quietly there, the sweetness of the gesture after the passion left her shaken and weak. And allowed caution to return.
“If such activities under rainbows bring luck,” Darcy began, “the pair of us are set for life.”
He couldn’t laugh, nor come up with a joke in return. Something was churning inside him, something complicated, folding itself cannily in with simple desire. “How many times have you felt like that?”
Before she could answer he released her hands, put his own on her shoulders to draw her away enough for their eyes to meet. “Give me a straight answer. How many times have you felt the way you felt just now?”
She could have lied. She knew herself skilled at the careless and casual lie. But only when it didn’t matter. His eyes were intense, direct, and, she thought, just a little angry. She found she couldn’t blame him for it. “I can’t say I ever have, excepting last night.”
“Neither have I. Neither have I,” he repeated, and let her go so he could pace. “That’s something to think about.”
“Trevor, I think we both know that the hotter the flame, the quicker it flashes, and the sooner it goes cold.”
“Maybe.” He thought of Gwen, the words she’d spoken to him. “We’d both know that going in.”
“We would.” Just as they both accepted they weren’t capable of falling in love. He was right, she thought. They were a sad pair. “We’d know,” she agreed. “Just as we both know we’ll sleep together before we’re done, but there are matters that tangle it up. Business matters.”
“Business isn’t involved in this.”
“No, and it shouldn’t be. But since we have a business relationship—mutual professional interests that involve my family, there are things to be discussed and agreed upon before we roll ourselves into bed. I want you, and having you is my intention, but I have terms.”
“What do you want, a goddamn contract?”
“Nothing so formal—and don’t take that tone with me. You’re just annoyed that the blood’s still in your lap and you didn’t think of it first.”
He opened his mouth, then closed it again and turned away. She had a point, damn it. “So we work out what we want and expect out of our personal relationship and agree to keep it separate, entirely, from the business one.”
“We do, yes. And, as you said, that’s something to think about. You might think that I sleep with anyone I find appealing or even handy.” She kept her voice cool as he turned back. “But the fact is, I don’t. I’m careful and selective, and I have to have some affection for a man, some understanding of him, before I take him to bed.”
“Darcy, I understood that after an hour in your company. I’m also selective.” He walked back to her. “I like you, and I’m beginning to understand you. And when the time comes, we’ll take each other to bed.”
She relaxed into a smile. “I think we’ve just had a serious conversation. We’ll have to be careful not to get in the habit of it and frighten ourselves. Now, I’m sorry to say, you have to take me back.”
She held out a hand.
“Next time we’ll drive along the coast.”
“Next time, you’ll be taking me out to a candlelight dinner, buying me champagne, and kissing my hand in that way you have.” She glanced up, caught another glimpse of the fading rainbows as they crossed the wet grass. “But we can drive along the coast road to get there.”
“Sounds like a deal. Get a night off.”
“I’ll start working on that.”
SEVEN
W ARM, DRY WEATHER returned to paint both sky and sea the vivid blue of coming summer. Clouds that hovered were white and harmless, and the flowers of Ardmore drank in the sun as they had the rain. The round tower cast its long and slender shadow over the graves it guarded. And high on the cliffs the wind blew gentle ripples over the water in the well of the saint. In the village, men worked in shirtsleeves, and arms turned ruddy in the sun. Trevor watched the skeleton of his building take shape, the beams and block that were the solid bones of his dream.
As the work progressed, the audience grew. Old Mr. Riley stopped by the site every day at ten until you could set your watch by him. He brought along a folding chair and sat with his cap shielding his eyes and a thermos of tea for company. There he would sit and watch, sit and nap until, sharply at one, he would stand up, fold his chair, and toddle off to his great-granddaughter’s for his midday meal.
As often as not, one of his cronies would join him, and they would chat about the construction while playing at checkers or gin rummy.
Trevor began to think of him as the job mascot.
Children came by now and again and sat in a half circle by Riley’s chair. Their big eyes would track the sway of a steel beam as it was lifted into place.
This event was sometimes followed by a round of appreciative applause.
“Mr. Riley’s great-great-grandchildren and some friends,” Brenna told Trevor when he expressed some concern about them being near the site. “They won’t go wandering closer than his chair.”
“Great- great -grandchildren? Then he must be as old as he looks.”
“One hundred and two last winter. The Rileys are long-lived, though his father died at the tender age of ninety-six, God rest him.”
“Amazing. How many of those double greats does he have?”
“Oh, well, let me think. Fifteen. No, sixteen, as there was a new one last winter, if memory serves. Not all of them live in the area.”
“Sixteen? Good God!”
“Well, now, he had eight children, six still living. And between them I believe they made him near to thirty grandchildren, and I don’t have count on how many children they made. So there you have it. You’ve two of his great-grandsons on your crew, and the husband of one of his granddaughters as well.”
“How could I avoid it?”
“Every Sunday after Mass, he goes to visit his wife’s grave, she that was Lizzie Riley. Fifty years they were married. He takes with him that same old ratty chair there and sits by her for two hours so he can tell her all the village gossip and family news.”
“How long has she been gone?”
“Oh, twenty years, give or take.”
Seventy years, give or take, devoted to one woman. It was flabbergasting and, Trevor thought, heartening. For some, it worked.
“He’s a darling man, is Mr. Riley,” Brenna added. “Hey, there, Declan Fitzgerald, have a care there with that board before you bash someone in the face with it.”
With a shake of her head, Brenna strode over to heft the far end of the board herself.
Trevor nearly followed. It had been his intention to spend most of his afternoon lifting, hauling, hammering. The sound of air guns and compressors whooshing and rumbling along with the constant rattle of the cement mixer had the young audience enthralled. Beside them in his chair, Riley sipped tea. Going with impulse, Trevor walked over to him.
“What do you think?”
Riley watched Brenna place her board. “I’m thinking you build strong and hire well. Mick O’Toole and his pretty Brenna, they know what they’re about.” Riley shifted his faded eyes to Trevor’s face. “And so, I think, do you, young Magee.”
“If the weather holds, we’ll be under roof ahead of schedule.”
Riley’s weathered face creased into smiles. It was like watching thin white paper stretch over rock. “You’ll be there when you get there, lad. That’s the way of things. You’ve the look of your great-uncle.”
As he’d been told so once, hesitantly, by his grandmother, Trevor considered, then cro
uched down so Riley wouldn’t have to crane his neck.
It’s just that you look so like John, Trevor, his brother who died young. It makes it hard for your grandfather to . . . It makes it hard for him.
“Do I?”
“Oh, aye. Johnnie Magee, I knew him, and your grandfather as well. A fine-looking young lad was Johnnie, with his gray eyes and slow smile. Built like a whip, as you are yourself.”
“What was he like?”
“Oh, quiet, he was, and deep. Full of thoughts and feelings, and most of them for Maude Fitzgerald. He wanted her, and little else.”
“And what he got was war.”
“Aye, that’s the way it was. Many young men fell in 1916, on those fields of France. And here as well, in our own little war for Ireland’s independence. Elsewhere, for that matter, at any time you can pick. Men go to battle, and women wait and weep.”
He laid a bony hand on the head of one of the children who sat at his side. “The Irish know it comes ’round again. And so do the old. I’m both old and Irish.”
“You said you knew my grandfather.”
“I did.” Riley sat back with his tea, crossed his thin legs at the ankles. “Dennis, now, he was a brawnier type than his brother, and more apt to look a mile down the road instead of where he was standing. A discontented sort was Dennis Magee, if you don’t mind me saying. Ardmore wasn’t the place for him, and he shook off the sand of it as soon as he was able. Did he, I wonder, find what he was looking for there, and contentment with it?”
“I don’t know,” Trevor answered frankly. “I wouldn’t say he was a particularly happy man.”
“I’m sorry for that, for it’s often hard for those around the unhappy to be happy themselves. His bride, as I recall, was a quiet-mannered lass. She was Mary Clooney, whose family farmed in Old Parish, and one of a family of ten, if my memory can be trusted.”
