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She followed him up a narrow staircase, and he flipped a switch when they reached the top. An old lamp flickered on and she blinked, her eyes adjusting to the dim amber light.
It was some sort of a loft. A drafting table sat in the center of the room. A couch was shoved in the corner. Canvases, draped in dusty white sheets, piled against every wall.
“What is this place?”
“It’s an apartment above the bar. Don’t worry. No one lives here. My cousin just uses it to store his art.”
He released her hand and went to the wall where a cabinet stood beside a large wash sink. She caught her breath and lowered to the small love seat.
He returned, holding two glasses, one filled with clear water, the other filled with something darker. “I wasn’t sure which you’d want.”
“What is it?”
“Tullamore Dew.”
She took the whiskey and swallowed it down in one shot.
He cautiously sat beside her. “Did something happen—other than that asshole crashing into you down there?”
She shook her head, trying to remember what insane impulse made her come here today. “Can I have some more?” She held out the empty glass.
“Are you driving?”
She frowned, then remembered normal people drove. Only she didn’t. “No, I walked.”
He retrieved the bottle, bringing it back to the couch and topped her off. “That’s a pretty far walk. Do you have a car?”
She shook her head and sipped the whiskey this time. “Not anymore.”
“Did you lose your license?”
“No, I lost my car.” And her entire world. “I prefer walking or riding my bike.”
She felt him staring but kept her eyes on the floor, her hands folded around the glass. He tapped one of the shamrocks attached to her headband. “I like this. You didn’t strike me as the kind of woman to get into the holiday.”
She shrugged. “It’s sort of a tradition.”
“I’ve been here for every St. Paddy’s Day since I was a kid. But I think this is the first time I’ve ever seen you here.”
Maybe it was the whiskey or getting away from the crowd but something about his voice soothed her. She felt safer here and only slightly petrified of having to go back through that crowd to get out.
“This is my first time in O’Malley’s,” she confessed.
“Really? Yet, you drink whiskey like a seasoned veteran.”
She had a lot of practice. Probably too much.
“How come you waited all this time to check it out?”
If she told him who she really was, would he ask her to leave? “Can we stay here for a few more minutes?”
“As long as you need.” He added another finger of Tully to her glass.
Her lips pressed tight, and she took another sip. “My name isn’t actually Maggie Harris. Well, it was, but no one’s called me that for years.”
He drew back, and only then, did she realize how close they were sitting. “Are you married?”
“Widowed. My name’s Maggie O’Malley.”
His face slightly paled. “Oh, shit…”
Chapter 7
How could he have been so shortsighted? He remembered now. At first, he only recognized her in some buried part of his memories from high school, but now, he remembered why he never tried to date her before, especially when he found her so damn attractive.
“You’re Nash’s wife.”
She nodded and his heart tripped over a beat at the palpable sadness that stole across her pale blue eyes. Tears gathered at her lashes, but she dashed them away before they could fall.
How could he have forgotten? Rarely, did a couple make it all the way through high school. But Nash O’Malley and Maggie Harris came and left as one. That’s why his memories of her were cloudy. She’d always belonged to Nash—until he died.
He remembered Nash. The guy had amazing talent and could play any instrument thrown at him. He was the first to die from their graduating class. Small towns rarely had small funerals, since everyone knew everyone, but it wasn’t often that the whole town showed up. However, when Nash O’Malley died, the town saw it as a true tragedy, and everyone attended. It was the first time in decades that O’Malleys and Clooneys remained civil in close proximity.
Ryan could still recall the long procession of cars snaking through the cemetery. And if he thought hard enough, he could see her, surrounded by the O’Malley family, in her plain black dress. He remembered thinking how small and helpless, how alone and scared she seemed.
“I remember you,” he whispered.
It had been a cold March. Instead of rain, they were still getting snow. Nash had lost control of the car and…
Realization dawned. “It was the day after St. Paddy’s.”
Her eyes closed, and a streak of black skimmed down her cheek. Jesus, should he wipe it away? He glanced around the apartment, searching for tissues.
That explained why she didn’t drive. It also explained why she lived alone.
