Page 4 of Beneath the Quiet

“I’ll head down to him soon,” I promise and place the tray on the table. “And…” I hesitate to admit it, but not only am I an officer of the law, but I don’t lie to anyone. “I didn’t win over Harry this time, either.”

“You didn’t?”

I shake my head and sit down. “No, one of your neighbours came. Or at least, I think he lives close by.” I frown, unsure where he came from. “Aidan Lynch?”

“Ah, yes, he’s a farmer. Grows lots of vegetables. Some fruits and berries, too, I think.” She jabs a finger behind her to the road next to us. “He owns those massive greenhouses you can’t help but see when you head north through the village and out of town to the main road.” She leans forward and squeezes my fisted hand resting in my lap. “Don’t worry, pet. Aidan has known Harry for years. Always seemed to have a certain knack for him, and it doesn’t really matter who got the brute away from my pretties. I’m just satisfied that he’s gone.”

“But not before he managed to wreck most of them.”

I jerk forward in my seat and take the teapot. The scent of peppermint and ginger wafts up, teasing my nostrils as we sit in companionable silence. Even though I tend not to be great with strangers, there is an air around Mrs. McCarthy that calms me. I pour us both a generous amount of tea and smile back at her.

She tilts her head at her flowerbed in ruin. “Well, the children in the village or my granddaughter will help me sort it out. Thomas Murdoch will just have to find a way to keep the brute locked away.”

“I’ll talk to him later, I promise.” I hesitate, but then blurt, “Do you want to press charges?”

“Charges? Oh, Lord, no.” She laughs, her eyes dancing. “That won’t be necessary.”

“Are you sure?”

She waves a hand at me, clearly dismissing my proposal. “I’m completely sure, pet. That won’t work with Thomas Murdoch. I’ll just end up having him banging on my door, and that’s the last thing I need.”

Even though I’m not yet that familiar with the lady in front of me, now is not the time to push her. Must be the former schoolteacher vibe she gives off. I blow on the tea and take a small sip, careful not to burn my tongue. My eyes shoot up in surprise.

“Good, isn’t it?” Mrs. McCarthy places her own cup close to her mouth, and there is such joy in her eyes that it’s impossible not to feel her satisfaction.

“Absolutely wonderful.” I take another sip.

“Come around on your way back later, and I’ll have a pouch with tea leaves prepared for you.” She purses her lips. “Peppermint and ginger are especially good to calm your nerves, you know.”

For the first time since coming here, I feel welcome.

“Thank you,” I reply softly.

“You’re welcome.” She winks at me, her good mood so infectious that I grin back at her. “Now, drink up. You need your strength for the confrontation you’re about to have with the most stubborn man in the village.” She raises her mug at me in quiet salutation. “May the best woman win.”

“Duly noted.”

Then I do as I’m told and drink up.

Chapter Two

Maeve

Cloonmara isn’t the kind of place you stumble upon. In fact, it’s a village you either leave on purpose or come back to on instinct, and for me, it’s sort of the latter. One of my friends in Dublin grew up in the village, and even though I hadn’t given it much thought when he told me about it, the name and what it represents popped into my head when I needed to turn my back on Dublin and my life there.

The village, perched on the edge of a restless grey sea, where gulls cry overhead and salt clings to the air like old gossip, is the exact opposite of where I come from. Cottages huddle against the wind, their paint cracked and sun-faded, as if no one has gotten around to caring for them yet. And, surprisingly, I like that. I like that time moves much slower here; that time is measured in cups of tea, the Wednesday fish delivery, and the faint chime of the church bell that still rings out every Sunday, even if no one attends.

I need a clean slate, peace of mind, and quiet. All the things I can’t find in Dublin.

But what I do not need is having to fight an old man about his pet bull every week, and as I walk through the sliding doors of the Cloonmara Garda office, I can’t help but cross my fingers, hoping it’s not going to happen a fourth time. At the same time, a nagging voice in my mind will not leave me alone. It taunts me, causing the ever-returning tic at the corner of my right eye to twitch. Even though I was fully prepared to go to battle, so to speak, against the older farmer, I didn’t find him at home. I had to leave him a note in his letterbox instead, advising him that I would come back later. As I scowled at Harry, locked safely behind a fence, it almost felt as if my ears rang from the memory of the verbal assault of said owner I had to suffer through the last time I was here. My stomach tied up in knots at the memory.

I miss the way I used to be, especially on days like today when just the thought of an old man’s ranting can end up making me almost regret relocating to Cloonmara. I shake my head at the heavy dread that festers in the pit of my stomach. The icing on the cake is the fact that the minute I close the distance and reach the far back to enter the main office, my new, silent companion rears its ugly head.

Anxiety. Ugh. Welcome back. Now piss off and leave me alone.

My heart hammers against my ribcage, and I blink rapidly as my vision closes in. Instead of turning to the main office as I usually do, I turn to the left and head for the toilets. The last thing I need is for someone to see me in the middle of an anxiety attack. A part of me is still embarrassed about my issues, even though I know I have nothing to be embarrassed about, but that doesn’t mean I want all my new colleagues to watch me going through it.

The pity mixed with confusion is not welcome.