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I
nod, and she grins wide enough to hurt.
“Okay.” She sounds breathless. I watch from the wall just outside the kitchen as Dot serves Declan his plate. The way she smiles and preens. The way he smirks and winks. My body warms just watching his big shoulders shift, seeing flashes of his white teeth. When he smiles, he looks like a playboy prince. When he frowns, a pirate.
And you’re ridiculous.
As if he can hear my thoughts, his gaze rises to meet mine. Our gazes lock, and for that moment, nothing’s on his face; his features freeze as if he’s been hexed, and I feel like I’m looking through his eyes into the heart of him.
I can’t breathe, can’t even move my throat to swallow. Dot touches his elbow, and his eyes are ripped away from mine.
My heart hammers. My stomach flips. I don’t want to stand here anymore. I suck in, tucking my elbows to my sides, and try to sidle through the crowd as quickly as I can.
When I reach the café’s door, I push through carefully. Outside, I find the smooth, dirt street cloaked in strange silence. The green Land Rover is parked near the door—for him, I’m sure. Being the least rusty of our vehicles, it’s reserved for foreign dignitaries and other honored guests. God forbid they should have to walk a mile or two.
I walk quickly down Middle Lane, looking at nothing but my own two feet. As I follow Upper Lane toward Gammy’s cottage, my heart feels as if a stone’s become lodged in my belly.
What did you think, Finley? What did you think he would look like? Who did you think he would be?
I wipe my eyes and fetch the bags I stashed beside the kiln at Gammy’s house. When Mrs. Dillon doesn’t find me at the café, she’ll show Declan here. She has the key. It was never necessary for me to show him inside. I just…wanted to. But now I have no interest. Now I’ve seen him.
Four
Declan
“It’s a pretty good life.” I smile at the little blue-haired lady who’s been standing by my table for five minutes. She’s clutching a cane that’s got a dog’s face carved up top.
“But aren’t you worried about being injured?” She shakes her head. “Those balls are thrown so fast.”
“I’m good at dodging them.” I flash her another smile that falters at the corners.
Her son, a big, burly guy standing behind her, pats her shoulder.
“I think it’s time we get on, Mum.”
“Quite right, Johnny.” She smiles over her shoulder, and I hold out an index card bearing my pen-scrawled signature. “Don’t forget this.”
She smiles, and Johnny leads her to a group of four other white-haired ladies. I toss back the last of my Guinness and turn to the girl beside me.
“I’m gonna step outside for just a second. Hold my seat?” I wink, and Dorothy beams. “Of course.”
But on the way outside, I’m stopped by a young mom and her son—this one grade-school-aged. He wants a baseball signed. I take some time for him. A few more steps toward the door, and an older man stops me. He’s wearing a plaid flat cap, his face sporting the deepest grooves I’ve ever seen. He sticks his hand out.
“Seymour, sir.”
I shake it. I can never tell how hard to go with old guys. Better to go too hard than too soft, I think, so I do that, hoping I don’t crush his hand.
“Nice to meet ya, Seymour.”
His lips twitch at the corners. “You’re my favorite.” His voice warbles.
“Is that right?”
He nods once. “Used to be my wife’s, too.”
I know better than to ask about the wife, and sure enough, Seymour tells me she passed on three years ago.
“She spotted you when you were just a rookie. Said, ‘That one’ll be a record-breaker.’”
