Family Affairs

by Pamela G Hobbs

  And her cloud of mink-coloured hair that swung glossily about her shoulders or got piled up, all topsy-turvy, when she was in a rush. And her slate grey wide-set eyes that he could happily drown in and never come up for air. The dark fringes that left smoky shadows on her cheeks when she sat reading, unaware of him or, to be fair, anyone. Those lashes would sweep up in a graceful arc when she finally realised she had company. Her lip would be nibbled, all pink and dewy and moist, begging to be licked, kissed and tasted. And her breasts . . . well, they were just every man’s wet dream. Full and rounded and cupped in various colours of jewel-toned lace – and for that one time, bared in all their alabaster glory to his eyes.

  God, he had it bad.

  How long now since he first realised she was his? Seventeen years? Christ! Half his life he’d mooned over this woman with never a real belief that she might actually be his. Seventeen bloody years. And in the last few weeks, for the first time, he’d glimpsed paradise. On several occasions. And he’d screwed up every bloody one of them. He wasn’t a gormless teenager, for Christ’s sake – he knew how to woo a woman – he had experience, so what the hell was he doing messing with Frankie’s head? He definitely wanted to mess with her delectable body, but that was never – almost never – what it had been about for him.

  Dev knew her. He cared about her. He liked her, for fuck’s sake. For the most part he was relaxed with her, easy with her, charmed by her. Other times she drove him crazy – her hot, torturous body just out of reach, her attention elsewhere, thoughts hidden. And in those times he felt lost, as if she’d always be locked in some unattainable place, not for the likes of him. So, what next? Dev knew he could never take things to the next level until the stalker business was over, until she could look at him with an open mind.

  What was he thinking?

  She was probably still in love with Stephen – and the kisses she’d exchanged with him, here in this most romantic of places, were just a reaction. Dev did a virtual head-slap and pushed himself forwards over the last few rocks to the swing gate into the garden. He knew what he had to do: leave – go to Dublin, get his work done, let things play out and then see what was what. Did that make him just a bit of a coward? Yeah, probably, but he wasn’t a complete fecking martyr, either. At least he knew the local Gardaí would be keeping an eye on her, thanks to Flynn’s contacts, and those lads were damn good at their jobs.

  The morning of the Saturday bank holiday was promising – not entirely blue skies but let’s face it, it wasn’t raining, so that in itself was good. All hands were on deck throughout the day as several trips into town were made and supplies steadily built up on all vacant surfaces: breads, marinating meat, rice, couscous and, with a nod to the gluten-intolerant, quinoa dishes mixed with toasted nuts, bowls of green salad leaves, and a large platter of the professor’s favourite tomato, broccoli, feta and hazelnut mix liberally sprinkled with sesame oil and garlic. There was a wide selection of soft drinks, coolers packed with white wine and ice, more coolers packed with beer and ice, and a table with red wine all opened and breathing.

  It was an hour to first guest’s arrival and the women were calling to each other upstairs as they hurried from room to room trying on this, testing a colour with that, doing a myriad of women things. Yes, dress was informal for this shindig, but that didn’t mean several outfits shouldn’t be tried and discarded before the perfect one was discovered from the growing heap on the bed. And make-up had to be flawless – the kind that made people think you looked amazing but had no idea why.

  Frankie dithered quite a bit before deciding on an ankle-length floaty silk skirt in a background of cobalt blue with huge pink poppies hand-painted all over it. She teamed it with a simple white three-quarter length sleeve top, cut to show just a hint of cleavage and tying in the white highlights on the poppies. She wore tan-coloured open sandals and her painted toes peeped out in a deeper pink than the flowers.

  She left her hair down as, although not vain, she knew several of the guests would expect a bit of glamour from the onsite celebrity and her hair was considered, along with her speaking voice, one of her better assets. She figured it had nothing to do with her – she was born with them and therefore came with them. Sure, she took care of her naturally wavy tresses and kept them in excellent condition, but she never coloured it or messed with it. In her view it was, like her eye colour, a gift from her father. Both her mother’s hair and eye colour was a plain ordinary brown – in its original state, that was. As for her voice? Frankie had an excellent ear and could adapt and change her natural accent at will, but her normal pitch was low and slightly husky, which she could mask for a character portrayal. But when not on set, it was her own.

  As she called out to Caro, Ali and Molly that she was heading down to the party, she wondered how one family could be so popular. How could they know this many locals when, really, they lived in Dublin? Frankie supposed they were just those kind of people – magnets, who attracted all sorts; and this party was full of all sorts, all ages, all nationalities, and with that came a myriad of colours, accents, sizes and clothing choices. It was like a bazaar, Connemara style, and she decided just to slide right into the mix.

  She picked up an iced and limed gin and tonic from super bartender Toby and wandered out onto the patio. Several heads swivelled in her direction and then did a double take – but she was used to it, so she took it in her stride as she mingled with the guests, determined just to let loose and relax into the evening.

  Dev watched the “gawkers” from his position sitting on the low wall near the garden gate, listening with one ear to a couple of local farmers. She looked simply beautiful, wearing a certain aura as a star herself. Head up, gliding forwards, politely acknowledging various nodding heads, stopping and posing for a couple of photos and moving on to the next set of fans. He studied her from under slightly lowered lids, to note, he told himself, if anyone appeared threatening or off in any way.

  Truthfully, he liked to take an opportunity to watch her that didn’t involve him having to hide his feelings or mind what he might let slip. That was getting easier as they spent more time in each other’s company. Funny that, he mused, it should surely be getting harder? But then they usually relaxed in each other’s company – when not fighting, that was. Keeping his hands off her was hard though – not touching her silky skin, running a hand down her glorious mane or leaning in for a hint of her specific fragrance . . .

  Flynn approached and disturbed his thoughts as he greeted the two older men chatting away next to him. The three conversed briefly, then the two gents headed off to fill their plates on Flynn’s advice to beat the queues.

  “Well?” Dev asked his brother.

  “Nothing. Can’t find anything on Larry – we tracked him down and it appears he was just an overzealous fan and a little naïve when it comes to women. He has a bit of a history with the ladies, often worshipping from afar and then freaking them out by popping up at unexpected places.”

  “That sounds like a lot to me,” Dev interjected.

  “I know it does, but no charges have ever been made and I talked to him myself – he seems like an innocent abroad and he took my gentle warning quite well.”

  “Gentle?” Dev snorted. “Yeah, that would be the word I’d use with regard to you when you have a bone to pick.” He drank from his craft beer and turned his head from studying Frankie to look at Flynn directly. “Has this Larry left the country, then?”

  “Couldn’t deport him without any evidence to—”

  “Evidence?” Dev sputtered. “For Christ’s sake, Flynn, he terrified her!”

  “Calm down, would you?” Flynn sipped from his own drink, a glass of mellow bourbon. “I couldn’t justifiably pack him off. But I didn’t say I wasn’t watching him. Or her.” He nodded in the direction of a young man and woman in conversation a few feet away from Frankie. “Melissa and Andy are working for us – they’re here to keep their eyes and ears open for Larry in case he turns up and t
o watch for any unusual activity around or concerning Frankie. Other than us all keeping her in our sights, so to speak, there’s not much more I can do until a hand is shown.”

  “In other words, it’s a bloody waiting game till some asshole tries to attack her or worse.” Dev moved restlessly as he tried to take in the information. “Right, well, let’s go get fed and see if we can keep our strength up to ward off the onslaught – looks like Dad could use a hand at the grill anyway.” He jostled Flynn as they strolled over to where the professor was adeptly flipping burgers and turning sausages on one grill while pieces of chicken charred nicely on the other.

  “Lads,” Patrick called with relief, “can one or both of you take over for a few moments? I think your mother needs me in the kitchen.” He beamed benignly at them as he handed over his apron and scurried towards the house.

  Flynn smirked at his younger brother. “You know Mum is over on the other side of the patio and Dad has gone haring off in the opposite direction, don’t you?” He tied the apron around his waist and handed Dev a tea towel to tuck around his own middle section.

  “Yeah, Dad is an open book – he’s definitely heading for a whiskey and a natter with old man Keavney and Father Creedon. It’s the same thing every year – he gets all on board to do the grilling and then leaves us in the lurch.” He turned a few pieces of smoking meat with one hand while swigging from his bottle with the other. “And he didn’t even prepare all the marinades, Frankie did,” he continued, grumbling.

  “Did she now?” Flynn mused. “Our Frankie’s becoming quite domesticated, isn’t she? Never would have thought it. And you wouldn’t have, either,” he said as Dev gave him a look, “except you’ve been living in her back pocket this last month or so.”

  “And what the hell does that mean?” Dev glared at him.

  “Oh! you are so damn easy, Brother.” Flynn put down his grilling tools. “I’m going to get the steaks; these burgers and sausages are almost done.” And he walked off to the kitchen to get the prepared rib-eyes from the fridge.

  Dev began transferring the meat onto various platters and chatted with guests as they came up to fill their plates. He charmed them with his easy manner, directing them to the other tables laden with salads and sides, bread and rolls. He caught up with old friends, briefly, as they moved from one eating area to the next. He shook hands, slapped a few backs.

  And all the while he was conscious and aware of a dark head of hair and a sultry laugh always in his peripheral vision.

  “Hello, stranger.” A hand came up behind him and covered his eyes and a warm, very female body pressed against his back. The spicy perfume kicked a memory into place and he turned into welcoming arms.

  “Darling Diane, where have you been hiding yourself these last few months and don’t you look a sight for sore eyes!”

  And she did. The voluptuous blonde beamed at him as she leaned in to kiss him. He had a second to turn his cheek to avoid her hungry mouth and notice that she was dressed in a low-necked fitted T-shirt and cut-off shorts. Her tan looked real, but with Diane you could never tell. She always looked groomed to within an inch of her life – even in tracksuit bottoms and a hoodie, you could be sure her nails would be perfect, eyeliner expertly applied, mascara and lip gloss always, slicked on to perfection. Her hair, highlighted with almost white streaks, looked amazing and certainly turned heads as she tossed her mane about her shoulders, usually to excellent effect. She was a beautician and plied her trade extraordinarily well.

  She and Dev had had a fling over a year earlier and had parted on good terms, mainly because he was always heading off on assignments and she wanted a bit more stability. What she was doing here at the Fitzgerald party, Dev didn’t know and he’d like to know who invited her, as he certainly hadn’t. Diane sometimes visited with friends, staying in a nearby popular caravan site that Dublin crowds had been frequenting for generations, it seemed.

  She threw her arms about his neck and tossed her hair back.

  “Want to catch up on old times?” She stuck her tongue into his ear before he could angle away.

  “Love to, darling,” he lied smoothly, “but I’m kind of on duty here, as you can see.” He gestured to the chattering and laughing guests. “And I can’t let the parents down.”

  “Oh, Devlin, I can take over for you, if you’d like to entertain your charming friend.” Frankie materialised at his side and stuck her hand out to force Diane to take it, thereby letting go of her death grip on Dev.

  “Hi, I’m Frankie – a long, long-time friend of Devlin and the Fitzgeralds. In fact,” she purred, “I’m almost family.”

  She smiled with what could only be called film star charm and Diane’s eyes were predictably out on stalks, mesmerised by the person standing in front of her, shaking her automatically proffered hand. “You, you . . . you are . . .” she stuttered.

  “She is indeed, practically family.” Flynn appeared out of nowhere, edging his way between Dev and Diane to lay a casserole dish of steaks on the trolley. He hooked an arm around Frankie’s neck and kissed her soundly on the cheek. “It’s okay, Sis.” He wriggled his eyebrows. “I’ve got this.” He indicated the array of red meat.

  “She’s not our-bloody-sister!” Dev practically spat as he grabbed Diane by the hand and pulled her off to the side, leaving Flynn and Frankie juggling the food and giggling childishly.

  “That’s Frankie Jones, the actor. The film star! Frankie Jones!” Diane was practically babbling with excitement. “OMG!”

  “Jesus, Diane, calm the fuck down, would you?” Dev took her arms and looked straight into her wide blinking eyes. “She’s here for a bit of privacy, so stop bloody yelling her name about.” He glanced around to see who was now clued-in to the star’s presence.

  But in typical Irish fashion, no one appeared to give a hoot – not one new head was turned in their direction. No new party guest who hadn’t already greeted her casually earlier paid the blindest bit of attention.

  “Right, so, how come you’re here, anyway, Diane? Shit, I didn’t mean it that way . . .”

  “Oh, don’t worry, who cares? I just met Frankie Jones!” She did a little dance on the spot while simultaneously whipping out her phone. “I have to text the girls,” she chattered on. “I have to take a photo!”

  “No!” Dev grabbed her phone. “No photos, Diane, she’s on holiday and you’d have this on bloody Instagram or Twitter in a minute and then everyone would know she’s here. In Clifden,” he added as she looked at him quizzically.

  “So what? She’s got to be used to being all over the media, for Christ’s sake!” Diane snatched her phone back. “Get over it. I’m getting a picture and hopefully with me in it!” She pulled away from Dev and dashed back towards the grill area.

  Dev shot off after her and tried to intercept her, but Colm Sullivan hailed him with a tractor story and the poor old man had been ill recently, so Dev couldn’t in all conscience brush him aside. He wasn’t hugely patient, either, but at least he nodded and hmmed in the right places.

  As quickly as manners allowed, he approached the small group clustered about the barbeque, only to see Frankie and Diane grinning wildly into an iPhone held up by Diane herself for the perfect selfie.

  Dev thumped Flynn on the arm. “Jesus, man, what the hell?” He gestured towards the women. “You know she shouldn’t be out there in the local media. I mean, shit, Flynn.” Hands running through his hair, he did an about-turn before he really lost his temper.

  “Relax, for God’s sake – you freaking out is only drawing more attention to the situation. Just play it cool and others won’t get on the photo bandwagon.”

  Dev took a deep breath, picked up a cool bottle of beer and took a swig. He scanned the locals and family friends and “extra” guests, those who came along via another person – there were always a few hangers-on and in general, the Fitzgeralds really didn’t mind. But this year there was the added worry of the Frankie situation. If only Larry or whoever had bee
n writing those blasted emails was out of the picture, this could have been a perfect day.

  He felt so bloody incompetent – wished there was something, Christ, anything, he could do to make things okay. Back to normal. Or what used to be their normal. As soon as that thought of normality came in, another followed swiftly. Damn. If things in Frankie’s life were anything approaching normal, he wouldn’t have seen her this summer, wouldn’t have laughed with her, held her when she cried – tasted her, wished so blindly for her.

  So. Screw normal.

  He’d take this uncertainty and run with it and as long as she was safe, he’d wing the rest. He faced the gathering of family and friends again and caught Caro’s eye as she bantered with some local Romeo, let his vista widen to incorporate a gaggle of younger people, sure that the centre of attention would be at least one of his younger sisters.

  Yeah, there was Ali with her cap of bleached-blonde spiky hair, flirting her ass off with a couple of students down from Dublin – she’d probably invited them. And there was Molly, the baby, sitting on the arm of one of the Adirondack chairs, leaning down and listening intently to a man who must have been a hundred and ten if he was a day.

  Molly could charm anyone with her direct no-nonsense approach – an approach that was laced with charm, despite her unerring ability to be honest with people, even if they didn’t want to hear the truth. He worried about her sometimes as she took life so seriously and she was, in his elder brother opinion, barely out of nappies.

  Ali, on the other hand, while she could talk her way out of any situation and frequently did, was much more worldly-wise and seemed to let things roll with the punches. She was tough, the middle sister, but was as generous as the day was long.

  Dev’s gaze wandered to where his parents were laughing easily with some old and dear friends. They loved this annual tradition and were really pleased that their “adopted” daughter was here to share it for the first time in years, despite the ugly circumstances surrounding her trip home. It seemed to Dev that they all, including him, kept forgetting she’d lost her fiancé so recently in such a horrible way. Was she still grieving?Was she broken-hearted? He genuinely couldn’t tell, but his experience with loss was minimal at best, so what did he know about it? Making a mental note to ask Caro for an update since they were pretty tight with secrets and girl stuff, he pushed himself away from the wall where he’d found himself wool-gathering.