by Clare Austin
Denying responsibility at this point, when Tynan needed his financial integrity unchallenged, lacked wisdom.
“Yes, the taxes have mounted up. This would be simple if it was only a tax issue.” Feeney handed a stack of papers across the desk. “Your uncle had taken out a loan with the property as collateral. That two hectares is devalued in today’s economy, but when this loan was issued, property values were booming. You might say, when he passed, he was ‘upside down’ in his mortgage.”
“The real estate market is tough everywhere,” Ty offered, not only thinking of this but O’Fallon’s.
Feeney nodded his agreement. “That’s why the Ballinacurragh Fisherman’s Bank and Loan feels it would be in the best interest of all involved if we forgive the remainder of the loan and retain title. Of course, the taxes would then become our responsibility.” Feeney picked up his pen and wrote an amount on the bottom of the page. “This is the current value, the back taxes owed, and the principle and interest due on the loan. I’m sure you’ll agree my offer is generous.”
Tynan felt a stab of disappointment. Feeney was telling him he would gain nothing but a huge debt by refusing the deal offered. His first impulse was to sign this mess over to the bank and forget he ever had an uncle O’Malley.
However, Cade had warned Tynan not to be hasty. Land often had hidden value. He should at least see it and read through the paperwork. He would be wise to fax the documents to Cade and have his attorney take a look. There had to be a reason Feeney was so eager to get the deal sealed.
“If you would have Ms. Walshe make copies of all this, I’ll send it off to my attorney,” he insisted.
Feeney’s already pink cheeks seemed to flush a bit deeper. “Certainly, certainly,” he stammered and shuffled the papers meaninglessly. “I’ll get those to you…uh…soon.”
“No rush,” Tynan said. He had originally planned to stay in Ballinacurragh only a few days, head up to Galway, visit some old haunts, catch up with mates from school, and then get back to Boston before Flannery’s due date. Now, he wouldn’t mind hanging around this area. He owed it to himself to catch up on lost years.
Could he unravel the details of Muireann O’Malley, where she had been, who she had become? Their relationship needed sorting out.
Relationship? Ty wanted to box his own ears. They had no relationship.
An impatient stir in Ty’s loins effectively muddled the chatter over money. “What’s the next move?”
“Ah, now, if you’re in a rush, I can have the paperwork drawn up later today,” Feeney offered with a smile that would have looked at home on a cat who’d just swallowed the family goldfish.
“Are there any other claims on the land?” Tynan remembered Cade’s admonition. These lands often have a twisted history. There may be cookie-jar deeds. Make sure you’re really in the clear, or you’ll have some Paddy hunting you down with a peat spade.
Feeney paled a shade and cleared his throat before speaking. “That shouldn’t worry you at all.” The narrowing of his eyes was almost imperceptible. “There is one local who claims the land is…well, I hate to use the term…she claims—” He cleared his throat and his face reddened. “We’re trying very hard not to fall victim to what you might call superstition. A few locals seem to think this land is enchanted…they should be embarrassed…enchanted with fairies? Perfectly ridiculous, of course. She has no legal right to the land as far as anyone in authority knows.”
She? Who was this she he kept referring to?
Ty’s BS meter shot into the red zone. “Are you saying this might be some kind of ancient pagan site?”
“Oh, heavens, no. It’s all about some tree,” Feeney grumbled under his breath. “Really, Mr. Sloane, no panic now.”
The banker’s quick dispatch of local concern set alarm bells off in Tynan’s head. Tales of the supernatural, for all their loss of credence in modern Ireland, had curtailed the prowling Celtic Tiger’s progress more than once. And any area that boasted even a slight possibility of historical value would be a magnet for protests.
He knew from what had been going on in the Boyne Valley and the Hill of Tara that he’d have everyone from UNESCO to Hare Krishna down here if they found so much as an unusual mound of earth on this site. A complication was not what he wanted. He also didn’t want to contribute to a local feud or cheat someone out of a legitimate bequest. “Can I meet this person? Perhaps we can come to some sort of compromise.”
Feeney’s collar suddenly looked too tight. His face reddened and a bead of sweat glistened at his brow. “The land and that pile of rubble she reveres so much have no intrinsic value and no historical significance.”
Tynan pushed back his chair and prepared to leave. “I’d like the fine points faxed to my advisors.” A good Boston lawyer would know exactly how to handle a slimy weasel like Feeney.
“Certainly.” Feeney’s expression would rival a caged rat looking for the nearest escape route. “Just leave the contact information with Walshe.”
“And let’s be sure everyone, even if they do believe in fairies, gets treated fairly,” Tynan added with a wry grin.
The banker put a thumb between his collar and neck as though to loosen the strangle hold. “No…now, no panic. Let me take care of all that.” He stood and offered his hand, soft and damp with sweat. Tynan resisted the urge to wipe his own hand on his trouser leg.
Ty had the same opinion of banks that he did of funeral homes. They were needed, but one shouldn’t hang around too long without good reason. Now, he needed to be outside on the street, hear the gulls call overhead and the sound of the incoming tide splashing the seawall. If he were lucky, he might happen across a familiar selkie taking her morning dip in the pool off the cliffs.
Chapter Seven
Solar heat warmed the rocks where she lay. Her pelt discarded, white skin exposed to the morning light, the selkie closed her eyes and listened to the song of the sea, a pulse to match the one of her own blood in her veins. Gulls circled, their shadows fleeting past, voices raised in an ancient call.
A darkness blocked the sun and she opened her eyes. Ebony wings hovered over her. A raven lighted gently on her breast. She watched as feathers stroked her skin, causing cool tingles to warm as the sensation moved across her body. Wingtips evolved into fingertips. Deep rivulets of heat spread in concentric circles, radiated from her core to extremities and down her midline to the cradle of her belly where pleasant fire kindled.
As she closed her eyes she could feel the beating of his heart in counter-rhythm to the pulse in her own chest. His breath was warm on her cheek. “Open your eyes,” he beckoned in a deep musical tone. “I came here to find you.”
Her eyes were heavy. Through slitted lids she could see his face, his pale skin and eyes that rivaled the blue of the sky in evening. Paralyzed with sleep, she tried to lift her hand to stroke the angle of his jaw, but her body would not respond to her brain’s demand. She ached to weave her fingers into his hair and pull him to her.
Muireann rolled to her side, her hand grasped but her eyes opened to a brown brooding gaze. “Cú?”
The big hound, black nose only inches from her own, gazed solemnly as though reading her dream.
Muireann could still feel the tingling sensation in her girl-parts left by the imaginings of her subconscious. She forced herself to sit upright and tried to remember the dream. “It must have been a good one,” she pondered aloud.
A raven turned into a man? What kind of crazy imagery was that? And, damn, the man was none other than our Mr. Sloane himself.
Muireann wished there were dream police. She would have Tynan arrested for inspiring such a reverie.
She wasn’t sure whether to smack him for showing up now and making her stomach spin out of control, or for waiting this long. Why now? Was her life not complicated enough?
Men baffled her, this man more than most. She had no time to delve into his psyche or motivations. On the other hand, delving into his—
“Oh Muireann, you eegit,” she moaned and forced herself to her feet. She stepped on Cú’s tale, he yelped, she tripped, and nearly fell but caught herself on the bedpost. “Come on, Cú, I need a cuppa.”
The kitchen was cold. The fire had long since died from lack of attention. It was a treat to have a man stir up her heat. The wanton choice of words flushed her cheeks. She mentally restated the fact in other terms. It was lovely to have him perk up her fire. This was hopeless. The images he prompted had nothing at all to do with the turf stove.
Muireann filled the kettle and set it to heat. She plugged in the electric radiator and it rattled to life. This intolerance of the cold seemed odd. It only plagued her when she was indoors. If she jumped into the sea right now, the chill would quickly subside.
Though she was certain the whole selkie myth was promulgated by locals as far back as the ancients to attract tourists, sometimes she wondered why the sea felt like a cradle to her.
Go way outta that garden.
All nonsense—selkies, fairies, mermaids, for God’s sake. Foolishness.
And there lay the other problem with handsome Tynan Sloane. He was immediately identifiable as a dreamer. He called himself a seanchaí, which meant he told stories, promoted lore, and was most likely off with the fairies himself. Just like her mother and old Bertie O’Malley.
Muireann’s crusade had little to do with legend and everything to do with reality.
She stared into her empty teacup until her eyes blurred and all she could see was Tynan’s quiet smile as he said good night. Why hadn’t he tried to kiss her? Had he not longed for her as she had for him?
Idiotic. She shouldn’t even dream of it. Could she have a taste of him, a little tickle, a bit of him…would that be so terrible? For old time’s sake?
“Gonna let that kettle whistle until all the pigs in Clare are at yer door?”
“Simon?” She shook herself from the solitude of her imaginings, grabbed the kettle off the heat, burned her hand, dropped the vessel. Boiling water splashed, snuffing out the flame of the stove. “Jaysus, Simon. Ya near took ten years off me life.”
Muireann grabbed a tea towel and wrapped her hand to stop the stinging.
“Didn’t ya hear the door slam?” He finished the tea preparations for her and handed her a mug. “I heard the kettle clear across the garden. Where’s Cú?”
“Asleep. He was up late last night.” As was she.
“Oh, and was he having a grand time with Niabh Conneely’s poodle? Or was he guarding your virtue?”
“Shut your hole. My virtue or lack thereof, is none of your concern.”
“You skipped out of O’Malley’s last night. How did you get home?”
She didn’t owe him any explanation. So, why was it at the tip of her tongue? “I walked part of the way. Had to cool off.”
“Part?”
“Got a lift from a tourist.” She hoped that would suffice as an answer.
“Just any tourist?” He swung a kitchen chair around and straddled it, sat and sipped his tea.
He knew. How? Muireann took a chair across the table from him. Her head was starting to throb. She smelled rank and needed a shower. Her hair was in tangles. “Why do you do this to me?” she asked, hoping he had no answer.
“Do you want the quick and dirty or the long and intellectual?”
She remained silent. Any random excuse wouldn’t wash with Simon. He knew her too well. He was probably the only person in the world capable of eliciting a laugh when tears clogged her throat. Simon knew her buttons. Together they had colored outside the lines since each could hold a crayon.
He leaned back and took a long look at her until she squirmed under his scrutiny. “Because you are in terminal self-denial. It’s my goal in life to see you fulfilled.”
“And for some irrational reason, you think my getting laid is the answer?” She would have laughed but it would turn into hysteria, and it was too late in the morning for going back to bed.
“Hey, selkie, I didn’t say that.”
“Don’t call me that,” she protested. “And no, you didn’t say that, but it’s what you mean. This is the twenty-first century. I don’t need a man to complete myself.”
“We’re not all bad y’know. Take meself here. I’m a brilliant specimen of a man.” He leaned back and tried to show a biceps muscle, but only succeeded in looking like a cartoon with white and scrawny appendages.
Muireann felt her face crack into an involuntary grin. “I’d rather not, if you don’t mind.”
“Ya got any biscuits?” He got up and started to rummage through her cupboard. “Ah, my favorite.” He pulled a package of chocolate wafers from behind the box of oats.
“Leave those,” she commanded. “They’re for emergencies.”
“Muireann O’Malley…this is an emergency.” He ripped the wrapper off, set the biscuits on the table in front of her and sat back down. Simon reached across the table and took hold of her hand. “Ronan is gone. We all miss him. But it’s a complete downer to see you go on like there should be black crape hangin’ from the door post.”
A pain shot through her and she gave a moment to hating Simon for shoving reality in her face when she would rather live in the world of her imagination. Muireann’s older brother, Ronan, had the soul of a bard and the touch of an artist. He could see a flute in a scrap of blackwood and a harp in a pile of lumber. Whatever shadows darkened her days, Ronan had been able to lighten her mood. He’d had the ability to embrace fantasy and imbue his craft with magic.
Ronan was not at peace in or on the sea. The irony of his losing his life to the cold grip of the thoughtless depths brought heart-ache beyond the limits of her being. If she had been at his side that day, he would still be with her. She couldn’t ignore the pressure and sting behind her eyes but tried in desperation not to allow tears. This might be just the time to have one of her emergency biscuits.
Simon touched her cheek with the tips of his fingers and gently forced her to look at him. “I miss him too. He was my best mate. Ronan’s heart would ache seeing you like this.”
She perceived the same choking of tears in Simon’s voice that she was feeling in her own throat. Muireann was afraid to speak. She needed a distraction to derail her train of thought.
“Simon, do you remember me mentioning a boy I had a silly crush on when I was fifteen?” She stirred her tea and tried not to look at Simon.
“Yeah, I do. You were completely mental for him.” Si set his cup down and stared at her. “What was his name…Tom, Tyler…no. Tynan?” He stood and his chair tipped over with a crash. “Tynan? He’s not a tourist…he’s your Tynan.”
Heat rose up her neck into her cheeks. “Yes, Tynan of the mad adolescent crush.”
Simon snatched another biscuit. “Why is he here?”
She knew better, but decided to be honest. “He came to look me up. Probably wanted to see if I got old and fat.”
Si righted the chair and sat. He stuffed the cookie into his mouth. “You believe that?”
“You’re spitting crumbs,” Muireann said. “Why shouldn’t I? “ She knew when Simon got cynical like this, he was just trying to protect her, but it annoyed her none the less. “I’ve work to do.” She dipped a biscuit into her tea and studied the chocolate coating as it melted into creamy swirls. “Am I getting your help or not?”
He shrugged his shoulders and rose to leave. “Don’t come crying to me then…when he breaks your heart like he did fifteen years ago.” The door slammed and he was gone.
I need a shower.
Muireann needed to salve the sting of Simon’s words off her skin and out of her belly.
Simon, for all his faults, was her closest friend in all the world. They had grown up together, shared everything from stolen sweets in her mother’s cupboard to secret confessions, loss, and pain. They’d almost had sex, out of curiosity, when the stirrings of adolescence overcame them. They’d been clumsy and ended up laughing too hard to complete the misa
dventure.
When she went away to university, Simon followed. He lived in a cheap Dublin flat, played his uilleann pipes and sold his handcrafted, ceramic trinkets to the tourists strolling Grafton Street. He made it his mission to approve or, more often, disapprove of every man in whom Muireann showed the slightest interest.
She tolerated this ludicrous arrangement long enough to discover she had no need for a degree in fine arts. That took a full three years. Granted, she was frequently distracted by nonacademic adventures during that time. When it finally hit her that she needn’t be able to give a discourse on the subtleties differentiating the Pre-Raphaelites to throw a pot, she quit and caught a bus back to Ballinacurragh.
Muireann turned the shower on and said a silent prayer to the gods of hot water that it wouldn’t run out until she’d washed away the memory of last night’s dream. It must have been the result of not eating a proper supper or the caffeine in that last cup of tea she’d shared with Tynan.
Tynan. There he was again. This time in her shower. Why did thoughts of him keep sneaking into her thinking?
Think about something else.
Today she had a plan and would not deviate from it. She had made little headway in her search at the old fortress and she needed to get back to it. How long could she really hold off the sale of Bertie’s land? Someone had a claim on it, and if she didn’t find the clues she needed soon, Ian and his vultures would have it under tar macadam before Lúnasa.
She ran soapy fingers over her body, and her mind flashed the image of the raven in her dream stroking her breasts.
Stop it. The temptation to scream was compelling.
Perhaps Simon was right.
She vowed she wouldn’t lose focus on her responsibilities. Tynan was here. She could enjoy his company. She simply wouldn’t allow him to distract her for more than a few minutes at a time.