by Diane Kelly
Seamus surprised me with his intellect. Apparently being delusional doesn’t necessarily correspond with being dim-witted. We debated the advantages of tacks versus nails in shoe repair, which led to a discussion of Leprechaun shoe-craft versus Italian shoemaking, which segued into a discussion of the pros and cons of the European Union.
I’d never been to Europe, but one of my older, wealthier clients made trips to the continent on a regular basis and had commented on how much easier it was to travel between countries now that they shared a common currency.
“Indeed,” Seamus agreed. “Me and me fellow fairies like to party in Amsterdam. Nothing’s illegal there. Last time we were there, me buddy Phineas got his pecker stuck in a-”
I held up my palm. “Spare me the details.” I applied a tiny dab of glue to the bottom of a patent leather spike heel, carefully centering a black plastic heel tap before pressing down with my thumb. “Just out of curiosity, what’s the exchange rate for Leprechaun gold and Euros?” It may seem like I was teasing the poor fellow, but a part of me enjoyed venturing into his fairy world. It was entertaining even if it was only pretend.
Seamus looked up in thought. “Last time I cashed in me gold they paid around fourteen Euros per coin.”
“Not bad,” I replied. I blew on the heel to speed the curing process. “By the way, Seamus, if you need cash, there’s a jewelry store not far from here that will buy your gold.”
He drove a tiny nail into the sole of a clog. “Good to know. Can you take me by tomorrow? I’d like to buy Brendan some groceries, maybe chip in on the electric and water bills. I do like to take long showers.” He waggled his brows.
Ick. “Too much information.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
EXPOSED
Not only could Seamus repair shoes quickly and perfectly, he had a way with my customers, as well.
“You are too cute,” a middle-aged women said as he handed her newly-soled flats to her.
He flashed his grin and gave her a green-eyed wink. “But none too cute for a gorgeous woman such as yourself.”
The customer blushed and giggled.
The next customer was a businessman here to pick up a pair of loafers. He looked the shoes over. “Amazing work. They look like new.”
Seamus twirled his cobbler’s hammer in his fingers. “That’s fine Leprechaun craftsmanship.”
The man chuckled. “Never had my shoes fixed by an actual Leprechaun before.”
Seamus bowed. “Glad to be of service. Tell your friends.”
“You can count on it.”
***
An hour or so later, Seamus finished tap-tapping a tiny nail into the sole of a men’s dress shoe and slid the hammer into the toolbox on the workbench. “So, Erin. What were you and Tammy doing here on Saturday?”
“Saturday?” When Seamus had appeared at the window, Tammy had been helping me choose music for the wet T-shirt contest. But there was no way I was baring my soul to this odd little man. “Just . . . talking.”
Seamus cocked his head and narrowed his eyes at me. “Not buying it.” He gestured toward the front window. “I saw you through the blinds. I also saw you at the rec center, too, doing those naughty moves, shaking your arse, rubbing your hands all over yourself.” He gave me a knowing look. “Something tells me that choreography isn’t for the Irish Festival or your dance recital.”
A hot fury welled up in me. Who the hell did this wee freak think he was, barging into my shop, my life, putting me on the spot like this? “What I do is none of your business.”
He crossed his arms over his chest. “Spill your guts, Erin. Or I’ll tell Brendan what I saw.”
I glared at him. “You wouldn’t.”
“I would.”
The little green man was relentless. Damn. I tossed my head. “He wouldn’t believe you.”
“He might.”
True. Brendan might think Seamus was a loon, but he didn’t discount everything the little man said.
“Look, Erin. The chap’s nuts about you. Only God knows why. You seem like a pain in the arse to me, always with some problem or another.”
“Hey!”
“Don’t act so offended. You know it’s true.”
He had me there.
“Brendan loves you anyway, despite all your baggage. And he deserves to know what kind of woman you really are.”
I snorted. “My stalker is giving me advice on morality?”
He shrugged. “So I’m a hypocrite. As you Americans would say, sue me. Brendan was nice enough to take me in, let me sleep on his couch. He even made me smiley-face pancakes this morning, with bananas and chocolate chips. Not many people would do that for a complete stranger. I owe him.”
There’d be no getting around this and, to be honest, it might feel good to get this off my chest. Normally I went to Brendan to unburden myself, but this wasn’t something I could go to Brendan about. Besides, if I told Seamus the whole story, maybe he’d sympathize with me and keep his mouth shut. I gave Seamus the basic details, then pleaded with him not to tell Brendan. “Saint Patrick’s Day will be the one and only time I will dance in a wet T-shirt. I swear. I’m doing it for the dog, for my son.”
Seamus uncrossed his arms and put his hands on his knees. “I understand. The things we do for love and all that shite. All righty, then. I won’t tell Brendan what you were planning.”
“Thank you, Seamus. I appreciate it.”
“Of course you won’t have to dance now that Blarney’s cured and you’ve got your pot of gold back there.” He hiked a thumb at the wall behind us.
I wasn’t sure how to respond. Sure, I wanted to believe that Seamus was a magical fairy, that he’d granted Brendan’s wish and cured my dog’s brain tumor, that he’d brought me a pot of Leprechaun gold. If it were true, all of my problems would be solved. Well, all but the problem of my being in love with my priest.
But wanting to believe these things didn’t make them true, did it? Why waste any further time and effort thinking about them?
Seamus noted my hesitation and frowned. “You don’t believe me, do you?”
“I . . . I want to believe, Seamus.” I reached out and put a gentle hand on his arm.
“You want to believe. But you don’t actually believe.”
I didn’t respond. Which gave him my answer.
He shook my hand off him. Glaring at me, he slid off the stool and pointed again toward the box of shoe polish. “You’re gold is right over there, for feck’s sake!”
I had no idea what to do at that point. Should I go along? Open the box? Pretend it contained a pot of gold instead of cans of shoe gloss? Or should I gently try to bring Seamus around to reality by showing him that the box contained no gold, only shoe shine?
Seamus didn’t wait for me to make up my mind. “That’s a fine, feckin’ kick in me knickers. I travel all the way from County Cork, lugging that heavy pot of gold here for you, and this is the thanks I get? Well, you can piss off, lassie!” He hopped down from the stool. “I’m out of here.” He stormed out of the storeroom looking much like a child throwing a temper tantrum.
I leapt from my stool and rushed after him. I couldn’t very well let this disturbed, delusional little man wander out into the world without someone to look out for him. “Stop, Seamus! Please. I’m sorry. Really, I am. Please don’t go!”
Hand on the doorknob, he turned to face me. “Why shouldn’t I? Give me one good reason.”
Yeah, Erin. Why shouldn’t he go? “Um . . .” I said the first thing that popped into my mind. “Tammy would be disappointed if you left.” I wasn’t totally sure about that. She seemed to be having fun with him at the pub last night, but I had no idea how things had gone afterward back at her place. Since she worked nights, she was a late riser. I’d planned on calling her later to find out. “Brendan would miss you, too,” I added. “He told me he had fun playing poker with you.”
He raised a red brow. “What about you, Erin? Would you miss me?”<
br />
Oddly enough, I probably would. My life had been somewhat dull and routine before this bizarre little man came along. He seemed to have shaken things ups, and, despite his quirks, he’d quickly grown on me. I nodded. “Yeah, Seamus. I’d miss you, too. Things have been much more interesting around here since you showed up.”
“As I expected.” He flashed me his grin again. “I’m damn adorable.”
“That you are.” I returned his smile.
He rubbed his bearded chin. “Guess I can’t blame you for being skeptical. Most people do have trouble believing in fairies, in magic. Figured it might be different with you, though, being as you’re a Leprechaun, too.”
Still with the Leprechaun crap. Would the guy ever give up on that? “Give me some time, Seam. Maybe I’ll come around.” Doubtful, of course. But it seemed to appease him.“Well, if you insist on dancing in that contest at the pub, let me help.”
“Help? What can you do?”
He rolled his eyes. “I’m a guy, aren’t I? I can tell you what’s sexy and what’s not, make sure you win that contest.”
“Tammy’s already helping me.”
“That may be. But what’s sexy to a girl isn’t the same as what’s sexy to a guy. For instance, that music you were dancing to. Totally wrong. It was too fast. A little gyrating can get a man’s blood pumping, but it’s the slow, sultry moves that put a knot in the knickers.”
Hmm. Good to know. “What would you suggest instead?”
“Classic rock and roll. Something with a pounding beat, but with slow parts, too.” He looked up in thought, then snapped his fingers and pointed at me. “The Scorpions ‘No One Like You.’ That would be perfect.”
Brendan’s truck radio was always tuned to a Dallas classic rock station, and I vaguely remembered the song. I stepped over to my phone and pulled up the song on iTunes. Seamus and I stood at the counter and listened to the sample. The music contained many dynamics, starting in slow for several counts, the singer’s voice breathy and sexy, then kicking in with a faster drumbeat and intense vocals. Besides the music itself, the lyrics were suggestive, sexy without being too over the top.
“I see your point,” I said when the song ended. I clicked a few buttons to download the full version of the song.
Seamus gestured to the stilettos on the floor behind the counter. “Slip on your feck-me shoes and let’s see what you’ve got.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
A BOY AND HIS DOG
We stopped working on the choreography when school let out. The last thing I wanted was Riley walking in the door and seeing his mother doing a bump and grind. The poor kid would be traumatized for life. And if I had to explain why I was dirty dancing, that his beloved pet had a potentially fatal brain tumor, well, his childhood would be pretty much over, wouldn’t it? I knew I couldn’t protect him from the harsh realities of life forever, but I’d try to protect him as long as I could. It’s what we mothers do. Item one in our job description.
A little after four, Riley came through the door dressed in jeans, a Boston Celtics sweatshirt, and his high-top basketball shoes, his backpack slung over one shoulder.
Blarney leapt to his feet when Riley entered, wagging his tail like there was no tomorrow, giving Riley a happy, Ruff! The dog bent down on his front paws and jerked first left then right in a playful manner.
Riley’s face lit up brighter than that magical rainbow. “Hey, boy!” He dropped his backpack on the floor, bent down, and mirrored the dog’s actions, dodging first left, then right. Blarney ran in a circle around Riley, leaping and twirling, barking all the while, begging Riley to play with him in that rough-and-tumble way they both enjoyed. Riley stood and turned to me, a huge smile on his face. “Blarney hasn’t acted like this in weeks. “
The dog did seem to be back to his old, goofy self. Surely it was another coincidence. Another in what was becoming an incredibly long string of coincidences. But we might as well take advantage of the fact that the dog seemed to be doing well. At least for the moment.
Riley glanced at Blarney’s hindquarters. “His hemorrhoids must be better.”
Seamus grimaced. “The dog had hemorrhoids?”
“Yes.” I opened my eyes wide, hoping Seamus would get the hint, and stressed my words. “Riley was very worried when Blarney seemed a bit lethargic. Turns out it was nothing serious. He just needed some fiber in his diet.”
Seamus nodded. “Gotcha.” When Riley turned away, he shot me a conspiratorial wink.
“Seamus is helping me out here,” I told Riley. “Why don’t you take Blarney on home? Maybe play some Frisbee with him. I’m sure you’d both enjoy that. The floors will keep ‘til tomorrow.”
“Cool. Thanks, mom.” And there it was. The rare kiss initiated by my son, reserved only for the most special of occasions, a light peck on the forehead but enough to make a mother’s heart burst. Blarney’s recovery was certainly reason to celebrate.
Wait. What was I saying? The dog wasn’t cured. Not yet. He was simply having a good spell. What Seamus had done earlier, with the chanting and holding the dog’s head, that would have no real, lasting effect. Right?
Riley retrieved Blarney’s leash from the hook on the coat tree and clipped it onto his collar. He scooped his backpack from the floor, slung it back over his shoulder, and boy and dog were out the door. “Later,” he called by way of good-bye.
Seamus stepped to the window and watched Riley and Blarney walk away. “Nice kid.”
“The best.”
“Brendan’s as nuts about your kid as he is about you.”
“Yeah. He’s been great with Riley all these years. Like a second father.”
Seamus turned back to me. “He’d like to be a real father, you know. Have a child of his own someday.”
My brain cells screeched to a halt. “What?” Had Brendan opened up to Seamus?
“That’s what he told me. That he’d like to have a family of his own.”
“He meant in a figurative sense, right? I mean, priests aren’t allowed to have families.”
Seamus shook his head emphatically. “No. He wants the real deal. And he’s pretty mad at God for keeping that from him. For keeping you from him.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
WHO’S YOUR DADDY?
Shock glued me in place. I couldn’t believe Brendan had admitted his feelings to Seamus, shared such private thoughts with a virtual stranger. Perhaps he wasn’t comfortable discussing them with another priest. Then again, Seamus had us pegged already, had realized straight away that we were in love, so what was the harm in acknowledging what the little man had already discerned?
Regardless, this wasn’t a subject I wanted to visit again. What was the point? I’d only end up more frustrated and upset than I was already. “Want some dinner?”
“You’re changing the subject.”
“That obvious, huh?”
“Sure. But lucky for you I’m so hungry I could eat a unicorn.”
Guess a unicorn is the fairy equivalent of a horse.
I stepped next door to the Toro to grab supper to go for Seamus and me. I returned with our meal a few minutes later, setting the white paper bag on the counter. I pulled out two foil-wrapped bean burritos and handed one to Seamus.
He moaned with pleasure after his first bite. “Jakers, this is good. You don’t get Mexican food like this in County Cork.”
“It helps to share a border.” As I stood at the counter unwrapping my dinner, I noticed Seamus had repaired two heels and installed new grommets on a pair of Italian leather boots in the few minutes I’d been gone. “Wow. You work fast.”
Seamus shrugged. “Years of experience. But your father was the fastest ever. You should’ve seen him in action. Feckin’ brilliant. He could make twenty pairs of shoes a day.”
I probably should have let it go, but I couldn’t. “I told you, Seamus. My father isn’t who you think he is. My father’s name is Cormac Flaherty.”
“And I told you, Er
in, that your father’s name is Dermot Dunphy.”
“No, you didn’t tell me that.” I unrolled the foil from one of the burritos. “You told me my father was a Leprechaun, but you never said his name.”
Seamus rolled his eyes. “Well, now I did. So there.”
“Dermot Dunphy, huh?” I managed between bites. “Doesn’t get much more Irish than that.”
Dermot Dunphy.
Wait a minute. I’d heard that name before. But where?
Then it hit me. Dermot Dunphy was the name from the obituary in The Irish Examiner, the one that had made my mother gasp and turn white, the one that had referenced the Order of Irish Faeries, the one whose photograph looked like me.
Could it be true? Could someone other than my Da be my father?
I stopped mid chew, unable to swallow either the food or the information Seamus had just fed me.
Seamus cocked his head. “Your mother never told you?”
I forced the bite down, nearly choking. “No,” I croaked.
Was there really anything to tell? No. No way. I’d sooner believe I’d been immaculately conceived. My mother would never have an affair, never cheat on my dad. Not only did she love my Da—thoroughly, deeply, and exclusively—but she was a devout Catholic. Thou shalt not commit adultery was one of God’s top ten. Sure, Ma might engage in occasional idle gossip, write a check at the grocery when she knew dad’s pension wouldn’t be deposited until the following day, but she’d never betray her husband by sleeping with another man. Ma felt very strong about sexual purity. When I’d told her I’d become pregnant out of wedlock, she’d been incredibly upset. In fact she’d burst into tears and said something about . . .
The sins of the mothers.
“Oh, dear Lord.” My lungs felt as if they’d collapsed. I gulped for air. I looked into Seamus’s eyes. The mischievous twinkle was gone. They were clear, stark, lucid. “It’s true, isn’t it?”