by Jill Cox
“Good call. Oi! Lady ninjas!” I slipped out from in between the girls and stepped two feet away, unzipping the top pocket of my rolling bag. “This pocket holds some very special Swiss chocolate. It’s meant to be consumed with your feet frozen in one place. If you move your toes even a little bit, the chocolate will magically transform into spinach.”
Sydney eyed me. “I don’t believe you, Meredith.”
I pulled out one of the chocolates bar I’d bought in the duty-free lounge and broke it in half, handing half to Sydney and half to Siobhan. “Believe me or don’t. The only way to be sure you don’t get spinach is to stand still. Oh, and I almost forgot. If you eat this brand of chocolate too fast, it turns into sand in your mouth. So chew slowly.”
Siobhan frowned. “Now I know you’re lying.”
“You think so?” I lifted an eyebrow. “Suit yourself. But don’t say I didn’t warn you, mate.”
The girls exchanged looks, then shot their mum a questioning glance. “Go ahead,” Maeve said sweetly. “But tell Meredith thank you first.”
“Thank you!” They shouted in unison, their mouths already full of chocolate.
“You’re welcome.” I winked at Maeve and handed her a giant bar of her own. Then I sped off toward the open theater doors.
Ushers were gathering programs and sweeping up debris as I entered the room, which was about the same size as my high school’s auditorium. My eyes immediately fell on Emma’s blond curls spilling over the back of her seat, a couple of rows up from the door. She was staring straight ahead, her eyes fixed on the stage. I followed her gaze to find Michael and Jack talking to a woman I didn’t know.
I slipped into the seat behind Emma, observing the scene. Michael’s ever-widening bald spot gleamed in the harsh theater lights as his head turned back and forth between Jack and the young woman. As they spoke, she pushed a dark curl away from her face, clasping demurely at a silver chain around her neck. Was this the booking agent? It would make sense. Someone that young might’ve preferred a washed-up pop star over a small press author like Jack.
But that didn’t explain why she looked so familiar to me.
Just then, the stranger turned toward Michael, both hands on her hips. Which is when I noticed the t-shirt under her jean jacket was the same one Jack was wearing under his blazer.
Faded gray. Vintage. Featuring a boxer guy with both fists raised.
Peace. Love. Pogues.
Air escaped my lungs in a giant whoosh. Because I did recognize this girl. Except the last time I saw her, she was sitting on Jack’s lap in the far corner of McGann’s Pub, Doolin.
Chestnut curls. Deep-set brown eyes. Rosy cheeks.
“I hate those stupid shirts,” Emma finally muttered under her breath. “Scratch that. I just hate her and I hate Michael Brady for inviting her here tonight. Do you remember what you said when she bought those matching shirts, Maeve?”
“Six fingers,” I responded, barely above a whisper. “That guy has six fingers on his right hand.”
The girl on the stage was Hannah O’Connell.
FORTY-ONE
Emma whipped her head around, her eyes wide. “Meredith? What are you –?”
“Not the time, Ems.” I shook my head as I motioned for her to move over one seat. “Tell me quickly – is that Hannah O’Connell?”
“Yes. Michael invited her.” She closed her eyes for a moment, then opened them again, shooting a look at the stage. “Ugh, I could kill that eejit. Somehow, Michael tracked Hannah down in London, then flew her to Dublin for the night. He’s convinced she’ll sway Jack’s mind about the film contract. Honestly, Meredith, if any of us had known –”
“Stop,” I interrupted, one hand raised. “You don’t need to defend the Kelly name, Emma. I talked to Jack this morning. He asked me to come back to Dublin tonight. I know he wouldn’t have done that if he was in on Michael’s scheme.”
“No.” She chewed on her lip. “You’re right. But it doesn’t change the fact that she’s here.”
I watched Jack on the stage, his eyes focused on Michael as he spoke, yet shifting every few seconds back to Hannah, who stared at him with all the heart eyes in her arsenal. Oh man, this was bad. The expression on Jack’s face was inscrutable, but I couldn’t ignore the way his eyes kept flickering back to Hannah, or the muscle twitching at his jawline.
As further proof that Hannah’s gaze unnerved him, Jack subtly crossed his arms over his chest. But the blond head of the boxer guy still peeked out from above his sleeve, and it occurred to me that Jack had never worn that Pogues t-shirt since the day we met. Not one single time. So why had he brought it to Dublin this weekend?
Oh, I don’t know, Past Meredith scolded from the recesses of my mind. Maybe for the same reason you took Pete’s padlock key with you to Paris, you gigantic hypocrite.
Ugh. If only I could send Past Meredith and Michael Brady on a one-way trip to the bottom of the River Liffey. But concrete shoes were so hard to come by these days. Especially when you needed to get rid of your own soul.
As though he sensed my scrutiny, Jack’s eyes found mine across the theater. His eyebrows shot up, and just like that, he was running up the center aisle in my direction.
“You’re here,” he said softly as he reached my row, pulling me up from my seat into a tentative hug. “How did you –”
“I’ll tell you later,” I whispered, breathing in the scent of his neck, which smelled strangely of… what? Vanilla? Amber? I pulled back to look in Jack’s eyes. “You did want me here tonight, didn’t you?”
Jack’s pupils flared. “Of course I did, love. I’m just surprised to see you, that’s all.”
Emma cursed under her breath behind me, so I glanced over Jack’s shoulder to find Michael and Hannah making their way up the aisle in Jack’s wake. Up close, Hannah was even more beautiful than she’d appeared on stage – perfect complexion, long eyelashes, and that ever-present blush on her cheeks.
I missed the days when my biggest problem was Duckface Lindsay.
Jack’s gaze followed mine, and he suddenly hopped backward out of the aisle. “Oh, right,” he said, shooting Michael a nasty look. “Meredith, this is… uh…”
“Hannah O’Connell,” she smiled politely, extending her right hand to me. “Pleased to meet you, Meredith. Are you a friend of Emma’s?”
“Well, yes.” I stammered as Emma laughed under her breath behind me. “But…”
“Meredith’s my girlfriend, Hannah,” Jack stated clearly as he rejoined my side. “She was born in Doolin, raised in America, and now she’s back, living in Galway.”
“Oh.” Hannah’s expression twisted briefly as she pursed her lips. But then her eyes met mine. “Ohhhh. Of course – an Irish-American! The tall redhead rediscovering the motherland. Just like the character in your new novel, right, Jack? The one Michael described to me at dinner?”
My stomach flipped. Jack’s new novel was about me? And this was how I found out?
Jack shot me a pained look. In all the time we’d been working together, he’d never let me read a single word. I’m superstitious, love. Only Michael and my editor are allowed to read new material. But I promise, when it’s ready, you’ll be the first to know.
I let my gaze float back to Hannah, and to my surprise, the look in her eyes hit me right in the feels. Without either of us knowing it, I’d stolen something precious from her. Until tonight, Hannah had been the brightest star in Jack Kelly’s fictional universe.
Michael stepped forward, his eyes fixed on mine. “I invited Hannah tonight, Meredith,” he explained without an ounce of remorse. “As you know, Jack and I have a lunch meeting tomorrow with the production company. I figured real-life Claire might want her own say in the matter, so I flew Hannah to Dublin a day early. And now, here we are.”
If anyone besides Michael had pulled such a stunt, I might have given them a black eye. But I knew Michael better than that. His only goal in life was to close the best deal for his clients, a
nd in Jack’s case, that meant breathing new life into his previous success. What agent wouldn’t throw a curveball if it meant sealing a deal?
Real-Life Claire™ held the keys to the kingdom. Well played, Mike. Well played indeed.
The twins picked that moment to swarm us, nearly knocking Jack over when they wrapped their arms around his waist.
“You looked fancy on stage, Uncle Jack,” Sydney shouted.
“But next time, wear your glasses,” Siobhan added. “Smart people always wear glasses.”
“Good to know,” Jack chuckled, his expression softening as he cupped his hands against their heads. “Shouldn’t you two be asleep in the hotel by now?”
“Change of plans,” Maeve said, nodding tersely at Hannah. “We’ve decided to drive back to Galway tonight. We were about to leave when Meredith arrived, so now the girls would like to invite her to join us.”
“Oh!” I shot Maeve a grateful look. “Yes, that would be lovely, thanks.”
“Wait, what?” Jack unwrapped himself from the tiny twin arms and stepped forward, inclining his head toward mine. “No, Meredith. Stay. You can come with us to the meeting tomorrow and then you and I can drive home together, just like we planned.”
The scene played out in my mind: Michael and the producers on one side of the table, Hannah and Jack on the other, and me at the far end, watching the arguments lob back and forth between them like a ball boy at Rolland Garros.
Forty-Love, whatever. No way would I subject myself to that game-set-match.
“Wow! That sounds so fun,” I lied. “But, um… the thing is, Angie promised me a new round of Night and Day edits first thing Monday morning. So on the flight here, I decided I should head down to Doolin for a few days.”
“Doolin? Really?”
“Yeah, of course,” I shrugged. “With all the tourists in Galway right now, Emma’s office is too noisy to concentrate. You know I’m worthless when I’m distracted.”
“Yeah, but –”
“No buts, Jack. I need to sequester myself, and where better than my old room at the Juniper House?”
“But…” Jack watched me strangely for a long moment. “Can’t you wait one day? I can drive you down to Doolin myself tomorrow afternoon.”
“I know you can, but there’s no need. My dad will come get me. He loves to make himself useful.” I kissed Jack on the cheek, then stepped forward to take Hannah’s hand again. “It was very nice to finally meet you, Claire.”
“You, too,” she smiled. And for the tiniest moment, I let myself believe she meant it.
FORTY-TWO
You know that scene at the beginning of Anne of Green Gables when Matthew Cuthbert arrives at the Bright River train station to find a poor, forlorn little redhead sitting on top of a pile of shingles? Sub in Kirwan’s Lane for Bright River and my oversized suitcase for the pile of shingles, and that’s how Jamie Sullivan found his gingeraffe daughter at noon on Sunday.
For the first thirty minutes of our drive south, neither my dad nor I said a word. Soft rain danced on the windshield as the Ella Fitzgerald channel streamed softly from my dad’s phone.
I Could Write A Book.
Someone To Watch Over Me.
Let’s Call The Whole Thing Off.
All Of Me.
At the border of County Galway and County Clare, the drum intro of Night and Day rattled the passenger door speaker. Thumpa-thump, thumpa-thump, thumpa-thump. Without warning, the flood of tears I’d held back all morning finally escaped down my cheeks.
But that didn’t stop Ella from singing her heart out. As she began the chorus for the final time, my dad pulled his car into a petrol station. But instead of shutting off the engine, he grabbed my left hand and held it tight against his chest. Despite the thick cotton of his sweater, I could feel his heart keeping time with Ella’s drumbeat.
His heart had survived five bypasses. And losing his only son. And selling Sullivan’s, the Oregon house, and leaving the American dream behind.
If his heart could survive all of that, surely mine could survive this drive to Doolin.
Planting a quick kiss on my thumb, he squeezed my hand three times before releasing it back to my lap. “This song was your brother’s favorite,” he grinned. “Did you know?”
For whatever reason, I hadn’t told my parents yet about the book title. So I tugged my phone out of my pocket, opened up my photos, and turned the screen so my dad could see Reardon Publishing’s first draft of my book cover.
“It isn’t finished yet,” I explained, watching my dad absorb every detail the image. “They want to fix a few details about the bridge, the title font’s not quite right, and Angie asked the graphic designer to increase the twinkle lights, but…”
“It’s perfect,” he said, his voice hitching on that last syllable. “Just wait until your mum sees! She’s sketched out a billion covers and none of them were nearly as gorgeous as this one.”
“She’s sketched them? Or you have?”
“Don’t be daft, lass,” he winked. “You know quite well your mother would never waste her time on such nonsense. Unlike me, she has a life.”
He hopped out of the car, filled up the tank, and before I knew it, he was back inside, flipping off the music as he turned back onto the coastal road headed south.
“I still can’t get over the number of tourists we have this summer,” he said, apropos of nothing. “It’s a good thing you called this morning because I’m fairly certain your mother was about to start renting your apartment to the people we’ve waitlisted for rooms.”
I pretended to gasp. “She would never!”
“She would,” he chuckled. “So, tell me, love – how long will you be staying with us this time?”
“I’m not sure. A while, I think.”
He glanced briefly my way. “What’s a while? A few days? Weeks? Months?”
I didn’t answer. Because the truth was, I really didn’t know. The further south we drove from Galway, the more I questioned why I’d called him in the first place.
We drove along in silence for a few more miles. At some point, my dad produced a brand new floss pick from some hidden pocket or cranny and began to clean his teeth. I had to laugh. Jamie Sullivan knew this habit drove me crazy, and I was ninety-nine percent certain it was his way of forcing the conversation.
Lucky him. I’d left my fight somewhere between Dublin and Galway the previous night.
“Do you think I’m crazy?” I asked. “What I mean is, am I crazy to publish a novel that so closely resembles my own life?”
Throwing the floss pick in the floorboard, he frowned. “Crazy? Why?”
“Because… I mean, that story’s not mine alone to tell. And the hero of Night and Day has a life of his own now. A life that doesn’t involve me. I know this because I saw him this weekend.”
“Pete?” He jerked his head my way. “He was in Paris? Why?”
“Because he lives there now. And also because I have the worst luck on the planet.”
Dad’s eyes flickered back and forth between the road and me. “Did you tell him anything about your book?”
“No, of course not. But I definitely should have told him. What if he finds out from somebody else? What if he’s walking down the street in Butte, Montana someday, and he passes a bookstore and notices some guy and girl spinning around on the front cover of a book with my name on it? Next thing you know, Vick Darby will be showing up on our doorstep to serve me papers for libel. Or slander. Which one is it again?”
“Oh, darlin’,” he snorted. “Creative people have been telling their side of the story for centuries without permission. Every tale’s inspired by someone’s real life, isn’t it? Every song, too. How do you think those tabloid journalists make a living?”
“I guess that’s true.” I swiped open my phone screen and pulled up the book cover again. “What do you think Ian would say about this insanity if he were here?”
A soft smile crept into Jamie Sullivan’s c
heek. “If he were here, the first thing your brother would say is that he told us so.”
“Told who?”
“Your mother and me.” He chuckled quietly to himself. “From your very first semester at Highgate, he was furious that you refused to study creative writing. ‘That’s her true gift,’ he ranted, every single semester. ‘She’s wasting her time on that French lit nonsense.’ And every semester, we would tell him that what you studied was your choice, and to keep his opinion to himself. Which I’m guessing he did by the look on your face.”
“No, he didn’t,” I laughed. “I mean, he tried to play it casual or whatever, but that summer we came here to clean up Nana’s cottage, he preached at me long and hard about end-of-life regrets. That’s why I ended up taking creative writing senior year instead of French. I didn’t want to let him down.”
“He’d be proud of you, love.” His smile faltered for a moment, then deepened. “If he were here, he would call you his rock star hero. Your mum and I talk about that all the time. You could have caved in on yourself after Ian…”
Died. It was a word he still couldn’t say, and I didn’t blame him. I couldn’t say it either.
“You didn’t quit,” he continued, the last word catching in his throat. “You never gave up, not even when Pete left. You could have quit school to move back home, and your mum and I would’ve welcomed you without a single question.”
I laughed, wiping a stray tear from my face. “Now you tell me.”
“Hey, if I’d given you that option, you still would’ve stayed in Portland, because that’s who you are. You dig in deep and face those dragons head on like it’s your job. Which is how I know that whatever decisions you make over the next few weeks will be the right ones.”
My throat began to ache as fresh tears began to fall. “I’m not sure this time, Dad.”
“Yes, love. You are sure. Just like you were sure that your story needed to be out in the world. You were so sure about it that you kept writing it even after your heart broke into a million tiny pieces. You have never given up on it, just like you’ve never given up on anything in your life. So what if a certain bonehead frat boy doesn’t know it exists? You didn’t write it for him. You wrote it for you. And maybe for your mum and me, but that’s beside the point.”