The Wild Mountain Thyme

by Kathryn Scarborough

  “No, no, the kind with wings and floating fairy dust. You know, like Tinkerbell in Peter Pan?”

  Megan couldn’t believe the look on his face. His slack jaw and rounded eyes said it all. She could pull him in completely. Jim sat back a little and combed his fingers through his hair. He gave her a you’ve-got-to-be-kidding look. Maybe he was a little smarter than she thought.

  “Kennedy, when I’ve known you longer—well, never mind.” Jim let out a great sigh and swatted at the top of his beer glass.

  “Do you mind if we call it a night? I’ve got to get some sleep, or I’ll fall into the mashed potatoes.”

  “Sure, come on. I’ll walk you to the hotel near the Times. As I said, the Ramada Dublin is clear on the other side of the city. Since it’s January and not many tourists about, they’re sure to have a room for you. It’s but five blocks.”

  “The long ones or short ones?” Jim wanted to know.

  “I don’t—”

  “Ah, never mind, I suppose I can walk five blocks. And that’s certainly good to know about the hotel. Of course, the folks at the Globe would have no idea where I should stay, though you suppose someone could look at a map. Look, I’ll get a cab. You tell the cabby where to, okay? We’ll drop you first. That way you’ll be safe and—”

  “Don’t worry about me, O’Flannery. I’ve been taking care of myself for a long time now.”

  “But I do worry about you, Kennedy. It’s the man’s job to escort the lady home. It’s in Gentlemanly Behavior 101. My grandma, who’s from County Mayo by the way, would smack me but good if I didn’t. Besides, the reason I’m here is there’s a psycho loose out there, remember?”

  “I remember, and it’s Megan. If you’re Jim, then you must call me Megan.”

  “When you use my name, I’ll use yours.” Jim looked inordinately pleased that she had told him her given name. “Now show me this hotel.”

  Megan couldn’t help smiling. He was a good one, this Jim O’Flannery, and funny. Even if she didn’t get her byline, it wouldn’t be so bad working with him for a week. Only working with him she reminded herself.

  Chapter 5

  Jim checked into the hotel with a bar right in the lobby; good for quick night caps. It was a quiet place along a side street. Megan knew what she was doing when she recommended it.

  He fished around in his wallet until he found his seldom-used calling card. His cell phone would not work overseas. He hadn’t had the time to add the feature before he left. He checked his watch again, making sure it wasn’t too late to call home. About five thirty there, his grandma would be making supper. He could almost smell her famous yeast rolls.

  “Hullo?”

  “Hi, Grandma, it’s Jim.”

  “Jimmy, and how are you?”

  “Fine. I didn’t have time to tell you before I left, but I’m in Dublin.”

  “What? In Dublin you say? Why, that’s grand. But I thought you decided long ago that you wouldn’t bother with going to see my old home.”

  “The Globe sent me. I’m writing a few pieces with a writer from the Irish Times.”

  “Oh, aye? And have you met him yet?”

  “It’s not a him, it’s a her.”

  “A her? And how old is this person, and what does she look like, and is she Irish?”

  “Yes, Grandma. She’s Irish, she’s a redhead, she’s real pretty, and she’s probably a little younger than me.”

  “Oh my, oh my. Wait till I tell your mother.”

  “Listen, Grandma, I didn’t come over here to get involved with anyone. I came over here to write some articles on a serial killer killing Irish American tourists.”

  “Oh my. Is it safe? Because that’s what you are, Jimmy, an Irish American. And what do you mean you won’t get involved with anyone?” Jim almost heard her tapping her toe at him. “Are you going to live under a rock or like a monk because that high acting woman made you miserable? Is she gone? Has she moved out of the apartment?”

  “Yes, Grandma. She moved out two weeks ago. But I am not ready to see women yet. Let this wound scab over first.”

  “Jimmy, you must listen. You must find the right one and settle down. I’ll be gone before you know it, and I’ll never know if you’ve found happiness. It’s a grandmother’s wish always to see their grands happy and fulfilled. And haven’t I been praying to Saint Brigit about all of this commotion with that Angela?”

  “Okay, Grandma, okay.” Jim sighed. He should have known he’d get the Angela problem brought up again and again. He wouldn’t be able to escape it. When he was old and gray he’d still hear about it. But he had to get this other question answered before he made his way to bed. “I called to tell you I’ve come, but I also called to ask you something. Let’s keep the other, about this new woman and me getting married, shelved for now, okay?”

  “Yes, Jimmy. I know I nag. But really, I just want to see you happy and fulfilled.”

  “I know, I know.” Jim pushed his hand through his hair and rubbed his eyes and face hard. He’d been up for hours and hours, and he needed sleep. But he had to ask. And who better to ask than his grandmother: keeper of all legends, stories, myths, and intimate knowledge of pixies, and leprechauns. “Listen, I promise I have not gone off the deep end, but I need to ask you a question, an Irish question.”

  “All right, lay it on me.”

  “Grandma, have you ever seen a leprechaun?”

  His grandmother’s quick answer stunned him. “No, but that doesn’t mean they aren’t real.”

  “Okay, yes. But do you know anyone personally that has seen a leprechaun?”

  “Yes, my cousin said he saw one. Let’s see, that was just before I come over with me mother and father.”

  “Did you believe him?”

  “Of course, and why wouldn’t I? Now listen, Jimmy, what is all this about?”

  “Do you suppose angels can change into leprechauns?”

  “Angels? Leprechauns? Jimmy, one is divine and one is well, one is…they aren’t in the same realm. Are you understanding me? Of course they are both spirits but one is of Heaven and one is of Earth. Now what is all this about?”

  “Okay, I’m coming clean.” Jim shut his eyes for a moment, wondering why he was telling his grandmother about his visitor.

  But he had to tell someone. Maybe if he did, the little whateverthehellitwas would go poof back to wherever he was from. “Okay, hope you’re sitting down. I got visited by a leprechaun. Sounds like I’ve been working too hard, right? But this leprechaun says he’s really my guardian angel. Here’s the rub, he says since I don’t believe in angels, he’d have to turn himself into what I could believe in. Isn’t that a kick? And he looks just like the drawing of that leprechaun from the story book you used to read to me.”

  A stunned silence reverberated all the way across the Atlantic.

  “Grandma, you still there?”

  “Yes, Jimmy, I’m here. Now, I don’t know about all of this, but I do know I’m going to see Timothy O’Boyle tomorrow. He’s been the deacon at Saint Brigid’s since before your grandfather died. He’s from Kilkenny. Such a lovely wife, he has. He may know a thing or two about, you know who, so and I’ll ask his advice.”

  “Grandma, don’t—”

  “This is a momentous event, Jimmy, momentous.” A few beats of silence bounced across the Atlantic. Jim could hear his grandmother breathing deeply over the phone, as though she wanted very much not to say something that would scare him off and keep him from Seamus sharing. Maybe she wanted very much for it to be true. How often did anyone actually see an angel…or a leprechaun for that matter? “We have to understand why this is happening. You say he said at first that he was an angel?”

  “Yes, my guardian angel, to bring me out of my malaise, so to speak,” Jim mimicked Seamus’s brogue to a T.

  “Ah, it’s about the girl then. See, I told you. The human spirit is a thing too easily quashed. Now—”

  “Grandma, I’m really tired. How about if I
call you in a few days? I’ll be recovered from jet lag and we can talk then.”

  “All right, me boy. You do that. And I’ll do the research from this end.”

  “Thanks, Grandma, I love you.”

  “Ta ta, lovey.”

  ****

  The bed was comfortable and the room tidy with an old European flair. Jim took his clothes off, washed up, and then climbed between the cold sheets.

  “You know, Jimmy me lad, she’s a fine one, this Megan Kennedy. Think of the beautiful children you’ll have and how proud your grandmother will be of you. Open your heart a tiny bit, and all will be well,” whispered Seamus into Jim’s ear.

  Jim’s head lay half under the pillow, his arm slung across the top of it. He pulled the pillow aside, opened his eye a crack, and looked at the little man sitting on the edge of the bed, swinging his legs back and forth like a little child on a swing.

  Jim sat up, propped the pillow behind his head, crossed his arms against his bare chest, and glared at the leprechaun. “I don’t believe in you, you know.”

  “And what is it I can do to make you believe?”

  “Not a thing.” Jim watched the tiny green-clad figure march back and forth across his blanket. He continued, “I’m here to do a job with Miss Kennedy, not to have her finish off the mess Angela started.”

  “Ah, that I-tal-i-an,” the little man said, elongating each syllable as he raised his hand to the air in a sweeping, almost sarcastic gesture. He leaned forward, eyeing Jim and wagging his finger. “And didn’t your own grandma tell you not to get mixed up with that one?”

  “How do you know that?”

  “I told you that I’m your guardian angel. I know everything about you. Everything,” he said as he waggled his eyebrows at Jim. “I’m here to help you find true love so that your faith will be restored.”

  “You don’t look like an angel.”

  “That’s because I can be anything I want. You seem to believe in leprechauns more easily than angels. A sad state of affairs for your religious training, I might add. Must be the Black Irish in ya.”

  “And what’s in it for you?” Jim asked and then shook his head as he watched the whateverthehellitwas eyebrows climb to its hairline. Surely, the reason he spoke to the apparition was that he hadn’t had any real sleep in more than twenty-four hours. He felt calm and collected speaking to the leprechaun and that worried him terribly. “If you’re my guardian angel, how did I break my leg in the fourth grade?”

  “Ah, ’tis a touching story it is, and you never told a soul, not your grandmother or mother, or da. You saw a baby squirrel on the ground and tried to put it back in its nest. Then you fell while climbing the tree. You were too ashamed that you’d fallen on the little thing when you hit the ground, so you didn’t tell anyone. But don’t worry boy-o, I saw that very same squirrel running about an oak tree before I left Heaven. He’s fine,” Seamus added in a sing-songy lilting voice.

  Jim felt the blood drain from his face. No one knew that. No one. He’d grieved over that little baby squirrel for years. He’d felt so guilty that he hadn’t even confessed it to his priest at church. He knew his feelings were irrational, even at age ten, but still he’d never told anyone.

  “That is so weird. How do you know that?”

  “Watched the film of ‘This is Your Life,’ before I left. The scene made me teary, I can tell ya,” said Seamus, hugely wiping an imaginary tear from his cheek.

  “This is just too weird,” said Jim, pulling his fingers through his hair. He sat up a little straighter. “Do you know why I’ve come to Ireland?”

  “Yes. I arranged it,” he said, looking down nonchalantly at his fingernails and then buffing them on his coat lapel.

  “Nope. You may have arranged it, but I’m here to write a story on a madman who is killing Irish-American tourists. That’s why I’m working with Megan Kennedy. She writes for the Irish Times.”

  “My, my, murder you say? That’s the trouble with murder. A fellow is liable to lose some of his best friends that way. Tsk, tsk, tsk.” The little angel stopped his pacing and faced Jim with his arms held out pleadingly. “But really you’re here to restore your faith by falling in love with Miss Kennedy.”

  “You need to do some more research, pal. That’s not why I’m here. Maybe you’d better go check it out with the head angel or something. Now, I don’t want to be rude, but I gotta get some sleep. Bye. Nice of you to drop in.” Jim patted the leprechaun on the top of his head, feeling very strange that there was actually something tangible to pat.

  He snuggled back down in the bed, turned off the bedside table lamp, and closed his eyes.

  The leprechaun dug into his pocket and scattered some twinkling dust-like material all over Jim’s head.

  “Dream on, Jimmy lad, dream of the entrancing Megan.”

  Chapter 6

  Megan would speak to her mother. Margaret Kennedy was always sensible and gave great advice whenever Megan asked for it. With that thought securely in her mind, Megan picked up the phone. She thought about Jim and his strange behavior. Perhaps her Mum could shed some light on why this American acted the way he did. Belatedly, she looked at the clock. Bugger, it was already past ten p.m.

  “Hello.”

  “Hello, Mum? Sorry, did I wake you? I’d already dialed when I realized it was so late.”

  “Oh, Meggie, no it’s all right. We’ve just come in. We went to a grand concert tonight, lovely.”

  “I wanted to tell you the great news. I got a new assignment today. And I think I’m to get a byline and a big spot on the paper. Have you heard of all the murders of Irish-American tourists?”

  Megan heard her mother’s sharp intake of breath, but pushed on with her story.

  “Well, I’ve been given the story to write. It will be a three or four parter, and here’s the thing; I’m to write it with an American from the Boston Globe. He just came over today and we’re to get started straight away. And our articles will be run in both papers. I’ll be in an American newspaper!”

  “But, Meggie—”

  “No, Mother, you mustn’t worry. But just think of it, writing for the Irish Times and the Boston Globe is going to be grand.”

  “So he’s already come, eh?”

  “Yes, his name is James O’Flannery.”

  “Ah, and how old would you say this James O’Flannery is? Forty or fifty?”

  “No.” Megan groped for a quick response. Her mother could drop hints about Megan finding the “perfect man” like a sledge hammer coming down on rocks. And if Margaret knew about Jim’s looks and his already ensconced career, she’d be out buying Megan a wedding dress before the morning. “I think he’s just a little older than me.”

  “And what does he look like?”

  “I’m sure you can get on the Boston Globe website and see a picture of him. He’s all right looking, seems a nice chap.”

  “Megan—”

  “Now Mom, you know I promised not to get involved with anyone again…not for a long, long time.” She could hear the wheels turning in her mother’s head all the way from Limerick. She wasn’t thinking of Megan’s news about the articles; she was thinking about Megan getting involved with a man.

  “But maybe this is fate? Maybe this is what Saint Rafael has planned for you,” her mother said coyly as she spoke of the patron saint of happy romantic encounters.

  “Mom! I will not be able to do my job if I get involved with this man. How will I keep perspective and my journalistic flair?”

  “Journalistic flair indeed. Oh posh. Sometimes you sound so full of yourself, when I know really that you are trying your best not to be a scared little girl!”

  Megan groaned. “Mom, I just—”

  “ ‘Put silk on a goat and it’s still a goat,’ as the saying goes. Megan, let’s face it. Richard is a louse. No, I will classify him as a paramecium. Lowest of the low. You can’t keep running away from life just because that man let you down.”

  A giggle gave
way to a great sigh on Megan’s end of the phone.

  “You have been angry and hurt for almost a year, and it’s time this all stopped. What, have you decided never to have another relationship, find love, get married, or have children because of that awful man? Megan, love, you must put it past you and move on.”

  Megan listened intently. Her mother was right. Of course she was. Megan was angrier with herself for being snookered in by Richard than she was at Richard. But fool me once and etc.

  “Mom, I promise I will keep an open mind. But I must tell you something as well. Here’s a strange thing that happened this evening when we were having dinner; he asked about leprechauns.”

  “Leprechauns? And why is that?”

  “He didn’t say, but maybe he’s a little touched?” If her mother said Jim was a little crazy maybe she could ignore how terrific he was.

  “Megan, let’s be practical; do you really think a big, all over the world known paper like the Boston Globe would send a man all the way to Ireland if he wasn’t all there, so to speak? Really, Meggie, think of the big picture. You have been chosen by the Irish Times to write this story with a big-time journalist from the United States. And your article will be read in America and his here, correct?”

  “Correct.”

  “Then what is the problem, my dear?”

  “Nothing.” How her mother could change the subject at the drop of a hat. So now, Mother was thinking about the articles, typical. She really had to get her head on straight. Her mother reminded her that her article would be read in the States, and that knowledge had, at last, begun to sink in. “I’ll call you in a few days and let you know how things are going. I love you. My best to Daddy.”

  “Bye love. I’ll be speaking with you soon.”

  ****

  Margaret Kennedy logged on to the computer within minutes of ringing off with Megan. She Googled the Boston Globe. It took a while to navigate through the pages, but she finally found staff pictures and thumb-nail bios.

  She scrolled down until she came to O’Flannery, James F.X. There was a short bit on where he’d gone to university, where he’d grown up, and then his picture. Oh glory be, the man was simply gorgeous. “Imagine my Meggie married to a man like that.” She shook her head and tsked, until she closed down the computer and crawled into bed with her husband.