“Frank.” Margaret shook her husband gently by the shoulder. “Frank.”
“Hmm?”
“Megan is going to write a series of articles for the Times and the Boston Globe.”
“Oh aye.” Frank woke up a little and yawned before he turned his attention to his wife.
“Yes, can you imagine? And she’s been assigned to write with a journalist from the Boston Globe, a James O’Flannery.”
“Oh aye, is he Irish?”
“No, he’s from Boston; I’m supposing his parents and grands and such are Irish though.”
“Yes, I’m supposing as well.” Frank chuckled.
“Well, and we’ll have to say a prayer or two for their safety.”
“And why is that?”
“They are going to write about the serial killer killing the tourists.”
“Oh. Bollocks. We’ll pray for their safety. Perhaps I’ll go to Dublin and just check in with her, make sure she’s all right.”
“Oh, that would be best. Yes, let’s go to Dublin. We can stay with my sister.”
“Sounds a good plan. Now, could we get back to sleep?”
“Yes, dear. I love you, good night.”
****
Megan paced the small confines of her flat, her floor-length gown and robe entangling themselves in her long legs until she’d have to stop and untangle herself. Teresa, her flat mate, was out on a date and Megan didn’t know when she’d be home. She needed to talk to someone. Her mind was more muddled than ever.
The night had turned out to be long, lonely, and filled with thoughts of Jim O’Flannery. The more she did not want to think about him, the more she did. She even fancied that she had heard a voice whispering to her. Something about how wonderful it would be to love him to distraction, have his children, and while away her life in a little whitewashed house with a peat fire.
The thoughts stunned her completely. She’d never in her life thought a smoky, peat fire romantic. A peat fire smelled and grit got into your eyes. Neither was a whitewashed cottage with a stone floor romantic. It stayed cold and drafty even with a roaring fireplace and even in the summer. Her great-auntie lived in one and she’d fought with her parents every time they wanted Megan to visit her.
Where had all these thoughts come from? She was acting like a schoolgirl still in knee socks. No, she was acting completely demented. She didn’t care about O’Flannery. She cared about her job. No, she didn’t care about her job; it didn’t encompass every thought and feeling. But if she did well, it would help her make it in the writing world. Any distraction at all could keep her from reaching her goal in life. She had no use for men right now, especially O’Flannery, just because the man was within her line of sight everywhere she turned.
“Now, I’m thinkin’ perhaps you’re wrong there, colleen.” An ominous voice bounced off the walls of the apartment.
Megan’s breath caught in her throat. Her gaze jerked to every corner and darkened cranny around the room. Was there someone there in the room with her? She was paralyzed and she couldn’t move. Her feet were riveted to the floor. Dark spots wavered in front of her face. She pushed air into her lungs with her next breath. She forced her reluctant feet to move and she stumbled to the window, grabbed the curtain, and pulled it aside. There was no one there. Megan hurried to the door and checked the locks and then turned them and locked them yet again. In a blur, she grabbed her cat and ran into her bedroom. She jammed a chair under the doorknob and wiggled the latch, making sure it was secure.
Megan huddled under the covers and squeezed the cat until it scratched her, emitted a low growl, and jumped off the bed to hide under a chair. She clutched her hairbrush and held it like a battle-ax. She watched the doorknob, sure it would turn at any second and a murderer would be on the other side ready to pounce. Each fiber of her being focused on each and every sound real or imagined, but for some inexplicable reason, she quickly fell into a fitful sleep.
****
“Don’t be talking to the lass, now. You scared her right out of her wits. Some angel you are.” Ignatius paced rapidly on a fluffy, white cloud with his hands clasped behind his back and his bushy eyebrows pulled down in irritation.
“Well, I don’t have this idea of talking to them in their heads so they think it’s their own thoughts yet. I am sorry I frightened the lass,” Seamus said, shrugging his shoulders sheepishly.
“You may have to reveal yourself to assure her that she doesn’t need to reside in Bedlam, you know.”
“Oh, Iggy, I’ve done a terrible thing. Look at the poor lass, thinking she can attack me with that hairbrush. Tsk, tsk, tsk.”
“Seamus, you’ll need to mind what you say and do. This is the twenty-first century and people are more likely to think they have imagined us and gone quite daft, rather than thinking we may be real. If you don’t get on it, me lad, you’re never going to earn those wings. Now, it seems all they need is a little encouragement,” said Iggy, as he turned ever so slightly to the side to admire his great mustache that curled and waved and clung to the bits of silver and gold clouds traveling off into infinity. He shrugged his shoulders to watch the ends float into the great wide yonder. Then, seeming to come to himself, he looked sheepishly at Seamus and roughly cleared his throat. “Throw them together in some fashion, and we’ll let nature take its course.”
“But he says he’s here to write a story about a murder and the lass is to help him.”
“Seamus.” Ignatius put his hand on the little angel’s shoulder. “You’re a smart lad, and I know you can think of something to get them together.
“Poor Jim lad, he’ll die a faithless man if you don’t soon fix this up. And you know where they go.”
Chapter 7
The next morning Megan woke physically exhausted but mentally alert. Her eyes felt raw and grainy as if she’d actually been sleeping in front of that peat fire that had been a dominant fixture in her dreams of the night before. Although she’d been completely terrified, she’d managed to fall into a stupor and fitful sleep. She could feel the fright still in the sticky dried sweat left on her forearms, her face, and between her legs. For the life of her she couldn’t remember, no matter how hard she tried, what it was that had scared her so.
“Ah well, get on with it, Kennedy.”
She dragged herself into the tiny kitchen and made the strongest pot of coffee she could manage. Ugh, it tasted just short of mud. She heard Teresa taking her shower, and listening to the spray of the water pinging gently against the tiles of the tub soothed her jangled nerves. She sat woodenly, her body not moving, but her mind surging. Thoughts coming and going like the hurried tide of an oncoming storm. Idly, she glanced up at the clock. “St. Joseph, it’s 8:15!”
Megan jumped up, knocking the contents of the cup onto the table. She made a quick swipe of the mud-like brew and dumped the rag and the dirty cup into the sink before running to the recently vacated bathroom to jump in the shower.
Ah cripes! Teresa had done it again. The water was barely lukewarm. Hurriedly, she dumped a palm full of shampoo on her head. Of course, the shampoo refused to rinse thoroughly from her hair with no proper hot water.
“Ah bollocks!” She groaned as the frigid water poured down her back. She gave up trying to get the shampoo out of her hair and dashed to her room.
With her comb, she tugged hurriedly on the strands coated with shampoo. She let loose a string of curses and slumped onto the bed in abject misery.
“I’m going to be late, and O’Flannery will think he’s saddled with some inept woman,” she groaned out into the nothing of the room.
Megan leapt from the bed and ran to her closet, practically diving into it head first, grabbing the first thing that caught her eye as cool, objective, female reporter, and decent enough to wear.
“Not if I can help it,” she promised again to the nothing of the empty room. Brushing her hair back, she pulled it into a tight bun and wrapped a scarf around it making sure all the little shampo
o-coated hairs were hidden from sight.
“And what were you up to last night?” Teresa stood in the doorway of the bedroom; her arms crossed over her well-endowed self in a dress of navy and lace. One tawny impeccably groomed eyebrow rose almost to her hairline.
“I met that American I telephoned you about last evening. God, he’s a nice guy.” Megan huffed and puffed like a runner as she hurried to get her clothes on. “Too bad I’m off men for a while.”
“Just because that bastard Richard used you for all he was worth, and such a long time ago I might add, doesn’t mean they are all scum,” Teresa said from the doorway. She walked carefully into the room across the expanse of floor, dodging the minefield of discarded clothing, kitty toys, hairbrushes, and mounds of wadded up discarded drafts of who knew what, to sit on Megan’s bed.
Teresa was already dressed for work. The stunning deep blue outfit complemented her dark, coppery hair. Megan oftentimes envied Teresa for her voluptuous curves. The endless dates Teresa seemed to go on though, were never enough to make her want the same thing. Nothing could dim the joy she felt in their friendship.
“Tell me about this man.” Teresa lay back against the bed and turned her full attention on Megan.
“He’s Black Irish and so good looking it’s amazing that I didn’t drool all over him,” said Megan as she slapped herself into her pantyhose.
“Will you bring him to the flat?”
“You must be daft,” she said with a raised brow. “I’m going to treat him like the plague and so. I already told you, I want nothing more to do with men.” Megan quickly checked her hairdo in the mirror and made sure her dress wasn’t caught up somewhere.
“Listen, Meggie,” said Teresa. She stood, grabbed Megan by the arms, and forced her to look into her face.
“Not every man is a no-good scoundrel like Richard. You must give yourself a chance to love again or you’ll dry up inside like an old hag.”
The concern registered in Teresa’s eyes. She’d put that bit of information away, into the “I’ll consider this later” stack. Teresa had always given sound advice, always.
“I’ll think about it.”
“Do more than think about it, aye?”
Megan hurriedly pulled on a wool coat and boots and waved to Teresa as she ran outside to hail a cab.
Chapter 8
Jim woke the next morning feeling remarkably refreshed. He hadn’t dreamt at all during the night, as far as he could remember, and had slept deeply. Maybe he’d have his head on straight before he met with Megan and her boss at the Times.
His mind flooded with thoughts of Megan this morning, instead of the doom and gloom of the last week.
Just thinking about her incredible mouth made him feel a steady but unusual, for him, contentment. He felt the warmth flood him from the tips of his toes all the way to his scalp. What a woman. But what was he thinking? No more women, remember, you blockhead.
He’d caught Angela, the supposed love of his life, doing it with a guy he played ball with in the Globe’s summer league. The two of them were pumping away, moaning, and groping at one another on the couch in Jim and Angela’s happy home, wearing nothing but their socks. Right then, metaphorically, his chest opened up and his heart dropped onto the ground with a resounding splat. Yep, no more women. Maybe not ever. His heart was bruised enough to last a lifetime.
Jim shook his head, trying to dispel the image and began shaving. As he looked in the mirror above the tiny sink, Seamus popped out of thin air and made himself comfortable on the spigot.
Jim jumped at the leprechaun’s sudden appearance. He was lucky the razor hadn’t slipped and cut his throat. He put his hand to his pounding heart and looked down at the little man with a frown. “I’m going to tie a cowbell around your neck that will announce your presence before you puff your way into the same room I’m in. You scared the crap out of me.”
It was such a good idea. A cowbell strapped to Seamus’s little pointed head. But Jim had no idea of how to implement it.
The little man straightened his clothes and then looked up at Jim with abject curiosity.
“Don’t believe I’ve ever seen a man with clearer skin,” said Seamus, choosing to ignore Jim’s comment about the cowbell. “You look like you use that beauty soap the Duchess of Kent always bragged about.”
Jim growled and slapped a handful of soapy water at the creature.
“Not now, Jimmy lad,” said the leprechaun as he opened his coat and mysterious swirling warm air came out and dried him off. “We must speak of the lovely Megan.”
“No, we mustn’t. I’ve got to get to work, and I’m not sure where work is,” he said. He continued to shave with half his attention trained on his reflection in the mirror and another half on the leprechaun.
“But, Seamus, me boy-o.”
“Hey, don’t call me that. Use the English and call me Jim.” He put down his razor, wiped his face, and looked around the towel to stare hard at the little man. “Maybe you should just call yourself a figment of my imagination. Because if you are real, you could do something for me, and it’s about Megan.”
“Oh, aye?” Seamus tilted his head, tapping his finger against his chin, deep in thought.
“Not that I’m saying you are real.” Jim put the towel down and leaned on the sink till he was almost nose to nose with the leprechaun. “You could work on that editor of hers. They don’t plan to give her a byline on this story, but she’ll be writing the story right along with me.”
“A byline? What’s a byline?”
“Go look it up in the angel encyclopedia, okay? I don’t have time now to explain. I have got to get out of here.”
“But what about our discussion about you getting married?”
“I don’t have time.” Jim buttoned up his shirt and pulled a sweater over his head. “Plus, I don’t want to get married. I’ll be perfectly happy doing a good job on this story and getting back home.”
“But ya are home. Don’t you know that?”
Jim listened with one ear to the spirit prattle on as he looked in the mirror, trying to decide whether or not to wear a tie. He opted for the professional look, not knowing how the men in this town dressed when they went to work.
“I know one thing, Seamus, if I’m late; they won’t look at me the same again. It makes a very bad impression. Now”—he leaned over the leprechaun and pinned him with a stare—“I am not in the market for a wife. I know I’ve been down in the dumps lately, but you can assure the powers upstairs that no permanent damage was done. As much as I enjoy your company you need to scram and let me get to work. Okay?”
****
The cab lurched through the streets, stopping and starting in the morning traffic. Megan was sure she’d left her stomach on that last corner. She’d tried to put on her make-up during her bumpy ride, but gave up when she’d managed to smear eyeliner down to her cheekbone.
She couldn’t be late. She couldn’t. Jim really would think she was nothing but a pretty face. Just thinking about those blue eyes gave her chills, in a good way. No, no, no! “Megan, haven’t you had enough?” she mumbled under her breath but loud enough for the cabby to give her a strange look in the rear view mirror.
Starting, stopping, lunging to and fro, the cab finally screeched to a halt in front of the Times. She threw some money at the cabbie. “Hey, now then,” she heard him grumble as she ran into the nearest ladies’ room to finish her face. Finally, she walked through the doors to the offices, and the first thing she saw was O’Flannery sitting at her desk, in her desk chair. Cripes, how pushy. She walked over and looked down at him coolly.
“And what are you doing at my desk?” Just like an American to come in and take over when you were at home. He was here, ensconced in her chair, at her desk, and smiling smugly like he owned the place.
“Good morning,” he said in that perpetually cheerful way that puts one’s back teeth on edge, to grind just a bit. Just a bit? She felt like the biggest millstone in al
l of Ireland had replaced her jaw.
How dare he be so smug, so happy, and so American? Well, and didn’t he know just how badly she felt about, about, about—?
The steam coming out of her ears dissipated a bit, and Megan looked at him carefully. She decided she hadn’t exaggerated a thing about him in her mind. He was even better looking in real life than she remembered. Megan was disgusted with herself.
“Just looking through the file,” he said. “Have any ideas where to start?”
She felt the starch go out of her shoulders literally. Megan grabbed a chair from the next desk. She slumped down and her upper body seemed to deflate. She sighed deeply. All right now, you, time to get a grip!
How could the stupid man not notice how badly she felt?
Oh really, Megan, must you act like such a twit? Yes, he does not understand how badly you feel about everything. How could he? Is he a bloody mind reader? Will you ever grow past acting like a silly girl?
Megan slapped her forehead and took a deep breath. So she felt badly. A good cup of tea would get her going again. She took off her jacket, deposited her purse, and without looking up at Jim, went to the drinks trolley for a cup. She looked out of the corner of her eye at him. She realized at that moment that she’d be working with a man who was more handsome than Sean Connery in his prime. He could be on the cover of Gentleman’s Quarterly and put all the other male models to shame.
“You look great this morning,” Jim said over his shoulder. Megan was not about to let his perpetual cheer nudge her bad mood into a full grump, so she puffed out a disgruntled breath, turned, and smiled at him. And the smile stayed on her face; not an easy task.
“I feel like death, but I didn’t drink that much last night.” Megan cringed inwardly; that remark had slipped out faster than she could hold it in. She forced herself to smile, sure that the smile looked vapid at best.
The Wild Mountain Thyme Page 5