Love and Shenanigans (Ballybeg, Book 1) (The Ballybeg Series)

by Zara Keane

  “I might be old,” Bridie said, “but I’m not senile. I’ve seen the way you and Gavin look at each other. Not to mention Ruth Cotter from across the road, telling me you and Gavin were up to all sorts of shenanigans while I was at the nursing home.”

  So the twitching curtain they’d spotted hadn’t been the wind. She squeezed her eyes shut. Damn nosey neighbors. Anonymity was something she loved about Dublin. She didn’t know her neighbors’ names, never mind their sexual partners’. “Mrs. Cotter ought to mind her own business.”

  Her aunt sighed. “I’m fond of the lad, Fiona, but he’s the last person you should be getting involved with.”

  “Point taken. Can we move on? Do you need anything from the shops when I come home for lunch?”

  “No.” Bridie grudgingly allowed her to change the subject. “Is everything organized for the book club?”

  “Yeah, we’re good to go.”

  The inaugural meeting of the Ballybeg Book Club would take place at the Book Mark at seven o’clock that evening. Fiona had chosen a prize-winning novel by an Irish author and regretted her choice after the first paragraph.

  “How many people did you say signed up?”

  “Fifteen.” She smiled over the rim of her mug. “Stop micromanaging. I have it under control. Olivia’s helping with the refreshments, and The Major will collect you an hour before the event.”

  The Major, Olivia’s grandfather, was the Earl of Clonmore but rarely used his title. When he’d returned to Ireland after several years in the British army, the locals had nicknamed him The Major, even though no one was certain what rank he’d held, and he hadn’t seen fit to enlighten them. The name had stuck.

  “At least The Major finished the book.” Bridie shook out her newspaper and turned to the crossword. “What were you thinking, Fiona? No one wants to read such shite, no matter how many awards it’s won. Most readers round these parts are more into Richard and Judy Book Club picks than Man Booker Prize winners.”

  “It was a poor choice, I admit, but it’s too late to change it now.” She yawned and glanced at the kitchen clock. “Time to get to work. If you need anything, let me know, and if it’s urgent, call Mrs. Cotter.”

  The cool morning breeze on her walk to the Book Mark helped her headache, but the pain returned in full force when she turned onto Patrick Street and saw what—or rather who—awaited her outside the shop.

  On instinct, she slowed her gait, buying a little extra time to prepare for the inevitable.

  Muireann was leaning against the bookshop door, smoking one of her trademark Marlboro Reds and flicking ash carelessly onto the pavement. Despite the bitter winter wind, she wore a thin pink jacket and matching linen trousers. They complemented the deep tan she’d acquired in Australia.

  Australia… the place she was supposed to be right now.

  A pang of envy twisted her gut, but she gave herself a mental shake. Moping was a waste of time and emotion.

  Her cousin’s eyes narrowed to slits at her approach. She wore the sapphire ring her parents had given her for her eighteenth birthday in the place of her engagement ring. “Good morning, cuz.” She sneered and blew smoke in Fiona’s direction. “Or should I say Mrs. Maguire?”

  Fiona took a deep breath and willed herself to remain calm. “I’m guessing this isn’t a social call?”

  Her cousin’s disdainful gaze raked her ensemble. In contrast to Muireann’s colorful outfit, Fiona’s was black, warm, and practical. “I wouldn’t come near this dump unless I had to.”

  She checked the smart response hovering on the tip of her tongue. Arguing with Muireann had never gotten her anywhere, and she didn’t suppose the weeks since their last encounter had changed the situation. “Look, get to the point. Why are you here? Let’s not pretend we’re about to kiss and make up.”

  Muireann tossed her cigarette butt on the pavement and ground it out with her heel. “I’m here about the Christmas Bazaar. Mummy says you’re organizing the bookstall this year.”

  “Yes…” Fiona eyed her cousin warily. “What about the bazaar?”

  Muireann tossed the straight blond hair Fiona had spent her childhood coveting over her shoulder. “I’ve helped Bridie with the bookstall for the past five years.”

  Fiona had the sneaking suspicion this conversation was not going to end on a positive note. “I hardly think—”

  “And I intend to help out this year. Mummy and Daddy are known for their charitable work, and I try to do my bit. Everyone will expect to see me at the bazaar.”

  “Can’t you find another stall? Don’t they sell cakes you could flog?”

  “Everyone knows I work the bookstall. If I don’t, they’ll talk.” Muireann pursed her lips. “I’m sick of them talking about me behind my back.”

  “Feck everyone,” Fiona said. “Let them talk.”

  Her cousin sniffed. “Easy for you to say. You don’t live in Ballybeg. Besides, it’s your fault I’m the target of gossip. You owe me the chance to put it right.”

  “So what are you saying? We should work the bookstall together? You are joking, right? We’d tear each other’s hair out within the hour.”

  “Speak for yourself,” Muireann said coldly. “You’re the hotheaded one.”

  Fiona crossed her arms across her chest. “So says the woman who trashed her ex-fiancé’s belongings and chucked his books in a fish pond.”

  Muireann stiffened. “Gavin jilted me at the altar. He deserves all he gets.”

  They regarded one another in stony silence, neither willing to capitulate. When they were growing up, Muireann had been the undisputed beauty of the family, and Fiona the smart one. Her cousin’s long blond hair was straight and tame in comparison to Fiona’s unruly dark mane. Muireann was petite, whereas Fiona was tall and gangly. By the time she’d hit puberty, Muireann had boys eating out of the palm of her hand. Fiona, on the other hand, was the quintessential geek. She was more likely to be found curled up with a book in the library than snogging boys in dark alleys. By the time she’d left school, the pinnacle of her dating experience had been accompanying Charlie Hutchinson to his orthodontic appointment.

  “Why don’t we let Bridie decide?” Her cousin said smoothly. “The stall represents her shop.”

  “Fine,” Fiona said. “If you want Bridie to decide, talk to her yourself. Meanwhile, I have to do the job your oh-so-charitably-minded self landed me with.”

  “In that case, I’ll leave you to it. Have fun.” Muireann smirked, and pivoted on her heel.

  Fiona had barely opened the Book Mark’s door when Aidan Gant’s sleek Mercedes slid to a halt outside.

  Fanfeckingtastic. Please don’t let him start on about the divorce.

  Olivia climbed out of the passenger’s side and waved. Thank goodness. “Morning, Fee.”

  “What are you doing here this early? Won’t Aidan kill you if you don’t get to work?”

  “Feck Aidan.” Olivia waved a dismissive hand in the direction of the car. “I come bearing gifts.” She handed Fiona a plastic container. “I went on a mad PMS-induced baking spree last night. I figured you could sell the extra banana-walnut muffins in the café.”

  Fiona peeked inside the box. They looked divine. “Thanks, Liv. These smell delicious. Listen, would you have time to call into the café later today? Sharon will be here in the afternoon, and we can have a quick chat. There’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you.”

  Aidan leaned on the horn. Olivia spun round and flipped him the finger.

  They were the picture of marital bliss.

  “Yeah, fine,” her friend said. “I’ll pop over during my afternoon coffee break.”

  When the bell above the shop door jangled indicating the first customer of the day, Fiona was behind the counter writing a to-do list and eating one of Olivia’s muffins. She wiped crumbs off her jumper and plastered a smile across her face.

  However, the sight of the person standing in the doorframe made her smile wither and die.

&nb
sp; Chapter Twenty-Four

  “PHILIP?” HER PEN FELL to the counter with a clatter.

  “Hey, babe!” He slouched into the shop, wearing an oversized Abercrombie & Fitch hoodie and jeans. His wavy russet hair was in desperate need of a cut, and he’d acquired a scraggly goatee since she’d last seen him. In short, he was his usual incongruous mix of unkempt yet fashionable. How had she ever found him attractive?

  “What are you doing in Ballybeg?” she asked without inflection. Philip was a Dublin boy through and through. He deemed anyone from outside the city to be a bogger. Indeed, anyone beyond South County Dublin was treated with suspicion and derision. That he’d deigned to venture beyond the perimeters of Dublin’s fair city was a surprise. In the four years they’d been together, he’d never once visited Ballybeg. Not, she thought with a twinge of guilt, that she’d visited often herself.

  He shrugged, as easygoing as ever and most probably stoned. “I came down for an audition. A panto in Cork City.”

  “You in a pantomime?” Times must be tough if he was considering such a job.

  He flushed. “It’s work, isn’t it?” He shoved his hands in his jeans pockets. “I need something to put on my acting resume. It’s not like I’m having much luck in Dublin. Not since my soap opera character was killed off.”

  “Which panto is it?”

  He fixed his gaze on the polished wooden floor. “Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs.”

  “And your role would be…?”

  Philip winced. “Dopey.”

  “Oh, no.” She choked back laughter. “Not Dopey!”

  The role would fit Philip to a tee. Sad thing was, the irony was probably lost on him. He was good-natured but obtuse, and ambitious but lazy. What he possessed in IQ—he was smart enough to get a decent degree from Trinity—he lacked in emotional intelligence. For a man who was remarkably good at channeling emotions on stage, he was useless at recognizing them in real life.

  “Yeah,” he grunted. “Have a good laugh, why don’t you? Sure, weren’t you always telling me I ought to branch out and go for less serious roles?”

  “Gosh, I hope the pay is decent.”

  He gave a noncommittal shrug—a half-hearted, one-shouldered twitch. “It’ll do.”

  Two elderly ladies entered the shop and nodded to Fiona before heading into the book room. At least her crappy morning had the potential to be offset by paying customers.

  She retrieved her pen from the counter and started to doodle. “So what brings you to Ballybeg?”

  “You said we could stay friends, didn’t you?”

  She had said that, but she hadn’t meant it. It was one of those platitudes one said when breaking up with someone, particularly when the parting wasn’t mutual. “Yeah, but I didn’t expect to see you here.” She glanced at the clock pointedly. “Especially this early in the morning.”

  “Actually, I’m staying in Ballybeg. At a little hotel.”

  Her heart plummeted. It was one thing to have him call in to the café on a one-off, but quite another to have him staying in the town. “Let me guess—Glebe Country House Hotel?”

  “That’s the name.” He shoved his hands in his pockets and bounced on the balls of his feet. Philip found it impossible to stay still. It was a trait that had driven Fiona batty when they were together.

  “Why didn’t you find a place to stay in Cork City? Surely it would be more convenient.”

  He gave another lazy half shrug. “I left it too late to book a decent hotel in Cork City, and Ballybeg isn’t far to commute.” He flashed her what was meant to be a charmingly irresistible smile. “Plus I figured I could catch up with you.”

  Fiona chose to ignore the last comment. She was under no illusion that Philip was in love with her. Otherwise, he couldn’t have done what he did. The familiar mix of hurt and anger churned in her stomach. The hurt was the sting of the woman betrayed. The anger was directed at herself. Why had she put up with him for so long? How could she not have seen what the world and her aunt had recognized immediately? No, his reappearance in her life most likely indicated he was broke and his parents were refusing to bankroll him.

  She eyed him warily, took in the expensive clothes. Philip always managed to find the cash to buy nice clothes, drugs, and cigarettes, yet he rarely saw the necessity to pay back the people foolish enough to loan him money. No way in hell was she falling back into that trap.

  “You couldn’t have stayed in a youth hostel in Cork?” she asked archly. “Or were they also booked out?”

  His features crumpled. “A youth hostel? Me? You can’t be serious.”

  Dear old Philip, ever the snob. Her doodles were becoming more aggressive, her pen stabbing through the paper. If it weren’t for the customers listening to their conversation with rapt interest, she’d throw him out on his arse. Hell, if he continued to piss her off, she still might.

  He looked around the shop with a contemptuous expression. He wandered into the book room, critically surveying their wares. She steeled herself for the inevitable condescension.

  “So this is your aunt’s shop?” he said, picking up a book from the front window display. “Not exactly Waterstones, is it?”

  “Did you expect it to be? It’s a little new-and-used bookshop in a small Irish town.”

  “You have to admit it’s not what you’re used to.”

  Not what he was used to, more like. “I grew up in Ballybeg. I knew what the shop was like when I agreed to help Bridie.”

  “Why would you cancel your trip because some old biddy falls and hurts herself? I couldn’t believe it when Rachel told me.”

  Rachel…

  Her grip around the pen tightened. “Bridie’s my aunt, not some old biddy. I did it because it was the right thing to do.” Okay, plus her cousin’s manipulations and a generous dose of guilt combined to force her hand.

  “I don’t get why you left Dublin for this dump. You always said you hated Ballybeg.”

  What Philip didn’t “get” was why she’d left him. As far as she was concerned, he could remain in blissful ignorance.

  “I owe Bridie. After everything she’s done for me over the years, it’s the least I can do.”

  “What about your world trip? You’re not seriously going to spend your entire sabbatical year playing nurse and bookseller?”

  If he didn’t leave soon, she’d strangle him with his straggly russet hair. “Did you come in here to piss me off? Is this your idea of catching up?”

  “Steady on, FeeFee.” He put his palms up in a gesture of mock surrender. “I was just making conversation.”

  “Cut the crap. Why are you really in Cork?”

  He quickly averted his gaze, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. Whatever he’s done, please don’t let it involve a brush with the law. After the vandalism drama, she’d had enough of the police to last her a lifetime.

  “My father kicked me out of the house,” he said at last. “Says I have to get a proper job. He’d accept me if I’d followed his footsteps and become a barrister. He doesn’t understand the theater, nor anything cultural. He buys paintings as an investment, for goodness sake, not because he actually likes them.”

  “Maybe he’d be more supportive of your art if you were able to support yourself from it.”

  “I’m trying. I’ve got an agent. I go for auditions. I get roles but there are gaps between them and I need money to tide me over.”

  She dug her pen into the paper viciously, slashing red in jagged lines. “Get a part-time job. That’s what other actors do.”

  “As what?” His voice rose to a whine. “I’m not prepared to demean myself by working in a restaurant or a pub.”

  “So sign up with a temp agency,” she said through gritted teeth.

  “Spend my days photocopying crap for overpaid managers? No way.”

  Fiona massaged her temples. Her headache was getting worse. Dealing with Philip and his nonsense was not helping. “You know what, Philip? No. Just no. We had
this convo a million times when we were together. I make obvious suggestions how you could earn money between acting jobs, and you reject every single one.” She tossed the pen to the side and straightened. “It wasn’t my responsibility to organize your life then, and it sure as feck isn’t my responsibility now.”

  His lips curled into a sulky pout. “Neither you nor my father appreciate my talent.”

  She didn’t try to hide her eye-roll. “I’ve seen you on stage. I know you can act, but it’s not all about acting, is it? You certainly don’t present yourself in a professional manner.” She indicated his scruffy appearance.

  “What do you mean?” he demanded in outrage.

  “Don’t you think you should at least brush your hair before your audition?”

  “Sure, won’t I be wearing a wig if I get the role?”

  Give up, and give up now, Fiona’s inner wise woman told her. Reasoning with her ex was a lost cause. He was the youngest child of an eminent Dublin barrister and his society wife. His mother indulged him while his father berated him for not living up to the family’s expectations. Philip had displayed his rebellious tendencies early by eschewing law in favor of theater studies at university. His father had never forgiven him. His mother, on the other hand, gave him cash handouts on a regular basis, and Philip had never needed to find work between acting jobs. Now it seemed both his parents had finally had enough of bankrolling him and were forcing him to stand on his own two feet. It would either be the best thing to ever happen to him or the worst. Thank goodness she no longer had to deal with the fallout.

  The doorbell jangled, indicating the arrival of more customers. Fiona’s mood plummeted when she saw Gavin and Ruairí enter the shop.

  Feck.

  She’d have to forewarn Gavin about Muireann working at the bazaar, but she sure as hell wasn’t starting that conversation with Philip hovering.

  “Philip,” she said pointedly. “I have customers. Besides, don’t you have an audition to get to?”