Sherryl Woods

by Devaneys 01 - Ryan's Place (v5)

  Most of the time, Ryan kept those memories securely locked away, but every once in a while they crept out to haunt him…most often around holidays. It was yet another reason to despise the occasions when anyone without family felt even more alone than usual.

  “You’re closing in an hour or so, aren’t you, Ryan?” Father Francis asked, snapping him out of his dark thoughts. There was a gleam in the old man’s eyes when he added, “Perhaps you could give the young lady a lift home.”

  Before Ryan could list all the reasons why that was a lousy idea, a pair of sea-green eyes latched on to him. “Could you? I know it’s an imposition. I’m sure you have your own Thanksgiving plans, but I truly am desperate.”

  “What about a cab? I’d be happy to call one, and you’d be home in no time.”

  “I tried,” she said. “It’s a long trip, and a lot of the drivers have gone home because of the holiday. There aren’t a lot of people out and about. Most are home with their families. Both companies I called turned me down.”

  “Ryan, my boy, if ever there was a lady in distress, it would seem to be this young woman. Surely you won’t be saying no to such a simple thing,” Father Francis said.

  “I’m a stranger,” Ryan pointed out. He scowled at her. “Don’t you know you should never accept a ride with a stranger?”

  Father Francis chuckled. “I think she can take the word of the priest that you’re a positive gentleman. As for the rest, Ryan Devaney, this is…?” He glanced at the young woman and waited.

  “Maggie O’Brien,” she said.

  A beaming smile spread across the priest’s face. “Ah, a fine Irish lass, is it? Ryan, you can’t possibly think of turning down a fellow countryman.”

  Ryan suspected Maggie had spent even less time in the Emerald Isle than he had on his ventures to learn the art of running a successful Irish pub. She sounded very much like a Boston native.

  “I think we can probably agree that Ms. O’Brien and I are, indeed, fellow Americans,” he said wryly.

  “But you carry the blood of your Irish ancestors,” the priest insisted. “And a true and loyal Irishman never forgets his roots.”

  “Whatever,” Ryan replied, knowing that for the second time tonight he might as well give in to the inevitable. “Ms. O’Brien, I’ll be happy to give you a lift if you can wait till I close in an hour. In the meantime I’ll give you the keys to my car. You can transfer all that food you’re carrying to it.” He shot a pointed look at the priest. “Father Francis will be happy to help, won’t you, Father?”

  “It will be my pleasure,” the priest said, bouncing to his feet with more alacrity than he’d shown in the past ten years.

  “Ms. O’Brien,” Ryan called after them as they headed for the door. “Whatever you do, don’t listen to a word he says about me.”

  “I always sing your praises,” Father Francis retorted with a hint of indignation. “By the time I’ve said my piece, she’ll be thinking you were sent here by angels.”

  “That’s exactly what I’m afraid of,” Ryan said. For some reason he had a very bad feeling about this Maggie O’Brien getting the idea, even for a second, that he was any sort of saint.

  “I’m not sure Mr. Devaney is very happy about doing this,” Maggie said to Father Francis as they transferred her belongings from her car to Ryan Devaney’s. She considered leaving the things in the trunk behind, but snow was just starting to fall, the flakes fat and wet. If it kept up as predicted, it was going to make a mess of the roads in no time. There was no telling how long it might be before she’d be able to come back for the car.

  “You mustn’t mind a thing he says,” the priest said. “Ryan’s a good lad, but he’s been in a bit of a rut. He works much too hard. An unexpected drive with a pretty girl is just what he needs.”

  It was an interesting spin, Maggie thought, concluding that the priest was doing a bit of matchmaking. She had to wonder, though, why a man like Ryan Devaney would need anyone at all to intercede with women on his behalf. With those clear blue eyes, thick black hair and a dimple in his chin, he had the look of the kind of Irish scoundrel who’d been born to tempt females. Maggie had noticed more than one disappointed look when he’d turned his attention to her at the bar. Come to think of it, quite a few of his customers had been women, in groups and all alone. She wondered how many of them were drawn to the pub by the attractiveness and availability of its owner. Then again, there had been clusters of well-dressed young men around as well, so perhaps they’d been the lure for the women.

  “Has Ryan’s Place been around a long time?” she asked Father Francis.

  “It will be nine years come St. Patrick’s Day,” he told her.

  Maggie was surprised. With its worn wood, gleaming brass fixtures and antique advertising signs for Irish whisky and ales, it had the look of a place that had been in business for generations.

  The priest grinned at her. “Ah, I see you’re surprised. Ryan would be pleased by that. He spent six months in Ireland gathering treasures to give the pub a hint of age. When he makes up his mind to do something, there’s nothing halfway about it.” He gave her a canny look. “In my opinion, he’ll be the same way once he sets his sights on a woman.”

  Despite the fact that she’d spent less than a half hour with Ryan Devaney, Maggie couldn’t deny that she was curious. “He’s never been married?”

  “No, and it’s a sad thing,” the priest said. “He says he doesn’t believe in love.”

  He said it with such exaggerated sorrow that Maggie almost laughed. “Now why is that?” she asked instead. “Did he have a relationship that ended badly?”

  “Aye, but not like you’re thinking. It was his parents. They went off and abandoned him when he was just a wee lad.”

  “How horrible,” Maggie said, instantly sympathetic, which, she suspected, was precisely the reaction the sneaky old man was going for. “He’s never been in touch with them again?”

  “Never. Despite that and some troubled years, he’s grown into a fine man. You won’t find a better, more loyal friend than Ryan Devaney.”

  “How long have you known him?”

  “It’s been seventeen years now.”

  Maggie regarded him intently. “Something tells me there’s a story there.”

  “Aye, but I think I’ll let Ryan be the one to tell you in his own time.” He met her gaze. “Would you mind a bit of advice from a stranger?”

  “From you, Father? Of course not.”

  “Ryan’s a bit like a fine wine. He can’t be rushed, if you want the best from him.”

  Maggie laughed. “Father, your advice is a bit premature. I’ve just met the man. He’s giving me a lift home—under pressure from you, I might add. I don’t think we can make too much of that.”

  “Don’t be so quick to shatter an old man’s dream, or to dismiss the notion of destiny,” the priest chided. “Something tells me that destiny has played a hand in tonight’s turn of events. You could have had that flat tire anywhere, but where did it happen? Right in front of the finest Irish pub in Boston. Now, let’s go back inside, and you can have that drink Ryan promised to warm you up before the drive home.”

  Maggie followed Father Francis back to the bar. Ryan’s hands were full, filling orders for last call, but Irish coffees materialized in front of them without either of them saying a word. Maggie wrapped her icy hands around the cup, grateful for the warmth.

  Next to her, Father Francis had fallen silent as he sipped his own coffee. Maggie hadn’t been able to guess his age earlier, but now, with his features less animated, the lines in his face were more evident. She guessed him to be well past seventy, and at this late hour he was showing every one of those years.

  Apparently, Ryan spotted the same signs of exhaustion, because the apron came off from around his waist and he nabbed one of the waitresses and murmured something to her, then handed her a set of keys.

  “We can be going now. Maureen will close up here,” he said, stepping out f
rom behind the bar. “Father, I’ll give you a ride, as well. It’s far too cold a night for you to be walking home, especially at this hour.”

  “Nonsense. It’s only a couple of blocks,” the priest protested. “Since when haven’t I walked it? Have you once heard me complain? Walking is how I keep myself fit.”

  “And you do more than enough of it during the day, when the wind’s not so fierce. Besides, the rectory is right on our way,” Ryan countered, even though he couldn’t possibly know in which direction they were heading to get to Maggie’s.

  She immediately seized on his comment, though, to second the offer. “Father, please. I’d love to catch a glimpse of your church. Maybe I’ll come to mass there one of these days.”

  The priest’s expression promptly brightened. “Now, there’s a lovely thought. St. Mary’s is a wonderful parish. We’d welcome you anytime.”

  Ryan shot her a grateful look, then led the way outside. If anything, the bite of the wind had grown colder in the last half hour. Maggie shivered, despite the warmth of her coat and scarf. To her surprise, Ryan noticed.

  “We’ll have you warmed up in no time,” he promised. “Once it gets going, the car’s heater is like a blast furnace.”

  The promise was accompanied by a look that could have stirred a teakettle to a boil. For a man who didn’t believe in love, he certainly knew how to get a woman’s attention. A couple of sizzling glances like that and she’d be begging for air-conditioning.

  “I really appreciate this,” she told him again. “I know it’s an imposition.”

  “Ryan’s happy to do it,” Father Francis insisted from the back seat as they pulled to a stop in front of a brownstone town house next to a church. Lights were blazing from the downstairs windows, and smoke curled from a chimney. “I’ll say good-night now. It was a pleasure meeting you, Maggie O’Brien. St. Mary’s is right next door, as you can see. Don’t be a stranger.”

  “Thanks for all your help, Father.”

  “What did I do? Nothing that any Irishman wouldn’t do for a lady in distress. Happy Thanksgiving, Maggie. Be sure to count your blessings tomorrow. Ryan, you do the same.”

  “Don’t I always, Father?”

  “Only when I remind you, which I’m doing now.” He paused before closing the door and cast a pointed look in Maggie’s direction. “And don’t forget to count this one.”

  Maggie had to bite back a chuckle at Ryan’s groan.

  “Good night, Father,” Ryan said firmly.

  He waited as the priest trudged slowly up the steps and went inside, then turned to Maggie. “I’m sorry. My love life has become one of Father Francis’s pet projects. He’s determined to see me settled with babies underfoot. I apologize if he made you uncomfortable.”

  “I think it’s wonderful that he cares so much,” Maggie said honestly. “You’re obviously very special to him.”

  “And vice versa,” Ryan admitted.

  “He told me you’ve known each other for a long time,” she continued, hoping to open the door to the story that the priest had declined to share.

  “A very long time,” Ryan confirmed, then looked away to concentrate on roads already slippery from the now-steady snowfall.

  Or was he simply avoiding sharing something painful from his past? Maggie suspected it was the latter, but she recalled the priest’s advice about not pushing for answers. Impatient and curious by nature, she found this difficult. It went against everything in her to keep silent, but she managed to bite her tongue.

  She turned away and looked out the window just as the car slowed to a stop.

  “Maggie?”

  She turned and met Ryan’s gaze. “Yes?” she said, a little too eagerly. Was it possible that he was going to share the story, after all? Or perhaps suggest another drink before they made the trip to her family’s home in neighboring Cambridge?

  “It’s going to be a long night unless you give me some idea where I’m headed,” he said, laughter threading through his voice.

  “Oh, my gosh, I am so sorry,” she said, feeling foolish. She rattled off the directions to her parents’ home, not far from Massachusetts Institute of Technology, where her mother was a professor.

  Ryan nodded. “I know the area. I’ll have you there in no time. And I can arrange to have your car towed out on Friday, if you like.”

  Maggie balked at the generous offer. “Absolutely not. It’s not your problem. I’ll take care of it.”

  Even as the protest left her mouth, she realized that her stranded car was her only sure link to seeing Ryan Devaney again. She stole a look at him and felt her heart do an unexpected little flip. Such a reaction was not to be ignored. Not that she believed in destiny—at least the way Father Francis interpreted it—but just in case there was such a thing, she didn’t want to be too quick to spit in its eye.

  Chapter Two

  Ryan liked a woman who knew when to keep silent. He truly admired a woman who knew better than to pry. To her credit, Maggie O’Brien was earning a lot of respect on this drive, thanks to her apparent understanding of those two points.

  He’d seen the flare of curiosity in her eyes earlier. No telling what Father Francis had seen fit to share with her, but there was little doubt in his mind that the priest had done his level best to whet her interest in Ryan. A lot of women would have seized the opportunity of a long drive on a dark night to pester him with an endless barrage of personal questions, yet Maggie seemed to enjoy the silence as much as he did.

  Of course, there could be too much of a good thing, he concluded finally. Any second now he was going to start filling the conversational lull with a litany of questions that had been nagging at him ever since she’d walked into the pub.

  Over the years, working at Ryan’s Place, he’d managed to put aside his natural reticence in order to make the expected small talk with his customers. Few understood how difficult a task it was for him. In fact, there were those who thought he had a natural gift of the gab and many more who were sure he’d kissed the Blarney Stone during his stay in Ireland.

  Outside the pub, though, he tended toward brooding silence. That was probably one reason why the handful of women customers he’d asked out over the years were so surprised to find him less than forthcoming on a date. And since he’d generally asked all the personal questions in which he had an interest during those evenings in the pub, it made him less than scintillating company. Since he had little interest in a long-term relationship, it generally worked out for the best all the way around. Few women pestered him for more than a single date. Those who took his moods as a challenge eventually tired of the game, as well.

  Since Maggie O’Brien had never set foot in Ryan’s Place before, he had all his usual questions, plus a surprising million and one more personal queries on the tip of his tongue. But because asking them might give her an opening to turn the tables on him, he concluded he’d better keep his curiosity under control.

  “Mind if I turn on the radio?” he asked, already reaching for the dial.

  She seemed startled that he’d bothered to ask. “Of course not. Whatever you like.”

  “Any preferences?”

  “Jazz,” she suggested hesitantly. “Not everyone likes it, I know, but I can’t get a single jazz station where I live, and I really miss it.”

  Ryan was surprised by the choice. “Now, I would have pegged you as a woman who likes oldies.”

  “I do, but there’s something about a mournful sax that tears my heart up. It’s such a melancholy sound.” She regarded him worriedly. “If you hate it, though, it’s okay. Oldies will be fine.”

  Ryan flipped on the radio, and sweet jazz immediately filled the car. He grinned at her. “Pre-set to the jazz station,” he pointed out. “It seems we have something in common, Maggie O’Brien. Wouldn’t that make Father Francis ecstatic?”

  “Something tells me we shouldn’t offer him any encouragement,” she said dryly. “The man does perform weddings, after all. He’s liable to hav
e us marching down the aisle before we even know each other.”

  “Not likely,” Ryan murmured, then winced at his own harsh response to what had clearly been nothing more than a teasing remark. “Sorry. Nothing personal.”

  “No offense taken,” Maggie said easily.

  But Ryan noticed he’d managed to wipe the smile off her face. Once again she turned away to stare out the window, seemingly fascinated by the falling snow.

  And he felt about two inches tall.

  Even with the soothing sounds of her favorite jazz to distract her, Maggie couldn’t help wondering about the brooding man beside her. Time after time during her brief visit to his pub, she had seen him turn on the charm with his customers. She’d also noted the very real affection between him and the old priest and Ryan’s quick recognition of the older man’s exhaustion.

  Now, however, he’d fallen into a grim silence, apparently content to let the radio fill the silence. She could as easily have been riding with an untalkative cabbie.

  When she could stand it no longer, she risked a glance at him. Ever since his offhand comment about the unlikelihood of getting trapped into marrying her by the scheming Father Francis, he’d kept his gaze locked on the road as if it presented some sort of challenge. Since the sky south of town was still clear and bright with stars and there hadn’t been a patch of ice on the highway since they’d left downtown Boston, she concluded that he was trying to avoid looking at her. Maybe he feared she shared the priest’s determination to create a match between them.

  Of course, it was probably for the best. From the moment she’d walked into Ryan’s Place and looked into the eyes of the owner, she’d felt a disconcerting twinge of awareness that went way beyond gratitude toward a man who’d offered, albeit reluctantly, to bail her out of a jam. Every time she’d ever gotten a twinge like that, it had landed her in trouble. She had a whole slew of regrets to prove it, though few were romantic in nature. Her impulses tended toward other areas. Some had cost her money. Some had gotten her mixed up in projects that were a waste of her time. Only one had been related to a scoundrel who’d stolen her heart.