Winters & Somers

by Glenys O'Connell

  “Okay, I do fancy you,” she admitted, “But that’s all – I’m not into one night stands or losing propositions. And maybe it would be good for the business – who knows? But can’t any of you – the Henleys, Granny Somers, you – can’t you understand that I want this for myself? I don’t want anyone else to come along with their advice, or their money, or their fame, and build it for me?”

  Jonathon was silent, gazing out of the window as if he was suddenly fascinated by Dame Street’s going-on. “I hadn’t thought of it that way,” he said quietly. And silently damned himself for a fool. He should have known Cíara was the kind of girl who would take things seriously. Despite her chosen profession.

  They finished their meal in a heavy silence. But after he’d tossed cash on the table to pay the bill, Jonathon captured her hand in his, briefly stroking the sensitive back with his thumb. “Cíara, come down to Waterford with me. Spend some time out of the city, and we’ll talk. I won’t force my company on you – but you’d enjoy the break, I’m sure.”

  Put like that, she had to admit that it was a long time since she’d been on any kind of a holiday. When other people celebrated public holidays, she’d taken on the extra, double-time shifts at the police station where she’d worked as a civilian dispatcher. Later, with the detective agency just barely up and running, she’d either been chasing around seeking lost cats or straying husbands, or sitting in her office plotting and planning and waiting for the phone to ring. And two days of relaxation, sitting on a beach, browsing the stores and….

  “Okay. So long as you mean it – no attempts on my person!”

  “I promise,” Jonathon said, and his solemn, mocking bow made her smile.

  * * *

  Winters had promised to meet Bill for ‘a quick pint’ before leaving and Cíara wanted to talk to Mary Margaret, so they agreed to meet back at the flat round lunchtime and start the three hour drive down to Waterford County and Dunmore East.

  “Mary Margaret, the man has turned my life upside down! I don’t know what to do with myself! My life’s not my own – jeez, he’s even moving into the flat because he doesn’t like living in hotels and he’s only going to be here a few days a week!” Cíara wailed at her friend.

  “What does he drive?” Mary Margaret asked.

  “For God's sake, that was just once, just one time. If I'd known Tony Mahon was such a loser…but is no one ever going to let me forget? Jonathon Winters is a different kettle of fish altogether.”

  Mary Margaret grinned. “Careful girl, the way you go on about this man, a person could think maybe you fancied him,” she said mildly. Since discovering her pregnancy, Mary Margaret was working on a sweet, Madonna like expression which was already driving her friends – Cíara most of all – right around the bend. She wished her friend a pair of hyperactive twins – and felt immediately ashamed.

  “Maybe I do fancy him a bit,” she admitted, “But he’s not giving me any space.”

  “Sure sounds like he fancies you also,” Mary Margaret said, patting her as yet invisible bump.

  “Yeah, like he comes into my life, takes over my business, takes over my flat, moves in on my Grandparents – did I tell you Granny Somers is positively fawning over him?”

  That jolted Mary Margaret. Her eyes went wide and she sat forward. “No! I don’t believe that! Granny Somers usually has every male she meets terrorized in about twenty seconds – and you say she was fawning over this fella? Nah, Cíara, I think you’re getting obsessed, is what. Imagining things. The guy’s got in your head.”

  “Stop it! Just stop it, okay? Just ‘cos you're preggers and happy about it doesn’t mean that everybody else is looking for a wedding gown, a three bed roomed semi, and the movies on a Friday night. Some of us want lives!” She was immediately sorry for snapping, especially as Mary Margaret burst into tears.

  When she’d finally calmed down enough to speak through the wad of paper napkins Cíara had snatched from an astounded waiter, Mary Margaret confided: “Joey doesn’t want to get married, not yet. He says after the baby, doesn’t want people to think it was a shotgun wedding. Says they’ll say I trapped him,” she sniffed.

  Privately, Cíara thought the errant Joey had a lot of nerve believing anyone would want to trap him, but she decided to be diplomatic and keep her thoughts to herself.

  “Well, it might be for the best. Who wants to have morning sickness on their wedding day?” she said, as she tried to cheer Mary Margaret up.

  “But it means my baby will be born a…born a…BASTARD!” And, at that, Mary Margaret began to really wail. The B-word still had the power to shock apparently, because suddenly everyone in the crowded little café where they were having coffee was staring at them. Mostly at Cíara, because it appeared she was the recipient of the insult. Blushing, Cíara reached out and grabbed Mary Margaret’s hand, giving it a gentle squeeze. The crowd watched on, interestedly.

  “That’s not true, not when his mammy and daddy are engaged,” she said, emphasizing the last word.

  Mary Margaret brightened.

  “Do you think so? I hadn’t thought about it like that!”

  “Of course. You intend to get married, so how can the baby be a…”

  “That’s right. I don’t know what’s wrong with me, Cíara, I keep getting these weepy moods, and all – “

  “I think it’s maybe that you’re pregnant.”

  Mary Margaret smiled back. “Yeah, I am, aren’t I?”

  She promised she would have her stuff out of the flat before the weekend was out, and begged Cíara to visit her and Joey in their new place. “You can bring yer man with you, if you want – I’d love to meet him,” she said slyly.

  “Go to Hell, Mary Margaret.”

  Cíara dropped money on the table and gathered up her things. She’d just reached the door when Mary Margaret called: “Thanks, you cheered me up – enjoy your dirty weekend!”

  The eyes of every other patron in the restaurant swiveled towards her, and Cíara fled, cheeks aflame.

  * * *

  “I don’t know what the hell’s the matter, Bill. Honestly, I’d jump the woman’s bones in a minute – I get horny just thinking about her. And I know she fancies me – I’ve seen that look on her face. But the minute I even think of making a move, she acts as if she’d rip my heart out if I put a finger on her!”

  “Ah, isn’t that the women for you? And that’s definitely our Cíara – it’s the red hair, you know. My Mammy always said, stay away from the girls with the red hair.”

  “But Sórcha has red hair,” Winters said suspiciously.

  “That’s the thing, see – the red hair makes them easy to rouse! Like, they’re passionate about other things as well.” Bill leered.

  “Oh, God,” Winters buried his face in his hands, assailed by x-rated images of Cíara roused to passion. “But Bill, she's a working girl, and I can't take that. I don't want to sleep with a……….but she won’t give it up.”

  Brian sat and stared, a stunned look on his face. When he could finally speak, he said: “A working girl? You mean, like in Stateside speak, working girl? Not working girl, as in liberated lady who has a career?”

  “You know what I mean,” Winters muttered. “I'd hoped I could make her see sense, try to get her to give up the game, by showing her that her private detective agency could work, but she wouldn't hear me out!”

  “Have you mentioned your, er, beliefs, to Cíara?” Bill asked, privately wishing he could be a fly on the wall when his friend explained to Cíara that he thought she was a hooker.

  “Well, I thought I'd made it pretty plain – God, this is such a mess. Of all the women in Ireland, I have to get the hots for one who'd simply see me as another customer!”

  “What, you don’t want to have to pay for it?” Bill couldn’t resist, and he enjoyed the shocked look on his friend's face. Until the hand reached out and grabbed his shirtfront. “Whoa, now, mate. You're the one who's calling ……”

  “You
know as well as I do what she does for a living, using that agency as a cover….”

  “Boy, you’ve got it bad, haven’t you?” his friend commiserated.

  “I’ve done everything I can think of, short of getting down on my knees and begging her to come to bed with me. I’ve tried to boost her business, I’ve even taken the worry about keeping that moth-eaten flat of hers on the go since her flat mate moved out…”

  “And you moved in, you mean. Noble of you,” Bill grinned.

  “I know she likes me. I figured if I was around a lot, she'd give up seeing other men. I just don’t know what she’s so afraid of – it’s not like I’m asking her to marry me, or anything…”

  Bill rolled his eyes and gave his friend a quick thump on the shoulder. “Boyyo, are you ever dumb,” was all he’d say.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Back at the apartment, Winters and Somers managed to call a truce long enough to pack and set off for his cottage by the sea in County Waterford. By mutual consent they took both vehicles, Cíara content for once to let Winters lead the way in his big SUV while she followed niftily in her beloved MG. They stopped for supper in Dunmore East at a small, friendly pub overlooking the sea, next to the Church of Ireland church, facing onto a park with massive old trees bent from the sea breezes.

  “Do you realize we’ve spent thirty minutes together in a restaurant and not had one misunderstanding?” Winters asked eventually.

  “That’s because we were eating and I never talk with my mouth full. Also, they’re not misunderstandings, they’re fights,” she corrected, but her smile softened the words.

  He smiled back, and for a moment they were like any other couple, out for the evening and enjoying each other’s company. Cíara even took the risk of smoothing her fingers gently over Winters' hand as she emphasized a point she was making in their discussion, and he squeezed her hand in return. But they couldn’t hold that pose for forever, and finally he said he had to pick up his cottage key from the agency Frank O’Keefe worked for.

  “I asked them to see to a leaking faucet and a quirky electrical outlet,” he explained. “The electrical outlets at the cottage are few and far between, and this is the one I use for my laptop.”

  Cíara thought it probably wasn't appropriate for her to go in with him, although she did want to drop off her report to Frank – even though she was fairly sure he’d probably burn it without reading it.

  “Maybe you could just drop in and see Frank by yourself and he wouldn’t know we were here together,” Winters said, reading her thoughts. “Probably best if he never knows that I know what he was thinking. After all, it’s a small town and I don’t want embarrassing moments over the tinned beans in the food mart!”

  He went into the realtor's office, picked up his key and came back out to report that the receptionist said Frank was out, showing a house over at Arthurstown, County Wexford, a short car ferry journey from County Waterford, across the Barrow estuary, and wouldn’t be back until later. Cíara decided not to leave the report in the office in case someone opened it by mistake. Instead, she used her cell phone to call the office and leave a message saying she was in the area and asking him to give her a call. That should keep things anonymous, she thought – until she saw the office receptionist peering out of the window to where she stood on the sidewalk with Winters.

  “Guess our traveling together won’t be much of a secret after all,” she said, nudging her companion and glancing meaningfully at the office window. Winters looked over, saw the woman and smiled.

  “Well, we couldn’t have kept a partnership like this quiet for long, anyway – not in a town like this.”

  Ten minutes later they were squeezing their vehicles into the tiny parking area alongside the whitewashed cottage.

  “My goodness – it’s so traditional I feel like I’ve stepped back two centuries.” Cíara, a modern city girl through and through, marveled at the little house.

  “Well, it does have some mod cons, the shower’s a bit temperamental but it works if you beg the right way, and the kitchen’s modern.”

  “Well, I hope you know what to do in it, ‘cos it’s not my strong point,” she muttered.

  “Ah, I have another line of defense for that situation,” Jonathon grinned.

  “Yeah? You have a housekeeper?”

  “Even better, I have Bozy’s Take Out – they deliver even out here!”

  They stood in the garden, looking out over the low hedge to where the sea flowed and ebbed below them. The sun was setting, and its silvery pink glow was echoed on the crests of the waves. “It’s beautiful,” Cíara murmured.

  He couldn’t stop himself. Call it moon madness, he muttered, capturing her mouth with his own. When she didn't resist, he deepened the kiss and felt her response. His heart - and other parts of him - pounded as hard as the waves hitting the rocks below. A soft sigh escaped Cíara’s lips as he moved his mouth down to her neck, his hands pressing the small of her back, bringing her still closer into him.

  “I took quite a risk there – I thought you'd either bite me, or knee me again,” he muttered against her neck.

  “The night is but young,” she promised, leaning back in his arms to look into his face.

  * * *

  “Jonathon! I thought you were never going to get back!” The woman’s voice sounded through the twilight like whiplash, and they sprang apart like guilty teenagers. A lovely blonde woman, tall and willowy, stood on the front doorstep, the light from the hallway silhouetting her becomingly.

  “Who the hell is that – your wife or something?”

  “No….”

  “I think you have some explaining to do, Winters.”

  Giving a small cough, he raised his voice. “Come and meet my friend Cíara, Alison. Alison, this is Cíara – Cíara, Alison. Alison Wilson is my agent. I wasn’t expecting you until later in the weekend, Allie.”

  “No, I can see that,” the woman said dryly, giving Cíara a searching look and then dismissing her. Obviously, she hadn’t made much of an impression in her travel-creased pants and low-necked cotton tee shirt. Especially not with her auburn hair all mussed where Winters had been tangling his fingers in it.

  Inside, Cíara excused herself to go to the bathroom, and she had to try very hard to deny that the pang she felt was jealousy when she saw Alison Wilson’s suitcase in what was obviously Winters' bedroom. She carried her own things into the small spare bedroom, but didn’t unpack. She had no plans to play gooseberry, and was wondering if she should call Grace Muldoon in Waterford to see if the B & B owner had a room for her. The drive down had worn her out and she was reluctant to make another trip this late at night, especially as it meant driving through the city.

  When she returned, Jonathon and Alison were deep in conversation, his dark head close to her fair one. Edging closer while working on a disinterested expression, she caught some of their words: contracts, proposals, deals, royalties, things with legalese phrases that she didn’t pretend to understand, but her frown lifted. Not a lovers' meeting, after all! However, the pair seemed more than happy with their discussion. As she entered the room, Jonathon turned to her and said: “Honey, it looks as though Allie has got me a movie deal on one of the books – and a shot at writing the script!”

  “That’s wonderful,” she complimented him, whole-heartedly pleased at his delight in the news. But deep inside she was aware of a little kernel of grief beginning to sprout. If there was a movie deal, if Jonathon was going to write the script, the odds were that he’d be flying off back to the States soon, wanting to use the time he’d got off from work to do the Hollywood thing.

  Well, at least she’d have her life back. She shrugged off the warmth that had spread in her belly when he'd called her 'Honey'.

  “My goodness, you look so serious! Didn’t you know how well Jon’s writing career was going?” Alison asked with a smile. “It often comes as a shock to people, the few who actually know who he is.” She winked at Winters. �
�Because they have trouble reconciling the New York cop image with the extraordinary talent he has in touching women’s hearts.”

  “Aw, shucks, Allie, you sound like a walking advertisement!” the writer protested, laughing, but Cíara could see from the faint flush on his cheeks that he was pleased at the praise.

  Winters the Policeman. Winters the Writer. Which one did she know? Which was the man with whom she had shared such unfulfilled lust just a short time ago, outside in the dusk? Which one of them had kissed her and stirred her senses until she barely knew what she was doing? Was there a Winters the Lover?

  “Ah, I always guessed he was schizoid,” she retorted as she went to the kitchen to find a decent cup of tea.

  She heard his snort of laughter behind her.

  Alison announced that she was going to retire early, she had to catch a plane at Shannon the next morning and was still suffering from jet-lag, despite having had four days of meetings with publishers on behalf of Jon and other writers she represented in the States. “I’m here so often these days, my boss is suggesting we open an office in Dublin,” she said between yawns.

  After Alison had gone, Winters suggested a short walk on the beach to blow the cobwebs away after the drive.

  Cíara was quiet until their feet scrunched in the sand. “Are you sleeping with her?” she asked bluntly.

  He was silent a moment. “No. What kind of guy do you think I am?”

  “Well, her things look very at home in your room!”

  He was glad the darkness hid his delight. So she was curious enough to check on the competition – and interested enough to be jealous! “That’s because she’s sleeping there – alone. I usually sleep in the smaller bedroom on the odd occasion she visits here – like, about twice in the three months since I moved here – and she has the bigger room. She’s claustrophobic and small bedrooms drive her crazy. “

  “Have you ever slept with her?”

  “How come women can always tell these things?” He blurted, and then regretted his words. “Okay, years ago, Allie and I had a quick fling. We were pretty much kids, and we didn’t even see each other again until I went looking for an agent. A mutual friend told me Allie was working with an agency, I got in touch with her and the rest, as they say, is history.