Briarwood Cottage (2 page)

“As a heart attack. Take it or hand over your credentials and go home.”

Which they both knew Duncan couldn’t do. Because, other than the Manhattan apartment where he occasionally landed between assignments, he had no real home. Life was, and had been for years, on the road.

“You realize, of course, that this is going to be a total waste of my time and your money.”

The closest thing to a smile he’d seen thus far, or perhaps it was a smirk, twitched at the corner of Armstrong’s mouth. “Fortunately, I happen to have the money. And you
will
make the time.”

Four weeks. Hell, he’d survived worse situations in worse places for a lot longer than that.

“Sold,” he said with a shrug. One thing Ireland had that Afghanistan and the Middle East had been sorely lacking was a plethora of pubs.

“I’m glad you agreed.”

Armstrong reached into the middle desk drawer and pulled out an airline folder and a small manila envelope. “Diane reserved a seat for you on tonight’s Aer Lingus flight to Shannon. Although the town’s swarming with Lady seekers, she also used her considerable powers of persuasion to book you a place to stay. You can pick up the key at Brennan’s Pub in Castlelough. I’m assured you can’t miss it, since, according to the Google map printout Diane included, it’s in the center of town right across from the harbor.”

After leaning forward to take the folder, Duncan glanced inside at the e-ticket and travel information. “Briarwood Cottage?” He didn’t bother to hide his distaste.

“I realize it’s not your usual level of five-star accommodations. But this is last-minute. And beggars can’t be choosers.”

He could choose not to go. For a fleeting moment, Duncan considered that throwing his press badge onto that gleaming desk would be preferable to covering a ridiculous tabloid story from some rundown wreck of a thatched-roof cottage that was probably filled with shamrock and leprechaun kitsch.

Having always been a realist, Duncan reluctantly decided that even tacky ceramic leprechauns would be better than losing his job and—God help him—having to take up blogging.

“I’ll go.”

“Good.” The older man’s self-satisfied smile assured Duncan that he’d expected no other outcome.

Duncan was halfway to the door when Winston Armstrong’s next statement stopped him in his tracks. “And while you’re over there in the back of beyond, figure out what you’re going to do about your marriage. Before you spiral down so far you end up living in the subway.”

“My marriage is
my
business.”

“I’d define it as a
lack
of a marriage,” Armstrong countered. “And, as your godfather, I’m not about to remain silent while you destroy your life. Not to mention disappointing your father.”

“I’ve been doing that pretty much my entire life.”

“You’re mistaken about that. But you’ve got a trip to take, so we’ll save the discussion for another time. Even if you don’t care about winning approval, Duncan, perhaps at least you wouldn’t want to break your mother’s heart.”

Damn. “That’s hardball,” Duncan muttered.

“I didn’t get where I am by playing beanbag.” Armstrong sighed heavily. “Look, it’s obvious that your personal problems are affecting your work. So, do whatever the hell it takes. But get your head straight, Duncan. Before it’s too late.”

In no mood to argue that his Fleet Week reaction was just a temporary glitch, that those sailors had managed to jerk his chain during a time he’d just as soon forget, Duncan merely snapped a brisk salute.

Then walked out the door, down the hall, and out of the office, taking the elevator to the lobby, where a black car, right on cue and obviously already ordered by Winston Armstrong’s ever-efficient Diane, glided up to the curb.

As he sat at the gate, waiting for his flight to Shannon Airport, Duncan idly watched the departing flights flash by on the oversized screen. When a pending flight to Portland, Oregon, caught his eye, he was tempted to ditch his trip and head off to the Pacific Coast instead. He could rent a car in Portland and be in Shelter Bay, Oregon, in two hours.

Absently rubbing the gold band he continued to wear on his left hand, he rationalized that he would, after all, be getting out of the city, as instructed. And, rationalizing the idea even more, the man he’d known all his life had told him to get his head straight and fix his marriage.

Which he damn well couldn’t do in Ireland.

But just maybe…

The Portland flight turned out to be filled with a long list of standbys. Which wasn’t as much of an obstacle for him as it would be for the ordinary traveler. Duncan’s fame, along with the fact that he’d garnered more frequent flier miles than he’d ever be able to use in several lifetimes, would easily get him bumped to the front of the line and into someone else’s seat.

He was considering doing exactly that when the boarding announcement for the Shannon flight came over the loudspeaker.

Reminding himself that his impulsiveness hadn’t exactly won him points in his short-lived marriage, nor in that Midtown bar, and since there was no way he was going to waste time talking to crazy people who’d supposedly seen some imaginary lake creature, Duncan decided he might as well use his four weeks in the Emerald Isle to plan the mission to win back his runaway bride.

Shelter Bay, Oregon

A
pparently Oregonians hadn’t
received the memo that most people—at least most
normal
people—didn’t go to the beach on chilly, foggy days. Cassandra had come here to be alone, to attempt to quiet the mental clatter in her mind and savor the smallest of things while they lasted. Such as the iridescent bubbles shimmering in sea foam washing up on the sand, the skittering of sandpipers along the water’s edge, and the feel of the salt-scented breeze on her face.

There’d been a time, not so long ago, when she’d been so lost in the shadowed corners of her mind that she never would have been able to share the early-morning beach with runners, beachcombers, surfers, and even a group of young men practicing kite-flying stunts for the town’s annual festival this upcoming weekend. A time when Cassandra’s heart had been so consumed with pain there’d been no room for any other emotion.

But as she watched the crayon-bright colors of the soaring, dancing, diving kites providing a vivid contrast to the quilted gray sky, she felt as if they were lifting her spirits up with them.

Until a surfer clad in a skintight black wetsuit strode out of the water, his board beneath his arm. With his long blond hair and thin, seal-sleek body, the young man was the physical opposite of Duncan McCaragh, yet he nevertheless brought back a bittersweet memory of surfing beneath a full moon on County Donegal’s Bundoran Beach.

Although she’d insisted he was living up to his Mad Dog name by even considering surfing in Ireland in the winter, Duncan had assured her that Irish waves were the best in winter. A declaration with which all the wet-suited people who’d shown up at Ireland’s surf capital appeared to agree.

Using his considerable charm, he’d coaxed her into renting a board and clothing at one of the local shops. Having never surfed, Cassandra wouldn’t have managed to stand up had it not been for Duncan’s strong arms around her body, holding her up. Which had been no hardship.

Afterwards, they’d driven over the mountains to the west, where they’d spent ten idyllic days and romantic nights in a pretty little whitewashed, thatched-roof cottage before they were jerked back to reality and flew off in different directions. Duncan to Syria. Cassandra to Egypt.

Where everything had gone so terribly wrong.

At one time, just thinking about her estranged husband would bring on a surge of lust. Now, guilt, that other nagging emotion, descended, as cold and thick as the fog swirling in from the sea as Cassandra made her way back toward the cliff steps.

She’d nearly reached the steps when two little girls and a boy dressed in bright jackets came racing down. The boy had a dachshund on a leash.

The children’s parents—the mother carrying a small, insulated cooler, the father laden down with folding chairs—had fallen behind. From midway up the cliff, they called out warnings for the kids to be careful. And wasn’t that what every parent wanted for their children?

The happy, carefree family should have lifted Cassandra’s spirits. There’d been a time when it would have. But she’d discovered over these past months that grief and guilt could came in waves just when you weren’t expecting it. Like now, as memories crashed back, flooding over her like a tsunami. The children’s laughter, as bright and cheerful as the kites flying overhead, caused her chest to tighten even as her heart galloped wildly.

Breathe.

Not sure her legs would hold her and unwilling to risk humiliating herself by publicly passing out, she sank down onto a driftwood log and pressed her hand against her galloping heart.

The parents paused as they passed. “Are you all right?” the woman asked solicitously.

“I’m fine,” Cassandra lied through lips that had gone as dry as the sand beneath her feet.
Breathe
. She forced a smile that felt more like a grimace. “I guess I’m just out of shape. I walked too far down the beach, forgetting that I’d have to walk back.”

“I’ve done that,” the woman, who looked as if she did yoga during the day and Pilates in her sleep, answered with a friendly smile. “Of course, keeping after those three wild ones builds stamina. Which I’m going to need in spades this fall when the latest member of the brood arrives.”

She absently patted the visible baby bump beneath her lightweight jacket as she glanced toward her brood. The girls had wasted no time in beginning a sand castle while the boy raced along the hard-packed sand at the surf line with the dog. “Well, have a good rest of your day,” she said.

“Thanks. You, too.”

Standing up, Cassandra made her way slowly up the steps, holding on to the railing with sweaty hands to steady herself. When she finally reached the car, she leaned back against the headrest and closed her eyes.

*

Twenty minutes later,
having nearly rid her mind of the ceaseless circling of what-ifs, Cassandra was approaching the bridge crossing the harbor into Shelter Bay when the radio’s top-of-the-hour newscast led with her husband’s name.

Expecting the worst, her heart, which had leaped into her throat, settled back down again when she learned that he hadn’t been killed or injured in some godforsaken war zone. But instead had been involved in a drunken brawl in New York City.

During Fleet Week? Her Duncan?

No, Cassandra reminded herself. He wasn’t
hers
anymore.

Despite the stubborn man’s continued refusal to sign the divorce papers she’d sent him and that money that kept appearing every month in her bank account, their marriage was over.

Needing to know more, she pulled the car over to the side of the road, took out her phone, and Googled his name. Unsurprising, more than eleven million results popped up in twenty-five seconds.

After reading a half-dozen articles all claiming that he’d been banished by his news organization to Ireland, of all places, she clicked out of the search. She didn’t want to think about her husband.

At. All.

And wasn’t that easier said than done? Was it possible that this time the gossip columnists and the Twitterverse, not known for diligent fact checking, had gotten it right? Had Duncan truly been publicly drunk? And brawling?

They may not have spent that much time together during their brief marriage, but one thing Cassandra had always admired was her husband’s ability to avoid unnecessary altercations. He’d told her that when your job required dealing with terrorists, dictators, and corrupt government officials, it was only prudent not to make unnecessary enemies.

Not that she hadn’t witnessed a sustained intensity switch he was able to turn on at a moment’s notice. And while he’d kept it tightly controlled, it wasn’t anything anyone would want to have turned against them.

Her husband was as famous for his charm as he was that tightly leashed emotion. Also, having a socialite mother who was a closeted alcoholic had kept him careful about his drinking.

So, how had he ended up in a drunken brawl? With sailors?

Tucking the phone back into her bag, she continued driving across the bay to her cousin’s apartment over Take the Cake Bakery.

“How was your walk?” Sedona Sullivan was sitting at her kitchen computer going through yet another series of spreadsheets. Cassandra suspected she was one of very few bakers who did profit and loss analyses before deciding whether to add scones to her menu. Which was even more ironic given that her cousin had grown up on a commune.

“It was relaxing.” Until that out-of-the-blue panic attack.

“I’m glad to hear that.” Sedona glanced up from the screen. “So why are you as pale as driftwood?”

“I had a flashback,” Cassandra admitted. “From what Dr. Fletcher would call a trigger. But it didn’t last long.”

“You were told it would take a while.”