Love and Shenanigans (Ballybeg, Book 1) (The Ballybeg Series) (31 page)

“No and no. But I wouldn’t put anything past Bernard.” He stood. “Let’s get started, eh? The sooner we get cracking, the sooner we can go home.”

And away from one another was the thought left unspoken. Perhaps she was being paranoid.

They moved into the book room and assessed their strategy.

“Wow,” Gavin said, looking around. “I knew there were a few books in here, but the prospect of boxing them all puts it in perspective.”

“Yep,” she agreed. “We’ll be kept busy for a few hours.”

“Where should I start?” Gavin asked.

Damn the man. Why did he have to look so appealing when she was no longer allowed to touch him? “Why don’t you start with the crime fiction section?” she said. “And I’ll start over here with the children’s books.”

“Sounds good. You want me to keep the books in alphabetical order?”

“As far as possible, yes. It will make putting them back on the shelves a thousand times easier.”

She cranked up the music and they got to work. The music was loud and heavy—perfect for avoiding conversation.

They worked fast. Each box they filled brought them closer to one another. His presence was a constant reminder of what they’d shared over the last couple of months. He hummed to music, off-tune. The temptation to pull off his sweater and feel the muscles beneath was overwhelming, and the subtle scent of his aftershave teased her nose and reminded her of waking up next to him after a night of hot sex.

Within a couple of hours, they’d amassed a neat pile of boxes in the middle of the room, and Fiona was a quivering mess. When she reached for a book, her hand accidentally brushed against his and their eyes met. Her skin burned from the sexual tension, and her pulse went into overdrive.

Time stood still.

He reached for her and cupped her chin. His sky-blue eyes were warm with lust and soft with tenderness. Her gaze dropped to his mouth. She felt as much as saw his lips move toward hers.

No… this is madness.

She stumbled backward. “Gavin, I—”

He blinked, shell-shocked. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done that.”

“No, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have responded.”

They were silent for a moment, then started to laugh.

“Constantly apologizing,” he said. “How very Irish of us.”

“True.” She shifted her weight from one foot to the other.

Gavin swayed on the balls of his feet. “Listen, Fiona. If you want a lift to Clare, I’m leaving at eight o’clock on Monday morning.”

Gavin shifted gears as they left the outskirts of Ballybeg behind them. The morning was cool and crisp, and there hadn’t been a drop of rain so far.

Out of the corner of his eye, he watched Fiona in the passenger seat of the SUV. She oozed tension, coiled tighter than a spring.

In stark contrast, Wiggly Poo—snoozing on the backseat in his travel basket—was the picture of tranquility. The picture was deceptive. Last night, he’d savaged Gavin’s best running shoes.

“Any requests for music?” he asked, noticing the faint stress lines on Fiona’s pale forehead.

“What?” She turned to him, her emerald green eyes startled. “Oh, music. Play whatever you feel like listening to.”

He switched to a punk rock playlist.

The drive to County Clare wouldn’t take long. Three hours, tops. And if the traffic stayed as quiet as it had been thus far, they’d make it in less.

The signs for various towns flashed past. Bandon, Cork City, Blarney.

“You don’t want to stop off and kiss the Blarney Stone, do you?” he teased.

“Hell, no,” Fiona said, horrified. “That thing’s probably riddled with germs. Besides, it’s not even a real legend. I suspect the owners made it up to attract tourists.”

Gavin laughed. “And which of our many Celtic legends and superstitions do you believe?”

She blushed and then bristled defensively. “I believe in fairy trees.”

“Seriously? Have you ever left offerings?”

She glared at him. “I studied History and Celtic Folklore in university. Did you know that?”

“I knew you were a history teacher. I didn’t know you’d also studied folklore.” He smiled at her. “That’s cool. I know next to nothing about stuff like that.”

“Yeah. My dad was an amateur expert in Celtic mythology and folklore, and I inherited his interest. I even toyed with the idea of staying on at university and becoming an academic, but jobs are scarce in academia and rarer still in such a specialized area.”

“Speaking of Celtic myths,” he said, “did you know Bernard and Aidan Gant want to raze a fairy tree to build their shopping center?”

“I heard about that.” Her stress lines deepened. “No good will come of it. And from what I can tell, there’s no reason they can’t shift the location of the supermarket a half a kilometer farther down the road.”

“No, there’s not, but Bernard’s a stubborn bastard. A local activist group sealed the tree’s fate the moment they sent him a letter. Once he received that, he was determined not to budge. Look, I don’t know that I buy into the myths, but enough people do that I think their beliefs ought to be respected. Besides, many of them are the very locals Bernard’s expecting to shop at the center. From a structural point of view, moving the building a bit farther down the road would make absolutely no difference.”

“Like you said, Bernard’s stubborn.” Fiona shook her head. “He’d take an axe to the tree himself if no one else were willing to.”

They lapsed into silence, content to listen to music and retreat into their thoughts. The unsettled feeling in Gavin’s stomach grew worse with every kilometer that brought them nearer to Doolin. The idea of not being with Fiona anymore was tearing him apart. If he wasn’t the father of Muireann’s baby, he’d tell Fiona how he felt about her. Life was too transient to screw up the best thing that had ever happened to him. She made him laugh, she made him smile, she made him
feel.

“We’re making good time,” she said, indicating the sat nav. “Not much traffic today.”

More town signs flashed by: Mallow, Charleville, Bunratty. An uncomfortable thought settled in Gavin’s brain. In all the years he’d spent studying and working his arse off for Bernard Byrne, he’d enjoyed a few foreign holidays that were the status symbol of the New Ireland. But how much had he seen of his own country? He’d joked with Fiona about the Blarney Stone. Had he ever seen it? And what about Bunratty Castle, another famous Irish tourist attraction?

“Have you ever been to the Burren?” he asked, referring to Ireland’s world-famous karst landscape and home to many native flowers and ancient tombs.

“I went once on a school trip,” she said. “Doolin’s in the heart of the Burren, right?”

“I think so. Sorry for rambling. I was thinking about all the famous foreign places I’ve traveled to over the years, yet I’ve seen very little of my own country.”

She smiled. “Isn’t that always the way? Here I am planning a world trip, but I haven’t seen a fraction of the sites tourists flock to Ireland to visit.”

They bypassed the city of Limerick and wound their way up the rugged west coast until they reached Doolin, a small fishing village near the Cliffs of Moher.

“Are those the Aran Islands?” Fiona asked, pointing to a faint craggy mass far out to sea.

“I believe so,” he said. “Doolin operates a ferry service out to the islands during the summer months.”

“Another famous Irish place I’ve never visited.”

He smiled at her. “Maybe we’ll come back in the summer and go out to visit the islands.”

Or maybe he’d be greeting his first child
… the sharp reminder made his stomach churn.

Past a cheerily painted pub, Gavin pulled into the car park of the small bed and breakfast they’d booked for the night. “Where did you say this Ann Dunne lives?”

“Lisdoonvarna.”

He checked the map on his sat nav display. “Not far from here, then.”

“No.”

They sat in the car, the engine still running.

“And Muireann is also staying in Doolin?” she asked.

“Yeah. Her bed and breakfast is down near the harbor.”

“How are we going to do this? Divide and conquer?”

“Sounds good to me,” he said. “You take the SUV to Lisdoonvarna, and I’ll visit Muireann by foot.”

She got out of the car while he was unloading their overnight bags from the boot. She reached up and kissed his cheek. “Whatever happens in the future, I can’t regret the time we spent together over the past couple of months. If I feel guilty about anything, it’s that I don’t feel guilty enough.”

He reached for her and pulled her to his chest. “I feel the same,” he said, smelling the soft scent of her shampoo. “No regrets.”

ANN DUNNE LIVED several kilometers outside the spa town of Lisdoonvarna in a large detached property set on a respectable plot of land.

Fiona parked across the road. Her fingers were tingly and ice cold—a sure sign she was anxious. Was she making a massive mistake? After all, she hadn’t a clue what she was going to say to the woman. Should she blurt it all out and hope for the best? Or take a more subtle approach? Even if she persuaded Ann to confess to wrongdoing, what would she do with the information? Go to the police?

Dragging oxygen into her lungs, she climbed out of the car. At the front gate, she pressed the buzzer. There was no response.

She let a couple of minutes elapse, pacing back on forth in a nervous jig. Then she pressed the buzzer for a second time.

A static voice came through the intercom. “Yes?”

“Ms. Dunne? My name’s Fiona Byrne. I’d like to speak to you.”

“Who?”

“Fiona Byrne. Bernard Byrne’s niece.”

There was a pause, then more static crackle from the intercom. “I’m not feeling too well today. Can’t this wait?”

“No,” Fiona said. “It can’t wait. If you recognize my name, you must have a fair idea why I’m here. What’s it to be, Ann? A quiet chat between the two of us, or would you prefer I come back with the police?”

After a fraction of a second, the buzzer sounded, and she pushed open the wrought iron gate.

She exhaled in a gust. She was bluffing, of course. Without concrete evidence, the police would laugh her out of the station. But with a bit of luck and a lot of bravado, perhaps she could persuade the woman to incriminate herself.

Ann Dunne was waiting on the doorstep of her spacious bungalow. After weeks of picturing a fairytale witch, it was a shock to find herself faced with a tiny, bird-like woman with silver-gray hair and faded blue eyes. Despite her expensive perfume, the unmistakable odor of illness hung about her like a shroud.

“My heart,” Ann said, reading Fiona’s expression. “You’d better come in out of the cold.”

She wavered on the doorstep before following the woman into the house.

The bungalow was a relatively new build with large rooms and floor-to-ceiling windows. The decor was tasteful—soft pastel colors and carefully chosen antique furniture. It was what Bernard and Deirdre’s house might have looked like if either of them had taste.

Ann led her into the living room and motioned for her to take a seat in the bay window. Fiona paused by the fireplace to admire a ceramic bowl fashioned after a seashell.

“My son is an artist,” Ann said. “He does some ceramics, but oil paintings are his passion. These are all his.” She pointed to the striking oil paintings of Irish landscapes that adorned the walls. Bold brushwork and subtly blended colors brought the familiar settings to life in a new and vibrant way.

“He’s talented,” Fiona said honestly.

“But I’m guessing you didn’t come here to talk about Damian’s artwork.” Ann had a shrewd glint in her eye.

“No,” she said. “I did not.”

Ann indicated a glass coffee table on which a tea tray lay. “I’d just made a pot of tea when you rang the buzzer. Would you care to join me?”

“Um…” Fiona blinked. This was
not
going the way she’d expected. “If it’s not too much trouble.”

“Not at all.” The older woman fetched a second cup and saucer. When she’d poured the tea into the delicate porcelain, she handed one to Fiona. “I suppose you’re here about your grandmother’s will.”

Fiona raised an eyebrow. “You don’t beat about the bush.”

“Nor did you,” Ann said with a small smile. “You threatened to sic the police on me.”

Fiona placed her teacup on the glass table. “If we’re being direct, I’ll get straight to the point. Did you witness my grandmother’s last will?”

“You’re asking the wrong question, Fiona. You should ask if I saw your grandmother write and sign her own will.”

“Well, did you?”

Ann took a sip of Earl Gray and considered Fiona over the rim of her cup. “No, I did not. But I did sign a blank piece of paper for your uncle.”

“You’re admitting it?” Her voice rose a notch. “Just like that?”

Ann shrugged. “Unless a miracle occurs, I’m dying. Bernard Byrne can’t hurt me or my son anymore. What does it matter if I tell you the truth?”

“Okay, let’s back up here for a sec.” Fiona leaned forward in her seat. “I was expecting you to deny everything and chuck me out on my arse. Why did you sign that piece of paper in the first place?”

“For reasons I won’t bore you with, I needed the money. Bernard offered me a once-in-a-lifetime payout I couldn’t afford to refuse.”