Mistletoe and Mr. Right (3 page)

“Sit, dear. Have a biscuit and tell us why you're soaked to the bone.” Mrs. Donnelly doesn't take her own advice, bustling around as we all settle in, making sure we have what we need. Her fluttering—and her question—return my nerves to their polished dance floor.

But Mr. Donnelly rescues me for the second time in ten minutes. “Maeve, for the sake of everything holy, please park. You haven't stopped moving since we woke up at four this morning and my blood pressure is soaring.”

“Fine.” She whacks him with a dish towel, a smile touching her lips as she slides into the seat to his right, on my left. “Please tell us about yourself, Jessica. Brennan is a typical lad in most ways, I'm afraid, which means we've been left clean in the dark about this whole courtship. What's your last name? Where are you from?”

I give Brennan an exasperated look that he misses because he's too busy scooping homemade goodies onto the china in front of him. “Well, my last name is MacFarlane.”

Molly chokes on her tea, sputtering as drops of amber liquid hit the holly-embroidered tablecloth and soak in. Mrs. Donnelly hides an expression of dismay, leaving me to assume something—no idea what—is wrong with my last name. Brennan thumps his sister between the shoulder blades a bit harder than necessary and she smacks his arm, their tussle distracting everyone from me, at least for the moment.

“Kids, come on. You've been in the same room for two minutes,” Mr. Donnelly admonishes before turning his steady gaze back to me. “Go on, Jessica.”

Something about the way he says my full name makes me wonder if he finds my insistence on using it ridiculous, but nothing in his expectant expression backs up my feeling. It's probably my own ears hearing it that way after years of correcting people.

“Well, I grew up in Missouri and I'm majoring in journalism.” My neck feels hot from all of the attention, but there's nowhere else to toss it. I kind of asked for it, showing up like this.

“Why are you so dirty?” Molly wrinkles her nose, her cheeks still pink and her hair out of sorts from the choking incident.

She had to remind everyone I hadn't answered that part of the question. Lying went against my code, but telling them I mauled their livestock on the way into town doesn't appeal to me, either. “I, um, had to get out of the car and move a tree branch.”

“How did you and Brennan meet?” The teenager peppers me with the next question around a mouthful of what looks like cranberry scone.

“At a frat party,” Brennan grunts. “Nothing too special about how it started, I guess.”

I wait for him to add something sweet about how it's been special since or how quickly we connected but he doesn't, and the silence twirling through the room goes faster and faster until it's hard to breathe. It's accompanied by the scraping of forks against china, the occasional murmur about snow arriving in time for Christmas morning, and the chiming of a cuckoo clock on the wall.

Mrs. Donnelly looks up at it, then gives me another tired smile. “Well, it's certainly nice to meet you, Jessica.”

A yawn stretches her lips wide and inspires one of my own, a reminder that I've been up nearly twenty-four hours. My eyes burn, nothing on my mind now but a sincere hope that she's going to show me to a bedroom.

I'm guessing Catholicism has something to say about Brennan and I sharing a room.

No one moves, and a desperate urge for conversation tugs at my tongue. “I know it's unbearably rude of me, showing up like this two days before Christmas, but I couldn't think of a good gift for Brennan and this seemed right.” I try a smile, earning matching nods in return, as though they're a family of bobbleheads. “Anyway, you know us Americans. Unbearably rude is kind of our national slogan.”

The joke tumbles flat on its face, and Mrs. Donnelly reaches over and pats my hand. “It's no trouble, dear. We've missed our boy these past few months, and it'll be refreshing to hear about his time in the States from one of his friends. Not much of a talker, our Brennan.”

“That's the truth,” I reply, a little miffed that she referred to me as his
friend.
And that he didn't correct her.

She takes me down the hall to my room and then gives me a tour of the guest bathroom before handing over clean towels and bidding me good night. I collapse on my bed as she closes the door, wondering how much to read into my not getting to say a proper good night to my boyfriend before being herded away.

Maybe he'll sneak in to see me in a bit, to tell me how happy he is to see me, how glad I made the three-thousand-mile trip to surprise him, and apologize for being so stoic upon my arrival.

I fall asleep before I can even think about changing clothes, so if Brennan does knock on my door, it falls on deaf ears. Ghosts fill my dreams, but unlike old Ebenezer Scrooge, mine all lurk in the past. My spirits don't have anything nice to say about the future.

Then again, they never do.

Rays of sun peer through the sheer curtains framing my window before I'm ready, but at least last night's storm has dissipated. My body craves coffee, even knowing it's probably going to be tea from here on out, which is better than nothing when it comes down to a choice between chugging caffeinated tea or suffering withdrawals.

I put on a bra and tug on a pair of jeans, then grab a sweater before peeking out into the hallway. The quiet in the house makes the squeaks of my boots on the hardwood floors sound like cymbals. Even so, I make it out to the front porch without running into anyone else, and I breathe the crisp sea air deep into my lungs.

This morning, Ireland greets me like I imagined—a thick mist drapes the boulder-dotted shoreline like a shawl as sunlight winks off of the crashing gray waves. The rain turned to snow sometime during the night, so there's still no green, but the pristine white blankets covering the hills add the perfect ambiance to the late-December morning. A white Christmas in Ireland. This trip
can't
be a mistake.

The door creaks open behind me and a sleep-tousled Brennan steps up beside me, a colorful, handmade afghan wrapped tight around his shoulders. Pieces of his hair stick up in chunks and there are reddened creases on his cheeks, but when he smiles at me, there's no one more beautiful in the entire world.

“Morning, chicken.” His brogue thickens enough when he's sleepy to trip me up, but I've gotten used to the nickname, which weirded me out at first. Apparently it's normal to him.

“Morning.” I lean in for a kiss, not caring whether either of us has morning breath. We dispensed with that formality a few weeks after we started sleeping over. He lapses into silence, reigniting my lingering doubts. “Are you mad?”

“About you showing up?” He doesn't look at me at first, choosing to squint toward the sea instead. An eternity passes before he shrugs, turns, and slings an arm around my shoulders. “Nah. I mean, I was pretty surprised and my mam's a planner like you, so she might have a panic attack, but it's good to see you.”

“Also we've been together four months now. It's time I met your family.”

“And you took the initiative, as usual.” He smiles to soften the judgment in his words, then leans down to kiss the tip of my nose. “How can I get mad at you for being Jessica?”

And that's that. It's so Brennan; he's entirely go-with-the-flow and nothing bothers him. Ever.

Which, honestly, is starting to bother
me.
Because if he doesn't care about anything, what does that say about his attitude toward me or the potential for our relationship?

Chris would roll her eyes and tell me to shut up. That we've only been together four months and we're twenty years old, so who cares if we don't know right now if we'll get married. If it's forever.

I look at my handsome Irish boyfriend who does his best to understand me, and also happens to be dynamite in bed, and decide to listen to her. Try to relax and explore, to revel in the new experience.

“You guys, Mam is going to beat you both if you don't get in here for breakfast,” Molly chirps, sticking a head full of frizzy strawberry curls out into the morning. She eyes us. “Are you two being gross or what?”

“Not as gross as your breath,” Brennan retorts, tossing me a wink before chasing his sister into the house.

I take one last look around the magnificent scene before heading into the dining room, feeling better about this whole thing. Brennan and I might not be there yet, but I still think a holiday with his family, in his country, will make him realize he wants to hang on to me.

The family gathers around the rough, pitted table, along with an addition from last night. An elderly man perches on one end, the sun glinting off the age spots on his bald head. He peers up at me through giant owl-like glasses with a skeptical expression, as though maybe I'm a cantaloupe he can't quite decide on buying based on smell.

“This the Scottish girl?” he grunts.

“Granddad, Jaysus!” Molly's cheeks go pink.

At least now it's clear why she choked last night at the mention of my last name.

“I'm not Scottish, I'm American. My father never even mentioned it.” Not that I remember much before my ninth birthday, when he died. But it seems like a fair protest.

“You've got the blue eyes and the stature. Can't breed that out.” The old man waves a dismissive hand. “You'd probably walk two miles out of your way to pick up a penny, too.”

“Dad, seriously.” Mr. Donnelly reaches for a piece of flat oatmeal-colored bread. “Knock it off. We're supposed to pretend to like the Scots now, and that guy who stole your girlfriend at university died ten years ago. Give up the fight.”

“Ten years too late,” he grunts, still giving me a look like he's wondering what crimes—real or imagined—I've committed. “You're pretty, though. So that's something.”

Brennan shoots me an apologetic look and pulls out a chair next to the old man. Mortification heats my face even though it's ridiculous to feel embarrassed about my last name. I didn't choose it and it doesn't mean anything—not to what's left of my family, anyhow.

I stick out my hand. “I'm Jessica.”

He looks down at my hand, then gives me a gap-toothed smile without shaking it. “Michael Donnelly.”

“Can we eat now?” Mrs. Donnelly raises her eyebrows at her family as though daring any of them to say no. “Good.”

I join the others in filling my plate with yogurt, granola, fruit, some scrambled eggs, and a sausage patty. Brennan holds out a plate of bread and scones, nudging the thick oatmeal loaf toward me with a finger.

“It's soda bread. A tradition around here.”

“Sure.” I take a slice and doctor it up with butter and jam, then take a bite. It's delicious, with an interesting flavor and texture that's like bread, but not. “Yum. I like it.”

“'Course you like it. Anything's better than haggis and porridge.” Granddad says, talking around a mouthful of yogurt.

“What's haggis?” I ask in my best innocent voice.

“Mam makes the best soda bread in town.” Brennan informs me, intercepting his grandfather's reply.

“That's a beautiful picture,” I comment, nodding toward a black-and-white photograph hanging on the wall. It captures a moment in time—a woman on the beach, her back to the camera as her dark hair blows in the wind, teasing the hem of her dress out toward the crashing gray waves. Mossy rocks frame the scene, a perfect, jagged addition to the fierce image. “Did one of you take it? Or a local photographer?”

“Oh, our farmhand Grady took it—he's always snapping photos with that camera of his,” Mrs. Donnelly adds, an indulgent smile turning up her lips. “Quite good at it, too.”

“Huh.” It's all I can manage, my mind trying to reconcile the gruff, off-putting guy from last night as the kind of artist who could see the unique beauty in that photo.

“Did anyone see Nanny Goat this morning?” Molly changes the subject, picking at her eggs. “She's got a fierce limp.”

My heart pounds to a stop. The silence in the room rushes in my ears like static and the world slows down, as though we're under water.
Shit.

“I saw her yesterday and she was fine. Feisty as ever.” Mrs. Donnelly refreshes my tea, even though I've only sipped twice. “Tried to bite me.”

I don't have to say anything. As long as stupid Grady Callaghan keeps his mouth shut they'll never know what happened last night. But the goat could need to see a vet or something; plus if they
do
find out I ran into her, they're going to know I sat here and basically lied to their faces. With only three days to make a good impression, losing time by insulting them will hurt more than admitting my mistake.

“I hit her with the car last night,” I mumble. They all stare at me, even Brennan, surprise slacking their jaws. “I mean, I don't know if it was Nanny Goat. But it was
a
goat.”

“What? Why didn't you say something when you got here?” Mrs. Donnelly's accusing gaze actually burns.

“He didn't know,” I rush on when she turns it on Brennan. “I didn't tell him.”

“You should have told us.” Mr. Donnelly's not looking so affable now, lines crinkling around his mouth. “She might need to see a vet and getting one out here two days before Christmas isn't going to be easy.”

“Come now, Colin. This way we won't have to butcher a turkey for holiday dinner,” Granddad chortles, laughing so hard he starts to choke.

“Nanny's going to be fine,” the same smooth, baritone brogue from last night interrupts.

I twist around in my wooden chair to find Grady in the doorway from the kitchen, his stocking hat clutched between his bearlike hands. His bright eyes land on me, looking more gray than blue without the glare of the headlights. They're reproachful, as though he's resisting the urge to reprimand me for keeping the whole incident a secret. I fight the urge to roll my eyes, since he's sort of helping me.