Pursuit (19 page)

Charlotte stopped drying her hair and looked up. Had she heard him correctly? He was telling her what to do? The bright Mexican morning cooled several degrees. “I beg your pardon?”

“I’m sorry.” Matt was a smart man, too smart to smile, but his eyes crinkled. “That sounded like an order, and I didn’t mean it to. So let me see if I can put it another way. I really need to eat because I had a lighter breakfast than I’m used to, and there’s no food in your house, and you need to eat, too, after falling into the ocean and almost dying yesterday. So it would be a really good idea if we went to the cantina where Mama Pilar will feed us some fabulous, warm food and lots of it. And afterward, in the early afternoon, when we’ve digested, it would be a really good idea for us to have another swimming lesson. Swimming is a physical skill and, like all physical skills, it can only be learned through repetition. The more you do, the better you are at it. You have to do enough of it so that your muscles retain the memory. You’re an artist, so that’s something you can understand. I’m sure you’ve done thousands and thousands of sketches to be able to draw as well as you do. So, given that, I think it would be a good idea for you to get back into the water this afternoon.”

Put like that, it sounded . . . well, reasonable. It would be churlish of her to refuse. That first rise of temper at being told what to do subsided. “Well . . . okay,” she murmured.

“So, let’s say the swimming lesson around four,” Matt continued in his reasonable, matterof-fact voice. “And tomorrow we start with the shooting lessons.”

Warrenton

April 26

Friday was live music night at the Ceili, Warrenton’s biggest Irish pub. The Ceili was a notorious pickup bar, but that wasn’t why Moira went every Friday after work, regular as clockwork. One-night stands didn’t tempt her. No, indeed. She’d been raised better than that.

No, she went for the bands, she did. It was her own little weekly nostalgia trip, nursing a single Guinness all evening, tapping her foot to the wild Irish music that cracked her heart open just a little, just enough to remind her of home, every time. She was happy in America, she was. A trip back to the old country once every two years was all she needed to keep on an even keel. A few weeks in Doro in County Donegal always reminded her all over again why she’d followed Aunt Meg to America. After a short time, she felt cramped by how small her hometown was, how far from Dublin, how narrow her old schoolmates’ lives seemed.

No, she wasn’t homesick. She’d made a good life for herself in America, and there was no turning back.

But, oh, how the music misted her up. It was just like being home of a warm, rainy summer evening at Aunt Aideen’s house, all the Fitzgerald cousins having a couple too many under their belts, which God knows never stopped them from singing in perfect harmony. The music at the Ceili was always good, and tonight was no exception. The group was great, the female fiddler with wild corkscrew black hair flying around her face as she fiddled up a storm.

The group—the Stone of Turoe—had the audience stomping their feet and swaying drunkenly in their seats. Moira marveled at how the nimble waitresses managed not to slip on the beer suds that slopped onto the floor.

The first set wasn’t over until almost midnight. Moira stifled a yawn. Much as she’d love to hear the second set, it was time to go home. Since the group was breaking now, the second set wouldn’t be over until after one, which was way past her bedtime. Moira was moving to gather her purse when her arm was jostled and what felt like a whole keg of cold beer was splashed all over her cream silk blouse. What was left of her pint of Guinness was dumped into her lap, where it made a dark stain on her brand-new white wool trousers. They’d cost her half a week’s wages and were ruined forever.

“Oh . . . my . . .
God,
” a male voice breathed, and Moira looked up from the disaster of her blouse and pants. The man was skinny, with short receding blond hair, big black ugly square glasses and a polyester short-sleeved shirt. Total nerd, as they said here. Moira slid to the end of the bench, and his beer—one of those pale, wishy-washy American brews that smelled of piss—cascaded from her shirt onto her trousers. Wonderful. American beer drenching her shirt, Guinness on her trousers. And like all the bloody drinks served in this country, they were both ice-cold.

He was bent over her, trying to wipe her blouse and pants with the tiny little single-ply napkins he’d ripped from the table dispenser. The napkins disintegrated immediately, leaving white blobs all over, making her look even more like a mess.

“Oh, damn, I’m so sorry, I’m such a clumsy fool, I’m so very sorry, what an idiot I am,” he kept repeating, over and over.

Well, yes he was. He was a sorry, clumsy fool. Still, Moira’s mom had drilled manners into her, with the flat of her hand when necessary, may God rest her soul, so instead of taking a strip off the man’s hide, Moira counted to ten, and said, “It’s okay. It was an accident.”

Moira raised her eyes from her sodden blouse and as he saw her face, the man took in a shocked breath, loud even over the background noise of happy drinkers. “Oh. My. God.”

Honestly. His vocabulary appeared to have departed to the same place his manners had. He was looking at her in horror as if she’d sprouted two heads, staring at her openmouthed, like an idiot. He didn’t move, didn’t even seem to breathe. He just stood there, wide-eyed and slack-jawed. Was he going to stand there forever, the ninny? She suppressed a sigh. So much for a pleasant evening relaxing to music. Moira rose, grimacing with distaste. The Guinness had soaked through her trousers to dampen her stockings. It was freezing cold outside, and it was going to be unpleasant, to put it mildly, facing the chilly night with cold, wet stockings. When she gathered her gloves and hat, it was as if the man had been set free from some spell.

“No, no!” He sprang forward, made to touch her, then withdrew his hands, wringing them in distress. “My God, I can’t believe I spilled my drink on
you.
A hundred thousand people to choose from—” He blinked, eyelashes so pale his eyes looked naked. “Actually, Warrenton has 97,314 people, according to the last census. And out of 97,314—though now it’s probably more like 96,500 factoring in attrition and the—” He blinked again. “Sorry. I’m a mathematician. Anyway, of all the people in Warrenton to spill my beer on . . .”

Of all people?
Moira peered more closely at him. Medium height, balding, light blue eyes behind thick overlarge glasses—he did look familiar.

“You don’t remember me, do you?” His voice was wry. “I get that a lot. You were extremely kind to me this morning with my shopping list.”

Shopping list?

“At the supermarket? Remember?” He stared at her hopefully. “Brooms, and detergent and . . . and things?”

Brooms and detergent . . .The penny dropped. The clueless new guy, trying to set up a household with zero experience. She’d almost been late to work, thanks to him. How could she forget?

“Oh! Oh, yes. Of course I remember you.”

Still, it wasn’t the man’s fault he’d needed help. Pity kicked in. Her ma hadn’t raised her to be unkind. The guy was a total loser, as the Yanks said, but he was also new in town and—from the looks of him—desperately lonely. “Did you find everything you need?”

“Yes, thanks to you. You were so incredibly kind.” He stopped wringing his hands and touched her elbow, gently turning her back to her seat. “You
must
let me buy you another drink. Oh, please, I
insist,
” he said, when she shook her head. He bit his lips, and Moira was afraid he’d actually break down and cry. “I feel terrible about ruining your pretty blouse and your pants. You must let me buy you another drink, I simply won’t take no for an answer. It’s the very least I can do. Please sit back down, that’s right.” He beamed, light gleaming off his ugly glasses. “What kind of drink were you having?” He peered at her once-white trousers, now stained dark brown by the Guinness, and at the small amount of dark liquid left in the bottom of her pint glass and winced. “I’m sorry, I don’t know anything about beers. I’m not much of a drinker,” he apologized, lifting his own empty glass, the contents of which were still soaking through her shirt. “I just order a beer and drink what they give me. But I’d love to buy you another glass of whatever it is you were having.” He looked like a lost puppy. If he’d had a tail, it would have been wagging. “Please.”

“All right.” With an inward roll of her eyes, Moira sat back down, wincing at the sodden feeling of wet wool against her thighs. “But not anything alcoholic. A Coke will be fine.” No more alcohol for her, not with the ice-slick roads.

“Great. Great. That’s really, really great. In just a second you’ll have your drink.” He looked around, trying to catch the attention of one of the wait staff, but it was as if he had suddenly become invisible. He sighed, and muttered, “Story of my life.” Putting his hands on the table, he leaned forward. “Listen, it would be quicker if I just went to the bar and came back with your Coke. So—you’ll wait here?” He stood there for a moment, blinking uncertainly at her. “You—you won’t leave, will you?”

The thought
was
tempting—just slip out while he was at the bar, but— “No.” Moira drummed up a smile. “No, I’ll wait here.”

“Great,” he said again, and disappeared into the rush around the bar. Moira barely had time to register with distaste that the backs of her thighs were wet, too, when he was back with two big Cokes. He sat down across from her and lifted his glass. “Well, here’s hoping you can forgive me my clumsiness and to the start of a friendship.”

Moira lifted her own glass reluctantly. It was half ice, of course. She could never get used to the Yank habit of serving all drinks teeth-clenchingly cold, including when the temperature outside was below freezing. Even the beer was served so cold you couldn’t taste it. Moira sipped slowly, trying to warm up the drink in her mouth. The man was staring at her, hand holding up his Coke, looking ridiculous. He wasn’t going to leave her in peace until she’d downed the freezing-cold drink. This was one of those rare moments when she positively yearned for the old country.

With a heroic effort, she finished the Coke in a few gulps, hoping that it would earn her points so she could go home.

“You’re Irish, aren’t you?” His voice was light and friendly. He was leaning forward on the table as he talked so she could hear him better. “Going to Ireland someday has always been my dream. How long have you lived in the States?”

He seemed genuinely interested. It hurt, just a little, to think that it had been a long time since a man had showed personal interest in her. He completely focused on her, and it felt good to have all that male attention, even if it was only from a lonely mathematician. He wasn’t
that
bad-looking, either. Take away the nerdy paraphernalia like the thick glasses and cheap plasticky shirt with the polyester sheen, and he’d be almost presentable.

He was such a good listener, too, unlike most men. Moira found herself talking about the decision to leave Ireland against her parents’ wishes, God rest their souls. They were gone, now. She found herself telling him how lonely she’d been at first and how she missed her sisters and brothers. She must have talked for a long time, because she was out of breath. She had to stiffen her backbone not to sway in her seat. How late was it?

Bringing her wrist up to her face took an enormous effort.

It was past one. When had that happened? It was way past time to get home. Moira tried to slip out from the bench, but her muscles had turned to water. Her newest best friend was talking, but somehow she couldn’t focus on what he was saying.

“What?” It came out as
wha?

“I said—do you need any help getting home?”

Of course not. She’d never needed help before. She was an independent young lady, thank you very much. It was just that her legs felt rubbery and she was finding it hard to stay awake. “No, thanks, ah—” A blank. “Um, what’s your name again?”

“John.” His shy smile was sweet. “But my friends call me Barrett.”

San Luis

April 26

They argued all the way to the cantina.

Charlotte gathered up her things in a cold, shaking rage and started walking back to her apartment. Matt grabbed her by the elbow. His grip was gentle, but unbreakable. Charlotte looked pointedly at her arm, then up at him. That usually worked with a man’s unwanted touch. To her surprise, he didn’t let go.

“I’ll thank you to let go of my arm.” Charlotte’s voice was icy.

“No.”

She blinked. “I beg your pardon?” That tone usually brought results, but Matt didn’t relent. He actually looked as if he were biting back a smile, the bastard.

“Charlotte, listen to me.”

“No, you listen to me,” she began heatedly. The icy chill she’d felt had melted into a fiery upswelling of rage. “You seem to think you’ve acquired some kind of rights over me. It’s true, I’m grateful, you saved my life yesterday, but—”

“You were shot,” he said simply.

Charlotte’s back teeth ground together, hard. It was a surprise that shards of enamel weren’t flying out her ears. “I’m well aware of that. It doesn’t mean—”

“The guy who shot you isn’t in jail, and he isn’t dead. You told me that yourself.”

Her jaws were aching. “I fail to see—”

“He’s still after you. You can’t stay hidden here forever.”