Epilogue
Normally, I avoid this type of event. Weddings are all well and good, but a wedding in an Irish pub…well, let’s just say it wouldn’t have made my top eight thousand things I might enjoy list. My best friend, Matilda O’Faolain, is admittedly not as uptight as I am. She was excited about the event, so here I am.
Tilly cheered as the new bride gave an impromptu dance on her new husband’s lap. I cringed. They did look gloriously in love, and I am deep down, way deep down, a sentimental woman. I may have been a widow for almost twenty years, but I’m not dead. At seventy-two, I am still a fine-looking woman. My sleek silver bob is perfectly quaffed, shiny, and thick. My figure is, well, I’d never been some voluptuous Jessica Rabbit, but I am an average five foot six and trim.
I had been infertile—I wasn’t infertile now, just old. When my late husband had brought up adoption, I’d eviscerated the suggestion. My set-down might have caused him internal bleeding. Adoption meant I’d failed. Diana Townshend Gaines didn’t fail at anything. My marriage had certainly not been a great love story like my best friend’s, but Tilly and Jon were exceptions to the rule.
I used to envy my dear friend, but Jonathan’s passing had almost taken Matilda to the grave with her husband. When George had passed, it had been an inconvenience at best.
George and I were the rule. We were a match created between our two powerful families. We’d gotten on well enough. It had never been passion forward but rather duty, nothing more, nothing less.
I regretted my ignorant stance on adoption, but not until years later. Too many years later. A husband dead, no interest in replacing him, and at the time, I was fifty-five. An age that seemed too ancient to consider creating a family. Now, at seventy-two, I could admit that I’d stood on the wrong side of that argument. It happened rarely, but it did happen.
No matter. I had lived a full life and adored my brother Owen’s children and my great-niece, Samantha. I also had my best friend Matilda, her son, and his children and their families. When Bran and Patrick had their own sons, I’d felt like a grandma too. One could have regrets. Wallowing in regrets, however, was a disgusting waste of time. Ignorant people wasted their time.
I have always been the antithesis of ignorance.
I moved to stand next to Tilly and my brother, who seemed to be glued to my best friend’s side of late. I’d be pissed if Owen didn’t look so damn happy.
Bran handed his son, Daniel, off to his wife, Raven. He and his brother had begun to hurl insults at each other while Hugh watched, shaking his head.
I was about to nudge Tilly’s side and question her grandsons’ low behavior, but someone crowded my free side, the warmth of their arm irritating. I attempted to ignore the unwanted interloper. No eye contact assured no verbal communication. However, the Neanderthal, with no social intuition, cleared their distinctly male throat.
With an inner sigh, I glanced right and was surprised to see Bébhinn’s husband, Devlen. Tilly adored the Irish woman and her new husband had seemed pleasant, but this behavior was about to earn the Irishman a set down.
He stuck his hand out to shake. “Evan Dunn,” he introduced himself. To my obvious confusion, he added, “Devlen’s twin. I’m an archeologist recently returned from a dig in Ecuador. Upano Valley,” he clarified.
Christ, I should have realized Devlen Dunn would never have been half so obnoxious. I took his proffered hand and shook. Good manners held very few avenues except for the most courteous route. “Diana Gaines.”
“I know. Bébhinn speaks highly of you.”
That warmed my heart. Rarely did someone speak of me in any way other than hushed whispers with pinches of fear and submission. I didn’t make the rules of society, but I did enjoy keeping the occasional aspiring socialite in check.
Bébhinn Byrne happened to be amazingly forthright and intelligent. Two attributes I admired, and so, I was pleased she felt similarly about me. Tilly had encouraged me to get to know the Irish woman, and her praise not unwarranted.
“I didn’t know Devlen had a brother.” Devlen and Evan were certainly handsome devils. I attempted to tamp down my girlish flush and maintain my infamous aloof, bordering on disdainful, stare.
“Devlen doesn’t offer any information that isn’t excruciatingly relevant.”
“Mmhmm,” I absently hummed.
“I’m not a man who cares much for ceremony. I’m educated, intelligent, and passionate about my work, so I’ll cut to the chase. You’re wealthy, and you like to travel. Would you sponsor my next dig?”
That took me aback. I have a weakness for direct confrontations, and I have been suffering from a touch of boredom the last few years, so I raised one imperious brow and waited for the rest.
“There have been other archeologists that believe a lost city exists near the Chandeleur Islands off the coast of New Orleans. I want to set up a base camp for myself and my team in the city with resources to travel to the islands. I want guaranteed funding for one year minimum.”
“You’re presumptuous.”
“I’m fecking persistent.” His Irish accent was flaring. “Presumptuous implies I don’t know what I’m talking about. I can assure you, Diana, I do know. Your name would be listed as part of the team when we discover the ruins.”
I watched the silver-headed fox’s chiseled jaw clench. He was passionate, if nothing else…and I did love New Orleans. “Fine. Send me the details…at your convenience, of course,” I barely held back a snarl. This man annoyed me. He also intrigued me. “I’ll look over them and let you know if I’m interested.” His deep exhale proved he wasn’t nearly as confident as he’d tried to make her believe.
“Fine then. Good. Save me a dance,” he demanded with enough cheek to fuel an adolescent for a week.
“I don’t dance,” I countered.
“You do now, though, right?” he asked and had the audacity to wink.
“We’ll see,” was as much answer as I was willing to give. He looked at me long enough to cause a slight warmth to flush my body before moving toward the bar. My goodness. He was inappropriate.
My attention was caught again by the O’Faolain men. They were always highly amusing, though I tried desperately to hide how entertaining I found them.
Hugh looked amused as he told his sons to knock it off. Tilly’s son had always been an unapologetic curmudgeon in my opinion, but since his marriage to the youngest Byrne, it was obvious that the man couldn’t contain his emotions behind his semi-permanent stoic mask as often as he used to. It was a good change.
As I watched, Hugh grasped his wife’s still trim waist, though she had to be close to three months along by now, and lifted her, holding her small body against his own massive one—that boy had always been…big. I know I just admitted that Hugh was more demonstrative, but witnessing him kissing his wife, passionately, in front of such a large crowd took me aback.
I glanced toward Tilly with pursed lips of disapproval for the public display. Her return grin meant my eyes must have given away my delight.
Not to be outdone by their father, Bran spun his wife, making her laugh before he, too, kissed his spouse. Patrick backed his wife, who’d just handed her son to Bébhinn, against the smooth wood of the bar behind them. River was the one to pull her husband’s head to hers and give him a big smacking kiss, causing them both to grin like maniacs. Pat and River were definitely the cheekiest of the three couples.
“Mom,” Hugh said, getting Tilly’s attention, as well as several others. His deep voice was very distinctive. “Did Bran or Pat fess up to breaking one of the Lalique glasses you got me from that Christie’s auction for my fiftieth birthday?”
I felt my brows wing up in surprise for two reasons. Hugh was being as ornery as his boys and because one of the crystal tumblers had been destroyed. I remember how excited Tilly had been when she’d won the auction.
“Dick move, Dad?” Bran complained.
Patrick walked back over to the group, River in tow, as soon as his dad spoke. Those three O’Faolain’s were as close as the sisters they were married to. Magnets. Patrick’s jaw dropped, “What the hell?”
Tilly gasped at hearing that one of the lovely glasses had been ruined. “I can’t believe you boys would be so careless. Were you juggling them, for heaven’s sake?”
“Sorry, Gran,” Bran began. “Patrick was the one to drop it. I was just standing there,” he tattled.
Patrick flashed him a pissed look before turning to his grandmother. “Sorry, Gran, it’s true. It was me. I admit to it, but did Bran ever admit to what he used to use your fancy ruler—oomph,” Patrick expelled a grunt when his brother punched him in the stomach.
Was I truly lamenting my lack of children only moments ago? I sure as hell did not want to know what Bran did with my friend’s ruler. Christ, those boys. I bent to whisper a “Good luck” to Tilly before walking away.
I ordered another GT and leaned against the bar, enjoying the revelry surrounding me. My gaze caught on Josephine O’Connor. Dean’s daughter was a lovely young woman. She’d remained quite a mystery to me—never dating, just work, work, work. I was happy when the Byrne’s befriended her. Josephine needed something besides her job.
It had come as quite a surprise when she had fallen so hard for her bodyguard. It surprised me more when the relationship ended abruptly, and according to Tilly, Josephine wasn’t admitting to anyone the cause of the split.
I knew. I just wasn’t doing anything with the information. Yet. The private investigator I’d hired created a file of his findings.
My eyes traveled the packed tavern until they landed on Thomas MacGregor across the way. The Scottish giant was attempting to hide his egregiously oversized body in the shadows, but really, the play of lights only reflected his intense focus. Josephine. The man had it bad. Unfortunately, he’d kept two colossal secrets tucked away in the Scottish Highlands.
Secrets rarely stayed secret. I hoped MacGregor would clean house. If he didn’t, well, I was prepared to illuminate the error of his ways.