Chapter 16
Chapter Sixteen
W ith the storm howling outside, I don’t hear Duncan’s car pulling up in the driveway. Or maybe I’m too lost in thought, but when the doorbell rings, I almost jump out of my skin, startled. I’m a lot less confident and a lot more skittish than I was this morning, all due to the text message I’m no longer sure I should have sent.
I have no time to ponder whether I made a mistake because my date’s arrived. Even though Duncan’s fifteen minutes early, I’m already dressed and ready to go. On the way downstairs, I give myself a once-over in the full-length mirror. The heels look great with my skinny jeans and black top. Aside from that, I haven’t put much effort into my looks and it shows. My hair’s washed and blow-dried, though far from perfection. A thin layer of gloss covers my lips, but the rest of my face is bare of makeup. It’s obvious that I’m not trying to impress anyone. The sooner Duncan gets my lack of interest the faster we can move toward building a professional business relationship without any hopes and dreams related to any romantic entanglements.
“You look great,” Duncan says as soon as I’ve opened the door.
Most of the lawyers I’ve dealt with were great liars. This one must have graduated at the top of his class because he doesn’t even blink as his gaze rakes over me, taking me in. If he notices me wearing the heels he doesn’t comment on it.
I know I don’t look great. Far from it. What with the fragile skin around my eyes being a little puffy from crying and the entire contents of my suitcase costing less than his watch. I smile in response, biting my tongue so I won’t give in to the pressure and pay back the compliment.
He does look great, but there’s no need to string him along.
“Shall we?” He offers me his arm and I take it hesitantly. There is no electric current running through me the way it did when Patrick touched me. Then again, no surprise there. Patrick’s so hot he could probably set my panties on fire by just looking at them.
I shake my head at the direction my thoughts are taking. Instead of enjoying the company of someone as nice and easy-going as Duncan, trust me to waste my Saturday night obsessing over the most arrogant and downright obnoxious man I’ve ever met.
Nice is boring.
“That’s not it,” I mumble to myself.
“Sorry?” Duncan asks.
“I was just—” I swat my hand and replace the sudden frown on my face with a smile. “I was just thinking out loud. It’s nothing.”
“I would have suggested an evening stroll. But the weather’s making it impossible. Good thing we’re driving.”
A stroll?
“Taking the car sounds like a good idea. As much as I like strolls, they don’t usually involve the kind of weather that could dislodge a tree. I would also opt for other footwear.” I shoot him a sideways glance. He shows no reaction to my casual hint. Hasn’t he noticed I’m wearing his high heels?
“Maybe we should get going. We wouldn’t want the competition to start without us,” I suggest to get him moving. I close the door behind me lest he seize the opportunity to invite himself in.
“The talent show?” Duncan’s brows draw together and a look of confusion flickers across his face. “Is that today?”
I nod in response and scan the short distance to his sports car. There’s gravel everywhere. I can only hope my heels won’t get stuck or worse—that I won’t lose my balance and land flat on my face.
“That wasn’t what I had in mind for us today but let’s check it out. We might get a laugh out of it. You wouldn’t believe what some people call talent. It’s probably going to be the same winner as usual”—he smiles—“but I won’t spoil the surprise for you.”
Continuing his chatter, he reaches his car in a few strides while I’m left to figure out a way to get there. I take a careful step, then another, testing my footing. It feels as though I’m walking down a plank with a stormy sea raging beneath me while a gust of wind keeps tearing at my clothes and whipping my hair left and right. After a minute that seems to stretch into an eternity, I finally reach the car and slump into the passenger seat, grateful I made it in one piece.
Duncan doesn’t drive like a maniac. That’s the first thing I notice about him. I can’t shake off the disappointment at that, like I subconsciously want him to be less of a nice guy and more of a jerk like Patrick. Go, figure!
Urgh, Patrick again!
“Did you have a nice trip?” I ask because I don’t like the direction my thoughts are taking.
“Huh?” Duncan shoots me a confused glance. “Oh, that. Yes. It was good.”
I expect him to go into detail but he falls silent. We’ve barely been inside his car for a minute and I already find myself struggling to find things to talk about. It’s not the usual nervousness you have around a hot guy; it’s just some innate knowledge that we probably have nothing in common. I fold my hands in my lap and fight the need to start tapping my fingers against my thigh.
The silence seems oppressive, and the steady hum of the car combined with the howling wind outside is adding to the dampening mood.
I can already tell this date isn’t going anywhere. It’s not going to be a long night.
No matter how attractive he is, he’s never going to be Patrick.
Not him again.
I let out an annoyed huff and fight the urge to roll my eyes at myself. My uninvited roommate is everywhere even when he’s nowhere in sight. I just can’t get him out of my head.
“Sorry? Did you say something?” Duncan asks.
Did I say that out loud? I hope not. I swat my hand again. “Just going over my to-do list.”
“Anything urgent on it?”
Absolutely! Get Patrick Walsh out of my system before I turn into melted slush whenever I so much as hear his name. “A thing or two. Nothing I can’t handle.” I shoot him a reassuring smile, eager to change the subject before he starts probing. He is a lawyer, after all, so being attentive to details is probably second nature to him.
“So.” I clear my throat. “Did you get an appointment with the judge yet?”
“We’re still working on it. He’s a very busy man, and the Walsh estate isn’t a priority to him. It’s not helping that he knew the late Mr. Walsh and thinks Patrick should be the heir.”
My heart gives a jolt. Of course. It makes sense that the judge appointed to my case would think that. Even I agree.
“What happened between Patrick and his mother?” I find myself asking, even though I’m not one to engage in gossip. Whatever issues Patrick had with his mother, it’s none of my concern. And yet I can’t help myself. I want to know more about him as a person, about his background, who he is, and what shaped him into the man he has become.
Duncan grimaces. “There were rumors but no one knows for sure. His mother and he had a fallout over his choices in life. You know what it’s like with rich people.”
No, I don’t know. I’m not rich, I don’t mingle with rich people. In fact, I doubt I’d even be a blip on Patrick’s radar if it weren’t for his mother’s decision to leave her house to me.
I keep silent and let him continue.
“He had a bit of a reputation as a wild child,” Duncan says. “Parties, women, and the like. His mother wanted him to settle down. He would have none of it. I think she was worried about him. He’s calmed down a little, but his reputation hasn’t improved.”
That certainly explains his confidence when it comes to women. He probably thinks he’s the universe’s gift to the female population, which is why he behaves like an entitled jerk.
I mull over Duncan’s words for a while. “But was that reason enough to leave her house to a stranger?”
He shrugs. “Who knows? Family can be anything but a stroll in the park. Different personalities and too many expectations are bound to clash at some point or another.”
“You can choose your friends but you can’t choose your family. Don’t I know that?”
“We’re here,” Duncan says needlessly as he takes a turn on the main street and pulls up in front of the pub. Both sides of the road are paved with parked cars and I think I can hear faint music carrying from inside. “Why don’t you go in while I look for a parking spot?”
“Sure.” Grabbing my handbag, I open the passenger door and am immediately hit by a strong gust of wind. The air temperature seems to have dropped a few degrees or maybe it’s just my perception after enjoying the comfort of Duncan’s sleek sports car. I shut the door and hurry down the street, braving the storm as I head straight for the pub.
A few people are standing outside the door, stomping from one foot to the other while yelling into their phones. Apparently, the music inside is louder than the howling wind. A bald guy twice my age holds the door open for me and makes a theatrical bow. Back home I would immediately go into wary mode, but in this part of the world there’s something strangely charming about it. Even his toothy grin looks friendly rather than predatory.
I mouth a thank-you and enter.
The atmosphere makes me stop in my tracks. Everything looks so old I might just as well have been catapulted a few hundred years back in time.
Even though the pub’s larger than I thought, with a bar area facing the entrance and what looks like an open extension at the back, it is crammed with punters. The tables are close together but the people don’t seem to mind the non-existent personal space. It has a warm and homey feeling to it, with polished oak counters, empty bottles, and beer caps adorning the few shelves mounted on the whitewashed walls. High up behind the bar is a television screen that’s switched off. I can imagine the men in the village gathering after a long day at work to chat over a pint of beer while watching the local sports shows. Somehow it feels right that they would have a place like this while Sinead’s café caters to the women’s social needs.
It’s cozy and quaint. Personal and so very different from the faceless, nameless crowd of strangers back home. It’s a place where one could grow old with the right person. I can understand why Patrick would want to find “the one” and spend the rest of his life here.
This is ridiculous! It hasn’t even been five minutes.
What’s wrong with me?
Why can’t I stop thinking about him?
“You came!” Sinead’s voice calls out a moment before she appears in my line of vision, drawing my attention away from my thoughts involving the grumpy guy. Before I know what’s happening, she’s wrapped her arms around me and pulled me to her chest. In that same instant, it feels as though all eyes are drawn to me. If people didn’t notice the stranger’s arrival before, now everyone’s nudging everyone else and whispering.
I’m not surprised. That’s what people do, and yet I wish Sinead would sense my wish to stay under people’s radar.
Yes, it’s boring. But boring is safe, and safe is all I want.
“Everyone, this is Lori,” Sinead yells over the music, completely oblivious to my wish to become invisible. “Lori’s just arrived and she’s working for me. Be nice to her or you’re not getting any hot cross buns for a year.”
The crowd laughs and the ice is instantly broken. People are almost jumping out of their seats to greet me. I find myself smiling and shaking countless hands while trying to remember names and faces that seem to vanish from my mind as soon as they’ve entered.
“They must love your hot cross buns,” I say to her.
She beams at me, revealing perfect teeth. “They do. But they love news, rumors, and a bit of gossip even more. Nothing ever happens around here. A few weeks ago, we had a lost cow stopping traffic for an hour. It was the talk of the month.”
I laugh. “Sounds like a great place to live.”
She pats my hand with a smile. I swear I can see the unspoken question in her eyes.
Why don’t you?
Yes, why don’t I?
The Irish are almost too welcoming. The Walsh residence is a paid-off dream come true. There’s nothing but worries and problems waiting for me back home.
And then there’s Patrick.
Because, let’s face it, this isn’t about me suddenly seeing the appeal in enjoying the quaint life. It’s about him. I don’t know what’s happening to me, why my little world seems to center around him. But the prospect of packing up my bags and never seeing him again is almost as scary as the realization that he’s started to take up all my brain space.
It’s freaking me out.
“Let’s keep you hydrated, shall we?” Sinead pushes a pint of beer into my hand and scans the room for a free table. There isn’t one.
“You, ladies, want a seat?” a pimply, red-haired kid who can’t be older than eighteen points at his lap.
Sinead slaps him upside the head playfully. “Maybe once you’re out of your diapers, Matty.”
He guffaws like she’s just told the joke of the year while his eyes shine with so much infatuation I wouldn’t be surprised if you could see them glowing all the way from Australia.
I throw her a sideways glance and realize she is a sight with her long mane of red hair and emerald-green eyes. My threat radar pings up a little as I remember the way she talked about Patrick. It wasn’t anything in particular, just little nuances here and there, like the way she brushed her hair out of her eyes or the way she seemed to reminiscence. But it was enough to hint at something in the past. Whatever happened between Patrick and her, I can only hope it wasn’t serious enough to last until feelings developed because in that case I would stand no chance against her.
Sinead nudges me in the ribs and points at two youngsters snaking their way to the bar. “I think they’re going to order. Bleeding amateurs. The place is packed almost every night and seats are a rare commodity. Everyone knows you come in early, order before you occupy a table, and do not get up from your seat unless there’s a fire. Otherwise, it’s finder’s keepers around here. Let’s go take their seats.”
“What? No, Sinead. We can’t do that.”
Ignoring my protest, she grabs hold of my arm and pulls me after her, elbowing her way through the crowd. If she’s a little raucous people don’t seem to mind. Somehow, no one seems to mind anything at all.
She stops at a corner table and plops down into the free seat.
I hesitate as I scan the distance to the bar. “Should we really? I don’t want people to think I’m causing trouble.”
She laughs and pushes the chair toward me with her booted foot. “People around here like a bit of trouble almost as much as they love gossip. Some of them maybe even more. Now, sit down.”
“I’m waiting for—” I gesture in the direction of the entrance, unsure what to say. My lawyer? My date? A good-looking guy I’ll be rejecting by the end of the evening because Patrick’s sneaked his way into my system and suddenly no one else seems to do it for me anymore?
“Duncan Ellis?” She nods knowingly. I raise my brows in question. She continues, as though she can read my mind. “Patrick told me. Don’t worry about him. He’ll find us. Now, be quiet. I think we’re about to start.”
A male voice clears his throat into a microphone. I crane my neck to get a glimpse of the stage, but a broad guy is obstructing my view.
“Let’s get this evening rolling!” the voice says. “Lots of great talent here tonight. Lads, make sure to get drunk after putting your vote in. We wouldn’t want the ladies and their wet panties to crown The Storm as the winner another year in a row. I say enough is enough. No offense, mate.”
“None taken,” a deep male voice responds, though I can’t be sure because a few women have started to screech and whistle, and the whole crowd suddenly joins in, yelling, “Storm. Storm. Storm.”
No idea who this Storm is but he must be quite the hit around here. I take a sip of my ale and then gulp down half the glass because this is the best beer I’ve ever had. Not that I’m a connoisseur or anything.
“Thirsty, ey? I can already tell you’ll fit right in.” Sinead laughs. “Drink up. There’s more where that’s coming from. The Four Bells is known as the well that never dries up.”
I don’t know whether she’s joking, but I don’t get a chance to ask. The live music resumes and I find myself listening. It’s just a few guitar strings, but the melody carries something with it that speaks to me. A male voice joins in, the voice deep yet soft and strangely captivating. I don’t know what it is about it that makes me put my glass down, falling silent just like the rest of the pub’s visitors seem to have.
Everyone seems to listen intently, mesmerized.
It’s a ballad, I realize. It must be sung live; the tone is too raw and gritty, the hoarseness unaltered by the usual studio technology. In spite of preferring not to acknowledge it, my father taught me more about music than I would ever need to know. The song is dripping with heartfelt emotion, and there’s no way any voice could convey so much of it over the radio.
The accent’s too strong for me to make out the words. Something about heartbreak and loss, the mood so dark it touches me deep inside, tearing at my heart as though the person’s pain is my own and my heart is bleeding. With him. For him.
The voice flows and ebbs, floating through the room. People begin to shift slightly in their seats, as though moving in unison with the invisible notes that sweep over all of us.
My phone vibrates against my leg, jerking me out of my magic moment. I glance at Mia’s caller ID and decide to pick up.
“This is a bad time,” I whisper as low as I can in the hope I won’t disturb the other patrons.
“I bet it is. You’re having a great time, aren’t you? I told you,” Mia says. “Where did he take—” She breaks off in mid-sentence and there’s silence for a moment or two. Then, “Wait a second. Is that?—”
I frown, confused. “Is that what?”
In the sudden silence, my attention inevitably moves back to the singing. The voice hits a few deep, soulful tones as it’s nearing the end of the song. A woman shrieks. A male voice calls out, “Shut up, Maisie. Let the lad finish.”
“Lori!” Mia screeches in my ear. “Is that The Storm? Live? I’d recognize that voice from a mile, locked up in a submarine, underwater. That is The Storm, isn’t it?”
I want to ask what she’s talking about when the name suddenly rings a bell. Someone mentioned a storm. I thought they were talking about the one howling through the trees, but that probably wasn’t the case.
The Storm.
“Is that a band?” I ask, feeling a bit like I’ve just left my own world in the Amazonian rainforest to venture into civilization.
“A band ? Are you kidding me?” Mia takes a deep breath, as though to calm herself. I can almost feel the waves of disbelief wafting from her. “They’re one of the most famous, bestselling rock bands in history. They’ve won every award there is to win, and have been on the cover of every magazine. Their songs are played everywhere. They’re legendary. How can you not know that?”
I clamp my mouth shut to bite back a snarky remark. I don’t live and breathe music. In fact, I do my utmost to avoid it like the plague. I don’t listen to the radio, not even to podcasts. Up until recently, I was so wrapped up in my career that flicking through the pages of a magazine was reserved for my rare visits to the waiting room of the dentist’s office. And don’t get me started on anything involving entertainment or social media.
I was basically married to my career.
A lot of good that did me!
“Lori!” Mia yells in my ear. “ Is that The Storm?”
For a moment, I’m confused again and want to say that she can’t possibly hear it from London. Then I realize she isn’t talking about the weather but a band.
“I don’t know,” I say.
“Get closer to the stage. Switch to video call. Hold up your cell. If it’s The Storm I want to see them, as close as you can, every single inch of their body. Just get in there and if security isn’t hauling your butt out, then you haven’t tried hard enough!”
“You can’t be serious,” I mutter under my breath. “Talk about crazy. I didn’t realize you were such a fan of anything and anyone.”
“I’m not,” Mia says. “You should see their real groupies.”
I smirk because I can imagine. My dad married one and he wasn’t even famous or had a jot of this guy’s talent.
“Be subtle, though. They like their privacy. Last time, the drummer beat up?—”
I switch off at the “beat up” part. Whatever sordid story Mia’s about to tell, it’s probably one I don’t want to know.
“Sure. I’ll get close to the stage but I’ll make sure to be subtle about it,” I mutter. “Unless I turn into a plant, I don’t know how else to make myself not stand out in a village with the population of a nursing home. Let’s just hope no one beats me up.”
Heaving an exasperated sigh, I gesture to Sinead and mouth something that I hope resembles the word “toilet”. She nods her head and opens her mouth, probably to give me directions. I smile and jump up from my seat before her innate hospitality trait gets a chance to kick in and she decides to show me the way or worse, accompany me like we’re thirteen-year-old inseparable BFFs.
As I round the big guy obstructing my view of the stage, I switch my call to video and hold it close to my chest so as not to raise anyone’s suspicion. The tables are pushed close together. I bump into a few people, whispering a constant string of “excuse me” and “sorry”. After what feels like an eternity, I’m finally standing a few feet away from the stage and raise the cell phone.
The singer’s still up there, sitting on a stool while cradling a guitar in his arms. He’s half-smiling to the presenter who says something into his microphone, but despite of the volume I can’t hear a word. All I can do is stare, dumbfounded, as my brain’s trying to make sense of what I’m seeing.
“That’s”—Mia’s voice breaks with emotion—“The Storm.”
“The Grump,” I say at that same moment, frowning.