Chapter 20 #2
"It's Ireland. A pub can solve most problems."
"That sounds medically questionable."
"Probably."
By the time we reached the village again, some of the pressure in my chest had eased enough that I could breathe without thinking about it.
We stopped at the grocery first because Skye insisted surviving on pub food while investigating an international religious organization was irresponsible.
She filled a basket with bread, cheese, tea, milk, fruit, and enough practical food to suggest she believed we would eventually return to the farmhouse whether I admitted it or not. I noticed and chose not to argue.
The first person recognized me near the canned goods.
An older man stood at the end of the aisle holding a newspaper and staring as though he'd seen someone rise from the dead.
I knew his face. It took me longer to find the name.
"Mr. Keane."
His eyes widened.
"Jesus Christ."
Skye glanced toward me. The man crossed the aisle.
"O'Brien?" There was enough recognition in the name to remind me that I had come back to a place where people knew the family I belonged to long before I decided which part of my own name I was willing to answer to.
It wasn’t my first name. That should have relieved me.
Instead, it reminded me how many versions of my name existed in a place where everyone had known me before I decided which one belonged to me.
"Aye."
He looked me over as if confirming every part was real.
"You're back."
"For a while."
His gaze shifted toward Skye, and I recognized the question immediately even though he had enough sense not to ask it aloud.
I didn't volunteer an explanation, and he didn't push for one, which reminded me that people around here had always been better at minding their own business than most Americans believed—at least until village curiosity found something more interesting to investigate.
Apparently that moment had already arrived, because his attention returned to me with the beginnings of a knowing smile.
“You going to see Brigid?” I nearly groaned at the question, while beside me Skye's interest sharpened immediately at the mention of a name she hadn't heard before.
"Who is Brigid?"
Mr. Keane smiled.
"She'll explain herself."
That was exactly what worried me.
He clapped one hand against my shoulder before leaving, and within three minutes a woman near the bread aisle had looked at me twice and whispered something to the cashier.
Skye watched the entire thing with growing amusement.
"You're famous."
"Infamous."
"Should I be concerned?"
"Probably."
"Good."
I gave her a look.
She smiled.
We had barely loaded the supplies into the SUV when she pointed across the road.
The Blackthorn hadn't changed much, its dark stone fa?ade still framed by a deep green door, gold lettering above the windows, and the familiar hanging sign painted with a blackthorn branch.
I hadn't been inside since the week before my family died. For a moment, I considered driving away.
Then the pub door opened and Brigid Kelleher stepped outside.
Fifteen years had silvered more of her hair and added lines around her mouth, but otherwise she looked exactly like the woman who had once dragged me by the ear out of her kitchen because Eamon and I tried stealing whiskey when we were seventeen.
Her eyes found me the moment she stepped outside, and the way she stopped in the middle of the pavement told me immediately that whatever chance I'd had to leave unnoticed was gone.
"Well," she said.
That one word carried enough history to make Skye glance between us. Brigid crossed the road without bothering to check traffic.
"Don't you dare."
I hadn't spoken.
"Brigid—"
Her hand cracked against the side of my head. It wasn’t necessarily hard but it was enough and I watched Skye’s mouth fall open as I rubbed my tender temple.
"What the hell was that for?"
"Fifteen bloody years."
"Good to see you too."
Brigid's eyes filled before she could hide the emotion, and somehow that hurt considerably more than the slap.
She grabbed the front of my jacket and pulled me into an embrace that smelled like lavender soap, rain, and a kitchen I remembered from childhood.
"Stupid boy."
My throat tightened.
"I know."
She held me for several seconds before pushing me back and studying my face.
"You're too thin."
"I'm not."
"You are."
Skye made a suspicious sound behind me.
Brigid's attention shifted.
"Who's this?"
I turned.
Skye stood beside the SUV holding the grocery bag and looking far too entertained.
"Skye Fraser."
Brigid looked from her to me.
Her eyebrows rose.
"Friend?"
Skye opened her mouth.
I answered first.
"She's with me."
Something shifted in Skye's expression when I said she was with me, and Brigid caught the reaction immediately because very little had ever escaped that woman.
"Is she now?"
"Brigid."
"What?"
"You know what."
"I haven't said anything."
"You're thinking loudly."
Skye laughed.
I closed my eyes for half a second.
This was going to be a disaster.
Brigid took the grocery bag from Skye.
"Come inside. Both of you."
"We've got work."
"You've got food."
"We just bought food."
"That isn't food."
"It came from a grocery."
"Exactly."
Skye looked at me. "I like her."
"Everyone does until she starts giving orders."
Brigid pointed toward the pub. "Inside."
Skye went immediately.
Traitor.
I followed because there was no realistic alternative.
The Blackthorn smelled like woodsmoke, beer, old timber, and something roasting in the kitchen. Afternoon trade was light, but the few people inside noticed me quickly enough that conversation softened as we crossed the room. Brigid ignored all of them and marched us toward a table near the back.
"Sit."
Skye did.
I remained standing.
Brigid looked at me.
I sat.
Some battles weren't worth fighting.
She disappeared into the kitchen and returned with two bowls of stew, thick slices of brown bread, and tea strong enough to strip paint.
Skye took one bite and looked at me.
"You've been hiding this from America?"
"Apparently."
Brigid sat across from us.
For several minutes she asked Skye questions instead of me. Edinburgh. Thistle & Stone. Restoration work. How we met.
I nearly choked on the tea when Skye answered.
"He followed me into a suspicious Georgian townhouse."
Brigid stared at me.
"I was working."
"You always did have dreadful ideas about courtship."
"It wasn't courtship."
Skye took another bite of stew. "He also told me what to do within approximately thirty seconds."
Brigid nodded solemnly. "That sounds more like him."
"Can we discuss literally anything else?"
"No."
Skye smiled into her bowl.
Brigid looked pleased with herself.
Then her attention shifted fully toward me, and the humor slowly disappeared.
"You went to the house?"
"Aye."
"Inside?"
"No."
She nodded.
No disappointment.
No pity.
Just understanding.
That made it harder.
"Your da would've called you stubborn."
"My da called me worse."
"He loved you anyway."
I looked toward my tea.
Skye went very quiet beside me.
Brigid watched me for another moment before saying, "People wondered whether you'd ever come back."
"I didn't."
"You're sitting in my pub."
"For work."
"Still back."
I didn't argue.
She looked toward Skye.
"And you brought someone."
"Brigid."
"What?"
"Leave it."
Her eyes narrowed.
Then something changed in her expression.
Recognition.
Not of Skye.
Of the way I'd said her name.
I knew the exact moment she decided to become dangerous.
"Does she know?"
Every muscle in my body tightened.
Skye looked between us.
"Know what?"
"Nothing."
Brigid ignored me.
"His name."
Skye's brow furrowed.
"Callum?"
My pulse stopped.
"Brigid."
She looked at me.
Fifteen years disappeared from her face for an instant, and I saw the woman who had known me before leather, before America, before the Flaming Skulls gave me somewhere to belong.
Then she looked at Skye.
"Rory Callum O'Brien."
The name landed across the table like something physical.
Skye went completely still.
I didn't look at her.
Couldn't.
Brigid realized too late what she'd done.
Her expression softened.
"Oh."
I stared into the tea.
The silence lasted several seconds.
Then Skye spoke carefully.
"Rory?"
I lifted my eyes to hers.
Confusion was there.
Curiosity.
Something else I couldn't read yet.
I kept my voice low.
"Not a word."
Her eyebrows rose.
Under any other circumstances, she would've challenged me immediately.
Instead, she looked at my face for a long moment.
Then she nodded.
"All right."
Brigid watched the exchange.
For once in her life, she stayed quiet.
I reached for the tea again even though my hand wasn't entirely steady.
Hearing Rory spoken aloud after fifteen years felt like listening to the name of someone I had once known intimately and then buried.
Rory belonged to the son who argued with his father, the brother who promised Finn he'd take him to America someday, the man Niamh once believed she might build a life with, and the twenty-three-year-old idiot who walked away from his family for one night and returned to find them dead.
Callum had been easier because he belonged to everything that came after, while Irish had been easiest of all because the road name required no explanation of who I had been before the club.
Now Skye knew there had been someone before both of them, and I could feel that knowledge sitting between us even though she had honored my demand not to ask about it yet.
For the first time since returning to County Clare, the farmhouse was no longer the thing frightening me most. What frightened me was the possibility that Skye Fraser might eventually look closely enough at Rory O'Brien to see everything I had spent fifteen years making sure nobody else could reach.