11
F orget his heart problem, Briggs has clearly lost his goddamn mind. What person leaves a mess as a thoughtful gesture? Or flirts with a woman by toilet-papering her pub? An idiot. That’s who.
Within a week, the man who knew all the right moves with women now only makes the wrong ones. No wonder Maeve ran out of Aoife’s class so quickly, leaving behind her sweet scent and a perfect print of her ass on the meditation pillow.
He never should have put his hand on her thigh. He knew it was risky, and if his damn mind had been working, he never would have done it. But sitting there, it was all thoughts of her, and when her anxiety ratcheted, he felt it. He couldn’t just let her struggle. He had to do something. But holy hell, if touching her didn’t super-charge his body. He is no stranger to physical contact, but this was next level. So simple and yet so powerful.
It’s not like Briggs doesn’t know that kind of magnetic connection exists. He saw it with his parents. He just never thought he’d experience it. In fact, he was determined not to, hence his current frustration. Not only is he an idiot, he’s an idiot who can’t rid himself of this crush.
Briggs stands in front of an empty canvas, staring, with no idea what to paint. Art has always been his release, a way to settle his mind. But he can’t find that space when his whole body wants Maeve. And it goes well beyond carnal attraction. Sure, he’s dying to see Maeve naked. To touch her in just the right way, to make her quiver. But it’s the laughing and banter and fighting, too. The Murphy-Doherty feud has always been an act that Briggs puts up with for the sake of the island, but with Maeve to spar with, he actually looks forward to it.
Which is why it’s so concerning that, five days after he stole back the banner and toilet-papered her pub, she’s done nothing. Every day he sees that damn banner at the Thatch, Briggs grows more worried. The toilet-paper mess was a mistake, and every day that Maeve doesn’t retaliate, he regrets it more.
Briggs paces his studio, shaking his hands out at his sides, chiding himself.
When he bought the barn four years ago, he spent a year fixing it up, replacing rotted boards, insulating the walls, cleaning, and adding electrical, Wi-Fi, and a new coat of paint. The studio still smells slightly of farm animals and gasoline, but it looks like an artist’s living room, with a large oriental rug, wood-burning stove, hand-me-down couch, chairs, table, speakers, and an espresso machine. One wall displays a giant collage: a poster of the Beatles’ Abbey Road , an article from the Irish Times about the rivalry between the Thatch and the Moorings, a picture of Hugh and Briggs behind the bar in Australia, and images by other artists who inspire him—Rothko, Van Gogh, Richter, Matisse, Klimt—all covered in rainbow speckles of acrylic paint. On that wall he tacks his works in progress. When he finishes one, he builds a custom wooden frame for it. Art isn’t just about the image, Briggs knows. It’s the process, creating the entire piece, over time, down to the placement of staples.
Peggy Murphy introduced Briggs to art. She moved to Inishglass from Cork, a concession made when she married the love of her life. But deep down, Briggs’s mother has always been a city girl. At every opportunity—school breaks, quiet winter months—she’d scrape together what she could and take the family to Paris, London, Barcelona, Vienna, Budapest, Florence, even New York. But it was in Amsterdam, at the Van Gogh Museum, where Briggs fell in love with art. Van Gogh’s painted emotions, his vibrant yet tortured self-portraits, how he captured not just landscapes but the feel of a cold winter day. Peggy had to drag Briggs out of the place. He saw Klimt in Vienna and Matisse at the Met. Everywhere they went he ingested as much art as he could, until one birthday Peggy bought him his own supplies. Briggs resisted at first, claiming to be a viewer and not a creator. But the longer the supplies sat in his bedroom, the more they taunted him, until one day he splattered some paint on a canvas. The adrenaline rush was better than anything he’d experienced on a football pitch. Anxiety and passion blended, part torture, part ecstasy. He had to fight the demon in his brain that told him he was shit. He had to be willing to mess up, only to start over, undaunted. He had to trust when a piece was done.
Painting was what Briggs had missed most in Australia. He took some supplies with him, just a few brushes, a small set of acrylics, and blank postcards. These he’d painted and sent to Peggy, who has them framed and hanging in her new house in Cork. But when Briggs returned to the island, he wanted a proper studio. Hugh suggested one of the rooms in the house, but Briggs couldn’t do it. Nothing has changed in his parents’ house since he grew up there. Peggy took a lot of personal items with her to Cork, but what was left he can’t seem to get rid of. So he can’t stay in his parents’ bedroom, the largest, and instead opts for his childhood bedroom. Hugh has Briggs’s sister Isla’s old room, still painted pink. And yet, while Briggs hasn’t succeeded in making the house fully his own, selling it would feel like betrayal. So it stays, just as it is.
The freedom he needed to paint wasn’t available at the house, so Briggs bought the barn. Some days, he wishes he lived here. Occasionally he opts for the barn couch instead of his bed at home.
He stands back, hands linked behind his head, and stares in frustration. His attention drifts to the bottom corner of the collage wall, to the last Murphy family photo before Joe died. The family is posed in the living room, wearing paper crowns from Christmas crackers. Joe had set a timer on the camera and raced back to get into position, but no one knew when exactly the photo would take. Isla was seven, sitting on Briggs’s lap, hitting him over the head as he tickled her, cringing from her blows. Joe is kissing Peggy on the temple, and Peggy is yelling at Isla not to hit her brother. Cecelia, who is two years older than Briggs and was at university going through an existential crisis at the time, is off in the corner, thoroughly annoyed, bright pink paper crown crooked on her angry blue hair. Joe took one look at the photo and called it “perfect.” He sent it out as a “Happy New Year!” card to all their friends the next week. It was the last year that a card would go out with the whole family on it.
Of all the art Briggs has seen and made, that imperfect-perfect photo is his favorite masterpiece.
A knock on the barn door relieves Briggs from his thoughts. He sets the paintbrush down and answers the door.
It’s Aoife, holding a tray of scones. “It’s been five days,” she says.
Briggs blocks the doorway with his arm. Aoife rolls her eyes and dodges underneath before he can stop her. “Five days since what?”
“Since you’ve responded to my texts. You’re ghosting me, Briggs Murphy.”
“Clearly not, seeing as you’re standing in front of me right now.”
“You know what I mean.”
“That’s what happens when your best friends trick you. I’m protesting.”
“That’s why I brought a peace offering.” Aoife sets the scones down on the table and heaves herself onto the couch.
“You and Hugh set me up, Eef.”
“You make it sound like we did something bad, when I know you enjoyed it. Now make me an espresso. I’m exhausted. Is it busier this year? I swear it wasn’t this crowded last June.”
Briggs groans, but he can’t refuse Aoife, so he starts the coffee machine. “We had the same conversation last year. And the year before that.” He takes the small container of milk from the minifridge and warms it, just how Aoife likes it.
“It’s going to be total madness for the football rounders game. I’m not going to get a wink of sleep that week.”
“If this is you trying to get out of playing, tough shit. After what you pulled, you owe me.” Briggs hands her the steaming mug and grabs a scone. He takes a bite. Of course, Aoife brought strawberry and cream—his favorite. “Damn it,” he says with his mouth full. “Un-fecking-fair. You know me too well.”
“I knew you’d forgive me.” Aoife smiles and sips her coffee.
If Hugh knows the general outline of Briggs, Aoife could write the Wikipedia page. Hugh would say Briggs has big feet; Aoife knows the size. Hugh knows that Briggs paints; Aoife would say that his work leans toward impressionism, using mostly acrylic paint, but sometimes he changes things up with watercolors or spray paint. She’s perceptive. She catalogs information for later. She’s a woman.
“Have you ever had pierogi?” she asks Briggs.
He cocks an eyebrow at her. “Why?”
“That’s all I’ve heard about this week. Apparently, they’re the hot new menu item at the Moorings. They can’t keep them in stock. They’ve sold out the past two days. Before dinner.”
Briggs perks up. For all of Aoife’s talk about how busy things are, the past two days at the Thatch have been oddly slow during lunchtime.
“It must be her, right?” Aoife says. “I know we think of her as a Doherty, but her last name is Kaminski. That’s Polish.”
So maybe Maeve is retaliating. She’s changed the game on him. And bloody hell, if it doesn’t make him happy. His chest might burst. But this poses a new problem. Maybe she did like the toilet-paper mess. Maybe he wasn’t out of line when he touched her. Maybe ...
He stops his thoughts. No matter which way he slices it, Maeve Kaminski is a problem. End of story.
“Do you think she’s staying after all?” Aoife asks.
Briggs rests back in the chair, attempting to keep composure. “It’s none of my business.”
“Like hell it isn’t! It’s all our business!”
“The girl can do what she wants. We’ll find a way to survive.”
“Will we?” Aoife shoots daggers at Briggs. “You’re telling me you’ll be just fine if she up and disappears one day. You won’t care at all?”
“We’ll figure it out,” he says coolly.
“Oh, just admit it! You like her!”
But Briggs will not concede that easily. “So? It’s no secret I like women.”
“Will you stop being so stubborn?” Exasperated, Aoife sets her mug down with a thump. “You’re not your father, Briggs. You’re not going to die like he did.”
Even after all the work he’s done to come to terms with Joe Murphy’s death, the image of his lifeless father, a man whose mere presence had once filled a room to capacity, will never leave Briggs. From the time he was little, he was Joe’s spitting image, a smaller version of a man larger than life. They walked the same. Talked the same. Hell, Briggs’s habit of skipping the bottom step for luck felt practically innate.
“Have you considered,” he challenges Aoife, “that liking Maeve causes a wee bit of a problem for everyone on the island? It’s kind of important that we remain mortal enemies.”
“So we create a new story.” Aoife brightens. “A better one. What if Romeo and Juliet had a happily ever after? People would eat that up.”
“It’s not that easy.”
“Yes, it is,” Aoife presses.
“No, it’s not!” Briggs hates that he raises his voice, but now everything he’s locked inside himself since Maeve arrived comes spewing out. “Happily ever after? That’s bullshit, Eef. My parents sure as hell didn’t have one. My mum could barely get out of bed for months after my father died. You call that happy? Sometimes walking away is an act of love. Have you considered that?”
He takes a breath, relieved to have that off his chest. Briggs has thought over the situation like an algebra problem, always coming to the same answer. Pleasure only lasts so long. Pain lingers longer. Now, maybe Aoife and Hugh will stop sticking their noses in his business and leave him the hell alone.
“I admire you, Briggs,” Aoife says, standing. “You’ve always been on the right side of the story. Never the villain. But you might be the biggest fecking eejit I’ve ever met. I’ve let this stupid crusade of yours go on for too bloody long. I should have nipped it in the bud years ago, but it never mattered. Until now. What the hell is wrong with you? Thinking you have power over someone’s suffering isn’t only arrogant, it’s fecking insulting. I hate to break it to you, but people will be bloody sad. That’s just life. Refusing to love isn’t going to change it. It’s only going to make it harder.” She points at him. “You want the harsh reality? You’re scared. That’s why you haven’t scheduled your surgery. That’s why you’re pushing Maeve away. Fate isn’t to blame. You are. If your da had the opportunity to change his fate, he sure as hell would have taken it, even with the risks. You want to honor the man? Make him proud? Love someone, like he did. Joe wouldn’t have pushed his feelings away. He would have held on with all his might, and not because love is some magical elixir that takes the pain away, but because love makes pain worth it. Happily ever after doesn’t mean you won’t suffer. It means you’ll find a way to endure it. Your mum would marry your da again, even knowing his fate.”
Aoife’s words are a gut punch. Briggs wants to yell at her for conjuring his dead father and using the man against him, but he ... can’t. It’s the truth, and it hits him square in the chest, right through his broken heart. He exhales, shaking his head. “I just ... don’t know what to do, Eef.”
“I’ll tell you what you do,” she says. “You try . Because if you let her go, I promise, someone else will have her.”
The thought of that tightens his hands into fists. “I hate when you’re right.”
“I’m always right.” Aoife loops her arm around him.
They stand in front of the collage wall that Briggs has always considered his greatest masterpiece. When he dies, people will see this wall, more than any of his other paintings, and know the man who made it. But lately, it’s felt like there’s an important piece missing.
“Thanks for kicking the emotional shit out of me,” Briggs says. “I needed it.”
“You saved me once, remember? It’s only right I repay the debt by saving you from your stupid-arse self now.”
Briggs isn’t sure this feels like saving—more like Aoife dropping him out at sea and telling him to swim to shore. “I didn’t save you,” Briggs says. “I did what any person would do for a friend in need.”
“And I’m forever grateful.” Aoife grabs him by the shoulders and turns him to face her. “Which is why I’ve waited to tell you something else I found out. Just remember to breathe.”
A waterfall of tension rolls down Briggs’s spine. “What is it?”
“You’re already breathing hard.”
“Just spit it out, Eef.”
She holds his gaze. “It’s not just a coincidence that Eoin came back to the island right after Liam Doherty died. He’s handling Liam’s estate.”
“Why would Liam do that?”
“No one knows. But now it’s in Eoin’s hands.”
Briggs starts to pace, working through this new information. How could he have been so stupid? So blind? He thought if he just ignored that bottom feeder, Eoin O’Connor would eventually disappear, like he always has, but apparently nothing about the man has changed. Cunning moves, expertly hidden under overt charm. Eoin’s always been this way, ever since they were little. In primary school he’d tape “spank me” signs on kids’ butts or lay plastic wrap across the toilet in the teachers’ bathroom or glue a quid to the ground and just watch people try to pick it up. All harmless, back then. Funny even. But in secondary school, Eoin was the one whispering nasty comments under his breath during a football match to raze the other team. He cheated on tests and girlfriends. Briggs still saw it as funny or inconsequential, fooled by Eoin’s freewheeling charm and breezy demeanor. Until Aoife. After what Eoin did to her, Briggs saw him for the selfish dick he really was, willing to do anything, hurt anyone, for his own benefit. A classic narcissist, he’ll create havoc for Maeve and convince her it’s her fault, then leave her high and dry.
“Damn it.” Briggs clasps his hands behind his head, attempting to breathe like Aoife instructed. If he warns Maeve about Eoin, it’ll appear suspicious. For all she knows, Eoin’s helping her. Who’s to say she’d even listen to Briggs? Eoin could spin it as just another Murphy trick.
“Have you seen Maeve today?” he asks Aoife.
“She’s probably at the knitting shop. She goes there every morning, right at nine. That woman keeps a strict schedule. It’s impressive.”
Briggs grabs his car keys, his blank canvas forgotten. “Thanks, Eef.”
She shrugs. “I’ve been waiting ten years for this. Now, Briggs Murphy, we’re finally even.”