Chapter 22
Maeve’s hands were clammy and her pulse was racing as she walked down the stairs to the inn’s lobby. It had been more than two years since she’d been out on an actual first date, and her anxiety level was spiraling.
“Don’t be weird. Do not be weird. Don’t make it weird,” she chanted in her head with each step she took.
She took a deep breath and emerged into the lobby. Liam was standing near the fireplace. His face broke into a genuine smile when he spotted her.
“Hello there,” he called. He was dressed casually, in jeans and a button-down shirt with the cuffs rolled up, and weather-beaten loafers worn without socks. His damp hair still bore comb marks. Maeve immediately sent a prayer of thanks to Therese for insisting on choosing her outfit.
As she walked closer, she saw that he was holding two cut-glass tumblers half-filled with ice and something she suspected wasn’t tea. He handed her a glass.
“What’s this?”
“Think of it as an icebreaker. Literally,” he said. “I thought you might like to start the evening with a taste of my latest creation. It’s so new we haven’t named or started marketing it yet.”
Maeve raised the glass to her nose and inhaled as she slowly swirled the liquid in the tumbler. It smelled of woodsmoke, and something earthy that she couldn’t name. Liam watched expectantly.
“It’s different than the whiskeys we tasted yesterday, isn’t it?”
“You’ve got a good nose on you,” he said.
She closed her eyes and took a sip of the whiskey, letting it linger on her tongue before letting it slide down her throat, enjoying the heat of the alcohol.
“Tell me what you taste.”
“Hmm. Well, caramel, I guess. It’s sort of smoky, but maybe there’s a hint of fruit too?” She took another sip. “Apricots? Is that possible?”
“Close. It’s pears. Finish up, if you really like it, and we’ll go experience your first Irish pub crawl.”
“I do like it,” she said. She drank the rest of the whiskey, enjoying the slow burn. “I’d say the ice is broken. And I’m ready to go.”
Liam took her glass and set it on the fireplace mantel. “Come along then.”
He held the Jeep’s passenger door open. “I tidied it up a bit, just for you.”
“Funny. I did the same thing for you.”
“I did notice, but didn’t want to be accused of, what’s that word? Ogling? You look very nice, if I may say so.”
“True confession? This is all my sister’s doing. Clothes, makeup, even the boots, courtesy of Therese.”
“Edgy, would you call it? Is that the look?”
“I think that’s what Therese was going for. Not sure anyone who knows me would ever describe Maeve Dunagin as edgy.”
Liam started the engine and pulled the Jeep onto the roadway. It was dusk, and the purple-hued evening air was perfumed with the scent of roses and pine. Maeve leaned her head out the window and inhaled, filling her lungs, then exhaling slowly.
“Well now,” he said. “Since we’ve only just met today, maybe you could tell me how people who know Maeve Dunagin would describe you.” He glanced over at her and a smile tugged at the corners of his eyes.
It took effort not to stare at him. Liam wasn’t handsome in the orthodox sense of the word.
His nose was too large for his face, his chin a shade too pronounced, and he’d nicked his jaw while shaving and patched it with a bit of tissue.
He had a faint scar on the left side of his upper lip.
She had to restrain herself from reaching out to touch the spot.
She realized, with alarm, how much physical attraction she felt to him.
She liked that he already had a faint five-o’clock shadow, that the hands that gripped the steering wheel were the hands of a workingman, calloused, the nails clipped short.
“What would people say about me?” she said. “Probably that I’m loyal, to a fault. I care too much, take things too seriously. Mary Helen always said I was an old soul.”
“Mary Helen?”
“My mother.”
“Good Irish name, that.”
“Mary Helen Sullivan Dunagin. Really rolls off the tongue, doesn’t it?”
“Quite musical,” he agreed. “Tell me, if you don’t mind, what kinds of things you care about.”
“Why do I feel like I’m being interviewed?” Maeve asked. “Those are pretty probing questions for a night of pub-crawling.”
“There I go again shootin’ off my big mouth,” he said, slapping the steering wheel for emphasis.
“It’s just that I find you … intriguing.
You don’t seem like a lot of the American women we get at Tarrymore.
Forget I asked. Let’s talk about something stupid.
Trivial even. Like, what was the first rock concert you went to? ”
“Don’t laugh. Backstreet Boys, in Jacksonville, Florida, which is two hours away from Savannah. My friend Kristin and I lied to our moms and told them that we were going on a Catholic Youth mission trip!”
“How very edgy of you.”
“Not. If you haven’t already guessed this about me, I’m not a big risk taker. I was terrified that whole night that we’d be abducted and sold into the sex trade. I drank some nasty Red Bull and vodka combination and barfed my brains out in the car on the way back to Savannah.
“What was your first rock concert?” she asked.
“Oh, well, you might have noticed Tarrymore isn’t a big cultural center, but I did hitch a ride with my older brother to Dublin to see Sting when I was fourteen.”
“So much cooler than me,” Maeve said. “Now, what were you asking me?”
“I was asking what kinds of things you care about, but I’m very gratified to have heard about your early musical taste, which I find fascinating. And appalling. Do go on.”
“What do I care about? Well, obviously, I don’t spend a lot of time worrying about the latest fashions. I suppose I care about being a decent person. About making the world a better, kinder place. I care about learning, maybe because I’m an educator.”
“A teacher? I should have guessed.”
“College English professor. Assistant professor. Or I was, until I got fired. Just before I came to Ireland, actually.”
“You? Fired? I’m officially outraged on your behalf. Who would do such a thing?”
“My department head. Someone I considered a friend. That’s the part that hurt the most. The betrayal.”
“What will you do now? Or do I have the great good luck of meeting an independently wealthy American heiress?”
“Definitely not an heiress,” Maeve said. “Don’t tell anyone, but I’ve been writing a novel. Probably come to nothing. Therese and I just found out the house we thought we were inheriting after Mary Helen died has a secret mortgage we knew nothing about.”
Liam touched her arm lightly. “I’m sorry. About the mortgage. And your mother.”
“Don’t be. She’d been ill for a while, and as a devout Catholic she kept telling me she was ready to go to heaven.”
“Nice to be so sure of such a thing,” he said quietly. He turned the Jeep into a small parking lot.
“And what about you?” Maeve asked. “What kinds of things do you care about?”
“Family. Friends. Making good whiskey that I can be proud of. Simple stuff, really.”
He pulled into a slot at the edge of the parking lot. “Here we are. This is the Three-Legged Goat. The Hooligans are playing tonight, so we’ll probably have to bully our way in to get near the bar.”
The building was an ancient-looking white stucco affair with half timbers and a swinging sign featuring a downcast-looking goat.
A row of windows across the front of the pub revealed a lit-up Christmas tree inside.
People streamed toward the door from the parking lot, and happy patrons spilled out onto the crumbling sidewalk, laughing, smoking, and clutching pint beer glasses in their hands.
Maeve started to get out of the Jeep.
Liam put his hand on her arm. “One minute. One more question. You just told me you’re acutely risk averse. And yet you agreed to go out tonight, alone, to a bar, with a man you just met.”
“It’s the accent,” Maeve said. “I never could resist a man with an accent.
“Now here’s one for you,” Maeve countered. “I’ve never had an American man ask me this many questions about myself. About my feelings and everything? Is this what men are like over here?”
“Us?” He hooted in disbelief. “God no. Irishmen don’t have feelings. And if we did, we certainly wouldn’t talk about them. Now, if I promise not to spike your Red Bull and sell you into the sex trade, can we go inside and have a pint?”