Beyond the Sea, page 3
part #9 of Shelter Bay Series
“Well, don’t worry about taking too much time away from your opera,” she said. “Because I haven’t met anyone I’d want to marry, so there’s no hurry for a tyke guitar.”
“This is the twenty-first century. Lots of women have babies without husbands,” he pointed out.
“I’m well aware of that. I’m also sure many are doing fine. But from watching friends, parenting appears difficult enough. If I ever were to decide to have a child, I’d want a partner to share the decision-making responsibilities.”
Not that motherhood was in her future, but Sedona didn’t want to get into that conversation yet again.
“Are you sure you’re not a lesbian?” he asked. “Maybe that’s why you haven’t been able to find a man who appeals to you.”
“Sedona’s not a lesbian, dear,” her mother broke in. “Not that there’d be anything wrong with that,” she added quickly.
Sedona laughed at her mother’s less than deft attempt at political correctness. “I believe I’d know by now if I were a lesbian,” she said. “I’m merely choosy enough to hold out for what you and Dad have.”
“Oh, what a lovely thing to say. Isn’t it, darling?” Skylark asked her husband.
“Well, marriage is easy when your wife is the most beautiful, perfect woman on the planet,” Freebird responded, on cue.
“And your husband the most challenging but exciting man,” her mother responded.
And wasn’t that what Sedona was holding out for? A relationship just like her parents had shared all these years. But perhaps with a bit less of the challenging part, she considered, as a certain Irish rocker’s wicked grin came crashing out of that mental box she’d attempted, with scant success, to keep him locked away in.
“Trust your intuition, Sedona, darling,” her mother said with her usual serene optimism. “You’ll know the right man when you meet him.”
“Though you might try being a bit more open-minded,” her father, never one to hold back an opinion, advised.
And hadn’t she heard that before? Most recently from Conn Brennan, who’d proven his claim that he wasn’t one to fit in any tidy little box she might try to create.
“I’ve been thinking my criteria might be a bit stringent,” Sedona admitted.
After all, who’d have thought Shelter Bay’s sheriff would now be living in matrimonial bliss with the town’s former bad boy? Or that J.T. Douchett, the community college teacher and son of a local fisherman, would marry an Irish movie star and screenwriter? And those were just two of the couples who’d become friends that she wouldn’t have thought stood a chance in the beginning.
As her parents had proved, two people from entirely different worlds could form a strong and lasting bond. Which still didn’t mean that she and an Irishman renowned for misbehaving could last once the sheets had cooled.
“So you’re giving up those spreadsheets?” they asked in unison, as they so often did.
“I said I’m thinking about it,” Sedona said, continuing to keep her online matchmaking failure to herself. Lifelong habits weren’t easy to break, but surely there was a man out there who fit somewhere between Dracula and a bad-boy rocker. “And as much as I always love talking to you, I need to get back to baking. I’m catering a bachelorette party in Newport this evening.”
After assuring them that she’d love to see them any time they could get away, Sedona got out a fresh mixing bowl and began preparing a batch of margarita cupcakes with tequila lime frosting. It was the third bachelorette party she’d catered this month. Love, apparently, was in the air on the Pacific Coast.
Not that she was the least bit envious.
Really, she wasn’t.
Okay. Maybe just a smidgen.
But, dammit, it wasn’t just her detailed spreadsheet that was at fault. While Shelter Bay might not be a bustling city, the recent uptick in the economy had new businesses starting up, bringing in a new crop of available men. Like sexy Luca Bongiove, who’d brought upscale Italian dining to Shelter Bay this past year.
There was also Captain Flynn Farraday, who, before joining the Shelter Bay Fire Department, had played basketball for the Navy Midshipmen and been a Navy SEAL. He was a nice guy and hot as the fires he put out, but during their one dinner date at the Sea Mist, Sedona hadn’t felt a single spark.
While sexy Gabriel Lombardi, an heir to the Lombardi family vineyards, wasn’t technically a Shelter Bay resident, he spent a great deal of time hosting tastings up and down the coast. Lombardi was the house wine at both Luca’s and Maddy’s restaurants and having returned home from a recent wine tasting with several bottles of smoothly complex Pinot Noir, Sedona had turned down his invitation to a private tasting in his suite at the Whale Song Inn because, dammit, she’d half hoped to hear from Conn.
As she hand mixed the batter with more force than necessary, Sedona decided the time had come to move on. Perhaps she’d ask Gabriel if he’d be interested in setting up a tasting of dessert wines to pair with her specialty cupcakes at catered events. Then, if he still seemed inclined to move their relationship to a more personal level, this time she wouldn’t say no.
3
Castlelough
T he past month had been like a never-ending Irish wake. Although the old clock that had been a wedding gift to Conn’s parents had yet to strike three in the afternoon, whiskey was flowing like holy water in the baptismal font at the Church of the Holy Child. It seemed as if the entire parish had turned out, arriving with covered dishes of enough shepherd’s pies to feed every shepherd in the county, stewed hens, stews, brown breads, soda breads, colcannon, and so many plates of biscuits and other sweets that Conn Brennan figured Dr. John Joyce and his physician sister-in-law and partner Dr. Erin Joyce, would soon be diagnosing a plethora of new diabetes cases.
Unlike a wake, however, the guest of honor refused to die.
Conn had flown home from Dusseldorf and moved into his old room for what he’d believed would be a few days, as soon as he’d gotten the call from Patrick that their father had returned to Ireland. For seemingly the final time. Fortunately, Celtic Storm had been wrapping up the tour that had done ninety-two shows in eighty cities in under five months, so he’d only had to cancel three events. Which had nearly given the band’s manager and those suits at their recording company apoplexy, but as Conn reminded them at the time, taking care of such things was what they were all handsomely paid to do.
It wasn’t as if touring made any money. This latest one, with an entourage of musicians, roadies, managers, tech folks, advance people, and publicists, would probably lose between one and two million dollars. On the flip side, touring always doubled or even tripled sales of his albums, which made the entire traveling circus worthwhile. At least to the label’s bean counters.
Conn wouldn’t lie. He had not an ounce of feeling toward the man currently propped up in what had once been Joseph and Eileen Brennan’s wedding bed. He’d been gone most of Conn’s life, only popping up like a bad penny every few years when he’d needed something from his wife. Usually money, which, for some reason Conn couldn’t fathom, she’d always give him.
His mother had married while still in her teens and having given birth to six children, had never worked outside the home. But during all her husband’s absences, when there’d been no money coming in, she’d turned their home into a B&B, taking in guests who’d kept the lights on and the fridge filled. Fiercely independent, she’d refused to let her grown children take care of her. Even once Conn started making serious money, she’d flatly turned down his offer of building her a new, cozy cottage with more garden space.
Until the ongoing death watch had put her business on hold, she’d liked running her B&B, welcoming interesting new people from all over the world, feeding them a hearty breakfast, sending them off to explore her beloved emerald island, then welcoming them home again in the evening with tea, wine, and pre-supper snacks.
“I’m doing just fine where and how I am,” she’d insisted yet again over last year’s Easter dinner of lamb stew. “Save your money for your own families, which, may I point out, I’d appreciate one of my sons to get started on so I can be a grandmother before I’m too old and decrepit to enjoy the experience.”
And as always with their mam, that had been that.
Which hadn’t stopped Conn and his brothers from buying her a new car for her birthday to replace the battered old wreck she’d been rattling around in. She’d fussed about the unnecessary expense but, being outnumbered, had finally caved in.
Conn was headed into the kitchen when a formidable roadblock appeared in front of him. Feck. Wasn’t this what he needed? Lena Sheehan ran the local butchery when she wasn’t browbeating her long-suffering husband.
“Well, if it isn’t himself,” the harridan said, planting her hands on her broad hips. Hair the color of steel was pulled into a tight bun at the back of her neck. “I’d have thought you’d have been long gone by now. Back to all those stadiums around the world filled with fans awaiting your lordly presence.”
“Family comes first,” Conn said, ignoring the dig. “As I’m sure you’d know well, Mrs. Sheehan,” he tacked on mildly. “Having such a large family yourself.”
Left unsaid was that three of her five sons had finally escaped to open their own shops in Cork, Limerick, and Dublin, while the youngest, Dolan, had managed to remain far from home by joining an order of missionary priests. Only poor Liam remained beneath his mother’s iron thumb.
Lena Sheehan’s eyes narrowed behind wire-framed glasses as she studied him, as if looking for the insult.
“It must be difficult, having your father suffering his last days.”
When Joseph Brennan had first returned to Castlelough, despite having had his claim to be dying confirmed by both John and Erin Joyce, he’d appeared to be much the same as he’d ever been. Propped up in bed, he’d spun his tales to an avid audience, charming people who had to have become strangers to him after all these years, while managing to ignore the long-suffering wife who’d put up with so much for so long.
The past two weeks, partly thanks to the pain meds, he’d been sleeping more and more, which would have made things more peaceful were it not for the ongoing deathwatch. Which, thankfully, had begun to dwindle off as Joseph lost his entertainment value.
“It’s been a challenging time,” Conn said obliquely.
“You’re probably not used to challenges. What with being so rich and successful and all, life’s undoubtedly all peaches and cream.”
“Success makes life easier,” Conn said. “It doesn’t make living easier.”
“I suppose you’d be the one to know.” The hard look she gave him suggested she didn’t believe that for a moment. “I just dropped in to let you and your mother know that we’ve received a nice order of French pâté.”
“With all the geese we have here in Ireland, you imported French goose livers?”
“Irish geese are domestic.” She sniffed. “I thought it was appropriate. You being a celebrity. People all over the world will read about your father’s funeral supper. I assumed you’d want to live up to expectations.”
“You assumed wrong, Mrs. Sheehan.” Conn thought, for not the first time, that if there was a God, and He or She were a fair judge of character, Mrs. Sheehan’s husband should surely arrive at heaven’s pearly gates with his sainthood already having been pronounced after surviving decades of marriage to this woman. “Truthfully, I don’t give a flying fig what a bunch of forked-tongue gossipmongers might think of me.”
“Well,” she huffed. Her face flamed as hot as a turf fire. “I suppose, given your unsavory reputation, I shouldn’t be surprised at your lack of respect for your own dying father.” She shoved a white paper-wrapped package at him. “I brought your mother a rasher of bacon. Dermott cut it thickly, the way she likes to serve it to her more special paying guests.”
“Thank you. I was on my way into the kitchen,” he said as he accepted the package. “I’ll take it with me. Good day to you, Mrs. Sheehan.”
Her lips drew into a razor thin line at being so coolly dismissed. “Good day to you, Mr. High-and-Mighty Rock Star. And for the record, you’re not the only person in this village who’s appeared on the telly.”
With that parting line, she marched across the room and out the door, which his mother had painted a cheerful green as a welcome to arriving guests. Conn knew that Patrick, the eldest of his brothers, touched it up every year right before St. Patrick’s Day, which, despite March weather being miserable even for this rainy country, was one of the town’s high tourist seasons.
“Well,” a familiar voice behind Conn said, “that went well.”
Conn turned and shook his head at his eldest brother. “I was thinking of suggesting the woman try selling some of her damn livers to you. To serve at the pub.”
“And isn’t that thoughtful of you? But I think I’ll pass.” Instead of smiling at the absurdity, as Conn had expected, Patrick’s grim expression signaled a problem.
“How’s Mam holding up?” Conn asked.
“She’s a rock, as always,” Patrick said. “It’s Da. He wants to speak with you . . . alone.”
“And if I don’t care to speak with him?”
Patrick raked a hand through his black hair. “I can’t say as I blame you. But you know his temper only too well. If you don’t, and—”
“Mam doesn’t need that.” Conn handed Patrick the bacon. “Take this into the kitchen for me.”
Despite Mrs. Sheehan’s unrelentingly negative attitude, the butchery sold the best bacon in all of County Clare. Probably the entire country. Which was why the shop had been featured on acclaimed Irish Chef Paul Flynn’s RTÉ cooking program. A fact the woman was not about to let anyone in town forget.
As he headed upstairs to the bedroom, Conn wondered why the hell his father couldn’t have just stayed in America. Oh. Perhaps because the divorcee Joseph had left his wife for hadn’t wanted to take on the burden of caring for a dying old man who undoubtedly hadn’t managed to remain monogamous during their two decades together?
Despite Conn’s reputation for womanizing, he’d never, ever cheated. Which, admittedly, wasn’t that difficult when most of his relationships tended to be short-lived. Like that one-night stand he’d had with the American cake baker.
Going back to his teens, when he found out playing music could get him any girl he wanted, Conn had never apologized for his enjoyment of fast cars and fast women. As he’d gotten older, while the women he took to bed were no more eager to settle down in some cozy, thatched-roof country cottage than he was, he had grown choosier, moving on beyond the always available rock groupies to women he’d be able to have a conversation with the next morning.
Sedona Sullivan had been different from the moment he’d seen her. In the first place, she’d been so intent on putting the final touches on a white wonder of a wedding cake that she hadn’t noticed he’d come into the reception hall.
Even when he’d gained her attention by turning the speakers to stun while blasting out a sound check, her only response had been a furrowed brow and a distracted frown. Then she’d returned to her work, proceeding to ignore him. Which never happened.
She’d continued to appear immune to him whenever he’d caught her eye during the reception. Wondering if she might be involved with someone, Conn had nearly given up on her when fate had gifted him with a second chance. Which he’d grabbed with both hands.
She’d made herself clear from the first that she wasn’t looking for any relationship beyond a single night. An idea which, perversely, somewhere between making her come twice before they’d even gotten their clothes off and the next morning, had proven unsatisfying.
Not that she hadn’t satisfied. The vexation was that Sedona had gotten beneath his skin. Which was why, by the time she’d left for America on that Aer Lingus jet the next morning, Conn had already determined to see her again.
Not wanting to give her an opportunity to turn down picking up where they’d left off, he’d decided against calling or emailing while on tour. Instead, he’d planned to use a visit to Mary Douchett as his reason for showing up in Shelter Bay.
Thanks to his bloody father, he hadn’t gone to America. Nor had he managed to write any more on the score for Mary’s film. His muse, it appeared, refused to visit so long as Joseph Brennan was in Castlelough.
4
J oseph Brennan was definitely fading. His once ruddy face was yellow with jaundice, as were the whites of his eyes, still veined with the red tracings of a long-time drinker. He’d always been hefty, with large, cruel hands that could wield a Rowan switch or wound by themselves. Now, due to the pancreatic cancer devouring his body, he looked like thin pastry dough spread over spindly bones.
He tugged down the oxygen mask when Conn entered.
“Sit,” he said as he might to a dog. The hand that had left scars when he’d beaten a six-year-old Conn with a sally branch shook with tremors as he waved toward a chair beside the bed.
“I’d rather stand,” Conn responded, remembering how Patrick, the quietest and most easygoing of the Brennan brothers, had come to his rescue that day, punching their father on his jaw, sending Conn’s tormenter tumbling onto his ass. Fists flying, Patrick had bent over Joseph and things might have escalated into something far more dangerous had their mother not pulled him away.
In retrospect, Conn was grateful for the intervention. He’d often fantasized about someone killing his father, but he wouldn’t have wanted his brother to spend the rest of his life in the gaol due to him. Or his mother to have to live with the thought of her eldest son murdering her husband. Even so, the memory of that day stayed in Conn’s mind, as crystal clear as if it had occurred yesterday. Watching this man wailing like a newborn babe as he’d begged for mercy remained a high point in Conn’s life.
