Chasing River (Burying Water #3) (6 page)

It was my last day in Nova Scotia, and I debated simply walking over, filling the spare seat next to him, and striking up a conversation. Everyone knows a person who can do that. Gillian Flanders, a nurse at my hospital, is one of those people. She’ll go to Cancún for a week alone and return with an album’s worth of wild pictures and a dozen stories. I’ve always told her that she’s crazy, but secretly I’ve envied her. I’ve never been that girl who can just walk up to random strangers and start talking, who can openly flirt with a guy, unafraid that I’ll embarrass myself if he’s not interested in me.

Back and forth, Alex and I texted that afternoon by the pier, with her encouraging me to just do it. What was the worst that could happen? By the time I had worked up enough courage, the handsome stranger was paying his check and I was still firmly planted within my small comfort zone.

“I ate lots of seafood.”

She chuckles. “Yeah, I figured. Next time, maybe.”

I smile. “Maybe.”

“Oh! Before I forget . . . In case you want to see a friendly face, Ivy’s in Dublin right now.”

“Ivy?” That’s not exactly what I’d call a friendly face. The last time I saw that girl, that fateful day a year ago when Alex was getting her tattoo, she looked ready to scrawl foul language across my forehead with her tattoo gun. Probably because I pretended not to recognize her. “I don’t really know her.”

“Yes, you do,” Alex pushes. “You went to the same high school.”

“Along with five hundred other kids . . .” I glare at my deep scowl in the mirror and then push the frown line between my brows smooth. “She was a year younger than me, anyway.”

“Just a suggestion.” A horse whinnies in the background, stirring a touch of homesickness inside me.

“What’s she doing here?”

“Working. She’s been there for a few months now, I think? She wanted a change from Oregon.”

Well, I guess Ivy and I have one thing in common, then. Pretty much the only thing, aside from both being female. I was a Rodeo Queen and straight-A student in high school; Ivy was the resident graffiti artist. I’ve always embraced my feminine side, primping my long hair in fat curls or silky smooth and straight, and choosing the perfect outfit and jewelry. Ivy showed up to school one day in my senior year with all her hair shaved off. I’m a nurse, helping save people’s lives. She leaves them with permanent scars all over their skin.

“I didn’t realize you guys talked so much,” I murmur, appraising my limp hair. I haven’t showered since the detectives dropped me off two days ago.

“You should visit her. She works at her cousin’s shop. The Fine Needle? Or something like that. Anyway, I’m sure you can find it easily.”

“Sure, if I have time.” Alex can probably hear the empty intentions in my voice. “Talk to you later.”

“Have fun, Amber. And call me when you cross off number one on the list.”

I hang up with a snort and then a laugh. One unusually mild night in March, Alex insisted on starting a list for me—Amber’s travel “bucket list.” I had just spent the entire day booking thousands of dollars’ worth of flights and self-medicating my rejection by Aaron with a bottle of zinfandel. It was just the two of us out on the front porch, the creak of that old swing and our cackles disturbing the quiet, wrapped in blankets and warmed by the
chiminea
that Jesse had lit for us before he bolted, desperate to be free of female emotion.

The list actually started off as a complete joke, a way to get me excited about the trip. Wine made my suggestions bold, a few outright ridiculous. Guaranteed I’ll return home with half of the lines untouched. And yet I find myself looking at the list almost daily, the opportunity to check something off giving me a small thrill.

Reaching into my small black travel wallet now, I pull out the folded paper that’s tucked inside, reading Alex’s neat, flowery handwriting with a smile.

1. Have a torrid affair with a foreigner. Country: TBD.

A torrid affair may be a little dramatic. It’s definitely a few steps up from the common vacation hookup, another one of those things that I’ve secretly envied others for being able to do. Ever since my college roommate, Deirdre Carlino, came back from her backpacking trip with stories about this hot weeklong fling with a guy from France, I’ve wondered if I’d have the guts to do something like that. Shed my “Sheriff’s daughter” cloak of integrity and common sense, and simply not care. Push aside all the real instances of unplanned pregnancies and STD cases that I’ve seen while working in the hospital and just embrace the experience.

A torrid affair could certainly help with the pang in my heart every time Aaron creeps into my thoughts.

Most of the items on this list are landmark-related and touristy:
float through the grottos, Capri, Italy; tour vineyards on a bicycle, Bordeaux, France
;
sleep on a beach, Phuket, Thailand
. That last one is a definite no. That’s how you wake up mugged.

A few are just practical:
Take a picture of a Laundromat. Country: All.
With only one suitcase, I already have four snapshots for my collection.

Some of the items already have tidy little marks beside them.
Take a train through the Canadian Rockies
. Check.
Dress like a Bond Girl and play a round of poker at a casino.
Check. I groan with mortification at that memory, though in hindsight it’s kind of funny. A young single woman in a flirty black dress and stiletto heels at a poker table in a Montreal casino . . . I guess I can see why the man who approached and offered me two thousand dollars for the night might mistake me for an escort. He was quite polite about the request, though, and extremely apologetic when my jaw dropped and he realized his terrible mistake. Of course I had to Google what the going rate is for paid escorts. Apparently, two thousand is considered high-end. At least I can claim that much out of the experience. Not that my dad—the man I begged for poker lessons before I left—would be too impressed with that story.

I scan the rest of the list for Ireland-specific lines.

9. Kiss the Blarney Stone: Cork, Ireland.

I’ll be able to check that off soon. The keys to Simon’s black VW Golf sit in a dish by the front door, at my disposal. I think it’ll take me a few more days to work up the courage to drive it, though. I’m not sure I trust myself to stay on the wrong side of the road. And the roundabouts? They scare the hell out of me. I like my old dirt roads and quiet highways through the mountains.

Until then, there are a couple things I have listed for Dublin that I could mark off. That I could have already marked off, if my days here hadn’t been derailed.

On impulse, I grab my pen and fill a new line with my own handwriting, almost as neat as Alex’s.

42. Barely avoid mutilation and/or death by pipe bomb: Dublin, Ireland.

“Check,” I murmur. Shaking my head at myself, I fold the paper back up and tuck it back into my wallet.

Falling into the bed, I stare at the thick crown molding that edges the walls and think about Alex. Most people could not bounce back from what she went through, amnesia or not. She can’t even look in a mirror without the constant reminder of it in the form of a long, thin scar from temple to jaw. But she’s not hiding in a room somewhere. She’s living her life, grateful to have survived.

With a heavy sigh, I drag myself off the bed and wander over to the dresser to pick out a shirt that will cover the evidence.

I didn’t come to Ireland to sit in this house, nice as it may be.

It’s time to move on.

From my seat on the second-level balcony of this Asian tea shop, I feel like a queen, peering down over Grafton Street, a pedestrian-only street, jammed with tourists at eleven on a Friday morning.

Do they know that a bomb went off just a few blocks away from here? Because none of them seem worried. I sigh, closing my eyes and lifting my face to soak in the sun that promises another abnormally hot day for a country with a normally cool climate. I hope it can somehow restore my sense of adventure, too.

A part of me—the traumatized young woman who yelped at the sound of a car backfiring on her way here—wants to call my father back and tell him everything, let his concern wash over me in soothing words meant to comfort. Maybe have him or my mom book a flight to Dublin just so I can be wrapped within their arms by tomorrow.

But I can’t do that.

I have no one to talk to, no one to take care of me. No one who even knows.

Except for the police, who aren’t going to offer me hugs.

And the man who saved my life, who I can’t find.

“Your Darjeeling tea, miss.” The waiter winks at me as he sets it down next to a plump scone, his accent enchanting, yet odd. Not light, like my mystery man’s. Not like Detective Garda Leprechaun Duffy’s. Definitely not like the accent of the taxi driver; he had to repeat everything three times to me and I still couldn’t quite understand him.

A hint of Irish mingles with something else, making it entirely foreign. “If you don’t mind me asking, where are you from?”

“Sicily, originally. I moved to Dublin when I was fifteen.”

“So, the two accents have combined? I didn’t even know that could happen.”

He chuckles. “Spend a few more days here and you’ll hear many different accents in Dublin, especially in the bar industry.” He throws me another wink and moves on to tend to another table, another tourist. I pick at my light lunch, turning my attention back to the street below. As commercial as this area is—retailer after retailer lined up and waiting to make money off an abundance of tourists—the old buildings that house these stores, the cobbled walkways that lead up to them, the street buskers who entertain outside, all blend together to energize and charm the atmosphere.

I lean over the rail to admire the flower stand to my left. Tiered rows of buckets burst with blooms in indigo and gold and crimson. It’s tempting to buy a bunch of sunflowers and bring them back to add a splash of color to a lovely but somewhat sterile home. It’s something my mom has done for as long as I can remember. Maybe I will, later.

To my right, a small crowd has formed around three men who are covered from head to toe in a thick matte charcoal paint and sitting statue-still. So still that I wouldn’t believe them to be people, had I not read about this somewhere already. Farther down, the first strings of a guitar carry over the low buzz—a one-man band entertaining passersby, his hat awaiting a tip to keep him coming back.

I could forget about the Guinness tour and the old library at Trinity College that I’ve mentally committed myself to today, and simply sit here drinking tea and people-watching all afternoon. I just may, too, because up here in my perch, I’m not thinking about being blown up by another pipe bomb.

My waiter seats a young couple at the table next to me. The simple gold bands on their fingers tell me they’re married. She mumbles something to him and I recognize it as French. Parisian French, I’m quite sure. My time in Montreal taught me the difference, the Québécois dialect harsh by comparison.

The guy leans back in his chair, rubbing his chest slowly as he peers down on Grafton Street, just as I had a moment ago. The movement pulls my eyes to the logo on his clover-green T-shirt. It’s a family crest of sorts.

The stag at the top makes my jaw drop open.

Could it be?

No. That’s just too coincidental. There are probably dozens of family crests with stags on them. The Irish are all about pride for their heritage.

“
Excuse moi
.”

His sharp tone is what drags my gaze to his face. He’s staring at me with an annoyed, arched brow. From what I’ve read, the stereotype that the French don’t love Americans isn’t so much a stereotype as fact, and for whatever reason, he’s assumed I’m American. By now his young wife has turned around too, and her glare has teeth.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to stare.” This is exactly how I
don’t
want to strike up a conversation up with complete strangers. “Your shirt . . . Did you buy it here, in Ireland?” He glances down at it, a frown on his face, like he’s trying to figure out why I’d care. “My boyfriend asked me to bring him a souvenir and he’d love something like that,” I lie quickly.

Their expressions finally shift to something more friendly. “I won it. Last week, at this famous Irish pub,” the guy admits with pride. “I bet the bartender that I could finish my beer before he could. He gave it to me right off his back. But I don’t know if they sell them. It’s their uniform.”

My mind begins spinning frantically. Uniform? Does he mean a staff shirt? What are the chances . . .

“What’s the bar called?”

He stretches the bottom out and I notice a name scrawled across the banner. “Delaney’s?” he reads, as if in question. “Not far from here. But . . .” He smirks, his gaze scanning my face, my shirt, my bangles, dangling with sparkly charms. “I’m not so sure it is a place for you.”

“Thank you.” I dismiss his warning easily. If I have the chance to find this guy so I can thank him, then it’s the perfect place for me.