Quinn's Deirdre (4 page)

Deirdre shook her head. “No, I won’t.
 
You need something to eat, Quinn, so we can
talk.
 
If you keep drinking, you’ll have
such a hangover tomorrow, you won’t be fit for anything.”

“It won’t be the first time
nor
the last.”

One of the servers ventured into the back dining
room to serve the diners at the one occupied table. Deirdre didn’t recognize
her.
 
Quinn waved his hand at her, and
she trotted over.
“Yes, sir?”

“Bring me another bottle of Jameson’s,” he said.

“Don’t,” Deirdre said. “Bring two orders of bangers
and champ with coffee.”

The young woman glanced from one to the other.
“Quinn’s the boss,” she said, looking at Deirdre.

“Not tonight,” Deirdre
said,
an edge in her voice. “Bring our order or you’ll answer to me.”

Quinn said nothing so the server shrugged. “I’ll be
back with it in a few minutes, then.”

“I can’t eat,” he said as she slid into a seat across
from him. “I seldom do these days.”

She studied him at close range, noted how much
thinner he’d become.
 
“You need to eat
something.
 
You look terrible, Quinn.”

“I’ve been that bad and worse.
 
I’ll do.”

The ravages of heavy drinking were obvious. The red-rimmed
eyes, a few broken blood vessels in his face, and his combative manner all
related to his intake of alcohol. Deirdre noticed more, his pallor, the heavy
fatigue in his eyes and face, and the way he slumped.
 
He hadn’t shaved, either, and his dark
whiskers stood out stark against his white face. “You look so tired,
Quinn.
 
After we eat, maybe you should go
to bed.”

He snorted. “Bed, is it ye’re wantin’? I’m none so
good in that department these days, and I don’t sleep much.”

And I doubt you laugh
or smile or make jokes much either.
 
Oh,
Quinn, what did I do to you? I left to save you, to protect you, but I’ve all
but destroyed you instead.

Their food arrived, smoking hot sausages paired with
champ, Irish mashed potatoes laced with onion.
 
The server put a pot of coffee between them and two cups.
 
“Will there be anything else?” she asked.

“No, thank you.
 
Is Desmond around?”

The server’s eyes widened.
 
“Yes, he’s in the kitchen.
 
Did you want him?”

“I’ll talk to him later,” Deirdre said.
 
At least Des remained here.
 
So far, she’d seen no one she recognized
except Quinn.
 
Quinn’s uncle had come
from Ireland to work in the pub.
 
He’d
pulled pints at the bar at first but had a knack for creating Irish dishes, so
he took over some of the culinary tasks.
 
He’d been a friend to her, treated her like family, but that had been
before she died.
 

She poured coffee and handed Quinn a cup.
 
He stared at it,
then
took a sip.
 
“It might go down better
with a wee drop of whiskey,” he said.

“It’s better without.” Without asking, she took his
hands in hers and said the simple blessing she’d used all her life. “Bless us,
oh Lord, and these thy Gifts, which we’re about to receive through thy bounty,
through Christ our Lord, amen.”
 
Halfway
through, she noticed Quinn mumbled the words with her.
 

Deirdre forked a bite of sausage and ate it,
savoring the taste.
 
The champ proved to
be delicious, too.
 
Quinn sipped coffee
before he deigned to eat but once he began, he ate all four sausage and the
potatoes.
 
He ate with slow precision, as
if he’d almost forgotten how.
 
Quinn
pushed the empty plate away and leaned back, eyes closed.
 
One hand rested on his abdomen and prompted
her to ask, “Are you all right?”

“I’m full,” he said. “I’ve not ate so much at one
time in longer than I can remember.”

“I haven’t had anything so good in a long time.”

He nodded,
then
pointed at
the coffee pot.
 
“Would you pour me
another, love?”

His casual use of the endearment touched her.
 
Maybe there might be hope for them yet.
“Sure.”

Quinn drank it, the cup cradled in his left hand,
his eyes intent on her face.
 
After a few
long moments, he nodded. “My head’s a wee bit clearer now than before and I see
it ‘tis you.
 
I did think at first ‘twas
a hallucination or dream.
 
I’ve had my
share of those and woke in sorrow when I remembered you were dead.
 
But you’re not and I’m not at all sure how
that came about.”

“I’ll tell you,” Deirdre said in a cracked voice.
“Are you glad, Quinn, I came back?”

His blue eyes met hers and he nodded. “I am,
Deirdre, but I don’t understand at all.
 
Why did you come now when ye never did before?”

“I wanted to, but I worried I’d put you in danger. I
couldn’t stand being apart any more, so I came.
 
I’m sorry I hurt you so much, Quinn.
  
I didn’t mean to cause you such pain.”

For the first time, his lips twitched into a
half-smile.
 
“Ye near destroyed me, woman,
but would you rather I hadn’t mourned for you at all?”

“No.”
 
His
soft voice, tempered with the sweet music of Ireland, salved some of her own
inner hurts.
 
She adored the way he still
used ‘ye’ and ‘you’ interchangeably, but he’d yet to say he loved her.

“I’ve lived in hell, since,” he said, in a matter of
fact voice. “And I don’t know what to think or how I feel yet.
 
I need more drink, I’m thinkin’.”

“Please, don’t.”
 
If he drank more, the food and coffee would be for naught.

Quinn ignored her plea.
 
The other diners had gone, so he rose to his
feet and stumbled toward the front.
 
She
watched his unsteady gait and almost followed but didn’t.
 
He returned with a new bottle of Jameson’s
and poured some into his glass. “
Slainte,”
he said and drank it. “Would you like some?”

One of them ought to keep their head, but she
reached for the glass since there was only one. “Yes,” she said.
 
The smooth whiskey purred over her tongue and
down her throat in a rush of warmth. “One more, please.”

He finished the rest and retreated into silence,
although his eyes remained locked on her.
 
After a long time, he lurched to his feet. “I’ve a need to piss,” he
said.
 
He took two steps and stopped.
 
His face turned paler than white.
 

Alarmed, Deirdre rushed to his side and grabbed his
elbow as he swayed. “What’s the matter?”

“I’m about to
boke
,” he
gasped. “Help me make it to the bog.”

Deirdre steered him toward the men’s room and
entered with him despite the shocked looks and laughs from other guys.
 
“Get out!” At her
command
,they
went.

Quinn headed for the first stall, dropped to his
knees, and retched with a groan.
 
He
spewed into the commode while she hovered, one hand on his shoulder for comfort
or support.
 
When he finished after multiple
rounds of vomiting, she wet several paper towels.
 
After offering a hand up, she provided him
the towels so he could wipe his face.
 
Then he rinsed his mouth and splashed more water over his head.
 
As he moved, she caught a whiff of his rank
stench and grimaced.

He leaned against the sink, eyes closed.
 
“Thank you,
acushla.”

“Don’t mention it,”
Deidre said, dry as sand. “You need a shower—you stink.”

Forget romance, the Hollywood moment she’d dreamed
about.
 
She’d take this reality and keep
it.
 
Quinn stared at her,
then
began to laugh, a full-bodied belly laugh. “Then help
me upstairs, woman, and I’ll take one.
 
God knows, I’m glad you’re back, and I do love you.”

Disheveled, dirty, reeking of vomit and whiskey and
body odor, her man gave her what she needed to hear.
 
Deidre touched his bristly cheek and shook
her head.
 
She’d never loved him more.

Chapter
Three

As he showered, Deidre wandered around his place,
nosy as she poked into everything.
 
The
flat, as he preferred to call it, remained the same.
 
The large living room opened off the back
staircase leading up from the pub.
 
To
the right, the kitchen with the same old outdated appliances sat opposite the
bathroom and at the end, the big bedroom took up the rest of the space.
 
Quinn had the same furniture she remembered
but before, it’d been neat.
 
Oh, he’d
cluttered it in typical male fashion with his shoes or cast off shirts, but
there hadn’t been a coating of dust on every surface or a sour smell.
 
As she waded through the litter on the floor
to open a window to diffuse the odor, she tripped over empty whiskey bottles
galore.
 
As the brisk autumn air rushed
in, Deirdre investigated the kitchen.
 
The sink held an array of dirty glasses, nothing more, and the fridge
yielded nothing but a block of moldy cheese and a jar of mayonnaise.
 
Quinn’s cupboards were as bare as Mother
Hubbard’s, and she doubted he’d eaten anything at home in months, if not years.

She found the bed in disarray, covers tangled and
twisted.
 
They reeked too, so she
stripped the bed, tossing the dirty bedding into one corner.
 
Deirdre found clean sheets on the top closet
shelf and remade the bed, smoothing down the blankets and plumping up the
pillows.
 
The domestic chore kept her
grounded and provided a focus.
 
Nothing
had turned out the way she’d expected, not yet, but she remained glad she came
back.

Quinn emerged from the dinky bathroom nude, still
drying off with a towel. He’d shaved, too.
 
He dripped onto the kitchen floor as she gaped.
 
Deirdre hadn’t seen him naked in three years,
or anyone else for that matter.
 
Although
his ribs stood out in stark relief against his torso and he was skinnier than
she’d ever known him, he was beautiful.
 
His long, wide back attached to his legs via his very fine arse.
 
He caught her gawking and a strange little
half-smile flirted with his lips.
 
Her
heart twisted into a knot.
 
Deirdre ached
to run to him and put her arms around him.
 
She wanted to cover his face with kisses and be wrapped in his embrace
forever.
 
Instead, in a casual voice, she
said, “You definitely smell better now, but how do you feel?”

“My stomach’s empty, but I’m still the wee bit
blootered or else the floor’s shifting beneath my feet.
 
There’s not an earthquake is there?”

“No.
 
The
bed’s made if you want to finish toweling off and lie down a bit.”

He made a face. “I should go back downstairs.
 
Drunk or sober, I’m still the proprietor
here.
 
There’s hours left till bar time
are they not?”

“Probably but you should…”

The door burst open with force. “Quinn, ye arsewipe
are ye up here or are ye passed out cold on the bloody floor?”

Desmond Sullivan stalked into the living room, fists
balled like the boxer he’d once been.

“I’m in here, uncle.”

“If ye didn’t own the place, I’d chucker ye out and
ye know it.
 
You’re as useless as a back
pocket on a shirt.
 
Yer barman said ye’d
puked all over the bog, and he’s telling tales ye were with a skank.
 
I find it hard to believe, being you’ve near
turned monk and all, but he swears by the Virgin ye were.
 
Says she’s a bold piece of work, came right
in there with the men and all, and never batted an eye.
 
Did she come up here with
ye
?
I’ll show her right out.”

As he spoke, the older man turned toward the kitchen,
but he hadn’t seen Deirdre.
 
Quinn tried
to interrupt twice, but Des spoke over him.
 
Intrigued by the information he’d yielded and to save the man some
embarrassment, she stepped from the bedroom doorway into the middle of the
kitchen floor. “Hello, Uncle Des.”