Running Back (8 page)

“Mrs. O’Connor.” I let loose my brightest smile. “I’m Natalie
Sullivan. Thank you so much for seeing me today.”

Her expression cleared of confusion and settled into polite
curiosity. “Ah, the archaeologist. Would you like a cup of tea?”

“Yes, thanks.” I entered, and then hesitated. Mike stood
stiffly on the doorstep, arms crossed against his chest. “And, um, this
is...”

Maggie turned back and paled. She ran her blue stare
unblinkingly over Mike. Her lips moved for a moment before any sound made it
out. “Brian’s son.”

I saw him do it. Just like flicking on a switch. One moment,
his posture indicated discomfort, and the next warmth suffused his face. He
aimed such a charming grin at Maggie that I almost smiled, too, and his voice
dropped to low, confidential registers, like he was speaking to his best friend
or his beloved grandmother. “My family and I just arrived—I think my mother sent
a note. But I thought I’d come around with Natalie.”

She flicked her eyes up and down. “Ah, yes.” She turned sharply
and vanished into the house.

The entry hall was low and dark, the striped green wallpaper
hung with old portraits, but the sitting room had plenty of light from the
street and a brass chandelier. Mike and I settled on an old, striped sofa. The
single bookcase held mostly trinkets and only one shelf of books, but white
cracks lined their spines and made me think well of Maggie O’Connor.

Maggie obviously did not feel the same way toward Mike, because
when she returned after placing a kettle on, she said, “Eileen O’Rourke said
your family arrived yesterday, yet they haven’t called.”

Mike’s smile didn’t waver. “It’s my teenage sister, Anna.
Didn’t bring a thing she could wear, so she dragged the rest off shopping.”

Maggie’s gaze didn’t waver. “You’re twenty-six?” At Mike’s nod,
she continued. “You have two sisters, is that right?”

“Lauren’s twenty-three. Anna’s seventeen.”

Maggie raised her brows. “An accident, the last one?”

Mike didn’t look thrilled under his smile. I jumped in, trying
to smooth the tension. “I’m so sorry for your loss, Mrs. O’Connor. While I never
met you husband, he was always very kind to me when we spoke on the phone.”

Maggie regarded us scornfully. “Patrick hasn’t been kind to
anyone for the last ten years. And I certainly don’t expect Brian’s son to miss
him.” Her lips tightened and she seemed to drift off into her thoughts for a
moment, and then she shook herself and rose to fetch the tea.

I leaned in close to Mike so there’d be no chance of her
overhearing from the kitchen. “I’m sorry, but did your father try to poison your
uncle? What is going on?”

His head almost touched mine as he answered. “Did I mention my
dad and uncle had been estranged for twenty years? And that Maggie and Patrick
didn’t come to my dad’s funeral or anything?”

Gee, I was so glad I’d been dragged into a family feud. Because
there weren’t enough feuds in my life. “Why, no. No, you did not.”

Maggie returned with a tray of mugs and, to my endless joy,
shortbread. She placed everything on the coffee table. “And how did the two of
you come together?”

Mike took a sip of the boiling tea. Despite the likely loss of
taste buds, he didn’t flinch. He just set the mug down and smiled at his aunt.
“Natalie tells me Patrick had signed on for an excavation at Kilkarten.”

“That’s right.” Maggie stirred her tea. “Your excavation’s
stirred up a lot of excitement.”

I tossed a look at Mike, wondering if he’d told this estranged
aunt the excavation was no longer happening. “Do the people here care a lot
about it?”

Maggie looked amused. “It’s all anyone’s talked about for the
last six months.”

That was unexpected. “But Patrick only signed the final paper
work three months ago.”

“It took the village three months to convince him.”

“Um...” I looked again at Mike. I didn’t want to be the one who
broke the news that all that work went out the window.

Mike frowned. “Why did the village want the dig?”

Maggie took a slow tip of tea. “A site would boost the local
economy. There would be more tourists spending money at the shops and
restaurants, more jobs—Ms. Sullivan said she would probably hire a good dozen
people to help her excavate this summer.”

Mike turned his frown to me.

I shrugged. “It’s easier to hire and train locals than bring
workers over, especially for Phase 1 excavations where not a lot of detailed
digging happens.”

“Mrs. O’Connor.” Mike leaned forward, hands clasped between his
knees. I wondered if it tasted strange, his mother’s name applied to a woman
he’d never met before. “Why was Patrick was okay with the excavation? I wouldn’t
have thought he’d want strangers all over his property.”

“Wouldn’t you?” Her sharp eyes peered over the brim of her cup.
Beside me, Mike tensed. I couldn’t pick out the thickest tension between
them—accusation, unease, challenge.

“Patrick was a big proponent of rediscovering Ireland’s early
history,” I said quickly and a little too loudly, trying to dispel whatever
strange sentiment the O’Connors had stirred up.

It worked. Both of them scoffed. “The money had a large part to
do with it,” Maggie said. “And if you’d ever met Patrick, you would have known
that once he’d made up his mind, nothing would change it.”

Mike nodded slowly. “I’ve heard stories.”

“’Course you have.” Maggie stirred her small silver spoon
through her tea.

Mike cleared his throat. “Is there a bus out to the farm? I
wanted to look around.”

His aunt shook her head. “It’s only accessible by car. I’m busy
this afternoon, but could give you a lift tomorrow. Or my nephew Paul’s in town.
I’m sure he can bring you over.”

Mike and I exchanged a glance, and then Mike nodded.

Maggie lifted her tea. “You can find him at the pub over on
Blue Street. Just ask for Paul Connelly.”

Chapter Eight

We broke for lunch first. We picked up pre-made
sandwiches at the local Spar, a tiny chain convenience store, and ate them
sitting on a bench looking over the tiny harbor. Boats bobbed in the water, and
people occasionally stared. We were stopped three times for introductions before
we were finally able to unwrap our food.

I liked it here, with the warm summer breeze and the scent of
the sea and the warm bread in our hands. I turned to say as much to Mike, but
switched topics when I saw the furrows in his brow. “So what’s up with this
estrangement? What happened?”

The furrows melted away when he looked at me, replaced by a
grin. “You’re pretty nosy.”

“Who, me?” I widened my eyes. “I just have an active interest
in understanding the world. Also, that was a little weird, wasn’t it? Shouldn’t
we have talked about Patrick and your dad and your lives, considering that you’d
never met before?”

He finished off a bite of his sandwich. “My dad and Patrick
grew up on Kilkarten, but by the time Dad was ten, they’d moved to the
village—actually, probably to the house Maggie’s in now.” He threw a glance over
his shoulder, like he’d only just realized his father might have spent years in
that same house. I had to touch his knee before he shook himself and went
on.

“Right. Anyway, after my grandparents died—and this was when my
dad and Patrick were in their late teens, early twenties—Dad wanted to sell the
farm. Patrick didn’t. They had some huge fight and then Dad moved to Boston.”

“What was the fight about?”

He shrugged.

Right. “Personal reasons.”

He gave me that crooked smile.

We finished off our sandwiches. I looked out over the water,
dark blue and endless. Mike’s dad had wanted to get rid of the land, and now
Mike refused to. What had that fight been about? Did Maggie know? Did Mike’s
family? “So I’m guessing you haven’t met this cousin of yours, then.”

The idea seemed to astound him. “Cousin?”

His shock was kind of cute. “Almost. If he’s Maggie’s
nephew.”

He groaned. “I should be back home celebrating the off-season
and instead I’m meeting lost cousins and bitter aunts.”

I hopped off the bench. “Come on. Let’s go find this pub.”

Blue Street looked a lot like Red Street, with just a handful
of shops and houses and the cobblestone road interrupted by a small fountain. A
signpost pointed toward shops and the church, written in two languages.

The pub clearly took precedence, busy even at two in the
afternoon. A green pennant hung outside the brown brick building, while inside
it looked like the Irish pubs at home, except the music didn’t hurt my ears and
the TVs didn’t blast. People ate as much as they drank, and off in the back a
group of teenagers played pool.

We headed for the bar, and the college-aged kid watching the
soccer game from behind it. “Hey,” Mike said. “We’re looking for Paul Connelly.
Is he here?”

The teenager dragged his gaze from the screen and raked it over
us, with the amount of judgment I usually associated with NYU student bartenders
in the East Village. It morphed slowly to recognition. “You’re Michael
O’Connor.”

He nodded. “Yeah. Is Paul here?”

The kid slouched back and crossed his arms. “Connelly! Your
American cousin’s arrived.”

Every head in the pub swiveled in our direction.

From the back, a man detached himself from a clump of Guinness
guzzlers. He was about my height and age, but he had thick black hair and dark
eyes. Black Irish, they called it, Iberian blood. He shoved his hands in his
pockets and sauntered over.

“Well.” Paul Connelly had a low, lilting voice, and I
immediately thought of Cam’s
Operation:
Irish Boyfriend.
“That didn’t take very long.”

Beside me, Mike relaxed very slowly. The great control that
went into his apparent laziness was more alarming than if he’d tensed up all
over. “’Scuse me?”

Paul propped his elbow on the bar and shrugged. “Seems to me
you swooped right in as soon as you inherited some land.”

Mike curved his lips up. “Actually, my uncle just died. I’m
here for his month’s mind.”

“After twenty-six years of never even talking to the man?”

Mike relaxed his body even more, like he was lounging in
midair. “You’re pretty well-informed for a guy I never even knew existed.”

Paul scoffed and shook his head. “Just like a Yank.”

Mike didn’t even twitch. Like a snake before the death-strike.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Great. Could no one in this family communicate without weird
accusations? If Paul Connelly’s body language was any indication, Mike was about
to get punched in the face.

I squeezed between the two guys and stuck my hand out. “I’m
Natalie Sullivan. Sorry for your loss. I never met your uncle, but we spoke
several times. I’m an archaeologist from Columbia University.”

Paul waited a moment, his square jaw working, before he
transferred his attention to me. When he did, surprise crossed his face. “You’re
a lot prettier than I expected.”

“Hey,” Mike said sharply. He moved up beside me.

I stepped on Mike’s foot and kept my gaze trained on Paul.
“Your aunt said you might be able to take us by Kilkarten today.”

Paul looked back and forth between Mike and me. “You two a
thing?”

I refused to look at Mike. “No.”

Mike spoke at the same time. “What’s it to you?”

Paul smiled slowly and Mike scowled. Then, focusing all his
attention on me, Paul said, “Right this way.”

Mike caught my arm as we headed out the door, leaning close
enough that his breath brushed my neck. “Watch that guy.”

I shivered, focus stolen by the thrills of attraction running
down my arms. “Why?”

“Because I have two younger sisters, and can spot an asshole a
mile away.”

I shook my head at him and followed Paul out onto the street.
We piled into Paul’s truck, and Mike and I had a brief, silent struggle for the
front seat while Paul headed toward the driver’s side. Mike won.

Paul had to start and stop several times as oblivious
pedestrians wandered into the streets before us. He didn’t speak. Mike didn’t
speak.

So of course I did. “So your aunt says you live in Paris?”

“That’s right.” He looked at me in the rearview mirror. “You
been?”

“No, but it’s on my list. Do you travel a lot, out of
Paris?”

He slowly grinned at me in the mirror. For a moment, he looked
shockingly like his cousin, despite the lack of blood between them, and the
darkness of Paul’s looks compared to Mike’s brightness. He nodded. “A bit.”

I kept babbling. “I’ve never been to Paris but I did a whole
circuit of Eastern Europe—Prague and Istanbul and Croatia...”

A spark of genuine interest lit, and some of the tension
drained from the car. “You ever get to Dubrovnik?”

“I
loved
Dubrovnik.” I turned to
Mike. “It’s this gorgeous walled city with red roofs and these winding
streets—”

Paul interrupted. “Did you walk the walls? See the Old
Town?”

I nodded. “Oh yeah, of course. Did you go out to that
island?”

“With the monastery?”

“Yeah. Okay, listen to this. We met the weirdest old man on the
ferry...”

Mike didn’t seem to like the conversation going on without him.
“We might go to Paris later this summer.”

Paul switched his attention to Mike as though I hadn’t been in
the middle of a sentence. “You and her?”

Mike shrugged non-committedly.

Please. Though if Mike’s family invited me to go to France, I’d
have a hard time resisting. Think of all the croissants!

Still, I didn’t really appreciate Mike using me as a chew toy
to make Paul jealous.

I looked back at Paul. “Are you from Dundoran originally?”

“From Dublin. Came down to take care of my aunt since my mum
couldn’t get away from work and I have the summer off.” His accent was gentle
and lulling. “Came for the funeral and everything too.”

My hands twisted in my lap. In front of me, I caught a quarter
of Mike’s profile as he looked toward Paul. A muscle pulsed in his cheek. “Look,
man, I don’t know what your problem with me is. Did you want Kilkarten to be
left to you?”

Paul scoffed. “What do I want with a heap of grass? Not like
there’s anything interesting there.”

I leaned forward. “I beg to differ. There’s a whole freaking
harbor.”

Paul glanced back. “Sorry, love. Forgot about that.”

My lips twitched at the endearment. Mike let out an unimpressed
hmph
.

The ride to Kilkarten had taken us out of the village and
through rolling hills. The sun glided over the land, picking out a dozen shades
of green, so many that I found my brain stunted by color and the inability to
think of anything new to say. We passed a turnoff for someone else’s farm and a
few sheep watched us go. A handful of miles later Paul took another turnoff, and
the road rambled upward before leveling out. Green and blue stretched out before
us, the water a flat line in the distance.

Paul threw the truck into park in a dirt lot next to the dead
remains of a building. Ah, the O’Connor farmhouse, burned years ago when Patrick
and Mike’s father were boys. “Here we are. Good old Kilkarten.”

A chill of anticipation swept through me, and I fumbled for the
door and fell out of the car.

The air caught in my chest. This land was
everything.
Ivernis’s past, my future, Jeremy’s redemption. My eyes
scanned as far as I could see, and I knelt and threaded my fingers through the
grass. Here had been dark blue water. A calm bay; a drastic change from outside
the cove, from the great Atlantic waves crashing against the shore, whipped by
frenzied winds into white foam and spray. Here—right here—the water had only
rippled, surrounded on three sides by land. Small ships sailed from Ireland to
Britain. Traded for iron, introduced a whole age. Beneath me could be the
skeletons of ancient curraghs. Buried in the harbor’s mulch could be coins
fallen overboard, from Rome—even Greece—there could be
anything
fallen over. There could be a whole story buried here just
waiting to be read.

I sucked in a deep breath and stood, searching for Mike,
wanting more than anything in that instant for him to share my happiness. I
thought that he, out of all the people in the world, would also be able to feel
how wonderful this place was. I jogged to his side. “Mike, isn’t it
fantastic?”

He didn’t seem to hear. Standing like that, with his spine
straight and his gaze distant, he looked just like the lord of the land,
surveying his kingdom.

Because, of course, he did understand how special this place
was. He owned it. As far as he could see, until the quiet strip of blue, this
land was his.

To cover my disquiet, I kicked off my flip-flops. “Race you to
the ocean.”

He blinked, and his attention shifted back to me. “What?”

I took off. It must have been two miles until the sea, but it
slipped away beneath my bare feet in a blur of grass and sky and the occasional
impressionistic blur of flowers. I glanced behind and saw Mike gaining. His legs
were longer than mine, and he had to be just as used to running as I was. Arms
pumping in a steady rhythm, he caught up, and then passed. I summoned a burst of
energy and ran flat out after him.

We went up a small hill, a gentle roll that disappeared under
our long strides, and I almost lost my breath at the top. It slanted down
steeply on this side, falling ten feet into a narrow strip of hard sand.

Mike turned with a grin. His chest rose and fell. “I win.”

I ignored him, dropping to a dangling seat on the edge of the
small cliff, twisting my body so my arms were braced against the grass while my
feet found small crevices in the stone. “What are you doing?” Mike demanded,
grabbing for one of my arms, alarm passing over his face.

I tugged my arm away and beamed at him. “You only win once your
feet are in the water. Rule of the beach.” I launched backward.

Exhilaration jolted through me as I fell, my stomach swooping
out, Mike cursing above me. I landed with bent knees, stumbling as the pressure
rushed through my bones. Mike, yelping, followed, but I splashed into the ocean
before him, letting out a scream as the cold water hit my calves.

Mike landed beside me, hopping up and down in an unsuccessful
attempt to keep out of the cold. I kicked water at him and splashes spotted his
shorts. Outraged, he splashed back, and then leaned down and cupped a small wave
my way in retaliation. I danced back. But the sea floor deepened and I stumbled,
wheeling my arms as I tried to stop from falling into the freezing water.

And then Mike’s arm wrapped around me and hauled me forward
until I pressed against his chest. My hands automatically wrapped around his
biceps for balance, my face nestling into his throat. He smelled like salt and
earth and I could feel his heart beating against mine. My feet and calves were
numb, but the rest of me flushed with heat and headiness.

Heart pounding, I leaned my head back. The bright blue sky
surrounded his head, his hair bright red in the afternoon sun, his face
shadowed. His body breathed in and out with mine, each breath pushing me close
against him. His arms dropped down to encircle the small of my back, and my
hands slid up over his shoulders almost of their own accord. If I pulled up just
the smallest bit, if I pushed up on my toes...

I kissed him.

His mouth moved against mine with the ease of long familiarity,
as though we’d been kissing for years, as though this was a kiss that had been
and would always be part of who we were. I could have stayed there forever, with
the wind, the waves, the sun, Mike’s lips moving against mine.

But something caught my attention, some flicker of movement or
color on the shore, and I looked over. Paul stood on the small cliff, watching
us with crossed arms.