Page 109 of Road Trip
He was dressed exactly as he had been the day she’d met him during her tour on her first day in Ireland: Tarrymore Distillery logo shirt, jeans, and a long leather apron. A grin creased his face and he pulled her into his arms.
“I’m so glad you called. I wasn’t sure you’d ever want to see me again after I was such an arse to you.”
“Therese bullied me into it. To be honest, I was halfway hoping you wouldn’t answer when I called, so I could tell her I’d tried but failed.”
He took her hand and led her over to the tasting room, where he’d opened a bottle of Olde Tarrymore. Two crystal rocks glasses stood on the counter. He’d piled ice cubes into one.
“Have a seat.”
She took the chair he’d pointed to. He poured an inch of whiskey into her glass. She sniffed, sipped, and nodded her approval, then took a longer drink—for courage.
“What’s happened to your face? Did you get in a fistfight?”
“Therese and I were walking home from dinner, and I tripped and fell,” she said, not wanting to go into the details of her narrow escape. “Coincidentally, your brother Luke and Angela happened to be at the same restaurant. He paid our tab without our even knowing it. Please thank him for us, will you?”
“I will. Other than that, have you had a good visit? Accomplished what you set out to do?” He sat opposite her, laser focused on her face.
“It’s been… as you Irish like to say, grand. We mostly did get the answers we’d hoped for, and a lot of that was due to you—arranging for me to meet Jamie. It opened doors we didn’t expect to walk through.”
“Now that does sound mysterious. I take it you found out howthe stolen portrait found its way from the hands of the IRA to an auction house in New York?”
“We did.”
“Then I’m glad. Can you tell me what you discovered? I find I’m now heavily invested in this particular whodunnit. And I’m sure Jamie would like to know too.”
Maeve sipped her whiskey, wondering how much would be safe for her to divulge without betraying Esme Rossington’s confidences.
“Sorry to sound vague, but I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to say more.”
“Did you ever manage to get out and see some sights, in between all your sleuthing?”
“Today we drove to the Dingle Peninsula. It was… awe-inspiring. And we spent nearly our last five euros so my dingbat sister could hold a baby lamb.”
“Ahh, I know exactly the spot where you encountered that. Clive O’Neal has been sitting in that spot with his caravan for as long as I can remember. He must be nearly a hundred years old by now. So you got a cuddle with Meggie, did you?”
“How’d you know its name?”
“They’re always called Meggie.”
“Gotta give him credit for consistency,” Maeve said.
He reached across the counter and put his hand over hers. “How long are we going to do this, talking pleasantries and avoiding the real reason why you called today? And the reason I was so desperately hoping you would?”
She chewed her lower lip, looked down at her hands. They were scraped up from her fall and she needed a manicure.
He tipped her chin with his index finger. “Maeve? If it makes things easier, I’ll go first. I don’t want you to leave. I realize we’ve only known each other a week, and it sounds daft, but I don’t care. I don’t know exactly what this is…” He gestured at her, and then at himself. “But I do know that I don’t want it to end.”
Her throat was so dry she struggled to speak. She didn’t dare look at him.
“Maeve? Say something. Am I out of line?”
She shook her head, still mute. How to tell him she’d already resigned herself to the cold, hard facts. She couldn’t risk letting her fragile heart get shattered again. Liam Grogan was a one-week wonder. Too good to be true. She would pack this time away, the memory of it, tenderly wrap it in tissue and tuck it away like one of Mary Helen’s Belleek teacups, before the cold, hard realities of daylight revealed the inevitable flaws of a doomed relationship.
“I can’t,” she said. “I’ve done the long-distance thing. The late-night phone calls, the texts. I can’t do a FaceTime romance again, Liam. I know from experience that absence actually doesn’t make the heart grow fonder.”
“It doesn’t have to be like that. We’re working on a distribution deal for our whiskey brands that could mean I’d be in the States two or three times a year. Maybe more often. And you could come over here…”
“Two or three times a year—you’d be tied up with business, and either I’d resent you ignoring me or you’d resent me for resenting you. And I’m still unemployed. And basically broke. As soon as I get home and we get my mother’s estate settled, I have to find a job. I had…havea career. I have to be a realist. University-level teaching positions aren’t exactly going to fall in my lap.”
