The kitchen was hopelessly outdated, but some of the best clam chowder in New England came out of its dented pots.
By the time she went back through the dining room, Kevin and Andy Donovan were approaching Father Bracken’s table. There was no way to get out of there without passing them. Julianne tried zipping up her jacket to give herself an excuse not to make eye contact, but Kevin said, “Hey, Julianne. Hanging out with Father Bracken?”
She found the knowing note in his voice annoying. It wasn’t as if she were seriously fixated on Father Bracken. Just mildly fixated. “Not really. You boys having lunch? The soup special is a nice butternut squash bisque. You’ll like it.”
“It sounds orange,” Kevin said.
Andy grinned, then settled his dark gray eyes on her. “I didn’t see your car outside. How are you getting home?”
“Walking.”
“It’s about to rain.”
“Good. I like rain.”
She didn’t tell him she was walking because she knew she had a long drive to the airport and then a long flight ahead of her. She got out of there. She didn’t want Andy finding out about her trip until she was safely aboard her Aer Lingus plane. Rock Point had always been home for her, but she’d lived on campus much of the year as an undergraduate and then a graduate student at the University of Maine. Then in August, immersed in her master’s thesis, struggling with finances, she’d moved in with her recently widowed grandmother in Rock Point and had taken on as many hours as she could at Hurley’s. It didn’t matter what time she was working. A Donovan was always there.
Overexposed, she’d weakened, violating her personal Golden Rule never to get involved with a Donovan. When Andy, the rake, the heartbreaker of Rock Point, had stayed after closing one misty September night, she’d let him walk her home.
She’d been lost from the moment he’d brushed his arm against hers.
This, she thought as the cold November air hit her, was why she was going to Ireland. She had to let go of her anger and misery. She had to get Andy Donovan out of her system and find herself again.
* * *
Forty minutes later, Julianne set her purple soft-sided suitcase on the rug in the entry of her grandmother’s small house on a quiet street between St. Patrick’s Church and Colin Donovan’s Craftsman-style house. Her grandmother stood in the living room doorway, her thin arms crossed on her chest in worried anticipation. At seventy-five, Franny Maroney didn’t bother to pretend she wasn’t a worrier. Her hair used to be as thick and golden brown as Julianne’s, but now it was white, carefully curled once a week at the only beauty parlor in Rock Point.
Granny had dug the purple suitcase out of the attic and presented it to her only granddaughter for her trip, telling her in no uncertain terms that every young woman should have her own suitcase. Not that Granny had ever done much traveling herself. Hence, the pristine condition of the fifteen-year-old suitcase.
“Do you have your passport?” she asked for at least the sixth time.
“Yes, Granny.” Julianne patted the tote bag—her own tote bag—that she planned to take on the plane. “It’s right in here.”
“You’re sure? Sometimes I think I’ve put something in my bag and discover later it’s still home on my dresser. I suppose that’s because I’m old.”
It wasn’t because she was old. Her grandmother had been forgetful for as long as Julianne could remember. “It could also be because you always have a million things going on. You’re not one to be idle.”
Granny seemed to like that. “You’ll send me a postcard from Ireland?”
Julianne smiled. “I’ll send one every day.”
“That’s too expensive. One will do. I don’t mind if you email me photos but I’d love to have a real postcard from Ireland.” She lowered her arms and frowned, her eyes a true blue, unlike Julianne’s gold-flecked hazel. “Do you have a plan for emergencies?”
“I do, Granny.”
It amounted to taking care not to max out her credit card and calling the Irish police if she had an accident or got into trouble, but Julianne didn’t tell her grandmother that. Granny was all about planning for disaster to strike. She’d already warned Julianne about dark fairies. “Not all fairies are good, you know.”
Her grandmother had been telling her as much since she was a tot, reading her bedtime stories about nasty pookas, scary banshees and mischievous leprechauns. Julianne wasn’t inclined to believe in fairies, good or bad. The prospect of a pot of gold at the end of a rainbow or a shrieking banshee warning of imminent death didn’t faze her. She was a marine biologist, not a folklorist.
“Have you told Father Bracken you believe in fairies?”
Granny waved a slender hand. “He’d understand.”
Probably he would, if not just because he was Irish. Church attendance was up at St. Patrick’s since Father Bracken’s arrival in Rock Point. Parishioners insisted they wanted Father Callaghan to return from his yearlong sabbatical, but they were falling in love with their Irish priest. He’d helped Granny get past her anger at God for her husband’s death. Whatever spiritual guidance Finian Bracken had offered, Franny Maroney was back at church and not as depressed and irritable.
Julianne wondered if her crush on Father Bracken was a sin. She would have to find someone else to ask, that was for sure.
She gave her grandmother a quick hug. “You have fun while I’m off to Ireland, okay, Granny?”
“Don’t you worry about me. You just live your life and be happy. I’m fine here on my own.”
“I know you are.”
As Julianne started to grab her suitcase, her grandmother tucked a twenty-dollar bill in her hand. “Buy yourself a Guinness or two while you’re over there.”
Julianne beamed her a smile. “Thanks, Granny. You’re a love.”
“Ireland’s the best place to heal a broken heart.”
Franny Maroney had never stepped foot in her ancestral homeland, either, but Julianne appreciated the sentiment. Everyone in Rock Point knew she had a broken heart, because that’s what Andy Donovan was. A heartbreaker.
She carried her tote bag and suitcase—no wheels—outside and down the front walk to the street. Her brother would be here any minute. Ryan was thirty, the same age as Andy, four years older than she was, and tight with all the Donovans. More proof she’d been dumb to get involved with one of them.
But it wasn’t Ryan’s black truck that pulled in next to her. It was Andy’s rust-colored truck. He had the passenger window rolled down and patted the seat next to him. “Hop in, Jules. I’m driving you to the airport. Ryan can’t make it and I volunteered.”
It was a conspiracy. No doubt in Julianne’s mind, but she had no choice—which Andy would know. She needed to leave now in order to get to Logan Airport the requested three hours ahead of her flight’s departure time. She was following all the rules and guidelines. She’d provided the requested preflight
