Page 11 of What Love Can Do

Quinn shouldn’t have been surprised to hear that Lilly Parker’s family owned a vineyard and winery. After all, it seemed to be the primary industry in this area, and everyone in Forestville was probably tied to one somehow. But he was surprised. Maybe because she’d been sorting muffins and serving tea back at Russian River House, or because her hair had been up in a messy bun, or because her mother had talked to her like she was some sloppy waitress working the lower ranks of the kitchen, but something—the shy way she’d carried herself probably—had told him she was just an old-fashioned working class girl.

“You have a widespread operation ‘round these parts, do you?” Quinn tried not to feel awestruck by Lilly’s presence. After all, running a vineyard and winery couldn’t be all too different from owning a family restaurant, could it?

“Widespread? Well, we’re not the largest winery in the area. That would be the Phillips and the Enderman’s place west of here. But we’re a decent size. We produce around fifty-thousand cases a year.”

“Impressive!” Quinn said like he knew anything about how fifty-thousand cases compared to other wineries.

“The Phillips’ place produces over a hundred-fifty thousand,” she clarified. “You could say they’re a big competitor.”

Quinn loved listening to Lilly talk on about all the different types of wine they produced, how their winery may have been smaller than the Phillips’, but their fields were richer, their grapes more flavorful, and their hospitality warmer.

“Can’t argue with that,” he said, smiling at her. He liked how Lilly had taken them under her wing. How, once she’d walked out of the bed-and-breakfast, a transformation seemed to take place. Like she could be herself again, like air had found its way into her lungs, like the distance between her and her mother had given her back some lost confidence. Like she’d come alive. He liked when she showed them the vines, where the grapes were crushed, when she was explaining how Syrah and Shiraz tended to be full-boded, bold wines with notes of pepper and dark fruit flavors like blackberries, and how Europeans usually labeled them Syrah while Australians labeled them Shiraz.

Things he’d never cared about before but knew now because Lilly had explained them so well in her pretty flute-y voice he could listen to all day long. Of course, he also loved her baked breakfast goods. He almost hadn’t wanted to rave too much about them out of fear that the attention would go to her head, but Jesus, Mary, and Joseph—those things were fierce!

After leaving the vineyard, they walked around town a bit, and she showed them a flower market, pointed to a couple more wineries from the road, and the Russian River itself. But then a series of texts rang in, and she claimed she had to get back to the bed-and-breakfast, also family owned and operated, more her mother’s baby, while the winery remained her grandparents’ domain. They headed back.

“Thank you for the tour, Miss Parker.” Quinn took her hand and kissed the top of it gently. The gesture made her blush underneath her pale white skin, and once again he took pleasure watching her squirm. Lord, he was having trouble shaking fantasies of her squirming—in bed, beneath him, on top of him, around him…

“The pleasure was all mine, gentlemen,” she said, pulling her hand back until it was in her pocket. Crystal blue eyes actually twinkled with girlish pride. “Con, I think your brother has the lead now with the way of women.” She chuckled.

“Ah, he’s banjaxed,” Con said, patting his brother on the back.

“Whatever that means. I’m going to have to buy myself an English-Irish dictionary to be around you two,” Lilly said, heading up the steps. “The Irish pubs are on the east side. Bookstore down the street, and grocery store around the corner. Need me to drive you?”

“Nah, we have ourselves a car. It’s parked around the side. Thanks, we’ll see you later tonight? Maybe? Hopefully?” Quinn smiled at her one last time, soaking in her classic form before she closed the door. Then, he let out a huge breath and ran a hand through his hair. “Whew. She’s a fine thing, that one.”

“I saw her first,” Con said.

“Feck off. You did not.” Quinn wouldn’t let Conor’s playing paws anywhere near Lilly, if he could help it.

They headed to the car park, boots crunching over gravel. “Why do you think she doesn’t like the Phillips Family?” Con asked. “You think it’s a winery rivalry thing?”

“Of course. Years of family feuding, like us and the Calhouns.” Quinn recalled the Calhoun Family of Salty Dog fame, the American Bar & Grill across the street from The Cranky Yankee in Dublin. Even though there was more than enough business to go around, their families were always at odds with each other. When the Yankee was damaged in the fire, and their dad subsequently died, the Calhouns reached out to help, but Quinn could almost sense a smarmy happiness about it. “Either way, if she doesn’t like the Phillipses, then she won’t like us either, so we can’t tell her we’re related. Got it?”

Con looked at him sideways and shook his head. “Not so sure that’s the best way to approach things, brother, but she’s your gal.”

“My gal? I never said she was my gal.” And don’t you forget it, wee one.

“Well, you could have fooled me with that kiss atop her hand.” Con buttoned up his jacket. It had gotten a few degrees colder now that the sun had gone down.

“It’s called chivalry, you maggot, something you wouldn’t know anything about.” Quinn opened the automobile door and slid in, reminding himself that he needed to drive on the right side of the road, make right turns on the right, left turns on the left, and everything would be fine.

“Chivalry is fakery, Quinn.” Con slid into his seat and closed the door. “I’d much rather be up front and real in telling a bird she’s got great knockers than lying to her about why we’re here. Just tell her. There’s nothing dishonorable about it. You’re learning about mam’s place of birth.”

“I will if I have to. Can I just sense her out first? Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, I like to know people before I tell them things, not like you who barely says hullo before you snog ‘em. Let’s get going.” He started the ignition and headed off cautiously toward the east side of Forestville, hoping not to crash into anything and still find a place called Mulligan’s Tavern by the time they arrived.

East Forestville boasted a bookshop named Quill’s, a couple drugstores opposite each other, a park where teens all sat around laughing or skateboarding, and a Catholic church right across the street. It only took five minutes to get there, and by the time they were almost out the other end, they finally found where the action was.

Not Mulligan’s.

From the tales their dad used to tell them, Quinn had imagined a wonderful, bustling pub off River Road where the craic never ended and it was always a jolly time, but what they found instead when they arrived was a desolate old building with faded shingled tiles, a broken neon sign, and two old cars parked in a car park made for fifty.

What was worse was that across the road was another, more lively pub called The Cat’s Meow where the music blasted strong, half the town was singing, and the craic was strong. “Let’s go for a pint over there, eh?” Con said, eyeing the more lively spot.

“Con, The Cat’s Meow was not where mam and dad met, you dope. We’re going to Mulligan’s.” Quinn gave the dismal old building another once-over and shuddered. If, after a quick visit, they didn’t find their father’s college buddy, Paul Brennan, then they would cross the street and get bolloxed at The Cat.

“I was afraid you’d say that.”

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