Page 63 of Beside Golden Irish Fields
“Something I’d prefer we not—”
“I wanted to thank you for turning me down.”
He fisted his hands at his hips.“What?”
She looked down at her white canvas sneakers before meeting his narrowed gaze. “No one’s ever done that before.”
“Terrific—”
“And it had an incredible effect on my painting,” she continued, rocking on her heels as the scent of oranges touched her nose. “I’ve been able to paint better than I have in years. Of course, realizing my sister was sucking me dry helped. Not that I don’t love her, but—”
“Her continued state of grief brings you down,” he finished for her with a great sigh, his arms going lax.
She went silent a moment. “Sounds like you know what I’m talking about.”
Again, she smelled oranges and wondered where it could be coming from. He had no late supper outside. No orange tree stood in the backyard. Maybe it was one of the flowers? Whatever it was, it was delicious, and she felt the urge to paint it. Art that could fire up senses other than sight was one of the most powerful types in her mind, and it would be a sweet challenge.
“Since you’ve gone quiet again, can I just interrupt this thread and ask you: is there a flower out here that smells like oranges? I want to paint it.”
He flinched, going gray. “You smell oranges?”
She hated seeing that color on him. “Yes, don’t you?”
His muttering and head shaking didn’t portend anything good. He was only getting cross again.
“Never mind.” She could ask Bets later about an orange-scented flower. “You were saying about this weight grief-stricken people have?”
His dark brow rose. “Was I? Want a whiskey, Yank? If you’re staying, we might as well have one.”
He’d drank from her glass before—at the pub—and the memory delighted her as much as his invitation. “I’m glad you’re letting me stay. I’ve…missed you.”
His face went from gray to yellow ochre.
“That’s not easy for me to say.” Her voice was a whisper.
His growl was like the slow burn of a fire. “I’ve missed you too, Angie, andthat’snot easy for me to say either. Let me get the bottle.”
She eyed the circular black wrought iron table and chairs and sat down. His cottage was one story, white like all of them in the countryside, with the old windowpanes and lintels painted the same brick red as his front door.
Their cottage was similar in design, but the terrace and gardens at his place had seen more care. Instead of having a wide-open view as hers did, this place was nestled in trees to protect it from the wind. The hawthorn was flowering, those fragrant white blossoms she loved. When he appeared with a half-empty bottle of Red Breast and two glasses, she smiled. “I like your garden.”
“Sorcha’s doing,” he said, tipping the bottle toward it. “She liked to write her poems out here when the weather was fair.”
“How is the building of your other house coming?” She took her whiskey after he poured it. “A few people from the pub say you’ve been working there more lately. The pub is like the town newspaper. Everybody tells you something about someone else.”
“And Fitzgerald’s Folly is good fodder for the gossips,” he said, taking a drink with a bitter smile.
“People aren’t always kind, but most of them don’t seem purposefully mean either,” she told him, wishing to remove that smile from his face. “I’ve seen your house sitting on the hill, and I can’t imagine the view. I’d love to see it sometime. Maybe I’ll find a view I’d like to paint. A new perspective of the land.” Another waft of the orange scent drifted over her, tantalizing. “Do you really not smell the oranges?”
“Drink your whiskey and forget about the oranges,” he said, nudging her glass closer to the edge of the table with his large hand. “To your health and your paintings. May you become a millionaire from them.”
If her heart had been a kite, it would have launched itself into the blue sky above them. “I can and will drink to that.”
After they both took a sip, she hoisted her glass into the air again.
“To you finishing your house and it being the grandest in the county.”
His mouth tipped up on the right. “Sometimes you surprise me, Yank—Angie. But I thank you. I’ll gladly drink to that.”
