Page 117 of Beneath Pearly Irish Skies
“You remembered my words to you.” She blew Kade a kiss. “I’ll take them to heart. Thank you, Kade.”
With another smile, the man turned and left him alone—alone!—with Sorcha. She faced him, hands on her hips, all business. “Brady McGrath, I’ve known you since you were a boy with knobby knees. Don’t think you can out talk me as we work together.”
The scent of oranges wove around him, and he gasped. “Your hair! The oranges are from you. But how—”
“Brady, didn’t I just warn about the talking? You’ll stay on point. I might be dead, but I don’t have time to waste with all your chattering.”
“Chattering.” He shot her a look. “But I have questions! You can’t tell me you didn’t expect that.”
“Didn’t I say I knew you? Only, you must keep your questions pertinent. Otherwise, you’ll be asking me everything that pops into that busy mind of yours.”
He gestured to her with another cry. “You’re dead, but I can see you. And there’s wind blowing your dress even though the night is still. Have mercy, Sorcha. A man’s entitled to have questions.”
“No, he’s not.” She narrowed her eyes at him. “You get five. About your woman. I reserve the right not to respond.”
“What is this? Only five questions. That’s hardly—”
“Brady!”
Could she blast him with fire or something? He’d watched ghost movies. Best not to find out. “Fine, what’s her name?”
“A good start,” she said. “Ellie.”
“Ellie.” It rolled around on his tongue like custard as he thought about his next question. “What does she do?”
“Hmm… I thought for sure you’d ask if she was pretty.”
He snorted. “If she’s mine, of course she’s pretty. Don’t be obvious, Sorcha.”
This time she chuckled. “Fair point. She’s a stained glass artist.”
The picture clicked, and he glanced back at the well-lit house. “And she’ll be a new resident at the center named after yourself. I see the way of it. Is she a Yank?”
“She is,” Sorcha said with a smile.
“I like Yanks,” he said, tapping his mouth. He only had two questions left. He had to make them count.
“I told you I don’t have all day.”
Day, night, what did it matter to a ghost? But he couldn’t ask that. Didn’t want to waste his questions. “Don’t be rushing me. All right, I have it. Does she like stories?”
“Because you’re always telling tales?” Sorcha’s long brown hair blew in an otherworldly breeze, something that made his formerly knobby knees knock. “She creates them in her own way. You’re a good match like that, although you tell them differently.”
He would have to muse over that detail later, when he returned to Summercrest Manor and found more whiskey. Jesus, if there were ever a night for it.
“Last question, Brady. Make it good.”
He thought of all the heroes in the Irish myths. Love might have elevated their spirits to heights untold, but it had also usually led to their downfall. Since he’d been a boy reading those myths—everything from Grainne and Diarmuid to Clíodhna and Ciabhan—it had bothered him. They were legendary characters, and he but a simple man. How was he to overcome what they couldn’t? The answer to that riddle had plagued him.
Suddenly it appeared to him, as if written on water.
“Does she have a grand laugh?” he asked, his heart pressing against his chest as if it were leaning forward to hear the answer.
Sorcha’s mouth tipped up at the right before she said, “You lovely man. Is it any wonder I like you so? Yes, Brady, she has a grand laugh. Full and rich like Guinness, yet fiery and smooth like whiskey.”
He sighed, his heart nestling into his warm chest. “Then I’ll be happy to have her and love her all my days. When do we start?”
“That’s the sixth question.” She gave him a cheeky wink. “Oh, this is going to be fun.”
She disappeared before he could persuade her for one more answer.
“Well, hell—” He took a moment to compose himself before strolling back inside, whistling an old Irish love tune he hoped Sorcha might carry on the wind to his beloved.
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