Page 21 of Against Ebony Irish Seas

Bets gave a sigh. “Wait for it.”

“Most Irish men, myself included, would only wear that kind of coat to a funeral,” Eoghan finished.

“So he buries people daily?” Linc drawled.

Jamie and a few others coughed out laughs before Donal said, “What my dad is trying to convey is that Malcolm thinks he’s better than other people.”

“He puts on airs,” Nicola said, “and yes, he probably does bury people every day. I’ve heard business owners in his town only thrive on his say-so. If you don’t go along with him or do what he wants, your business starts to experience problems, permits being one of them.”

“Malcolm Coveney considers himself the informal Minister of Rural Development of Ireland,” Carrick added.

“So he’s like the man behind yer man,” Linc said, tapping his fingers on the table.

“Exactly right,” Jamie threw in. “He’s also a big one for parish pump politics.”

“What we’d call the local yokel kind of politics in the States, Linc,” Bets said with a fake smile. “Where things are decided by handouts.”

“So he wants a payoff?” Linc asked. “I looked him up last night, of course, after the party, and he doesn’t have any interests that would directly compete with what we’re doing. Not that that always matters in these cases.”

“We flew up the tree, so to speak, with the new funding for the arts center.” Donal sipped his coffee. “Before we were just a little arts center in tiny Caisleán. Now we’re about to have a swanky museum designed by a world-renowned architect—”

“And a classy hotel, which he does build with serious investors.” Carrick steepled his hands. “So, we’re on the map in a big way. Is there a reason you didn’t ask the nonvoting members of the board to this meeting, Linc?”

He bit off a piece of lemon bread. “What do you think? Bets and I talked about it, but now I’m wondering whether we can trust them. If Malcolm Coveney is a king maker, it’s likely some of them may be working with him, right?”

“Perhaps,” Eoghan said. “Most Irishmen like to hedge their bets. This isn’t going to be an easy fight.”

“Except we don’t know what he wants yet,” Donal said, looking around the room. “All we know is he didn’t want Linc to keep his mobile home.”

“Or he didn’t want Sophie here,” Linc answered, his round face suddenly tense. “With her status in the art community, she instantly became our poster child. She’s raised our profile internationally. No offense to anyone, but she has the power to bring more renowned artists to the center. I’m this close to getting Hans Shumaker to agree to come next year to paint something for the new museum.”

“And he’s considered a modern Picasso with his giant canvases, I’ve read,” Jamie said, having read up on the man Linc was courting.

Eoghan breathed out, “Itwouldbe a big coup. His work hangs in the Smithsonian. The Met. The MoMa.”

Linc nodded crisply. “But the news isn’t to be shared until it’s a sure thing.”

Jamie broke off a piece of his cake. “I wonder if the news will help or make things worse, should he agree.”

Bets made a face. “I’m tired of worrying about making things worse. We’ve worked hard to get this arts center where it is. Now the jackals want to come out and eat. I’m sick of it.”

Linc patted her hand. “Agreed. So how do you handle king makers like Malcolm Coveney in Ireland? And moreover, why is Mary Kincaid talking to him?”

Donal kicked out his feet and scratched his jaw. “You have it on good authority Mary’s involved?”

Jamie wasn’t sure whether he should add anything to this particular thread.

Linc glanced at Bets and then nodded. “The best. Sorcha told me.”

Well, they were going to go there apparently. Jamie leaned forward. “We’ll need to stand up with Sophie.”

All eyes turned his way, and he fought to control the color rising in his face.

“She’s just arrived and wants to expand her art,” he said, looking around the room. “If Malcolm is trying to get her to leave, we’ll need to work harder to protect her. She said she’s willing to fight, if need be. Personally, I hope it won’t come to that. It’s not fair to put our artists on the front line—even if some of them are used to it.”

The story she’d told about the rotten eggs came to his mind. He still couldn’t wrap his head around that. How could anyone do such a thing? Especially to a child?

“We’ve had our artists come under fire before, and I hate it as much as the rest of you,” Linc said, glowering. “But, honestly, this kind of friction will only make Hans want to join us more. Some artists like butting their heads against the man, so to speak.”

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