Page 79 of Against Ebony Irish Seas

“It’s Sophie we’re here for.” Jamie took her hand again. “What can we do for you,mo chroí?”

She straightened her shoulders. “Show me to Ghislaine. She’ll keep me busy until showtime.”

“Follow me,” Donal said, jerking his head in the direction she’d gone. “I’ve never seen a more prepared person.”

“Do you want me to go with you or let you be?” Jamie asked Sophie.

“I’m happy for the company,” she said, kissing his cheek. “Did anyone bring any playing cards?”

No one had, and as they walked off, Linc patted his suit pocket. “Why didn’t I think of cards? Oh, look, here’s our first reporter.” A woman in a slick black suit screaming city walked in through the door.

“How can you tell?” Bets asked.

“The newsroom gleam in their eyes,” he said with an audible snort. “Come on, sugar, let’s work our magic.”

Linc had learned a long time ago that the success of any event was predicated on people being happy to be there. Sure, the presentation had to be worth it. But good conversation, good food, and even better coffee helped. They were lucky—Ghislaine knew that, and she’d also put together a very nice thank-you bag for every attendee using high-quality Irish goods.Nice touch, that, he thought.

By the time everyone had taken their seats, Linc was ready to do his official part. Striding to the podium, he gave the crowd his best aw-shucks smile and then froze. Malcolm Coveney was sitting in the last chair in the last row, his leg out in an insolent pose. Bastard must have slipped in. Linc made himself smile again as Malcolm waved his big gold-ringed hand, knowing he’d been sighted.

“Welcome to the Sorcha Fitzgerald Arts Center,” he began with authority, shutting the man out. “I’m Linc Buchanan, new to these parts, as I’m sure most of you know. I’ve been in and around the arts for a long time, starting from the first day my beautiful young daughter took her crayons out and started drawing on one of my window samples from my business. She’s now a rising stained glass artist here at this very arts center. You walked under her gorgeous stained glass window in the entryway, which, as a father, makes me tear up every time.”

It wasn’t hard to beam with pride as he talked about his baby girl, and he could see it was resonating with people. “It was Ellie who had me visiting this wonderful place and community, but it was Betsy O’Hanlon, the original founder of the arts center, who has me staying. Her vision is a special one, as is her story. Ladies and gentlemen, Betsy O’Hanlon.”

He met her at the halfway mark and sent her a smile as he whispered, “Keep looking at the front of the crowd. Malcolm slipped in somehow, but you ignore him, okay?”

Her cheeks flushed. “But how did—”

“Not now, Bets,” he said, nudging her toward the podium.

She nodded crisply and increased her stride as he returned to his seat so he could listen to her presentation.

He’d heard her story many times, and even after the shock of seeing Malcolm, she delivered it like a pro. He never tired of it. By now, he could read between the lines. She’d wanted more for herself and this community. She’d wanted to bring in new people with new ideas and to help people like Eoghan and others discover new aspects of themselves, which she’d accomplished and then some. She’d helped him do the same, and for that, he was a lucky man. Yes, a truly lucky man.

Her voice rang strong throughout her introduction, and by the time she finished, he could see a shift in the crowd’s body language. They were eager for their story. Ghislaine’s chef’s kiss, to Linc’s mind, was the short video message she played after Bets was finished.Take that, you bastard, he thought as he took her hand and gave it a reassuring squeeze.

Moments later, Eoghan’s face appeared on the giant screen, his wrinkles as much a map of happiness as his smile. The older man talked about taking to art, and how it had transformed his life. Growing up in the wilds of Ireland, he said, so far from the big city of Dublin, no one had really talked about art much. In school, they’d learned practical things, no more and no less.

“But to dream…” Eoghan said with a grand sigh. “Well, that’s in our Irish souls. Our dreams are as beautiful as our rainbows and disappear just as fast. Yet they don’t have to. Art helps us capture such things, beautiful things, things we have inside us to express. We Irish have a saying:May the road rise up to meet you.

May the wind be always at your back.

May the sun shine warm upon your face,

The rains fall soft upon your fields,

And, until we meet again,

May God hold you in the palm of His hand.

I now think whoever penned that verse, as it’s not known, must have been a painter, and a painter of landscapes at that.”

Linc watched as smiles covered the faces of many in the crowd, Malcolm not among them, which only made Linc smile more broadly.

“Our center is very special to our village for the reasons I’ve given and so many more,” Eoghan continued, “but there are a few who have no love for dreams or for beauty, and who have no respect for another’s desire to express. I’ll confess, that makes me very sad. I’m nearing my end, and I want to see a better world than the one I entered. Sophie Giombetti makes the world a better place, and I’m proud to introduce her to tell you her story.”

With that, Sophie rose from her chair. Linc was glad she didn’t know Malcolm on sight, but he was relieved Donal had taken up a sentinel position directly behind the man’s chair, poised to stop him should he pull something.

He turned his gaze back to the podium. Sophie looked strong and beautiful and confident, like he’d raised his Ellie to be. He was proud of her, and one look at Jamie told him that he felt the same way.

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