Page 25 of Against Ebony Irish Seas

Unfortunately, the weather didn’t allow for a sexy date look. She surveyed her black cords and thick red cashmere sweater doubtfully. She was wearing cashmere over cashmere, a first. Heads would roll for this in Paris. But Sophie Giombetti wasn’t in France anymore, was she?

God, all she’d wanted was to look beautiful on her date, for herself as much as Jamie. She pulled off the scarf and frowned at herself in his simple wooden-framed mirror.

“It doesn’t look too bad,” Sandrine mused in French from her perch in the bedroom doorway. “Maybe you wear longer earrings?”

“And have them blow like seesaws from my ears and whack me blue during my date?”

“All you have to do is walk to the car—”

“Run,” she corrected. “And then run to the restaurant’s front door. Like I’m in a steeple chase. On my first date. WithJamie. Oh, why couldn’t the Irish weather gods be nice to me?”

She wasn’t equipped for this. God knows she’d experienced extreme weather while traveling the world—that earthquake in San Francisco, that typhoon in Hong Kong, and even that hurricane in New Orleans. All hell on glass…

But the howling,screamingwind and rain flying sideways? Yes, sideways! She’d never seen anything like it. Add in the bone-chilling cold, and she’d been forced to forsake any thoughts of wearing the cute yellow summer dress with her sexy white ankle-strap platform-heeled sandals she’d picked out after Jamie had left them this morning, bacon still scenting the air.

“You might have to wear your wellingtons, after all, and not the boots,” Sandrine said, fighting a smile. “There are rivers of water running across the yard.”

She flung her hand toward the bay window. “I might as well go out in a trash bag. How does anyone go out in weather like this? I’m already freezing, and I’m wearing the silk underwear you made me bring. Thank you, by the way.”

Her dear friend laughed. “Eoghan likes to talk about how bad the weather is in Ireland. Before I moved here, I thought he might be kissing that Blarney Stone they talk about here.”

“It’s called the gift of the gab. He does have it in spades, doesn’t he?”

In the next room, Greta let out a giggle, followed by Eoghan’s endearing laugh. Warmth surrounded her heart. “I’m being silly, aren’t I?”

“I still remember how much you fussed with your outfit for your very first date when you were sixteen.”

She groaned. “With Elias Shaw, the renowned piccolo player. God! What was I thinking?”

Sandrine came over and framed her face. “Like now, you were being a woman, one who wanted her first evening with her new man to be beautiful. But it will be, my love, because you will be withJamie. Do you remember how poets speak about time stopping?”

She’d never had that feeling before. “I believe I’ve read a few of those.”

“Well, perhaps in Ireland, the rain stops.” Her friend kissed her on both cheeks. “Or you stop hearing it. Now, I think you put the green scarf back on and pull out the wellingtons. You can only do what you can do with your outfit. The rest is in your eyes, Sophie.”

With a final smile, she left her alone. Sandrine was right. She needed to be practical because she wasn’t about to call her date off over something so silly as the weather. Not that she was telling Greta she was going on a date. This was her first since her divorce, and while she expected Jamie to be important to her, she planned on letting things progress before she broached that topic with her daughter. They were only going out for fun to a cool restaurant, she’d told her daughter. And Greta had clapped and said it waswonderful, touching Sophie’s heart. She’d always had a way of knowing things, so it wouldn’t surprise Sophie if she’d guessed part of it—or at least knew that Jamie was to be a special kind of friend.

She heard a door open in the other room, and her heart quickened. Jamie had arrived promptly, which must be an anomaly in these parts because Eoghan laughed and said, “You’re not living on country time tonight, are you, my boy?”

Sophie heard him laugh and decided one of the benefits of the small cottage was hearing conversations in every room. Pulling on her wellies, she went to go see him, excitement surging through her. He was here, and that was all that mattered.

“Hi, Mr. Fitzgerald!” Greta called, to which he bandied back a reply as Sandrine added her greetings.

“I hope it’s not bad luck to open another man’s front door for him,” Eoghan said.

She stopped in the doorway to the bedroom, watching Jamie as he stomped his feet on the dark rug and pulled off his dripping brown cap, still unaware of her. “If anyone would know, it would be you, Eoghan.”

Then he lifted his head, swiped at the water dripping from his face, and grinned at her with so much joy she was sure her heart tilted like a windmill.

“Hi, Jamie,” she said softly.

“Hiya,” he answered in a silky voice that sent chills through her. “Nice night out, isn’t it?”

She couldn’t help but laugh at the absurdity of it all. “An Irish tourism brochure waiting to happen.”

Greta ran over to the window. “It’s terrible outside. Mama says she’s never seen rain go sideways like that.”

Jamie held her gaze as he replied, “We have a lot of Irish words for rain because we have so many kinds. You’ll learn them in school, Greta. There’s the kind of rain we’re having tonight—batharnach—a downpour.”

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