Page 72 of Against Ebony Irish Seas

“I had a friendly spirit tell me today that miracles love company.” He wouldn’t mention Sorcha yet; he’d rather tell the tale on a happier occasion. “I rather liked the sentiment.”

“Who doesn’t like miracles?” She gestured to the heavens. “Probably the same idiots we’re dealing with. Jamie, I’m glad we had tonight. I needed some hope.”

He cupped her face. “We all did. Now come inside and let me love you.”

“That gives me hope too.” She laid her forehead to his. “Our love. The love from our friends. Even the love I felt with my mother today. Maybe your friend is right. Miraclesdolove company.”

He thought of it as he introduced her to Rex and as he locked the door of his own home, a still unfamiliar act.

Seeing her undress in the soft light of his bedroom was also unfamiliar, but it was welcome, and he marveled at how something could be both.

Then he laid her down on the bed and slowly loved her, his very own miracle come to life.

CHAPTERTWENTY

Her mother’s publicist was a whirlwind.

Ghislaine blew into Bets’ front parlor like an Irish gale in her black Chanel suit and matching Louboutin heels. “Sophie,ma petite!” She kissed her Parisian style, on both cheeks. “How are you? I can’t begin to imagine. Your mother has skin like a pet iguana now after all the vitriol she’s experienced, but not you. You’re as sweet as one of those little lambs I saw in those Irish fields we passed on the way here.”

Before Sophie could reply, Ghislaine was striding across the room to Linc and kissing his cheeks as well. “And Linc Buchanan, you were an angel to send your plane for me. Brigitte’s told me all about you, of course. I know you’re a man of action, which is exactly what we need right now.”

Sophie shared a glance with the man of action in question, fighting a smile.

“And Bets!” More face kissing, which Bets didn’t lean into. “May I call you Bets? I think what you’re doing out here is absolutely marvelous. Now let’s talk about what we can do to keep all that expanding, shall we?”

Sophie bit her cheek to keep from smiling. She was used to Ghislaine’s indomitable energy and enthusiasm, but from Bets’ shocked face, she’d been blown over. She cleared her throat. “Ah… Ghislaine? Can we get you some tea?”

“How about a café, darling?” She unlocked the gold clasp of her chic women’s briefcase with aplomb and pulled out a black notebook and a Montblanc pen. “Let me tell you who I have RSVPs for already for the press conference on Friday. So many people in the art community who know you by reputation, Sophie, are completely shocked on your behalf. You’re the least most controversial artist out there—not that there’s anything wrong with that—and this story is sensational for that alone.”

Linc pulled Bets down onto the gold sedan with him and kicked out his heels. “Everyone knows Sophie’s one of the nicest people and artists you’ll ever meet.”

She wanted to crawl under a rock.

“Yes, but noteveryoneknows how nice she is, Linc.” She shot him a clever glance. “But don’t worry. After we get through, they will. I mean, her statue is of a pregnant woman. Yes, naked. But it’s elegant. Refined. No nipples. No—”

“Yes, we know your meaning,” Linc interrupted, clearing his throat. “Can I see your list, Ghislaine?”

She strode across the floor, her heels tapping on the rug, and handed the stapled pages to him. “Things are going to move fast, but from what I understand, you’ll have no trouble keeping up with me. Now, Bets, you know the local scene. I’ll need your help there. I know there are plenty of Irish reporters out there who report with fairness and humanity. And the local people who support Sophie and the center—I’ll want to introduce them to some of the reporters coming into town. I’ve already dispatched one of my favorite reporters fromLe Mondeto meet with Eoghan O’Dwyer after Brigitte told me all about him. Imagine taking up art at the age of ninety-three. He’s an inspiration unto himself. Not mentioning that he’s won over our beloved Sandrine. Anyway, are there others like Mr. O’Dwyer in town?”

“His cousin, Fergus, is in his eighties and doing art too,” Bets said, locking gazes with the woman. “You’re very well informed, Ghislaine.”

“It’s my job, and I do it well.” She smiled, yet remained composed. “Now, let me tell you what else I’m thinking. Then I want to hear from you.”

“Can we take a quick break so I can make you that coffee?” Bets asked, rising. “It won’t be up to Paris standards.”

She laughed, her long blond hair trailing down her shoulders. “Nothing is, darling. Not even in Manhattan, which I adore for other reasons. Sure, let’s take that quick break. Then we’re going to get rolling.”

They already were, Sophie thought, as a knock sounded on the front door. Bets gestured to Linc. “Go and answer while I make us tea and coffee. Tell whoever knocked that I like this new system of ours.”

“What does she mean?” Ghislaine asked as Linc left the room.

“The Irish don’t normally knock when they arrive at someone’s home. They just walk in.”

Her brows shot to her hairline. “Really? But that’s incredible! Talk about trust. We need to mention that to the press. Focus on the trust broken in this tight-knit community.”

Male voices sounded in the hall, and then Linc was coming in with Donal, who pulled up short, stopping mid-sentence.

“Are you all right, Donal?” He looked thunderstruck. Sophie’s heart started racing in near panic. “Is it bad news?”

---