The Angel. Carla Neggers
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a wonderful story.”
Patsy smiled suddenly, her eyes lighting up. “Irish brothers, an angel and fairies. All the best stories have fairies, don’t you think?”
“I love stories with fairies.”
With Keira at her side, Patsy ate her strawberry and moved from artwork to artwork, as if she were in a museum, gasping when she came to Keira’s two paintings. “Oh, Keira. My dear Keira. Your paintings are even more incredible in real life.” She paused, clearly overcome by emotion. “This is the Ireland I remember.”
Whether it was an accurate statement or one colored by time and sentiment, Keira appreciated Patsy’s response. “It means a lot to me that you like my work.”
When Patsy finished her tour of the drawing room, she took another chocolate-covered strawberry and started for the foyer. “Can I see you back home?” Keira asked.
Patsy shook her head. “My parish priest drove me. Father Palermo. Like the city in Sicily. He couldn’t find a parking space, so he’s driving around until I finish up. Did you know that my church is named after Saint Ita?”
Keira smiled. “The Irish saint in your story.”
“It’s strange how life works sometimes, isn’t it?” They walked outside together. A simple black sedan waited at the curb. A handsome, dark-haired man in a priest’s black suit and white clerical collar got out and looked across the car’s shiny roof. “Are you ready, Mrs. McCarthy, or shall I drive around the Common one more time? I don’t want to rush you.”
“I’m all set. This is the artist I told you about, Father. Keira Sullivan.”
“Ah. Miss Sullivan. I’ve heard so much about you.”
Keira couldn’t read his tone, but Patsy added politely, “Keira, I’d like you to meet Father Michael Palermo.”
He tilted his head back slightly, as if appraising her. “Mrs. McCarthy tells me you’re collecting stories from twentieth-century Irish immigrants.”
“That’s right. She’s been very generous with her time.”
Patsy waved a hand in dismissal. “I’m just an old woman with an ear for a good story.”
Father Palermo kept his gaze on Keira. “Your mother grew up a couple doors down from Mrs. McCarthy.”
“Two,” Keira said without elaboration. “A pleasure to meet you, Father.”
“Likewise.”
He climbed back in behind the wheel, and Patsy got into the passenger seat and smiled at Keira. “Give my love to Ireland,” she said with a wink.
After they left, Keira lingered on the sidewalk. The wind had picked up, but after the heat and humidity of recent days, she appreciated the drier conditions that came with the gusts. The puddles that had formed in dips in the sidewalk would be dry by morning.
“So you’re off to Ireland in search of angels and fairies.” Simon Cahill grinned at her as he leaned against the black iron railing to the steps of the Garrison house. “Do you believe in fairies?”
“That’s not what’s important in my work.”
“Ah, I see. That’s a dodge, but whatever. Keira, right?”
“That’s right—and you’re Simon. Owen’s friend. I didn’t realize you were still here.”
“I have to pay for my painting.”
“Your painting?”
“Your watercolor of the Irish cottage. I couldn’t resist.”
“You bid on my painting? Why?”
He shrugged. “Why not?”
Keira didn’t answer. He was obviously a man who could charm his way into or out of anything. And he made her uncomfortable—no, not uncomfortable…self-conscious. Aware. Maybe it was because he was the first person she’d spotted when she’d arrived from the Public Garden. Some kind of weird imprinting that was inevitable, unavoidable.
Finally, she said, “You don’t care about a painting of an Irish cottage.”
“I care. I just didn’t bid on it for myself. Abigail wanted it, but she was going to lose out. I decided it’d be a nice wedding present for her and Owen. He’ll like it because she likes it.” The corners of Simon’s mouth twitched with amusement. “Don’t frown. He thinks you’re good, too.”
Not only, Keira thought, was Simon dangerously charming, but he was also observant. And frank. “Thank you for bidding on the painting. The proceeds from the auction will be put to good use. You’re not from around here, are you?”
“Not really.”
“Then where do you live?”
“Direct, aren’t you? I have a boat. It’s at a pier in East Boston at the moment, but it’s only been there since yesterday. Before that, it was in Maine. I met Owen and some other Fast Rescue people at his place on Mount Desert Island after our mission to Armenia.”
Keira had read about the devastating earthquake. “That must have been tough.”
“It was.” He didn’t elaborate. “I was in London when it happened. I go back tomorrow.”
“What’s in London?”
“The queen. Castles. Good restaurants.”
The man had an appealing sense of humor, and, in spite of the tension of the past few hours, Keira felt herself relaxing. “Very funny. I meant what’s in London for you?”
“I’m visiting a friend. What about Ireland? What’s there for you, besides angels and fairies?”
Answers, she thought, but she shrugged. “I guess I’ll find out.”
His eyes narrowed on her, and she noticed they were a vivid, rich shade of green. “Up for a bit of adventure, are you?”
“I suppose I am.”
“Have a good trip, then.”
He ambled off down Beacon Street. When she returned to the drawing room, Keira checked with Colm. “How much did my cottage painting go for?”
“Ten thousand.”
She couldn’t hide her surprise. “Dollars?”
“Yes, dollars, Keira. It was four times the highest bid. Simon Cahill bought it. Do you know him?”
“No, I just met him tonight. What about you?”
“I talked with him for all of thirty seconds. Well, he must want to support the conference.”
“He must. I’m grateful for his generosity.”
“As am I,” Colm said.
Keira said good-night and headed for the stairs up to her apartment, amazed at how Simon had managed to get under her skin in such a short time.
It had to be because of the intensity of the past few hours. What on earth did they have in common?
She’d be back to normal by morning, finishing up her packing and heading to the airport by evening. At least she wasn’t going to Ireland by way of London; there was no risk they’d be sitting next to each other on the same flight.
It was a long way across the Atlantic.
Chapter 5
Boston Public Garden
Boston, Massachusetts
10:00 p.m., EDT
June 17
Abigail Browning paced on the sidewalk along the edge of the man-made pond