Briarwood Cottage Page 2

  He was considering doing exactly that when the boarding announcement for the Shannon flight came over the loudspeaker.

  Reminding himself that his impulsiveness hadn’t exactly won him points in his short-lived marriage, nor in that Midtown bar, and since there was no way he was going to waste time talking to crazy people who’d supposedly seen some imaginary lake creature, Duncan decided he might as well use his four weeks in the Emerald Isle to plan the mission to win back his runaway bride.

  2

  Shelter Bay, Oregon

  Apparently Oregonians hadn’t received the memo that most people—at least most normal people—didn’t go to the beach on chilly, foggy days. Cassandra had come here to be alone, to attempt to quiet the mental clatter in her mind and savor the smallest of things while they lasted. Such as the iridescent bubbles shimmering in sea foam washing up on the sand, the skittering of sandpipers along the water’s edge, and the feel of the salt-scented breeze on her face.

  There’d been a time, not so long ago, when she’d been so lost in the shadowed corners of her mind that she never would have been able to share the early-morning beach with runners, beachcombers, surfers, and even a group of young men practicing kite-flying stunts for the town’s annual festival this upcoming weekend. A time when Cassandra’s heart had been so consumed with pain there’d been no room for any other emotion.

  But as she watched the crayon-bright colors of the soaring, dancing, diving kites providing a vivid contrast to the quilted gray sky, she felt as if they were lifting her spirits up with them.

  Until a surfer clad in a skintight black wetsuit strode out of the water, his board beneath his arm. With his long blond hair and thin, seal-sleek body, the young man was the physical opposite of Duncan McCaragh, yet he nevertheless brought back a bittersweet memory of surfing beneath a full moon on County Donegal’s Bundoran Beach.

  Although she’d insisted he was living up to his Mad Dog name by even considering surfing in Ireland in the winter, Duncan had assured her that Irish waves were the best in winter. A declaration with which all the wet-suited people who’d shown up at Ireland’s surf capital appeared to agree.

  Using his considerable charm, he’d coaxed her into renting a board and clothing at one of the local shops. Having never surfed, Cassandra wouldn’t have managed to stand up had it not been for Duncan’s strong arms around her body, holding her up. Which had been no hardship.

  Afterwards, they’d driven over the mountains to the west, where they’d spent ten idyllic days and romantic nights in a pretty little whitewashed, thatched-roof cottage before they were jerked back to reality and flew off in different directions. Duncan to Syria. Cassandra to Egypt.

  Where everything had gone so terribly wrong.

  At one time, just thinking about her estranged husband would bring on a surge of lust. Now, guilt, that other nagging emotion, descended, as cold and thick as the fog swirling in from the sea as Cassandra made her way back toward the cliff steps.

  She’d nearly reached the steps when two little girls and a boy dressed in bright jackets came racing down. The boy had a dachshund on a leash.

  The children’s parents—the mother carrying a small, insulated cooler, the father laden down with folding chairs—had fallen behind. From midway up the cliff, they called out warnings for the kids to be careful. And wasn’t that what every parent wanted for their children?

  The happy, carefree family should have lifted Cassandra’s spirits. There’d been a time when it would have. But she’d discovered over these past months that grief and guilt could came in waves just when you weren’t expecting it. Like now, as memories crashed back, flooding over her like a tsunami. The children’s laughter, as bright and cheerful as the kites flying overhead, caused her chest to tighten even as her heart galloped wildly.

  Breathe.

  Not sure her legs would hold her and unwilling to risk humiliating herself by publicly passing out, she sank down onto a driftwood log and pressed her hand against her galloping heart.

  The parents paused as they passed. “Are you all right?” the woman asked solicitously.

  “I’m fine,” Cassandra lied through lips that had gone as dry as the sand beneath her feet. Breathe. She forced a smile that felt more like a grimace. “I guess I’m just out of shape. I walked too far down the beach, forgetting that I’d have to walk back.”

  “I’ve done that,” the woman, who looked as if she did yoga during the day and Pilates in her sleep, answered with a friendly smile. “Of course, keeping after those three wild ones builds stamina. Which I’m going to need in spades this fall when the latest member of the brood arrives.”

  She absently patted the visible baby bump beneath her lightweight jacket as she glanced toward her brood. The girls had wasted no time in beginning a sand castle while the boy raced along the hard-packed sand at the surf line with the dog. “Well, have a good rest of your day,” she said.

  “Thanks. You, too.”

  Standing up, Cassandra made her way slowly up the steps, holding on to the railing with sweaty hands to steady herself. When she finally reached the car, she leaned back against the headrest and closed her eyes.

  *

  Twenty minutes later, having nearly rid her mind of the ceaseless circling of what-ifs, Cassandra was approaching the bridge crossing the harbor into Shelter Bay when the radio’s top-of-the-hour newscast led with her husband’s name.

  Expecting the worst, her heart, which had leaped into her throat, settled back down again when she learned that he hadn’t been killed or injured in some godforsaken war zone. But instead had been involved in a drunken brawl in New York City.

  During Fleet Week? Her Duncan?

  No, Cassandra reminded herself. He wasn’t hers anymore.

  Despite the stubborn man’s continued refusal to sign the divorce papers she’d sent him and that money that kept appearing every month in her bank account, their marriage was over.

  Needing to know more, she pulled the car over to the side of the road, took out her phone, and Googled his name. Unsurprising, more than eleven million results popped up in twenty-five seconds.

  After reading a half-dozen articles all claiming that he’d been banished by his news organization to Ireland, of all places, she clicked out of the search. She didn’t want to think about her husband.

  At. All.

  And wasn’t that easier said than done? Was it possible that this time the gossip columnists and the Twitterverse, not known for diligent fact checking, had gotten it right? Had Duncan truly been publicly drunk? And brawling?

  They may not have spent that much time together during their brief marriage, but one thing Cassandra had always admired was her husband’s ability to avoid unnecessary altercations. He’d told her that when your job required dealing with terrorists, dictators, and corrupt government officials, it was only prudent not to make unnecessary enemies.

  Not that she hadn’t witnessed a sustained intensity switch he was able to turn on at a moment’s notice. And while he’d kept it tightly controlled, it wasn’t anything anyone would want to have turned against them.

  Her husband was as famous for his charm as he was that tightly leashed emotion. Also, having a socialite mother who was a closeted alcoholic had kept him careful about his drinking.

  So, how had he ended up in a drunken brawl? With sailors?

  Tucking the phone back into her bag, she continued driving across the bay to her cousin’s apartment over Take the Cake Bakery.

  “How was your walk?” Sedona Sullivan was sitting at her kitchen computer going through yet another series of spreadsheets. Cassandra suspected she was one of very few bakers who did profit and loss analyses before deciding whether to add scones to her menu. Which was even more ironic given that her cousin had grown up on a commune.

  “It was relaxing.” Until that out-of-the-blue panic attack.

  “I’m glad to hear that.” Sedona glanced up from the screen. “So why are you as pale as driftwood?
”

  “I had a flashback,” Cassandra admitted. “From what Dr. Fletcher would call a trigger. But it didn’t last long.”

  “You were told it would take a while.”

  “I know. And I’ve read enough studies on PTSD to know it’s unrealistic of me to expect a miracle cure. But it’s getting better.” At least she no longer felt as if she were viewing the world through a cracked, fogged-up lens. “Thanks to you for having given me this place to hide out.”

  “To reboot,” Sedona suggested gently. “You’re doing so much better than when you first arrived, Cass. You seemed to be having a good time at Bon Temps the other night.”

  “I was.”

  When Sedona had first rescued her from the dark cave that had become her life, Cassandra had spent the flight from New York to Portland bundled in blankets with a sleeping mask over her eyes to avoid having to speak to anyone.

  Gradually, over these past weeks, her cousin had introduced her to various women friends gradually, one at a time, until she’d finally been able to join the group for dinner at the local Cajun restaurant and dance hall.

  Although she hadn’t danced, she had joined in the lively girl conversation and enjoyed her spicy shrimp jambalaya. Which was another change. When she’d first arrived, all her senses had been so numb she’d been existing mostly on a watery chicken soup delivered from the corner deli takeout. What was the point in eating when nothing had any flavor?

  Of course, living with a baker who’d actually won ten thousand dollars on Cupcake Wars had helped her appetite to return. As had her more recent daily exercise. She’d been doing so well. Until that moment at the beach steps when everything had come crashing back…

  Give it time, she repeated her therapist’s advice. Concentrate on how far you’ve come.

  “I had a thought driving back from the beach,” she said.

  “Oh?”

  “As much as being together again has been like old times, I decided that I’ve taken advantage of your hospitality long enough,” she said.

  “You’re leaving? Where to?”

  “Ireland.” She shared what she’d heard on the radio and read online.

  “From what you’ve told me about Duncan, that doesn’t sound like him at all.”

  “No. It doesn’t. But on the drive back from the beach, I decided I’ve been living in limbo too long and I’ll never be able to entirely move on if I don’t deal with my marriage.” Or lack of one.

  “I think that’s a great idea.” Even as she voiced her enthusiasm, Sedona appeared uncharacteristically uncomfortable. “There’s something you should know before you go,” she said. “Something I’ve been holding back about the reason I showed up in New York in the first place.”

  “You said you’d wanted to look at the new spring fashions on Fifth Avenue and see the daffodils in Central Park’s Conservatory Garden.”

  “I did say that.” She sighed. “But the real reason I came when I did was because Duncan called me.”

  “Duncan called? When?” And wasn’t this just a day of surprises?

  Though, Cassandra belatedly realized, Sedona never had gone shopping. Nor, as far as she knew, to the park.

  “The day he left the apartment. He said you were adamant about him leaving and was afraid that if he refused, you two would get into a big argument, which would only add to the stress and pain you were already dealing with. But he didn’t want you to be alone, so he asked me to come to New York and stay with you. Or better yet, bring you back here.”

  “You lied to me?”

  Cassandra belatedly realized that Sedona’s timing had been too coincidental and her behavior too spontaneous for a former accountant who, if she had a flaw, it was that she tended to over-analyze everything.

  “There’s something else.”

  “I’m almost afraid to ask.”

  “He’s called every week since then. The only time he missed was last month when he was deep in Taliban country and couldn’t pick up a cell signal. He finally ran into a SEAL team and used their satellite phone to check in.”

  “What?” Cassandra was stunned. “How could you have kept that huge a secret for so long?”

  “Believe me, it wasn’t easy. And my only excuse, as weak as it might sound right now, is that when you arrived back to the States from the Middle East, you were so emotionally fragile.”

  Cassandra couldn’t deny that. “I’ve gotten stronger. Yet you still kept your and Duncan’s subterfuge from me.”

  “It wasn’t exactly my choice, but every time I’ve tried to bring his name up, you’ve steadfastly refused to talk about him.”

  Another thing she couldn’t deny. Damn.

  She dragged her hand through her still unfamiliar short hair.

  A few weeks ago, after finally noticing her long, lank, unwashed hair in the mirror, Cass had impulsively whacked away at it with a pair of Sedona’s cooking shears. When her cousin had returned from selling cupcakes, instead of freaking out, she’d calmly called a stylist at the Cut Loose salon, who’d come over to the apartment and rescued the long strands from the bathroom wastebasket.

  “It’s so hard to find virgin hair these days,” the woman, whose own spiky hair was bright fluorescent blue, had said with a warm smile. “You’re going to make the people at Locks of Love very happy.”

  Then she’d gotten busy with her scissors and razor and ten minutes later, looking ever so pleased with herself, she’d declared the new short style a success.

  “You look just like Tinkerbell.”

  Cassandra hadn’t felt like Tinkerbell. Though, the prospect of going to Never Never land and never having to grow up, was admittedly appealing. Unfortunately, she was too late for that. “I want to be angry with you.”

  “I’d be angry and hurt if I were in your place, too,” Sedona said. “If it makes any difference, I’ve felt miserably guilty. But I promise that I haven’t broken any confidences about your life or anything you’ve shared with me. I’ve only reassured him that you’re doing better every day.”

  “In large part because of that therapist you nagged me into seeing,” Cassandra admitted. “Along with working on not blaming myself for what happened, Dr. Fletcher has me trying to live in the minute. And right now I’m going to focus on the fact that I’m fortunate to have a cousin who’s my best friend.”

  Sedona’s eyes glistened. “Ditto.”

  Cassandra blew out a breath. As they shared a hug, she realized how true that was.

  “Okay. So, now that we’re moving on, I’m going to go book a flight,” she said as they separated. “Then pack.”

  “Will you get mad at me if I say one more thing?” Sedona asked.

  “Could I stop you?” Cassandra’s smile took the accusation from her tone.

  “Probably not,” Sedona admitted. “Now that we’ve gotten my confession out of the way, I just want to state, on the record, that I realize people think I’m crazy to have a spreadsheet for men.”

  With boxes for the attributes the man that Sedona would accept to settle down with. Cassandra had seen the first sheet, created back when Sedona was still in high school. Over the years, she’d altered the criteria a bit, but the standards had only become more rigid. Perfection was one thing. Perfectionism was, after all, responsible for both her cousin’s success as a corporate accountant and her insistence on never scrimping on the very best ingredients that had made her bakery extremely profitable.

  But Cassandra had often thought that no mortal man could ever live up to Sedona’s exacting standards.

  “Not crazy,” she hedged now. “Perhaps a bit choosy.”

  “I’ve begun to consider that,” Sedona surprised her by admitting. “Especially after having become locally infamous for my dates from hell while watching friends find happiness with men I wouldn’t have thought they’d connect with…

  “But here’s the thing…if I ever found a man who obviously loved and cared for me the way Duncan obviously does you, I’d do whatever it t
ook, including moving heaven and earth, to get him back.”

  Easy for her to say, Cassandra thought. Sometimes love just wasn’t enough.

  “So.” Sedona put her hand on Cassandra’s arm. “All I’m asking is that you consider not just the past, which was admittedly problematic, but the future you might be throwing away before you close that final door to your marriage.”

  “I won’t do anything rash.” That much Cassandra could agree to, having thought about little else than her and Duncan’s marriage over the past months.

  “I’m so glad to hear that. You deserve to be happy again.” Sedona’s dazzling smile could have lit up all of Shelter Bay for a month of rainy coastal Sundays. “Here’s hoping that famed Irish magic will spin a reconciliation spell for the two of you.”

  “I suppose anything’s possible.”

  Because her cousin looked so pleased with that idea, Cassandra opted against revealing that her reason for going to Castlelough was to hand-deliver their divorce papers. Then she was standing over Duncan until he signed on the dotted line.

  3

  Castlelough, Ireland

  Outside Brennan’s Microbrewery and Pub, rain was falling from a leaden sky. Inside, a turf fire in a large open hearth warmed against the chill. The whiskey bottles behind the bar gleamed in the glow of brass-hooded lamps; the walls were covered in football flags, vintage signs, and old photographs. The stone floor, Duncan learned as he sat at the bar watching Patrick Brennan pull a row of pints for a group of senior citizens who’d gotten off a Lady sightseeing tour bus, went back to 1650.

  “You’re very good at that.” He’d always believed in giving credit where credit was due, and the publican not only brewed the best beer Duncan had ever tasted, he had an artist’s hand when it came to creating a perfect pint.

  “I’ve had enough practice,” Patrick said. “And it’s important to respect the ale.”

  “I imagine that’s even more the case given that you’re the brewer,” Duncan said as his phone chirped.