A Woman's Heart

“He’s trying to say culpable,” Celia broke in with a toss of her head that suggested feminine superiority.

“Culpable?”

“You get reason,” Celia explained. “It means you become responsible. You can’t say you didn’t know any better because by the time you’re in second form, you’re supposed to know the difference between good and evil. So all your sins go against your permanent record.”

“I can see where that might be a worry.” Quinn decided he didn’t ever want to get a look at his permanent record. “But I can’t believe you could have all that many sins,” he assured Rory.

“Everything’s a bloody sin.” Mary spoke up for the first time, her dark kohl-lined eyes flashing. Seeing through the makeup the girl had spread like Spackle on her face, Quinn realized she was going to grow up to be a real beauty. “Everything pleasurable, that is.”

“And what kind of words are those from a girl who’s decided to become a nun?” Fionna demanded.

“I’m not going to be a nun.”

“Yesterday you said you had a vocation,” Rory reminded her.

“That was yesterday. Can’t a girl change her mind?”

“Mary wanted to become a nun because Jack asked Sharon Fitzgerald to the May Dance,” Rory informed Quinn.

“Sounds like Jack’s loss.” Quinn’s complimentary words caused color to flood into the teenage girl’s pale face.

“That’s what I told her,” Fionna said.

“Sharon sleeps around,” Celia volunteered. “Which is why Jack asked her to the dance, instead of our Mary.”

That was all it took to make the teenager burst into tears and run from the room.

“Don’t be minding the girl’s histrionics,” Fionna said matter-of-factly. “She’s at an age, don’t you know.”

“It’s difficult being a teenager,” Quinn agreed. Realizing he was wading once more into murky conversational waters, he was relieved when the kitchen door opened again and an ebony-haired woman accompanied by two children entered the room.

“Good morning, all.” While the greetings the others returned were cheery enough, Quinn thought he detected a sudden tension in the kitchen. Nora, especially, seemed to be studying the newcomer carefully.

“I’m Kate O’Sullivan.” She held out a friendly hand. Her flesh was pale, her grip strong, her smile warm. “And you’d be Quinn Gallagher. And these two are my daughter and my son. I enjoy your books. Even if they are marketed all wrong.”

“Oh?” Just what he needed. Another critic.

If she heard the faint warning note in Quinn’s voice, Kate ignored it. “You don’t write horror of course.”

“I don’t?”

“Surely you know you don’t? You write social commentary. In fact, your stories remind me, in many ways, of Jonathan Swift.”

“I’m flattered.”

“Why should you be when it’s the truth? It doesn’t take a degree in literature to understand that The Lady of the Lake is an allegory about prejudice, the overreach of science and the paranoia that can so easily run rampant in small isolated villages such as our own.”

Quinn laughed, liking her immediately. “The woman’s obviously a genius. So how would you like a job as my Irish publicity rep?”

“I think you’d be in trouble,” she countered. “Being that there’s many in these parts who wouldn’t buy a book just because I recommended it.”

“Aunt Kate’s a witch,” Rory explained.

“A druid witch,” Celia tacked on.

Quinn was amused by the faint challenge that rose in Kate O’Sullivan’s blue eyes at this revelation. “As it happens, I’ve been playing with the idea of writing a witch heroine,” he said mildly. “Perhaps you’ll make time to consult with me while I’m here.”

It was her turn to laugh. “And wouldn’t that start tongues wagging?” Her smile was warm, belying the stereotype of the wicked witch of fairy tales. “Of course I’ll consult with you, Mr. Gallagher, if only to make certain you get it right.”

“There you go again.” Nora smiled with affection at her sister-in-law as she placed a flowered teacup in front of Quinn. “Stirring things up again.”

“The gods gave us all unique talents, Nora. Unfortunately stirring things up seems to be what I seem to do best.” Kate gave a slight sigh, then pulled out a chair across the table from Quinn, picked up her little red-haired daughter Brigid and plunked her on her lap.

Unlike the gregarious Rory Fitzpatrick, Kate O’Sullivan’s son, standing almost behind his mother’s chair, reminded Quinn vaguely of Maeve.

“Hi.” Quinn held out his hand. “My name’s Quinn. What’s yours?”

The boy shot a quick wary look up at his mother.

“Answer the man, darling,” Kate coaxed gently.

“Jamie.” He stared down at the floor. “Jamie O’Sullivan.”

The surname, which he hadn’t paid all that much attention to when Kate O’Sullivan had introduced herself, rang a bell. It was a common enough name in Ireland certainly, but Quinn knew without a single doubt that the bad-tempered, foulmouthed drunk in the pub was this little boy’s father. He also knew that the reason Jamie refused to shake his hand was not so much because he was shy. He was afraid.

And why not? Quinn thought grimly, knowing all too well how painful a man’s big rough hands could be.

He glanced up at Nora and read the regretful answer in her eyes. And in that suspended moment of shared concern for Kate O’Sullivan and her children, Quinn—who’d spent his entire life deftly avoiding involvement—felt as if he’d just taken a fatal misstep into quicksand.

Chapter Six

In Fortune’s Hand

Intending to retrieve his car, Quinn had put on his jacket and was headed for the front door when Brady called to him.

“From the looks of you, you’d be going out somewhere.”

“I thought I’d walk into town.” Quinn entered the book-filled room, which looked out over green rolling pastures and the distant sea beyond. The sun was brighter in this country renowned for rain than Quinn had expected. “I’m going to need my car to get to the shoot at the lake tomorrow.”

“Oh, you can’t be doing that, my boy.” Brady put down the book of Gaelic folktales he was reading on a nearby table. “It’s much too far to be walking. I’d offer to drive you myself, but I’ve a great deal of paperwork to do. The bills don’t pay themselves, don’t you know. And poor Nora, as lovely and sweet as she is, has never had a head for figures.”

He pushed himself from the overstuffed chair and began rummaging around in an old desk, finally locating a green ledger book.

“It’s no problem,” Quinn said. “The walk will do me good.” Especially after the unusually large breakfast he’d shared with Maeve.

“Truly, there’s no need for you to be doing that,” Brady said quickly. “Nora will be more than happy to drive you back into the village to fetch your automobile.”

“I don’t want to disturb her Sunday.”