Heron's Cove

Once the brothers disappeared through the outer door, Finian sighed as he corked the Inish Turk Beg. “If you had information that could ease their worry, Emma, would you give it to them? Could you?”

“If I’d heard from Colin, I’d have said so.”

“His story of an intense schedule in Washington has worn thin. I assume the FBI will be in touch with his family if need be.”

Emma felt the whiskey burning in her throat. “The safety of an agent—any agent—is of paramount importance to the FBI. Colin’s brothers know that.”

“But you don’t know where he is, do you?”

The look he gave her told her she didn’t need to answer.

A strong gust of wind whistled, whipped more rain against the windows. The small, protected working harbor was lost in the dense, swirling fog. In September, Emma had gone on a boat ride with Colin, kayaked with him, picked apples with him. Laughed, made love. They had met over the horrific murder of a nun at the Sisters of the Joyful Heart, Emma’s former convent. Until then, she hadn’t realized another FBI agent had grown up just a few miles from her own home in Heron’s Cove. They’d had a short time together before Colin was gone again, chasing illegal arms merchants.

He had the FBI behind him but, ultimately, he was alone. Emma understood he could go dark, but not like this. Not with no word for weeks.

His Irish friend’s midnight eyes narrowed on her. “Colin’s in trouble, isn’t he, Emma? It’s all right. You don’t have to answer. I watched you tonight. I could see the answer for myself.”

“He’s independent.”

“He’s good at working alone. All the Donovans are.”

She watched raindrops slide down the window. “Do you ever feel alone here?”

“I’m here for a reason. I have a purpose.”

She glanced back at Finian. “That doesn’t answer the question, does it?”

“It does for me.”

She thought she understood what he meant. After the deaths of his wife and their two young daughters in a sailing accident, he had walked away from Bracken Distillers to enter the priesthood and follow his calling wherever it took him. In June, he had landed in Rock Point to serve struggling St. Patrick’s parish while its priest, Father Callaghan, was in Ireland for a year.

Emma touched the elegant, distinctive gold label of the Bracken 15 year old. “Do you miss Ireland?”

“Every day. That doesn’t mean I’m unhappy here. What about you, Emma? Are you happy?”

His question caught her off guard. “Right now?”

“In your life. In what you do. In where you are, at this moment.”

A cold draft came through the thin walls and worn floorboards. “I don’t miss the convent, Father, if that’s what you’re asking.”

He smiled. “You only call me ‘Father’ when you think I’m speaking about your life as a religious sister.”

“I suppose you’re right,” she said with a small laugh. “Yes, Fin, I’m happy. In my work, in my private life. I haven’t known Colin long but our relationship feels like the real thing. I understand that I’m a new addition to his life, and that his brothers regard me as impermanent.”

“Is that how you feel, Emma? Impermanent?”

“Colin and I are very different. I know that much.”

“You’re worried about him, too. And you miss him.”

“Yes.”

She helped herself to a couple of the Simple White Stonewall Kitchen crackers Finian had provided, and his Donovan tasters hadn’t touched, then poured water from one of Hurley’s plastic pitchers. Finian disapproved of adding ice or water to whiskey but he encouraged having water on the side to help counter the dehydrating effects of the alcohol. Only during a tasting did he tolerate, if reluctantly, adding a bit of room-temperature water to the whiskey, which arguably helped with “nosing” the aromas, but there’d been no takers tonight. Mike, Andy and Kevin had all stuck to whiskey, period. Emma had followed their lead, if, admittedly, in part because of their scrutiny.

Her head spun with whiskey, fatigue and tension—with the uncertainty and frustration she felt at not knowing where Colin was, if he was safe. “He’ll be back, Fin,” she said in a half whisper.

Finian transferred the tasting glasses to a tray and took them to the empty bar. Hurley’s would wash them and he would pick them up tomorrow. Emma ate the crackers and took a few sips of the water, thinking now that she should have stayed in Boston for the weekend instead of making the two-hour drive to southern Maine. She had become adept at avoiding lonely evenings, but tonight, she suspected, would be very lonely indeed.

Finian returned to the table and lined up bottles of Glenfiddich, Inish Turk Beg, Midleton, Lavagulin, Connemara and Talisker. Most of his choices for the evening were from his private stock. “No one over imbibed,” he said.

“I’m still not fit to drive.” Emma got to her feet and pulled on her raincoat, skipping buttons and just tying the belt loosely around her. “I can help carry stuff to your car.”

“I walked here from the rectory. I’ll come with the car to pick up everything in the morning.”

“I left mine at Colin’s house and walked down here, too. I made it before the rain started, but it looks as if it’s letting up. We can walk back together if you’d like.”

“That’d be good. Emma…” Finian touched her shoulder, none of his usual spark or humor in his eyes. “You must find Colin.”

She nodded. “I know, Fin.”

They headed out into the cool evening air, the fog breaking up, the breeze steady off the water, smelling of salt, sand and seaweed. She had enjoyed the evening, listening to Finian describe the different “expressions” of whiskey—or whisky, if it were Scotch—and how each was made, dispelling myths and preconceptions in his Irish brogue. She had enjoyed being with Mike, Andy and Kevin as they had teased Finian Bracken, her, each other.

Even so, ultimately, she knew, her presence had reminded Colin’s brothers and his Irish priest friend of what they were trying so hard not to think about—that Colin was an FBI agent who hadn’t been in touch in far too long, and was likely in trouble.

* * *

Emma entered Colin’s small Craftsman-style house through the back, using the key he had given her before his abrupt departure a month ago. He didn’t pop out of the shadows, and he wasn’t in his kitchen, drinking one of the bottles of Smithwick’s he had left in the stainless-steel refrigerator.

The house was quiet and cold, masculine with its dark woods and neutral colors.

His refuge, she thought, heading to the front room.

He wasn’t there, either, sitting by the fireplace in the dark with a glass of Bracken’s finest.

Not that she had expected him to be. Technically they worked on the same team. She would know if he were back in Maine.

As she went up the stairs, she noticed a light, undisturbed film of dust on the wood rail, a tangible reminder of his absence.

She made her way down a short hall to the back bedroom he had chosen for himself.

No Colin Donovan there, either.

Emma turned on a lamp on the nightstand. She remembered him sweeping her into his arms a few short weeks ago, as if she were a fairy princess. He’d carried her upstairs and laid her on the soft duvet atop his bed.

They had fallen for each other so fast, so hard.

Madness, really.