She beamed. 'Every minute.'
'Still excited about your trip to Ireland at Christmas?'
'Yep. I've got most of the details worked out, including where to have Christmas dinner. Not that there are many choices. Virtually every restaurant in Dublin is closed on Christmas Day. Then there's St. Stephen's Day the next day.' She waved her long, slender harpist's fingers, the tips callused, the nails blunt. 'It'll be so much fun.'
'I hear Jeremiah Rush has a cute younger brother who works at their Dublin hotel.'
She rolled her eyes, but her cheeks turned bright pink.
Scoop grinned. 'You look just like your father when you make that face. It's the long-suffering O'Reilly face. Except he'd never blush.'
'I'm not blushing. I'm just excited about Ireland. I'm counting down the days. We're having Christmas Eve tea at the Rush Hotel. Lizzie plans to join us.' Fiona shut her guidebook, her cornflower-blue eyes--her father's eyes-- wide and serious. 'I keep reliving those first minutes after the bomb went off, with my Dad yelling and the smoke and the fire and all the blood. Scoop...I thought you were dead.'
'I know, Fi.'
'If you'd died saving me, how would I have gone on?'
'You'd have figured it out. I'm glad you didn't have to.'
'My music helps,' she said quietly. 'Do you have anything that helps?'
'Helps what? I'm fine. I don't even remember bleeding all over you.'
She rolled her eyes again. 'You have a million scars. Don't tell me you never think about what happened.'
'I think about it a lot, Fi, but I don't let it control me.'
'Yeah. Yeah, that's what I do, too. The police officer you and Sophie Malone found dead...' She looked down at her guidebook again, rubbed her fingertips over the picturesque scene of a white-painted stone cottage on the cover. 'Scoop.'
She couldn't seem to go on. 'Fi, think about Ireland and your music. Let us worry about the rest of it. If you don't--'
'I saw him.'
Scoop went still. 'What do you mean, you saw him?'
'The day before the bomb went off.' She cleared her throat, her gaze clear and steady when she lifted it to him again. 'I saw Cliff Rafferty.'
'Where?'
'Jamaica Plain. A few blocks from your house. He was in a car--he drove past me on my way from the subway to see my dad.'
'You recognized him then--or only now, looking back?'
'Then,' she said. 'He'd stop by to see my dad every now and then, more often when I was little than lately. I recognized him but couldn't think of his name. I didn't remember I'd seen him until I heard he'd died. Do you think if I'd remembered sooner he'd still be alive?'
'No.'
'You didn't even hesitate. How could you not hesitate? You don't
'I do know.' He'd made her smile, and that was enough for now. 'Rafferty turning up in the neighborhood doesn't make him guilty of planting the bomb. It's another piece of evidence and that's all it is. I'm just back from Ireland. Let me know if you want any suggestions.'
'Oh, great.
'You're nineteen. You've got time.'
'Like you're so old.' She slid to her feet, tucking her guidebook under one arm. 'I need to get ready. My friends will be here any second.'
Sophie arrived, obviously fresh out of the shower. Scoop introduced them. Fiona was gracious, but she gave him a knowing, if somewhat protective, smile as she ambled off to the end of the bar where her friends were gathering.
'She's very talented,' Sophie said, taking Fiona's place at the small table. 'She seems to be doing well. She's as tough as her father in her own way, isn't she?'
Scoop laughed, relieved to see the color back in Sophie's cheeks. 'Bob's fine with her majoring in music. He doesn't want any Criminal Justice majors in the family. He knows it's not his call, but he's not shy about his opinions.'
'You always wanted to be a police officer.'
'My family couldn't keep me on the farm.'
'Did they try?'
He shook his head. 'No. We're a tight-knit group. We get along.'
'Any archaeologists among them?'
He grinned. 'Not one.'
'When will Abigail Browning return from her honeymoon?'
'I don't know. Soon. Bob was already on her about all the drama in her life before she was kidnapped.'
'Do you think she'll remain a detective?'
'Up to her.'
'But she's a friend,' Sophie said. 'Her husband, Owen Garrison, was almost killed that day, too.'
'It wasn't a great day, but we all survived. I suppose you could say we have the luxury of being frustrated because none of us spotted the bomb. We could all have blown up instead.'
'But you're still frustrated. The bomb was placed where you wouldn't see it. Is Abigail fully recovered from her ordeal? Physically, I mean.'
'She still had bruises when I saw her at her wedding, but they were healing. Norman Estabrook smacked her while he had her on the phone with her father, so March would hear her scream. Estabrook wanted to be John March's personal nemesis.'
'Director March has suffered enough,' Sophie said.
Abigail had said much the same thing about her father. At her wedding reception she'd told Scoop she wasn't convinced they'd ever know how the bomb had ended up under the grill. 'This is a wedding, not a funeral, and thank God for that,' Bob had said, pouring champagne.
Sophie interrupted Scoop's drifting thoughts. 'Your lives had a nice routine, and this summer destroyed it. You all must feel isolated, at least to some degree.'
Maybe so, Scoop thought. Their lives had changed this past summer. There was no going back to what they'd been before the bomb blast. He looked around at the bar, more people drifting in as Fiona and her friends laughed with each other, setting up for their two hours of Irish music.
Finally he smiled at Sophie. 'Abigail and Owen are having a baby.'
'That's wonderful.'
'It is.' He sat back. 'Let's forget about bombs and blood-smeared branches for a while. Let's talk about what wine you want to drink with dinner.' He leaned across the table. 'Trust me or don't, Sophie, but it's time to decide.'
'That's a two-way street.'
'Nope. One-way.'
She smiled. 'I'll have the Malbec.'
21
Scoop headed to Jamaica Plain after breakfast in the Whitcomb's elegant dining room with Sophie's bright blue eyes, freckles and sharp mind across from him. She planned to work on her laptop, in her room, then stop by the Boston-Cork conference offices and maybe drop in on academic friends in town.
He didn't tell her as much about his plans. She didn't seem annoyed, but she didn't seem happy, either.
As he parked in front of the triple-decker, he received the latest report from Ireland, this time from Myles Fletcher, not Josie Goodwin. 'We don't have a bloody thing for you, mate,' Fletcher said. 'We're off to talk to the fisherman again. Percy Carlisle can't have vanished. We'll find him.'
