Quinn's Deirdre (3 page)

Unable to read any more, Deirdre kept the
clipping.
 
It and her favorite picture of
Quinn had been the only two physical ties to her old life.
 
She reached for the snapshot now, thinking it
might ease her hurt but instead, when she glanced down at his familiar, dear
face, her pain increased.
 
In the photo,
his bright smile reminded her of the happiness they once had.
 
I
robbed him of joy. I took it away and
gave him grief.
 
He thinks I’m dead and
God only knows how he’s managed.
 
If he’d
died, God forbid, I don’t think I could’ve handled it.
 
He may hate me for what I did, but he’s
alive.
 
I want him to stay that way.
Maybe I shouldn’t go back.
 
Three years
has been an eternity,
but
 
not
long enough for the baddies to have forgotten me.

The sudden realization that the danger she fled
might remain, as potent and possible as ever, hit her with force.
 
In her sudden decision to resume life as
Deirdre, she’d never considered the same factors which sent her on the run and
wrecked her life hadn’t gone away.
 
The
danger remained, ready to rear up and bite her ass hard.
 
Quinn’s too.

But she’d come this far and although she hadn’t hit
a point of no return, it hovered ahead.
 
For a moment, Deirdre considered giving up, becoming Mallory again, but
she couldn’t.
 
Incapable to continue
living a lie, she had to go back.
 
She
needed Quinn, if he’d still have her, more than oxygen or food or shelter.
 
He
loves me.
 
He won’t hold a grudge.
 
He’ll be too happy I’m alive to mind I wasn’t
really dead.

Uncertain but committed, she headed into the
convenience store and locked herself into the tiny restroom.
 
Deirdre washed her face to remove the tear
tracks and ruined make-up.
 
She redid her
face,
then
headed north.
 
Each mile brought her closer to Quinn and the
moment of reckoning.

She prayed to
all the
angel
and saints, even the ones she couldn’t believe in anymore that she could stay
alive long enough to find Quinn.
 
If she
could manage that, no small feat, everything else would fall into place and
make sense.

Maybe.

Chapter
Two

Traffic increased as Deirdre rolled through
Grandview, and by the time she entered Kansas City proper, her shoulders were
tight with tension and her hands grasped the wheel with enough force it
hurt.
 
Living in the small town of Siloam
Springs, a place all too reminiscent of Mayberry, the setting for the old
Andy Griffith Show
hadn’t provided much
opportunity to drive in multi-lane, traffic.
 
Vehicles of all descriptions, sports cars, luxury sedans, pickup trucks,
utility vans, and eighteen wheelers merged onto the highway, heedless of the
autumn darkness. Although the worst of evening rush hour ended an hour earlier,
plenty of motorists were going about their routines. She sped up to keep pace
and watched for the Truman Road exit.

Once out of the worst traffic, her nerves eased as
things felt more familiar.
 
Deidre
recognized supermarkets and discount stores where she once shopped.
 
A Mexican restaurant she had called a
favorite remained in business and judging by the full parking lot, it was still
popular.
 
As she drew closer to the Power
and Light area downtown, she could almost forget she’d been away, living
another life as someone else.
 
Here, she
was comfortable in her skin.

The neon signs, bright lights, and busy traffic
quickened her blood.
 
She’d missed the
pace of a city, the vibrant and hectic spirit.
 
Small town life failed to suit her and no man she’d met during her time
in Arkansas came anywhere close to Quinn.
 
The deer hunters, the avid fishermen, the would-be
musicians who played twangy music, the camouflage wearing men all lacked
appeal.
 
If Deirdre never spent
time again with anyone wearing cowboy boots or Western hats, she’d be good with
it.

Following Truman Road reminded her of greeting an old
friend.
 
The familiar route evoked
memories but the closer she came to the corner of 14
^th
and Grand,
the more her nerves jangled.
 
She longed
to see Quinn again, but Deirdre feared his reaction.
 
Although she dreamed of a romantic, picture
perfect reunion, a movie moment, she knew it might not happen the way she
wanted.

Deirdre spotted the County Tyrone sign when she
turned the corner onto Grand.
 
Rather
than the shamrocks and shillelaghs Americans expected, the stark red, black,
and white of the county’s coat of arms stood out below the pub’s name.
 
Quinn’s place was as Irish as he was, as traditional
and as much like a pub back in Ireland as it could be.
 
He’d managed to recreate the look and
atmosphere of an Irish pub in the middle of a very American city.
 
She found a parking spot down the block and
before she could change her mind, she got out of the car.

She entered the pub and stopped short.
 
The familiar smell of an Irish pub filled her
nose, a combined aroma of Guinness and Jameson’s, perfume and aftershave,
baking brown bread, and Irish food.
 
A
dull roar of conversation and laughter reached her above the Irish folk
instrumental playing in the background.
 
Little had changed, she thought, as she peered around the bar area and
into the first of the two dining rooms.
 
The dark woodwork, the framed photos of Ireland and Irish patriots, and
the displays of old books and bottles were the same.
 
Her eyes scanned the room and searched for
Quinn.
 
She’d half expected to find him
behind the bar, holding court, pouring drinks and making conversation, but the
two people there were strangers.
 

“In or out, woman, in or out.”
Someone spoke from behind
her, his voice flavored with an Irish lilt.
 
“You’re blocking the way.”

“I’m sorry,” Deirdre said and stepped to the
side.
 
The older man, his hair and
whiskers gray with age, moved past her and claimed a seat at the bar.
 
She watched the patrons for a few minutes and
when she still didn’t see Quinn anywhere, her heart sped up with concern.
 
He seldom took a night off, and she wondered
if he’d made a trip back to Ireland.
 
Deirdre stepped up to the bar.

“What can I get for you, dearie?” the red-headed
young woman said.

Deirdre forced the question through her lips.
“Where’s Quinn?”

The bartender’s smile diminished. “He’s around, but
he doesn’t like to be disturbed.
 
Would
you like a drink?”

She could use one, but Deirdre shook her head. “I
need to see Quinn.
 
Where is he?”

The woman shrugged. “He’s in the back dining room,
table in the corner, but I wouldn’t bother him if I was you.
 
He’s likely to take your head off and hand it
back to you on a platter.”

It didn’t sound like her Quinn, the affable,
garrulous Irishman, but Deirdre nodded. “Thanks.”

She made her way through the bar and into the first
dining room, stepping aside to make way for the servers with their laden trays
and maneuvering around tables.
 
The
weeknight crowd seemed lighter than she remembered, and by the time she made
her way into the rear dining area she moved away from most of the
customers.
 
Deirdre paused in the doorway
when she saw Quinn.

He sat at a corner table in the back, head down and
held between his hands.
 
She couldn’t see
his face, but the way he slumped over seemed so unlike Quinn. She wondered if
he didn’t feel well.
 
Maybe he had a headache,
she thought, or might be sick.
 
If so, it
would explain his absence up front and the bartender’s cryptic comments.
 
Deirdre walked past the sole occupied table
and stopped at Quinn’s.
 
She expected him
to glance up but he didn’t so she said his name.

“Quinn.”

Like a man awakening from a deep sleep, his reaction
was slow.
 
For a moment, she thought he
hadn’t heard her speak, but he sighed, a deep, long exhale.
 
He lowered his hands and turned toward
her.
 
“For the love of Christ, can’t
whatever it is wait?” he said in a thick voice.
 
Waves of Jameson’s fine whiskey rolled toward her on his breath.
 
Deirdre noticed the near empty bottle and
glass on the table.

“I don’t think so,” she said. “Quinn, it’s me.”

When he turned toward her, she gasped at his haggard
face.
 
He’d changed more than she
expected.
 
In three years, he’d aged a
decade.
 
A few harsh lines cut deep into
his face, and his mouth drooped in a frown.
 
She remembered his dark blue eyes as bright, always sparkling, but he
gazed at her with red-rimmed, dull dead eyes, cloudy and unfocused.
 
He blinked twice and shook his head.

“Jesus, I’m drunker than I thought. If I’m dreamin’
up my dead darlin’, then I’ll be seeing giant cats or dancing dogs or
leprechauns with pots of gold next.”

I hurt him so much
more than I ever dreamed.
 
“Quinn, you’re not dreaming.
 
It’s me. It’s Deirdre, and I’m really here.”

Quinn reared his head back with a gesture she
remembered.
 
The new line between his
eyes deepened as he peered at her. “So it’s dead I am, then? You’ve come for
me?”

The hope in his voice slashed across her heart,
keener than any knife blade.
 
Deirdre
couldn’t imagine Quinn welcoming death, but he seemed to do so.
 
“I’m back,” she told him. “Quinn, I’m alive.”

 
He stared at
her with his bleary eyes as if he failed to understand.
 
Deirdre touched his arm,
then
took his hand in hers.
 
His cold fingers
curled around hers, more reflex than response.
 
Something shifted in his face, and his eyes narrowed, suddenly alert.

“Mother of God, it
is
you.”

Deirdre nodded and smiled. “It is, Quinn.
 
I’ve missed you more than I know how to say,
and I’m back, whatever happens.”

Her stomach tightened as she waited, expecting him
to grin or rise to take her into his arms.
 
Instead, he jerked his hand out of hers and made a fist.
 
He pounded the table with force, three times
and roared. “You’re back are you, you bitch? Back from the dead after I’ve
mourned
ye
and wept for three long years? And you’re
standin’ here with the cheek to tell me you were never really dead? Tell me,
what I am to make of it, because I surely don’t know.”

The beautiful romantic reunion moment she hoped
they’d share wouldn’t happen, not now.
 
His anger crackled between them, so potent she swore she could almost
see its fiery glow enveloping him.
 
“Aren’t
you glad I’m alive?”

Blue eyes glared at her, his gaze sharp and
piercing. “Well, Deirdre, while I’m glad ye’re not dead, it would’ve been nice
to know these years past.
 
I’ve grieved
for ye, woman, and all the while you’re not in the black grave after all but
tripping through the world without a care.
 
Where in bloody hell have
ye
been and why come
back now?”

She couldn’t deny his right to ask, but his
questions were difficult ones.
 
Short
answers wouldn’t do, so she answered from the heart. “I came back because I
missed you and I love you, Quinn.
 
I’ll
tell you why, all of it.
 
We need to
talk.”

His brogue thickened more than she’d ever heard
it.
 
“
Feckin
’
right we do.
 
But first I need another
drink.”

Quinn grasped the bottle of whiskey and poured the
remainder into his glass.
 
He lifted it
to his lips and knocked it back in a swift, single motion then shuddered.
 
“Ah,” he murmured.
“’Tis
nice indeed.”

“You’re drunk,” she said.
 
She should’ve realized it sooner.

“Aye, I am and I’ll be drunker still.
 
It’s the many the night I’ve passed out here
at this table or another, too drunk to make my way upstairs.
 
Get me another bottle, would you then?”