Wind Chime Café (A Wind Chime Novel) (41 page)

SO SHE HAD
come.

Thick mists swirled around the selkie’s ankles, snatched at the tips of her raven locks as she watched the ferry dock, watched the woman step down to the tall pier and head toward the path leading up to the village.

A faint ray of light burned in her soul, chipping away at the hopelessness, the despair, the longing she’d buried deep inside. But with the hope, came the memories. And she saw her captor’s face as if it were yesterday. She heard his laughter as he dragged her back to his home.

To her prison.

She squeezed her eyes shut as she remembered the first slap of his fist, the groping fingers trapping her wrists as she struggled, her desperate cry for help as he threw her onto the hard, dirty floor and pushed himself inside her.

But no one came.

And as she lay on the floor of the cottage, beaten and broken, he hid her pelt. He took her freedom and, as the years slid by, her sanity.

In her madness she believed the sea would recognize her. That, in her desperation it would accept her and take her home. But without her pelt, without the seal-skin protecting her from the cold, icy waters, she choked on the very substance that had once been her air.

In taking her life, she cursed her already-broken spirit. She trapped her soul on this island, fated to wander the cliffs, reliving her torture, her sorrow.

Seawater dripped from the selkie’s fingertips, from the hem of her dress. The shells threaded into her hair clinked in the wind. She opened her eyes, dark as the splinters of a curragh lying at the bottom of the ocean, and turned them on the woman making her way up the path below.

One daughter. Only one daughter, she had managed to save. On the day she’d sewn rocks into the hem of her dress and walked into the sea, she had given that one infant child to the seals to protect. She pushed the crib out to sea, and watched as the seals surrounded it, nudging the child toward the mainland.

She knew in her heart that the child made it, that the others who came after her survived. But would this one, so many years later, be willing to accept the part she must play?

Would she be willing to stand for the women who came before her? Or would she run, turning her back on her fate?

TARA FELT THE
force, like a jolt of energy, course through her and she lifted her gaze to the tallest cliff. Through the fog, she glimpsed the outline of a woman with long black hair, her dress whipping in the wind, but when the mist shifted, she was gone. In her place was only a small house, perched on the edge of a craggy hillside.

Shaking off the strange image, she shouldered her pack, climbing the curved road leading up to the sprinkling of whitewashed cottages. The mists slid in patches, like schools of silvery fish around her ankles. She could smell the sea, taste the salt in the air.

A legend that didn’t have an ending? People who were descended from seals?
She might have believed in fairy tales once, long ago.

She knew better now.

Her fingers brushed the advertisement in her pocket as she spotted the Guinness sign hanging from the thatched roof of
O’Sullivan’s
pub. The wind pushed it back and forth; the squeak of rusted metal hinges the only sound drifting through the deserted streets of the village.

Two weeks, she thought. Two weeks was all she needed to pocket enough cash for her next ticket. She walked to the door, grasped the cool brass handle and pulled. The scent of malt vinegar and pipe-smoke wrapped around her, tugging her into the dark, wooded barroom. A turf fire snapped in the hearth. Boots were piled up in front of it, drying from the wet day’s work. Pints of Guinness—dark as molasses topped frothy white like a milkshake—cluttered every flat surface.

She strode toward the bar, focusing on the tall, dark-haired man behind it, as islanders glanced up from their tables and their conversations—a cheerful jumble of Irish and Gaelic voices only moments ago—spun out in a quiet murmur.

Behind the bar, Dominic O’Sullivan caught sight of the newcomer, a wisp of a woman in ill-fitting jeans and a worn sweater draped over sparrow-thin shoulders. “Little early in the season for tourists.”

Tara pulled out the crumpled advertisement. She knew the risks, the dangers of picking a place where visitors didn’t come and go unnoticed, a place where people talked, asked questions and expected honest answers. But she needed time to think, to come up with her next plan.

All it would take was one tiny mistake.

“I’m here about the job,” she said, setting the ad on the bar and gazing up into eyes the color of liquid silver. Thick black hair, still wet from the shower, swept back from the bartender’s ruggedly handsome face, revealing a scar etched into his left eyebrow. He’d forgotten to shave, and a shadow of stubble darkened the strong line of his jaw.

Dominic looked down at the ad he’d posted in the Galway Gazette a few days ago, then back up at the woman who wore no makeup, nothing that would draw attention to a face that made his eyes want to linger just the same.

“I’m Tara Moore,” she said, extending her hand.

“Dominic O’Sullivan,” he said, marveling at the soft, pampered palm that met his, a direct contrast to the second-hand traveler’s clothes.

“Are you still hiring?” Tara asked.

Twisting the top off a Harp, Dominic slid it down the counter to a customer. A simple white T-shirt stretched across his broad shoulders, revealing the hard muscles of his arms and chest. “That depends.”

“On what?”

“On what an American wants with a job in an Irish pub.”

There were so many ways she could answer that, Tara thought. But when she looked back into his eyes, she settled on the truth. “I needed to get away.”

“From what?”

“From life.”

Dominic leaned his arms on the bar. “Anything in particular?”

Tara shook her head. “Just in general.”

Dominic pushed back from the bar and ran a wet rag over the counter. “In my experience, life has a way of catching up with you. Wherever you go.”

“In my experience, life is what you make of it,” Tara countered. “Right now, I’m looking for a job as a waitress in Ireland. Are you hiring, or not?”

Dominic set the rag down. It was a compelling combination—that rich, cultured voice, those soft, sensual lips, the cool confidence of a woman used to getting what she wanted. If she’d arrived during the regular tourist season, he’d already be laying the groundwork for a long, lazy summer seduction. He was about due for one of those anyway.

But it wasn’t summer. And she wasn’t the first attractive woman to come to this island with nothing but the clothes on her back. He’d fallen for it once. He wasn’t stupid enough to fall for it again. He turned, pulling a bottle of Jameson’s off the shelf. “Sorry, but the position’s been filled.”

“By whom?” Tara pointed to a loaded tray sitting on the bar. “I don’t see anyone delivering these drinks.”

Picking up the tray, Dominic smiled and slipped out from behind the bar.

Tara watched him set the drinks down on a nearby table and caught the curious glances the islanders threw at her. “I don’t understand. Did you change your mind after you put the ad in the paper?”

“I changed my mind when I saw you.”

Tara tensed. “What is it about me that made you change your mind?”

“You’ve a look about you.”

“What kind of look?”

“Like you’re running from something.”

“I’m just looking for a quiet place to spend the summer. That’s all.”

“Dom,” Jack Dooley called out from across the room. “Can you do us a whiskey and a Smithwicks?”

“And two more pints over here.” Kevin Brady held up his empty glass.

“And what did Caitlin put in this stew?” Donal Riley yelped as a dish towel sailed out of the kitchen and smacked him in the chest.

“I never claimed to be a cook, Donal Riley! And you can keep your mouth shut until Fiona gets back next week!” The kitchen door swung open and a plump redhead stormed out, holding up seven fingers. “Seven days, Dominic! You see this. Count them. Seven more days and I’m done. And you,”—she turned back to Donal Riley—“you’re going to eat what’s put in front of you and you’re going to like it!”

Turning on her heels, she stalked back toward the kitchen, pausing in the doorway when she spotted Tara. “Hello there.” She took in the backpack and shifted direction, strolling over to the newcomer. “Don’t get many travelers to the island in April.” She set a coaster on the bar in front of her. “Have you been helped?”

“She’s not looking for a pint,” Dominic called back.

“What’s she looking for?”

“I’m here about the position,” Tara explained. “Are you Mrs. O’Sullivan?”

“Me?” Caitlin’s face broke into a grin. “No.” She wiped her hand on her apron and held it out for Tara to shake. “I’m Caitlin Connor. The
friend
. I just fill in from time to time.”

“Tara Moore,” Tara said, offering her hand.

Caitlin frowned. The other woman’s grip was firm, but her hand was so bony, she felt like she’d crack it if she squeezed any harder. “Is that an American accent?”

“Yes.”

Caitlin withdrew her hand, regarding the newcomer warily. “Excuse me for asking, but haven’t you got enough jobs of your own?”

“I’m looking for a change of pace.”

“Bit of a drastic change, isn’t it?”

“We all need to get away now and then.”

“Do we?” Caitlin angled her head. “Never felt much of a need to leave the island myself.” Caitlin’s gaze lifted, her eyes meeting Dominic’s across the room. He shook his head, just the smallest movement from side to side. “I wish we could help you.” Caitlin shrugged. “But I don’t think we’re hiring anymore.”

Tara bit back her frustration as the front door swung open and three children burst into the room.

“Dad!” Breathless, Kelsey O’Sullivan rushed to the bartender’s side. “Ronan kicked the ball over the edge again!”

“It wasn’t me!”

“It was, too!”

Dominic arched an eyebrow. “Ronan?”

“Okay,” Ronan muttered. “It was me.”

“How far did it go?”

“I heard a splash,” Ashling piped in.

Dominic crossed his arms over his chest.

Kelsey tugged at her father’s sleeve. “Ashling and I were winning.”

The slightest smile tugged at the corner of his lips.

“Dad, this is serious. Ronan threw the game on purpose.”

“What do you want me to do about it?”

“I think you should help us find the ball.”

“You want me to scale the cliff wall?”

“I bet you could if you wanted to,” Ronan muttered.

Dominic smiled and mussed his daughter’s hair. “I’m sure there’s another upstairs.”

“That was the last one.”

“What about the one I gave you for Christmas?”

“We lost it.”

“What about the one your grandmother gave you?”