He flipped off his magic hat, reached into it, and pulled out a bouquet of red carnations. The children paused in their work at the refreshment stand to applaud. Their cheers broke abruptly into laughter as Bryan offered the flowers to Porchind and a fountain of water suddenly sprayed up out of the silk blossoms, drenching the man.
“Gee, I’m sorry about that,” Bryan said, thoroughly unrepentant. He tossed the flowers aside. “I didn’t know they were loaded.”
Rachel glared at him as she grabbed a handful of napkins. “Bryan, must you be so helpful?”
“Helpful is my middle name,” he said pleasantly. He took the books from Porchind’s hands and handed them back to young Sam Harrison, who wrapped them in a towel to dry them while the fat man dabbed at his eyes and his dripping double chins with cocktail napkins. “Bryan Liam Helpful Hennessy. It’s on my confirmation certificate.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Porchind,” Rachel said sincerely, handing him more napkins. “I hope it didn’t ruin your suit.”
“Impossible,” Alaina muttered dryly.
“No, no, I’m fine, Miss Lindquist,” Porchind said, shooting Bryan a malevolent look. “We were just leaving.”
“Oh, well, here are your books.” Bryan took the stack wrapped in white terry cloth from Sam and handed it back to Porchind. “Keep the towel-our compliments.”
The two men nodded to Rachel, glared at Bryan, and stomped down the steps. Bryan watched them cross the yard toward an old brown Ford Galaxy that was parked among the dozens of cars on the lawn. Out of habit he memorized the license plate. He also noted with grim satisfaction that Rasmussen was limping slightly.
“That was really uncalled for,” Rachel said through her teeth when the rest of the crowd had dispersed.
“On the contrary.” Bryan regarded her with an earnest look. “It was most necessary.”
“Here are the books, Uncle Bryan,” Sam Harrison said, handing the little stack over.
“Well done, Sam. Worthy of the Baker Street Irregulars, I’d say.”
“Thanks, gov’nor,” Sam said, using the dialect of the London street urchins who had come to the aid of Sherlock Holmes on occasion.
The conspirators grinned at each other.
“Bryan!” Rachel gasped, appalled. “You stole those from Porchind!”
“Borrowed,” he corrected her.
“And made my son an accessory!” Alaina fixed him with a steely look, turning her body as if instinctively shielding her baby daughter from Bryan’s powers of corruption.
Bryan ignored them both, totally absorbed in examining his ill-gotten booty. He singled out one small book from the others and tapped a finger against the title handwritten inside the front cover. “ ‘The Journal of Arthur Drake III.’ ” He turned to Rachel and lifted an eyebrow. “Now, what do you suppose Porky and the Rat would want with this?”
“To read it, I imagine,” she said tightly.
“What’s going on out here?” Faith Callan asked, stepping out onto the porch with her son Nicholas perched on her hip. The toddler rested his dark head on his mother’s shoulder, and had his thumb firmly planted in his mouth. His eyelids were at half mast, indicating naptime was at hand.
“Just a little shell game,” Bryan said absently, stroking his godson’s head.
Alaina tugged Faith aside to give her the play-byplay, and Bryan turned to Faith’s husband as he came out onto the porch. Shane Callan was tall, aristocratically handsome with black hair and pale gray eyes, but most important to Bryan at the moment was the fact that Shane had spent sixteen years as a federal agent.
“Shane,” he said with a bright smile. “You’re just the man I wanted to see.”
“I’m glad Addie refused to let this thing go,” Bryan said as he and Rachel settled back against the chintz cushions of the old glider.
“Me too.”
They had moved the old swing around to the back of the house. It now stood near the fenced edge of the cliff with overgrown shrubbery on either side of it, creating a secret bower from which they could watch the sun sink into the ocean and the stars drop down into the twilight sky. A benevolent weather system had kept the fog bank from rolling in and made the evening lovely and warm. Waves washed against the shore below in a soothing rhythm. It was such a peaceful scene compared to the afternoon that Rachel took a long moment just to savor it.
Addie had gone to bed directly after supper, exhausted from the day’s events. Rachel felt the same kind of freedom as a mother whose toddler had drifted off extra early for a change. She and Bryan were going to have a few extra hours all to themselves. Bliss.
She had changed into a loose-fitting purple cotton sweater and a comfortable lavender skirt. Her hair was still up, but the chignon was very loose, and the evening breeze set all the fine tendrils around her face fluttering like ribbons. She curled her bare feet beneath her on the cushion and sipped at her glass of white wine.
Bryan sat beside her, the picture of relaxed masculinity in old jeans and a faded denim work shirt. His long legs were stretched before him and crossed at the ankles. His profile was to her as he gazed out at the ocean, and Rachel studied him as an artist studies a subject to be sketched. His was a strong, handsome face with its high forehead and solid jaw. His evening beard shadowed the lean planes of his cheeks. His eyes looked tired, but intelligent, contemplative as he stared out at the sea.
A wave of love swept over Rachel, echoing the surf that surged against the shore below them. It took her a little by surprise and it frightened her deep inside. Summer was slipping away from them.
Bryan turned to her slowly, his eyes mirroring the ache she felt. He lifted a hand to cup her cheek, and his thumb brushed away a teardrop she hadn’t been aware of.
“Summer’s not over yet,” he whispered, and bent to press a sweet kiss against her lips.
When he sat back, he took a deep breath, almost visibly shrugging off the mantle of melancholy that had fallen over them. He smiled gently and sang a line from an old Celtic folksong about a young man who had wandered into Edwards Town unknown, unloved, and unseen, there to meet a beautiful girl he called his County Leitoim queen.
Rachel smiled. He had a lovely voice. “Did you learn that in Ireland?” she asked, suddenly realizing how little she knew about him, about his background.
“No. My father likes to sing that one. It makes my mother furious because the girl in the song is blond and my mother’s hair is black. She claims Dad sings it to remind her of one of his old girlfriends. He’s allowed to sing it only when he’s in the garage making his fireworks.”
“He makes fireworks for a living?”
“No. That’s his hobby. He designs twelve-meter racing yachts for a living.”
“That’s… unusual.”
“We Hennessys are an unusual bunch,” he admitted with great pride.
Rachel chuckled. “So I gather. Tell me about them.”
Tell me about you, Bryan heard her ask, though she didn’t speak the words. That gentle, knowing smile curved his mouth again as he put his arm around her shoulders and she settled against him with her head tucked beneath his chin.
He told her about growing up in the Hennessy household with his three brothers and three sisters, about how they had all been encouraged to be themselves, to pursue whatever dreams caught their fancy. He told her about Catholic school and Sister Agnes, the Iron Nun. He told her about his travels and his work. He told her about Serena. He told her about the Fearsome Foursome and how they had all ended up in Anastasia.
“They’re wonderful friends,” Rachel murmured, “You’re very lucky.”
“They’re your friends now too,” he said, pushing one sneakered foot against the ground to set the glider into lazy motion. “That’s the wonderful thing about having friends-you get to share them.”