“Sorry about her,” he whispered. “It’s not you she’s cross with.”
I was too stunned to react. I’d received an auric bitch-slap. Apparently, I didn’t have the ability to deflect bad vibes as well as she did because my body was like an empty balloon after the encounter. “I’m so sorry to cause you trouble. I had no idea I’d see you.”
“You mean you didn’t come here for me?” he asked, sticking his bottom lip out in a very appealing, ripe fruit kind of way.
I bit my own lip. “No.” When Finn gave me the truth serum look, I said, “Honestly. I came because of my mother. I never got to fill you in on everything—I never had time. I didn’t expect to run into you. That’s why I tried to leave. I wanted to respect your wishes not to see me.” I couldn’t look at him then. He’d see my pain.
“You know nothing of wishes,” Finn said.
“But—”
“No, Cora. I’m awed that you’re here,” he said, his voice sure and strong. “I thought it would take a miracle to ever see you again. Now that you’re here, I feel whole again. I may never let you leave.” He kissed the top of my hand. “Will you stay with me awhile?”
“I can’t. I—” Again, I looked around for Giovanni or the blaze of his distinctive aura. I didn’t want to worry him.
“Please, luv. I’ll take you to Mulcarr’s Pub for some traditional Irish music. My uncle Clancy owns it. I just want to look at you. Christ, Cora, the reality of you is so much better than I’ve been dreaming.”
Finn jogged over to the stage and had a quick exchange with someone before returning to my side. I had Giovanni’s number and asked Finn if I could use his cell phone to make a quick call. He answered, reasonably frantic. I muttered a hushed apology, told him I’d run into someone I knew, and that I’d call him later. I could tell Finn was curious but he didn’t inquire.
Finn.
This was surreal. He wanted to spend time with me, time I thought we’d never have again. I wanted that also, but I was torn in two. I had my mother’s journal—and I really wanted to be alone to read it. But this unexpected time with Finn was something I couldn’t make myself throw away. It would only be for a little while, I reasoned. The truth was, I believed in fate. And obviously our story wasn’t over.
Twenty-Seven
I was overcome by the force of Finn’s energy. Something was different about him. Maybe being on his own turf infused him with more confidence. His aura was so big, and so strong, that it washed against the shores of my own with each step he took in my direction.
“The pub’s not far from here,” he told me. When he held my hand, it felt completely natural, like there’d never been a good-bye. “Let’s walk.”
Inwardly, I lashed myself for not being stronger, for not kissing his cheek and parting ways again with resilient grace, like a woman from an old movie, whose heart bleeds as she smiles politely through her farewell. I wanted to fully understand why he’d left as abruptly as he had. He seemed so happy to see me, though, that I couldn’t make myself confront him. I was happy, too.
Finn and I strolled hand in hand through the streets of Dublin lit blue by the early evening light. I was charmed by the cobbled streets and the juxtaposition of the old and new in the buildings we passed. While we walked, I told him about my mother’s letter and how I hoped to find out what had happened to her. Astonished, he promised he’d do what he could to help me, though he didn’t know what. “A dozen years is a long time to be missing.”
Across the street from Mulcarr’s Pub, there stood a beautiful church and a rather imposing shrine of the Virgin Mary. I wondered if it made the people who had too much to drink feel guilty leaving the pub under the watchful eye of Mary.
The pub was quiet inside. A family occupied one table in the corner. A lone gentleman at the bar hovered over a brown pint of Guinness. Pictures and posters depicting the recent history of Ireland covered the green walls. The ceiling was a quilt of yellow tin stamped with intricate patterns. At the juncture of ancient beams above us was a carved wooden square—a boss, Finn called it when he saw me looking—engraved with three rabbits chasing each other in a circle. Three had become an eerie number. My eyes found it everywhere.
Within thirty minutes or so, a crowd filled the pub. From grandmothers to babies in strollers, families took seats around the perimeter of the room. “It’s funny how many kids are in here,” I said.
“You’ve got to know, Cora, in Ireland a pub is much more than a bar. It’s a place of gathering. It’s our tribal fire pit, in a manner of speaking. I grew up in this place. When I was a wee bit, my uncle said I’d toddle from table to table trying to get a dram off people’s cider.”
I tugged his short stubble. “Trouble, even then.”
To my left, I noticed what appeared to be a small room adjacent to the bar. There was a red door with wrought iron looping over the top like cursive writing. A window opened to the back side of the bar. “What’s with that little room?”
Finn smiled and grabbed my hand. “Come with me.”
Inside, it was exactly as it looked from the outside—a tiny room no bigger than a walk-in closet. The window was painted with a family crest and the worn floor looked as though centuries of feet had smoothed its grain. We sat on one of the two benches that ringed the peculiar little space.
With one arm around my waist, Finn slid me closer. He brushed the curls from my cheek. We stared into each other’s eyes, an epic, wordless conversation. He kissed the tip of my nose. I reveled in his tenderness but was scared to open to him again. I’d missed him. I’d hurt over him. But before I could fully marinate in my fear, he squeezed my chin gently, easing my mouth open. He held me and kissed me in such a way that I remembered my heart was still his.
It might always be.
“You don’t mind, do you? I had to kiss you,” he whispered against the sensitive corner of my mouth. “I’ve missed you so much, Cora.” Longing amplified in his energy field. His aura enveloped me, leaving me breathless and light-headed. “This room is called a snug.”
“Good name for it.”
“Aye!” boomed a voice from the bar. “There’s a bit of canoodling going on in this snug, isn’t there now?”
Finn winked at me and whispered, “That’d be my uncle Clancy.” He introduced us and slapped his uncle’s arm. “What’s the craic?”
Clancy Mulcarr had robin’s-egg-blue eyes under dark brows, snowy hair flecked with gray, and a snowy beard. He looked like a seaman, rosy-cheeked and weathered. Unlike Finn’s mother, he smiled warmly and kissed both of my cheeks through the snug’s little window. “If this is how they grown ’em in the States, perhaps I’d better seek my romantic fortunes there,” Clancy said with a wink.
“Actually, Uncle, Cora was born here.”
“Is that so? Welcome home, daughter of Ireland.”
I smiled and sat back down. Uncle Clancy passed two small glasses half-full of amber liquid through the opening. Finn took one and passed the other to me. I sniffed it.
“Bulmers. It’s the cider I was after as a child,” he said, leaning on the ledge of the snug’s window. “Taste it.”
Finn and his uncle chatted back and forth, and it took my kiss-addled brain a few seconds to realize I had absolutely no idea what they were saying. When Finn caught me watching him, listening intently, he smiled and bent to kiss me again.
“Were you speaking Gaelic?” I asked excitedly.
This earned me a stern look from Finn. “We do not call it Gaelic,” he said in a serious, proud tone. “We speak Irish.”