Mistletoe Magic Page 10

  Again, Claire was completely out of her element and didn’t know what to say, so she said the first thing that popped into her head as she observed the white liquid in the light blue bottle. “Looks like he’ll be finished before we even take off.”

  “Aye, that’s what I was afraid of,” Kelly said suddenly, no longer the confident mother she appeared to be.

  “I can help,” Claire spurted out of the blue.

  “You’ve experience with babes?” Kelly asked, her eyes brightening with hope.

  She swallowed, then licked her lips. “Not really, but I can learn.”

  Kelly laughed, the sound almost magical. “He’s just eight weeks. Not sure I’m even qualified to offer suggestions, but I’ll manage.”

  The mere thought of the responsibility of caring for a child instantly sobered her up. She thought of her sister Colleen, and how she must have felt losing Shannon. And Megan, her other sister, had three sons. How did they manage to care for a family and do all the other things required? Claire had spent her entire adult life pursuing her career, climbing up the ladder in hopes of making partner in a prestigious law firm. Now, though she was within a year of achieving that goal at Arleo, Hayes and Ring, she thought it insignificant compared to her sisters’ accomplishments. Raising a family wasn’t in the cards for her. She’d be up a creek without a paddle if she were Kelly.

  “If you need to stretch your legs, or use the restroom, I’ll be happy to hold him.” Yes, Claire thought, I can do that. She’d held babies before.

  “And I might just let ya,” Kelly replied. “I didn’t want to travel alone so soon after having the babe, but me gran passed away, and I had to come to New York for the services.”

  “I’m sorry. My sister lost her oldest daughter a few years ago. It’s still hard for her. Really, for all of us. Especially during the holidays. Shannon was always the bright light of the family. She was the first grandchild.”

  Kelly adjusted the now-sleeping Paddy to her other shoulder. “Oh that’s terrible. I’m very sad for yer sister. I would die if somethin’ were to happen to my babe here.”

  With the effects of the alcohol practically gone, Claire was glad when the captain announced they were taxiing to the runway and were third in line for takeoff. She didn’t want to think about Shannon, or anything sad. Having Kelly and Paddy next to her would keep her occupied for the flight.

  But deep down inside, seeing them together forced her to think of her future and just how empty it was.

  Chapter 2

  As soon as she was through Customs, Claire saw a beret-wearing older man holding a sign with her name on it. This must be the driver Donald had promised. Not wanting to keep him waiting, she hurried to greet him. “I’m Claire O’Brien. I’m waiting for my luggage.”

  The old guy was red-cheeked with white tufts of hair peeking out from the side of his plaid beret. “Not a problem, Missy. Take as long as ya need. I’ll be here to help ya,” he said, then added, “By the way, me name is Martin. My friends call me Marty.” His smile was as genuine as the accent with which he spoke.

  Claire couldn’t help but laugh at the old guy. A friendly twinkle in his eye, and a happy grin, she liked him instantly. “Marty, then. Give me a few minutes, and we can be on our way. I don’t want to keep Mr. Flynn waiting. Will we be going to the hospital first?” she asked before checking the board to see which carousel her baggage was on.

  The old man looked as though she’d knocked him upside the head. “Why in the world would you think Flynn was in the hospital?”

  He truly looked perplexed. “I was told by the man himself that he’d been diagnosed with a deadly disease and it was only a matter of time before he”—she didn’t want to say died to this old man because he appeared to be in a state of semishock—“well, he said there wasn’t a lot of time left and asked that I come to Ireland immediately.”

  “That old coot, I knew he had something up his sleeve.”

  Claire stared at him. “What do you mean?”

  “I’ll let Mr. Flynn explain himself to ya,” he replied.

  Clearheaded now after a few hours of sleep and several cups of hot coffee, Claire was her old self again, yet she wondered if she’d somehow misunderstood Donald’s words. No, she thought to herself, she had not. Something wasn’t right, but until she met with the man face-to-face, there wasn’t a thing she could do but wait and hear him out. Maybe Martin, Marty hadn’t been told of his employer’s imminent death.

  She saw her flight number and the designated carousel on the board, and, lucky for her, it was just two rows down. Within a couple minutes, she spied her luggage, yanked it off the conveyer belt, then returned to follow Martin to the car.

  Outside, the weather was cold and damp, the skies a slate gray. Claire shivered as she removed her jacket from her duffel bag and slipped it on while Marty took care of her luggage.

  Though he was older, Marty hefted her luggage in the vehicle’s trunk as though it were light as a feather. Maybe he looked older than he actually was, Claire thought. She laughed when she saw Marty slide into the driver’s seat as it appeared completely foreign to her. “I don’t think I could ever drive a car like this,” she said as soon as she was settled in the backseat.

  “Aye, it’s what I’m used to, don’t know nothin’ else, Miss Claire. I’ve never traveled across the pond to America, and don’t mean to be rude, but I ain’t never wanted to. I love ma country.”

  “A man should be proud of his country. There is certainly no shame in that. My ancestors are of Irish descent, yet I’m the first one in my family to have the opportunity to travel to Ireland. I can’t wait to see the countryside, all the shades of green.”

  “Aye, there’s about forty of ’em, maybe more. It’s a grand old place to be,” he said as he maneuvered his way out of the line of traffic. “If you want to see the countryside, I’ll drive as slow as I can. Though it’s cold, and we’ll see fog all over, it’s still unlike any beauty ya’ve ever seen, lass.”

  Claire wrapped her arms around her waist, unused to the biting cold. “Is it always this cold this time of year?” she asked.

  “Aye, and it’ll get colder, too. Am used to it, though, as are most Irish. That’s why we spend sa much time in the pubs. A tall Guinness or a hot whiskey warms the soul.”

  After her experience with alcohol yesterday, there was no way she was going to imbibe any form of booze while in Ireland. After all, she was here on business. At least that’s what she’d been led to believe. She now suspected Donald Flynn had called her across the pond for reasons that had nothing to do with his supposed imminent death. And if he’d called her away from her family at Christmas unnecessarily, she would show him her Irish side. She grinned at the thought, but still, if Donald hadn’t been truthful, she wasn’t going to let him get away with it, wealthy client or not.

  Chapter 3

  Once they were out of the city, Claire took the time to view Ireland’s great beauty. Though it was foggy, she was still able to view the green farmland, some of it filled with dairy cows, others dotted with sheep, some shaved and others waiting for their turn at the shears. She’d get the family some good wool socks while she was here, she thought, as they passed yet another farm. Colorado winters were brutal.

  Man-made stone walls separated areas of each farm they passed. Often, in the middle of a lavish field of green, there stood more of the man-made stone fences, with a small bit of what once might have been a small cottage, or possibly a church. Ancient cemeteries, some she knew were hundreds and hundreds of years old, dotted the countryside, with the occasional Celtic cross. Claire knew a bit of the cross’s history, but in her mind now she summed it up as a cross surrounded by a ring. When and if the opportunity presented itself, Claire would return to Ireland, maybe even bring her family along, and together they could explore their homeland together as a family. Powerscourt Gardens, the Blarney Castle, and the Cliffs of Moher were just a few of the places she wanted to visit when time permitted
.

  “So how long will ya be here?”

  Good question. If Donald Flynn wasn’t dying, she might leave tomorrow, but she wasn’t going to tell this to Flynn’s employee. “I’m not sure at this point. I promised my family I’d be home for Christmas.” And she would do her best to keep that promise.

  “Aye, you don’t want to be away from the wee ones, especially this time of year.”

  “No, I don’t have children. I live in California, one of my brothers and his wife and children live in Colorado. My brother manages a ski lodge there, and I was planning to spend Christmas with them this year, or at least I was until Mr. Flynn called.”

  “Got that stiff-headed nephew on his back for something. Won’t tell me what it’s all about, but I can tell ya, Quinn Connor ain’t a happy man.”

  Quinn Connor? She’d heard his name before but couldn’t recall where at the moment.

  “I’m sure Mr. Flynn will keep me informed if there is a situation,” she said though now she didn’t believe anything Mr. Flynn had said. If he were truly on his deathbed, would his nephew be on his back? And if he were dying, what kind of man was this nephew? Heartless? She would avoid any preconceived notions just yet. She would wait and see for herself.

  “Aye, I hope so, miss, I sure hope so.”

  For the next hour, they traveled in silence. Claire strained to see as much of the countryside as possible through the fog, which had gotten even heavier since they left the airport in Dublin.

  Breaking the silence, Claire asked, “How far to Glendalough?”

  Marty glanced at his watch. “Another half hour. With this fog movin’ in, I’m not wantin’ to drive too fast.”

  “No, of course not. I just assumed it was a short distance from the airport.” The roads were so small, she couldn’t believe two vehicles could drive either way without scraping against one another. Twice they’d had to practically take to the ditch when a tour bus zoomed down the road as though they were on the freeway. She didn’t want to drive in Ireland, or at least not this trip.

  “You just sit back an’ relax, lassie, so when we arrive at the Flynn estate, you’ll be all rested up, ready for whatever it is that old Donald’s got up his sleeve.”

  Relax, right. She wouldn’t be able to relax until she had a hot shower, a good night’s rest, and at least one pot of coffee. She felt crummy because she hadn’t showered in almost twenty-four hours. And how could she forget her upchucking episode at JFK? Once she’d settled in for the long flight, she spent a bit of time in the airplane’s restroom. She managed to stick her hair under the meager stream of water, which she had to hand pump, then used the hand soap to wash the vomit completely out of her hair. She had managed to clean herself up a bit more with the baby wipes Kelly gave her. She’d added a bit of lipstick and combed her hair before they landed. Lucky for her, the Betty Boop slippers were an item much desired by Kelly. When they landed she’d actually offered to buy them from her. When Claire explained her broken-heel situation, Kelly whipped a pair of gently worn black leather ballet flats from Paddy’s diaper bag and offered them to her. She’d gladly accepted them, giving the Betty Boop slippers to Kelly. They’d exchanged phone numbers, and again Claire made another promise to visit her before she returned to the States. She’d made lots of promises, commitments, and she hoped she would be able to keep them.

  The soft lull of the engine and the narrow winding roads forced her to recline against the plush headrest. Her eyes were gritty from being awake so many hours. Closing them for a few minutes, she fell into a deep and troubled sleep.

  “No!” she shouted in her dream, only to realize she’d screamed aloud.

  “Nightmares?” Marty asked.

  Claire took a deep breath, trying to clear the cobwebs from her head. She never remembered her dreams, but whatever this one was, she must’ve been frightened and running because her heart continued to pound even after she came fully awake. “No, not that I remember. I’m just overly tired.”

  “We’re turning down the road leading to the estate now. You might want to have a look as we round the corner. The Flynn place is a sight ta behold, especially with the fog hoverin’ above.”

  Claire nodded. “I’m sure it is,” was all she could come up with.

  Marty was right. As soon as they went around a sharp curve, she saw the Flynn estate. The mountains behind the estate were stunning. Claire drew in her breath as they made the final round, where she had a bird’s-eye view of the Flynn estate . . . This was not an estate!

  “Good heavens! This is a castle,” Claire exclaimed.

  “Aye it is, lassie. Been in the Flynn family since the 1700s, though it’s been modernized several times.”

  For a minute, Claire was truly awestruck. A castle. Why didn’t she know this about her client? Why hadn’t she been made aware of his . . . living arrangements? She was quite aware of his financial status, knew he was one of Ireland’s wealthiest men. But a castle? No, she truly hadn’t a clue.

  “Wait till ya see it tonight when it’s all lit up. It’s all decorated for Christmas. People from all across Ireland drive by to have a look. Mr. Flynn even opens the gates so they can get a close-up. Old Flynn’s a good fella, just a bit ornery at times.”

  She stared at the castle. She had actually been summoned to a castle. A week before Christmas. It reminded her of one of those cheesy Lifetime movies she loved to watch. No, this was real. She couldn’t wait to hear what Mr. Flynn had to say. It was becoming more and more obvious that he wasn’t dying. Marty didn’t have a clue, and when he’d called her, he’d sounded just fine. No, there was something more going on at the Flynn estate, rather castle, and she planned to find out exactly what as soon as she entered. I won’t be the least bit surprised if there’s a moat, she thought, as they reached the end of the winding lane leading to the front of the castle.

  Chapter 4

  Even though it was the dead of winter, the grounds were a lush, deep forest green, with shrubs in so many shades of green, she couldn’t count them. And the flowers she couldn’t even begin to identify; she’d never seen anything like them in America, anywhere. “How do the flowers survive in the winter?” she asked, finding it odd.

  “Some only grow in the winter,” Marty said. “The fall is our best time for color, though. It’s a mighty sight to b’hold.”

  Claire couldn’t begin to imagine just how beautiful the grounds were in the fall. Mesmerized by the site of the castle, the mountains in the background, the complete and total enormity of this place Mr. Flynn called home, she couldn’t wait to see the inside.

  There was a circular drive at the side of the castle, and Claire knew full well that this hadn’t been here in the 1700s, but it appeared as though it had. The stones were an exact match to those on the castle, the small garage-like area where Marty parked the car was also an exact match to the rest of the castle’s stone. Claire wondered if this had been a carriage house of sorts back in its day.

  Marty opened her door and took her by the hand, helping her out of the car. “Tilly will be wantin’ to feed ya as soon as ya walk through the doors. She’s Mr. Flynn’s chef, and she’s a fine one, too. But if you don’t wanna eat any o’ that fancy stuff she puts out, she makes a mighty fine Irish stew. I saw Quinn’s motorcycle. He must’ve arrived while I fetched you from the airport, but don’t pay him no mind either.”

  Claire laughed. “Does this mean I’m to ignore everyone but Mr. Flynn?” she asked, her tone light and teasing.

  Marty chuckled. “I’ll let ya decide that for yourself. Now let’s get inside outta this cold. Me old bones are aching from the chill.”

  Claire couldn’t agree with his proposal more.

  The door they used led them to the kitchen. Claire didn’t have a clue what the aroma that she smelled was, but all she knew right then and there was that she had to have whatever it was, and it was absolutely heavenly. She entered a kitchen that reminded her of something they used on Iron Chef, a popular TV show in Ame
rica that aired weekly on the Food Network. She stared at all of the chrome appliances; pots and pans of every shape and size hung from a giant rack from the ceiling. A bay window that faced the sunshine, when there was sunshine, Claire imagined, held dozens of colorful pots filled with aromatic herbs. Rosemary, thyme, and cilantro were just a few that she recognized. She wasn’t much of a cook but did appreciate a well-stocked kitchen. From the looks of it, Mr. Flynn had it all in the food department.

  “Told you it was pretty nice in here,” Marty said.

  Claire smiled. “You did, you just didn’t say how pretty it was.” She walked around the kitchen amazed that she was actually inside of a castle. In all the fairy-tale books she’d ever read, castles did not have kitchens that looked like this, but she supposed that could be part of her fairy tale.

  Claire had to remind herself that she was not in Ireland, in this castle, to admire the kitchen and call up fairy tales from her childhood. She was here as an attorney, a financial advisor to one of Ireland’s wealthiest men, who just so happened to be at death’s door, or so he had said. Not wanting to waste another minute, Claire spoke up. “So where is Mr. Flynn? I really need to see him.” About that time, a tiny little Asian lady appeared from around the corner. Claire thought she couldn’t have been much over four feet tall and might weigh eighty pounds, and that only soaking wet. Her jet-black hair was cut as though a bowl had been placed around the circumference for a guide. Her bangs, or at least what there were of them, were cut so short, they barely covered her forehead. Tiny, almond-shaped eyes focused on hers, then a grin as big as the castle lit up the little woman’s face. This must be Tilly, Claire thought.

  “Mr. Flynn was right,” Tilly exclaimed to no one in particular. “You are perfect for the one. And you are tall like him, too.” The little woman spoke as if Claire were in another room and not there to observe and listen as the diminutive woman stared at Claire as though she were an object to be admired.