The Mist

Chapter 33

Beara Peninsula, Southwest Ireland

4:00 p.m., IST

August 29

Lizzie sat at what she now considered her table by the fire in Eddie O’Shea’s pub. She had Keira’s book of Irish folktales opened to an illustartion of trooping fairies. She sighed. “I wish I could draw.”

“You have other talents,” Eddie said, sitting across from her. His dog, settled on the hearth, kept staring at her as if he knew she’d been kissed a by British lord and didn’t approve.

“This place feels different than it did the night I was here,” Lizzie said.

Eddie reached down and patted the dog. “I’d hope so. Simon’s returned. He’ll be here soon to start up an argument.” The barman seemed to relish the idea. “Have you heard his Irish accent?”

“I understand it’s very good.”

“Not to a real Irishman.”

Lizzie laughed. “Keira will be happy to see him, now that the guards are satisfied she’s safe.” She turned to another illustration, one of a beautiful fairy princess and a handsome fairy prince. “Imagine loving someone that much. Having someone love you that much.”

“There are rules about weddings in Ireland, but I have a feeling Keira and Simon will figure them out.” Eddie sat up straight, and the dog rolled onto his side close to the fire. “Your mum was Irish.”

“Yes, she was. When I lived in Ireland, I found the cottage where she was born. It’s been abandoned, but it’s structurally sound, tucked in a quiet, isolated valley not that far from here.”

“A magical valley?”

Lizzie smiled at the Irishman across from her and decided he wasn’t as skeptical about the wee folk as he liked to pretend. “I have an open mind. I’d like to take Keira there. Maybe it’ll inspire a painting. We can find old stories.”

“You’ve a new friend in Keira.”

“I hope so. I’m also good at wishful thinking.”

Eddie kept his eyes on her. “You’ve fallen for your Brit, haven’t you? Well, your mother fell for a Yank.”

“You like Will. My Irish ancestors-”

“They’d want you to be happy. I hear there’s no Rush hotel in London.”

“Imagine that.”

“Convenient, wouldn’t you say?”

Josie Goodwin entered the pub and walked behind the bar, helping herself to a bottle of expensive whiskey. She collected a glass and headed to Lizzie’s table. Eddie rose and gave her his seat.

“I’ve become very fond of the Beara Peninsula,” Josie said, setting down her glass and opening the bottle. “Should I have brought you a glass?”

Lizzie shook her head. “I’ve a weakness for Eddie’s blackberry crumble.”

“Ah. Who doesn’t.”

Josie poured her whiskey and, after taking a sip, produced a handwritten invitation to Abigail and Owen’s wedding in Scotland, along with arrangements for transportation. “And I wasn’t sure if you’d have time to shop, so I’ve a dress for you, too. I’ve had it sent to Scotland. It’s pale blue, flowing, I’m sure just the right size. Your auntie’s a dear. Your cousin Justin in Dublin put me in touch with her.” Josie took a breath and another swallow of her drink. “How are you? It’s all a bit of a crush, I know, but that’s how these people are. Will and his American friends. I expect you’ll fit right in.”

“I love weddings,” Lizzie said.

“I expect you do. Will’s delayed, but he plans to arrive in time for the ceremony. Whatever’s between you is more than the heat of the moment.” She pursed her lips, as if debating how much to say. “His family’s complicated.”

Simon had come into the pub. The local men moaned but were obviously delighted to see him. They exchanged a few good-natured barbs as he dragged a chair over to Lizzie’s table and joined her and Josie by the fire. “All families are complicated, Josie.” It seemed to be a familiar exchange between them, but he was serious as he addressed Lizzie. “March should have told me about his connection to you. I should have found out on my own. I shouldn’t have left you out there alone for so long.”

“I was never alone,” Lizzie said. “I’d only to give Director March my name, and I’d have had help. I knew that, even when I was most convinced I was on my own.”

“This was a tough mission from start to finish. Norman was manipulative and deceptive, but even he didn’t have all the pieces.”

“Did John March?”

It was Josie who answered. “One never knows.”

Simon reached over and tapped the wedding invitation. “Time to sing and dance.” His deep green eyes sparked with mischief. “I haven’t a clue whether Will knows how to do either.”

“As a matter of fact,” Josie said, “I don’t, either.”

Simon smiled. “You’ll have to find out, Lizzie, and tell us.”

She felt a surge of heat that, she knew, had nothing to do with the fire and everything to do with the thought of dancing in Scotland with Will Davenport. “Is that a challenge, Special Agent Cahill?”

He got to his feet. He truly was a bruiser of a man. “Designed to appeal to the daredevil in you.” His eyes were warm now, a promise in them. “You’ll be among friends in Scotland.”

The local men teased him, and he them back. He was affable and well liked, but he didn’t linger. He headed out, and Lizzie rose, restless, uncertain, suddenly, why she’d even come here.

She thanked Josie, who’d given up on her whiskey and was providing Eddie O’Shea with precise instructions about the blackberry crumble she was ordering.

Lizzie followed Eddie’s dog out to the pretty village street. The spaniel trotted ahead of her and turned, tail wagging. Hugging her Irish sweater close to her, she let him lead her onto the lane along the ancient wall above the harbor.

As they turned onto the dirt track, she saw a woman running across the field from the stone circle, and recognized Keira Sullivan.

Simon was by the fence, the barren hills quiet except for the intermittent bleating of sheep. Lizzie stopped, and the springer spaniel wandered back down to her in the fine, gray mist. Together they watched as Simon climbed over the fence. Keira cried out as she spotted him and started to run, and he scooped her up into his arms.

They held on to each other as if they’d never let go.

“Soulmates,” Lizzie whispered, and she and the dog headed back down the lane.

When she reached the village, she had a panicked text message from Justin in Dublin.

Help. Uncle Harlan is here.

She called her cousin. “Lizzie,” Justin said, still worked up, “Uncle Harlan’s taking me to the Irish village where your family’s from. I’m touched, I swear I am, but I have a feeling he’s going to teach me how to survive a night in an Irish ruin. And he wants to drive.”

“Maintain situational awareness, and you’ll be fine.”

“Situational-Lizzie!”

She laughed. “I’m going to a wedding.”