Now You See Her Page 0,12
a shrug. “Not exactly Sherlock Holmes.”
Of course, Marcy thought, remembering that she’d rushed off in such a hurry, she hadn’t even said good-bye.
He continued. “I thought I’d take a chance you might be free for dinner.”
“You want to have dinner with me?”
“I tried calling your room, but I got your message machine, so I thought I’d just drop by.”
“You’re asking me out?”
“I’m sorry if I’m not very good at it. I haven’t had a lot of practice lately.”
“I can’t,” Marcy said.
“You have other plans?”
“No.”
“Oh. Oh,” he said again. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to bother you.”
Marcy continued unprompted. “It’s just that I’m a mess. I mean, look at me. I haven’t showered or changed. My hair’s a disaster.”
“You look gorgeous.”
Marcy released a long, deep breath. When was the last time a man had been so nice to her? When was the last time anyone had been so nice to her? “I can’t,” she said again.
“I understand,” he said, although he clearly didn’t.
“I just don’t think I’d be very good company.”
“No need to explain.”
“I haven’t even thanked you for all your help this afternoon.”
“No thanks necessary.” He began backing away.
“Vic,” she said, stopping him, wondering what she was doing now.
He stared at her expectantly, as if he was wondering the same thing.
“I hear there’s this very nice restaurant over on O’Connell Street. Good food. Not fancy, but good.”
“Are you asking me out?” he said with a smile.
“I’m sorry if I’m not very good at it,” she parroted.
“On the contrary. You’re doing just fine. It sounds wonderful.”
“Would you give me a few minutes to shower and change my clothes?”
“As long as you don’t change your mind.”
“I won’t.”
“Then I’ll wait right here.”
FOUR
I THINK I’LL TRY THE shepherd’s pie.” Marcy handed her big, unwieldy menu back to the waiter, who was tall, bald, and wearing a large white apron over skinny black pants.
“Sounds good,” Vic said. “I’ll have the same. And a glass of Irish whiskey to start.” He smiled at Marcy expectantly.
“What the hell? Why not?” Marcy said, although she’d never been much of a drinker. But why not celebrate? She’d seen Devon. The daughter she’d feared dead was very much alive. Improbable as it might seem—impossible as it did seem to Peter and Judith—Devon was living less than a three-hour drive away. Tomorrow morning, Marcy would rent a car and drive back to Cork. It was a relatively small city. Once she was settled, it shouldn’t take her too long to find her daughter. Not that it mattered. She’d stay as long as necessary. Marcy had no intention of leaving Cork without her.
“What is it they call it? The water of life?” Vic asked, answering his own question.
“What?”
“The Irish call their whiskey the water of life.”
“The Irish have a nice way of looking at things.”
“And speaking of nice ways of looking,” Vic said, “have I told you how lovely you look?”
“Yes, I believe you did. Thank you. Again.” Marcy fingered the collar of her cotton shirt self-consciously, wondering if she should have done up the top button. She’d had to unpack her suitcase to get at her white blouse and gray pants, not to mention her heels and some fresh underwear, but the change had made her feel better. Even her hair seemed calmer.
The waiter approached with their drinks.
“To a holiday that gets better every day,” Vic said, lifting his glass and clinking it against hers.
“I’ll drink to that.” Marcy took a sip, feeling the liquid burn the back of her throat. “Wow. That’s pretty strong stuff.”
“Good, though.”
“Getting better every sip.” She looked around the noisy, brightly lit restaurant, slightly more formal than the pubs they’d visited earlier in the day, although not much. A large bar in the very center of the room was its dominant feature. Approximately thirty people were sitting or standing around it, all of whom seemed to be talking at the same time, their hands punching at the air, punctuating whatever point they were trying to make. Around the bar were small oak tables, all of them occupied. There wasn’t an empty seat in the place. They’d been lucky to get in.
“So what did you think of ‘the Stiletto in the Ghetto’?” Vic was asking.
Had she heard him correctly? She didn’t want a repeat of the widget/midget fiasco. “The what?”
“The Millennium Spire,” he said, then, when that didn’t seem to register, “The monument we passed on the way over? The tall, stainless steel needle in the middle of the road?” he said, clarifying further. “The one that