a three-hour walking tour of the city, a tour that included such landmarks as the Cork city jail, spelled “gaol”; the Cork Quay Market, pronounced “Kay”; the opera house; and St. Fin Barre’s Cathedral, as well as a stroll down St. Patrick’s Street, the city’s main shopping thoroughfare. It was now concluding with this visit to St. Anne’s Shandon Church and a proposed hike up the steep slope of Patrick’s Hill. Since Cork’s center was located on an island lying between two branches of the river Lee, the city naturally divided into three main sections: the downtown core known as the “flat of the city,” the North Bank, and the South Bank. Marcy had spent the entire afternoon crossing one bridge after another. It was time to sit down.
Ten minutes later, she found herself alone at a tiny table for two inside another traditional Irish pub overlooking the river Lee. It was dark inside, which suited the mood that was rapidly overtaking her. She was crazy to have come to Ireland, she was thinking. Only a crazy woman goes on her second honeymoon by herself, even if the trip had already been paid for in advance, even if most of the money was nonrefundable. It wasn’t as if she couldn’t afford the loss of a few thousand dollars. Peter had been more than generous in his settlement offer. Clearly he’d wanted to get away from her as quickly and with as little effort as possible. Marcy found herself chuckling. Why should he put any more effort into their divorce than he’d put into their marriage?
“You find something amusing, do you?” a voice asked from somewhere above her head.
Marcy looked up to see a roguishly handsome young man with enviably straight black hair falling into luminous, dark green eyes. She thought he had the longest eyelashes she’d ever seen.
“What can I get you, darlin’?” the young man said, notepad and pencil poised to take her order.
“Would it be too ridiculous to order a cup of tea?” Marcy surprised herself by asking. She’d been planning on having a Beamish, as the tour guide had suggested. She could almost hear Peter admonish her: It’s just like you to be so contrary.
“Not ridiculous at all,” the waiter said, managing to sound as if he meant it.
“Tea sounds wonderful,” she heard someone say. “Could you make that two?” Beside her, a chair scraped the wood planks of the floor. “Do you mind if I join you?” The man sat down before Marcy had a chance to respond.
Marcy recognized him as a member of her tour group, although she couldn’t remember his name. Something Italian, she thought, placing him in the window seat three rows from the front of the bus. He’d smiled at her as she’d made her way to the back. Nice teeth, she’d heard Peter whisper in her ear.
“Vic Sorvino,” he said now, extending his hand.
“Marcy Taggart,” Marcy said without taking it. Instead she gave a little wave she hoped would satisfy him. Why was he here? There were other tables he could have chosen to sit at.
“Taggart? So you’re Irish?”
“My husband is.”
Vic looked toward the long bar that ran the entire length of the room. “I’m sorry, I didn’t realize you were with anyone,” he said, although he made no move to relinquish his chair.
“He’s not here.”
“Doesn’t like bus tours?”
“Doesn’t like being married,” Marcy heard herself say. “At least to me.”
Vic looked vaguely stunned. “You’re not big on small talk, are you?”
Marcy laughed in spite of her desire not to and pushed at the mop of curls falling into her narrow face.
So much hair, she thought in her mother’s voice, for such a tiny face.
“I’m sorry,” she said now. “I guess that falls under the category of too much information.”
“Nonsense. I’m of the school that believes information is always useful.”
“Stick around,” Marcy said, immediately regretting her choice of words. The last thing she wanted to do was encourage him.
The waiter approached with their teas.
“He probably thinks we’re crazy, ordering tea in a pub,” Marcy said, following the handsome young man with her eyes as he returned to the bar, watching him flirt with several of the women clustered on high stools around him. She watched him fill half a dozen mugs of draft beer and slide them with a flick of his wrist across the dark polished wood of the bar toward a group of noisy young men at the far end. His female admirers broke into a round of admiring applause.