He can have any woman he wants, she thought absently, estimating his age as early thirties and wondering if her daughter would have found him attractive.
“Actually, Americans have the wrong idea about Irish pubs,” Vic was saying, his easy baritone pulling her back into the conversation. “They’re not bars, and they’re as much about socializing as drinking. People come here to see their friends and neighbors, and lots of them choose tea or soft drinks over alcohol. I’ve been reading the guidebooks,” he admitted sheepishly, then, when Marcy remained silent, “Where are you from?”
“Toronto,” she answered obligingly.
“Toronto’s a lovely city,” he said immediately. “I was there a few times on business.” He paused, obviously waiting for her to ask: When? What business? When she didn’t, he told her anyway. “It was a few years back. I was in the manufacturing business. Widgets,” he said.
“You manufacture midgets?” Marcy asked, realizing she’d been listening with only half an ear.
Vic laughed and corrected her gently. “Widgets. Small, mechanical devices whose names you usually can’t remember. Gadgets,” he said, explaining further.
Marcy sipped her tea and said nothing. I’m an idiot, she thought.
“I sold the business and retired last year,” he continued. Then, when no further questions were forthcoming, “I’m from Chicago.”
Marcy managed a tepid smile. She’d always liked Chicago. She should have gone there, she was thinking as her cell phone began ringing in her purse. Chicago had wonderful architecture and interesting neighborhoods. It didn’t rain almost every day.
“Is that your phone?” Vic asked.
“Hmm? Oh. Oh,” she said, locating it at the bottom of her purse and lifting it to her ear. “Hello?”
“Where the hell are you?” her sister demanded angrily.
“Judith?”
“Where have you been? I haven’t heard from you in over a week. What’s going on?”
“Is everything all right? Has something happened to Darren?”
“Your son’s fine, Marcy,” her sister said, not bothering to mask her impatience. “It’s you I’m worried about. Why haven’t you returned any of my calls?”
“I haven’t checked my messages.”
“Why the hell not?”
Because I didn’t want to speak to you, Marcy thought, but decided not to say. Judith was obviously upset enough already. Marcy pictured her sister, older by two years, pacing the marbled floor of her new luxury condominium. She was undoubtedly dressed in her standard uniform of black yoga pants and matching tank top, because she’d either just finished working out or was just about to start. Judith spent at least half the day exercising—a thirty-minute swim first thing in the morning, followed by an hour or two of spin classes, then an hour and a half of “hot yoga” in the afternoon. Occasionally, if time allowed and she was in the mood, she’d throw in an additional Pilates class, “for my core,” she insisted, although her stomach was already as hard and flat as steel. Possibly she was munching on a piece of raw carrot, Marcy thought; her sister’s diet consisted solely of sushi, raw vegetables, and the occasional spoonful of peanut butter. Judith was on husband number five. She’d had her tubes tied when she was eighteen, having decided when she and Marcy were still children never to have any of her own. “You really want to take that chance?” she’d asked.
“Something’s not right,” she said now. “I’m coming over.”
“You can’t.” Marcy allowed her gaze to drift toward the pub’s large front window.
“Why not?”
“Because I’m not there.”
“Where are you?”
A long pause. “Ireland.”
“What?”
“I’m in Ireland,” Marcy repeated, knowing full well Judith had heard her the first time and holding the phone away from her ear in preparation for Judith’s shriek.
“Please tell me you’re joking.”
“I’m not joking.”
“Is someone with you?”
“I’m fine, Judith.” Marcy saw a shadow fall across the front window. The shadow stopped and waved at the bartender. The bartender acknowledged the shadow’s wave with a sly smile.
“You aren’t fine. You’re off your rocker. I demand you come home instantly.”
“I can’t do that.” The shadow stepped into a cone of light, then turned and disappeared. “Oh, my God.” Marcy gasped, jumping to her feet.
“What is it?” Vic and Judith asked simultaneously.
“What’s going on?” her sister added.
“My God, it’s Devon!” Marcy said, slamming her hip into a nearby table as she raced for the door.
“What?”
“I just saw her. She’s here.”
“Marcy, calm down. You’re talking crazy.”
“I’m not crazy.” Marcy pushed open the pub’s heavy front door, tears stinging her eyes as her head swiveled up and down the tourist-clogged street. A light drizzle had started to fall. “Devon!” she called out, running east along the river Lee. “Where are you?