had time to close the door.
Marcy turned back for a final glance in Vic’s direction. What he must think of me, she thought, immediately chasing such thoughts from her mind. She had other more important things to think about now than Vic’s hurt feelings. There would be plenty of time for explanations and amends after she was reunited with her daughter.
Devon, she thought, watching as Vic grew smaller, less distinct with each passing block. They’d found Devon.
How would Devon react when she found herself face-to-face with her mother? Would she fall into her arms or run screaming in the opposite direction?
“Sorry I’m late,” Liam was saying, pulling Marcy from the future back into the here and now. “The traffic’s been fierce. My God, that’s some shiner you’ve got.”
Marcy’s hand immediately shot to her face.
“Does it hurt?”
“No. Not too much anymore. I put ice on it.” She pulled the seat belt around her and snapped it into place, then stole another quick glance behind her. Vic was no longer standing on the doorstep of the Doyle Cork Inn.
“I brought coffee,” Liam said, handing Marcy a large paper cup as she settled back into her seat and tried to make herself comfortable. “Double cream, double sugar, which is the way I like it. Is that all right? I wasn’t sure how you took it.”
“Sounds great,” she said, her hand shaking as she removed the dome-shaped lid from the cup and raised the steaming hot coffee to her lips.
“You nervous?” Liam asked.
Marcy nodded.
“Don’t be. We should be in Youghal in about half an hour, depending on how long it takes to get out of the city. So take a deep breath, try to relax, and drink up.”
Marcy did as instructed, inhaling deeply before taking a long swallow. The sugar immediately glommed onto her tongue.
“Too sweet?”
“It’s fine,” Marcy said, grimacing.
Liam laughed. “You’re not a very good liar, are you?”
“Apparently not,” she said, shuddering, and he laughed again.
“You don’t have to lie to me, you know. And you don’t have to drink coffee you don’t like. In fact, you don’t have to do anything you don’t like.”
He’s so young, Marcy thought. “It’s really not so bad,” she said.
“And you really are a very bad liar.”
“Okay. This is possibly the worst cup of coffee I’ve ever had in my entire life. How can you stand it so sweet? It’s like glue.”
“See? That was much better, wasn’t it?”
“You’re right. You should never lie. It takes up way too much energy.” She took a deep breath, released it slowly. “Why do people lie anyway?”
Liam regarded her quizzically. “You’re sure you want to have this discussion so early in the morning?”
“Why not? It doesn’t look like we’re going anywhere very fast.” She glanced out the windshield at the cars piling up in front of them. Try to relax, she told herself in Liam’s voice. They’d be in the village of Youghal soon enough. And after that she’d be with Devon. “I guess sometimes it’s just easier to lie than to tell the truth,” she said, answering her own question.
“Tell it or face it?” he asked.
She smiled in recognition of the subtle distinction. “Both.”
“Is the truth really that difficult to deal with?”
“It can be.”
“So you’re saying that we use lies as a means of protection?”
“Sometimes.”
“Protection or delusion?”
“Both,” she said, as she’d said earlier. “Sometimes it’s nicer to be lied to.”
“Do you think we lie more to others or to ourselves?” he asked.
“I have no idea.” Marcy shook her head. “You’re right—it’s too early in the morning to be having this conversation.”
“I think you lied about liking the coffee because you didn’t want to hurt my feelings,” Liam said.
Marcy nodded. It was true. She’d spent her life being afraid of people’s feelings.
“You don’t have to worry about that,” he told her.
“I don’t?”
“No. Don’t have any feelings.”
Marcy laughed, the tension of the morning finally starting to dissipate. She tried not to stare at the pronounced curl of his eyelashes while noting that the black of his tousled hair was a perfect match for the black of his V-neck sweater. She wondered if this was accidental or deliberate. “I had no idea you were such a student of human nature.”
“I’m a bartender,” he said. “Same thing.”
Marcy smiled, the smile stretching into her sore cheek, causing her to wince and bring her hand to her face.
“Cheek still hurts?”
“Just when I smile.”
“It hurts when you’re happy?” he asked, rephrasing her answer.
Yes, Marcy thought, although she said nothing. That’s it exactly.
“I’m sorry I couldn’t get down