Running Back (New York Leopards 2)

“Patrick was a big proponent of rediscovering Ireland’s early history,” I said quickly and a little too loudly, trying to dispel whatever strange sentiment the O’Connors had stirred up.

It worked. Both of them scoffed. “The money had a large part to do with it,” Maggie said. “And if you’d ever met Patrick, you would have known that once he’d made up his mind, nothing would change it.”

Mike nodded slowly. “I’ve heard stories.”

“’Course you have.” Maggie stirred her small silver spoon through her tea.

Mike cleared his throat. “Is there a bus out to the farm? I wanted to look around.”

His aunt shook her head. “It’s only accessible by car. I’m busy this afternoon, but could give you a lift tomorrow. Or my nephew Paul’s in town. I’m sure he can bring you over.”

Mike and I exchanged a glance, and then Mike nodded.

Maggie lifted her tea. “You can find him at the pub over on Blue Street. Just ask for Paul Connelly.”

Chapter Eight

We broke for lunch first. We picked up pre-made sandwiches at the local Spar, a tiny chain convenience store, and ate them sitting on a bench looking over the tiny harbor. Boats bobbed in the water, and people occasionally stared. We were stopped three times for introductions before we were finally able to unwrap our food.

I liked it here, with the warm summer breeze and the scent of the sea and the warm bread in our hands. I turned to say as much to Mike, but switched topics when I saw the furrows in his brow. “So what’s up with this estrangement? What happened?”

The furrows melted away when he looked at me, replaced by a grin. “You’re pretty nosy.”

“Who, me?” I widened my eyes. “I just have an active interest in understanding the world. Also, that was a little weird, wasn’t it? Shouldn’t we have talked about Patrick and your dad and your lives, considering that you’d never met before?”

He finished off a bite of his sandwich. “My dad and Patrick grew up on Kilkarten, but by the time Dad was ten, they’d moved to the village—actually, probably to the house Maggie’s in now.” He threw a glance over his shoulder, like he’d only just realized his father might have spent years in that same house. I had to touch his knee before he shook himself and went on.

“Right. Anyway, after my grandparents died—and this was when my dad and Patrick were in their late teens, early twenties—Dad wanted to sell the farm. Patrick didn’t. They had some huge fight and then Dad moved to Boston.”

“What was the fight about?”

He shrugged.

Right. “Personal reasons.”

He gave me that crooked smile.

We finished off our sandwiches. I looked out over the water, dark blue and endless. Mike’s dad had wanted to get rid of the land, and now Mike refused to. What had that fight been about? Did Maggie know? Did Mike’s family? “So I’m guessing you haven’t met this cousin of yours, then.”

The idea seemed to astound him. “Cousin?”

His shock was kind of cute. “Almost. If he’s Maggie’s nephew.”

He groaned. “I should be back home celebrating the off-season and instead I’m meeting lost cousins and bitter aunts.”

I hopped off the bench. “Come on. Let’s go find this pub.”

Blue Street looked a lot like Red Street, with just a handful of shops and houses and the cobblestone road interrupted by a small fountain. A signpost pointed toward shops and the church, written in two languages.

The pub clearly took precedence, busy even at two in the afternoon. A green pennant hung outside the brown brick building, while inside it looked like the Irish pubs at home, except the music didn’t hurt my ears and the TVs didn’t blast. People ate as much as they drank, and off in the back a group of teenagers played pool.

We headed for the bar, and the college-aged kid watching the soccer game from behind it. “Hey,” Mike said. “We’re looking for Paul Connelly. Is he here?”

The teenager dragged his gaze from the screen and raked it over us, with the amount of judgment I usually associated with NYU student bartenders in the East Village. It morphed slowly to recognition. “You’re Michael O’Connor.”

He nodded. “Yeah. Is Paul here?”

The kid slouched back and crossed his arms. “Connelly! Your American cousin’s arrived.”