Gray leaned against the headboard, yawned. He didn’t need ambience when he worked, but he appreciated it. All in all, he thought he’d chosen well.
He considered rolling over, going back to sleep. He hadn’t yet closed the cage door behind him—an analogy he often used for writing. Chilly, rainy mornings anywhere in the world were meant to be spent in bed. But he thought of his landlady, pretty, rosy-cheeked Brianna. Curiosity about her had him gingerly setting his feet on the chilly floor.
At least the water ran hot, he thought as he stood groggily under the shower. And the soap smelled lightly, and practically, of a pine forest. Traveling as he did, he’d faced a great many icy showers. The simple hominess of the bath, the white towels with their charming touch of embroidery suited his mood perfectly. Then again, his surroundings usually suited him, from a tent in the Arizona desert to plush hotels on the Riviera. Gray liked to think he twisted his setting to fit his needs—until, of course, his needs changed.
For the next few months he figured the cozy inn in Ireland would do just fine. Particularly with the added benefit of his lovely landlady. Beauty was always a plus.
He saw no reason to shave, and pulled on jeans and a tattered sweatshirt. Since the wind had died considerably, he might take a tramp over the fields after breakfast. Soak up a little atmosphere.
But it was breakfast that sent him downstairs.
He wasn’t surprised to find her in the kitchen. The room seemed to have been designed for her—the smoky hearth, the bright walls, the neat-as-a-pin counters.
She’d scooped her hair up this morning, he noted. He imagined she thought the knot on top of her head was practical. And perhaps it was, he mused, but the fact that strands escaped to flutter and curl around her neck and cheeks made the practical alluring.
It probably was a bad idea all around to be allured by his landlady.
She was baking something, and the scent of it made his mouth water. Surely it was the scent of food and not the sight of her in her trim white apron that had his juices running.
She turned then, her arms full of a huge bowl, the contents of which she continued to beat with a wooden spoon. She blinked once in surprise, then smiled in cautious welcome. “Good morning. You’ll want your breakfast.”
“I’ll have whatever I’m smelling.”
“No, you won’t.” In a competent manner he had to admire, she poured the contents of a bowl into a pan. “It’s not done yet, and what it is is a cake for tea.”
“Apple,” he said, sniffing the air. “Cinnamon.”
“Your nose is right. Can you handle an Irish breakfast, or will you be wanting something lighter?”
“Light isn’t what I had in mind.”
“Fine, then, the dining room’s through the door there. I’ll bring you in some coffee and buns to hold you.”
“Can I eat in here?” He gave her his most charming smile and leaned against the doorjamb. “Or does it bother you to have people watch you cook?” Or just watch her, he thought, do anything at all.
“Not at all.” Some of her guests preferred it, though most liked to be served. She poured him coffee she already had heating. “You take it black?”
“That’s right.” He sipped it standing, watching her. “Did you grow up in this house?”
“I did.” She slid fat sausages in a pan.
“I thought it seemed more of a home than an inn.”
“It’s meant to. We had a farm, you see, but sold off most of the land. We kept the house, and the little cottage down the way where my sister and her husband live from time to time.”
“From time to time?”
“He has a home in Dublin as well. He owns galleries. She’s an artist.”
“Oh, what kind?”
She smiled a little as she went about the cooking. Most people assumed artist meant painter, a fact which irritated Maggie always. “A glass artist. She blows glass.” Brianna gestured to the bowl in the center of the kitchen table. It bled with melting pastels, its rim fluid, like rain-washed petals. “That’s her work.”
“Impressive.” Curious, he moved closer, ran a finger tip around the wavy rim. “Concannon,” he murmured, then chuckled to himself. “Damn me, M. M. Concannon, the Irish sensation.”
Brianna’s eyes danced with pleasure. “Do they call her that, really? Oh, she’ll love it.” Pride flashed in. “And you recognized her work.”
“I ought to, I just bought a—I don’t know what the hell it is. A sculpture. Worldwide Galleries, London, two weeks ago.”
“Rogan’s gallery. Her husband.”
“Handy.” He went to the stove to top off his cup himself. The frying sausages smelled almost as good as his hostess. “It’s an amazing piece. Icy white glass with this pulse of fire inside. I thought it looked like the Fortress of Solitude.” At her blank look, he laughed. “You’re not up on your American comic books, I take it. Superman’s private sanctum, in the Arctic, I think.”
“She’ll like that, she will. Maggie’s big on private sanctums.” In an unconscious habit she tucked loose hair back into pins. Her nerves were humming a little. She supposed it was due to the way he stared at her, that frank and unapologetic appraisal that was uncomfortably intimate. It was the writer in him, she told herself and dropped potatoes into the spitting grease.
“They’re building a gallery here in Clare,” she continued. “It’ll be open in the spring. Here’s porridge to start you off while the rest is cooking.”
Porridge. It was perfect. A rainy morning in an Irish cottage and porridge in a thick brown bowl. Grinning, he sat down and began to eat.
“Are you setting a book here, in Ireland?” She glanced over her shoulder. “Is it all right to ask?”
“Sure. That’s the plan. Lonely countryside, rainy fields, towering cliffs.” He shrugged. “Tidy little villages. Postcards. But what passions and ambitions lie beneath.”
Now she laughed, turning bacon. “I don’t know if you’ll find our village passions and ambitions up to your scope, Mr. Thane.”
“Gray.”
“Yes, Gray.” She took an egg, broke it one-handed into the sizzling skillet. “Now, mine ran pretty high when one of Murphy’s cows broke through the fence and trampled my roses last summer. And as I recall, Tommy Duggin and Joe Ryan had a bloody fistfight outside O’Malley’s pub not long back.”
He considered rolling over, going back to sleep. He hadn’t yet closed the cage door behind him—an analogy he often used for writing. Chilly, rainy mornings anywhere in the world were meant to be spent in bed. But he thought of his landlady, pretty, rosy-cheeked Brianna. Curiosity about her had him gingerly setting his feet on the chilly floor.
At least the water ran hot, he thought as he stood groggily under the shower. And the soap smelled lightly, and practically, of a pine forest. Traveling as he did, he’d faced a great many icy showers. The simple hominess of the bath, the white towels with their charming touch of embroidery suited his mood perfectly. Then again, his surroundings usually suited him, from a tent in the Arizona desert to plush hotels on the Riviera. Gray liked to think he twisted his setting to fit his needs—until, of course, his needs changed.
For the next few months he figured the cozy inn in Ireland would do just fine. Particularly with the added benefit of his lovely landlady. Beauty was always a plus.
He saw no reason to shave, and pulled on jeans and a tattered sweatshirt. Since the wind had died considerably, he might take a tramp over the fields after breakfast. Soak up a little atmosphere.
But it was breakfast that sent him downstairs.
He wasn’t surprised to find her in the kitchen. The room seemed to have been designed for her—the smoky hearth, the bright walls, the neat-as-a-pin counters.
She’d scooped her hair up this morning, he noted. He imagined she thought the knot on top of her head was practical. And perhaps it was, he mused, but the fact that strands escaped to flutter and curl around her neck and cheeks made the practical alluring.
It probably was a bad idea all around to be allured by his landlady.
She was baking something, and the scent of it made his mouth water. Surely it was the scent of food and not the sight of her in her trim white apron that had his juices running.
She turned then, her arms full of a huge bowl, the contents of which she continued to beat with a wooden spoon. She blinked once in surprise, then smiled in cautious welcome. “Good morning. You’ll want your breakfast.”
“I’ll have whatever I’m smelling.”
“No, you won’t.” In a competent manner he had to admire, she poured the contents of a bowl into a pan. “It’s not done yet, and what it is is a cake for tea.”
“Apple,” he said, sniffing the air. “Cinnamon.”
“Your nose is right. Can you handle an Irish breakfast, or will you be wanting something lighter?”
“Light isn’t what I had in mind.”
“Fine, then, the dining room’s through the door there. I’ll bring you in some coffee and buns to hold you.”
“Can I eat in here?” He gave her his most charming smile and leaned against the doorjamb. “Or does it bother you to have people watch you cook?” Or just watch her, he thought, do anything at all.
“Not at all.” Some of her guests preferred it, though most liked to be served. She poured him coffee she already had heating. “You take it black?”
“That’s right.” He sipped it standing, watching her. “Did you grow up in this house?”
“I did.” She slid fat sausages in a pan.
“I thought it seemed more of a home than an inn.”
“It’s meant to. We had a farm, you see, but sold off most of the land. We kept the house, and the little cottage down the way where my sister and her husband live from time to time.”
“From time to time?”
“He has a home in Dublin as well. He owns galleries. She’s an artist.”
“Oh, what kind?”
She smiled a little as she went about the cooking. Most people assumed artist meant painter, a fact which irritated Maggie always. “A glass artist. She blows glass.” Brianna gestured to the bowl in the center of the kitchen table. It bled with melting pastels, its rim fluid, like rain-washed petals. “That’s her work.”
“Impressive.” Curious, he moved closer, ran a finger tip around the wavy rim. “Concannon,” he murmured, then chuckled to himself. “Damn me, M. M. Concannon, the Irish sensation.”
Brianna’s eyes danced with pleasure. “Do they call her that, really? Oh, she’ll love it.” Pride flashed in. “And you recognized her work.”
“I ought to, I just bought a—I don’t know what the hell it is. A sculpture. Worldwide Galleries, London, two weeks ago.”
“Rogan’s gallery. Her husband.”
“Handy.” He went to the stove to top off his cup himself. The frying sausages smelled almost as good as his hostess. “It’s an amazing piece. Icy white glass with this pulse of fire inside. I thought it looked like the Fortress of Solitude.” At her blank look, he laughed. “You’re not up on your American comic books, I take it. Superman’s private sanctum, in the Arctic, I think.”
“She’ll like that, she will. Maggie’s big on private sanctums.” In an unconscious habit she tucked loose hair back into pins. Her nerves were humming a little. She supposed it was due to the way he stared at her, that frank and unapologetic appraisal that was uncomfortably intimate. It was the writer in him, she told herself and dropped potatoes into the spitting grease.
“They’re building a gallery here in Clare,” she continued. “It’ll be open in the spring. Here’s porridge to start you off while the rest is cooking.”
Porridge. It was perfect. A rainy morning in an Irish cottage and porridge in a thick brown bowl. Grinning, he sat down and began to eat.
“Are you setting a book here, in Ireland?” She glanced over her shoulder. “Is it all right to ask?”
“Sure. That’s the plan. Lonely countryside, rainy fields, towering cliffs.” He shrugged. “Tidy little villages. Postcards. But what passions and ambitions lie beneath.”
Now she laughed, turning bacon. “I don’t know if you’ll find our village passions and ambitions up to your scope, Mr. Thane.”
“Gray.”
“Yes, Gray.” She took an egg, broke it one-handed into the sizzling skillet. “Now, mine ran pretty high when one of Murphy’s cows broke through the fence and trampled my roses last summer. And as I recall, Tommy Duggin and Joe Ryan had a bloody fistfight outside O’Malley’s pub not long back.”
