The Player and the Pixie
Page 68

Ugh.
Disaster.
I’d asked Eilish two weeks ago, as soon as I’d been invited, as I had no desire to pretend with someone else. Any other date would require feigned interest and attention. But my cousin, whose company I honestly enjoyed, would be easy.
Plus, no matter my level of disinterest, the idea of arriving with a date when Lucy would be in attendance made my stomach tighten uncomfortably and my head felt too small for my brain. I rather hoped she and I would be able to steal a few moments at least. Eilish would be a valuable ally, covering for us if need be.
But now I suspected I’d be spending the evening warning away horny rugby players from my too-beautiful and unworldly cousin.
Bested by an impish redhead well under a foot shorter than me, I reluctantly presented my credit card to the salesperson who’d been standing at attention, watching our exchange with practiced indifference. “Anything she wants, even that ghastly dress.”
Eilish laughed again, tossing a curtain of glossy, perfect hair over her shoulder. She resembled my aunt in appearance and gracefulness of her movements, but their manner couldn’t have been more different.
“Do I really look ghastly?”
“No. You’re gorgeous, but that dress is ghastly. I’ll be fending off lascivious rugby-playing perverts all night with you dressed like that.”
Stepping away from the mirror, Eilish crossed to me. I stood and allowed her to place a light kiss on my cheek. Though she rose on her tiptoes, I still had to bend down in order for her to reach my face.
“You’re quite nice, Sean,” she whispered conspiratorially. “Don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone your secret.”
“I’m not really.” I wasn’t, not usually, at any rate.
“Yes, you are. You’ve always been nice.” She squeezed my arm. “Remember when mother sent me away? I was terrified, and you made me feel better. You helped me be brave.”
“You were only ten, and she was being a bear.”
“You were very kind.”
I shrugged, growing increasingly uncomfortable with the picture Eilish was painting of me. “All I did was hug you.”
“For an hour at least. And then you promised to punch anyone who was mean to me.”
I shrugged again, glancing over her head at nothing in particular. “I didn’t like it when you cried. Plus punching nasty little girls sounded like fun.”
“It worked out though, didn’t it? I was the lucky one.” Her tone had grown introspective and I shifted my attention back to her, found Eilish considering me with a meditative look. “Too bad they didn’t send you away as well.”
The bell to the shop chimed, announcing a new customer. But E and I continued swapping commiserating stares, paragraphs and pages of understanding shared with a single look.
“Have you tried contacting your father?” she whispered, her brow furrowed with concern.
I’d learned the identity of my father after my mother passed some six years ago; he was a German sportsman of some fame. A mountain climber, and more than twenty years older than my mother. Eilish knew because I’d called and told her at the time. Yet I’d taken no action.
I shook my head, deciding I was bored of the subject. “I’m starving, and it looks like rain.”
Food and weather, wonderfully benign as neither required an opinion.
She crossed her arms and glared at me. I could see she wanted to press the issue, but would bide her time. She was devious in that way.
“You just ate an hour ago.”
“I know. I ate a whole hour ago.” I glanced at my watch and gave her a slightly panicked look. “I might die for lack of sustenance. I’m wasting away.”
E took a step away and smiled again, then turned, pulling her hair over her shoulder. “Here, unzip this and I’ll change. I’ll take you to an all-you-can eat buffet. That should tide you over for a bit.”
“I’ve been tossed out of most of those places at least once.” I unhooked the top of the frock and searched for the tiny zipper pull, my large fingers not quite nimble enough. “All you can eat never really means All Sean Can Eat.”
Eilish snorted an inelegant laugh just as someone said, “Oh! Pardon me.”
The exclamation and apology pulled my attention from the elusive zipper tab. Both Eilish and I glanced at the woman hovering at the entrance to the dressing area. I blinked at her, finding her familiar but not quite able to place her.
“Hello, Mrs. Fitzpatrick.” Eilish nodded politely, doffing her very best South Dublin air of superiority.
Ah, mystery solved.
The older woman inclined her head, now fully composed, in such a way that made me want to give her a recommendation for a good chiropractor, or perhaps someone who could help her remove the rod from her arse.
Lucy’s grandmother.
“Good afternoon, Eilish,” then to me, “Mr. Cassidy,” then back to Eilish, “How is your mother?”
I studied this woman as Eilish and she exchanged meaningless pleasantries. Truth be told, she looked a great deal like Lucy. Their eyes were the same shape and color. Lucy had inherited her grandmother’s ethereal grace and delicate pixie-ish features. Her appearance of fragility.
But this woman was not beautiful. She was cold and aloof. Controlled. Predictable.
Whereas Lucy was unequivocally stunning, warm, and engaging. Carefree. Impulsive.
Lucy was everything gorgeous and good. She may have looked delicate, but she wasn’t. She was steadfast, and loyal, and resilient.