Liar's Key. Carla Neggers
Ardmore
County Waterford, Ireland
Mary Bracken paused on the narrow lane that wound along the cliffs above the village of Declan’s Cross. She was winded from walking too fast up the hill, but the lane had leveled off. She was on the headland where Sean Murphy, a garda detective, had his farm. As she caught her breath, she watched a trio of chubby lambs chase each other in the pasture on the other side of a barbed-wire fence. Nearby, two ewes nibbled on the lush green. Mary could hear the bleating of the lambs above the crash of waves on the rocks far below her. She didn’t know if the tide was coming in or going out, just that it was somewhere between low and high.
She knew whiskey, not tides, she thought with a smile.
She resumed her walk on the quiet lane, a short distance from historic Ardmore, the ancient land of Saint Declan. She loved this part of Ireland, but it wasn’t home. Home was Killarney to the west, a favorite with tourists given its natural beauty, national park and fascinating history. Bracken Distillers, where she worked, was located in the hills not far from the busy village. A good location.
I should be there now.
Mary sighed, frustrated with her obsessing. She’d made her decision. She even had her boarding pass for her flight tomorrow. No point questioning her motives for setting off to America now. She’d fly from Dublin to Boston and then drive on to Maine and a visit with her brother, Finian.
Her priest brother.
One of the ewes spotted her and bleated loudly, as if she knew Mary needed a good talking-to.
She shoved her hands into her jacket pockets and continued on her way. Where would she be now if Finian and Declan, twin brothers and the eldest of the five Bracken siblings, had decided to make a go of the Bracken farm instead of launching their own whiskey business?
She passed another ewe, a lamb at her teats.
Mary smiled. “That’s where I’d be. I’d have little ones at my teats by now.”
As it was, she had a full-time job at Bracken Distillers, running tours and the whiskey school. She loved her work. She and Declan got on well.
They missed Finian.
Mary felt a lump in her throat. “Ah, Fin.”
Where would he be if he’d made a go of the farm?
He’d be off on a tractor, fixing fences and tending sheep instead of across the Atlantic working as a parish priest in a small Maine fishing village. Fixing himself, tending his church flock—living far away from the reminders of his loss. His wife, his daughters. Gone too soon.
He was a worry, Father Finian Bracken was.
Mary, the youngest Bracken, usually wasn’t prone to worry or obsessing, but Finian’s choice to enter the priesthood felt all wrong to her and had from the start. Now seven years had passed and he hadn’t yet returned to Bracken Distillers and his senses. She feared he never would.
Old Paddy Murphy waved to her from his tractor, across a rolling pasture on the other side of the lane as it curved along the cliffs. She waved back, and Paddy continued his work, which no doubt involved mud, muck and manure. Mary could smell the salt water and welcomed the fresh, clean breeze, no hint of rain in the clear air. As the lane wound closer to the cliffs, she saw the tide indeed was ebbing, and she wished her worries could ebb with it. Yet she knew even if they could, they’d be back, as sure as the tide would rise again.
The lane turned to dirt, narrowing further as she approached the tip of the headland, where a medieval church lay in ruin along an ancient stone wall covered with moss and tangles of greenery. Mary recognized holly, rushes and a small oak, but she couldn’t name the spring wildflowers, delicate-looking with their pink and blue blossoms amid the vines and moss. Like tides, she didn’t know much about wildflowers. They seemed to hold their own against rock, wind and sea, and were an integral part of the rugged, beautiful scenery.
Three ornately carved Celtic Christian stone crosses stood on a green hilltop above her, as if they were sentries protecting the headland. She noticed a movement, and then recognized Oliver York as he emerged from behind the center cross. “Don’t come up here,” he called to her. “It’s muddy as bloody hell.”
Mary stayed put as he trotted down the hillside toward her. She zipped her Irish Mackintosh and felt the stiffening breeze whip through her long, dark Bracken hair.
She thought the mysterious Brit on his way to her might be one of Finian’s new friends, too. He disappeared into the church ruin, its partial walls of lichen-covered stone behind the trees and vines on the overgrown wall. Mary didn’t know what to make of him. They’d met briefly in February, here in Declan’s Cross. Finian had been there, home in Ireland for a short visit.
Oliver squeezed between the oak and a holly and jumped onto the lane, missing a puddle by inches. He was, indeed, splattered with mud, from his Wellingtons to his well-worn waxed-cotton jacket. His tawny hair was tousled and his cheeks were red, no doubt from the windier conditions up by the crosses.
“Mary Bracken,” he said cheerfully. “Father Bracken’s youngest sister. Hello, Mary. I don’t know if you remember me. Oliver York.”
“I do remember you. How are you, Oliver? It’s a beautiful afternoon for a walk.”
“I suppose it is. I’m not much on rambling, I’m afraid.” He glanced out at the sea, a deep turquoise in the late-day light. “This is a good spot to nourish the soul, if one goes for that sort of thing.”
“Do you?”
“Sometimes. Here, especially. I can’t explain.”
He shifted his gaze back to her, scrutinizing her with a frankness she didn’t find unsettling, perhaps because of his overall good cheer and easygoing manner. She was dressed casually, in leggings, a simple top under her jacket and waterproof walking shoes.
“I didn’t expect to walk this far,” she said. “Did you just arrive in Declan’s Cross?”
“Last night. I stayed at the charming O’Byrne House Hotel. I enjoyed Bracken whiskey in the lounge before turning in and then a full Irish breakfast this morning while I looked out at the Irish Sea. I checked out before I started up here.”
“Did I interrupt your contemplation of ancient Irish Celtic myths and legends?”
“Hardly. I was contemplating getting on with my drive to Cork in time for my flight back to London.” He tilted his head to one side, his green eyes narrowing on her. “And you, Mary? What are you contemplating on your ramble among the sheep, sea and ruins?”
“I was just enjoying the scenery.” It wasn’t the entire truth, of course, but she wasn’t baring her soul to this man. “I leave for Dublin soon. I have an early flight to Boston tomorrow.”
Oliver’s eyebrows went up. “Is that right?”
Yet...he didn’t seem surprised. Mary couldn’t put her finger on why she thought that. She heard a bird twittering in the rushes and suddenly wished she wasn’t leaving for Dublin and America but could stay on here for a few days.
“Will you be visiting your brother in Maine?”
She nodded. “I want to see him before his year there is up. I’m staying with him at the rectory. He can’t take much time off, but I’ll be able to amuse myself.”
“I’ve no doubt. Is this a sudden trip?”
“The priest he’s replacing is finishing his Irish sabbatical in a few weeks. If I don’t visit now, I’ll never have this chance again.”
“You hope, if it means he’ll be back in Ireland,” Oliver said.
“Maybe so.”
“Did you drive here from Killarney? Declan’s Cross is a bit out of the way if you’re on your way to Dublin Airport.”
“I