Briarwood Cottage by Joann Ross Page B

about it on the flight here,” she surprised him by admitting.
    “You were writing about me?”
    “Not you. I don’t write about real people anymore, remember? No, I used Fleet Week and the idea of the Lady as inspiration for a piece about some ancient sea serpent stowing away on a Navy cruiser as it crossed over the Bermuda Triangle.”
    “Bermuda Triangle myths probably are popular in your business.” Duncan wasn’t as surprised as he’d once been at her career change.
    “People eat them up,” she agreed. “Along with extraterrestrials, UFOs, and anything to do with the Titanic or Section 51.”
    “I liked that one you wrote last week about the Titanic survivor being rescued from a melting glacier after having been raised by polar bears.”
    She angled her head and studied him. “You really have been reading my stories.”
    “You’ve always had a remarkably engaging writing voice. Fiction, even if it’s labeled as tabloid fiction, has given your imagination free rein. As outlandish as that one was, I immediately saw how it could easily be slanted into an allegorical novel about an outsider suddenly having to find the skills to fit into a society that doesn’t really have a place for him.”
    “That was how I first conceived it,” she admitted. “Because once I stopped racing around the world, I realized that perhaps I’d been so caught up in chasing stories about other people’s lives, I’d never allowed myself to slow down enough to think about my own life. Where I fit in.”
    “I’m not sure people like you and I do fit in all that well.” Duncan had been giving that matter more than a little thought himself. “Neither of us had much stability growing up, between your bouncing back and forth between living with your parents and with your cousin’s family and me being sent off to all those boarding schools.
    “Then, while we might have been to more locations on the planet than most people, because of what we were covering, our world became more and more narrowed down to the dark places. It’s not as if details surrounding the most recent genocide make for engaging dinner party conversation.”
    “I haven’t been to any party, let alone a cocktail party, for longer than I can remember.”
    “We could remedy that,” he suggested. “I was told they’re having a seisiún at the pub this evening.”
    “Oh.” The light that had brightened her face while they’d been talking about her work seemed to fade. Like a candle being snuffed out. She dragged a hand through her hair, which had begun to curl as it dried, again. “While dinner sounded nice enough, I’m not sure I’m really up to all that.”
    “Understandable, given that it’s your first day here. And Patrick Brennan, the owner, realized that when he invited us. He said there’s a more private snug in the back he can save for us.”
    “If I say yes to that, are you going to talk dirty to me?”
    “Only if you want me to.” Her question brought back that pub grub supper they’d eaten in a snug during their honeymoon. It had been after he’d bought them the matching rings. “And, for the record, I wasn’t talking dirty that night in Galway. I was merely telling my wife all the things I wanted to do to her. And have her do to me…with me.”
    The color streamed back, like a brilliant sunrise lighting her from the inside out. “This isn’t going to work.”
    She wasn’t talking about eating dinner, and they both knew it. “We’ll never know if we don’t give it a try,” Duncan coaxed. “I’m not asking for a lifetime commitment, Cass.” As far as Duncan was concerned, she’d already agreed to that. He’d just have to make her realize that some things, some people, were worth fighting for. “Just a friendly night out. And if you’re worried about me jumping you—”
    “Since you set the bar for honesty earlier, I’ll have to admit that I’m concerned about just the opposite. About me jumping you.”
    Score one