Chasing River (Burying Water #3)(14)
With a heavy sigh, I drag myself off the bed and wander over to the dresser to pick out a shirt that will cover the evidence.
I didn’t come to Ireland to sit in this house, nice as it may be.
It’s time to move on.
From my seat on the second-level balcony of this Asian tea shop, I feel like a queen, peering down over Grafton Street, a pedestrian-only street, jammed with tourists at eleven on a Friday morning.
Do they know that a bomb went off just a few blocks away from here? Because none of them seem worried. I sigh, closing my eyes and lifting my face to soak in the sun that promises another abnormally hot day for a country with a normally cool climate. I hope it can somehow restore my sense of adventure, too.
A part of me—the traumatized young woman who yelped at the sound of a car backfiring on her way here—wants to call my father back and tell him everything, let his concern wash over me in soothing words meant to comfort. Maybe have him or my mom book a flight to Dublin just so I can be wrapped within their arms by tomorrow.
But I can’t do that.
I have no one to talk to, no one to take care of me. No one who even knows.
Except for the police, who aren’t going to offer me hugs.
And the man who saved my life, who I can’t find.
“Your Darjeeling tea, miss.” The waiter winks at me as he sets it down next to a plump scone, his accent enchanting, yet odd. Not light, like my mystery man’s. Not like Detective Garda Leprechaun Duffy’s. Definitely not like the accent of the taxi driver; he had to repeat everything three times to me and I still couldn’t quite understand him.
A hint of Irish mingles with something else, making it entirely foreign. “If you don’t mind me asking, where are you from?”
“Sicily, originally. I moved to Dublin when I was fifteen.”
“So, the two accents have combined? I didn’t even know that could happen.”
He chuckles. “Spend a few more days here and you’ll hear many different accents in Dublin, especially in the bar industry.” He throws me another wink and moves on to tend to another table, another tourist. I pick at my light lunch, turning my attention back to the street below. As commercial as this area is—retailer after retailer lined up and waiting to make money off an abundance of tourists—the old buildings that house these stores, the cobbled walkways that lead up to them, the street buskers who entertain outside, all blend together to energize and charm the atmosphere.
I lean over the rail to admire the flower stand to my left. Tiered rows of buckets burst with blooms in indigo and gold and crimson. It’s tempting to buy a bunch of sunflowers and bring them back to add a splash of color to a lovely but somewhat sterile home. It’s something my mom has done for as long as I can remember. Maybe I will, later.
To my right, a small crowd has formed around three men who are covered from head to toe in a thick matte charcoal paint and sitting statue-still. So still that I wouldn’t believe them to be people, had I not read about this somewhere already. Farther down, the first strings of a guitar carry over the low buzz—a one-man band entertaining passersby, his hat awaiting a tip to keep him coming back.
I could forget about the Guinness tour and the old library at Trinity College that I’ve mentally committed myself to today, and simply sit here drinking tea and people-watching all afternoon. I just may, too, because up here in my perch, I’m not thinking about being blown up by another pipe bomb.
My waiter seats a young couple at the table next to me. The simple gold bands on their fingers tell me they’re married. She mumbles something to him and I recognize it as French. Parisian French, I’m quite sure. My time in Montreal taught me the difference, the Québécois dialect harsh by comparison.
The guy leans back in his chair, rubbing his chest slowly as he peers down on Grafton Street, just as I had a moment ago. The movement pulls my eyes to the logo on his clover-green T-shirt. It’s a family crest of sorts.
The stag at the top makes my jaw drop open.
Could it be?
No. That’s just too coincidental. There are probably dozens of family crests with stags on them. The Irish are all about pride for their heritage.
“Excuse moi.”
His sharp tone is what drags my gaze to his face. He’s staring at me with an annoyed, arched brow. From what I’ve read, the stereotype that the French don’t love Americans isn’t so much a stereotype as fact, and for whatever reason, he’s assumed I’m American. By now his young wife has turned around too, and her glare has teeth.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to stare.” This is exactly how I don’t want to strike up a conversation up with complete strangers. “Your shirt . . . Did you buy it here, in Ireland?” He glances down at it, a frown on his face, like he’s trying to figure out why I’d care. “My boyfriend asked me to bring him a souvenir and he’d love something like that,” I lie quickly.
Their expressions finally shift to something more friendly. “I won it. Last week, at this famous Irish pub,” the guy admits with pride. “I bet the bartender that I could finish my beer before he could. He gave it to me right off his back. But I don’t know if they sell them. It’s their uniform.”
My mind begins spinning frantically. Uniform? Does he mean a staff shirt? What are the chances . . .
“What’s the bar called?”