Chasing River (Burying Water #3)(57)

A sharp ball forms in my throat as River suddenly grows silent. Nothing but a few sniffles and the odd clank of a dish from a kitchen behind the walls can be heard.

“Marion and her sisters left after Charles passed on and made their way to other parts of the country, met their husbands, and married. But Marion never stopped thinking about Charles Beasley, a man she was supposed to despise because of what he was, but a man she loved because of who he was.”

With a slow, heavy sigh, River catches my eye for a moment, offering me a secretive smile before he leans into the microphone again. “And that, ladies and gentlemen, is why I cried myself to sleep a lot when I was a little boy.”

A round of chuckles, followed by loud applause, ricochets off the stone walls as River clasps hands with Fergus, and the old man steals back his hat to cover his bald head.

“What is . . . hey, are you crying?” Rowen asks with sincere interest, peering down at Ivy, whose face is ducked in her lap, her compact mirror opened.

“No,” she mutters, running her pinky finger along the bottom corner of her eye.

“You are!” Rowen claps his hands. “I don’t believe it. You, I can see it,” he throws a hand my way, “but I’d never have guessed that this one would be a romantic.”

“It was a sad story!” she hisses, turning to glare at him as she throws a soft punch into his stomach.

River’s return, his hands rubbing my shoulders affectionately as he squeezes around my chair to his, distracts me from the interesting spat across from me. “Your mother did not tell you that story when you were seven years old.”

“She did! At least twice a week. You can ask, I begged her.”

What would River and Rowen’s mother be like? I push that curiosity aside—I’d love to meet her—and ask, “So that must make you a true romantic?”

That earns a smirk. “I guess I am.” He pauses. “Is that bad?”

“No, not at all.”

Tugging my chair closer to his, until our thighs press against each other, River quietly plays with my curly locks of hair as the next storyteller takes the stage.

I try to listen, but it’s hard, my mind constantly wandering to a seemingly far-off place. A place where this thing with River isn’t simply a vacation fling, the expiration date looming. A place where he kisses me and begs me to make it work. Where we lie in bed and make plans for future visits; where he sees the Oregon mountains and fields that I’ve grown up with; where he meets the Sheriff for the first time; where I meet the Delaney family. Daily Skype and phone calls and texts that turn into talks of one of us moving. Could I actually move to Ireland? I guess I could . . . if we married. What would I do? Work in the bar? What would I need to do to be certified as a nurse here?

By the time Shannon O’Callahan has stepped off the stage to a round of applause—mine hollow because I didn’t hear a word of her story—my imagination, inspired by a wish, has created an entire life for River and me.

“I’ll make sure Ivy gets home safe,” Rowen offers, holding the taxi door open.

With the slightest eye roll at me, she slides into the backseat. “Call me tomorrow night, if you want,” she calls out through the open window just as they pull away.

“Why wouldn’t your brother want a ride home?” I ask as River guides me toward his car, his arm roped around my waist.

“You want the truth or the gentleman’s answer?”

I answer him with a pointed look and he chuckles softly.

“He’s hoping his night with Ivy hasn’t ended yet.”

The very idea makes me laugh. “What . . . him and Ivy? I thought she was going to stab him with her fork earlier tonight, when he started teasing her about getting emotional. Why on earth would he think she’s interested?”

“Well . . .” River holds the passenger-side door open for me to climb in. “I may have led him to believe that with a few things that I said earlier.”

I stare at him in disbelief. “Because you actually thought Ivy might be interested in Rowen?”

His green eyes are sparkling when he slides into the driver’s seat. “Because I highly doubt she is.”

I start giggling. “You realize that she may actually hurt him, right?”

He cranks the engine and entwines his fingers with mine, and we shift the car into first gear together. “I’m kind of hoping she does. Not too much,” he quickly adds, a cute frown puckering his face. “Just a little bit. The bastard deserves it for the pranks he’s played on me.”

River weaves his car through the narrow streets, deftly avoiding bar revelers—really, there doesn’t seem to be a night when the streets aren’t filled with people enjoying Dublin’s bar scene—whirling around the roundabouts, a comfortable silence settling into the car.

“How much of that story is true?”

River opens his mouth, then hesitates for a moment. “If it weren’t for Marion McNally and Charles Beasley, I wouldn’t be sitting here today, that much I do know. Marion and her sisters all went on to marry husbands and bear children. It was the youngest, Sally McNally, whose lineage I can be thankful for. In every single generation, the first-born girl carried Marion McNally’s namesake. Which is why my ma’s name is Marion. And as fate would have it, she married a Seamus.”