Carla Neggers - Heron's Cove

“Couldn’t wait to get there. I’m sure they enjoyed the quaint shops and fancy restaurants.”

“Everyone does,” Emma said.

“I don’t care.” Mike raised his as-yet untouched glass of the heavily peated Scotch; his eyes were lighter than those of his three younger brothers but no less intense. “Sláinte.”

Finian winked at Emma but said nothing. She reached for the Inish Turk Beg, a clear, triple-distilled whiskey from an independent distillery on a small island off the west coast of Ireland. She splashed a little into a fresh glass, set down the distinctive tilted bottle, then held up her glass to Mike. “Sláinte.”

He swallowed the Scotch and she sipped the Inish Turk Beg, one of Finian’s favorites. He had explained that it was gentle on the palate, clean and fresh on the nose, with fruity aromas, flavors of apple and orange zest and a dry finish. Emma wasn’t discriminating enough to go much beyond whether she could get a taste down with or without choking.

“Colin would have enjoyed tonight,” said his eldest brother, still watching her.

Emma nodded. “He’ll have that chance soon. Lots of whiskey left.”

“Are you and your FBI friends any closer to finding him?”

“You’re assuming he’s missing—”

“That’s right. I am.”

Her head spun and she wished she had skipped the extra taste of the Inish Turk Beg. “I can’t discuss your brother’s work with you.”

Andy and Kevin were as serious now as Mike was. Even Kevin, a law enforcement officer himself, didn’t have any information on his older brother’s work as one of the FBI’s most valuable ghosts. Emma had only a few details on his latest mission herself. It wasn’t as if Colin couldn’t handle himself in a dangerous situation. He was bold, aggressive and tough.

He was also sexy, she thought.

Incredibly sexy, in fact.

She kept that assessment to herself. “I’m sorry. I don’t know why Colin hasn’t been in touch.”

“He’s not a desk jockey in Washington.” Mike got up abruptly, grabbed his jacket off the back of his chair. “You don’t have to confirm or deny. We all know. He’s always stuck his nose in dangerous situations. Even as kids, he’d be the one jumping into cold water and waves, chasing sharks. It’s his way.”

“I understand that,” Emma said.

“Is it your way, Emma?”

She didn’t respond at once. Aware of the four men watching her, she picked up one of the tiny tam-style hats and set it atop a glass. “Maybe Colin and I have more in common than you realize.”

“You’re a Sharpe,” Mike said. “You were a nun.”

“A novice. I never made my final vows.” Emma kept her voice even, neutral. “I studied art history and art conservation during my time with the sisters. I come from a family of art detectives. That background helps in my work with the FBI.”

Mike shrugged on his jacket. “I just think you have a knack for attracting trouble.”

“And you’re worried about your brother.”

“Maybe I’m worried about you, too.”

She let his comment slide. She had already said too much. “When do you go home?”

He grinned. “Not soon enough for you, I expect.” The seriousness returned to his eyes as he looked down at her. “If you hear from Colin, you’ll let us know, okay?”

It was more of an order than a request but Emma nodded. “I will, Mike.”

He leaned over and kissed her on the cheek. “Take care of yourself.” He shifted his gaze to Finian. “Thanks for the whiskey and the whiskey education, Father. Uisce beatha. ‘The water of life.’ I like that.”

“We’ll do it again when Colin’s in town,” Finian said.

“Yeah. We will.” The eldest Donovan grinned suddenly. “I think I tasted chocolate in that last Scotch.”

Kevin and Andy thanked Finian and said good-night to him and to Emma as they followed Mike out of the nearly empty restaurant. The late-October weather wouldn’t faze them. They would take whatever weather northern New England threw at them in stride. Rain, snow, sleet, fog, wind. Wouldn’t matter.

Once the brothers disappeared through the outer door, Finian sighed as he corked the Inish Turk Beg. “If you had information that could ease their worry, Emma, would you give it to them? Could you?”

“If I’d heard from Colin, I’d have said so.”

“His story of an intense schedule in Washington has worn thin. I assume the FBI will be in touch with his family if need be.”

Emma felt the whiskey burning in her throat. “The safety of an agent—any agent—is of paramount importance to the FBI. Colin’s brothers know that.”

“But you don’t know where he is, do you?”

The look he gave her told her she didn’t need to answer.

A strong gust of wind whistled, whipped more rain against the windows. The small, protected working harbor was lost in the dense, swirling fog. In September, Emma had gone on a boat ride with Colin, kayaked with him, picked apples with him. Laughed, made love. They had met over the horrific murder of a nun at the Sisters of the Joyful Heart, Emma’s former convent. Until then, she hadn’t realized another FBI agent had grown up just a few miles from her own home in Heron’s Cove. They’d had a short time together before Colin was gone again, chasing illegal arms merchants.

He had the FBI behind him but, ultimately, he was alone. Emma understood he could go dark, but not like this. Not with no word for weeks.

His Irish friend’s midnight eyes narrowed on her. “Colin’s in trouble, isn’t he, Emma? It’s all right. You don’t have to answer. I watched you tonight. I could see the answer for myself.”

“He’s independent.”

“He’s good at working alone. All the Donovans are.”

She watched raindrops slide down the window. “Do you ever feel alone here?”

“I’m here for a reason. I have a purpose.”

She glanced back at Finian. “That doesn’t answer the question, does it?”

“It does for me.”

She thought she understood what he meant. After the deaths of his wife and their two young daughters in a sailing accident, he had walked away from Bracken Distillers to enter the priesthood and follow his calling wherever it took him. In June, he had landed in Rock Point to serve struggling St. Patrick’s parish while its priest, Father Callaghan, was in Ireland for a year.

Emma touched the elegant, distinctive gold label of the Bracken 15 year old. “Do you miss Ireland?”

“Every day. That doesn’t mean I’m unhappy here. What about you, Emma? Are you happy?”

His question caught her off guard. “Right now?”

“In your life. In what you do. In where you are, at this moment.”

A cold draft came through the thin walls and worn floorboards. “I don’t miss the convent, Father, if that’s what you’re asking.”

He smiled. “You only call me ‘Father’ when you think I’m speaking about your life as a religious sister.”

“I suppose you’re right,” she said with a small laugh. “Yes, Fin, I’m happy. In my work, in my private life. I haven’t known Colin long but our relationship feels like the real thing. I understand that I’m a new addition to his life, and that his brothers regard me as impermanent.”

“Is that how you feel, Emma? Impermanent?”

“Colin and I are very different. I know that much.”

“You’re worried about him, too. And you miss him.”

“Yes.”

She helped herself to a couple of the Simple White Stonewall Kitchen crackers Finian had provided, and his Donovan tasters hadn’t touched, then poured water from one of Hurley’s plastic pitchers. Finian disapproved of adding ice or water to whiskey but he encouraged having water on the side to help counter the dehydrating effects of the alcohol. Only during a tasting did he tolerate, if reluctantly, adding a bit of room-temperature water to the whiskey, which arguably helped with “nosing” the aromas, but there’d been no takers tonight. Mike, Andy and Kevin had all stuck to whiskey, period. Emma had followed their lead, if, admittedly, in part because of their scrutiny.