Carla Neggers - Heron's Cove

A gust of cold wind propelled her into her car. She debated what to do. She could stay at her parents’ house in Heron’s Cove, Lucas’s house, with friends. At the Sharpe house. The state of renovations meant it wasn’t as comfortable as in the past, but she’d manage.

She could check on Tatiana Pavlova and see if she was in her rented cottage, working on sketches.

Emma started her car. She needed to get in touch with Lucas and her grandfather in Dublin.

Would her grandfather remember Dmitri Rusakov?

“Of course he would,” she said aloud.

Wendell Sharpe remembered everything.

She noticed the bag of Northern Spy apples on her front passenger seat. She’d bought them at her visit to the orchard that afternoon, before her attempt at a flat wash. They were perfect for pies.

Tough to bake a pie in the Sharpe kitchen.

Emma smiled and decided she might as well head up to Colin’s house after all.

4

FINIAN BRACKEN MARVELED at the camaraderie of the Donovans and the obvious, if unstated, relief and pleasure they shared at being together after the fear and worry of recent days. He had poured Bracken 15 year old for all four brothers and even a taoscán for himself.

“Did we run Emma off?” Mike asked, tasting his whiskey. “I think she peeled rubber getting out of the parking lot.”

Colin shook his head. “She would have stayed if she wanted to.”

“She’s as bullheaded in her own way as you are,” Kevin said.

Andy grinned but was quiet as the eldest Donovan swirled the whiskey in his glass. “What did you call this, Father?” Mike asked. “Not a dram. Some unpronounceable Irish word.”

“Taoscán,” Finian said.

Mike gave a mock shudder. “I’ll never get it right.” He set his glass down on the worn table. “The Sharpe house is torn up for renovations. Emma’s not driving back to Boston, is she?”

“She’s not picky,” Colin said. “She’ll sleep on the floor if she has to.”

Kevin reached for the water pitcher. “I have to remember she’s an ex-nun. She can tolerate spare conditions. Right, Father Bracken?”

Finian wasn’t getting into the middle of this particular discussion. “The Sisters of the Joyful Heart have a lovely convent. As a matter of fact, I just came from there. A young woman stopped me at the gate to ask about the sisters’ work in the arts and art conservation. She’s an artist herself. A jeweler in London.”

“Maybe she’s an ex-nun, too,” Mike said.

Finian suspected Colin’s brothers were ambivalent about his relationship with Emma less because she was an FBI agent and a Sharpe than because she had once come close to professing her final vows as a religious sister. Chastity, obedience, poverty. The profession of vows wasn’t as simple as it might seem and involved deep thought, study, prayer and reflection. Emma had come to the right decision for her.

All that was for her and the Donovans to sort out among themselves.

Finian continued with his story. “I don’t think the woman who spoke to me was a nun, or even considering the convent. She lives in London but she’s Russian. She has the most charming accent.”

Colin raised his eyes over the rim of his glass as he tried his whiskey.

Finian saw that Kevin, also a law enforcement officer, had noticed Colin’s alert expression, too. “A Russian jeweler in Heron’s Cove,” Kevin said. “Imagine that. What else did she say?”

“It was a casual conversation. I asked her name, and she told me it’s Tatiana and she had heard about the sisters’ work.”

“Did she mention Emma?” Colin asked.

Finian felt as if he had unknowingly just dived into shark-infested waters. “Not by name, no.”

Colin’s gaze narrowed on him. Next to him, Kevin had one hand on his glass on the table and his gray eyes likewise narrowed. Andy looked as surprised by their intense reaction as Finian was. Only Mike’s expression was impassive, impossible to read.

“What do you mean, not by name?” Colin asked.

“Well.” Finian now regretted having brought her up. “She said she’d run into an FBI agent in Heron’s Cove who used to be a nun.”

“That’s true,” Kevin said. “Where in Heron’s Cove did this Tatiana run into Emma?”

“She didn’t say, and I didn’t ask.” Finian wished he didn’t sound so defensive. “It wouldn’t occur to me to interrogate a young woman—a tourist—enjoying an autumn afternoon out at a convent gate.”

Kevin picked up his glass. “If that’s what she was doing. Sounds more like she was checking out Emma.”

“Or the convent itself,” Finian said. “The sisters tell me they’ve had a marked increase in visitors and curiosity seekers since Sister Joan’s death and the subsequent discovery of a Rembrandt in the attic.”

Colin drank some of his water. “Did this Tatiana give you her last name?”

“Not that I recall, no. Dear heaven, I’m starting to sweat. Did I do something wrong?”

“Not a thing.” Colin seemed to make an effort to smile. “You’re a good man, Fin. Bringing Bracken 15 tonight instead of leaving us to Hurley’s rotgut. I don’t know what arrangements you and John Hurley have made but I’m all for it.” He raised his glass. “Sláinte.”

Finian splashed more Bracken 15 year old into his own glass and raised it. “Sláinte.”

Mike finished his whiskey in one last swallow and stood, reaching for his canvas jacket as he glanced down at Colin. “One night we’ll break open another bottle of Bracken’s finest and you can tell us about the real nature of your work. I’m guessing it involves Russians. It’s good you’re back. Our sweet mother worried about you.”

That she had, Finian thought. He’d had more than one conversation himself with Rosemary Donovan about her fears for Colin—for all four of her sons.

“I warned her I’d be difficult to reach,” Colin said.

Mike grunted. “You couldn’t have sent her a postcard, put up something on Facebook? Sent a carrier pigeon telling her you were alive and well?”

“You know Washington. Crazy place.”

“Right. See you tomorrow.” Mike shifted to the youngest Donovan. “Come on, Kev. I’ll drive you home. We can talk about Russians.”

“There are millions of Russians, Mike,” Kevin said, getting to his feet.

“Only one showed up at the Sisters of the Joyful Heart this afternoon. Forget it. I should go back to the woods.”

Andy rose, too. “I have an early start. See you all later.” He gave Colin a curt nod. “Good to have you back.” Then he smiled. “You can help Father Bracken dig bean holes for his first-ever bean-hole supper.”

“Better than getting the shit beat out of you by Russians,” Mike muttered, then exited with Andy and Kevin on his flanks.

With his brothers gone, Colin eyed the Bracken 15. “I could empty this bottle but I’m not going to.”

“All things in moderation,” Finian said, appreciating the long finish of the whiskey he had overseen from distillation to laying down in the cask. “It’s good to be back with your brothers, isn’t it?”

“It is,” Colin said with a heavy sigh.

Finian pushed back an unexpected memory of hiking in Ireland with his brother on a sparkling autumn morning. He and Declan had just turned twenty and were filled with hopes and dreams. They had paused to appreciate the view of the Atlantic and the surrounding countryside and decided then and there they would do it; they would find a way to start their own distillery.

“Brothers are to be cherished,” Finian said. “Mike especially has good instincts about people.”

“Mike hates people.”

“‘Hate’ is too strong. He’s a loner. An observer. That’s why he lives the way he does. Being here in Rock Point helping your parents with their inn, with their worries, has worn his patience.”