Janice Macdonald - The Man On The Cliff

As she passed Sullivan’s Butcher Shop, a man in a navy, striped apron sweeping the pavement looked up and waved.

“Fine day,” he called.

“Terrific,” Kate called back and caught her reflection in a shop window. Warm, if not particularly fetching, in her dark green parka and old black cords. An errant strand of hair had escaped from the black woolen cap she’d jammed on and it flew out behind her like a long red ribbon.

Earlier, at Annie’s insistence, she’d eaten an enormous breakfast of Irish bacon, eggs, tomatoes and soda bread slathered with butter. More calories than she ate at home in an entire week, but it was amazing what food and a decent night’s sleep did for the disposition. Last night Ireland had seemed strange and a little disconcerting. Today, in the glow of early-morning sunshine, all was well. A ride to burn off some of the calories and then a couple of interviews she’d scheduled. After that, she would try Niall Maguire again.

She pedaled through the village. Only a few of the brightly painted shops along the high street were open this early, but the area was already busy. Horns tooted, car doors slammed. From Claddagh Music came the trill of a flute, as pure and clear as birdsong. From Joyce’s Bakery, the aroma of warm bread rose to mingle with the peat smoke and the salty tang of the harbor.

It all seemed quite idyllic. Far removed from the police sirens and gang shootings and other staples of her daily life in Santa Monica. She rode past the small harbor where men in heavy jerseys and oilskin trousers were dragging a small boat onto the shingles. Then past the Connacht Superette and Kelly’s Garage.

A mile or so out of the village, the road narrowed and acrid farm smells filled the air. A light breeze moved the clouds overhead. Except for the faint sigh of the wind and the hum of her tires on the road, the silence all around her was absolute. It hovered in the air like a presence—a peaceful hush that made the whole countryside appear to be sleeping.

Back home in Santa Monica, Kate worked to the constant chatter of the all-news radio that played in her office. When she drove, it was to the accompaniment of the assorted tapes she carried in her car. When you live with noise around you, she’d heard a radio shrink say, it drowns out the knowledge that you’re alone.

Deep in thought, she heard a whoosh of air and a sharp squeal of brakes. The dark green Land Rover seemed to materialize from nowhere. She swerved wildly, slammed on the brakes and toppled over into a patch of grass. For a moment she just sat there, stunned, her nose filled with the smell of burned rubber. The car’s driver, a tall, dark-haired man, made his way over to where she sat.

“Are you all right?” He reached to help her up.

“I’m fine.” Ignoring his hand, Kate pulled herself to her feet and brushed grass from her pants. “No thanks to you. God, you could have killed me.” She glared up at him, but he towered over her by at least a foot, which meant that she had to crane her neck and squint into the sun to see his face, something that further incensed her. “Perhaps it never occurred to you that not everyone might be zipping along in a fancy car?”

“It’s usually only a problem,” he said, watching her, “when people ride on the wrong side of the road. Which you were.”

She felt her face flame. Tap-dance your way out of this one. Rooted to the spot, unwilling to break eye contact and concede the point, she stood there until she saw he was fighting to keep a straight face. And then she recognized him.

“The man on the cliff,” she said.

“The Mace bandit,” he said.

“Mace bandit.” She shook her head at him. He wore an open black leather jacket over a black sweater. The somber color accentuated his fair skin and dark hair, set off the fine-boned features and clear gray eyes. His hair was clean, slightly curly and just a shade too long. The shadow on his jaw suggested he’d neglected to shave that morning. He also had a truly sensational smile, which he was turning on her now.

“I’m not sure about you,” she finally said. “Last night you nearly scared me to death. Today you knock me off my bike.”

“I’m bad news all around,” he said. “Or so I’ve been told.”

“I bet you have.” She tried not to smile back at him. He looked wildly attractive, a kind of unstudied sexiness that perked up her hormones and pheromones and God knows what other mones. Something about the way he was looking at her told her the attraction was mutual.

“How can I make amends?” He gestured at her bike. “What about this then? I’ll see what the damage is.”

“There’s no damage.” Even if there were, she’d rather walk the damn thing back to Annie’s than drive up in his car, looking like a fool because she’d forgotten which side of the road to ride on. She smiled. “It’s fine.”

“You’ve not looked.”

“Trust me. I know these things.”

Moments passed. A breeze rustled the grasses, tousled his hair. A car went by. Her knee started to throb, and her hands smarted where she’d landed on them. She shoved them in the pocket of her parka.

“You’re all right, really? No broken bones.”

“I’m all right, really,” she said, imitating him. “No broken bones.” Given his looks, the lyrical accent was overkill. This guy was too cute by half.

“Where are you headed?”

“Cragg’s Head.”

“That’s the opposite direction from where you’re going.”

“Well…” She glanced at him from under her lashes. “I was taking the scenic route.”

“Actually, you’re on the road to Dublin.”

“The scenic and very circuitous route,” she amended.

They looked at each other until neither one of them could keep a straight face. It occurred to her that she could stand there indefinitely trading lines back and forth with him. And he seemed in no hurry to leave, either.

“If you think you’re going to get me to admit I’m lost,” she finally said, “give up.”

“Ah, I didn’t think for a moment you were lost.” He lowered his voice and leaned toward her a little. “But I’ll tell you a secret. Cragg’s Head is that way.” He gestured with his arm. “Straight ahead. You can’t miss it.”

“I think I’ve heard that before.” She bent to pick up her bike and felt him watching her. Either she could prolong the exchange, shift it up to the next gear or do the safe thing and ride off. In a split-second decision, she chose the latter. He’d told her something she already knew. He was bad news. His sort always was. That attractive got-the-world-by-a-string type. They were like strawberries. When you were allergic to them, it didn’t matter how tempting they looked, heaped into pies, dolled up with shiny red glaze and whipped cream. The fact was they screwed up your system and caused endless misery.

They were something to be avoided.

“Can I at least give you a lift?”

“No, thanks.” She climbed on the bike. “I can make it on my own steam. I’ll try and remember to stay on the right side.”

“Just remember, the right side is on the left.”

“Got it.” With a smile and a glance over her shoulder, Kate started off down the road, praying the wheel wouldn’t fall off while he was still watching her. The final image of him burned in her brain. Sunlight and shadows dappling his head and shoulders. The quizzical smile. For a moment, she almost turned around and rode back. Maybe she’d been too flip. After all, he had seemed genuinely concerned.

She kept riding. No, better this way. Better not even knowing his name. What was the point anyway? A little more than a week and she’d be back in the States.

ON HER WAY back to the Pot o’ Gold, Kate passed the redbrick building that housed the tourist bureau where Annie worked part-time. Through the window, she could see Annie working at her desk. She rapped on the window and Annie motioned for her to come in.