High Noon

breeze take her hair. The kid got such a charge out of wandering around down here, looking at everything, at everyone.
    They’d have to set the rules first. Lunch, yes. Fabulous prizes, no. Not with her car currently hostage at the mechanic’s.
    Probably a smarter idea to make that a nice walk through one of the parks away from retail outlets.
    They’d work it out.
    Gauging the time, she turned away from the water and didn’t notice the solitary man lift and aim one of the cameras in her direction.
    At Swifty’s a shamrock dotted the i in the name on the sign. The stained glass panel in the door was a rather beautiful Celtic knot design. The doorknob was brass, and the outside walls were done in a dull stucco yellow, a shade she remembered seeing in postcards of Irish villages. Hanging pots dripped with airy flowers and green, green vines.
    Little details, she thought. The man paid attention to little details.
    When she stepped inside, it was as she remembered from her single previous visit. A big, burly bar set the tone. This was not the venue for airy ferns and apple martinis. But if you wanted a pint, or a glass of Irish, conversation and music, belly right up.
    Leather booths were deep and cushy, the tables dark, polished wood. Shadow and sparkle played from the colored glass shades of hanging lamps, while a red-eyed turf fire simmered in a quaint little stone hearth.
    The mood was warm welcome.
    At one of the booths, its table loaded with drinks, sat the musicians. A girl with a shock of red-tipped black hair sawed a bow over the fiddle strings with a speed and energy that made the movement as blurry as the music was clear. A man old enough to be her grandfather pumped out rhythm on a small accordion. A young man with hair so pale it reminded Phoebe of angels’ wings piped out the tune, while yet another set down his pint glass, picked up his fiddle, and slid seamlessly into the song.
    Happy, Phoebe thought. Happy music, happy chatter under it. Cheery lights and color, with clever little touches sprinkled through. Old tankards, a bowen drum, bits of pottery she imagined came from Ireland, an Irish harp, old Guinness signs.
    “There you are, and right on time.”
    Even as she turned toward him, Duncan had her hand in his. That smile of his, she realized, it had a way of making her forget she didn’t really want to be there.
    “I like your place,” she told him. “I like the music.”
    “Sessions nightly. I’ve got us a table.” He led her to the one in front of the quiet fire where she could sink down on the cozy little love seat.
    Take the moment, Phoebe thought again. “Best seat in the house.”
    “What can I get you?”
    “Glass of Harp, thanks.”
    “Give me a minute.” He moved over to the bar, spoke to the girl running the near end. A moment later he came back with a glass of golden beer.
    “Nothing for you?”
    “I’ve got a Guinness in the works.” Those soft blue eyes zeroed straight in on hers. “So how are you?”
    “Well enough. How about you?”
    “Let me answer that by asking if you’ve got a stopwatch on me.”
    “Sorry, left it in my other purse.”
    “Then I’m good. I just want to get this out of the way, so it doesn’t keep distracting me. I really like the way you look.”
    “Thanks. I’m okay with it myself most of the time.”
    “See, I’ve had you stuck.” He tapped a finger to his temple, then paused to flash a smile at the waitress who brought over his pint of Guinness. “Thanks, P.J.”
    “You bet.” The waitress set a bowl of pretzels on the table, gave Duncan a wink, Phoebe a quick once-over, then carted her tray off to another table.
    “Well, sláinte. ” He tapped his glass to Phoebe’s, sipped. “So, I kept asking myself were you stuck in there just because of Suicide Joe or because I thought you were hot. Which was my second thought when I saw you, and was probably inappropriate given the circumstances.”
    She sipped more slowly, watching him. That tiny dimple that flickered at the corner of his mouth when he grinned just drew the eye like a magnet. “Your second thought.”
    “Yeah, the first was sort of: Thank God she’s going to fix this.”
    “Do you always have that kind of confidence in total strangers?”
    “No. Maybe. I’ll think about it.” He angled so their knees bumped companionably with a little whoosh of denim against denim. “It’s just I looked at you and it struck me you were someone who knew what to do, knew