The Gallaghers of Ardmore Trilogy

looking for in a woman.”
    “Ah . . . well . . . common sense,” he said a bit too cheerily. “That’s a fine trait. And patience. A man needs patience from a woman, truth be known. Time was, he wanted her to make him a nice comfortable home, but in today’s world—and as I have five daughters I have to live in today’s world—that’s more a give-and-take sort of arrangement. A helpmate.” He grabbed the word like a rope tossed over the edge of a very high cliff with a very narrow ledge that was rapidly crumbling under his feet. “A man wants a helpmate, a life’s companion.”
    Brenna gave herself a little push so she could sit out beside the car. She kept her hand on his ankle, for she sensed he’d bolt if she gave him the chance. “I think we both know I’m not talking about common sense and patience and companionship.”
    His face went pink, then white. “I’m not talking to you about sex, Mary Brenna, so get that idea right out of your head. I’m not having a conversation with my daughter about such a matter.”
    “Why? I know you’ve had it, or I wouldn’t be here, would I?”
    “Be that as it may,” he said and closed his lips.
    “If I were a son instead of a daughter, we could discuss it?”
    “You’re not, so we aren’t, and that’s the end of it.” Now he folded his arms as well.
    Sitting as he was, he made Brenna think of an annoyed leprechaun, and she wondered if Jude had used him as a model for one of her sketches.
    “And how am I to get my mind around something if it can’t be discussed?”
    Since Mick didn’t give a hang about the logic of that at the moment, he simply scowled off into the distance. “If you must talk of such things, speak with your mother.”
    “All right, all right, never mind, then.” She’d go at this from a different angle. Hadn’t he been the very one to teach her there was always more than one way to approach a job of work? “Tell me something else.”
    “On another topic entirely?”
    “You could say that.” She smiled at him, patting his leg. “I’m wondering, if there was something you wanted, had wanted for some time, what would you do about it?”
    “If I’ve wanted it, why don’t I have it?”
    “Because you haven’t made any real effort to get it as yet.”
    “And why haven’t I?” He arched his sandy brows. “Am I slow or just stupid?”
    Brenna thought it over, decided he couldn’t know he’d just insulted his firstborn. Then she nodded slowly. “Maybe a bit of both in this particular case.”
    Relieved to have the conversation turn to a safe area, he gave her a fierce grin. “Then I’d stop being slow and I’d stop being stupid and I’d take good aim at what I wanted and not dawdle about. Because when an O’Toole takes aim, by Jesus, he hits his mark.”
    That, she knew, was true enough. And was certainly expected. “But maybe you’re a bit nervous and not quite sure of your skill in this area.”
    “Girl, if you don’t go after what you want, you’ll never have it. If you don’t ask, the answer’s always no. If you don’t step forward, you’re always in the same place.”
    “You’re right.” She took his shoulders, transferring a little grease from her hands to his shirt as she kissed him soundly. “You’re always right, Dad, and that’s just what I needed to hear.”
    “Well, that’s what a father’s for, after all.”
    “Would you mind finishing up this business here?” She jerked a thumb under the car. “I don’t like to leave it half done, but there’s something I have to see to.”
    “That’s not a problem.” He wiggled under the car and, delighted he’d put his daughter’s mind at ease, whistled while he worked.
     
     
     

 
FIVE
     
     
     
    S HAWN STEEPED HIS tea until he could have danced the hornpipe on its surface, then unearthed the day-old scones left over from the pub. He had an hour before he had to be at work, and he intended to enjoy his little breakfast and read the paper that he’d picked up in the village after Mass.
    The radio on the counter was playing traditional Gaelic tunes, and the kitchen hearth was crackling with fine turf fire. For him, it was a small slice of heaven.
    Before long he’d be cooking for the Sunday crowds, and Darcy would be in and out of the kitchen at Gallagher’s, needling him about something or other. And this one or that would have something to say to him. He imagined Jude would slip in for an hour or two, and he’d make sure