The Gallaghers of Ardmore Trilogy

asfoolish as it felt on her face as the dog nuzzled her nose into her hand. “She’s very friendly.”
    “Oh, she has a fondness for the ladies, particularly.” Folding her arms on the open window, Brenna rested her chin there. She wondered why the woman seemed embarrassed to have been caught petting a dog. “So you’re fond of dogs, are you?”
    “Apparently.”
    “Whenever she wears out her welcome, you just shove her out the gate, and she’ll head home. Our Betty knows a soft touch, and she doesn’t mind taking advantage.”
    “She’s wonderful company. But I suppose I’m keeping her from your mother.”
    “She’s more on her mind than Betty’s presence at the moment. Refrigerator’s out again. I’m heading down to kick it for her. Haven’t seen you at the pub this week.”
    “Oh. No, I’ve been working. I haven’t really been out.”
    “But you’re heading off today.” She nodded her head toward Jude’s purse.
    “I thought I’d drive into Waterford, hunt up those gardening books.”
    “Oh, now there’s no need to go all that way, unless you’re set on it. Come down the house and talk to my mother while I’m banging on the icebox. She’d enjoy that, and it’d keep her from badgering me with questions.”
    “She wouldn’t be expecting company. I wouldn’t want to—”
    “Door’s always open.” The woman was so interesting, Brenna thought. And hardly said more than one short string of words at a time unless you bumped and nudged at her. If anyone could pry bits and pieces out of her, to Brenna’s mind, it was Mollie O’Toole.
    “Come on, hop in,” she added, then whistled for the dog.
    Betty yapped once, cheerfully, then bounded to the truck and leaped neatly into the back.
    Jude searched for a polite excuse, but everything that came to mind seemed stilted and rude. Smiling weakly, she latched the gate and walked around the truck to the passenger side. “You’re sure I won’t be in the way.”
    “Not a bit of it.” Pleased, Brenna beamed at her, waited until she climbed in, then roared backward out of the drive.
    “God!”
    “What?” Brenna slammed on the brakes, forcing Jude to slap her hands on the dash before her face plowed into it. She hadn’t had time to fasten her seat belt.
    “You. . . ah.” Regulating her breathing, Jude hastily dragged the belt around her. “You don’t worry that a car might be coming?”
    Brenna laughed, a rollicking sound, then gave Jude a friendly pat on the shoulder. “There wasn’t, was there? Don’t fret, I’ll keep you in one piece. Those are lovely shoes,” she added. Though Brenna didn’t see how they’d be as comfortable as a stout pair of boots. “Darcy wagers you wear shoes made in Italy. Is that the truth?”
    “Um . . .” With a vague frown, Jude stared down at her neat black flats. “Yes, actually.”
    “She’s a keen eye for fashion, Darcy does. Loves looking through the magazines and such. Dreamed through them even when we were girls together.”
    “She’s beautiful.”
    “Oh, she is, yes. The Gallaghers are a fine, handsome family.”
    “It’s odd that such attractive people aren’t involved with anyone. Particularly.” Even as she said it, casually as she could, she cursed herself for prying.
    “Darcy has no interest, never has, in the local lads. Above a bit of flirting, that is. Aidan—” She jerked ashoulder. “Seems married to the pub since he came back, else the man is very discreet. Shawn . . .”
    A frown marred Brenna’s brow as she whipped the truck into the drive at her house. “He doesn’t look hard enough at what’s in front of his face, if you’re asking me.”
    The dog leaped out of the truck and raced around the back of the house.
    The frown vanished as Brenna hopped out. “If you’re of a mind to do some shopping in Waterford City, or Dublin, Darcy’s your girl. Nothing she likes better than wandering the shops and trying on clothes and shoes and playing at the paints and powders. But if your stove’s acting up, or you find a leak in your roof—” She winked as she led Jude to the front door. “You give me a call.”
    There were flowers here, snugged together in color and shape into a lovely blanket outside the door, trailing and tangling up a trellis, spilling happily out of pots of simple red clay.
    They seemed to grow as they chose, yet there was a tidiness, an almost ruthless neatness, Jude thought, to the entrance of the house. The stoop was scrubbed