on the table stated RESERVED. The pub was essentially her home these days, since she was renting one of the two lofts upstairs. Brendan O’Neill, bartender and owner of the Black Swan, was not just her landlord, he was also her next-door neighbor. And, over the months she’d been in Somersett, he had become a friend.
Although having a reserved table in a bar wasn’t as personal as having a husband greet you at the door with a hot kiss and a chilled glass of wine, Val liked the idea of someone waiting at home for her.
Taking in the broad shoulders stretching the seams of Brendan’s green rugby shirt, narrow hips, and long legs as he deftly wove his way through the crowd, she wondered how the hell the Irishman had managed to stay single.
Or maybe he hadn’t. Although they chatted each evening after she came home from the station and often in the morning, when he’d try to push breakfast on her, she realized that she didn’t really know that many personal details about Brendan.
He’d been an attorney in Dublin. A barrister, she corrected herself. And had supposedly chosen family law because it had allowed him to avoid, in his words, ‘‘those frightful formal wigs and black robes’’ worn by lawyers in criminal or commercial law.
When she’d pressed a bit, the reporter in her wanting more facts, he’d admitted that the wardrobe hadn’t been the sole factor. That standing up for the underdog had its appeal.
From the way his deep blue eyes had warmed at the admission, Val had received the distinct impression that he’d enjoyed his work. Yet when his father had suffered a heart attack, Brendan had apparently given it all up to move back to a small town in the west to run the pub that had been in the O’Neill family for three generations.
A year ago she would have considered such a downwardly mobile career move odd. Even suspicious. Yet wasn’t that exactly what she herself had done?
Of course, she’d had her reasons.
‘‘What was the name of that town?’’ she asked, as he placed a glass of Chardonnay on the table.
‘‘And what town would that be?’’ he asked, the lilt of Ireland singing in his deep voice.
‘‘The one you came here from. Castleview? Castlelake? Something like that?’’
‘‘Castlelough. And why would you be asking that?’’
‘‘I was just pondering career choices.’’ She picked up the glass, took a sip of the crisp, straw-colored wine, and eyed him over the rim of the glass. ‘‘How we all travel our own winding path.’’
‘‘’Tis true enough.’’ Little lines crinkled outward from the corners of his eyes, adding not age but character. ‘‘I watched your report.’’ His expression sobered. ‘‘It’s a bad story, but you were excellent in the telling.’’
‘‘Thanks.’’ She wished she hadn’t brought up work. It wasn’t her favorite topic at the moment. ‘‘It should have been better.’’
‘‘It will be.’’
‘‘You’re so sure of that, are you?’’
‘‘As sure as I am that the sun’s going to rise out over the harbor tomorrow morning.’’
He skimmed a finger down her nose, the gesture casual, almost fraternal. Brendan, Val had discovered, was a toucher. She was not. Except in bed. From the time she’d shed her virginity with a cameraman at Northwestern’s campus TV station, she’d always brought the same attention to detail to sex as she did to her work. Just as when she was doing a live broadcast in front of the camera, in bed Val knew exactly what to say, and how to move.
‘‘Will you be having dinner? We’ve fresh oysters. And some soft-shell crabs.’’
He was always trying to feed her. Which, she had to admit, was rather sweet. Having lived a nomadic life the past years, using people and occasionally being used herself, Val couldn’t remember the last time, before Brendan had come into her life, that anyone had simply wanted to take care of her without receiving something in return.
‘‘I’m not
Although having a reserved table in a bar wasn’t as personal as having a husband greet you at the door with a hot kiss and a chilled glass of wine, Val liked the idea of someone waiting at home for her.
Taking in the broad shoulders stretching the seams of Brendan’s green rugby shirt, narrow hips, and long legs as he deftly wove his way through the crowd, she wondered how the hell the Irishman had managed to stay single.
Or maybe he hadn’t. Although they chatted each evening after she came home from the station and often in the morning, when he’d try to push breakfast on her, she realized that she didn’t really know that many personal details about Brendan.
He’d been an attorney in Dublin. A barrister, she corrected herself. And had supposedly chosen family law because it had allowed him to avoid, in his words, ‘‘those frightful formal wigs and black robes’’ worn by lawyers in criminal or commercial law.
When she’d pressed a bit, the reporter in her wanting more facts, he’d admitted that the wardrobe hadn’t been the sole factor. That standing up for the underdog had its appeal.
From the way his deep blue eyes had warmed at the admission, Val had received the distinct impression that he’d enjoyed his work. Yet when his father had suffered a heart attack, Brendan had apparently given it all up to move back to a small town in the west to run the pub that had been in the O’Neill family for three generations.
A year ago she would have considered such a downwardly mobile career move odd. Even suspicious. Yet wasn’t that exactly what she herself had done?
Of course, she’d had her reasons.
‘‘What was the name of that town?’’ she asked, as he placed a glass of Chardonnay on the table.
‘‘And what town would that be?’’ he asked, the lilt of Ireland singing in his deep voice.
‘‘The one you came here from. Castleview? Castlelake? Something like that?’’
‘‘Castlelough. And why would you be asking that?’’
‘‘I was just pondering career choices.’’ She picked up the glass, took a sip of the crisp, straw-colored wine, and eyed him over the rim of the glass. ‘‘How we all travel our own winding path.’’
‘‘’Tis true enough.’’ Little lines crinkled outward from the corners of his eyes, adding not age but character. ‘‘I watched your report.’’ His expression sobered. ‘‘It’s a bad story, but you were excellent in the telling.’’
‘‘Thanks.’’ She wished she hadn’t brought up work. It wasn’t her favorite topic at the moment. ‘‘It should have been better.’’
‘‘It will be.’’
‘‘You’re so sure of that, are you?’’
‘‘As sure as I am that the sun’s going to rise out over the harbor tomorrow morning.’’
He skimmed a finger down her nose, the gesture casual, almost fraternal. Brendan, Val had discovered, was a toucher. She was not. Except in bed. From the time she’d shed her virginity with a cameraman at Northwestern’s campus TV station, she’d always brought the same attention to detail to sex as she did to her work. Just as when she was doing a live broadcast in front of the camera, in bed Val knew exactly what to say, and how to move.
‘‘Will you be having dinner? We’ve fresh oysters. And some soft-shell crabs.’’
He was always trying to feed her. Which, she had to admit, was rather sweet. Having lived a nomadic life the past years, using people and occasionally being used herself, Val couldn’t remember the last time, before Brendan had come into her life, that anyone had simply wanted to take care of her without receiving something in return.
‘‘I’m not
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