"She keeps things moving."

"And so I must, for the man in my life is slow. I wonder, Shawn, if you've selected another tune or two for Trevor's consideration."

"I've been busy catering to my new wife. She's a demanding creature." So saying, he reached out to cradle Brenna's face and kiss her. "Get out of my kitchen. It's confusing enough around here without Darcy."

"She'll be back tomorrow, and by this time of the day you'll have cursed her a dozen times."

"Why do you think I miss her? Give your order to Sinead," he told Trevor. "She's a good girl, and our Jude's been working with her. She just needs a bit more practice."

"A friend of my sister Mary Kate is Sinead," Brenna told Trevor as she pushed open the door that swung between kitchen and pub. "A good-natured girl, if a bit scattered in the brain. She wants to marry Billy O'Hara, and that is the sum total of her ambitions at this time."

"And what does Billy O'Hara have to say?"

"Being not quite so ambitious as Sinead, Billy keeps his mouth shut. Good day to you, Aidan."

"And to you." The oldest of the Gallaghers worked the bar and had his hands on the taps as he looked over. "Will you be joining us for lunch, then?"

"That we will. We've caught you busy."

"God bless the tour buses." With a wink, Aidan slid two pints down the bar to waiting hands.

"Do you want us to take it in the kitchen?"

"No need for that unless you're in a great hurry." His eyes, a deeper blue than his brother's, scanned the pub. "Service is a mite slower than our usual. But there's a table or two left."

"We'll leave it to the boss." Brenna turned to Trevor. "How will you have it?"

"Let's get a table." The better to watch how the business ran.

He followed her out and sat with her at one of the mushroom-shaped tables. There was a buzz of conversation, a haze of smoke, and the yeasty scent of beer.

"Will you have a pint?" Brenna asked him.

"Not until after the workday."

Her lips twitched as she kicked back in her chair. "So I've heard from some of the men. Word is you're a tyrant on this particular matter."

He didn't mind the term "tyrant." It meant he was in control. "Word would be correct."

"I'll tell you this, you may have a bit of a problem enforcing such a rule around here. Many who'll labor for you were nursed on Guinness and it's as natural to them as mother's milk."

"I'm fond of it myself, but when a man or woman is on my clock, they stick with mother's milk."

"Ah, you're a hard man, Trevor Magee." But she said it with a laugh. "So tell me, how are you liking Faerie Hill Cottage?"

"Very much. It's comfortable, efficient, quiet, and has a view that rips your heart into your throat. It's just what I was looking for, so I'm grateful you put me on to it."

"That's not a problem, not a problem at all. It's in the family. I think Shawn misses the little kitchen there, as the house we're building's far from finished. More than livable," she added, as it was one of their current sore points, "but I figure to concentrate on the kitchen there on my off days so he'll be happier."

"I'd like to see it."

"Would you?" Surprised, she angled her head. "Well, you're welcome any time. I'll give you the direction. Do you mind me saying I didn't expect you to be as friendly a sort of man as you seem to be?"

"What did you expect?"

"More of a shark, and I hope that doesn't offend you."

"It doesn't. And it depends on the waters where I'm swimming." He glanced over, and his face warmed as Aidan's wife came up to the table. But when he started to rise, Jude waved him down again.

"No, I'm not joining you, but thanks." She rested a hand on her very pregnant belly. "Hello, I'm Jude Frances and I'll be your server today."

"You shouldn't be on your feet like this, carrying trays."

Jude sighed as she took out her order pad. "He sounds like Aidan. I put my feet up when I need to, and I don't carry anything heavy. Sinead can't handle things on her own."

"Not to worry, Trevor. Why me own blessed mother dug potatoes on the day I was born, then went back to roast them after the delivery." At Trevor's narrowed glance, Brenna chuckled. "Well, maybe not, but I'll wager she could have. I'll have today's soup, if you don't mind, Jude, and a glass of milk," she added with a wicked smile for Trevor.

"The same," he said, "plus the sandwich."

"A fine choice. I'll be right back with it."

"She's stronger than she looks," Brenna told him when Jude moved to another table. "And more stubborn. Now that she's found her direction, so to speak, she'll only work harder to prove she can do what you tell her she shouldn't. Aidan won't let her overdo, I promise you. The man adores her."

"Yes, I've noticed. The Gallagher men seem to be devoted to their women."

"So they'd better be, or their women will know why." Relaxed, she kicked back, pulled off her cap. Those red curls tumbled down. "So you aren't finding it, I guess we'd say'too rustic' for you-out in the countryside here after being used to New York City?"

He thought of the job sites he'd experienced: mud slides, floods, blistering heat, petty vandalism, and sabotage. "Not at all. The village is exactly what I expected after Finkle's reports."

"Ah, yes, Finkle." She remembered Trevor's scout very well. "Now there's a man I believe prefers urban conveniences. But you're not so- particular, then."

"I'm very particular, depending. That's why I incorporated most of your design into the theater project."

"Now that's a fine and sneaky compliment." And nothing could have pleased her more. "I suppose I was angling more toward the personal. I have a special fondness for the cottage on Faerie Hill, and I wasn't sure you'd find the place to your liking. Thinking, I suppose, a man with your background and wherewithal would be more inclined to settle at the cliff hotel with maid service and the restaurant and so forth."

"Hotel rooms become confining. And I find it interesting to stay in the house where the woman who was engaged to one of my ancestors was born, and lived, and died."

"She was a fine woman, Old Maude. A wise woman." Brenna kept her eyes on Trevor's face as she spoke. "Her grave's up near the well of Saint Declan, and it's there you can feel her. She's not the one in the cottage now."

"Who is?"

Brenna lifted her eyebrows. "You don't know the legend, then? Your grandfather was born here, and your father as well, though he was a babe when they sailed to America. Still, he visited many years back. Did neither of them tell you the story of Lady Gwen and Prince Carrick?"

"No. So it would be Lady Gwen who haunts the cottage?"

"Have you seen her?"

"No." Trevor hadn't been raised on legends and myths, but there was more than enough Irish in his blood to cause him to wonder about them. "But there's a feminine feel to the place, almost a fragrance, so odds are for the lady."

"You'd be right about that."

"Who was she? I figure if I'm sharing quarters with a ghost, I should know something about her."

No careless dismissal of the subject, no amused indulgence of the Irish and their legends, Brenna noted. Just cool interest. "You surprise me again. Let me see to something first. I'll be right back."

Fascinating, Trevor mused. He had himself a ghost.

He'd felt things before. In old buildings, empty lots, deserted fields. It wasn't the kind of thing a man generally talked about at a board meeting or over a cold one with the crew after a sweaty day's work. Not usually. But this was a different place, with a different tone. More, he wanted to know.

Everything to do with Ardmore and the area was of interest to him now. A good ghost story could draw people in just as successfully as a well-run pub. It was all atmosphere.

Gallagher's was exactly the kind of atmosphere he'd been looking for as a segue into his theater. The old wood, blackened by time and smoke and grease, mated comfortably with the cream-colored walls, the stone hearth, the low tables and benches.

The bar itself was a beauty, an aged chestnut that he'd already noted the Gallaghers kept wiped and polished. The age of customers ranged from a baby in arms to the oldest man Trevor believed he'd ever seen, who was balanced on a stool at the far end of the bar.

There were several others he took as locals just from the way they sat or smoked or sipped, and three times that many who could be nothing other than tourists with their camera bags under their tables and their maps and guidebooks out.

The conversations were a mix of accents, but predominant was that lovely lilt he'd heard in his grandparents' voices until the day they died.

He wondered if they hadn't missed hearing it themselves, and why they'd never had a driving urge to come to Ireland again. What were the bitter memories that had kept them away? Whatever, curiosity about them had skipped over a generation and now had caused him to come back and see for himself.

More, he wondered why he should have recognized Ardmore and the view from the cottage and even now know what he would see when he climbed the cliffs. It was as if he carried a picture in his mind of this place, one someone else had taken and tucked away for him.

They'd had no pictures to show him. His father had visited once, when he'd been younger than Trevor was now, but his descriptions had been sketchy at best.

The reports, of course. There had been detailed photographs and descriptions in the reports Finkle had brought back to New York. But he'd known-before he'd opened the first file, he'd already known.

Inherited memory? he mused, though he didn't put much stock in that sort of thing. Inheriting his father's eyes, the clear gray color, the long-lidded shape of them, was one matter. And he was told he had his grandfather's hands, and his mind for business. But how did a memory pass down through the blood?