Oh Danny Boy: A Sweet Contemporary Romance Read online

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Oh Danny Boy

  Josie Riviera

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  A Note From The Author

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Also by Josie Riviera

  Copyright © 2017 by Josie Riviera

  978-0-9969541-8-1

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This book is dedicated to all my wonderful readers who have supported me every inch of the way. THANK YOU!

  Chapter One

  “Seamus, don’t jump!” Clara Donovan heard her own cries, the shouts resounding through the misty night air. She raced across the sidewalk toward Farthing Bridge, her gaze riveted on a horror she didn’t want to believe. Her older brother Seamus sat on the edge of a tall bridge with his head slumped in his hands, a bottle of whiskey beside him. The arched stone bridge spanned the River Farthing, connecting the town to a once-popular marketplace.

  No. It couldn’t be. Her breath burned in her chest as she took in gulps of dampness and drizzle. Don’t stop. Run faster.

  When she reached the bridge, she elbowed through a group of late-night revelers. Several pointed up at Seamus. “He’s off the rails!” someone shouted.

  Her brother seemed unaware of the gathering crowd. He swung his legs back and forth like an underwound metronome and stared into the ice-cold river below.

  She shook off the image of him on her living room floor several days earlier. He’d been passed out drunk. Should she have phoned a treatment center? No. She could fix her brother’s problems. He simply needed encouragement, surrounded by his loving, supportive family.

  Seamus. Gentle Seamus. Kind and fiery-haired, quick to temper, quicker to make amends. Her heart squeezed at the scruffy, dejected man he’d become since his wife had died.

  Clara put her hands on her knees and took in calm, even breaths. Quickly, she assessed the corroded pedestrian catwalk leading to the top of the bridge, the skull and crossbones sign that warned Danger.

  She stared upward at her sweet brother. “Dear saints in heaven, Seamus,” she whispered. “You promised me that you’d never drink again.”

  She stuffed her wool gloves into her jacket pockets and bent to lace her weatherproof boots tighter. There was no time to dash around the river to the street that crossed the bridge, and she certainly wouldn’t ask anyone in the crowd to lend a hand.

  She yanked off the “Danger” sign and threw it to the ground. That pressing feeling in her chest, like she was running out of air, slowed her movements. Dragging in another breath, she grasped the slippery wet handrails and stepped onto the bottom rung of the catwalk.

  “Missus, are you trained for this?” a man from the crowd inquired.

  She glanced around. The man stood a hairsbreadth away. He was tall with piercing blue eyes and carried a guitar case. His dark brown hair had a reddish tinge and his navy wool jacket strained against his athletic form.

  “Thanks. I can manage on my own.”

  Despite her refusal, she hesitated. Was she trained to climb to the top of a rusted bridge when she was crippled with fear and could hardly breathe? Umm, no. But she was desperate, and desperation made people do things they thought they could never do.

  “I insist.” The man set his guitar case on the grass and stepped forward. “Who’s sitting on the top of the bridge?”

  “My brother!”

  “I’ll follow behind you. No worries.”

  No worries. Dear saints in heaven, her brother was about to jump off a bridge.

  She gripped the slick railings with both hands and began climbing, acutely aware of the guitar player’s encouraging whispers behind her. She counted each step until she reached the top, scrambled to her feet, and raced to her brother. Seamus’s chin was hunkered in his hands, the empty whiskey bottle beside him.

  She stopped a foot away from him. “Seamus, come with me.”

  His legs stopped swinging. He turned to her, his metallic-grey eyes glazed with drink. “What’re you doing here?”

  “I’m looking out for you, same as always.” She attempted to keep her tone light. “The weather’s a wee bit fierce up here. The wind and rain are driving my hair sideways.”

  Inwardly, she shuddered. He was a sight wearing tattered clothes, his flaming red hair caught in a ponytail.

  “And who’s that dodgy bloke behind you?”

  “Someone who’s offered to help.” She struggled to control her trembling. Her brother’s big-boned body was precariously close to the edge.

  Seamus’s mouth twisted. “It’s better if I end my life. I’m on me tod, I’m all alone.”

  She extended a hand. “You’re not alone. I’m here for you.”

  Despite the chilly night air, Seamus was sweating. “I long for my wife. My beautiful woman …”

  “We all miss Fiona very much.”

  Seamus’s fingers found the empty whiskey bottle and flung it into the river. “I’m warning you. Leave me alone or I’ll jump.” Slowly, he stretched out his hands.

  “Seamus!” Clara hunched over, sick to her stomach, listening to the hoots and jeers of the spectators.

  “Shut your gob!” Seamus hollered to the crowd. “Are ya’ thick?”

  Clara caught her breath. Stay calm. Level-headed and composed.

  She straightened. “Those people won’t help you, but I will.”

  What was she supposed to do now? Move slower, speak gentler? On watery knees, she started forward.

  “You’re managing perfectly,” came the whisper behind her.

  The guitarist. She’d almost forgotten. His breath was warm and reassuring against her hair.

  She extended her hand again. “Please, Seamus, please. Come with me.”

  Seamus openly sobbed. “I’m no use to anyone.”

  “Think of Anna and me. We’re your sisters and we love you.” Clara tried to smile. “What would I do with myself if you weren’t sleeping on my couch every night? You know I don’t like to be alone.”
r />   Seamus squinted at her. Using his worn shirtsleeve, he wiped at the tear-stained bags under his eyes. “I lost all my money on the horse races. Five hundred euros that I’d borrowed from a friend, and one hundred euros of Anna’s money, too. The bookies were certain Green Dragon would win the second race, but the ponies double-crossed me.”

  Clara dug her nails into her palms. “We’ll pay the bookies all the money you lost.” How, she had no idea. Her income as a factory worker and part-time dance teacher was scarcely enough to pay their current living expenses.

  In the distance, insistent sirens blared, angry red lights flashed.

  “Keep talking,” the guitar player told her.

  What to say? The wrong words might send her impulsive brother over the edge. She chanced a peek at the guitarist and lost her footing. Gasping, she held in a scream.

  His arms went around her. “I’ve got you,” he said softly.

  She steadied herself and shook off his hold. Without making a sound, she ventured another two steps until she stood behind her brother. “We’ll return to my flat and I’ll light a fire in the hearth. Won’t that be grand?” She heard her voice shake, the rale insistent.

  “And make me a cuppa tea?” Seamus’s copper-red beard showed days of neglect and grew in dirty spikes below his chin.

  She placed her hands firmly on his shoulders and gave a reassuring squeeze. “I’ll brew the entire pot and fry a proper Irish breakfast in the morning.”

  Several beats passed. Seamus seemed to be trying desperately to concentrate. He looked up at her. “You don’t cook.”

  “I can manage fried eggs and bacon rashers.”

  He relaxed beneath her hands.

  She licked her lips, her mouth so dry. “Please come home. Please. We’re a family. We’ll work this out together like we always do.”

  Seamus rubbed at his eyes, sniffled, and started to stand.

  The guitarist stepped around Clara. Carefully, he assisted the wobbling Seamus to his feet.

  The crowd applauded. They’d observed every detail of her family’s private business. Clara pressed her lips tightly together, willing herself to think of her brother and nothing else.

  Her sobbing brother slumped into her arms. She hugged him for a long time, then roughly shook his shoulders and stared into his bleary eyes. “I understand you’re in a lot of pain. You’ll be independent again, you’ll see. It took me a long time, remember? And now I’m fine.”

  “Yeh.” Seamus’s lopsided grin showed missing teeth. He nodded so quickly that he stumbled, so unexpected they both cried out. She clung to his beefy hand, his body still so close to the edge of the bridge, as she stared into the frigid waters of the River Farthing far below.

  “You’ll both be safer away from the bridge.” The guitarist’s voice came loud and urgent. He guided Clara and Seamus to the side of the road, removed his jacket and placed it on the damp grass.

  “Who are you, bloke?” Seamus asked.

  “Danny Brady.” He wheeled, clear in his intent to walk away.

  “What about your jacket?” Clara called out.

  Danny half turned and looked upward. The clouds had parted, the sky bathed in moonlight and stars. “No rain and no worries. Keep the jacket.”

  An emergency vehicle swerved onto the bridge, and Clara squinted into the blinding headlights. Several paramedics sprinted toward her and Seamus. A Channel Four television news van streaked past, reversed, and screeched to a stop. A woman reporter and cameraman leapt from the van and scurried to the guitarist.

  Clara recognized the reporter, Maeve Flanagan, an anchorwoman for the local television station. Maeve clutched the microphone, speaking urgently, then held the microphone out for Danny. He spoke lengthily, the bright camera light illuminating his china-blue eyes.

  “Where are you from, Brady?” her brother shouted from across the road.

  Danny’s handsome face showed signs of fatigue. “Dublin.” He focused on Clara. “Do you have a name, missus?”

  “Clara Donovan.” She nodded at her brother. “And this very foolish man is my brother Seamus.”

  From across the road, the reporter shouted, “May I quote you, Ms. Donovan?”

  Clara stretched out a tired arm. “Absolutely not! And please take your slanderous reporting elsewhere!”

  Maeve muffled the mouthpiece with her palm. In a loud voice, she asked, “Do I have permission to make a plea to the community on your behalf, Ms. Donovan? There are resources available for poor—”

  Clara cut Maeve off with a wave. Heat flushed through her body. “My family fends for themselves, Miss Flanagan! If you want to do something for us, then stay away!”

  Chapter Two

  Danny watched as Clara Donovan poured boiling water into a bone-white teapot with shamrocks painted on the sides, moving easily in her tiny kitchen.

  He’d rung the garda, the police, as soon as he’d spotted the desperate, drunken man on the bridge. They’d arrived, along with the paramedics, a few minutes afterward, though fortunately they hadn’t been needed.

  Danny had gone for a short walk along the river’s edge to clear his mind from the numerous business decisions plaguing him. His coffee shop’s grand opening had brought him to the town of Farthing for a fortnight. He hadn’t known the town existed until his planning board had scouted the area and discovered a fresh, natural spring located nearby, ideal because the water was clear and pure for brewing coffee.

  When he’d volunteered to help her, Clara Donovan’s dark, shining eyes had reflected panic and fear, despite her protests. So, he’d climbed the catwalk behind her, intending to leave as soon as he was certain that she and her brother were safe. Then he’d reversed, reconsidering, rationalizing that he shouldn’t leave a helpless woman with a drunken brother at the top of a bridge until help had arrived. He’d pushed off the insistent reminder that he’d vowed never to get involved in other people’s problems. He’d only been mindful of the desperate scene playing out before him.

  After the garda had filed a report and the paramedics had left, Danny offered to drive Clara and Seamus home. At first she refused, telling him she lived only a few blocks away.

  He offered a second time. Surely, Clara and her brother were in no condition to walk any distance, he said. In a gesture of friendliness, or perhaps to thank him, she agreed by inviting him to her flat for tea and scones.

  Despite the late hour and tomorrow’s long work day, he accepted. After he’d assisted her brother into the backseat of his Mercedes, Clara slid onto the front passenger seat.

  She raised a brow. “Quite a posh car. You fancy the metallic silver?”

  He wrapped a hand around the steering wheel and started the engine. “I’ve worked hard for this car,” was all he said.

  When they arrived at her flat, he supported a tottering Seamus through the downstairs foyer and up the stairs, then persuaded Seamus to drink a glass of water and down some Ibuprofen. After that, he assisted Seamus to the bathroom and then helped Clara guide her brother to the living room couch, where Seamus immediately fell into a deep yet fitful sleep. Apparently, that cuppa tea for Seamus would have to wait until morning, Danny thought with a grin.

  Danny had set his guitar in her foyer and removed his damp, grass-stained jacket, insisting he build a fire in the hearth while Clara changed out of her wet clothes.

  “Would you put the kettle on when you’re done lighting the fire?” she called from the bedroom. “We can keep an eye on my brother from the kitchen.”

  “Aye.” Danny shoveled coal into the fireplace, added a fire lighter and kindling in the middle of the grate, then turf. He waited for the smoky fire to clear, then strode to the bathroom and worked the soap in his hands up to his wrists, rinsing until the black sooty dust was gone.

  As he made his way into Clara’s kitchen, a lemony scent wafted through the air, a mixture of sweet and tart, and he sniffed appreciatively. Her faux marble countertops and stainless-steel sink and appliances sparkled, th
e forest-green vinyl swept clean as the finest hotel. The kitchen walls had been painted a luminous green hue, her cabinets a cozy charcoal. Several lush potted ferns added freshness and lightness, giving the intimate space a snug, appealing appearance.

  He filled the kettle with water, placed it on the stove to boil, and strode to the window. Why, he wondered, was the window dead bolted shut? The neighborhood seemed a bit run-down, although safe enough, illuminated by a lamppost on the street corner and with a stone wall beyond.

  Clara padded into the kitchen wearing thick socks, black leggings, and a clingy long-sleeved T-shirt that accentuated her slender, graceful figure. Danny shifted from the window to watch her. She was a fetching contrast between vulnerability and self-determination.

  “Your flat is charming,” he said. “Did you decorate it yourself?”

  “Yeh, and thanks. I enjoy decorating and painting on a budget. One of my favorite colors is green.”

  “Duly noted.” He grinned. “The color of our emerald isle.”

  “Green is relaxing and reminds me of nature.” She went to her cupboard and brought out cups and saucers. “Thank you. You’ve done so much for me and my brother tonight.”

  “No bother.” He basked in the respect lighting her chocolate-brown eyes. She’d banded her thick hair back, emphasizing her high cheekbones. Despite her olive complexion, she was still pale, still looked shaken.

  “Can I assist?” he asked.

  “With setting the table? No bother. I’m extremely self-sufficient.” She gestured to a pair of stools. “Brewing tea is my specialty, as it is for most anyone who’s lived in Ireland long enough.”

  “Aye.” He perched on one of the stools. “However, coffee is my specialty.”

  She pulled some napkins from a cupboard drawer. “So you’re from Dublin?”

  “Aye.”

  “A Dubliner who drives a fancy car. You’re posher by the minute.”

  He didn’t reply.

  Now she carried the white teapot to the kitchen table, setting it among gleaming porcelain cups, a sugar and creamer, and the napkins. She set the scones near the butter and raspberry jam, the teapot on a trivet.