was a casual conversation. I asked her name, and she told me it’s Tatiana and she had heard about the sisters’ work.”
“Did she mention Emma?” Colin asked.
Finian felt as if he had unknowingly just dived into shark-infested waters. “Not by name, no.”
Colin’s gaze narrowed on him. Next to him, Kevin had one hand on his glass on the table and his gray eyes likewise narrowed. Andy looked as surprised by their intense reaction as Finian was. Only Mike’s expression was impassive, impossible to read.
“What do you mean, not by name?” Colin asked.
“Well.” Finian now regretted having brought her up. “She said she’d run into an FBI agent in Heron’s Cove who used to be a nun.”
“That’s true,” Kevin said. “Where in Heron’s Cove did this Tatiana run into Emma?”
“She didn’t say, and I didn’t ask.” Finian wished he didn’t sound so defensive. “It wouldn’t occur to me to interrogate a young woman—a tourist—enjoying an autumn afternoon out at a convent gate.”
Kevin picked up his glass. “If that’s what she was doing. Sounds more like she was checking out Emma.”
“Or the convent itself,” Finian said. “The sisters tell me they’ve had a marked increase in visitors and curiosity seekers since Sister Joan’s death and the subsequent discovery of a Rembrandt in the attic.”
Colin drank some of his water. “Did this Tatiana give you her last name?”
“Not that I recall, no. Dear heaven, I’m starting to sweat. Did I do something wrong?”
“Not a thing.” Colin seemed to make an effort to smile. “You’re a good man, Fin. Bringing Bracken 15 tonight instead of leaving us to Hurley’s rotgut. I don’t know what arrangements you and John Hurley have made but I’m all for it.” He raised his glass. “Sláinte.”
Finian splashed more Bracken 15 year old into his own glass and raised it. “Sláinte.”
Mike finished his whiskey in one last swallow and stood, reaching for his canvas jacket as he glanced down at Colin. “One night we’ll break open another bottle of Bracken’s finest and you can tell us about the real nature of your work. I’m guessing it involves Russians. It’s good you’re back. Our sweet mother worried about you.”
That she had, Finian thought. He’d had more than one conversation himself with Rosemary Donovan about her fears for Colin—for all four of her sons.
“I warned her I’d be difficult to reach,” Colin said.
Mike grunted. “You couldn’t have sent her a postcard, put up something on Facebook? Sent a carrier pigeon telling her you were alive and well?”
“You know Washington. Crazy place.”
“Right. See you tomorrow.” Mike shifted to the youngest Donovan. “Come on, Kev. I’ll drive you home. We can talk about Russians.”
“There are millions of Russians, Mike,” Kevin said, getting to his feet.
“Only one showed up at the Sisters of the Joyful Heart this afternoon. Forget it. I should go back to the woods.”
Andy rose, too. “I have an early start. See you all later.” He gave Colin a curt nod. “Good to have you back.” Then he smiled. “You can help Father Bracken dig bean holes for his first-ever bean-hole supper.”
“Better than getting the shit beat out of you by Russians,” Mike muttered, then exited with Andy and Kevin on his flanks.
With his brothers gone, Colin eyed the Bracken 15. “I could empty this bottle but I’m not going to.”
“All things in moderation,” Finian said, appreciating the long finish of the whiskey he had overseen from distillation to laying down in the cask. “It’s good to be back with your brothers, isn’t it?”
“It is,” Colin said with a heavy sigh.
Finian pushed back an unexpected memory of hiking in Ireland with his brother on a sparkling autumn morning. He and Declan had just turned twenty and were filled with hopes and dreams. They had paused to appreciate the view of the Atlantic and the surrounding countryside and decided then and there they would do it; they would find a way to start their own distillery.
“Brothers are to be cherished,” Finian said. “Mike especially has good instincts about people.”
“Mike hates people.”
“‘Hate’ is too strong. He’s a loner. An observer. That’s why he lives the way he does. Being here in Rock Point helping your parents with their inn, with their worries, has worn his patience.”
“Have you been out to the Bold Coast where he lives?”
“Not yet, no.”
“It’s way down east on the Bay of Fundy. Strong tides, huge rock cliffs. Remote. Stunning scenery. Mike deals with people just enough to make a living, then spends the rest of his time on his own. He’s always been like that, even before he joined the army.”
“He came home from the military a different man?”
Colin shook his head. “Same Mike, just more so. What’s going on with him and Emma?”
“My assessment? She looks at him and wonders if she can fit in among the Donovans. He looks at her and wonders if he really knows his brother, perhaps wonders if he’ll ever have a relationship in his own life such as the one you and Emma have.”
Colin frowned, then grinned suddenly. “I think I actually understand what you just said.”
“This Russian woman, Colin…”
“Not your problem. Worry about your bean-hole supper. I’ll worry about Emma’s Russian.”
“She’s making pies for the supper.”
“The Russian?”
Finian sighed. Colin, of course, knew better. “Emma.”
Colin hesitated, just for a fraction of a second, but it was enough. Finian could see that his friend wasn’t so sure about his new love inserting herself into his life in Rock Point, perhaps less sure than he had been a few weeks ago in the heat of their first days together. It was only natural, Finian thought.
“I’ll clean up here,” he said. “You’ve had very little to drink. You’ll be fine to drive.”
“I walked down here.”
“But you’ll be driving to Emma in Heron’s Cove.”
“So I will.” Colin rose, a spark in his gray eyes. “Thanks for the whiskey. It’s good to be back.”
Finian studied his friend, noted the clear pain he was in, the depth of his fatigue. “How bad was it, Colin?”
“I’m here drinking whiskey with you, so it could have been worse.”
“Your brothers know you didn’t get your cuts and bruises in Washington.”
Colin grinned. “You don’t think I can convince them I tripped on my way to a cocktail party?”
Finian gave up and smiled. “Go, my friend. Be with your woman.”
“An excellent plan.” But as Colin pulled on his jacket, he pointed a finger at Finian. “If this Russian jeweler shows up again, you call me. Got that, Father Bracken?”
Colin left without waiting for an answer, and Finian corked the Bracken 15 year old, then poured himself a glass of water. He had to remember to keep a clear head when dealing with a Donovan. He put the uncomfortable conversation out of his mind and looked around the quiet restaurant. An elderly couple was sharing a piece of wild blueberry pie—a