Free Briarwood Cottage by Joann Ross

card. “Here’s my number.”
    “I wouldn’t be holding your breath,” Joyce warned. “And because I’m personally very fond of him, I’d be needing your word that you wouldn’t be about making him look like one of those sad lunatics who wear tin foil hats and fret about space aliens landing in Castlelough. He’s most definitely sane and highly intelligent.”
    “You have my word,” Duncan promised.
    Michael Joyce gave him a long look that reminded Duncan that this was a man who was alive after years of living and working in war zones because he’d learned to see beyond the surface. As Duncan himself had.
    “He’s in Galway at the moment. But he’ll be here tomorrow morning visiting family. I’ll talk with him then, and if he agrees, he can ring you. If he’s not interested in being part of your story, I’ll call you myself.”
    “I can’t ask for any more than that.”
    “Then it’s done.” He polished off the coffee and tossed a bill onto the bar. “Have a grand day.” He was nearly to the door when he turned back. “We’ll be having a seisiún here tonight with a few of the locals if you think your wife would enjoy a bit of craic .”
    “I’ll ask her.” Truthfully, after the way she hadn’t jumped at his suggestion earlier, Duncan had no idea if Cass would be up for a traditional Irish music session. But if she happened to enjoy herself, he’d have a better chance of delaying any divorce talk for at least one night.
    “After her long trip, it may take her a while to get up to speed,” Patrick Brennan said. “Why don’t I put your name on a snug? We’ve a fine one in the back that offers more privacy than those up here in front.”
    “I’d appreciate that.”
    The snug went back to those days when not everyone would want to be seen in a pub. Mostly having been originally frequented by ladies who weren’t allowed to drink in a bar, or a garda at the end of his policing rounds, a priest having his nightly whiskey before turning into bed, or lovers engaged in a clandestine rendezvous, they were also popular as a safe place for young children to sleep while their parents enjoyed the music and dancing. Once entirely private, the glass doors in Brennan’s allowed patrons to be seen while also providing a place for a private conversation.
    Having achieved some measure of success, what with a possible source to interview tomorrow, as much as he wanted to return to the cottage and crawl between those fragrant white sheets with Cass, Duncan left the pub and went to Monohan’s again. After assuring the helpful storekeeper that his wife had definitely enjoyed her breakfast, he bought crackers, cheese from Michael Joyce’s farm, and wine for a pre-supper snack. Along with a box of spaghetti and a jar of imported Marsala sauce in the more likely event they’d be staying home.
    Home . Although he’d been a rolling stone most of his life, once he’d met Cass, Duncan had begun entertaining thoughts of settling. Thoughts he’d kept to himself, because given her energy, which could make the Energizer Bunny look like a tortoise, he hadn’t gotten any impression that she’d been ready to set up housekeeping.
    Yet, the moment she’d walked into Briarwood Cottage this morning, something had clicked. Something that had him thinking that perhaps that incident in the bar had been a wake-up call that a flameout was on a not very distant horizon.
    As he’d scrambled those eggs, he’d thought how much pleasure there was in what was, to most people, an ordinary domestic task. The idea of eating breakfast with Cass every morning, after sleeping in the same bed with her at night, was more than a little appealing.
    And although he was wary about getting his hopes up too high, the thought of starting a family admittedly added to that appeal.
    Once they’d returned to New York from Egypt, Duncan had gone with Cass to all her doctor appointments. As a reporter, he’d always been single-minded in