It worked. Both of them scoffed. “The money had a large part to do with it,” Maggie said. “And if you’d ever met Patrick, you would have known that once he’d made up his mind, nothing would change it.”

Mike nodded slowly. “I’ve heard stories.”

“’Course you have.” Maggie stirred her small silver spoon through her tea.

Mike cleared his throat. “Is there a bus out to the farm? I wanted to look around.”

His aunt shook her head. “It’s only accessible by car. I’m busy this afternoon, but could give you a lift tomorrow. Or my nephew Paul’s in town. I’m sure he can bring you over.”

Mike and I exchanged a glance, and then Mike nodded.

Maggie lifted her tea. “You can find him at the pub over on Blue Street. Just ask for Paul Connelly.”

We broke for lunch first. We picked up pre-made sandwiches at the local Spar, a tiny chain convenience store, and ate them sitting on a bench looking over the tiny harbor. Boats bobbed in the water, and people occasionally stared. We were stopped three times for introductions before we were finally able to unwrap our food.

I liked it here, with the warm summer breeze and the scent of the sea and the warm bread in our hands. I turned to say as much to Mike, but switched topics when I saw the furrows in his brow. “So what’s up with this estrangement? What happened?”

The furrows melted away when he looked at me, replaced by a grin. “You’re pretty nosy.”

“Who, me?” I widened my eyes. “I just have an active interest in understanding the world. Also, that was a little weird, wasn’t it? Shouldn’t we have talked about Patrick and your dad and your lives, considering that you’d never met before?”

He finished off a bite of his sandwich. “My dad and Patrick grew up on Kilkarten, but by the time Dad was ten, they’d moved to the village—actually, probably to the house Maggie’s in now.” He threw a glance over his shoulder, like he’d only just realized his father might have spent years in that same house. I had to touch his knee before he shook himself and went on.

“Right. Anyway, after my grandparents died—and this was when my dad and Patrick were in their late teens, early twenties—Dad wanted to sell the farm. Patrick didn’t. They had some huge fight and then Dad moved to Boston.”

“What was the fight about?”

He shrugged.

Right. “Personal reasons.”

He gave me that crooked smile.

We finished off our sandwiches. I looked out over the water, dark blue and endless. Mike’s dad had wanted to get rid of the land, and now Mike refused to. What had that fight been about? Did Maggie know? Did Mike’s family? “So I’m guessing you haven’t met this cousin of yours, then.”

The idea seemed to astound him. “Cousin?”

His shock was kind of cute. “Almost. If he’s Maggie’s nephew.”

He groaned. “I should be back home celebrating the off-season and instead I’m meeting lost cousins and bitter aunts.”

I hopped off the bench. “Come on. Let’s go find this pub.”

Blue Street looked a lot like Red Street, with just a handful of shops and houses and the cobblestone road interrupted by a small fountain. A signpost pointed toward shops and the church, written in two languages.

The pub clearly took precedence, busy even at two in the afternoon. A green pennant hung outside the brown brick building, while inside it looked like the Irish pubs at home, except the music didn’t hurt my ears and the TVs didn’t blast. People ate as much as they drank, and off in the back a group of teenagers played pool.

We headed for the bar, and the college-aged kid watching the soccer game from behind it. “Hey,” Mike said. “We’re looking for Paul Connelly. Is he here?”

The teenager dragged his gaze from the screen and raked it over us, with the amount of judgment I usually associated with NYU student bartenders in the East Village. It morphed slowly to recognition. “You’re Michael O’Connor.”

He nodded. “Yeah. Is Paul here?”

The kid slouched back and crossed his arms. “Connelly! Your American cousin’s arrived.”

Every head in the pub swiveled in our direction.

From the back, a man detached himself from a clump of Guinness guzzlers. He was about my height and age, but he had thick black hair and dark eyes. Black Irish, they called it, Iberian blood. He shoved his hands in his pockets and sauntered over.

“Well.” Paul Connelly had a low, lilting voice, and I immediately thought of Cam’s Operation: Irish Boyfriend. “That didn’t take very long.”

Beside me, Mike relaxed very slowly. The great control that went into his apparent laziness was more alarming than if he’d tensed up all over. “’Scuse me?”

Paul propped his elbow on the bar and shrugged. “Seems to me you swooped right in as soon as you inherited some land.”

Mike curved his lips up. “Actually, my uncle just died. I’m here for his month’s mind.”

“After twenty-six years of never even talking to the man?”

Mike relaxed his body even more, like he was lounging in midair. “You’re pretty well-informed for a guy I never even knew existed.”

Paul scoffed and shook his head. “Just like a Yank.”

Mike didn’t even twitch. Like a snake before the death-strike. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Great. Could no one in this family communicate without weird accusations? If Paul Connelly’s body language was any indication, Mike was about to get punched in the face.

I squeezed between the two guys and stuck my hand out. “I’m Natalie Sullivan. Sorry for your loss. I never met your uncle, but we spoke several times. I’m an archaeologist from Columbia University.”

Paul waited a moment, his square jaw working, before he transferred his attention to me. When he did, surprise crossed his face. “You’re a lot prettier than I expected.”

“Hey,” Mike said sharply. He moved up beside me.

I stepped on Mike’s foot and kept my gaze trained on Paul. “Your aunt said you might be able to take us by Kilkarten today.”

Paul looked back and forth between Mike and me. “You two a thing?”

I refused to look at Mike. “No.”

Mike spoke at the same time. “What’s it to you?”

Paul smiled slowly and Mike scowled. Then, focusing all his attention on me, Paul said, “Right this way.”

Mike caught my arm as we headed out the door, leaning close enough that his breath brushed my neck. “Watch that guy.”

I shivered, focus stolen by the thrills of attraction running down my arms. “Why?”

“Because I have two younger sisters, and can spot an asshole a mile away.”

I shook my head at him and followed Paul out onto the street. We piled into Paul’s truck, and Mike and I had a brief, silent struggle for the front seat while Paul headed toward the driver’s side. Mike won.

Paul had to start and stop several times as oblivious pedestrians wandered into the streets before us. He didn’t speak. Mike didn’t speak.

So of course I did. “So your aunt says you live in Paris?”

“That’s right.” He looked at me in the rearview mirror. “You been?”

“No, but it’s on my list. Do you travel a lot, out of Paris?”

He slowly grinned at me in the mirror. For a moment, he looked shockingly like his cousin, despite the lack of blood between them, and the darkness of Paul’s looks compared to Mike’s brightness. He nodded. “A bit.”

I kept babbling. “I’ve never been to Paris but I did a whole circuit of Eastern Europe—Prague and Istanbul and Croatia...”

A spark of genuine interest lit, and some of the tension drained from the car. “You ever get to Dubrovnik?”

“I loved Dubrovnik.” I turned to Mike. “It’s this gorgeous walled city with red roofs and these winding streets—”

Paul interrupted. “Did you walk the walls? See the Old Town?”

I nodded. “Oh yeah, of course. Did you go out to that island?”

“With the monastery?”