A small, even cozy gallery—very accessible, from the decor to the art itself. A place that invited browsing, with good-quality art priced in a range that invited owning.

Yes, he thought the time was perfect. Absolutely perfect.

The car screeched to a halt, all but rearing up like a stallion. Carlo hurried out to open Rogan’s door. “You are on time, signore.”

“You are a magician, Carlo.”

Rogan spent thirty minutes with the head of the Roman branch, twice that in a board meeting, then granted back-to-back interviews to promote the Concannon tour. Several hours were devoted to studying Rome’s proposed acquisitions and to meeting artists. He planned to fly to Venice that evening and lay the groundwork for the next stop of the tour. Gauging his time, he slipped away to place a few calls to Dublin.

“Joseph.”

“Rogan, how’s Rome?”

“Sunny. I’ve finished up here. I should be in Venice by seven at the latest. If there’s time, I’ll go by the gallery there tonight. Otherwise, I’ll do the preliminaries tomorrow.”

“I have your schedule here. You’ll be back in a week?”

“Sooner, if I can manage it. Anything I should know?”

“Aiman was in. I bought two of his street sketches. They’re reasonably good.”

“That’s fine. I’ve an idea we might be able to sell more of his work after the first of the year.”

“Oh?”

“A project I’ll discuss with you when I get back. Anything else?”

“I saw your grandmother and her friend off to Galway.”

Rogan grunted. “Brought him by the gallery, did she?”

“He wanted to see some of Maggie’s work—in the proper setting. He’s quite the character.”

“He certainly is.”

“Oh, and speaking of Maggie, she was by earlier this week.”

“By there? In Dublin? What for?”

“Didn’t say. She sort of dashed in and out. I didn’t even speak with her myself. She did send a shipment, with what seems to be a message for you.”

“What message?”

“‘It’s blue.’”

Rogan’s fingers paused on his notebook. “The message is blue?”

“No, no, the message reads, ‘It’s blue.’ It’s a gorgeous piece, rather delicate and willowy. Apparently she thought you’d know what she meant.”

“I do.” He smiled to himself, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “It’s for the Comte de Lorraine, Paris. A wedding present for his granddaughter. You’ll want to contact him.”

“I will, then. Oh, and it seems Maggie was by your office, and the house as well. I suppose she was looking for you for some reason.”

“It would seem so.” He debated a moment, then acted on instinct. “Joseph, do me a favor? Contact the gallery in Venice. Tell them I’ll be delayed a few days.”

“I’ll be glad to. Any reason?”

“I’ll let you know. Give Patricia my best. I’ll be in touch.”

Maggie drummed her fingers on a table in O’Malley’s, tapped her foot, blew out a long breath. “Tim, will you give me a bookmaker’s sandwich to go with this pint? I can’t wait for Murphy all bloody afternoon on an empty stomach.”

“Happy to do it. Got a date, do you?” He grinned at her from over the bar, wriggled his eyebrows.

“Hah. The day when I date Murphy Muldoon’s the day I lose what’s left of my mind. He said he had some business in the village and would I meet him here.” She tapped the box on the floor with her. “I’ve got his birthday present for his mother.”

“Something you made, then?”

“Aye. And if he’s not here by the time I’ve finished eating, he’ll have to come fetch it himself.”

“Alice Muldoon,” said David Ryan, who sat at the bar puffing a cigarette. “She be living down to Killarney now, wouldn’t she?”

“She would,” Maggie agreed. “And has been these past ten years or more.”

“Didn’t think I’d seen her about. Married again, did she, after Rory Muldoon passed over?”

“She did.” Tim took up the story while he built a pint of Guinness. “Married a rich doctor name of Colin Brennan.”

“Kin to Daniel Brennan.” Another patron picked up the tale, musing over his bowl of stew. “You know, he that runs a food store in Clarecastle.”

“No, no.” Tim shook his head as he walked over to serve Maggie her sandwich. “’Tisn’t kin to Daniel Brennan but to Bobby Brennan from Newmarket on Fergus.”

“I think you’re wrong about that.” David pointed with the stub of his cigarette.

“I’ll wager two pounds on it.”

“Done. We’ll ask Murphy himself.”

“If he ever gets here,” Maggie muttered, and bit into her sandwich. “You’d think I have nothing better to do than to sit here twiddling my thumbs.”

“I knew a Brennan once.” The old man at the end of the bar spoke up, paused, blew a lazy smoke ring. “Frankie Brennan, he was, from Ballybunion, where I lived as a boy. One night he was walking home from the pub. Had a fill of porter, he did, and never had the head for it.”

He blew another smoke ring. Time passed, but no one spoke. A story was in the making.

“So he went walking home, reeling a bit, and cut across a field to shorten the way. There was a fairy hill, and in his drunken state, he trod right over it. Well, a man should know better, drunk or sober, but Frankie Brennan got less than his share when the Lord passed out sense. Now, of course, the fairies had to teach him manners and respect, and so they tugged off all his clothes as he went staggering across the field. And he arrived home, stark naked, but for his hat and one shoe.” He paused again, smiled. “Never did find the other shoe.”

Maggie gave an appreciative hoot of laughter and propped her feet on the empty chair across from her. They could keep Paris and Rome and the rest, she thought. She was just where she wanted to be.

Then Rogan walked in.

His entrance gained him some glances, appraisals. It wasn’t often a man in so fine a suit strolled into O’Malley’s on a cloudy afternoon. Maggie, the pint glass nearly to her lips, froze like stone.