Wedding at King’s Convenience by Maureen Child Page B

simple.
    His had taken a slap and that was something he wasn’t used to. How had Maura slipped under his well-honed defenses to leave such an indelible image on his mind?
    “Doesn’t matter,” he said aloud, hearing the determination in not only the words but his tone. The memories would fade, eventually. But that wasn’t much comfort in the middle of the night when he woke up with dreams of her raging through his mind.
    But a man couldn’t be held responsible for what his unconscious mind dredged up, could he? He pushed away from his desk and walked to the window overlooking Beverly Hills and Hollywood. The streets were jammed with cars and in the distance he could see the stalled traffic on the freeway. Smog hung low over the scene, a hazy brown blanket covering a city with millions of people all hurrying through their lives. And for just a moment, he let himself imagine the cool green fields of Ireland. The warm welcome of the pub.
    The narrow road to Maura’s farmhouse.
    Irritated with himself and the memories that were still far too vivid, he scrubbed both hands over his face and turned away from the window. He didn’t have time to waste indulging in thoughts of a woman who’d no doubt already moved on.
    His phone rang and he grabbed at it with the eagerness of a drowning man reaching for a life preserver. “What is it, Joan?”
    His assistant said, “Mr. King, Harry Robinson’s on line three for you. He says they’re having problems on location.”
    Harry was directing the Irish epic shooting at Maura’s farmhouse. Frowning, Jefferson said, “Thanks, Joan. Put him through.”
    The line clicked over and he asked, “What seems to be the problem, Harry?”
    The other man’s voice was sharp and filled with both static and disgust. “The problem is, nothing’s going right over here. It’s a nightmare.”
    “What? What happened?”
    “What hasn’t?” Harry countered. “That inn you told me about? Suddenly it has no vacancies. The local caterer’s prices have gone up three times in the last week and the coffee’s always cold. The guy at the pub even insists he’s run out of beer whenever we walk in.”
    Jefferson turned around and stared blankly out at the city view again. His own reflection stared back at him from the sun-drenched glass. He looked just as confused as he felt. “Run out of beer? How is it possible for a pub to run out of beer?”
    “Tell me about it.”
    That mild swell of irritation he’d felt earlier began to bubble and churn inside him. “That doesn’t sound like Craic to me.”
    “Yeah, well, it doesn’t exactly match the description you gave me of the place, either.” In an aside to someone else, Harry said, “Well, move the trough out of the shot. No? Fine. I’ll be there in a minute.” Then he refocused. “That’s an example of what we’re dealing with. There’s a feed trough I want to move and Ms. Donohue refuses to cooperate.”
    Jefferson tugged at the tie that felt as if it was strangling him. “Go on.”
    “Yesterday,” Harry told him, “the owner of the markettold us he wouldn’t be selling to us at all and we could just go into the city for whatever we needed.”
    “He can’t do that.”
    “Seems he can. I don’t have to tell you that West-port’s a much longer drive and it’s eating up time we don’t have.”
    “I know.” What the hell was going on?
    “Oh, and the market guy said that if I spoke to you I should tell you, and I quote, ‘There’ll be no peace for you here until someone does his duty,’ end quote. Do you have any idea what he was talking about?”
    “No.” Duty? What someone? What duty? What the hell had happened in Ireland to turn an entire village against his film crew? The citizens of Craic had been nothing but excited about the prospect a few months ago. What could possibly have changed?
    “What about Maura?” he asked suddenly. “Hasn’t she been able to help with any of this?”
    “Help?” Harry laughed.