week?” Rourke asked.
“The Celtic Colors music festival starts next week. Every hotel and motel room on the island is taken. Some folks rent their houses out. My cousins are comin’ in from Toronto and rather than sleep on my floor, they were hoping to rent a place.”
“Sure, I guess we could do that. I have no idea what to charge, though.”
“Marcy O’Neill is renting out her cottage. Why don’t I ask her and get back to ya.”
“All right.”
“Now, let me go find Timmy and have him fetch that insulation.”
When Betty returned, she rang up his purchase, then handed him the receipt after he paid. “Since you’ll be around for the festival, you ought to stop by the church. We put on our own little art fair and Irish stew dinner. We feature a lot of local artists and we always have a good crowd. My daughter has a booth. She sells embroidered dish towels. Has her own business. She’s single, you know. Name’s Ellen. Just broke up with her boyfriend.”
“I think you might have mentioned that last time I was in here,” Rourke said, forcing a smile. “Hey, if I knew an artist who wanted to display, what would I need to do to get a booth for the art fair?”
“Talk to Father John. He’s in charge of all of that. If there’s space, he’ll find it for you. Now, if you’ll just pull around to the back, Timmy can load up your truck.”
“Thanks,” Rourke said.
As he wandered outside, a plan began to formulate in his head. Annie wouldn’t have to go to a gallery or a gift shop. She could sell her art at the festival. She could price each item and he could help her man the booth. And whatever she made could help play for some of the things she needed done around the cottage.
He pulled around to the back of the hardware store and found Timmy Bryant standing on the loading dock. Timmy, a high school senior, had worked for Rourke at Buddy’s place for ten dollars an hour when Rourke needed an extra pair of hands. They’d become pretty good friends, talking about sports and women, higher education and life on the island. Timmy was planning to become a veterinarian and was headed to school in Montreal in the fall.
“Hey, there,” Timmy said with a wide grin. “I heard you decided to hang around a little longer.”
“Oh, yeah? Who’d you hear that from?” Rourke teased.
Timmy shrugged. “Oh, it’s been around town. People are saying you’re staying out at the Macintosh place. How’s that goin’ for ya?”
“None of your goddamn business,” Rourke said, chuckling to himself.
“Well, just be careful. You know what they say about Annie Macintosh.”
Rourke grabbed the roll of insulation from Timmy’s hands. “No, what do they say?”
Timmy frowned, then shook his head. “Nothin’. They don’t say anything.”
“Tell me. What do they say about her?”
The kid stared down at his feet, looking as if he wanted to crawl into the nearest hole. “They say she’s a—a siren. Like her mama.”
Rourke blinked in surprise, startled by the revelation. “They don’t know what the hell they’re talking about.”
“No, not that kind of siren. The other kind. The one that sits on the rocks and lures men into their watery graves. You know, like from the myths.”
“I know what a siren is,” Rourke said.
“Just be careful,” Timmy warned. “You don’t want her to do to you what her mama did to her father. He drowned, you know. Heard her singing and walked right out into the North Atlantic to find her.”
“It’s a pretty story,” Rourke said, “but I can assure you that Annie Macintosh is just an ordinary woman.”
“That’s how they disguise themselves,” Timmy said. “So you don’t see it comin’.”
The teenager tossed the last roll of insulation into the SUV, then stuffed his hands into his jeans pockets. “I guess that’s all.”
“If you hear that story again, you just let whoever is spreading it know that it’s not true. Take it from me. Almost all of
“The Celtic Colors music festival starts next week. Every hotel and motel room on the island is taken. Some folks rent their houses out. My cousins are comin’ in from Toronto and rather than sleep on my floor, they were hoping to rent a place.”
“Sure, I guess we could do that. I have no idea what to charge, though.”
“Marcy O’Neill is renting out her cottage. Why don’t I ask her and get back to ya.”
“All right.”
“Now, let me go find Timmy and have him fetch that insulation.”
When Betty returned, she rang up his purchase, then handed him the receipt after he paid. “Since you’ll be around for the festival, you ought to stop by the church. We put on our own little art fair and Irish stew dinner. We feature a lot of local artists and we always have a good crowd. My daughter has a booth. She sells embroidered dish towels. Has her own business. She’s single, you know. Name’s Ellen. Just broke up with her boyfriend.”
“I think you might have mentioned that last time I was in here,” Rourke said, forcing a smile. “Hey, if I knew an artist who wanted to display, what would I need to do to get a booth for the art fair?”
“Talk to Father John. He’s in charge of all of that. If there’s space, he’ll find it for you. Now, if you’ll just pull around to the back, Timmy can load up your truck.”
“Thanks,” Rourke said.
As he wandered outside, a plan began to formulate in his head. Annie wouldn’t have to go to a gallery or a gift shop. She could sell her art at the festival. She could price each item and he could help her man the booth. And whatever she made could help play for some of the things she needed done around the cottage.
He pulled around to the back of the hardware store and found Timmy Bryant standing on the loading dock. Timmy, a high school senior, had worked for Rourke at Buddy’s place for ten dollars an hour when Rourke needed an extra pair of hands. They’d become pretty good friends, talking about sports and women, higher education and life on the island. Timmy was planning to become a veterinarian and was headed to school in Montreal in the fall.
“Hey, there,” Timmy said with a wide grin. “I heard you decided to hang around a little longer.”
“Oh, yeah? Who’d you hear that from?” Rourke teased.
Timmy shrugged. “Oh, it’s been around town. People are saying you’re staying out at the Macintosh place. How’s that goin’ for ya?”
“None of your goddamn business,” Rourke said, chuckling to himself.
“Well, just be careful. You know what they say about Annie Macintosh.”
Rourke grabbed the roll of insulation from Timmy’s hands. “No, what do they say?”
Timmy frowned, then shook his head. “Nothin’. They don’t say anything.”
“Tell me. What do they say about her?”
The kid stared down at his feet, looking as if he wanted to crawl into the nearest hole. “They say she’s a—a siren. Like her mama.”
Rourke blinked in surprise, startled by the revelation. “They don’t know what the hell they’re talking about.”
“No, not that kind of siren. The other kind. The one that sits on the rocks and lures men into their watery graves. You know, like from the myths.”
“I know what a siren is,” Rourke said.
“Just be careful,” Timmy warned. “You don’t want her to do to you what her mama did to her father. He drowned, you know. Heard her singing and walked right out into the North Atlantic to find her.”
“It’s a pretty story,” Rourke said, “but I can assure you that Annie Macintosh is just an ordinary woman.”
“That’s how they disguise themselves,” Timmy said. “So you don’t see it comin’.”
The teenager tossed the last roll of insulation into the SUV, then stuffed his hands into his jeans pockets. “I guess that’s all.”
“If you hear that story again, you just let whoever is spreading it know that it’s not true. Take it from me. Almost all of