Now, Maura had to wonder if coming into the Lion’s Den pub for a meal hadn’t been a bad idea after all.
Of course, she was surrounded by villagers, so there was no chance at all her hormones would be able to take over her good sense. But the downside was, she was surrounded by villagers, all of whom were vying for Jefferson’s attentions.
In early December, the interior of the pub was dim, with lamplight gleaming dully on paneled walls stained with centuries of smoke from the peat fires kept burning in a brazier. The floor was wood as well, scuffed from the steps of thousands of patrons. There were several small round tables with chairs gathered close and a handful of booths lining two of the walls. The bar itself was highly polished walnut that Michael O’Shay, the pub owner, kept as shiny as a church pew. And beside the wide mirror reflecting the crowd back on itself, there was a television perched high on a shelf, displaying a soccer game with the sound muted.
Michael sauntered up to their table with a perfectly stacked pint of Guinness beer for Jefferson and a glass of Harp beer for Maura. As he set them down, he gave a swift, unnecessary swipe of the gleaming table with a pristine bar rag. Then he beamed at them both like Father Christmas. “I’ll have your soup and bread up for you in a moment. It’s potato-leek today. My Margaret made it and you’ll enjoy it I’m sure. When your movie folk arrive,” he added with a grin for Jefferson, “I’ll see that Margaret makes it by the boatload for you.”
Maura sighed. Hadn’t taken him long to get Hollywood into the conversation.
“Sounds good,” Jefferson said, taking a sip of his thick black beer.
“Has your Rose had her baby yet, Michael?” Maura asked, then said in an aside to Jefferson, “Michael and Margaret are about to become grandparents.”
“We are indeed,” the pub owner said and gave Maura a knowing look, “so the extra money made when your film crew arrives will be most welcome.”
Maura closed her eyes. Clearly, all anyone wanted to talk about was the notion of having a film made in their little village. Michael had hardly left to bustle back to his bar when three or four other locals found a reason to stop by the table and talk to Jefferson.
She watched him handle the people she’d known all her life with courtesy and she liked him for it. Surely a man like him didn’t enjoy being the center of attention in a village less than a third the size of the town he called home. But rather than being abrupt, he seemed to almost encourage their chatter.
Maura listened with half an ear as Frances Boyle raved about her small traveler’s inn and the good service she could promise King Studios. Then Bill Howard, owner of the local market, swore he’d be happy to order in any and all supplies Jefferson might require. Nora Bailey gave him her card and told him again that she ran a full-service bakery and would be happy to work with his caterers and finally Colleen Ryan offered her skills as a seamstress, knowing that being so far from Hollywood, his costume people might be needing an extra hand, fine with a needle.
By the time they wandered off, each of them giving Maura a nudging glare, Jefferson was grinning and Maura’s head pounded like a badly played bodhran drum.
“Seems as though you’re the only one who doesn’t want my business,” he said, then took another sip of his beer.
“Aye, it does at that, doesn’t it?”
“So why are you holding out?”
“Holding out?” Maura pretended surprise. “I’ve not promised you a thing, have I?”
“No,” he said, smiling. “You haven’t. You’ve just sat by and let me talk and wheedle and eventually raise my offer a bit each day.”
True enough and she had hopes he’d go a bit higher yet before the deed was done and the bargain struck. If her friends and neighbors could curb their enthusiasm a little.
“The whole town wants this to happen,” he said.
“Aye, but the whole town won’t have the disruption of a film crew camped out on their land during the height of lambing season, will they?” She considered that a point well made and rewarded herself with a sip of her beer.
“You said yourself that most of the sheep give birth out in the fields. We’ll be filming mostly at the front of the house. Outdoor shots of the manor—”
She snorted. “It’s a farmhouse.”
“Looks like a manor to me,” he countered, then continued quickly, “There may be a few scenes around the barn and the holding pens, but we won’t get in the way.”
“And you can promise that?” She eased back in the booth and looked at him across the table.
“I’ll promise it, if that’s what it takes to get you to sign.”
“Desperate now?” She smiled and took another soothing drink. “Might make a woman think you’d be willing to sweeten your offer a bit.”
“You drive a hard bargain,” Jefferson told her with a nod of approval. “But I might be willing to go a little higher yet, if you’d make up your mind and give me your decision.”
She smiled to herself, but kept it small so he wouldn’t see the victorious gleam that had to be shining in her eyes. “As well I might, depending on how much higher you’re talking about.”
He gave her an admiring tip of his head. “Too bad your sister’s not the one making this deal. I have the distinct feeling she’d be easier to convince.”
“Ah, but Cara has her own priorities, doesn’t she?” Smiling at the thought of her younger sister, Maura could admit to herself that she would have eventually accepted Jefferson’s offer even if he hadn’t paid her for the use of her land. Because he’d agreed to give Cara a small part in the movie. And since her sister dreamed of being a famous actress, Cara had been walking in the clouds for days now.
“True,” he said. “If she were doing the bargaining, she might have wangled herself a bigger part.”
“She’ll do fine with what she’s got. She’s very good, you know.” Maura leaned forward. “For a few weeks last year, Cara was on one of those British soap operas. She was brilliant, really, until they killed her off. She had a lovely death scene and all. Made me cry when she died.”
His mouth quirked, just high enough to display a dimple in his left cheek. “I know. I sat through the tapes.”
“She is good, isn’t she? I mean, it’s not only that I’m her sister and love her that makes me think so, is it?”
“No, it’s not. She’s very good,” Jefferson told her.
“She has dreams, Cara has,” Maura murmured.
“What about you? Do you have dreams, too?” he asked.
Her gaze met his as she shook her head. “’Course I do, though my dreams are less lofty. The barn needs a new roof and before long, my old lorry’s going to keel over dead with all four tires in the air. And there’s a fine breed of sheep I’d like to try on my fields, as well.”
“You’re too beautiful to have such small dreams, Maura.”
She blinked at him, surprised by the flattery and, at the same time, almost insulted to be told that her dreams were somehow lacking in imagination. She’d once had bigger dreams, as all young girls do. But she’d grown up, hadn’t she? And now her dreams were more practical. That didn’t make them less important. “They’re mine, aren’t they, and I don’t think they’re small dreams at all.”
“I just meant—”
She knew what he meant. No doubt he was more accustomed to women who dreamed of