The Emerald Isle Read Free

what struck me as strange about Taylor and Maddie. They were both as pleasant as could be that first afternoon in the delicatessen. Maddie didn’t toss a single insult or lift as much as a brow in dispute, but sparks were flying nonetheless. I wasn’t surprised to hear Taylor invite her to join us at the museum opening we had planned to attend Friday night, nor was I surprised when she accepted. What astonished me as we walked through the museum and studied the soso paintings of an up-and-coming artist was the realization that Taylor preferred Maddie’s company to mine. When a thought struck him, he pulled Maddie to his side to share it. When Maddie sighed in ecstasy over a painting, Taylor hurried forward to admire it. And when Maddie spilled her purse all over the marble floor, Taylor crawled on his hands and knees among a crowd of well-heeled museum patronsto retrieve every penny and lipstick. We’re very close, but I don’t think Taylor would have gone down on his hands and knees for me if I’d dropped my last dime.
    On the way out of the museum, Taylor suggested that we go to a movie the next night. Maddie accepted instantly, but I made up a lame excuse about having to wash my hair. Amazingly, Taylor bought it.
    So I spent that Saturday night alone in my apartment with Barkley, my 240-pound mastiff. Determined not to sit around feeling sorry for myself, I whipped up an oatmeal-and-egg facial masque and poured myself a tall iced tea, then carried my bowl and my glass into the bathroom. As I sat in front of the mirror slathering gritty goop on my face, I assured Barkley that most men were idiots. Taylor Morgan, my best friend, had fallen into a blue-eyed trap, and Maddie had been blowing smoke when she said she was staying in New York while she tried to decide what career to pursue. The girl had finished school without snagging an engagement ring, so hunting season had officially been extended. And my naive Taylor, bless his heart, was definitely the most attractive stag in this neck of the woods.
    Pushing his bulky chest up from the floor, Barkley lifted his nose in my direction, sniffing the oatmeal masque. “They have absolutely nothing in common,” I told him, drawing a line of goo across my forehead like war paint. “He’s quiet; she’s active. He’s self-contained, and she’s so out there it’s scary. Taylor’s a very private person, but Maddie would tell her secrets to a perfect stranger. Look how we met—she talked to me, a total stranger, then accepted an invitation to dinner. She’s nuts, that one.”
    Barkley edged closer, still intent on the oatmeal, so I offered him my index finger for a lick.
    “And she’s Irish, for heaven’s sake—and probably six months away from being an illegal alien. Who knows? She may be looking for an American husband so she can become a citizen and stay in this country. Taylor is altogether too inexperienced with women—those outside of his books, at any rate.”
    Barkley finished licking my finger, then lowered himself to the cool tile floor, his eyes alert. Mindful of the dog drool on my index finger, I used my middle finger to paint my face this time, then offered him another taste of masque. “The truth is, buddy, I always thought Taylor and I would get together at some point. We’re alike. We’re best friends. And even though there’s no passionate love affair going on between us, that kind of thing fades after a while, doesn’t it?”
    Barkley tilted his head and gave my finger a final lick, then sat back and blessed me with one of his brightest doggie smiles. I stared wistfully at him for a long moment, then sighed and washed my hands. Dogs are great listeners, but terrible advice-givers.
    I got up, tightened the belt of my bathrobe, and gave my gooey reflection a test smile. The masque had definitely tightened on my skin—either that, or just the thought of Taylor and Maddie made me feel tense and strained all over.

T he next two weeks flew by in a