“Who knows?”Clare said. “It’s supposed to be cursed. The man who showed it to me says it always leads him to his true love. Except the poor guy is so forgetful, he wouldn’t know if he actually found her.”
“Did he give this to you?” Sorcha asked, eyeing the amulet as if it would start beating and squirting blood at any moment.
“I sort of filched it while he was out drunk,” Clare said. “But here’sthe deal. He’s wealthy and out of his mind. Says he dies, but always wakes up the next morning with no memory. All I have to do is write a movie for him using this amulet. We hire an actress to be his fairy princess. He has this wondrous reunion with her, writes me a check, and forgets the next day.”
“I can’t believe you robbed a man on the airplane,” Sorcha said. “He’ll come after youwith the Garda, and you’ll be rotting in jail instead of making a movie.”
Clare cupped the amulet in both hands. “The Heart of Brigid deserves its very own story. Do you two want in on this or not?”
“Of course, we want in on it,” Maeve said, wiggling her shoulders. She flung her wispy blond hair. “Can I be the fairy princess?”
It figured beautiful Maeve would automaticallyassume she would be the star of Clare’s new story.
“Better not make me the warty, brainy sidekick.” Sorcha pushed her horn-rimmed glasses up her nose. “Superficial beauty is overrated these days.”
“Blondes have more fun, just saying.” Maeve sniffed. “Besides, I’m the editor in this gig.”
“I do all the research into the fake science Clare needs to make her stories work,” Sorchaargued. “Just because I wear glasses doesn’t mean I’m not sexy.”
“Stop, stop, stop.” Clare set the amulet on the table between them. She leaned back as the waitress put her full breakfast plate in front of her. The aromas of the baked beans, bangers, and fried tomatoes mixed enticingly. She cut pieces of the food and spread them to her friends’ teacup plates. “His lover is Brigid, the triplegoddess of the Tuatha Dé Danann. We can all be faces of Brigid.”
“Wow, yes, what fun!” Maeve squealed. “What were the three things she’s goddess for?”
“You mean you don’t know? Oh, I forgot, you’re only the mere editor,” Sorcha said, cracking her knuckles. “Brigid is the goddess of healing, poetry, and metal-working.”
“I get healing.” Maeve raised her hand and pumped her fist.
“Why?” Sorcha challenged. “It takes brains to be a doctor.”
“Not if I’m a magical healer,” Maeve retorted. “All a man has to do is look at my face and he’ll be healed.”
“Ugh, how can you stand yourself in the morning?” Sorcha twisted her lips and rolled her eyes. “Clare should be poetry, since she’s the writer. That leaves me with the metal-working, the badass part.”
“Which one of us is he going to fall in love with?” Maeve wondered. “I bet I can heal his broken heart.”
“Oh, sure, go for his heart. I’m going for his wallet,” Sorcha said, making karate-shaped hands and swatting them around.
Clare’s gaze ping-ponged back and forth between her nutty friends as gales of giggles bubbled from her belly. They were too funny and always eager to try outher schemes.
“If you’re going for his heart.” She pointed at Maeve, and then at Sorcha. “And you’re going for his wallet, I guess that leaves his schlong for me.”
Sorcha almost choked on her tea, and Maeve slapped the seat of the booth, while Clare doubled over.
After Clare regained her faculties, she cut a piece of fried blood sausage, her favorite part of coming home.
Maybe her luck had finally changed. Sure, she was the positive thinking guru, and she’d preached that making affirmations of success and stating intentions, as well as believing they will come true, would bring good luck. Not that her friends believed her prattle, but hey, it was better than being a disbelieving grouch.
Sorcha pointed at her with a fork. “Let me guess. Once you finishwith his willy, this rich, but forgetful guy will submit to all your schemes and do whatever you say. Did I get that right?”
Clare nodded with her nose in the air. “Absolutely. No problem at all. The movie is practically a done deal.”
“Can you imagine if it’s the real heart of St. Brigid, or even a piece of it?” Maeve picked up the heart and examined it. She spoke too loud, and hervoice drew the sharp attention of the waitress who swapped the teapot and two men in business suits who peeked out from behind their newspapers.
“It could be a relic of the saint,” Clare said in a lowered voice. “But I think it’s the original Brigid—goddess and queen of the Fae—immortal, who chooses to walk the earth in the form of a mortal. Who knows? She could be among us.”
Maeverubbed the amulet as if for good luck. “Do you think we’ve met her?”
“I wouldn’t be rubbing that thing if I were you,” Sorcha twisted her lips. “Who knows where it’s been?”
“You dork.” Maeve kissed it. “It’s obvious, you’ll never get anyone’s heart, wealth, or flute.”
I would get it all, Clare thought silently to herself.Because I think and therefore, I am Brigid.
