THE BLOW-IN
by
Susanne O'Leary
Romance can lurk where you least expect it. Even in the depths of the Irish countryside.
Political reporter Finola McGee is not the romantic type. She leads with her chin, shoots from the hip and takes no prisoners. When living on the edge loses its appeal, she escapes Dublin to run the local newspaper in a small Tipperary town. An easy job, friendly neighbours, lovely countryside, and fresh air—what’s not to like?
But the rural bliss doesn’t last longer than a weekend. Finola soon finds herself mixed up in a hornet’s nest of conspiracies. And when Hollywood rides into town, a certain heartthrob adds a further twist to an already complicated romance…
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Excerpt to whet your appetite
The Blow-In
“Finola
McGee, editor-in-chief,” it said on the gleaming brass plate.
I
picked up my phone to take a shot of this amazing sight but put it back in my
bag. No reason to celebrate or brag about it. Had it been The Irish Telegraph,
where I had been the political reporter until recently, it would have been a
big deal. But it was a tiny local rag in a little town in County Tipperary with
a circulation of about four thousand. A bit of a come-down it would seem. But,
ah well, I was taking a break from the hustle and bustle—to rest and recuperate
among the rolling hills and green valleys of the Irish countryside. To breathe
fresh air. To listen to the birds in the early morning. To enjoy silence, calm
and bucolic country life. Running the Knockmealdown News would be fun and
different, I told myself. I might even find myself a handsome farmer to marry
and have five kids and a dog. My mother would be beside herself with joy.
“Why
Knockmealdown?” I wondered when I applied for the job.
“Because
of the mountain range,” Jerry Murphy, the owner and publisher told me during the
job interview in his local pub, pointing out the window as he downed a pint of
Guinness with impressive speed.
“Of
course,” I said, feeling stupid as I looked out over the green slopes of said
mountains. “I should have realised.”
Jerry
nodded and raised a finger, which resulted in a waiter racing across the grubby
carpet, coming to a screeching halt at our table like The Road Runner. I was
impressed. I usually had to grab waiters by their throats to get them to take
any notice.
“Another
one, please, Paddy,” Jerry said. “How about you, Finola? Will you join me in a
pint? They pull the best one in Ireland here.”
Mentally
salivating at the thought of a well-pulled pint of the black stuff, I toyed
with my glass of Ballygowan. But the new me only drank alcohol at weekends.
“No
thanks. I’ll stick to water.”
He
studied me with his bird-like pale-blue eyes. “You’re not a pioneer, are you?”
I
faked a jolly laugh. “Not at all. I do like a pint now and then. But…” I
hesitated. “I gave it up for lent.”
“It’s
the end of May.”
“It’s
a kind of detox thing.”
He
eyed my bag of bacon crisps. “Right. Okay. Just the one then, Paddy,” he said
to the waiter, a tall man with teeth like a horse.
“Righty-o,
Jerry,” Paddy chortled and prepared to leave.
Jerry
stopped him. “Before you go, I’d like you to meet our new editor.”
Paddy’s
eyes widened as he noticed me. “Jesus Christ, if it isn’t Finola McGee.” He
wiped his hand on the back of his trousers and grabbed mine in an iron grip.
“The famous Finola!”
“How
did you know?” I asked, trying not to wince.
“I’ve seen you on the telly a couple of times.
No mistaking that freckly face and the wild hair. Except now it’s short and
purple. Suits you.”
