His eyes stayed on hers. “You haven’t come into the fields anymore.”

“No, I haven’t. I thought it best to stay away, and I’m sorry for that, too.” She wanted to tell him she’d missed him, and was afraid to. “Are you angry with me?”

“With myself more.” He steadied himself. Her eyes, he thought, and the quiet plea in them, would undo any man. “Do you want some strudel?”

Her smile spread slowly. “Yeah. I do.”

When they went inside, Brianna stopped holding her breath. “Thank you for the eggs, Murphy.” Bustling now, she took the cartons from him and went to the refrigerator. “I need them for a dish I’ll be making for the ceili. Did you see Shannon’s painting? It’s grand, isn’t it?”

“It is.” He took off his cap, hung it on a peg.

“This strudel’s from a recipe a German woman gave me last week when she was here. You remember her, Shannon, Mrs. Metz? The one with the big voice.”

“The Stormtrooper,” Shannon said with a smile. “She lined up her three children in the morning for inspection—her husband, too.”

“And neat as a pin they were, every one of them. You’ll tell me if the strudel’s as good as she claimed.”

Brianna was dishing it up when the phone rang. Shannon reached for the receiver on the wall phone. “I’ll get it. Blackthorn Cottage.” She hesitated a moment, brows lifting in surprise. “Tod? Yes, it’s me.” She laughed. “I do not sound Irish.”

Unable to keep his lip from curling, Murphy sat down at the table. “Tod,” he muttered when Brianna set the strudel in front of him. “Sounds more like an insect than a name.”

“Hush,” Brianna ordered and patted his arm.

“It’s beautiful,” Shannon continued. “Very much like Local Hero. Remember? Burt Lancaster.” She chuckled again. “Right. Well, I’m doing a lot of walking, and eating. And I’m painting.”

“That bored, huh?” His voice was amused, and faintly sympathetic.

“No.” Her brow creased. “Not at all.”

“Doesn’t sound like your kind of deal. Anyway, when are you coming back?”

She caught the curling phone cord in her fingers and began to twist. “I’m not sure. A couple of weeks, probably.”

“Christ, Shan, you’ve been there a month already.”

Her fingers worried the cord, twisting it tighter. Odd, it hadn’t seemed like a month. “I had three weeks coming.” She heard the defensiveness in the tone, and hated it. “The rest is on me. How are things going there?”

“You know how it is. Regular madhouse since we clinched the Gulfstream account. You’re the golden girl there, Shan. Two major notches in your belt in six months between Gulfstream and Titus.”

She’d forgotten Titus, and frowned now thinking of the concept and art she’d come up with to help sell tires. “Gulfstream’s yours.”

“Now, sure, but the brass knows who initiated it. Hey, you don’t think I’d take credit for your work.”

“No, of course not.”

“Anyway, I thought I’d let you know the guys upstairs are happy, but our department’s starting to feel the pinch with the fall and Christmas campaigns getting underway. We really need you back.”

She felt the light throbbing in her temple, the warning of a tension headache brewing. “I have things to work out, Tod. Personal things.”

“You had a rough patch. I know you, Shannon, you’ll have your feet back under you again. And I miss you. I know things were a little strained between us when you left, and I wasn’t as understanding as I should have been, as sensitive to your feelings. I think we can talk that out, and get back on line.”

“Have you been watching Oprah?”

“Come on, Shan. You take a couple more days, then give me a call. Let me know your flight number and E.T.A. I’ll pick you up at the airport, and we’ll cozy down with a bottle of wine and work this out.”

“I’ll get back to you, Tod. Thanks for calling.”

“Don’t wait too long. The brass has a short collective memory.”

“I’ll keep that in mind. Bye.”

She hung up, discovered the cord was wrapped messily around her fingers. She concentrated on meticulously straightening it again.

“That was New York,” she said without turning around. “A friend of mine at work.” Before she swung around, she made sure she had a bright smile on her face. “So, how’s the strudel?”

“See for yourself.” Brianna poured Shannon tea to go with it. Her first instinct was to comfort. She held back the urge, trusting Murphy to do the job. “I think I hear the baby,” she said and hurried through the adjoining door.

Shannon’s appetite had fled. She glanced listlessly at the strudel, bypassed it for her tea. “My, ah, office is swamped.”

“He wants you back.” When Shannon’s eyes lifted to his, Murphy inclined his head. “This Tod wants you back.”

“He’s handling some of my accounts while I’m gone. It’s a lot of extra work.”

“He wants you back,” Murphy said again, and Shannon began to poke her fork in the strudel.

“He mentioned it—in a noncommital sort of way. We had a strained discussion before I left.”

“A discussion,” Murphy repeated. “A strained discussion. Are you meaning a fight?”

“No.” She smiled a little. “Tod doesn’t fight. Debates,” she mused. “He debates. He’s very civilized.”

“And was he debating, in a civilized way, just now? Is that why you’re all tangled up?”

“No, he was just catching me up on the office. And I’m not tangled up.”

Murphy put his hands over her restless ones, stilling them until she looked at him again. “You asked me to be your friend. I’m trying.”

“I’m confused about things, a number of things,” she said slowly. “It doesn’t usually take me so long to figure out what I want and how to get it. I’m good at analyzing. I’m good at angles. My father was, too. He could always zero in on the bottom line. I admired that, I learned it from him.”

Impatient, she jerked her hands from under Murphy’s. “I had everything mapped out, and I was making it work. The position with the right firm, the uptown apartment, the high-powered wardrobe, the small, but tasteful art collection. Membership in the right health club. An undemanding relationship with an attractive, successful man who shared my interests. Then it all fell apart, and it makes me so tired to think of putting it together again.”