It is a fact that Irish people of all shapes and sizes love Sean Keane. They see themselves in me, and are drawn to my pink cheeks and extensive knowledge of the James Joyce canon. Last night, after I talked to a red-haired girl, on the heels of meeting two tourists from Galway a few days earlier, my friend dubbed me "The Irish Whisperer".
Coincidentally, that's also the title of my just-completed romance novel. "The Irish Whisperer" is the story of a quiet man with an uncanny ability to soothe and communicate with traumatized, boozy Irishwomen, and contains many metaphors involving leprechauns. Here's is an excerpt:
"As Seamus stepped out of the water, Maggie stared, and drank him in like a tall pint of Guiness. His muscular, freckled chest. His powerful biceps, ringed with farmer tan, above his strong, pink, sunburned forearms. She could barely hear the notes of 'With or Without You' on the radio, over the pounding of her heart.
"Maggie gasped as his hand reached past her, fingers lightly brushing her neck, then grabbed a still-smoldering baked potato from the grill behind her. Seamus bit into it, chunks of steaming potato falling from his mouth onto his wispy red chest hair and said, 'You got any Irish in you?'
"Without waiting for an answer, he growled, 'Do you want some?'"
