Chapter Seven
Sam
“It could have gone better.”
Lizzie stares at me through the screen, her eyebrows rising so high they disappear into her bangs. “You think?”
“We’ll get through it.” I shove at the double-hung window next to my bed, using all my weight in an attempt to push it open further, but give up as it threatens to shut on my fingers. “I just need to gain her trust.”
“She’s not a stray cat, Sam.”
“All I’m saying is, we got off on the wrong foot.”
“Because you threatened to take her off the book.”
“I didn’t threaten. I offered.”
“Uh-huh.”
“It’ll be a lot of work,” I say. “But I can do it. I’ll be here all summer if I have to.”
“All of it?” Lizzie doesn’t look convinced. “I thought you were only there for a few weeks.”
“Casey said I could stay as long as I need to.”
“But it’s not even June! You can’t just—”
“Is that Sam?”
A voice interrupts my sister’s argument, and a second later her husband, Ben, shoves half his face into view of the camera.
They’ve been married for seven years and still act as if they’re on their honeymoon.
It would be sickening with anyone else, but they pull it off.
Amy met them at the company barbecue last summer and informed me Ben had “golden retriever energy.” The phrase has stuck with me ever since.
“How’s Scotland?” he asks now.
“Ireland.”
“Sam’s thinking about staying for the whole summer,” Lizzie says disapprovingly.
Ben just grins. “That’s awesome! Have fun.”
“Thanks, man.”
“Send us some more pictures,” he says, and he waves at the camera before disappearing out of sight.
“Your husband likes me more than he likes you,” I say to Lizzie’s scowl.
“False. He’s obsessed with me. And while he might not have said so in as many words, he also thinks you have no business staying away for so long. You’re getting too involved again, and— Sam,” she snaps as I check my email.
“What? I’m listening.”
“No, you’re not. Eyes on me. Eldest sibling speaking.” And she waits until she has my full attention before saying, in the gravest tone imaginable, “You’re being you again.”
“Some people might argue that’s a good thing.”
“You need a work-life balance. You work way too hard at your job.”
“I’m taking that as a compliment.”
“You shouldn’t. What about your birthday? We were supposed to go to that new pasta place.”
“Are you worried about not seeing me on my birthday or not eating pasta?”
“The pasta.”
“Lizzie—”
“But that’s not the point,” she continues. “You’ve practically disappeared since Casey said he was thinking of retiring. You’re working so much I feel like we barely see you anymore.”
“That’s not true.”
“You literally bailed on my last dinner party with an hour’s notice.”
“And I took all of you guys to the zoo to make up for it,” I remind her. “I told you I had a twenty-four-hour exclusive submission, and I had to read it before—”
“You bailed,” she interrupts. “And I made a lobster bisque. A bisque, Sam. It was freaking delicious.”
“I’m sure it was. And again, I’m sorry about that. But this is my life.”
“I know,” she says, sounding tired. “That’s the problem.”
The conversation moves on to her ongoing grudge with some new woman at her book club, but it’s early morning in New York and Lizzie soon hangs up as everyone gets ready to leave the house. What she said digs at me, but I don’t know what she expects me to do about it.
I won’t lie and say I’m not ambitious. In this business, a love of books pairs well with a love of competition, and this industry is all about competition. For shelf space and sales rank. For finding the next big thing. For keeping it once you do.
If I didn’t get distracted by the books I work on, I wouldn’t be where I am today. And while that’s meant some sacrifice—and some burnout—I wouldn’t change any of it. I went into this career with my eyes wide open. The job is the job.
And, right now, I’ve got a hell of a one to do.
I spent all night reading Frank’s notes, only to discover that Ciara was right. There isn’t much there. A skeleton synopsis at most. But that’s because he focused on the two characters who really mattered. The ones the entire series hinges on.
Finn and Maeve weren’t always the heart of Ravian. But they became it. And Frank was a smart enough writer to know it.
Finn was just a kid when he was first introduced.
A weedy twelve-year-old orphan who accompanied the original hero on his journey.
Maeve only appeared in mentions, not making her on-page debut until halfway through the second book.
Their romance didn’t begin until the third. But once it started, it was everything.
They were the real story. Not the war. Not the politics. Woven through it all was Maeve and Finn. Finn and Maeve. And yesterday, when I sat on that dusty couch in that dusty room in Frank Sheridan’s house, I read through his final notes and learned their fate.
It was a happy one.
I won’t lie and say I wasn’t relieved. Not that there’s a rule that says we have to stick with what Frank wanted, but I wouldn’t put it past any author to try to go out with a shock.
It would have been easy to kill one of them off.
Create the big dramatic moment. Instead, he chose a quieter end, and, if done right, a much more satisfying one.
But we still have to work out everything else.
The broad strokes of the book are there, but everything else is a puzzle to be solved.
We’ve got at least three characters whose timelines need to be completely reworked.
Two who need to come together despite starting the book on different continents.
And one Frank seems to have completely forgotten about.
We’ve got to decide where everyone starts and where they end.
We’ve got to figure out how to finish twenty years of storytelling in six hundred pages.
And then there’s the small matter of her writing the thing.
I sit on the bed, refreshing my inbox.
Ciara was supposed to send me something this morning.
That was the plan we agreed on, anyway: She’d spend the evening writing however much she could and send it to me first thing, before we regrouped.
It might be throwing her in at the deep end, but I wanted to see how well she could do under pressure.
Turns out, not well at all.
Frustration pricks at me, and I reread the extra-polite just checking in email I sent her an hour ago as a car pulls up outside.
Footsteps sound a second later, but I ignore them as I’ve ignored the others.
I’m still getting used to the noises of the building.
Of people coming in and out of the pub. I was woken abruptly this morning by a drinks delivery, and I don’t know if they have raccoons in this country, but some sort of animal definitely likes to scurry around on the roof.
It’s only when the steps get louder that I realize someone is coming up the stairs, and I get to my feet just as there’s a knock on the door.
I open it cautiously, half-hoping that it’s Ciara, but instead I find the woman I saw at her house the first day. Mary. Though the first thing that comes to my mind is Milk Lady.
She stands on the landing in a linen dress and a rain jacket that looks too heavy for this weather. There is a plastic–wrapped plate of smoked salmon in her hands.
So, I guess I’m dealing with this now.
“Hello,” I say when she doesn’t. She’s much smaller up close, no taller than five feet, and has to crane her neck to look me up and down.
“I own this building,” she says finally.
“I thought Ronan—”
“I’m his landlord.”
Okay. “Well, nice to meet you. I’m Sam.”
“Divorced, are you?”
“I…no.”
“The last man here was divorced. He was from Waterford.”
I can’t tell from her tone if that’s a good thing or a bad thing, so I just nod. “I’ve never been,” I say, shuffling to the left as she tries to look at my bed and all of Frank’s notes on top of it.
She scowls when I do and offers me the plate. “Salmon?”
“I…there’s no fridge, so I don’t know if I should—”
“Better eat it quick, then.” She shakes it, proffering it at me until I’m forced to take it. “I also run a laundry service in the village,” she says. “For whoever needs it. You’ll find my number on the noticeboard below.”
“Great.”
“Or we can discuss a rate now.”
The town gossip wants to do my dirty laundry.
Yeah. That’s not happening.
“I’ll be sure to keep you in mind,” I say as politely as I can. “Thank you for the welcome. But I should get back to work.”
Her lips thin at the dismissal, but she’s out of excuses to stay, and, with one final glance at the room behind me, she turns and lumbers back down the stairs. I wait for her footsteps to fade before I shut the door.
Now what?
Thankfully, as soon as I think it, I hear the faint sounds of movement below and, not wanting to keep a plate of fish in an already overly warm room for much longer, I shove my shoes on and head outside.
The pub’s front door is shut and locked when I try the handle, but, when I go to knock, it swings open, revealing Ronan. He looks less than pleased to see me.
“If you’re trying to break in, you should make less noise. We’re not open until three.”
“I know. Sorry. I…” I have no idea how to explain any of it, so I just hold up the plate of salmon wordlessly.
To my surprise, it does the trick, and some of the wariness fades from his expression. “Oh, for the love of Jesus. That woman.” He takes it from me with a sigh. “Ah, come on, then. Don’t just stand there. You’re letting in the heat.”
I slip inside after him, though I’m unsure if it’s warmer out than in.
“She’s not great with newcomers,” Ronan says. “But she’s harmless.”
“So I’ve been told.” I linger in the center of the room as he heads back to the bar.
“I found Ciara, by the way. And spoke to her friend. Maddie? She explained about the people intruding on her property. So I wanted to apologize if I didn’t introduce myself properly the other day.
I understand why you might not have trusted me at first.”
“Oh, you do, do you?”
“Yes,” I say as he slides the plate into one of the beer fridges. “I think it’s great that you look out for each other.”
Ronan clears his throat, looking abashed. “Well. That’s what we do here,” he says firmly. “We’re a community.” He pauses. “Sorry. You didn’t want to eat the salmon, did you?”
“No,” I say quickly. “You can keep it.”
“It’s not poisoned,” he says, amused. “Or at least it won’t be on purpose.” He points at a stool. “Have a seat. You can keep me company while I open up. Do you like hot chocolate?”
“Hot chocolate?”
“I’ve heard it can be very refreshing,” he says, scratching the back of his neck. “And we’re also trying to get rid of the stuff. The weather isn’t helping. You’d be doing me a favor.”
And as much as I’d like to do that, I’d also like to not die of heat exhaustion. “I’ll stick to the Diet Coke.”
He throws up his hands in an I tried gesture and starts scooping ice. As he does, my eyes drift over the framed photos of various black and white figures smiling for the camera, including one of Frank and Ronan in what looks to be this very pub.
“Fan of his?” Ronan asks, noticing my interest. “He used to write in here, you know.”
“He did?”
“Well, no. He drank in here. But he used to tell me all about what he was working on. Went over my head most of the time, I’ve never been much of a dragon man myself—but he had a way with words.
” His chest puffs out a bit. “I’ve got some more photos somewhere, if you’d like to see them.
Been meaning to pass them on to Ciara when the time’s right. ”
“I’d love to see them,” I say honestly, and Ronan beams at me, all suspicions seemingly forgotten as he puts my drink in front of me and disappears into another room. As he does, I take out my phone, my good mood dimming even before I check my email. Still nothing from Ciara.
Yeah. This is going to be a problem.