Chapter Eight
Ciara
It took me two years to write my first novel.
The first one that got me published, anyway.
Two years on and off, mainly because I didn’t know what the hell I was doing, and I kept giving up and coming back to it because I couldn’t stay away.
I didn’t tell anyone about it. Not even Dad.
When it was finished, I saved it in a folder on my desktop labeled NEVER MIND and pretended it didn’t exist.
Four months later, I reread it, decided it wasn’t terrible, and sent it off to a handful of literary agents under a pseudonym before I could change my mind. I got only one rejection, but that’s because the rest didn’t reply.
I completely rewrote the opening chapters.
I added a new scene to the ending and cut out a character who didn’t do anything.
I sent it out again, and this time I got an email back from a junior agent in London who looked as if she wasn’t old enough to buy alcohol yet.
But she liked the book, and she was the only one who did.
We edited it some more and then she sold it in a three-book deal to a major publisher for an incredibly modest sum. It was barely enough to cover my rent for a few weeks. I was bottom of the barrel. What the industry calls low list.
And I was over the moon.
I was in my early twenties and working in an advertising firm in Dublin. I got news of the sale in the afternoon, told my boss I was sick, and drove all the way home to Kerry so I could tell my dad in person.
You don’t think about your memories of people until they’re gone. You never go out with a friend and think, This is fun. I must remember this in case you die before me, and I need loving thoughts of you.
So even if it was one of the proudest, biggest moments of my life, I can’t remember my dad’s expression when I told him that I had not only written a book but sold it too.
I have a picture in my head, of course. One of his surprise followed by his delight.
But I can’t tell for certain whether I made it up or not.
A false memory from that blur of a year.
I do remember being in the kitchen with him later. Remember him calling everyone in his contacts list to tell them the news. Drinking beer at the table I sit at now.
“I saw someone taking pictures of your driveway yesterday.”
I look up from my laptop as Maddie jerks the pan, flipping a perfect pancake. She came over this morning because she wanted to make me breakfast. Which turned out to be code for starving her friend because she keeps looking disappointed after each pancake and doesn’t give me any.
“They were wearing a Ravian T-shirt,” she adds, and I groan.
“They didn’t leave anything, did they?” I swear half my time these days is spent cleaning up the notes and gifts left by fans. They used to keep the location of the house a secret among themselves, but ever since Dad died, it’s like they decided there’s no need for privacy anymore.
“Not that I could see,” Maddie says. “But who knows? You might need to put up another Private Property sign or something.”
“Yes, because the ones I already have work wonders.”
“Well, you know what they say,” she sings, pouring more mixture into the pan. “If you can’t beat ’em—”
“No.”
“I’m just saying that if they insist on coming here, no one would judge you if you wanted to take advantage of that.”
“You mean take advantage of them.”
“Your words. Not mine.”
“Maddie—”
“You can let them into the house,” she continues, as if she’s been thinking about this for a while. “Give them a tour of a few rooms. Let them take some pictures. Sign a big guest book.”
“My home is not a tourist attraction.”
“It will get them on your side,” she finishes, and some of my annoyance fades. Because I know, deep down, she thinks she’s looking out for me. Even if the idea does make me squirm.
“I’ll think about it,” I say to get her off my back. “But in the meantime, no letting readers into the house.”
“Does John count?” she asks, peering out the window. A second later, heavy footsteps stomp on the porch.
“Good morning!” a booming voice calls, and my postman strides into the room.
He’s in his summer uniform and has added a large sun hat that leaves a red indent on his forehead when he takes it off, but he makes it work.
“I’ll tell you what, ladies, it’s getting a bit much for me out there,” he says, wiping his face with a handkerchief.
“Don’t shoot the messenger,” he adds. “I thought about hiding the bills, but they tell us that’s illegal these days. ”
“I appreciate the thought, though,” I say as he passes me my usual bundle. Fan letters, some newspapers addressed to my father, and…
Ravicon.
I sigh as I pull out the bright yellow invitation.
The fifth one in two months. The world’s largest annual Frank Sheridan convention is happening in Dublin later this summer and, my lord, do they want me to know about it.
As if spending two days listening to people who never met my father talk about him ad nauseam would be something I’d like to experience.
“You can start recycling these,” I say, holding it up to John.
“Not a problem,” he says cheerfully. “But I should probably give you a heads-up. There was a bit of a backlog at the depot, so I have some more stuff coming your way soon.”
“How much of a backlog?”
His lips purse. “Well now, a pretty big one by the looks of things.”
Oh God.
“John, please don’t tell me you have a truck of fan mail for my dead father outside.”
“Not a truck,” he says. “And not with me. But there’s a sack. Or two.”
“A sack?”
“Or three. It’s like Christmas Day down at the sorting office.”
“You’re not serious,” I say as Maddie finally wanders over with a single pancake. She swaps out the post for the plate, a trade I happily accept.
“I can start sending them back,” John says.
“No. Don’t do that. I just…give me a few days, yeah? No problem. Three sacks of letters.”
“Maybe four.”
“I am going to murder him.”
We both freeze as Maddie stares at a copy of the local newspaper, her expression furious.
There’s a long, weighted pause, and then John smiles.
“Okay! That’s me, then. Busy day. Lots to do. Ciara. Maddie. I didn’t hear nothing.”
He leaves, giving her an exaggeratedly wide berth that she doesn’t notice as she slams the paper onto the table.
“Can we mind the pancake, please,” I ask, trying to eat the thing before she throws it at the wall or something.
“Can you believe this guy?”
“What guy?” I peer down at the grainy picture she’s showing me. A hulking, bearded man smiles pleasantly back. “The hot guy?”
“Shane McCauley,” Maddie says. “And he is not hot.”
“Agree to disagree. And this is Shane? Burger Boy? The man who’s trying to put you out of business?”
“The man who’s now doing press.”
“Ups?”
“Ciara—”
“Sorry, sorry.” I look at the article properly as she sits opposite me, dropping her head into her hands. Plans for a New Seafront Café to Open in Carrigwest, reads the headline.
Dubliner Shane McCauley may still feel like a visitor in this part of the country, but the trained chef is determined to set down roots, with plans to launch a new dining spot right next to one of Ireland’s best-loved beaches.
Locals will already be familiar with his Burger Boy truck located at the entrance of the North Strand beach.
Owing to its success, Mr. McCauley plans to expand on his current hot food selection to include a range of pastries and cakes available—
“I have never seen this man in my life.” I picture the two teenagers who usually work in the truck. “I’ve definitely never seen him. I’d remember.”
“Because he doesn’t live here! He barely comes by and now he’s putting down roots.
” She grabs the paper from me, twisting it her way.
“How the hell did he make the front page when he’s barely spent a week here?
I’ve tried to get them to write about me dozens of times, but Uncle Pat says it would be nepotism. ”
“He is your uncle.”
“Everyone’s related to everyone here! Everything is nepotism! Just because he’s a blow-in means he makes front-page news?”
“I mean, again,” I say, putting a forkful of pancake into my mouth, “he’s also really hot.”
Her mouth drops open. “I’m hot.”
“You are. I’m sorry.”
“Two years,” she says. “I’ve been working in that truck for two years, come rain or shine, and this guy thinks he can just rock up and do everything I’ve been saving up for in a matter of weeks?”
“It’s a big beach, Mads.”
“Exactly! He can go to any other part of it. There is a whole south car park, and no reason he can’t go there, and I’ve wanted to open a bricks-and-mortar store for years.
” She sits back with a huff, glaring at the paper.
“You know what I think happened? I think he broke into my house and looked at my plans.”
“I think that’s what happened too.”
“He’s going to start selling pastries.”
“Your pastries are better.”
“They are.”
“And they won’t have burger grease all over them.”
That gets a smile from her, and she half-sighs, half-groans as the last of her anger releases.
“I’m going to try the bank again,” she says.
“See where my loan application is. I should have more than enough to get started by now.” Her eyes flick to me, her confidence faltering. “Right? What do you think?”
“I think you need some time off.”
“Whatever,” she mumbles, slumping in her chair. “Are you going to tell me about yesterday or what?”
“There’s not much to tell.” I shrug. “We talked. It went badly. He wants me off the book. I want to lie on the floor and cry. I think it’s going to be a great working relationship.”
“You have done this before,” she reminds me. “I loved your books.”
“You have to like my books; you’re my friend.”
“And as your friend, I would tell you if they were shite.”
She probably would.
But still.
“This is different,” I say. “I’ve never written fantasy before. I can’t write like my dad could.”
“Because you’re not him. You’re you. Casey knows that. And Sam will too, eventually. Get out of your head and stop trying to make it perfect.”
“Oh, says you.” I twist in my chair as she returns to the stove. “You’ve literally been here thirty minutes and have fed me one pancake.”
“That’s different.”
“How?”
“Just is,” she says, and spins the whisk in her hand before starting on a new batter.