Chapter 16
CHAPTER 16
A isling awoke to the sound of birdsong slipping through half-drawn curtains, the kind of gentle chorus that signaled promise—or mischief. The crew hadn’t yet arrived, and that meant she had a precious sliver of time to herself. Today, she intended to dive into her mother’s room.
It looked like Noreen had left it untouched. As if Maeve might walk in any moment, toss her coat over the old vanity chair, and grumble about the Irish rain.
Drawers, trunks, and shelves stuffed with timeworn belongings—Aisling was determined to uncover something. A truth. A journal. Maybe both.
Yawning, she tugged on jeans and a sweatshirt, then made her way to the kitchen. The tea kettle whistled like a mother calling her late child, and she poured herself a mug, grateful she still had hot water. Renovation meant her stove was off-limits for at least a week, and she'd be surviving on instant coffee, sandwiches, and takeout.
Outside, dew still clung to the grass like tiny, trembling secrets.
She wandered down the drive to collect the mail she'd forgotten the day before, passing stone fences and overgrown hedges kissed by early morning fog. The familiar sound of a lorry announced the crew’s arrival just as she reached the roadside box.
“Morning, Miss O’Byrne!” Fergal called from the truck, his voice cheerful. The back end was loaded with her new appliances.
“Morning!” she waved back, pulling the mail out of the box.
“Your demolition fun starts in about ten minutes!”
Hurrying back up the drive, she quickly returned to the kitchen, knowing her time was precious in the culinary museum.
Inside, the kettle still steamed. She made a quick cup of coffee and swept her remaining dishes from the counter before the crew descended like cheerful chaos. As she wiped the last plate, a worker stepped in with a sledgehammer big enough to threaten a small castle.
Aisling laughed. “I’m leaving before something gets crushed.”
“You’ll have a brand-new kitchen by next week,” Fergal promised, beaming.
“You’re a saint,” she said, grabbing her mug and heading to the patio.
There, she spread out the mail. Mostly junk. Ads. A water bill. And then, one envelope stood out. Her fingers tingled as she ripped it open.
University College Dublin. Finally.
Dear Miss O’Byrne,
There were five visiting professors in the summer of 1994:
Dr. Charles Whitmore – English Literature, Boston University
Professor Nathaniel “Nate” Baird – Philosophy & Ethics, University of Michigan
Dr. Thomas Carroway – History, Georgetown University
Professor James “Jamie” Ellison – Creative Writing, NYU
Professor Patrick Wright – Modern American Literature, Columbia University
Should you require anything further, please don’t hesitate to contact the admissions office.
Sincerely,
Dr. Fiona L. Hanratty
Aisling stared at the final name. Her pulse fluttered. She knew. She knew.
Patrick Wright.
She remembered the way he’d looked at her in New York—curious, distant, yet oddly familiar. She hadn’t placed it then, but now it settled into her bones like it had always been there.
Four letters. Easy enough. She quickly scrawled identical notes to the other professors, polite inquiries wrapped in layers of hope and trepidation.
But when she reached Patrick’s envelope, her hand froze.
What could she even say?
Hello, I think you might be my father. You saw me meltdown at work. Surprise! Let’s unpack the last three decades of missed birthdays and generational trauma over tea.
Yeah. That’d go over well.
She stared at the blank page until her frustration cracked through her chest.
Marching inside, she stuck her head into the construction zone.
“Hey,” she shouted over drills. “Can I borrow a hammer?”
The youngest guy grinned like he’d been waiting for the invitation. “Only if we get to watch.”
“Suit yourselves,” she said, accepting the tool with both hands.
She walked straight to the wall they planned to demolish and swung with all her might. Plaster cracked, dust erupted, and someone let out a low whistle.
“That’s it,” she muttered, driving the hammer again. “Take that, secrets. And you—guilt. And you—Patrick freaking Wright. Who hides from their daughter?”
Smash. Crack. Crumble.
“Damn, that felt good,” she said.
“It’s very good for frustration,” the man said, grinning at her.
“No shit,” she said and swung again. She continued swinging until the wall between the family room and the kitchen was destroyed. Her muscles were aching, and she was out of breath.
The young worker grinned at her. “Bad day?”
“No, just needed to release some frustration,” she said, still contemplating what she would say to the man she was certain was her father.
Knowing she’d had enough, she handed the hammer back to the young man. “Thank you.”
Her sweatshirt clung to her back and her arms burned, but, damn—it felt amazing. People could rid themselves of a lot of tension by taking down walls. She should sell tickets.
Outside, she tried brushing plaster from her jeans. Her brain still buzzed when she spotted Ronan strolling up the path, his usual brooding replaced by a smirk.
“Did you lose a battle with a dust cloud?” he asked.
“I started the battle,” she retorted, breathless but triumphant. “And I won.”
He held up a manila envelope. “New chapter.”
“Excellent. I need a distraction before I write the letter that could implode my entire identity.”
They settled at the porch table. Ronan glanced at the university correspondence.
“You going back to school?”
“Nope. That’s the list of men who might be my father.”
His brows lifted. “And you’re contacting all of them?”
“Except Patrick Wright. I’ve met him. He was in New York the day I quit my job. The publishing company I worked for wanted him badly.”
Ronan leaned forward. “So what’s stopping you?”
She hesitated. “Fear. Fury. A bit of both. What if he knew and just didn’t care?”
He didn’t rush her. Just sat there, letting her unravel.
“I want to know why,” she whispered. “Why he let my mother go. Why he never looked for me.”
Ronan’s hand closed over hers.
“If it were me,” he said softly, “I’d want answers too.”
That single moment—his rough palm against her trembling fingers—drew something tight and tender inside her. No man had ever really listened when she spoke about her missing parent. No one had tried to understand the ache of not knowing why they didn’t want you.
“My father died when I was nineteen,” Ronan said quietly. “He was a hard man. Devout. Stubborn. Thought anyone not Catholic was going to hell. He wanted your grandmother’s land like it was his birthright.”
She managed a small smile. “Sounds like a charmer.”
“He believed the O’Byrnes owed us. Thought he could strong-arm your grandmother into selling.” Ronan’s voice dropped. “If he’d lived to see her pass, he would’ve bought this estate out from under you.”
Céilí bleated loudly.
They ignored the goat.
“And yet here you are,” she said, squeezing his hand. “Listening to me blather about men who ghosted me before I was even born.”
“You deserve to be heard.”
All she wanted to know was why. What had her mother done to keep him from them?
Before she could reply, Fergal called from inside.
“Aisling,” he yelled.
There was urgency in his voice. The kind that makes the hair on your arms lift.
Together, they dashed to the kitchen. Workers surrounded a hole in the far wall—the section where the servants’ quarters had been.
One man held out a tin box. Dusty. Dent-scarred.
Aisling took it, heart thudding. She pried it open.
Inside sat a ring.
And a letter.
Dearest Maeve,
I’ve been called home, but I promise I’ll return. When I do, we’ll marry. This ring belongs on your hand, not as proof of ownership, but as a symbol of every truth we whispered under the starlight. You’ve made me a better man, a better writer, a better soul.
Two weeks. I’ll be back.
All my love,
Patrick
Her knees gave out, and Ronan helped her outside. She sank onto the steps, letter trembling in her hands. It was true.
“No need to send the others,” she whispered. “Patrick Wright is my father.”