2
M aeve Kaminski has two dads.
One is the man who took her to her first day of kindergarten, who taught her to ride a bike, who bought her pads and gave her Advil and kept a secret stash of chocolate for when she got her period.
The other is listed on her birth certificate.
Keith Rothchild is the man who raised her.
Liam Doherty is the man who made her. They never met. He was a one-night stand, an unintentional sperm donor, found not at a bank but at a bar in Phuket. A chemically induced, blurred decision made by two consenting adults in their midtwenties, hopped up on mai tais. Maryann Kaminski had been on break before starting her residency. Maeve isn’t quite sure why Liam was in Thailand. Maryann never said. And Maeve hadn’t cared to ask.
Not that Maryann hated Liam for being estranged from his daughter. He had simply been a blip on her romantic radar. A speed bump on a detour she only followed for a block. Maeve had Keith, who came into her life at three months old, the only dad she’s ever needed or wanted. As Maryann once said, “Parents are like cooks. Too many in the kitchen and you have a mess.”
It should be clear by now how Maeve feels about a mess.
And then three weeks ago, she received an email at work from a Mr. O’Connor, a new associate at the law firm handling Liam Doherty’s will. Liam had died of pancreatic cancer. Maeve was needed in Ireland, Mr. O’Connor insisted.
After Spencer, Maeve scarcely trusted the sun to rise, let alone an email from a stranger claiming to work for her deceased estranged father. She deleted it. Two days later, another email appeared. Again, she deleted it. Another few days passed before she received a third email, this time to her personal account, from Mr. O’Connor.
Dear Ms. Doherty,
It is important that you contact me regarding your father’s estate. This is not a scam. Ask your boss. I would appreciate a timely response, as time, in this case, is of the essence.
Regards,
Eoin O’Connor
Maeve phoned her boss, Shira, who confirmed that Eoin O’Connor was indeed a real person who had found Maeve’s work contact on LinkedIn and reached out to confirm her identity and employment.
“You gave him my personal email address? What about my privacy?”
Shira scoffed. “Like that exists anymore. Plus, he sounded sexy with the accent.”
That was exactly what Maeve needed: another sexy guy out to swindle her. She emailed Eoin and thanked him for reaching out, but seeing as she never knew her father, she couldn’t be of any help in the matter of his estate.
Dear Ms. Doherty,
Let me be clear, your father’s death actually means quite a lot to you. He has left you an important possession in his will. I cannot disclose the details of the inheritance in email. Liam gave specific instructions to handle this in person in Inishglass. The cost of your flight, transportation, and lodging will be covered. I have attached travel options below.
Please advise.
—Eoin O’Connor
His tone was more acerbic than Maeve liked.
Mr. O’Connor,
Please advise—my last name is Kaminski.
Maeve
He responded.
My apologies. You should consider a name change. Maeve goes well with Doherty. Please advise on travel plans.
Appalled, she wrote:
What kind of a name is Eoin? Who even knows how to pronounce that? Too many vowels. You should consider a name change. Maybe to Asshole. I bet people call you that all the time.
Unsurprisingly, he wrote back.
I assure you people in Ireland know how to pronounce Eoin. To you Americans, it’s Owen. I will take your idea into consideration, but it is worth mentioning Asshole and Eoin both have three vowels. Please advise on travel plans.
—Eoin, the Asshole
He wasn’t letting up, but Maeve had no intention of ever setting foot in Ireland.
Owen,
I have a life. I can’t just drop everything and come to Ireland so you can give me a vase. I never knew my father. I’m sure there’s someone else who deserves said possession much more than me. If not, you keep it.
Ms. Kaminski
Eoin then sent the email that changed everything.
Maeve Kaminski,
There is no one else. Liam was an only child and very specific about his wishes. And we are not talking about a vase. Your father has left you a substantial inheritance, the only stipulation being you receive it in Ireland. Once again, please advise as to your desired travel plans or we will be forced to continue this snappish yet stimulating conversation ad nauseam.
—Eoin O’Connor, Esq.
Substantial inheritance . Debt collectors had been calling for months, and Spencer was a ghost. The only upside was that Maryann and Keith had just left for a six-month cruise around the world, in celebration of their joint retirement, and Maeve had managed to hide her predicament from them before they left. If they knew, they would give her the money, bail her out with their hard-earned savings, and that was completely unacceptable. Not now, fresh into their retirement. Maeve made a commitment to herself that by the time Maryann and Keith got back to Chicago, her debt problem would be taken care of. Somehow. And until Eoin’s email, she had still been searching for the answer. Then, it had appeared.
If flying thousands of miles, boarding two buses and a ferry, to end up on a small island off the coast of southern Ireland, barely the size of Lincoln Park and with one one-hundredth the inhabitants, could mean paying off the debt, Maeve would deal with the seasickness.
She agrees to pay a measly $50 of the $15,368 she owes— Spencer owes —to keep Konrad and American Debt Services off her back for another month, then lugs her suitcase up the jetty, feeling the weight of everything that has happened in her bones, desperate for a Tums and some water. At least the sky has cleared.
The island of Inishglass is straight out of The Lord of the Rings . Emerald-green hills. A jagged, rocky coastline. Dreamy rain that creates a fog over the mountains like a doorway into another realm. It’s unlike anything Maeve has ever seen in person, so while her situation might be a mess, the backdrop is gorgeous. She can at least appreciate that.
The summer the girls were thirteen, Sonya went to India. When she landed in Mumbai, somehow her body remembered the air and the heat and the smells, down to her core, recognizing the place despite never having set foot there. Maeve waits to see if this will happen to her. Half her DNA is from here, after all. And she waits ...
Nothing.
The harbor has mostly emptied of people, locals loading into cars and tourists filing into buses and cabs. Other than the parking area, it’s just a dock and a single road that leads into the village. No shelter. No bar to belly up to and pass the time. Not even a vending machine where she could procure a soda to calm her belly.
Completely out of character, Maeve had done little research on the island. And though, after Eoin’s emails, she was tempted to google every last detail on Liam Doherty, she had resisted. Hard. For twenty-four years, Liam had ignored his daughter, and in return, Maeve had done the same. In a way, Maeve has shown the most control in not googling Liam. It takes a lot of effort to avoid someone like she has, but secretly searching for Liam felt like a betrayal to the man who raised her. Keith deserves Maeve’s loyalty. And if Maeve is going to accept whatever inheritance Liam has left her, she cannot get attached to it. She needs it to clear her debt. She must stay removed and unemotional. Sentimentality will only weaken her resolve. The more she knows about her father, the greater the threat of feelings getting involved. And she cannot let that happen again.
Ten minutes into her wait, the last ferry worker walks down the jetty toward the lone car in the lot. He notices Maeve.
“Are you alright, love? D’you need a lift?”
“Someone’s coming to get me. He should be here any minute.” She forces a calm smile, like it’s no big deal that Eoin the Asshole is making her wait.
The man nods, and soon the place is deserted. Maeve checks her phone. With every passing minute, her anxiety ratchets up, swirling with leftover nausea from the ferry. But at ten in the evening, it’s still light out, at least.
Finally fed up, she texts Eoin that she’s arrived at the ferry dock and waiting, but her reception isn’t good, and the message never goes through. Five minutes later, she tries again: Are you coming?
And again, no success. Without reception, she can’t talk to Sonya or get on any socials or do, well ... anything. In her anger she types: Owen, get your fat arse to the ferry dock asap, you twat. She sends it and immediately regrets the text. Thankfully, this one doesn’t go through either.
“He will be here,” she says out loud. “He will not leave me stranded in a parking lot on some remote Irish island. I have not been bamboozled by a man again .”
But another part of her brain speaks louder. She has placed her trust in Eoin, a stranger she only communicated with via email. Did she do the proper research? She had looked at the law firm’s website, which could have been made by a third grader. Eoin wasn’t on any socials. Maeve had been tempted to check dating apps. Sure, she has Eoin’s number and email, but she knew Spencer’s shoe size, what kind of shaving cream he liked, and the freckle on his left butt cheek. Hell, she knew his grandma’s middle name!
But while she was falling in love, like a complete idiot, Spencer had been playing chess.
Maeve’s chest squeezes, like a shirt being wrung out to dry. She paces the parking lot and contemplates hijacking one of the ferries back to the mainland, but beyond afternoons getting buzzed in the Play Pen, the notorious stretch of Lake Michigan in downtown Chicago where everyone parks their boats and parties in the summer, she has no boating experience.
She could always walk into town, but she has no idea how far it is, and with the fading daylight, she’ll most definitely get caught in the dark. So with no other options, Maeve does the only thing that might calm a control freak’s panicked mind. When life is a mess, grab a broom and get to work. She opens her suitcase, neatly organized in packing cubes, and dumps everything out onto the ground, to start folding and arranging them again.
She’s deep into the work when the headlights appear down the road. The car stops in the parking lot, but the engine idles as a person steps out.
“Oh shite. Did your bag break?”
Maeve watches him approach. “You’re late, Asshole.”
“Sorry about that. Damn sheep wouldn’t get off the road.” Eoin kneels. “Let me help you.”
Maeve stops him. “That won’t be necessary.” As much as it pains her, she shoves everything into the bag and closes it, cringing at the thought of wrinkled shirts.
Eoin helps her up, Maeve stumbling on unsteady feet due to adrenal overload and jet lag. “Bloody hell,” he says in a muted Irish brogue. “You’re completely knackered.”
“Late and charming.”
Eoin runs a hand through his hair. “I didn’t mean that the way it came out. Let me start again.” He holds out his hand. “Maeve Doherty, it’s a pleasure to meet you.”
Maeve is unsure she wants to take his hand, handsome as he might be. Eoin is shaving-cream-commercial attractive. Dark-blond hair with stormy hazel eyes. A chiseled chin line with skin free of blemishes or stubble. The kind of good-looking that only gets better with a close-up.
“It’s Maeve Kaminski . And did you seriously blame sheep ?”
“It’s a legitimate defense on this island. There are more sheep here than people.”
“Can we just get on with this?” She extends the handle on her roller bag, thinking of the clothes wrinkling inside it.
“Right. Let’s get you settled. We can go through everything once you’ve had some time to adjust.” Eoin takes the suitcase and moves toward the car.
Maeve stands still. “Time to adjust? I don’t need to adjust. I came here because you said I had to. Now I want to know what this is all about.”
“That might not be that easy.”
Eoin’s evasion, his lateness, and Maeve’s lack of trust in anything right now are a lethal combination. Add in jet lag, and she’s a powder keg that just met a spark. “I’m not going anywhere until you tell me what’s going on!”
He beams with confidence, like he’s entertained by her fury, which only stokes the blaze. “You don’t like surprises, do you?” He examines Maeve like he’s taking stock, judging her. “I bet you’re one of those people who look at restaurant menus online before you go. You know what you’re going to order before you set foot in the place.”
“There’s nothing wrong with a little preparation,” Maeve huffs. Eoin laughs. “I doubt I can do that here, anyway. Is there reception anywhere on this island?”
“It’s spotty. Locals would say it’s part of the old-world charm.”
“Well, I like new-world 5G.”
“A little unplugging might be good for you. Help you”—again, Eoin’s eyes scan her from head to toe—“relax.”
“I don’t need to relax.”
He chuckles. “You might be surprised by this little island. It’s one of the most visited destinations in all of Ireland.”
“By sheep?”
“Come on, Kaminski. You obviously need sleep.”
“Not until you tell me.”
Eoin sighs like he’s dealing with a petulant child. He approaches her, close enough that she can smell the mint and spice on his skin. “I wondered what you’d look like,” he says sincerely. “You have his eyes. The same blue. Did you know that?”
Maryann has blond hair and brown eyes, the opposite of Maeve’s chocolate-brown hair and blue eyes. Her nose is more pointed, whereas Maeve’s slopes. Maeve has curves that her mother has more than once claimed to be jealous of. Maeve is organized; Maryann is a total pig, her bedroom always a minefield of clothes, her bathroom an explosion of lotion, hair accessories, and toothpaste. Maeve’s bathroom drawers are full of perfectly configured containers, each with a distinct purpose: rubber bands, claw clips, bobby pins, scrunchies.
Has Maeve considered that she might look like her bio-dad? Not with any enthusiasm. She has always preferred to think of herself and her mom like batteries, a single unit with opposite charges. A yin and a yang.
“Please,” Maeve says. “Just tell me what’s going on.”
Eoin hesitates. “It would be easier if I showed you.” He holds out his hand.
Still Maeve doesn’t move. She stares at it like it’s a question she’s unsure how to answer.
“You don’t want to stay here all night, do you?” Eoin asks.
There is only one reasonable answer. Even Maeve can see that. She loads her bag into the back and climbs into the front seat, reveling in the plush leather and spacious legroom.
Eoin checks his phone, and a sly smile grows on his face. “A fat-arse twat, eh?”
“Crap.” Maeve checks her messages, seeing that they all went through, finally.
“Relax, Kaminski. You’re Irish. Taking the piss is in your blood. Looks like you got something else from your father.”
“Let’s not make assumptions. My mom is pretty damn funny.” For a doctor, she thinks.
They start down the long winding road toward the village of Inishglass, passing farms and sheep along the way. Lots of sheep. So maybe Eoin wasn’t lying. The hillside is barren of trees, just stone fences and fields in a whole spectrum of green. The car glides over the road, soothing Maeve. By the time they make it to the village, her eyes are at half-mast, jet lag smothering her body like a weighted blanket. Buildings move past in a blur of color, tightly packed, mostly closed for the night. Beyond that, Maeve’s attention can’t keep up, and soon, overwhelmed with brain fog and fatigue, she drifts off.
She wakes abruptly when the car stops, and for just a moment, she forgets where she is. Then reality dawns, slowly. Eoin. His car. Ireland. The ferry. Thank goodness her stomach has finally settled.
They’re parked in front of a pub, the building white with black trim and a bright red door.
Maeve yawns. “I’m not really in the mood for a drink.”
“That’s good, because the place closed well over an hour ago.”
She stretches her achy back. “Then why are we here?”
“Because you insisted,” Eoin says.
“I did?” It’s like her mind has been wiped. Nothing is clear.
“You wanted to know what Liam left you.” He gestures toward the building. “Well ...”
Maeve snaps to attention, wide awake. Two words dance through her mind: substantial inheritance . She can’t believe this is happening, and yet she knows what Eoin is going to say before he says it.
“This is the Moorings. Your father left you his pub.”