18
Anna F.
New York, NY
8/3/2023
Where’s all the drama????
Popped over to Inishglass last week after following the Thatch and Moorings on Insta, hoping for a giant slice of drama pie. NOTHING. Briggs Murphy wasn’t even there. Neither was the Doherty girl. I feel like I bought tickets to a Broadway show and saw the understudies.
I will say, though, it is a little odd that they were gone at the same time. Maybe the conspiracy theory about those two is true. Is there a secret no one on Inishglass wants us to know?
SIDENOTE: Had a great smoothie at Mettā Café. If you’re on the island, go there. That place is dope.
Maeve meets Derry at the fishing dock, without Briggs. The day is warmer than usual, with thin clouds hanging in the sky. The air is eerily still, like it’s conserving its energy before unleashing a storm, which everyone on the island is predicting for this evening. Even the water is calm along the coast, small ripples, nothing like the usual churning whitecaps and stormy gray. Far out on the horizon, there’s no hint of the onslaught anticipated for Inishglass. It’s the literal calm before the storm, and the weather couldn’t be better, which is exactly why Derry said they needed to do this today.
After Derry took Briggs and Maeve to the mainland, Maeve realized the person she needed to get her to Cairn Island had been in front of her the whole time. A slightly more precarious trip, since there is no dock to pull into, meaning that Derry will have to anchor off the island and send Maeve in on a dinghy, so they had to have a calm day.
Now that it’s finally happening, Maeve’s nerves are at an all-time high, and not because of the weather, though Derry assured Maeve that if they get their timing right, that won’t be an issue. It’s not the sea or storm she’s worried about. It’s what’s on the island that has her stomach in knots. Maeve has come to realize that Liam’s items aren’t arbitrary. There’s something out on Cairn Island that he needed her to see, but what, she hasn’t a clue. She just knows she has to see it—and not to complete the list, not because she needs to sell the pub or because Konrad from American Debt Services has called her every day for a week asking for payment.
She’s doing this for Liam.
Maeve has made her decision. She’s staying in Ireland. When she dares to entertain the idea of leaving, her body seizes up. Her heart squeezes, her muscles grow tense, her stomach turns into a tight knot that won’t relax no matter how many breaths she takes. How could she deny what her body is telling her? And while she doesn’t want to hurt Maryann and Keith, what’s worse? Abandoning her family or abandoning herself?
As she walks down the dock toward Derry’s boat, her phone chimes with a text.
Watch out for the sharks today.
Maeve laughs at Briggs’s text, happiness welling to the top of her head.
She replies, I didn’t know there are sharks in Ireland!
Eoin?
Good point.
Just . . . be careful.
You’re cute when you’re worried. But it’s just fishing. You’re the one who jumps into the ocean every morning. WITH SHARKS.
Bloody hell, it’s sexy when you’re right. Just wear a life jacket for feck’s sake. And let me know you made it back.
I will. Promise.
A few seconds go by as she waits, watching the typing bubbles, for Briggs’s next text. They disappear, but then they’re back, and a moment later his text comes through.
I love you.
Seeing the words induces a pinch of guilt in Maeve, who told Briggs that Derry invited her for a fishing “ride along.” She knew that telling him she was going to Cairn Island would only incur an onslaught of questions, and after he’s been so open and honest with her, how could she let him down and admit she’s kept things from him? She should have told him everything weeks ago, but back then, Maeve didn’t know what she was going to do. She had no idea she was going to fall in love with this place, let alone with Briggs. The past few weeks have been like a dream, and she’s treated it as such. She has lived in an alternate universe, actively avoiding her life in Chicago, her parents, her debt, Sonya. She avoided telling Briggs the truth because she didn’t want to make a mess of everything. And now that she’s waited, she only looks more guilty. So she panicked and lied about today, as well.
But she does love Briggs. The oddest thing happened when he said those three words. Standing on the terrace of his mom’s townhome, at that moment, everything was ... right. Maeve didn’t have to think. Didn’t have to plan. She felt her whole body, so solidly, right then. It was like placing the last piece in a puzzle, completing the picture.
Turns out, in Ireland, Maeve found what she didn’t even know was lost.
Herself.
But she has to talk to Maryann and Keith first, come clean about Liam and Spencer and the debt. She plans to after the party tomorrow. She just needs another day of living in this dream. And then she’ll talk to Briggs, tell him everything, make him understand why she did what she did, and then tackle him to the ground and not only tell him how much she loves him, but show him, too. Maeve hearts his text and puts her phone in her pocket.
Derry is clad in rubber overalls and a rain jacket. He stands on the deck of his boat, which is outfitted with multiple fishing lines and nets. A dinghy with oars is hooked to the back. The plan is to get as close to the island as possible and drop anchor. From there, she’ll row to shore. Derry helps Maeve aboard and hands her a life jacket that smells strongly of fish and salt water. She loops it around her neck, takes a picture for Briggs, and tries to send it, unsure whether it will go through. As the motors flare, Maeve asks Derry, “Have you ever seen a shark out here?”
“A few.” He winks. “But don’t worry about them.”
“They won’t eat me?” she jokes.
“Oh, they’d eat you if they could. But if you fall overboard, you’ll be so hypothermic by the time they get to you, you won’t notice.”
“You’re taking the piss, aren’t you?”
“Best to stay on board and not find out.” Derry winks again, cheeky old man. Derry’s son Mikey—the spitting image of the fisherman with rosy cheeks, freckled fair skin, and kind eyes—tells Maeve to head up to the captain’s deck while they push off from the dock, which she gladly does.
Twenty minutes later, Derry anchors the boat about fifty yards off the island. Not wanting to send her alone, he asks Mikey to accompany Maeve, and they climb into the dinghy. Once in the small, vulnerable craft, Maeve understands why they had to do this today. Normally, the waves would demolish it, but today they glide through the calm surf like a duck on a pond.
The island is shaped like a butte, rocky cliffs rising to a flat, green expanse at the top. The beach is part sand, part rock. Maeve takes off her shoes and socks, rolls up her pants, and helps Mikey drag the dinghy out of the water. The cliff to the top of the butte is intimidating, and somehow Maeve knows whatever she’s searching for is at the top.
As she dries her feet and puts her shoes back on, Mikey says, “There’s a trail to the top just that way.” He points to her left.
“Have you been out here before?”
“Only once. A few months ago.” The hesitation in his voice stops Maeve from asking any more questions. Probably best not to know. Mikey looks out at the horizon and says they have an hour before the wind is supposed to pick up and they need to be back on the fishing boat. Maeve thanks him and checks her phone. There’s no service on the island. Her text to Briggs never went through. With only an hour, she sets out.
The trail is a series of steep switchbacks. At times, Maeve crawls on hands and knees, dirt embedding itself under her nails and scuffing the knees of her jeans. It takes ten minutes of sweat-inducing work to get to the top. By the time she does, she’s out of breath, dirty, and chilled.
But once her body calms and she takes in the expansive view, awe returns. All of Inishglass is spread out before her, the rolling green hills for which it’s named, the tangly roads and patchwork fields. The view is gorgeous, better than any you’d get from a ferry. Maeve is struck by the place all over again, but this time because it is her home. Just thinking the word causes a wave of relief to wash over her, like nothing she’s ever felt before. Her frustration dissipates. If she had time to sit down and just stare at her island, she would. But with every passing minute, her time is running out. She needs to find what she’s looking for, and fast. Trouble is, she has no idea what that is.
Maeve takes an organized approach, starting her search at the outside of the butte and working her way in. The ground is uneven, and she has to watch her step while staying on guard for anything unusual. But nothing stands out. It’s all just green grass, rocks, and peaty earth.
Maeve closes her eyes. Out here, the air smells fresh like Briggs, earth and salt water. Maeve can’t imagine going back to the bus fumes and exhaust of the city. And yet, that girl is still in her. The one who was lulled to sleep by the rumble of the L train, who learned to ride a bike in the alley behind her house, whose collection of takeout menus filled two kitchen drawers (alphabetized and categorized, of course). For a second Maeve wonders if she’s just fooling herself. Can she really give up that life for a small island with one Indian takeaway joint that doesn’t even deliver?
She opens her eyes again, and every doubt evaporates when she sees her island. Then she notices a crop of ordered stones, different from all the other scattered, rough ones. These are smooth and placed in a line. Maeve races over, feeling time slipping away from her.
Everything stops when she sees what they are. The air stills as Maeve looks down at the neat rows of graves cut in perfect rectangles. Each has a cross, an inscribed name, and dates.
George Ronan Doherty, January 17, 1915–May 29, 1996
Grace Mary Doherty, July 31, 19–August 3, 1994
Doherty . . . Doherty . . . Doherty . . .
Each one a relative.
Judy Catherine Clare Doherty, March 4, 1940–October 16, 1997
Her grandmother. And then Maeve falls to her knees in front of the newest stone, not yet weather-beaten like the rest.
Liam Niall Doherty, November 23, 1973–April 29, 2023
Mikey’s words come back to her. He was here, just once, a few months ago. That explains the hesitation on his face. Maeve’s finger traces the letters and numbers on the headstone.
“Hi, Dad,” she whispers. “I made it.”
A gust of wind picks up, sending ripples over the water below, and just like Briggs described, Maeve hears a voice that she has never heard before, one that is wholly not her own.
“Thank you,” Liam says, from somewhere out at sea, far over the horizon, the words echoing in Maeve’s heart.
The storm blows in with gale-force winds and sheets of rain, knocking out power across the island. The pubs close, as do all the other establishments, and people hunker down to wait out the worst of it. Maeve is packing up the eco-pod in candlelight when there’s a knock at the door. Briggs stands outside, soaked from head to toe.
“What are you doing here?” She guides him inside.
“I tried to call, but nothing’s going through. I was worried since I hadn’t heard from you.”
“But I texted.” She grabs her phone to show Briggs, but it never went through. She and Derry had returned to Inishglass right as the rain started, and the weather turned so quickly, even Derry seemed nervous as the sea kicked up and waves hit the stern, splashing the deck as ominous clouds trailed them the entire way back to Inishglass.
Maeve had gone straight to the pub, which had already shut down for lack of power. She returned to the eco-pod and ran into Ivy, who gave her candles, a flashlight, and a bottle of wine, which is now open on the counter, half-drunk. “Storm essentials,” Ivy called them. Maeve immediately jumped in the shower and has been packing ever since.
“I’m sorry,” she says. “Do you want a drink?”
Briggs shakes his head and exhales. “No. Don’t be sorry. It’s the storm. It’s making me irrationally worried.”
“You’re pretty cute when you irrationally worry.”
“It’s not a look I’m used to, honestly.” He runs his fingers through his wet hair, his stress palpable.
Maeve places a hand on his chest, feeling the heavy beat of his heart. “Don’t worry. The sharks didn’t get me.”
Briggs bows his head like he’s exhausted. “Feck, Maeve. What have you done to me?”
“I could ask the same of you,” she whispers. With Briggs here, the violent storm outside disappears, and everything settles. For just a moment, all Maeve’s confessions sit on the tip of her tongue, ready to tumble out. She needs to tell him, should have told him already. The mounting pressure sits on her chest like a boulder, but how can she unburden herself tonight, when Briggs is already out of sorts? She can’t, so she holds in all that she wants to say. Just a little longer.
Briggs runs his hands up and down Maeve’s arms, as if reminding himself that she’s here in front of him, solid and breathing.
“Do you ever visit your dad’s grave?” she asks.
He shakes his head. “My mum and sisters do. They find it comforting.” He exhales a long, shaky breath. “Not me. All I think about when I’m there is what a big man he was, and what a small box he ended up in.”
Maeve has come to know one thing about grief—it never goes away. It just changes outfits. One day grief dresses up as sadness. The next it’s masquerading as joy. The next it’s a dull anxiety in the back of the throat. Humans think death is final, but it’s one of the longest relationships a person will ever have. Joe Murphy may have died ten years ago, but Briggs will live with his ghost for the rest of his life, just like Maeve will live with Liam’s.
Briggs steps back from her and paces, clenching and releasing his fists. Maeve has never seen him like this, all tightly coiled like he’s about to burst. She moves closer, wanting to soothe his unease, but he holds up a hand to stop her. “I never wanted this, Maeve.”
His words steal her breath. “What?”
“I tried to stop it from the start.”
“I know,” she whispers.
“I was perfectly fine before you came to this damn island.” He finally meets her eye, his expression intense and strained. Maeve’s heart is wild in her chest. Whatever he needs to say is growing bigger with every passing silent second, sucking the air out of the room.
“Why are you saying this, Briggs?”
“I don’t know if I can do this, Maeve. I’m so fecking scared.”
He rubs his hand over his head as she attempts to digest the bomb he’s just dropped. Water has collected on the floor, and Maeve does the one thing she can think of to calm the pounding in her ears, the fuzz in her brain. She grabs a towel and starts wiping, frantically trying to fix the mess.
Briggs drops to his knees next to her and grabs her hands, but she can’t look at him. “Damn it, Maeve. I’m not saying this the right way.”
“It’s OK.” She shakes her head, refusing to cry. “I’m just glad you’re telling me now. Better to back out before ...” Before she upends her whole life. Before she attempts to make this dream a reality. She knew better. It felt like a dream for a reason: because it’s not real. How could it be? People don’t fall in love like they have. There’s no logic to it. Only frenzy. You can’t navigate a whirlwind. Eventually you’ll end up lost. What’s that famous quote? “A goal without a plan is just a wish.” She’s been living in a wish, but she knows that wishes are just vapor. No structure. That can’t be sustainable, right? No wonder Briggs is coming to his senses.
“That’s not what I’m saying.” Briggs holds her tightly. “When I hadn’t heard from you, the thoughts that went through my head ... I was out of my mind. You’re all I want, Maeve. And the worst part is, I know we won’t last. No matter what. One day I will lose you. It could be tomorrow. It could be in eighty years. And I’m trying, with everything in me, not to run from that, but damn it, it’s hard. I don’t know how to hold you lightly, knowing that at any second this could all end.”
“You don’t think I’m scared, too?” she counters. “You made a mess of my life, Briggs Murphy. You’re the last thing I expected when I showed up on this island. But—harsh reality—it happened. We happened.”
He shakes his head. “I never wanted to be a ‘we.’”
“Well, I never wanted a mess. But you spilled that damn drink and changed my life.”
At that, the coil wrapping Briggs loosens. His mouth slackens, and one end curls up ever so slightly. “I knew the second I saw you, flopping around like a fish out of water.” He takes her face in his hands, his thumb caressing her cheek as he inhales deeply. “Maeve, I’m gonna mess this up over and over again. I’m gonna make mistakes. I’m gonna say the wrong thing and freak out when you don’t call, but I promise, I will work every day to be a better man than the day before. I will work at holding you lightly, so I don’t suffocate you. I don’t want to be the man I was before you. That man didn’t deserve you, and I want to be the one who does.” He reaches toward his pocket. “I know what I’m about to do is crazy. I have no idea how we’ll make it work, but I’ve come to realize that’s love. Trying every damn day to build a life with no guarantees, other than that you’ll do it together for as long as you can.”
It dawns on Maeve that Briggs is about to pull out a ring, a diamond ring for a very specific purpose. She can’t let that happen. Not yet.
“Wait.” She stops his hand, and Briggs’s eyes go wide. She hasn’t told him everything yet. Hell, she hasn’t spoken to Maryann and Keith. They don’t know she’s in Ireland. They don’t know Briggs exists. How can she say yes when her parents think she’s still in Chicago? She’s too far gone, and none of it will be rectified tonight.
“Do you not want—”
“No,” she says quickly. “I mean ... yes. I want you. And I want you to ask your question. But I need more time. Forty-eight hours. Just until after the party.”
Briggs exhales again, his taut shoulders releasing. “The party ... right.”
To reassure him, Maeve grabs her planner, turning to two days from now. She writes in bright purple: Meeting with Briggs Murphy.
“Does ten a.m. work?” She taps the page with the pen.
Briggs considers for a moment. “I think I can shuffle things around.”
“Now don’t be late.” Maeve wags a finger at him. “We have a few things to discuss.”
Briggs takes her by the hips and pulls her toward him, his body relaxed and playful once again. “I love it when you talk organization.”
“How many hours should I block off?” she jokes, pressing into him. “One? Two?”
He takes the planner and crosses out the whole day. “I plan to take my time celebrating.” Then he tosses the planner to the side as Maeve wraps her arms around his neck. All feels right again. Maybe Maeve was wrong. Even a whirlwind has form. Maybe crazy love has a plan after all. “You’ve got forty-eight hours, Maeve.”
“Is that a threat?” she postures.
“It’s a fecking promise.”
He kisses her to seal that promise, and her hands run through his damp hair as she savors the taste. She strips Briggs out of his wet clothes and stands back to admire the man that’s all hers.
“If you keep looking at me like that, I’ll be forced to mess up this clean room,” he says.
Maeve’s suitcase is open on the bed, the clothes neatly organized in packing cubes. She pushes it onto the floor and lies down. “Do your worst, Briggs Murphy.”
Liam’s apartment is perfect. Every item is where Maeve wants it to be. She adjusts the navy and cream throw pillows decorating the matching couch, slicing her hand down the middle to create the perfect V. The stick figure that Briggs drew of Maeve is framed on the mantel, making her smile now when she passes it. Next to it is the elephant, a red bow still around its neck.
The dining table is set for eight: Barb, Linda, Derry, Hugh, Aoife, Isla, Briggs, and Maeve. In the next room, the bed is made. The bathroom is stocked with toiletries. The only thing Maeve didn’t have time to unpack was her bag, because she spent all morning prepping pierogi, which are lined on the kitchen counter and ready to be boiled. She stands back to admire the apartment. This is not what she planned for her life. It’s better.
Now that the power is back on, Maeve needs to shower and change into fresh clothes. Downstairs the pub is bustling again. Tomorrow, she’ll be back behind the bar, but tonight is reserved for Liam.
The storm ended early this morning, though it took a few hours for the island’s power to be restored. Outside, the sky is clear blue, no lingering evidence of last night’s destruction except pools of leftover rain on the pavement and in the fields. This evening, cooler air coasts through the open windows, filling the apartment with the fresh scent of the earth after a hearty downpour.
Maeve showers quickly, then picks through the clothes in her bag, settling on a lavender crop sweater and jeans. She adds the pearl earrings Liam bought for her eighteenth birthday. With her hair done, it’s nearly time for the guests to arrive. Maeve lights the sandalwood and rose candle (bought for her fourteenth birthday) and attempts to play Spotify on the wireless speakers (her twenty-second birthday present), but the Wi-Fi has been iffy the past few hours.
What shocked Maeve most about Liam’s gifts was their accuracy. Of all the candle scents, he picked sandalwood, her favorite. Maeve had always borrowed Maryann’s pearl earrings, never her diamonds, for formal occasions like school dances and family weddings, preferring the softer look. When she was eight, she was obsessed with Taylor Swift’s album Fearless . She watched the “You Belong with Me” video on repeat. Maryann got her the album poster for her eighth birthday, along with a T-shirt. That year Liam got Maeve an iPod Nano, which she charged a few weeks ago. One album was loaded on the device: Fearless . That might be easily explained; Maeve wasn’t the only young girl obsessed with Taylor Swift, and it was the bestselling album for kids her age at the time. Maybe for everyone. Liam could have googled “best gifts for eight-year-old girls” and taken a chance that Maeve wasn’t any different than most. But then there’s the elephant ...
It’s her favorite animal. When three of them died at Lincoln Park Zoo, Maeve started a petition to ban elephant exhibits in northern states. She walked up and down her street in Chicago, rang every apartment buzzer, and collected over one hundred signatures. A few people even gave her money, which she donated to the International Elephant Foundation. She was five years old. She had elephant sheets and a bedspread and an elephant shower curtain. When she had to pick an animal for a first-grade report, she picked the elephant. She researched the different species—African savanna, African forest, and Asian—and could recite a list of their differences. African elephants are bigger and both males and females grow tusks, whereas only male Asian elephants grow tusks. African elephants have a flat head; Asian elephants have two cranial bumps. They have a different number of toenails and different coloring on their trunks and ears. And then there are Borneo pygmy elephants, the smallest in the world, and Maeve’s particular favorite.
She got a perfect score on the assignment, and for Christmas, Maryann and Keith adopted a Borneo pygmy from the World Wildlife Fund for her. She hung its picture and adoption certificate on her bedroom wall and told everyone she had a pet elephant named Bubbles. The day she read Liam’s letter, she checked the tag on the stuffed elephant: Bubbles.
Maeve didn’t have the words to tell Briggs all of this when he found her. How can any of it be explained? How can a man she’s never met know her? Maybe it’s all coincidence. She’s not the only one who loves elephants and pearls and sandalwood and Taylor Swift. But she’s choosing to believe in magic.
When the first guest knocks right at seven, she knows it’s Briggs. He wouldn’t be late. But as she goes to answer it, her phone chimes with multiple text messages and music starts to play over the speakers, a sign that the Wi-Fi has finally kicked back on. Maeve forgoes the phone for the door. The most important people tonight will be here in person.
Briggs is wearing a baseball cap and hoodie, pulled over his head to hide his face like a celebrity attempting to avoid paparazzi. He peels them off, displaying the scarf Maeve knit, and kisses her on the cheek.
“I cannot believe you wore that,” she says. “It’s hideous.” But when she attempts to pull it from his neck, he stops her.
“I hope you’re making a matching hat. Winter will be here before we know it.”
Hugh, Aoife, and Isla file in after Briggs, bearing housewarming gifts, which Maeve chastises them for buying.
Isla hands her a wrapped box. “Open it,” she says with a wide smile. Maeve gives it a little shake, suspecting what’s inside, then neatly pulls back the paper, flips the lid open, and reveals a pair of pristine white Air Force Ones. “Classics,” Isla says. “Every closet needs a pair.”
Maeve knows just where she’ll put them in her closet, but for now she immediately puts them on, modeling the shoes for Isla.
“Brilliant,” she says and smiles. While the two of them haven’t spent much time together, Maeve likes Isla. Like Briggs, his beautiful little sister has spunk. She doesn’t let Briggs get away with anything. She fights back. And while she may keep her shoes clean, her room is a mess. There’s a story there, Maeve can tell. Maeve thanks Isla with a long hug. Tomorrow she’ll be Isla’s future sister-in-law. The thought ignites a whole new round of butterflies.
Aoife hands Maeve a heavy round pillow with a bow tied around it. “It’s a meditation cushion. I expect to see you both in class on a regular basis, considering I’m the reason you can’t wipe those goofy smiles off your faces.”
“You? What about me? It was a group effort,” Hugh says. “I almost died that morning running.” He hands Maeve a grocery bag. Inside is gin, Campari, sweet vermouth, and some oranges. “Everything you need for the perfect Negroni, since I won’t be here to make them for you myself.”
Briggs won’t let it show just how sad he is that Hugh is leaving, but Maeve knows. She gives Hugh a long hug and whispers, “Thank you.”
When he pulls back, Hugh looks at Briggs. “You’re right. Definitely grapefruits.”
Briggs yanks Maeve away from Hugh with a threat to keep his hands off, and they all bust up laughing. Briggs’s gift is last, but Maeve can tell from the wrapping that it’s a painting.
“Did you hear the news?” Hugh asks her, slapping Briggs on the back.
“What?” she says.
“Furphy’s finally doing an art show at the pub.”
Briggs shrugs off Hugh’s hand. “It’s not a fecking art show. I’m running out of space in my studio, so I figured I’d hang a few at the pub.”
“Sounds like an art show to me,” Aoife says, which gets her a glare in response.
“I wish I could see it,” Maeve says.
Briggs kisses her on the temple. “I’ll give you a private tour.”
Maeve opens his present, expecting one of his pastoral paintings, but instead she finds a self-portrait, identical to the one on the mantel, except that this stick figure holds a whiskey instead of wine.
“It’s perfect,” she says. She places it next to his other drawing and steps back to admire them both. “Now the room is complete.”
Barb, Linda, and Derry arrive, and what was an empty space a month ago is now full. It’s exactly what Maeve wanted. Hugh breaks into the Negroni ingredients and starts making drinks while Maeve gets to cooking the pierogi.
At one point, between the music, laughter, and talking, the apartment is so full that Maeve is almost overwhelmed. For so many months she hid in her garden apartment, spending time only with Sonya, scared to put herself out there, scared to leave her protective bubble, worried there was something wrong with her. And now, to have all this feels almost impossible.
Briggs comes up behind her at the stove and pins her between his arms. “I have an important question for you,” he whispers, nipping at her earlobe and sending warm goosebumps down her arms.
“I thought questions were on hold until tomorrow.”
“This one I need to know before then.”
“Really?” Maeve spins toward him, spoon in hand. Her phone chimes with two more text messages. It hasn’t been this active since she’s been on the island, but after the storm, it must be catching up on old texts that never came through.
“I’ve wanted to ask this for a while now,” he says. “The answer says a lot about you, so choose wisely.”
Maeve cocks an eyebrow at him. “Go on.”
He leans down to her ear, his breath light on her skin. “What’s your karaoke song?”
A few weeks ago, at Mettā Café, Maeve heard it, and she knew right away that the song was hers. No one else at the party knows that hidden in the corner is a karaoke machine she plans to pull out after dinner. Tonight, she’ll sing it in front of everyone. Maeve backs away from Briggs with a cocky grin. “Almost time to eat.”
“Fecking tease.” He grabs her ass in delicious retaliation.
Everyone takes seats at the table as Maeve browns the pierogi in the skillet until they’re perfectly crisp. Babcia would be so proud. She would get such a kick out of knowing that her pierogi are a huge hit in Ireland. They even have a hashtag! Maeve has the inclination to send Babcia a picture, but Babcia’s terrible with her phone. When Maeve sends her a text, she calls complaining that she can’t read it because the font size on her phone is meant for young people and she’s an old fart. Her words, not Maeve’s. Maeve has tried to explain that she can make it larger, but Babcia has no interest. Maeve can’t believe it’s been over two months since she talked to her.
With the pierogi perfectly plated, just a sprinkle of chives on top, Maeve turns to serve her guests. She hears the first-floor door open and someone start up the steps. She counts the guests to see who is missing, but they’re all here. She tries to remember who she might have mentioned the party to, but there’s no way she did. Briggs’s and her relationship is the best-kept secret on the island. The only people who know are in this apartment. And no one else would just walk in without knocking, like they owned the place.
Except . . .
Maeve thinks Eoin’s name as he appears in the doorway. “Well, look at this. Seems like we’ve crashed quite the party. I must have missed my invitation.”
The plate slips from Maeve’s hands, falls to the floor, and shatters. She drops to her knees to pick up the mess, and Aoife and Linda immediately jump in to help her. Dinner is ruined.
Briggs stands from his seat, anger in his eyes. “What the fuck are you doing here, O’Connor?”
“Calm down, Murphy. God, you always were a hothead. I’m just as surprised to see you.”
Maeve glances up from her spot on the ground, hands covered in butter and potatoes, attempting not to cut herself on the broken porcelain. “What are you doing here, Eoin?”
“You didn’t get my email?” he says, sounding shocked but knowing full well that the island’s internet has been down for almost twenty-four hours.
“I wasn’t sure I was going to make it with the storm,” says a man that Maeve finally notices standing behind Eoin. He speaks in a posh British accent and looks around the apartment like it’s a piece of art. “And I thought England had shitty weather. Ireland’s bloody dreadful.”
“This is Henry,” Eoin says. “He’s the one I told you about.”
“Told me about?” Maeve asks, confused.
“God, Kaminski. You really have been distracted.” Eoin glances at Briggs, who is doing everything in his power to remain calm. She wipes her hands, and as she’s about to grab her phone from the counter, Eoin adds, “We discussed this in detail. He’s my mate from London.”
Maeve is still trying to piece together what the hell he’s talking about when she sees six missed texts on her phone. Five from her mom and one from Sonya.
Shit . She quickly pulls up Sonya’s text.
I think I messed up. CALL ME. Maryann knows.
Her stomach sinks as Henry, now in the living room, says, “Love the place.”
Maeve doesn’t know what to deal with first: the messages or the situation in front of her. She doesn’t remember Eoin ever talking about a friend from England, but whoever this Henry is, it’s not her concern. Maeve opts for her mom’s texts.
Honey, call me. I’m concerned.
I just got a voice mail from Konrad. Who is he and why is he calling me? He said something about a debt? What is going on?
OK. Now I’m worried. I’m calling Sonya. Where are you?
YOU’RE IN IRELAND?!
I spoke with Konrad. I don’t know what to say. How could you keep this from me? Keith and I are back in Chicago. Come home NOW.
“I wasn’t convinced when Eoin proposed the location,” Henry says. “A pub on a remote Irish island? It’s a crazy investment, but then I did my research. Not only is this place an Irish wet dream, but you’ve made it a social-media sensation. I couldn’t believe the online presence. The number of reviews. And the whole hashtag Irelandsmostwantedpotato dispute? Brilliant. People love family drama. Look at Harry and William. Meghan and Kate. We’ll need the pierogi recipe, of course, and rights to the Doherty name, but well done, you. I should be thanking my lucky stars that Eoin contacted me first, so I can get in before the other potential buyers.”
That’s when Maeve remembers. The restaurateur friend in London who might be interested in buying the Moorings. Her stomach sinks. There is no time to salvage the situation. No time to halt the breakdown about to take place.
“Potential buyers?” Briggs says.
Maeve needs a pause button. Her life is coming down around her, and she can’t stop it.
“Kaminski didn’t tell you?” Eoin asks, as if Briggs is pathetic, as if Eoin and Maeve have had multiple secret conversations about selling the pub. That might have been true, but they haven’t talked about it for weeks now. Not since the kickball game. Eoin had gone silent, and Maeve thought they were done. She figured he knew he lost and was licking his wounds.
How could she have been so stupid? After everything Aoife told her about him.
“We’ll have to remodel a bit, of course,” Henry says, walking around the apartment with an inspector’s eye. “But this second level is perfect. More tables means more customers.”
Like a cunning animal who knows when he has his prey backed into a corner, Eoin’s face blooms into a malicious snarl. This whole situation was a planned attack.
“If you can’t tell, Maeve’s selling the pub, mate,” Eoin says casually. “You didn’t honestly think she’d keep the place, did you?”
Briggs’s jaw works, bloodlust written all over his face. Aoife steps in front of him and says, “Fuck off, Eoin.”
“Dirty talk has always been your specialty. Glad to see nothing’s changed.”
Briggs tries to leap forward, but Hugh grabs his arm. “Bro, you have to calm down.”
This isn’t good for Briggs’s heart, not that Eoin knows or cares.
Maeve steps forward and points at the door. “Eoin, get out.”
“But I thought this is what you wanted,” he says innocently. “I mean, that’s why you finished the list, right?”
“What list?” Briggs snaps.
“Liam’s list of requirements that she has to complete before she sells,” Eoin says matter-of-factly. “It’s the only reason she stuck around the island in the first place. She’s been begging for me to send her home this whole time. But rules are rules, right, Kaminski?”
“What list?” Briggs growls, this time at Maeve.
“What was it, Kaminski?” Eoin says. “Learn to knit some kind of scarf ... win the football rounders game, which was brilliant by the way, though I was upset not to be a part of it.” Maeve cringes as he ticks off on his fingers. “And Derry told me yesterday you made it to Cairn Island. Congratulations. I didn’t think you’d check that one off so easily, but I shouldn’t have underestimated you. You’ve got guts, Kaminski. You work hard when you need to. You got the pub revenue up, just like I suggested. I knew the pierogi would be a hit. You could teach a class in scarcity marketing. And taking the pub to social media. Brilliant. And from what I read recently, there are rumors of a secret romance between you and Murphy. A cunning move. Nothing draws people in like forbidden love. It’s a little too Romeo and Juliet for me, but people like that sort of romantic shite, and if it brings visitors to the island and into the pub, who cares, right? Money is money, no matter how you get it.”
Maeve is too stunned to counter this speech. In one swoop, Eoin has managed to make everything that Maeve has done seem like a calculated plan to sell the Moorings. Even her relationship with Briggs looks like a deception.
“Congratulations, Kaminski,” Eoin concludes smugly. “Now you can get the hell off this island, just like you wanted.”
“We can iron out the details once I get back to London,” Henry says, oblivious to the mess around him. “But I think I can speak for my partners when I say we’ll take it. You’ve got yourself a deal.”
Henry extends his hand, offering Maeve the solution to all her problems, but she’s frozen. She thought she had time to explain, thought she had time to clean up her mess and fix the situation without hurting anyone. But she was wrong. Again.
But right as she’s about to bat away Henry’s hand and unleash her anger on Eoin, Briggs turns to her and says, “And you called me the liar.” He storms out of the apartment.
Isla throws Maeve an apologetic look and chases after him, Aoife on her tail, calling his name. Hugh lingers to finish the last swig of his Negroni, then glances down to Eoin’s crotch and says, “Baby fucking carrot.” And then he’s gone, too.
Barb, Linda, and Derry are left at the table. Maeve falls into one of the vacant seats, phone in her hand, tears welling in her eyes.
Derry puts a hand on Maeve’s shoulder, worry across his wrinkled brow, his eyes laden with guilt. “I think this was all my fault. I mentioned the party to Eoin. I thought he’d be invited since he’s your friend.”
“Should I book your ticket home, Kaminski?” Eoin asks, pleased.
Right then, Maeve’s phone rings. She picks it up.
Maryann doesn’t bother with hello. “You have some explaining to do. Get your ass home. Now.”