Chapter 71
71
At the end of August, the kids went back to school, Queenie repeating the year she’d had to abandon back in March. Seeing her mates move on without her, leaving her sharing a classroom with the “kids,” made her cry.
There was a rush to reassure her that one day it would all even out, that she’d have friends of every age: information she refused to believe. I wished I could give her my rock-solid certainty but that’s the thing about humans, we can’t know until we know.
Moving into September, M’town had begun its post-summer slump into depression when news broke, so good it would have buoyed the Titanic —Courtney Burke had moved in with Ben Mendoza! It was official: they were in love and didn’t care who knew.
Actually I’d known for ages but that fact I kept to myself because show-offs are never popular. Yes, it had been me who had counseled both Courtney and Ben through their doubts and fears. Courtney’s biggest concerns were her two sons, who had allied themselves firmly with their dad. Ben’s greatest fear was that Courtney would undermine any chance of her own happiness in order to placate the boys.
In the end Courtney had fixed on the position that life was always messy. “The lads want me to go back to their dad,” she said. “Which, cold day in hell, like. So go big or go home, I’m committing to Ben.”
Ben offered Teagan her own apartment within his house but she refused it, insisting loudly that Ben and Courtney deserved “a honeymoon period.” Privately, however, she admitted she couldn’t live under a roof where her mum was “getting drilled.” Instead she moved in with Karina the hairdresser.
Meanwhile, Sergeant Burke quietly applied for a transfer.
Brigit hadn’t been joking when she said they’d gear up fast, come September. A thousand different aspects of the resort suddenly became time-critical. Staffing was the highest priority but from the most luxurious facecloths to the perfect buckets for the Ayahuasca puking, there were countless decisions to be made daily.
I was working hard—we all were. By the end of the month, I realized I hadn’t been to Dublin once. Was this…my life now? Six months in, was I a full-time resident of M’town?
One way or another, I knew I was done with New York. I made the momentous decision to give my tenants their one month’s notice, then engage a realtor to sell my apartment. Next, I emailed my resignation to Ariella. Immediately I powered off my phone in case she rang and yelled at me.
When I felt brave enough to switch it on again, there were no furious voice-notes, no expletive-riddled texts or emails. Just…nothing. Which kind of said it all.
Well, excellent! I WhatsApp’d a general invitation for pints in the Spanish asap.
By the time I got there, Hal, Aber, Ziryan, Ike, Karina and Gráinne were already halfway through their first drink. Then in came Vivian, looking sultry, sexy and—hey, it can’t be tiptoed around—a little grimy. The first night I’d ever met her I’d thought it was a consequence of her long journey home but it was just her look.
She pulled me aside. “Can we talk? About Rose Tolliver.”
My stomach plunged. “What about her?”
“There’s a rumor she’s doing a solo run, still looking for investment for Tolliver Hall.”
Alarmed, I thought through the implications. What would it mean for Brigit and Colm? Nothing good, surely?
“…Aaaaaand.” Her eyes twinkled. “If we put that together with the sightings of Sexy Man Armstrong up there a few times over the summer, what can we conclude?”
I felt as if I’d been punched.
Vivian meant no harm. To her, this was just a delicious piece of gossip.
“What do you mean?”
The smile fell from her face. “…Hey, nothing, nothing. Just a stupid rumor, Anna, I’m an idiot, forget it.”
She’d wanted me to conclude that Joey was putting a finance package together for Rose—oh, thank the Lord, Courtney had arrived.
“Just a sec.” I abandoned Vivian.
“Anna.” Courtney was concerned. “What’s up?”
“Courts.” In a low voice, I told her what Vivian had said.
“There’s no rumor,” she stated. “If there was, I’d know about it. No. Rumor. Put it from your mind.”
But there was more. “Courtney?” My voice was hoarse. “Has he been spotted in town?”
“Few times.” She kept her gaze steady but she was finding this hard. “Never for long. I didn’t tell you because you didn’t want to talk about him. Will we go someplace else, the two of us? We’ll say you’ve your period. Again. It’ll be your thing.”
“I love you, Courtney.”
“That’s handy, because I love you too.”
Back in my house, we drank tea and I talked myself back to baseline calm. “He can do what he wants, I’m nothing to him, he’s nothing to me. But even if she was looking for investment, he wouldn’t help her, he’s far too loyal to Brigit and Colm. Isn’t that right, Courtney?”
“Certainly is.”
“And to be fair, he can do what he wants with her. He’s welcome to come to M’town and I appreciate him keeping out of my way. Because I’m nothing to him, he’s nothing to me.” How many times had I said it already? “Nothing to me. Right, Courtney?”
“You’re upset now.” God love her, she was trying to wrap this up, she had Ben Mendoza to get home to. “But it’ll pass.”
“Of course it’ll pass. Soon. Courts…how many times was he spotted?”
“Three, that I know of.”
“And he never stayed overnight?”
“He’d be a bigger fool than I already think he is if he chanced a night under that roof. It’s unstable,” she added.
“You’re the best. Sorry for keeping you so long. I’ll be fine in the morning.”
In the morning I wasn’t fine. But I would be. A butterfly didn’t have to put in an appearance for me to know that for certain.
—
Late September, Angelo broke the news that Ben Mendoza was to have his first exhibition on the last Saturday in November. The gallery chosen to host this cultural highlight wasn’t a legendary New York hotspot but Brigit’s Barn, Maumtully, Connemara.
I had concerns about holding a big event on the last weekend of November in a small town in Ireland. But Angelo said people would trample down the doors for an exhibition of Ben Mendoza’s paintings, no matter where it was held. Not necessarily a good thing, he’d stressed. Most would be rubberneckers.
His plan was to invite art lovers who actually bought art: wealthy types who might consider this weekend the opening salvo in their holiday festivities, kicking off five weeks of vegan eggnog and keto mince pies. (Before the juice cleanses and face-lasering of January. Rich people had their own calendar.)
The exhibition would be opened by some Hollywood name. (Still to be decided on. Basically, whoever Ben could persuade to come.) The minute Vivian heard, she delayed her annual migration to Barbados by two months.
Angelo was across the list of international invitees but asked me to organize accommodation, transport, etc. The demands on my time were already brutal but, oddly, I felt that this extra work could be incorporated. All I had to do was not stop . Taking any break, even slowing down, would be fatal. But continuing to graft ten to twelve hours a day would keep all the balls in the air.
—
At the end of October, the clocks went back: it was as if a thick black blanket had been dropped on the town.
“I won’t smile again until next Easter.” Hardware Ralph trudged away, looking like a man about to take his shotgun down from above the mantelpiece.
The staff at Gannon’s the pharmacy were run ragged, trying to keep up with demands for antidepressants. Even so, people just disappeared. Augustina Mahon was gone. Dr Olive too, although she’d be back in three weeks—that was her pattern, I was informed. Jimbo from Peadar Brady’s tiling crew was another casualty.
Assembling the team to work on the exhibition, the last thing I wanted was to put vulnerable people under pressure. Luckily not everyone was prone to the seasonal low: Ziryan, Aber, Ike, Grinner, Ferne and Pamela and Glen Custard Cream were my excellent little squad.
Naturally, because we were working to a deadline, November sprinted by. Way too soon, the day of the exhibition was upon us.