Chapter 12
The quiet after Liam Kelly’s initial verbal explosion spoke volumes, and the atmosphere was tense. Grace was glad when the harbour rolled into view, a sign they were nearly home. It was officially early evening now, and the dipping sun was bathing the world around her in a golden glow. The calm emerald water in the harbour was a testament to the village’s name, filled with bobbing red and blue fishing boats. Craning her neck to see past her father, she spied Rory, Ava’s father-in-law, working on his boat, the Mona Kate, named after his late wife. He didn’t look up as they drove past, intent on his task.
So much had happened since her last visit home at Christmas. For one thing, they were related to Rory and the rest of the Egans – by marriage, at any rate.
For a split second, Grace closed her eyes. She could see the huddled gathering of villagers imprinted on her lids, holding vigil, praying for Shane to be brought in alive and well after he’d gone overboard during a freak storm. Grace didn’t go to church anymore apart from when she was home and under her mam’s insistent thumb, but people said there was power in prayer. Maybe it was true, because, against all odds, Shane had come home. The thought stiffened her resolve. If her dad wanted to sit there simmering or whatever he was after doing as he seethed silently in the driver’s seat, that was his business. She was heading home to Emerald Bay this weekend, intending to get the music-festival plans rolling, and that’s what she would do. Grace would bring as many people as she could muster together with music this summer.
The ruins of Kilticaneel Castle loomed large on her right, and perched on the hill to her left was Benmore House, with more windows than she could count. Then they were bouncing past the cluster of thatched, wattle-and-daub cottages that were a favourite photo stop for the tourists. The potholes in this patch of road still hadn’t been fixed, although Grace didn’t know why she was surprised. Life moved at a different pace in Ireland’s west, with things getting done all in good time.
As her mam had said, the cottages appeared to have weathered the recent torrential rainfall unscathed, and though summer had arrived, the last of the daffodils were still putting on a valiant show, bobbing yellow against the white stone buildings. Maeve Doolin was back from America now and, by all accounts, delighted that Shannon and Maeve’s grandson, James, had bought the end cottage. The middle cottage was a holiday let.
Ryan must be working on Shannon and James’s renovations, Grace deduced – his truck was parked out front. It was a real family affair with Imogen in her capacity as an interior designer on board, helping with design ideas for the remodel. So far, Shannon and Imogen had only fallen out the once that Grace knew about.
She could almost smell the evening meals being cooked in the homes they drove past. Homes where Grace knew the name of every family member who resided in them. She glimpsed Freya Devlin bent over her workbench in Mermaids, art gallery and bespoke jewellers, and wondered what she was crafting. She had a pair of earrings from Mermaids that always got compliments when she wore them.
As they drove under the pastel bunting and wound their way down into Main Street with its sherbet-coloured shops, an orange beacon appeared. Grace closed her eyes and opened them again, but it was still there, an obstruction in the middle of the road ahead.
The seat belt pressed into her chest thanks to her father’s heavy braking, and Liam cursed under his breath as the beacon was revealed to be none other than Mr Kenny in a high-vis vest atop his motorised scooter.
‘It’s Evel Knievel,’ Liam grunted.
Under normal circumstances, Grace would have asked who he was talking about, but a surreptitious Google search revealed he was referencing an American motorcycle stunt artist. It would have made her laugh, because there was no arguing with the fact Mr Kenny, on his motorised scooter, was a menace to other motorists. But so far as Mr Kenny was concerned, he’d paid his taxes and had as much right as the next person to use the roads. Fair play to him, she supposed. Either way, Liam and Grace knew there was no point hitting the horn to urge the elderly gent to veer off onto the pavement. He’d only raise his walking stick to them in his version of a one-fingered salute.
It was the sort of thing you’d only see in Emerald Bay, Grace thought, her eyes alighting on the flag attached to the back of the scooter. That was a new addition. Mr Kenny’s son kept him in road-safety gear like his orange vest and had gifted him the horn that sounded louder than any other she’d heard – a horn Mr Kenny was all too fond of parping when an opportunity presented itself. Had he bought his father a flag now, too?
Hang on. Grace squinted through her father’s windscreen, which could do with a wash. Something was written on it, and she leaned closer to the glass, trying to catch what it said as it flapped behind him. Something about equal rights was as far as she got before giving up and sitting back in her seat, confident she’d hear all about whatever it was that had him riled while she was home.
Grace took in the familiar sights of Carmel Brady’s Silver Spoon cafe, now closed for the day. There was Isla Mullins in her Irish shop, resplendent in leprechaun green, a firm believer in wearing what she stocked being a strong sales tactic. Eileen Carroll was bringing her sign in from the Knitter’s Nook. She looked like a giant daffodil in her knitted yellow two-piece.
Meanwhile, the closed sign was being turned in the window of Quigley’s Quill bookshop, while Dermot Molloy was busy wrapping a parcel of meat for a customer’s dinner. Outside his butcher’s shop, Shep, the retired farm dog, sat on his haunches. He was on his best behaviour and ever hopeful of a titbit coming his way, while his owner Enda would no doubt be perched on his usual pew at the bar of the Shamrock.
Mam had been busy repotting the window boxes, Grace noticed. The yellow-and-white floral display gave the pub even more of a welcoming summer vibe. She knew they’d had American guests staying during the week who’d checked out yesterday, which was just as well, because the atmosphere if her dad’s mood didn’t improve would hardly be convivial.
She watched Mr Kenny bump onto the kerb and stop outside the pub, all set for his evening pint and a spot of banter. The Shamrock wasn’t just somewhere to sup ale – the company was as important as any pint and bag of pork scratchings. Annoyance was replaced with the warm glow of knowing she was home. Her phone was still in her hand as, rounding the bend, she quickly checked her messages. A silly smile played at the corners of her mouth, seeing she’d one from Chris. It was short and to the point.
How was your flight?
How should she reply? A spot of turbulence but aside from that, grand? She tapped back ‘fine’ and her finger hovered over the X key she was apt to sign off with, but she sent a stupid smiley emoji face instead.
It wasn’t just Chris’s text she’d missed, not hearing it ping in over her and her dad’s fraught exchange. She skimmed over Ava’s message. It was also straight to the point.
Have you told Dad about Chris?
Yes, and it went as well as you’d expect. He’ll have to get over himself, she typed furiously, this time signing off with an X. Then as her father stilled the engine, she stuffed her phone in her bag risking a glance at his stony profile. What if he didn’t get over himself? Was she prepared to permanently damage their relationship for the sake of Chris, and Emerald Grooves?
Grace was terrified the answer might be yes.