The Matchmaker

Chapter One

I wake at precisely three minutes past seven to the sound of the world exploding.

I know the time exactly because that’s what my grandmother’s old alarm clock tells me when my eyes snap open.

I know the world is exploding because surely there is nothing else in the history of mankind that could make such a blaring, deafening noise, especially at three minutes past seven in the goddamn morning.

For a few moments, I simply lie there, my heart racing as the beeping of a reversing vehicle joins the racket, followed by another bang, one that shudders through the house until I swear the bed vibrates with it.

When another one sounds two seconds later, I know there’s no way I’m getting back to sleep.

I sit up, plucking my useless earplugs out and throwing the mound of blankets off my bed. My phone clatters to the floor as I do, but I ignore it, my initial shock turning to righteous fury as I grab a sweater from my chairdrobe and pull it over my head.

“Granny!”

There’s no answer as I march down the stairs, but that’s not surprising.

The noise is worse at the front of the house, with loud crashes and pounding drills filling the hallway until it’s all I can hear.

By the front door, Plankton, my terminally lazy eight-year-old border collie, beats his tail once on the floor in acknowledgment of my presence and struggles to his feet.

He’s not used to me being up this early and gets no rest now he has to guard the two of us all day.

“Granny!”

I hit the last step and turn left, almost slipping in my haste as I enter the kitchen and find my grandmother sitting at the table.

Maeve Collins, my father’s mother, is a tall, thin woman with a thick head of white hair, a bad hip, and a general apathy toward most things in life.

She is eighty-two years old and though her body is starting to go, her mind is as sharp as ever.

I love her with my whole heart, which is why I choose to ignore the slightly defensive look she gives me when I appear, as well as the distinct smell of tobacco that the open window behind her does nothing to mask.

She said she stopped smoking when I moved in with her after my parents died.

Or at least she did for about three months until she caved.

Now she has one in the morning and one at night and thinks I don’t know about it.

It doesn’t bother me, though. I figure if she’s made it this far in life, she might as well do what she likes.

“You’re up early,” is all she says when I come to a stop before her. Plankton makes it as far as the kitchen door before collapsing down again with a weary sigh.

“Only by four or five hours. Do you not hear that?”

“Of course I hear it. I’m old, not deaf.”

“And you’re just…” I gesture at the cup of coffee and half-filled crossword beside her. The domestic scene is so normal it’s almost sickening. “ Fine with it?”

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Because I can barely hear myself think!” I exclaim, as what sounds like an entire army passes by the end of our lane.

She only huffs. “It’s just a few trucks.”

“It is not just a few trucks; it’s a punishment.”

“A punishment for what? And by who?”

“I don’t know! The government?” I wince at another bang and swear I see the door rattle on its hinges. Granny doesn’t seem to notice. “They shouldn’t be allowed to get away with this,” I continue, closing the window behind her. “I have rights.”

“Seven a.m. is a perfectly legal and acceptable time to begin a day’s work.”

“Not when I work until one a.m.” My hands go to my hips, my mood worsened by her refusal to immediately and unequivocally take my side.

I’m so tired I can barely stand up straight.

It’s been three days of this. Three days of being woken before dawn, of being pulled from broken sleep to the commotion that surrounds me now.

That will surround me for the next eight hours unless I put my foot down.

“I can’t keep doing this. I can’t. I’m going to go talk to them.”

“What do you mean, you— no , Katie.”

Granny’s chair scrapes back as she stands, but I’m already spinning away, shoving my feet into a pair of rubber boots.

Somewhere in the tiny, still clear-thinking part of my brain, I know the best thing I can do right now is go back to bed, that this is just several days of sleep deprivation talking, but the bigger, angrier part thinks this is a great idea.

“I’m going to find the person in charge and I’m going to talk to them,” I say, my voice a good octave higher than usual. “I’m going to take a stand.”

“It’s not a stereo system,” Granny reminds me, as she follows me down the hall. Plankton trails at her heels, giving me the stink eye. “You can’t just ask them to turn it down.”

No, but I can throw myself dramatically into the middle of the road and force them to stop.

Okay, maybe not that.

“You’re not even dress—”

“Be right back,” I call and swing the door shut behind me.

The chilly bite of late March greets me as soon as I do, and I fill my lungs with the cold air as I half purposefully stride/half awkwardly jog down the lane.

It’s still dark out, the sun only just beginning to rise, but the sleepy road our house is on, the one that sees maybe a handful of cars on a normal day, is lit up like a Christmas tree with orange cones and a flashing one-way traffic system.

They even have a very bored, very cold-looking man standing by one of them, a walkie-talkie clutched in his hand as he buries his chin in his hi-vis jacket.

I ignore him as he ignores me and follow a passing van up the road that leads to the belly of the beast. The cause of the chaos. The bane of my existence.

The soon-to-be Ennisbawn Hotel and Golf Club.

An exclusive five-star resort featuring a spa, a stud farm, and a rumored Michelin-starred chef in the kitchens, the thing sounds more at home in some tropical utopia than rural Ireland, yet this is where they’re building it.

When the church sold off the old convent that used to be here, they included most of the land that went with it, handing it all over to a large development company called Glenmill Properties.

We were excited about it at the time. Sleepy towns are all well and good when you have people to fill them, but in recent years whenever anyone moved out, no one else moved in, and we were all tired of passing by the same abandoned buildings and empty fields.

All of a sudden, there was talk of jobs and tourists and getting onto an actual bus route.

We got newsletters and glossy brochures through our doors promising how Glenmill weren’t just going to revive the area.

Oh, no. They were going to turn this place into one of the top vacation spots in Europe.

They were going to put Ennisbawn on the map and change our lives for the better.

It all seemed too good to be true.

Probably because it was.

They bought two hundred acres, then three, and then five.

The proposed site kept growing, eating up more and more land until, one day, the fields I’d played in as a child were off-limits, and half the routes through the forest were blocked off by a chain-link fence and a sign saying “Private.” Trees were cut down, roads were cut off, and by the time we tried to push back, it was too late.

Our emails went unanswered, our objections unheard, and slowly but surely, Ennisbawn began to shrink, disappearing before our eyes.

It’s horrifying to watch. But we aren’t going down without a fight.

Protests, petitions, letters to the council.

We’re doing what we can, but, personally, I’ve always considered myself more of a lover than a fighter.

Not great with the whole raising my voice thing.

I mean, I marched and I signed, but I also worked full-time and looked after my granny and didn’t really see how we could stop what was happening, especially once the construction work started.

But this? This right here?

This is my snapping point.

You do not mess with a girl’s sleep cycle.

I round the bend, my steps more like stomps as I reach the entrance to the main site.

Where there used to be green fields bordered by overgrown hedges now sits one giant, muddy hole.

Or at least that’s what it looks like. Thick wooden boards block most of it from public view, but the metal gates locked shut at night are pushed open now, letting in the steady stream of vehicles that woke me so rudely this morning.

Among them, hundreds of people go about their day, moving purposefully among the chaos.

I go unnoticed.

Maybe it’s because it’s still dark, or maybe they can sense that I’m five seconds away from yelling at someone, but they all keep a wide berth as I approach the entry, slipping in alongside a truck whose job seems to be carrying more dirt to add to the dirt.

I have no idea who to talk to.

I hadn’t really thought this far ahead. If we’re being honest, I hadn’t really thought at all, but I keep moving, sneaking farther inside as I search for someone who looks vaguely in charge.

Easier said than done.

There’s no one walking around with a sign saying “TOP DOG” around their neck. No stern-faced overseer surveying his kingdom. Just a bunch of bleary-eyed workmen who barely give me a second glance before hurrying away with a real sense of nope! Not paid enough to deal with that!

“Excuse…hello? Hi.” I grab the arm of the nearest person, a scruffy-looking guy who does not look old enough to be on a construction site and force him to stop. “Can you tell me who’s the boss around here?”

The manboy frowns, his eyebrows drawing so close together they almost meet. “You mean our site manager?”

“Sure. Yes. Where are they?”

“He’s…” The frown deepens as he takes me in. “Are you supposed to be here?”

“Yes.”

He doesn’t know what to do with that. But you say something with enough confidence, and I guess anything can happen.

“Uh, okay. I guess I could see if—”