Chapter 39
It was dusk by the time the Grogans’ “Sunday lunch” wound down. The sunset bathed the pasture in striated shades of pink, orange, and persimmon, and bees hummed among the patches of clover.
“Take the rest of the torte,” Angela urged, following Liam and Maeve down the path to the pasture. She brandished a white cardboard bakery box. “It’s from your favorite shop in the village, Liam.”
“Christ,” Liam muttered under his breath, “here we go again. Angie, lunch was great. I couldn’t eat another bite. And I had two slices of the torte already, so no, but thank you very much. Send it home with Cormac and Siobhan.”
“Siobhan’s off sweets this week. You take it, Maeve. You didn’t touch any of the desserts.”
Maeve wavered. She didn’t actually want any gooey chocolate torte, but she’d lived in the South her whole life, and Mary Helen had instilled in her the belief that a polite guest never turns down an offer of leftovers. Besides, Therese was a fiend for chocolate anything.
“Well, if you insist…”
“I do!” Angela thrust the bakery box into her hands.
“So lovely meeting you today, Maeve. Come back soon, will you?”
The women hugged an extended goodbye, while Liam waited patiently.
Liam was drumming his fingertips on the steering wheel.
“Are you annoyed with me about something?” Maeve asked.
He shrugged. “It’s nothing really.”
“Whenever someone says ‘it’s nothing’ I almost always find that it actually is something,” Maeve replied. “Maybe you could save me some anxiety and just come out and tell me what’s wrong?”
He glanced over at her, then returned his eyes to the road. “You came on a little strong with Jamie today, don’t you think?”
Stunned, she sat with his remark for a moment, replaying their conversation in her head.
“You told me he was willing to talk about his mother and the IRA robbery. And he readily answered all my questions. You were there, he didn’t even hesitate. Even his wife chimed in.”
A muscle in Liam’s jaw twitched. “Jamie was being polite, because you were my guest. I didn’t know you were going to put the poor fellow’s whole life under the microscope—and interrogate him—in front of the whole family, to boot.”
“Liam…” She tried to come up with a response, but was too flustered. She stared out the window at the passing countryside, stung by his accusation, fighting back tears.
“I’m sorry,” she said finally. “Maybe this was a bad idea. But if I thought Jamie was uncomfortable talking about Starr, I never would have brought it up. Clearly there’s some kind of cultural gap at work here that an outsider like me can’t grasp.”
Liam continued drumming his fingertips. Maeve wanted to reach over and snatch them away from the steering wheel.
“I’m sure you meant no harm,” he said stiffly. “Let’s just forget about the whole thing.”
“Fine with me,” Maeve said, chewing her bottom lip.
“Ah. There it is—a woman says it’s fine when fine is totally not what she means.”
Maeve turned to face him. “Look. There’s no point in continuing this argument.”
“It’s not an argument.”
She shook her head in frustration. “Argument, disagreement, whatever you want to call it, this is just pointless. I had a really nice time today, meeting your family. They’re all lovely, warm and welcoming.
And I’ve enjoyed spending these past few days with you.
But I’m leaving here and heading home in a few days, and I’d like to think that we could forget this unpleasant moment and part friends.
Okay? So, thank you for teaching me how to appreciate good whiskey, and thank you for introducing me to traditional Irish music.
But mostly, thank you for reminding me how nice it is…
” She paused, then forced herself to be honest with him.
“Thank you for reminding me how nice it is to feel a connection with a handsome stranger. You’ll never know how much I needed that at this point in my life.”
His stony expression crumbled. “What are you on about? Maeve, you’re blowing this way out of proportion.
You did ask why I was annoyed and I told you.
So now you’re giving me the kiss-off—the ‘let’s just be friends’ talk?
Fuck that. I don’t want to be just friends. You have four more days here, I want—”
“Three, technically. We drive to Dublin Wednesday afternoon to fly back to the States Thursday morning.”
“Then that’s three more days we can see each other,” he said. “I have to work, but my evenings are free.”
“But mine aren’t,” she said gently. “And Therese and I still need answers to our questions—about our great-grandmother’s innocence, and yes, about the portrait.”
“The bloody portrait again,” he said under his breath as they pulled into the inn’s parking lot. He parked in front of the porte cochere, got out, and opened her door.
Maeve hesitated, then kissed his cheek. It was warm and scratchy and he smelled like soap and she wished, more than anything, that he would wrap his arms around her and tell her that everything would be okay.
That they would be okay. But that would be a lie, and she didn’t need any more lies in her life.
“I had fun today,” she whispered. He nodded, but didn’t reply.
She was barely out of the Jeep when he sped away.
It was full dark now. She stood in the glow of the lanterns flanking the inn entrance, watching his red taillights grow smaller and smaller.
But a moment later, he flipped a quick U-turn and was driving back in her direction. She felt her heart lift slightly.
He pulled alongside her, rolled down the window, and handed the box to her. “Here. You forgot the cake.”
And then he was gone.
Therese was in bed, reading. She looked up, then looked at her watch. “You’re back. I thought maybe you’d stay over with Liam.”
“No.” Maeve set the bakery box on the nightstand.
“What’s that?”
“Chocolate torte. From his sister.”
Therese grabbed the box and looked inside. “Awesome. I didn’t have any dinner.”
Maeve went into the bathroom and turned on the shower. While she was waiting for the water to heat up, she brushed her teeth. Then she stood under the shower, crying, until the water turned cold, and her skin was as shriveled as a prune.
She didn’t bother to blow her hair dry. Tomorrow it would be a giant ball of frizz, but she didn’t care.
When she was dressed in her pajamas, she emerged from the bathroom to find her sister sitting cross-legged on the bed, eating chunks of cake with her hands.
Her face was smeared with chocolate and a glob of the cherry filling had settled on her chest.
“Really, Therese?” In that moment, she sounded exactly like her mother.
“What? I didn’t have a fork and didn’t feel like getting dressed and going downstairs to find one. Why are you in such a shitty mood tonight?”
“I’m not.” Maeve pulled the covers down on her bed, climbed in, and pulled the sheet and bedspread up over her head.
Therese reached over and pulled the covers back. “That’s it? You’ve been gone all afternoon, you met your boyfriend’s family, and—”
“He’s not my boyfriend.”
“Oh. Okay. I forgot. Suddenly Maeve Dunagin is embracing her midlife slut era, casually hooking up with random men she picks up in bars. In Ireland.”
“It was a distillery, not a bar, and I keep telling you, I did not sleep with him.”
“Maybe if you had, you’d be in a better mood. Something clearly went wrong today. Tell your big sis, and you’ll feel better.”
“There’s nothing to tell. We had a … disagreement.
I specifically told him ahead of time that I wanted to talk to his cousin’s husband Jamie about his mom, and the IRA robbery.
And Jamie willingly agreed to answer all my questions.
But after we left, Liam admitted he was annoyed because I’d ‘interrogated’ Jamie in front of his whole family.
He said Jamie was only answering my questions out of politeness, because I was Liam’s friend. ”
“Ouch. So … what happens next? Are you on a break?”
“Therese! We leave here in three days. There’s no point in keeping this—whatever this is—going.”
“And you told him that?”
“Yes.”
“How did he take it?”
“Not well. He didn’t even kiss me good night. Just let me out of the car and drove away.”
Therese went into the bathroom and brushed her teeth. When she came back, Maeve was facedown on her bed.
“Oh honey,” Therese said, sitting on the edge of her sister’s bed and rubbing her back. “I don’t see how a woman who’s so smart about everything else can be so dumb about something like this.”
Maeve turned her head and narrowed her eyes. “What was I supposed to do? Just drop everything going on in my life and go hop in bed with a guy I’ve known less than a week?”
“Everything you’ve got going on?” Therese hooted. “You’ve got no job, you haven’t seriously dated anyone in at least two years…”
“What do you know about my dating life?” Maeve demanded.
“I know as much as I need to. Mom kept me updated. For instance, I know about that shitheel you met at your snooty-hooty literary conference who ghosted you after his first book got published. And I know about the guy before him, was his name Jerrod? The guy who strung you along for months before you discovered he was still married after his wife posted pics of them snorkeling in the Keys on her Facebook page. Shall I go on?”
“Stop. Enough,” Maeve said. She was humiliated that their mother had shared her dating misadventures with her sister.
“Look. We’ve got two more full days here to figure out this stuff about the portrait. Let’s keep our focus on that. It’s what we came to Ireland to do. It’s what Mom wanted. I don’t need to complicate my already complicated life with some crazy long-distance relationship.”
“It’s not crazy,” Therese said. “He’s a great guy. A great catch.”
“You know nothing about him. You’ve never even met the man.”
Therese wriggled her fingers, pantomiming typing.
“Bet I know more than you do, little sis. I did my research. He’s not on social media much, but that distillery is.
Did you know he’s not just an employee? He owns the damn thing.
Also, I saw his photos. The dude is a smoke show. He’s perfect for you.”
“I think his brother Luke put up the money for the distillery. But also, I am not having this conversation with you,” Maeve said emphatically.
Therese put the empty cake box in the trash can. “Okay, then tell me about the cousin. Starr McGahee’s son. What did he say? Was he willing to talk about the robbery?”
“He wasn’t born until ’82, and the robbery happened in ’74. Starr got pregnant with him while she was in prison—by one of the guards.”
“Oh my God!”
“From what Jamie said, Starr was a real ’70s free spirit. He was raised by his grandmother. But as he got older, she talked to him a little bit about her time as a revolutionary.”
“Okay, I know I keep harping on it, but you really need to write a book. You couldn’t make this shit up if you tried.”
“I asked him what Starr’s connection was to Tarrymore and how she knew about the art collection.”
Maeve related the most salient points of the conversation she’d had with Jamie Cooke.
“He wasn’t really sure what Starr’s connection was to Tarrymore, or how she found out about the Rossingtons’ art collection.
But he did tell me Starr’s parents were rich.
And socially prominent. He speculated that maybe a disgruntled servant who worked for the family talked to her, or maybe she met someone from Tarrymore from her society days.
Maybe she even went to a party at the estate.
Starr was even a deb, when she was eighteen or nineteen, and made her bow in London with the rest of the rich girls, and she told Jamie that she met up with someone from her old life while she was in Dublin. ”
“How does a rich girl from London go from debutante to IRA terrorist?” Therese asked.
“She was studying chemistry at Oxford and she met a guy,” Maeve said.
“Ain’t that always the way? So what’s our plan for the rest of the week?”
“I think we go back to the library first thing tomorrow and keep looking for clues.”