Chapter 44
“Maevey. You won’t believe what I found out!” Therese announced as soon as she opened the door to their room at the inn.
Maeve was sitting at the tiny table that served as a desk, typing on her laptop.
“I can’t wait to hear,” Maeve said. “Was Esme actually willing to talk to you?”
“Not at first,” Therese said. “But after I told her we knew she was somehow involved in the IRA heist—and after I got some gin in her, wow! That old bird has some stories to tell.”
She pointed at the laptop. “What’s that you’re writing?”
Maeve quickly saved the document she’d been working on and closed the lid of the laptop. “Nothing really,” she said, but Therese recognized her guilty expression.
“Come on,” Therese said impatiently. “Can’t you for once just honestly express what you’re thinking about? It’s me, Maeve. Your sister. Not your department head, or one of your snobby professor colleagues. You don’t have to try to impress me.”
“Okay,” Maeve said. “I was working on my résumé. I need to start applying to jobs as soon as we get home. But my heart’s not in it.
You know I’ve been making notes, every night since we got here, about what we’ve learned, and the people we’ve met.
I hate to say it, and I really hate to admit you’re right, but I think you’re onto something. There really is a story here.”
“Like a true crime novel,” Therese agreed. “Maybe I’ll play myself when you sell the movie rights. Just make sure the deal you sign makes you executive producer. That way you’ll have a say in the casting decisions.”
“Whoa! You’re getting a little ahead of yourself there, sis. Actually, I think it’s a novel. Historic fiction, with a dual timeline. I want to tell Kathleen’s story.” She pointed at the stack of correspondence between Kathleen and her brother.
“She had such an astounding life—from the time she finds out she’s the lord’s illegitimate daughter, running away and emigrating to the States, working in the shirt factory, and then meeting her first husband on the train.
And then being widowed and remarrying. Running the tavern after PJ dies of the flu …
But I want to make her life bigger, more colorful.
Mostly, I want, somehow, to give Kathleen the happy ending she deserves. ”
Therese sat down on the bed opposite the desk. “That’s a great idea. You know I’ve never been a big reader, but damn, that’s a book I would definitely pick up.”
Maeve pushed a strand of hair out of her eyes. “It’s a pipe dream, but somehow, I feel different about this story, in a way I never felt about that novel I’ve been working on for years and years. I’m actually excited to sit down and write, because I can’t wait to find out what happens next.”
Therese stood and flung her arms around her sister. “That’s my girl. Just go for it, you know?”
Maeve wriggled out of her sister’s embrace. “It’s not as easy as it sounds. I’ll have to figure out a way to write, and keep writing, once I land a new teaching job.”
“Screw the new job! We’re gonna sell Lady G—as soon as we get back to Savannah—and split the money. You should have more than enough to live on while you write that bestseller.”
“And you? What are you gonna do? We still have to figure out the house stuff.”
“I don’t know,” Therese admitted. “I’ve never had the luxury of stopping to catch my breath and plan my next move. I’ve always just latched onto the next audition, the next gig…” She made a face. “The next man.”
“Now you can do that,” Maeve said. She hesitated for a moment. “Hey, you know what would be cool? If you hung around Savannah for a little while. Not, like, forever, because I know you’re always so restless, but maybe ’til we get the house sold? If that’s even possible.”
“We’ll see.” Therese flopped down on her own bed. “Let’s go get some dinner, and not, please, the lounge here or the Willow Tree. I don’t want to run into that stinky Reggie character again. Esme told me she ran him off, by the way.”
Maeve frowned. “Our funds are getting kinda low. I don’t want to put anything on my credit card, because it’s already close to being maxed out.”
She grabbed her billfold and counted her cash. “I’ve only got like eighty euros. What about you?”
“Looks like about thirty euros,” Therese said, after she’d dumped out the contents of her purse onto the bed.
“Look. We get free breakfast in the morning, all you can eat, right? So we sneak some scones and sausage back to the room, and that’s lunch taken care of.
I say we give ourselves a nice farewell dinner here in Tarrymore, and then we’ll go cheapskate when we get to Dublin. ”
“Deal.” Maeve eyed her sister’s outfit. “But if we’re going somewhere nice, maybe leave the Pussy Riot shirt here and go with something a little less in-your-face?”
“Spoilsport,” Therese groused. But she pulled the T-shirt over her head and pawed through her suitcase for another top, finally settling on a cream-colored long-sleeved sweater, and a pair of fairly intact black jeans.
“How’s this?” She did a little twirl to model the outfit.
“That sweater looks oddly familiar,” Maeve said.
“Okay, yeah, it was Mary Helen’s. I dug it out of that box you were getting ready to send to the St. Vincent DePaul store. It’s real cashmere, for crying out loud. I can’t believe Mom ever owned—or wore—anything so nice.”
“She probably bought it at St. Vinnie’s to begin with,” Maeve said.
The Stag and the Hare came highly recommended by the inn’s desk clerk, who termed it “only a brisk walk away.”
“It’s a freakin’ mile and a half,” Therese groaned as they finally reached their destination. “Can you imagine walking this far for dinner in Savannah?”
“Yeah, but look where that walk took us. This place looks like Narnia, if Narnia had a sticker on the door saying ‘We Accept Mastercard, Visa, and Amex,’” Maeve said.
The Stag and the Hare was situated in a small tumbledown-looking cottage with half-timbered eaves, a flowering yellow rosebush sprawling across the stone facade, and a green-and-white-striped awning over the arched front door.
“I love it already,” Therese said as they stepped inside the low-ceilinged room. The walls were a light pine, and candles flickered from tables covered with pale pink damask cloths.
The host showed them to their table and handed them drink menus.
“Look at these cocktail names,” Therese said. “Pink Squirrel, Holy Negroni, Cheeky Monkey. I think I want one of each. Also, that’s a job I’d aspire to. Cocktail namer.”
“Check out those prices before you go crazy,” her sister cautioned. “If we’re not careful, we could blow our dinner budget on just a couple drinks.”
“I hate it when you’re being practical,” Therese said. She closed the menu with an aggrieved sigh. “Guess I’ll just have a glass of the house red.”
“Me too.”
Their server arrived back tableside with a bottle of champagne nestled in a silver bucket of ice, and two coupes.
“Veuve Clicquot?” Maeve squeaked in alarm. “We didn’t order this.”
“Compliments of the guests at table six,” the server said, pointing to a corner table, where a dark-haired man and his blond companion were seated.
Maeve turned around to look and Luke Grogan raised his wineglass in a friendly salute. Angela, his wife, gave a wink and a finger wave.
“Who is that gorgeous guy and why is he sending us a bottle of Veuve?” Therese whispered.
“That’s Liam’s oldest brother Luke, and the beautiful blonde is his wife Angela, so don’t go getting any ideas.”
“What does he do that he can afford to shower a couple of strangers with a bottle of the most expensive champagne in the house?”
“According to Liam, he co-founded a software company, sold it for zillions, and now he plays at farming. They live in a mansion that’s straight out of Gone With the Wind.
His wife, by the way, is a sweetheart, and they have three adorable kids including a pair of redheaded demon twins and a fairy-princess four-year-old. ”
Maeve tasted the champagne that the server poured into her glass and nodded her approval. The server topped off both the women’s glasses, and Maeve raised her own glass and mouthed “Thank you” in Luke’s direction.
The sisters sipped the champagne and scanned the menu. “Thank God it’s prix fixe,” Maeve said. “I think we can just about get out of here on budget.”
“I’m thinking lamb chops,” Therese said. “Is that cruel? After seeing all the adorable lambs in all the pastures everywhere this past week?”
“Think of it as helping the local economy,” Maeve advised. “I’m going to have the roast salmon with caramelized lemon and fennel.”
“And potatoes,” Therese added. “I’ve never seen so many potatoes cooked so many ways as they do here in Ireland.”
“Remember, it’s the crop that saved our people.”
Their server brought a basket of still-warm bread and a crock of butter and took their entrée orders.
When he was gone, Maeve leaned across the table. “Okay. Now, tell me everything Esme said. Spill.”
Therese took a gulp of champagne. “God, that’s nice. I could definitely get used to drinking this stuff.”
“Just don’t go counting your champagne bottles until the painting is sold,” her sister warned.
For the next thirty minutes, in between salads of shaved endive and candied walnuts, and a soup of curried carrots and parsnips, Therese related the details of the IRA robbery and the aftermath, only omitting the impulsive, painful admission she’d shared with Esme about her own real-life trauma.
“This is all so … mind-blowing,” Maeve said, at a momentary loss for words.
“To look at her, you’d think Esme was some really eccentric little old lady who probably sat around penning poems and baking scones. Turns out she’s the Irish equivalent of Patty Hearst,” Therese said.
Their appetizers arrived and the sisters paused to admire the exquisite presentation: herbs fashioned into tiny wreaths, lemons and oranges sliced into the thinnest pinwheels, nasturtium blossoms scattered across swirls of sauces.
Maeve took out her phone and snapped half a dozen frames. “So I don’t forget our fanciest dinner in Ireland.”
“We’ll probably be eating DoorDash pizza in our airport hotel room when we get to Dublin. If they even have that over here,” Therese said.
When they’d finished their entrées, they waved away the dessert cart and were sipping cappuccinos when Luke and Angela Grogan approached the table.
“Ladies!” Luke said, his voice booming in the small room. Heads turned, then people smiled and went back to their dinners. “I hope your dinner was as grand as ours.”
“It was an amazing last supper,” Therese said.
“Last supper? How can that be? You’re not leaving us already, are you?”
Angela tugged at the sleeve of her husband’s jacket. “Darling, Liam told us she and her sister were heading home this week. Remember?”
Maeve wanted to change the subject. “Luke, Angela, this is my sister, Therese Dunagin.”
“Hi there,” Therese said. “Thanks again for the gorgeous champagne. It was a beautiful ending to the most memorable week of our lives, right, Maeve?”
“Exactly,” Maeve said. “And having lunch with the Grogan clan made it even more special. Thanks again for your hospitality.”
“But not special enough to extend your stay, eh? I know our boy Liam is broken up about that,” Luke boomed.
Angela elbowed her husband in the ribs. “Hush now, you big lunk. Can’t you see you’re embarrassing this poor girl?”
Maeve’s face was, indeed, as pink as the tablecloth.
“But it’s the truth,” Luke protested. “He’s mad about the girl, I tell you.”
“Lucas Grogan!” Angela exclaimed. “No more whiskey for you.”
She addressed the sisters. “Word to the wise: contrary to popular opinion, not every Irishman can hold their whiskey. Exhibit A is right here. This one could empty a case of Guinness and still be standing at the end of the night. But give him a couple drams of good Irish whiskey, and the next thing you know, he’s acting a proper fool. ”
“Am not,” Luke said.
Angela held out her hand. “Give me the car keys, sir, or you’ll be sleeping in the goat pen tonight.”
“Aww, Angie,” Luke said, but he fished the keys out of his pocket and handed them over.
“Maeve, Therese, be sure and come back soon,” Angela said as she began to shepherd her husband toward the exit. She stopped momentarily, leaned in, and whispered in Maeve’s ear.
“I’m not supposed to say anything, but I know for a fact that Liam is gutted that you’re leaving. He’s a good man, Maeve. Don’t let him slip away.”
“Bye now,” Therese said.
“What did she just whisper to you?” she demanded when the couple were out the door.
“Nothing,” Maeve said. “We need to get back to the inn. That walk’s gonna seem longer now that we’ve a bottle of champagne in us.” She caught a passing server’s eye. “Could you please let our server know we’re ready for our check now.”
“I will, yes, ma’am, but Mr. Grogan there, he’s already taken care of it,” the server said.
“I really like this family. Like, a lot,” Therese said, swaying just a bit as she got to her feet. “If you don’t marry them, I will.”
“Good Lord, you’re drunk too,” Maeve said, shaking her head.
“You don’t get drunk on good champagne,” Therese corrected her. “You get tipsy. Or tiddly. Much classier, don’t you think?”