Chapter 26
THE LAKE HOUSE
‘Welcome to The Lake House,’ James says softly as we approach the house.
I can’t help but marvel at how much bigger it is than I’d imagined.
It stands three stories tall, with white walls and old-style roofing.
A large terrace overlooks an expansive garden with overgrown bushes and trees, patches of grass and mossy stones on cobbled pathways throughout.
To the left is a stable attached to an abandoned barn, and off to the right are several more outbuildings.
The whole place is far from perfect – there’s some peeling paint here, a broken window there – but it has a certain charm that feels inviting and comforting all the same.
‘It’s been home to the Kennedy family for generations.’ He holds the door open for me, gesturing inside with his arm.
I step into a well-lit room full of antiques: wooden furniture that looks like it’s seen better days; yellowed paperbacks crowding shelves; milk jugs set out like decorations on ornate tables; faded tapestries hanging from walls; and even an old gramophone tucked away in a corner.
It’s like stepping into another world entirely – one that speaks to me in ways I never knew existed before this moment.
James guides me through the living room, past a staircase to the second floor, and towards a hallway leading to other rooms in the house.
We stand before the tall double doors, feeling a mixture of trepidation and curiosity.
The doors are thrown open to reveal a spacious dining room, but it’s far from spotless.
Bottles, cans and cigarette butts litter the filthy space like they were haphazardly strewn about.
This must be where the ‘parties’ took place.
I feel sick looking around this scene of debauchery, realizing that all of the warnings may have been true.
He guides me downstairs into what was once a wine cellar but now seems devoted entirely to books – so many books they are spilling into every space available – and leads me around them to the French doors at the end of the room that open to the outside porch with its view of the sheer blue lake that spreads out in front of us.
This is more than just a pretty view; it’s a world unto itself, one that stuns me with its natural beauty.
I recall the postcard my mum cherished: this view of the mountains, lake and sun.
The same postcard from The Boatshed, held fast in a frame by Mick.
I hold it up now next to the sky, trying to match the perspective as closely as possible.
It’s an astonishing coincidence that all three of us have this image in common – my mum having it as a memento, Mick framing it and now me standing at this exact spot.
I’m overwhelmed by this strange connection between us.
Even though I may never understand why we’re bound together, just being aware of it is enough to give me some peace.
I can feel something growing inside me, something that I’m not easily able to explain away.
I join James down by the hand-made wooden pier. The air is filled with the scent of damp earth, overgrown gardens and the faint perfume of wildflowers, carried by the gentle breeze that whispers through the tall, swaying grass. I take a deep breath, letting the peace of the place envelop me.
James, seemingly attuned to my thoughts, remarks with a half-smile, ‘This place is special, that’s for sure, and it’s in a perfect spot by the lake. But it’s been neglected for a while, and it doesn’t deserve that. We can have her shining again.’
I return a nervous smile, trying to match his evident enthusiasm.
After a moment, we head back inside and I find a great, lovingly decorated living area with exposed wooden beams and walls adorned with faded paintings.
The room’s grand stone fireplace, likely once the beating heart of the household, now sits silent and lifeless.
Though dust has settled, it can’t diminish the house’s character and charm.
‘It’s lovely,’ I say as I run my hand over the back of a dusty chair.
‘It needs a bit of work,’ James says with a laugh. ‘But it can be a home again.’
He leads me from room to room, pointing out areas that need work – from the kitchen with its broken taps to the bathrooms with their peeling wallpaper – as we go. It’s a big job, but I’m encouraged by James’ enthusiasm. I have complete faith in him if he says it’s something we can handle.
Sunlight streams through an open window, illuminating the dust motes dancing in its rays.
As I stroll along the mantelpiece, I pause to inspect every photo frame.
And that’s when I see him. Mick Kennedy.
I pick up the most detailed photograph, the one that appears to be most recent, of Mick wearing his trademark cowboy hat and bushy beard.
He’s standing alongside Dom with rods for fishing in their hands and waders on their feet by the lake.
I examine him closely, trying to find some sort of connection or similarity between us, even a vague sense of familiarity.
But it’s hard. I’m probably willing it to be there, projecting.
I’d love to feel a lightning bolt, for there to be an unmistakable bond that I can’t deny.
But I don’t let myself get ahead of myself – I know this could just be my wishful thinking.
Part of me hopes he was a good man who loved my mother, but that could just be my desperate attempt to make sense of my story.
Maybe he was just a pleasant single man who knew my mum at one point in time, like Big Sean did.
I study another, this time an older one with Marianne McDonagh, commemorating the market fair’s opening ceremony.
He’s laughing as he wears a warm, Guinness-induced moustache.
In the next photograph he’s strumming away on his guitar, with a bunch of little kids standing around him outside on the grass, all giggling and clapping along.
I wander through the large, wooden-framed house and take in all the memories.
Pictures of Mick singing, hiking and surrounded by friends hang on the walls.
Even in death, it’s obvious that he was loved.
I gaze out at the lake and say a silent thank you for bringing me here.
And then I spy the edge of a polaroid tucked away behind a silver frame and gently lift it out.
‘That’s my mother!’ I exclaim as I point to a beautiful young woman in the image. I hold it up to show James. She’s standing by the lake, Mick’s arms wrapped around her from behind, her long red hair blowing in the wind. They look happy. Very happy. And close. Very close.
I peer at the photo. His fingers around her hips, his chin on her shoulder.
She has a coy smile, her eyes dreamy and…
in love. It’s unmistakable – my mother was in love.
Deeply and passionately in love. With Mick.
And by the looks of it, he felt the same way.
And it sends a tremor of shock through me as I think of what this could mean.
The warmth of the moment turns cold as I consider what life would have been like if my mother had stayed in Innisfree.
Would things have been different? Would we be together now?
Maybe if she had just stayed, she’d still be here, sharing all her stories about Innisfree and teaching me its history…
Dom’s words echo in my head. Why did she hide her traveller heritage and upbringing from me? Why did she never tell me?
‘Wow,’ James says, taking the photo from me to get a closer look. ‘She’s beautiful.’
His words snap me out of my thoughts.
We stand in silence for a few moments before James says, ‘I wish they were both here with us, to help fill in the blanks.’
Suddenly, we both startle at the sound of something scurrying above us. I grab onto James’ arm and squeeze it tightly, my fingers digging in.
‘Who’s up there?’ I whisper, feeling a mixture of shock and embarrassment, both at the surprising invasion and at the sudden closeness with James.
He places a finger to his lips and gently rests his warm hand on my shoulder, his strong gaze locking with mine and, somehow, he conveys a tender yet unwavering promise to protect me no matter what. He signals for me to stay put, but I shake my head in protest.
‘No, I’m coming too. It could be dangerous,’ I reply.
He acquiesces with a shrug, and we move forward slowly, my fingers wrapped around his wrist as we tread cautiously up the stairs.
My heart is pounding in my chest and a thousand butterflies swarm around inside my stomach.
Is it burglars? Drug dealers? Squatters making a home in the empty house?
I shake my head, trying to clear away any lingering fear or apprehension, and focus on what’s ahead of us.
Cautiously, we climb the creaky wooden staircase, past the chipped banister and onto the musty landing.
James calls out into the emptiness, ‘Hello? We mean no harm – whoever you are…’ His voice echoes softly against the walls but remains unanswered; until suddenly we hear something stirring in the bathroom – followed by a loud thump that shakes me to my core.
‘Be quiet!’ yells a voice.
‘No, you be quiet!’ retorts another.
‘I’m already being quiet – you’re the one that needs to shut up.’
The voices are youthful and boyish.
James glances my way and smiles, exhaling deeply. ‘It’s all right, lads. James O’Connor here – nobody is in any danger.’
We open one of the doors, finding two boys bickering on the edge of the bathtub. They’re no more than sixteen or seventeen years old, their hands and clothing covered in dirt.
‘Who are you two then?’ James asks cautiously. ‘And what are you doing here?’
The boys share a nervous glance before one of them, the younger one, who has copper curls and a smattering of freckles across his cheeks, stammers, ‘We… I mean, we’re just hanging around. We didn’t want to cause any trouble.’
Sensing something amiss, I decide to probe further. ‘Why are you hiding out up here? It’s hardly safe.’
The older boy, with a darker complexion, scratches his head and answers, ‘We’ve been suspended from school. Our stepdad… you don’t want to be around him when he’s angry. So, we come here. Mick always let us. We weren’t stealing or anything. Mick said we could always come when we wanted.’
The boy stands up and points outside towards the tree house in the backyard.
‘We built that tree house with him last summer… we were just coming in to borrow some blankets… that’s all.
’ His voice quivers slightly, revealing a mixture of emotions: embarrassment, fear and perhaps even guilt.
‘We didn’t mean any harm,’ he says quickly.
‘Yeah, we’re totally harmless,’ adds the other boy.
‘Oh, is that so?’ James crosses his arms in front of his chest and pretends to be stern. I can see the amusement in his eyes. ‘And what’s your name?’ he asks the taller boy.
‘Liam,’ he replies.
‘And you?’ I ask, turning to the little freckly one.
‘Finn,’ he says, looking at the ground, not making eye contact with anyone.
‘Are you brothers?’ I ask.
‘Yes, I’m a year older,’ Liam says proudly. ‘But we’re in the same class at school – just because I had low attendance. Don’t let him tell you he’s the smart one, because he’s not.’
‘I’m way too smart for you,’ Finn says, sticking his middle finger up at his brother and grinning.
‘You wish,’ Liam replies, punching him playfully on the arm.
‘Hey, stop it, you’ll knock each other out,’ I say, secretly glad to see them horsing around.
‘Yes, I’ll knock you out, Liam… watch me!’ jokes Finn, but then he turns serious. ‘We didn’t expect anyone to be here. We didn’t take anything, we swear,’ he says, nudging Liam, who nods in agreement.
‘So where do you boys live?’ I ask.
They both point down the road to a small cottage in the distance.
‘That’s our house,’ Liam says. ‘But when we got suspended from school for fighting, our stepdad lost his head. He doesn’t want us just hanging around – we make too much noise he says, so—’
‘We thought it was best to find somewhere else to stay. That’s why we came here. We hang out in the tree house, mostly,’ Finn says, finishing Liam’s sentence.
A wave of empathy washes over me. It’s difficult to ignore the boys’ vulnerability, and I feel a familiar urge to protect them.
‘I see.’ James nods. ‘Does your mother know you’re here?’
‘She knows.’ Liam looks anxious.
‘Is Stephen McDonagh your stepdad?’ asks James.
Together, they make a face and groan, ‘Yep.’
James gives me a look before nodding. ‘I see,’ he quietly utters.
‘Did you manage to find any blankets?’ I say softly to the boys.
They both nod. James and I exchange a knowing glance as if silently making an agreement.
‘Excellent, well, anything else you need, you’re welcome to,’ I tell them.
The younger one starts speaking, a glimmer of hope in his eyes. ‘We’re good at fishing and woodwork and building fires too. If… if you let us stay around, we could, you know, help out?’
It dawns on me that this isn’t just an empty property or a pile of bricks and mortar – to these two it’s a shelter. It’s a sanctuary. It’s a lifeline.
And that’s a feeling I know all too well.
‘We’re working on fixing up this house, you know. If your mum says it’s okay, you can help, if you like.’
Wide grins break across their faces as they scramble to their feet, eager to prove their worth. As I watch them, I’m struck by how quickly life can change; how strangers become friends and enemies turn into allies within a blink of an eye.
‘Right, I’ll make a call to your mum, make sure she’s all right with you being here and helping out,’ says James.
‘And all going to plan, we’ll see you both here first thing in the morning to start work. We’re a team now,’ I tell them.
Liam reaches out a flat hand and Finn puts his hand over it. I follow suit and eventually James places his on top. We’ve formed a tiny tower of hands. Which is about as official as you can get.