My Christmas Goose Is Almost Cooked

by Eliza Watson

  Blurting out Shauna’s name had me spilling my guts.

  It felt great.

  Unless Declan found out.

  Zoe popped up from her chair. “Feck. Where’s Quigley?” Her panicked gaze darted through the crowd. “Little shite hasn’t opened his eyes once today, and now he runs off?”

  My heart raced. It was Henry all over again!

  “Don’t worry. When I lost Henry, I found him within ten minutes.”

  “Was he your cat?”

  “Ah, no, he was a little kid I was babysitting, in Paris.”

  Zoe’s eyes widened with horror.

  “Technically, I didn’t lose him. He ran off. Like Quigley.”

  “I’ve had him since I was fourteen. We have to find him.”

  We flew through the market, searching everywhere for the cat. The one place we didn’t look—under our table. We zipped past the table, and there sat Quigley on a stack of caps, cleaning Zoe’s Christmas pudding from his whiskers. Several shoppers were admiring his precious Santa cap and browsing the stock.

  “You’re grounded.” Zoe shook a scolding finger at the cat, then hugged it. She reached under the table and grabbed the half-eaten, cake-like pudding, its fancy green ribbon and plastic wrap a chewed mess. She tossed it in the garbage.

  I didn’t consider it a major loss. It resembled Aunt Dottie’s fruit cake I choked down every year at our holiday party so she wouldn’t feel bad.

  Quigley continued licking his mouth and cleaning his paws.

  I smiled. “Well, at least now you know how to motivate him to model the merchandise.” I eyed Quigley. “And you should appreciate the knit caps your mommy makes for you.” I told the cat and Zoe about the bird stealing my knit beret.

  Zoe laughed. Quigley curled up and went to sleep.

  * * *

  On our drive home from the Christmas market, Declan texted that he’d been unable to find an open tire shop, so he was driving home on the spare. That sounded suicidal on these treacherous roads. I’d hoped he’d be there for my visit with the local historian, Nicholas Turney. Our passion for family history was one thing keeping us connected. And if it turned out my Coffey ancestor was a murderer, I’d need his moral support.

  The elderly man lived a mile up the road from Declan’s parents. Jane insisted I wear her neon-yellow walking vest. It was either that or the red flashing Christmas sweater. The vest wasn’t exactly stylish over my long green coat, but it helped break the strong winds. I met two vehicles the entire way, including the Guinness truck barreling past, heading to Carter’s pub as if they’d had a run on beer. They likely had after last night’s party. The thought of drinking still made my stomach queasy.

  Nicholas lived in a whitewashed bungalow with splintered yellow paint on the door. A bunny lay curled up sleeping on a bed of weeds in a flower box under an open window, where the scent of fried bacon wafted from the house. The man welcomed me with a gracious smile for the bottle of mulled wine I’d bought him at the Christmas market. Nicholas led me into a small room where a fire burned in a black cast-iron stove. Dirty dishes filled a wooden stand in front of a chair facing a console TV. An old movie played on the TV’s wavy green-tinted screen. Repairmen probably didn’t know how to fix the antique. Ireland history and genealogy research books trailed from shelves onto chairs and the wooden floor.

  I gestured to several books he’d authored. “Looks like you’ve been doing this awhile.” I slipped off my vest and coat and draped them over the back of a worn tan leather chair.

  “Was a history professor at Trinity. Dabbled in genealogy when I taught and took it on as a full-time hobby after my retirement.”

  What a great feeling, touching so many lives, helping people learn about their pasts and find closure when needed. Although I helped people create memories that would last a lifetime, it’d be more fulfilling to do something that transcended a lifetime and lived on forever.

  He lowered the volume on the TV. “Was a favorite of my wife, Annie’s. We watched it every Christmas. The Dead.” A somber expression replaced his kind smile.

  “That doesn’t sound real festive,” I joked, trying to lighten the moment.

  The holidays were a tough time to be without loved ones.

  He laughed. “Suppose not. Become a bit of an Irish version of The Christmas Carol, it has. About reflecting on one’s ghosts of Christmas past, present, and future. The short story was written by our own James Joyce.”

  I wasn’t about to admit I’d thought James Joyce was English, not Irish.

  “Set in 1904 Dublin.”

  “Twelve years before my grandma was born here.”

  However, the party being held on TV at the home of two older ladies was much more lavish than my rellies could have afforded. The room was larger than Grandma’s house.

  Nicholas fished a large manila envelope from the sea of papers on his desk and sealed it. “Need to pop this in the post before it goes missing. An Australian couple was in the area researching their ancestors, so I offered to see what info I might have and send it along. The local B and Bs often refer guests.”

  “Do you ever conduct research in Scotland?” When Bernice and Gracie sent me their family info, I’d have no clue where to begin.

  “My research often leads me to Scotland and England.”

  “I’d appreciate a few pointers. I’m helping some friends with their Scottish family tree.”

  He selected two books from the shelves and handed them to me. “These should help. They’re quite recent, include websites and such.”

  “Thank you so much. I’ll mail them back to you.”

  “No worries, luv. You can return them next time you cross the pond.” He gave me a wink. He lifted a jagged rock weighting down a copy of a newspaper clipping. “From my grandparents’ home.”

  A stone from Grandma’s childhood home would have made an even better souvenir than my Coffey pin.

  He handed me the article on the attempted murder of the landowner J. P. Daly and the murder of his sister. I scanned it.

  “Your Coffey rellie isn’t mentioned. If you were wondering.”

  “That’s good. I’m not sure if they even lived there at that time.”

  “Would have to check the land records.”

  Or ask Sadie Collentine. I’d have to send her snail mail since she didn’t have e-mail.

  “Do you know who lives in the Daly house now?”

  He shook his head. “You could check with the postmaster.”

  Declan had suggested the same thing.

  “According to the article, J. P. Daly had a reputation for being a fair landlord. He’d given a man many chances before issuing an eviction notice. However, violence and unrest had peaked over the land wars. Although, the papers had slanted views, as they do today.”

  Out of the corner of my eye, I caught movement by the door. I glanced over to see a small, furry white butt scamper behind a bookshelf. Omigod. Mice scared the crap out of me. I was unsure if I should bring the critter to his attention or ignore it, not wanting him to be embarrassed that I might think his house was infested with rodents.

  Nicholas slipped on a pair of wire-framed glasses and opened to a paper-clipped page in a worn, soft-bound booklet. “About thirty years ago, I transcribed the local cemeteries. There’s a Richard and Emily Daly buried in one. The 1911 census lists them living on the Daly estate in Killybog with sons James and Richard, no John. And no John is buried in their cemetery plot. If they followed the Irish naming pattern, the firstborn James would have been named after Richard’s father, J. P., and the second son would have been named after the mother’s father. However, her father may have been Richard, same as her husband.” He shook his head at the craziness of it all. “This naming tradition made for many identical first names, making research even more challenging.”

  “So it doesn’t appear my grandma’s husband John lived next door to her.”

  “Ah, there you are.” Nicholas’s gaze darted to the stand of di
rty dishes, where a white furry butt stuck up from a bowl. “Didn’t think you were going to stop by to do the dishes today.”

  The animal’s head popped up from the bowl, whiskers and nose twitching, gravy covering the tips of its pink ears. The bunny from the window box, not a mouse.

  “Meet my friend Stewey.”

  Stewey’s head was back in the bowl, slurping up gravy.

  It made me feel good that the man had a regular visitor.

  “Now back to John,” Nicholas said. “He mightn’t been born yet.”

  “I’d kind of ruled it out anyway since they were married in Dublin.”

  “Rule number one in genealogy research, never rule anything out. Keep an open mind. Your grandmother living next to the Daly family could be coincidence or may not. John may have been a relative. Rule number two, know what to let go of and what to hang on to from the past. Don’t let the past hang on to you.” He handed me a stapled packet of papers. “A list of several dozen John or J. Dalys born from 1910 to 1916 in the Dublin and Killybog areas.”

  I scanned the three pages. “That’s a lot of Johns.”

  He nodded. “Both John and Daly were very common names.”

  “So I’ve heard.”

  “I ran it from the civil registration database online. You’d have to go to the registrar’s office to obtain a certificate with parents’ names, for a fee.”

  I heaved a defeated sigh.

  “Genealogy research requires much patience and perseverance, luv. The road to heaven is well signposted, but it’s badly lit at night.”

  I didn’t have time to be patient. I was leaving Ireland tomorrow. Despite my determination, I might have to accept that I’d be returning home without answers to Grandma’s past.

  Chapter Fifteen

  My pace slowed at the sight of Declan’s car sitting in the drive, a spare tire on the front passenger side. The nervous flutter in my chest intensified as I neared the house. Had Declan noticed our redecorating, besides the outdoor décor now being inside? If his family and he were sitting around the kitchen table discussing Shauna, I shouldn’t intrude. Yet it’d be awkward to wait in the car for a few hours.

  Wouldn’t it?

  Taking a deep breath, I stepped inside. The smiling wooden Minions greeted me in the foyer, and laughter, rather than crying or arguing, carried from the living room. I hung up Jane’s yellow vest and my coat. I slipped off Zoe’s muddy duck wellies, glancing up the stairs at the empty nail on the wall.

  The picture was gone.

  My stomach dropped.

  At least I knew Declan’s reaction.

  I entered the living room, now known as Whoville, housing the wooden village square and character figures. Jane, Zoe, and Declan sat sipping mulled wine. Quigley lay in the Grinch’s sleigh in the middle of the room. I discreetly glanced over at another empty nail on the wall. Had Declan also taken my painting from the dresser? I wanted to demand he put them back. Wasn’t Jane upset? Why hadn’t she made him leave them? Maybe she hadn’t noticed they were gone.

  Stay calm.

  I smiled at Jane. “I hope you guys haven’t been waiting on me. It took a bit longer than expected.”

  “No worries. Colin won’t be home for a few hours.”

  “And then we have a surprise,” Zoe said.

  “What?” I asked.

  “A surprise.” Declan’s teasing smile didn’t hide the uneasy look in his eyes.

  The only open spot was on the couch next to him. I debated sharing the sleigh with Quigley, but the cat was sprawled out, hogging the entire seat. I sat on the couch, leaving plenty of room between Declan and me.

  “Declan was just telling us about the fox he swerved to miss and the pothole that blew his tire,” Zoe said. “It could have been a wicked accident.”

  “He could also have had one driving home on that tiny tire,” Jane said.

  “Shops were already closed for the holidays.” Declan handed me a glass of wine, his fingers grazing mine, causing my breath to catch in my throat.

  Don’t cave!

  “How’d it go at Nicholas Turney’s?” he asked. “He have any new info for ya?”

  I took a sip of wine, trying to relax. “The Dalys next to my grandma’s in the 1911 census were Richard and Emily, with sons James and Richard, but no John. Nicholas gave me a list of several dozen John Dalys born in Killybog and Dublin, 1910 to 1916.”

  “The registrar’s office is closed for the hollies,” Zoe said. “My friend Siobhan works in the building.”

  “I can go after,” Declan said. “Shouldn’t cost just to have a look. If I find any Johns with parents Richard and Emily, I’ll pay the fee.”

  I gave him an appreciative smile.

  “A nice man that Nicholas, isn’t he?” Jane said.

  I nodded. Everyone acting so pleasant made me want to scream out Shauna’s name, forcing us to discuss what had happened. I took a gulp of wine.

  Apparently sensing my tension, Zoe and Jane exchanged glances and stood. Not obvious at all.

  “We’ll get some snacks,” Jane said as they fled the room.

  Declan set his wine on the table. He moved closer to me, raising his arm. Instead of slipping it around my shoulder, he propped an elbow on the back of the couch, peering over at me. If I stared into those blue eyes, I’d be a goner, so I focused on my finger tracing the rim of the wineglass.

  “Sorry about all of this. My tires are shite. Need new ones.”

  He was apologizing for shite tires?

  “Where’d you go?”

  “Over by Galway.”

  My gaze darted to his. “Isn’t that on the West Coast?”

  He nodded hesitantly, glancing away.

  “You drove hours before you got a flat and had to stop for the day?”

  He peered back over at me. “Sorry. Let’s just forget about all of this. I don’t want to ruin the rest of your visit.”

  No way was I forgetting what had happened. Jane and Zoe weren’t going to let it go, were they? If they didn’t say something, I would. Then I’d be the one ruining everyone’s Christmas once again, not Declan. Yet I couldn’t ignore everything that had happened between Declan and me, and also between Jane, Zoe, and me. I was so certain I was reaching them. I didn’t want the lonely nails on the walls to once again speak for everyone, or rather, keep them from speaking.

  Declan changed the topic, rambling on with ideas for researching John Daly. His enthusiasm seemed genuine, yet I seethed, my breathing becoming heavier. He was the master of avoidance. I took a drink of wine, trying to remain Zen rather than flying off the couch in a fit.

  Zoe and Jane returned with more mulled wine and a tray of Minion-shaped sugar cookies decorated in green overalls and red Santa stocking caps.

  Jane smiled brightly. “Fancy some cookies?”

  I forced a perky smile. “They look delish.” Instead of sticking my foot in my mouth, I stuck a cookie in it.

  How many cookies would it take to keep me from saying something I regretted?

  * * *

  Red ornaments decorated a small tree on the marble altar, and evergreen wreaths with gold bows hung from the arched stained-glassed windows. I entered Killybog’s church, imagining Grandma and her neighbors sitting in the wooden pews, wishing each other a Happy Christmas, children squirming, anxious to get home to play with their presents. What had been Grandma’s favorite gift? Had her parents been able to afford presents, or had the holiday been more about joining rellies after church for a festive dinner with potatoes, ham, turkey, and Christmas pudding?

  “You look lovely,” Declan said, placing a hand on my lower back.

  Between Declan’s gentle touch and his thoughtful surprise—mass at Grandma’s church—I wanted to ignore everything that had happened the past few days. If I addressed Declan running off and refusing again to discuss Shauna, he’d get upset, and things between us would change. Was that why he’d brought me here? To soften me up? I feared it was working…

&nb
sp; Declan’s hand guided me from the doorway and into the church, allowing his family to enter. My black heels clicked against the tiled floor, echoing through the quiet church. The few dozen people occupying the wooden pews hugged the outer aisle by the wall registers. They were going to have to pray a bit harder for heat—the place was freezing. Declan directed me into a pew. Colin and Jane sat in front of us, Zoe ahead of them. If the registers kicked in, we’d have optimal seating.

  Despite the chill, I slipped off my coat with Declan’s assistance, wanting to show off Zoe’s deep-purple velvet dress and purple lacey hat. Zoe had secured it in place with pins, yet I kept my shoulders squared and chin up, as if I had to balance it on my head or it might fall. It reminded me of when Rachel and I used to walk around the house balancing books on our heads, hoping to develop the posture of beauty pageant contestants.

  Rather than telling me I was mad for removing my warm coat, Declan lay it in the pew next to him. He kept his long dark coat on over his dapper navy suit and blue shirt and tie. We were overdressed compared to others in jeans or casual dress slacks, who were likely saving their Sunday best for Christmas mass. I didn’t feel overdressed for long. The five older men from Molloy’s pub filed in wearing the same dark suits as the other day. Maybe daily mass was their excuse to hang out at the pub.

  Declan rested his hand on the side of his leg, his pinkie touching mine. His sly smile made my chest flutter. It was kind of nice, yet unnerving, sitting alone with him, like a couple, when I had no clue what we were anymore. I shoved aside thoughts of our relationship and focused on the fact that my grandma’s family had likely once lined this same pew. Had Grandma and Theresa chatted about their new holiday dresses, wondering if the cute boy sitting ahead of them noticed? What had brought them to the church the day their picture was taken out front? From everyone’s dressy attire in the photo, I assumed it had been a wedding. I should have asked Sadie if her mom’s albums had the same photo of Grandma and her sister. Maybe it’d noted the occasion and relative names. It suddenly dawned on me that the photo was dated 1935. Had Grandma been married at that time? Had she still had a relationship with her family and been living in the area? Or had she returned for a friend’s wedding?