by KT Webb
Damnit, this is not what I’m here for. It took more willpower than I usually possess to turn down Gannon’s lunch invitation. Just as I reach the clinic, I glance over my shoulder to find him still standing in front of the Wolfhound. Gannon waves, willing to accept that he’s been caught staring at me. Okay, this might not be so bad after all. Who knows what the future holds?
I open the door to find Roald Molloy III sitting behind a desk. His quick smile tells me everything I need to know about him right now. He’s not an asshole.
“Miss Molloy, to what do I owe this pleasure?”
“I just wanted to stop by and thank you for helping me last night. I’m a little embarrassed by the circumstances,” I offer an apologetic shrug.
He waves off my concern, “Honestly, it was no problem. How is it feeling today?”
“It’s feeling better, I just took my pain medication again. I can tell the difference if it starts to wear off.”
Dr. Molloy nods in agreement, “For the first week or so, you’ll want to keep up on that, but the pain will start to dissipate after that. I’m not sure if you remember what I said last night, but it was a small, clean break and should heal pretty quickly.”
I’ve said what I came here to say, now how do I segue into the bloodline we share? This guy seems pretty laid back compared to the crotchety old man who was responsible for my new accessory. Maybe Gannon is right, and not all the Molloy’s feel the same way the elder Roald does.
“So, this might seem weird, but would you like to grab a drink later?”
Dr. Molloy visibly pales, “Um, I don’t think my wife would like that very much.”
“Oh. Oh! No, that’s not what I meant,” I’m sure I’ve turned multiple shades of red. “Listen, I’m not really sure how to go about getting to know the family I have here. I obviously got off to a good start with your grandfather.”
He visibly relaxes, “Now, that I can help with. Why don’t you come to the Wolfhound tonight around eight? I’ll see how many of the cousins I can round up by then.”
“Thank you, I don’t want anyone to see me as an enemy. I’m not planning to swoop in and take over the dairy farm or the B&B. Those things seem to be in good hands. I’m not going to change anything that doesn’t need to be changed.”
“I think you’ll find that not many of us younger Molloy’s care too much about what happens. We appreciate the history that comes along with our family farm, but we’ve all grown in different directions,” he offers me a kind smile.
It’s a relief to hear him say that. Now I just have to hope he’s right. I didn’t come here for the business; I came here because my grandfather asked me to. I plan to stay for as long as it takes to reconnect with the family he left behind. Hopefully, through all that, I’ll even accomplish his final wish for me, finding myself.
“I hope so. I don’t have an end date for my stay at this point. If I’m being honest, I’m not opposed to the idea of immigrating here. There’s nothing left for me in the United States,” I try not to sound like a lost little puppy.
“I’m sure Gannon would approve of that,” he offers, staring pointedly at my borrowed sweatshirt.
Wait, what? I have to figure out how to change the subject quickly. This is not something I want to discuss with anyone, let alone the cousin I just met. I’m sure my terrified expression registered with Roald because he suddenly looks mildly uncomfortable.
“Sorry, I wasn’t trying to imply anything. I just notice that he’s taken an interest in you.”
“Oh, yeah. He’s a really nice guy. He’s agreed to show me around Ireland, so I don’t make any touristy mistakes. I’m lucky to have made a friend like him.”
I’m pretty sure there’s a limit to the number of times I can refer to Gannon as a “friend” before people fall back on the age-old Shakespeare quote, “the lady doth protest too much, methinks”. On the plus side, I’m no Ophelia, and I don’t get the impression that Gannon has much in common with Hamlet. Maybe if I stop labeling our relationship altogether, other people will follow suit. Who am I kidding? The town probably already thinks I’m the slutty American who seduced Gannon Fitzpatrick last night.
“Hey, Blake? Don’t worry, I’ll set the record straight about the circumstances that led to you staying the night with Gannon. It’s nobody’s business, but the people in this town have known each other most of their lives.”
“Thanks, Dr. Molloy. I appreciate that, but I’m not sure how much I really care. I guess if they think something is going on between Gannon and me, maybe no other eligible bachelors will appear out of thin air to flirt with me.”
“Call me, Roald, please. We are family, after all.”
Family. Even after the time that has passed since I walked away from my own family, the word still brings a twinge of sadness to my chest. I can’t go back in time and change the way I handled my relationship with Vince anymore than I can go back and keep my grandfather from leaving his homeland. Life is filled with a series of actions and consequences. I’ve gone over it in my head a million times; if I’d broken things off with Vince sooner, maybe he wouldn’t have cheated on me. All those “ifs” and “should haves” have gotten me nowhere. I will never change what happened, and I’m not sure I want to. I had to have my heart broken to discover the true nature of my immediate family.
The funny thing is it isn’t even Vince that broke my heart. Maeve is responsible for that, and my parents just added insult to injury. I didn’t love Vince, but his betrayal still left a mark. I loved my family. Their betrayal tore me apart.
“Okay, Roald then,” I smile as I open the clinic door. “I’ll see you at the Wolfhound tonight. Don’t expect me to get all dressed up. I’m more of a casual-dress kind of girl.”
Roald chuckles in response, “Oh good, then you won’t mind that the rest of us are pretty laidback about our appearances.”
I wave goodbye to him and step into the chilly February day. I have no idea what to do with the rest of my day, but I probably shouldn’t show up at the Wolfhound wearing Gannon’s sweatshirt. As I walk past the pub, I wonder idly if Gannon is watching me from the large picture window that spans the front of the building. He’s probably too busy cleaning up the mess from last night to pay attention to what I do. Not that it matters anyway.
The small village has two roads that lead through it; the main road is a highway, the other is an offshoot with a few businesses on it, the Garda outpost, and the clinic. A church sits at the base of the sloping hill that leads toward the B&B. It’s clearly been there almost as long as the town itself, but there have been repairs to the aging stones through the years. From my online research, I know there’s a cemetery nearby that would be very interesting to see. Not only for the pyramid tomb but to see how many relatives I can find buried there. Maybe I’ll head up there after I change my clothes.
By the time I get back to the cottage, it’s time to take another pain killer. My hand is throbbing already, and the more physical effort I expel, the more it throbs. Maybe I’ll take a nap after I take a pill. I could use the sleep, my body is all out of whack with the time change. It’s a little after one o’clock in the afternoon in Ireland, but it’s eight o’clock in the morning back in Lansing. Not that I wouldn’t be awake and caffeinated by then, but the strange hours have messed with my body. When I couple the time difference with my injury, I’m completely exhausted. Thankfully, Roald gave me a pill bottle without the child safety cap. I can’t imagine how I’d get at my pain killers if I had to try to open it with one of those stupid caps. The pain is coming back enough that I’m going to go ahead and take some acetaminophen too. Collapsing onto the bed, I reach over to my phone and set the alarm for four o’clock. That should give me enough time to get a decent nap in and still have enough time to wander up to the cemetery before I meet up with the Molloy cousins. Almost as soon as my head hits the pillow, I feel sleep calling me into blissful darkness.
The obnoxious beep, beep, beep of my alarm nearly give
s me a heart attack. I slept hard, I don’t think I did any tossing or turning at all. As I start to get out of bed, I can feel the stiffness in my limbs from not moving for three hours. After a few stretches, I head right to the shower. Nothing says, “I took a long afternoon nap” like bedhead.
The water needs to warm up a bit before I’m willing to stick a toe in there. I slide the brace off my hand carefully and contemplate just how hard it would be to get my hair into a braid. This whole broken hand thing is a nightmare. By the time I’m done washing my body and hair with just one hand, I decide it’s time for another painkiller.
After a lot of difficulties, I’m finally dressed in a pair of skinny jeans, boots, and a chunky knit gray cardigan over a purple top. I’ve still got three hours until I’m supposed to meet the Molloy’s at the pub. That’s plenty of time to take a walk up the hill to the cemetery. I’m careful to lock the door to my cottage before heading out. I doubt Roald Molloy is going to come into the cottage, he sent his message in the form of a broken hand. He has no reason to do anything further to me at this point.
The road to the cemetery is lined with barren trees, cold skeletons of the lively greenery that will come. I imagine it will be breathtaking when spring is in full swing. The gravel crunches beneath my feet, filling the quiet afternoon with the solitary sound. At the top of the slowly sloping incline, I find the most breathtaking view I’ve ever encountered.
The other side of the hill provides a clear view of the Slieve Bloom Mountains that border Kinnitty. It’s beyond anything I’ve ever encountered. Fog swirls between the snow-dusted evergreen trees nearest the foot of the mountain chain, and somewhere nearby, I can hear a bird call. I take a deep breath in through my nose and exhale slowly through my mouth. As strange as it sounds, this cemetery has just become my favorite place to be.
I know I’ll have plenty of time to admire this place, so for now, I’m going to see if I can find my great grandparents’ graves. Traces of snow still cling to the ground from the snowfall last week. Many of the tombstones are so old they’re impossible to read. I can’t think of anything more awe-inspiring than to wander among graves that are hundreds of years old. Of course, I see the Molloy name on many stones. That’s bound to happen when your family has been in the same place for hundreds of years. Before I come across the graves I’m looking for, I stumble upon something unexpected.
A small memorial stone sits between two larger markers. This stone is weathered, and the words that were once carved into it have almost completely disappeared. The one thing I can read is the last name of the poor soul buried beneath my feet. It’s almost as though the wind and rain have assaulted these stones at just the right angle to leave them untouched in some areas but nearly washed away in others. This particular stone bears a name that holds more meaning to me than I’ve really considered. Blake.
I drop to my knees in an attempt to decipher the first name, not that it would matter. All I really know about my nana’s side of the family is that they were wealthy and carried the last name, Blake. Grandma always told me how proud it made her that my parents chose to name me after her family. According to her, only a small part of the Blake family settled in Kinnitty, and she was the last remaining member of that bloodline.
My parents prided themselves in honoring our family history with the names they chose for my sister and me. Maeve was named for a warrior queen, but my parents changed the spelling to make it a little easier to pronounce for Americans than the traditional Irish spelling, Maebh. Her middle name is Bridgette, after our mother. I was named after my paternal grandmother, Imogen Molloy. I remember how pleased she was every time she told people that my name is Blake Imogen Molloy because I have both her first and maiden names. I’m sure my nana’s parents are buried here somewhere, just as my grandfather’s family has many lost relatives under this sacred ground.
“I see you’ve made it up here on your own then,” Gannon’s voice breaks through the silence.
“Holy shit!” I yelp, grabbing my chest in surprise.
“I’m sorry I didn’t mean to scare you. I figured you’d heard me coming up the path.”
I shake my head before laughing at my own reaction. “No, I was busy thinking about all the ancestors I must have buried here. It’s kind of surreal.”
Gannon looks around at the relatively small graveyard. I imagine he knows precisely how it feels to stand in the final resting place of many generations who passed before. When his gaze returns to me, something is lurking in his eyes that I can’t quite read. Gannon is a complicated man. I haven’t known him long but I can tell there’s something deep inside him that he doesn’t want me to see. I remember the partially empty bottle of whiskey in the storeroom, he looked at that in much the same way he’s looking at me now. Someday, I’ll ask him about what happened. It will have to wait until I’m ready to tell him about my own personal heartache
Blake is looking at me with those quizzical eyes. For now, I’m going to have to ignore the questions she’s silently asking. I promised to help her, and my demons aren’t going to help her in the least.
“Do you know about the Blake family?”
She glances back at the marker and shakes her head, “All I know is my grandma was a Blake, and her great grandmother settled here after a family tragedy.”
“That much is true, but I’m surprised your grandma didn’t tell you more than that. Have you done any research on your own?”
“Very limited. Honestly, I didn’t feel it was necessary to look into their pasts. Neither of my grandparents was too keen on talking about where they came from,” she sighs deeply. “Grandpa would always simply say ‘it doesn’t do to dwell on the past when the present is right in front of you’. My grandma just said there was nothing left for her in Ireland, so leaving didn’t cause her much heartburn.”
“Interesting,” I approach the memorial she’s standing near. “This particular stone isn’t actually a grave. It was erected in memory of an illegitimate Blake child, lost before moving to Kinnitty.”
“So, how would they be related to me?” She gestures to the stones on either side.
“This one is your great great grandmother, the one on that side was for your great grandparents, and the stone in the middle was erected for Eleanor Blake.”
The blank look on Blake’s face tells me she has no idea why these people should be relevant to her. There may be a significant amount of mystery surrounding the circumstances that brought the Blake’s to Kinnitty, but I’m dumbfounded that Imogen didn’t share what she did know.
“Are you prepared for story time?” I ask her with a grin.
“Always,” she comes to stand next to me as we stare at the stones.
“The Blake family has a rich history in Galway. In fact, there is still a castle that stands in ruins on the bank of the River Corrib that was occupied by the Blake family from the late sixteenth century to the early twentieth century. Menlo Castle burned down in 1910, taking Eleanor Blake in the blaze. Her father, Sir Valentine Blake, the 14th Baronet, and her mum, Lady Maebh, were visiting Dublin when the tragedy struck.”
“My sister is Maeve, though my parents didn’t spell it traditionally. They never told me where the name came from, but that must be it,” Blake shares.
She hasn’t talked about her sister until now. I can’t help but wonder if there’s some tension there based on her tone of voice and the fact that she hasn’t mentioned her previously. Blake looks as though she let something slip that was supposed to be a secret, so I’m going to leave that alone.
“The scandal was lay in the fact that Sir Valentine and Lady Maebh were never married. Eleanor was their pride and joy, but she was essentially an illegitimate child in the eyes of everyone they knew,” I can tell she’s hooked on the story, so I keep moving forward. “Ultimately, the Blake family abandoned Menlo Castle, and the loss of Eleanor effectively ended the affair between Sir Valentine and Lady Maebh. He returned to his family, she left Galway and eventually set
tled here in Kinnitty.”
“So, my nana must be descended from Sir Valentine and whoever he later married?” Blake hasn’t connected the dots because I haven’t dropped the final bomb.
“No. Lady Maebh didn’t tell anyone about the baby she was carrying when their relationship ended. Sir Valentine never married, he still loved Lady Maebh but was forced to give in to his family and title. He died of a broken heart just two years after the fire.”
“So, she had a baby in Kinnitty without a husband? Wasn’t that frowned upon?”
I shrug, “Yes, and no. Lady Maebh went on to marry Seamus Adams, he would have been an uncle to Patrick’s great grandfather. However, she gave her son the last name he would have received from his father had they stayed together.”
“Did Sir Valentine know about the baby?”
“I have no idea. I’d like to think that if he did, Lord Valentine would have come back and made her his wife. A son is significant to families that have a name to preserve. As it was, the Baronet was passed on to Sir Valentine’s nephew upon his death.”
