To Blake, With Love

by KT Webb

  Blake looks closely at the stone that marks the grave of Lady Maebh Adams. The whole story is one of my favorites. Filled with love, loss, and heartache, but ended with a bit of hope.

  “So, Imogen Blake was the daughter of Thomas Blake and Fiona Dempsey. Thomas was the son of Sir Valentine and Lady Maebh. The Blake name ended with Imogen for your branch of the Blake family tree because she married Brion Molloy. And while your nana knows her father was a Blake, she probably doesn’t know the entire circumstances that surrounded her grandmother settling in Kinnitty.”

  “Wow. So, technically, I’m Lady Blake Imogen Molloy.”

  I chuckle, “I mean, you would be if your great-great-grandparents had gotten married before they shagged. Sadly, Sir Valentine was a scoundrel, and Lady Maebh was a bit of a slut.”

  Blake’s bark of laughter springs from her unexpectedly. She knows I’m joking and appreciates the crude jab at her ancestry. I suddenly have an idea that I think will help take her mind off the negative things that have happened since she arrived in Kinnitty.

  “How about, when your hand is healed, we take a trip to see the Cliffs of Moher, then spend a few days in Galway. I can take you to Menlo Castle. It’s a ruin now, and we’ll have to do a bit of trespassing to reach it. But believe me when I tell you it’s worth it.”

  “That would be amazing! Thank you, Gannon.”

  “It’ll give you something to look forward to once you’re all healed up,” I gesture toward the brace she has hidden beneath her oversized sweater.

  “Yeah, thanks. So, do you know where my grandpa’s parents are buried?”

  I move my head in a motion that indicates she should follow me. I’ve seen their tombstones many times. The Molloy plot is only a few away from my own family plot. The cemetery isn’t large, but we have to go over two rows and up one to reach the resting place of Finnian and Orla Molloy.

  As we pass my father’s marker, Blake falters in her steps. I know she sees the name. And more than that, she must see the inscription, devoted husband of Aoife, loving father of Gannon. My father, Donal Fitzpatrick, was my hero. He was a solid, upstanding man. The loss of my father was felt throughout Kinnitty and the surrounding villages. He and Errol Molloy worked together to build the Wolfhound from the ground up and grew it into a successful business. Before his death, I never considered owning the pub, but it felt like the right thing to do.

  “I’ll tell you about him sometime,” I tell her as I place a hand on the small of her back and guide her toward the two people she wanted to find.

  The inscription reads that Finnian and Orla Molloy are buried beneath our feet. All eight of their children are listed in age order on the stone. Brion is the eldest, followed by Roald, there are five more brothers and one sister. Poor lass never stood a chance. I don’t know a whole lot about her other than that she ended up moving away from Kinnitty to make a life for herself. It was suffocating to live in a small town with seven brothers hounding every man who looked her way.

  “So, this is it,” Blake says with a simple nod.

  “Aye. These are the people who brought your grandad into the world and converted the old farmhouse into the Molloy Bed and Breakfast when all their children had grown and started families of their own.”

  Blake glances at her watch as though she has someplace to be. When she seems satisfied that she still has time to spare, she turns and starts to head directly for my father’s stone. I already know she’s going to ask me about him. I’m okay with talking about him now. I was just a boy when he was killed. My life was shaped by his presence and changed by his absence. I found it was easy in Kinnitty because everyone already knew what happened. I wasn’t faced with reliving the tragedy over and over to explain why my father wasn’t in my life. It’s for the best since my mum still begins to tear up when she talks about him at length.

  “Your father. He died very young,” Blake opens the door for me with a few simple statements.

  “He did. My father and some friends went to Dublin to celebrate his fortieth birthday. They didn’t want to stay here because my da and his best friend were the pub owners, no fun having a night on the town when you’re the one serving the drinks,” I laugh softly.

  “I noticed he died near his birthday, was there an accident?”

  I shake my head sadly, “Not an accident. You know the Irish like their whiskey and beer, right? Well, they were out and ended up pissed as a fart. From what Errol could tell us, they were staggering back to their hotel when dad had to stop to drain the tank. He wandered into the wrong alley. Some bastards jumped him and beat the piss out of him. One of them wasn’t satisfied with the beating they delivered, so he stuck him good. Bled out in that alley before anyone could get there to help.”

  When I look at Blake, I see the hurt in her eyes. It’s as though she knows I still feel the loss as though it happened yesterday. Nothing will make up for what happened to him, no one knows who did it, and very few people probably cared. Blake touches my shoulder gently, there are fresh tears in her eyes.

  “I’m so sorry, Gannon. That’s horrible. I can’t imagine how hard that was for you and Aoife,” she lets her hand drop and pulls her arms close to her body.

  “I appreciate that. I miss my father. Errol had always been like an uncle to me, but he quickly became the father figure I needed in the absence of his best friend.”

  Blake is quiet for a long time as we both stare at the marker for my father. I have no idea what she’s thinking about. I steal a glance at her out of the corner of my eye. The gentle breeze has a cold bite to it, as evidenced by the pink appearing on Blake’s nose and cheeks. Her hair is down again, though I now think she’s left it that way out of necessity rather than function. I spy a purple ponytail holder on her wrist. She tosses her head to free her face from the hairs that fly into her face with the wind. I suppose it would be hard to do anything to hair like hers with only one hand. I wonder if she would let me help her get it out of her face. I’m not exactly a pro when it comes to styling a woman’s hair, but I’m sure I could give it a go. If she wants a braid or ponytail, I’m almost sure I could manage to do that with very little trouble.

  “Do you want me to help with your hair?”

  Well shite. Did I just say that out loud? The expression on her face goes from confused to amused in a matter of seconds. At least she’s not disturbed by my offer, even it may seem a bit out of the ordinary.

  “Do you know how to braid?” She asks with her adorably arched eyebrow.

  “Aye,” I gesture for her to hand me the elastic around her wrist.

  She turns, so she’s facing the breeze, allowing her hair to flow backward. Again, the scent of her shampoo catches me off-guard, and I have to keep myself from burying my face in her hair. Luckily, I learned to French braid years ago. Madigan taught me so I could play with her hair constructively. It takes my fingers a few moments to fumble through the movements as I weave her hair into a tight braid. It’s not perfect, but it gets the hair out of her face.

  “Thanks,” she says as she turns back to face me. “I don’t generally wear my hair down if I’m going to be outside. I like my hair long, but I hate when it ends up in my mouth or strung across my face.”

  I notice her glance at her watch again. It’s Saturday, so the pub will be steady. Patrick usually takes the first shift, and I join him when things typically begin to pick up. Since we just had our live music last night, I don’t anticipate a large crowd again tonight.

  “Got a hot date?” I decide I may as well press my luck.

  “What? Oh! No, I’m actually meeting Roald, the doctor, at the Wolfhound tonight. He offered to round up some of the cousins who are unlikely to break my bones. I’m supposed to be there at eight.”

  I’m only mildly surprised to hear about her plans. If any of the Molloy’s were going to offer Blake an olive branch, it would be Roald. I can think of at least five cousins who live right around town that would be interested in meeting Blake without any mal
icious intent. That’s what she needs right now. It’s essential for her to feel welcomed by the people she was sent to make peace with.

  “Well, we should probably get heading back into town then. There’s something I want to show you along the way. It’s just beyond the trees on the edge of the cemetery.”

  The rest of our time together is spent talking about the curious history of the Kinnitty Pyramid, discussing our mutual admiration of cemeteries, and planning our future road trips. It’s easy to talk to Blake, and I find myself thoroughly enjoying every moment I spend with her. When we arrive at the Wolfhound, it’s only seven o’clock. The pub is nearly empty, so I usher her to a table, hand her a glass of water, and head to the kitchen. We don’t make a lot of food at the Wolfhound, but we’ve perfected our fish and chips and serve it regularly. Patrick already has a batch of fish in the bubbling oil. The chips are draining in our second fryer. It doesn’t take long for me to serve up a delicious meal. Blake watches me with anticipation from the moment I walk back into the sitting area until I set the plates down on the counter.

  “That looks delicious,” she tells me appreciatively. “What’s that?”

  I have to laugh out loud at her nose wrinkled in disgust when she sees the dipping sauces I’ve supplied. I suppose American’s probably aren’t accustomed to those options.

  “This one is curry sauce, and this is vinegar. You dip the fish and chips into them.”

  “I’m sorry, what? No. You don’t dip things in vinegar. Ew. Have you tasted vinegar?”

  I chuckle, “I have indeed. I quite prefer the curry sauce, but I know many people who would choose vinegar.”

  Blake leans in close to me as though she has a huge secret to tell me, “Okay, but do you have ketchup?”

  I roll my eyes and get up to head to the kitchen again. Typical American. I shake my head when I return with the bottle, and she dumps a generous amount onto her chips.

  True to his word, Roald walks into the pub with an entourage. Each of the people he brought with him has small similarities that indicate a familial relationship. It’s interesting to pick out the bits of myself, my father, and my grandfather that I recognize as family traits. Of course, there are plenty of redheads in the bunch. My strawberry hair came from the combination of my third-generation Irish American mother and first-generation Irish American father. We all have prominent freckles, and I notice quite a few attached ear lobes on my distant cousins.

  “Blake! I’d like to introduce you to a few of your cousins and their spouses,” he runs through the list, pointing at each one as he goes.

  “It’s nice to meet you all. I’m sure you already know, but I’m Blake Molloy.”

  For the next few hours, I sit talking to my cousins. It’s effortless like I belong with them even though we’ve never met. I learn more about the Molloy family history than I ever hoped to know in the span of a few hours. It’s clear to me that Roald was right about the younger generation not caring about the drama that happened between their grandparents. The easy conversation comes to an end when one of the Patrick’s, there are two at our table, mentions my injury.

  “We heard about what happened there,” Patrick number one gestures toward my hand.

  I instinctively pull the brace further into my sweater, not wanting to spoil the evening with something so serious. I’m not one to play the victim. I’d rather just deal with what happens and move on with my life. My typical method of coping with trauma involves cutting ties with those who have wronged me, so they don’t have the opportunity to do it again.

  Roald answers for me, “Someone needs to take that cane away from gramps.”

  “Roald is a real wanker,” Patrick number two says a little louder than he intended. “Sorry, Roald, I know he’s your grandpa and all, but he’s just terrible.”

  Roald waves off the statement as though it’s not the first time he’s heard it. I wonder how many of the other siblings still hold onto their anger. As the second oldest, Roald I, or Old Roald as I’ve decided to call him, probably had the most to lose from his brother abandoning them and not passing the torch on to the next in line.

  “Gramps is set in his ways. I’ve known him to be brash, but never thought he would physically assault anyone,” Roald glances at me before continuing, “I made a report with the Garda. We can’t let him get away with something like that.”

  My heart nearly stops. “You did? Why would you do that? Now he’s just going to have that much more reason to hate me.”

  Patrick number one is the first to scold me for that thought process. “Blake, he’s been getting away with verbal disputes for years. The most they’ll do is give him a slap on the wrist. Our Garda doesn’t see him as a threat. They’ve known him for years, and they think he’s all talk. They’re not going to throw him in jail.”

  That only makes me feel marginally better about the situation. “I’m still not sure how reporting him to the Garda is going to help my situation any.”

  “It shows him you’re not going to let him get away with assault,” Gannon’s voice startles me from behind as he hands out drinks.

  The murmur of agreement that ripples through my cousins tells me they are all thinking along the same lines. Once again, I’m handed a glass of water. I’d kill for a whiskey, but alcohol and narcotics don’t mix well, and Gannon knows it. I know he’s doing his best not to interrupt my time with the cousins. The fact that he’s still managing to keep up with our conversation amuses me more than I’ll admit. Really, it just means that I won’t have to try to keep the details straight when we talk about it later on.

  “Tell us more about you, Blake. You’ve heard a lot of our stories,” Patrick number two insists.

  “How many kids did Brion have?” Patrick number one gives me a starting point.

  For the next fifteen minutes, I explain that my grandparents had my father shortly after emigrating to the United States. He has two younger sisters, Kathleen and Meghan. Both my aunts are married and have a few children of their own. We didn’t have the opportunity to grow up in the same tiny town as my Irish cousins did. I know my cousins, but we were never close. I’ve managed to avoid talking about my own family, hoping they would just assume it was my parents and me. Sometimes I wish it was. Sadly, since I let it slip to Gannon that I have a sister, he picks the right moment to interject.

  “What about your parents and your sister?” Gannon thinks he’s helping me continue with more information.

  I can’t be mad at him; he has no idea. It’s not his fault my sister turned out to be a backstabbing slutbag. Then again, I find myself reluctant to share the darkest bits of my past with these people that I’ve just met. Oddly enough, I realize it’s not because I don’t want them to know what I dealt with, it’s because I don’t want to sour their opinion of my immediate family without ever meeting them. Must be the painkillers talking.

  “My father, James, met my mother, Bridgette, in college. She’s half Irish. So, my grandparents were pleased with his choice. I’m the oldest. I was born the year after they graduated from college. My sister, Maeve, is two years younger than me.”

  “I love that your parents named you both after bits of your ancestry!” One of the female cousins pipes up.

  She’s about my age. Dark auburn hair frames her perfectly shaped face and deep green eyes. As soon as I saw her, I knew I’d like her. She’s spunky and snarky. Her parents must think they’re funny though; her name is Molly Molloy. Now, she’s leaning forward, hanging on my every word.

  “Tell us about Maeve. Do you think she’ll come for a visit?” Molly has no idea what she’s suggesting.

  “God, I hope not,” the words are out of my mouth before I even realize they were there.

  The silence that soaks into each of the cousins around the table is laced with tension. I can practically feel Gannon behind me. How am I supposed to tell them? How can I possibly differentiate the perceived sleight of my grandfather with the painful grudge I harbor for my family? />
  “I haven’t spoken to my sister or mother in a few years. I talked to dad recently, only because he’s the one who told me about grandpa passing.”

  They’re looking at me, expecting more explanation. I don’t want to tell them anything else. Why can’t my family be normal? Why did my sister have to jump in bed with the man I was dating? Why did my parents have to defend their choices and make me seem like the childish one? If I had the answers to any of those questions, I don’t know if I’d be sitting here in a pub in Ireland. This is why grandpa chose me. I realize that now. He wanted me to realize that there’s a difference between moving on and holding on. I’ve been holding onto the anger, pain, and heartache rather than moving on with my life. It’s the whole reason I’ve avoided any kind of relationship since Vince. Okay, grandpa, I get it. I take a deep breath and plunge into the story.