A shrill car horn trumpeted from the driveway and Mark jumped. “Christ, that was ten minutes?”
Alex twitched, pointing at the backpack. “I’ll toss that in your room, so your mum won’t have to steer her wheelchair around it.”
“Good idea.” He peeked through the front window’s net curtains. “Rhys might need a hand.” With bare feet and a cheek-busting grin, he rushed out the front door.
Alex grabbed his backpack and scurried up the stairs. Just steps into his bedroom, she dumped the bag’s contents onto the bed. She separated each item on the duvet: Mark’s iPad, his headphones, a dog-eared script, her Glamour magazine, a yellow Matchbox car, some new fan letters, his Vespa key…but no house key tied with a red ribbon. A burst of summer warmth sailed up the stairs, carrying laughter and happy voices into the bedroom. The front door banged shut, sending Alex’s heart crashing into her stomach.
“Fuuuck,” she mumbled under her breath. Reality couldn’t be avoided now—she must have dropped the key in the rush at their London flat. It was official: she had ruined Niamh’s birthday, and that desperately desired good first impression? So long, farewell, auf Wiedersehen, good-night…
She punched the backpack. Mark was usually pretty easygoing, but this…this might crack him in half.
“Hey!”
She jumped, her heart nearly bursting from her chest. “You scared the crap out of me.” She shoved the backpack on top of the mess.
Mark snickered naughtily around the doorjamb. “What are you like? Come, meet my family.”
Alex’s eyes welled up. “Mark, I’m so sorry…”
“About what?” He glanced over his shoulder, down the stairs where excited Irish accents stepped all over one another.
“I’ve lost your mum’s present.” Chasing breaths, she blurted out the words. “I’ve lost the key—”
“No, you haven’t.” A grin lit up his face as he walked into the room.
“What—”
“I took it from your purse.” His hand disappeared into his back pocket, pulling out a key dangling from a small pewter disk. “I grabbed it after we came in, when you dashed to the loo.”
Her jaw dropped.
“Sorry babe, forgot to tell you. I put it on a special keychain.”
Alex breathed a huge sigh of relief. “I was turning myself inside out with worry!” She pouted, playfully slapping him on the chest.
“Aw, Mouse!”
Mouse—small in stature and addicted to cheese sandwiches; Mark’s nickname for her was a perfect fit. Just hearing it in his adorable Irish brogue was enough to release the vice gripping her chest.
“Dad loved this old keychain, ya know…” He laid the jumble of nickel and pewter, engraved with a treble clef, face up in the palm of her hand and cleared his throat. “Sure, it’s old and banged up, but Mum will love it. It…” His voice trembled. “It tells our story.”
“Aw, babe. It’s lovely.” A smile tugged the corners of her mouth. She flipped the keychain over, her fingers tracing over a faint engraving: Niamh Grace Mark Kieran inside the outline of a Celtic heart. “Who’s Kieran?”
“Oh, one of my middle names. Keegan boys get them; the girls don’t. It’s a sore point with Gracie.” He clutched Alex’s hand and slowly scooped up the birthday surprise from her palm. “Is the box around?”
Alex grabbed the silver gift box from the bed and lunged at Mark, desperate for a hug.
He squeezed her butt, his eyebrows furrowing. “You okay?”
“Marmalade…” Alex whispered.
Mark kissed her forehead. Marmalade was their private SOS, a code word signaling that one of them needed a reassuring I’m here, babe, you’ll be all right during a difficult or anxious moment.
“You’ve got this, Mouse.”
She pressed her lips to his neck. “I want today to be perfect for you, and I really want your family to like me…”
He pulled back, nudging her bangs from her eyes. “Mum will love you.”
“God, I hope so.” She handed over the box.
“She will. She can’t wait to meet you—and call me crazy, but I can’t wait to meet your mum. It’s about time.”
Alex winced. “Ooh, too much excitement. I need another pee. Give me three minutes?”
“I’ll give you two, tops.” Mark kissed her on the nose and glanced at the gift in his grip. “I can’t wait to see Mum’s face! We’ll give it to her at dinner.” He tossed the box up in the air and snatched it, his grin growing as he bounded out of the room.
Alex quickly scooped up Mark’s scattered belongings, dropping them in his backpack. One item was stuck in the crevice between the bed and the wall: a small square black box with Brown Thomas barely visible on its lid. Its bashed-in corners and scuffed silver lettering drew her curiosity. She shook it and something rolled around inside. Cufflinks? Mark was like a magpie—always carting around various family heirlooms.
A sharp tug removed the stubborn lid. Another box lay nestled inside, this one gunmetal grey with rounded corners and a hinged lid. Her thumb pulled upwards, the box’s tight hinge whining, hesitant to budge. Finally, the lid popped open, revealing its secret.
Lost for breath…lost for words…Alex snapped the box closed.
Two
“D’ya see this sword, Mackintosh?” Mark pointed a small plastic knife at Alex, lying on her stomach across a tartan blanket. “It once belonged to the Clan Dhònnchaidh, but my ancestors claimed it in a great battle.” He snarled in a Scottish burr, his eyes darkening beneath the brim of his baseball cap. “If I find out yer lyin’, I swear on the graves of my forefathers, I’ll slice yer from ear to ear, leaving ya to rot in a ditch outside Dalnaspidal where even the ravens—” His face froze. “Fuck it! I got that wrong, didn’t I? What’s that line again?”
Alex inhaled deeply, enjoying the fragrance of blooming hyacinth and fresh-cut grass wafting through St. Stephen’s Green, a popular oasis in the heart of Dublin. Her finger traced along Mark’s Lairds and Liars script. “It’s ‘…a ditch outside Dunalstar…”’ She stumbled. “I mean, Dunalasteer…no, ‘Dunalastair where even the ravens wouldn’t pick your carcass clean.’ Jeez!” She laughed. “This is hard!”
“I know, right—these Gaelic names!” Mark scrunched his eyes. “They’re going to revoke my Irish card if I can’t get them right!”
Alex laughed harder. A goldcrest’s high-pitched zi-zi-zee chirped from a nearby tree overlooking their sunny patch of grass.
“At this rate, I’ll still be muttering lines to myself on the train back to Aberdeen. People will think I’m certifiable.”
“Try again?” Alex plucked a strawberry from the takeout container sat between them.
Mark dipped the plastic knife into a small pot of Nutella, his easy smile spreading through his three-day stubble. “Actually, can we back up? I’ve been toying with whispering the lines before that, about his wife’s disappearance.” The knife reappeared, covered in gooey, chocolatey, hazelnut happiness, and he smoothed it over a croissant, recently baked and still warm. “Whatcha think?”
She chewed the sweet strawberry, contemplating. “Well, a subtle delivery will definitely make the words more shocking, more…visceral.” Her eyes fell back to the page as she swallowed. “And maybe, pause before you mention the laird’s drowning, then launch into the rant about the sword, forefathers, ravens…it will hit the audience harder, for sure.”
“That’s my girl! You always know the best way to deliver lines.”
“Writer’s intuition, babe!” She grinned, pushing herself up from the blanket. She leaned over his script and their Monday afternoon picnic of fruit, baked goods, and cider, kissing him.
He held her kiss then let go, his eyes lost in hers. “Well, sexy playwright lady, there’s no one else I’d rather practice lines with.” He smiled and bit into his croissant coated in nutty sweetness. A smudge of chocolate remained on his upper lip.
“There’s no one else I’d rather have as my dramaturg
.” Her thumb lovingly swept the Nutella from his lip. “That idea you had this morning, I think it’ll fix that scene I’m struggling with.” She sucked her thumb. “Changing the thirtysomething to a pregnant teen…it raises the stakes.”
“See, we’re a team, Sinclair!” Mark offered his croissant for a bite. “Mum thinks so, too.”
Alex bit off a small piece and sat beside him, savouring the creamy chocolate and basking in the gentle, warm breeze flirting with her hair. “Yesterday was so lovely. Your mum…her tears when she held your dad’s keychain…” Alex laid her head on Mark’s shoulder. “She kept whispering, ‘Mark, you shouldn’t have.’ It made me love you so much, I could burst.”
“Aw, Mouse.” He swapped his lunch for his Ray-Bans. “It did my heart good to see her so happy.” He nodded, staring at the blanket. “But…”
“But what?”
Shielded by his sunglasses, his eyes washed over her. “Nothing.”
Alex lifted her head. “I know you miss your dad even more at times like this, but he would be so proud of you. We all are. Grace couldn’t stop gushing about her baby brother—it was so cute!”
A wistful smile briefly raised his cheeks. He cradled Alex’s face in his hands and kissed her softly on the lips. “I’m glad you got on so well with her—and Mum. They’ve both been bugging me to meet you for ages. Prepare yourself, though—you’re in for lots of Facebook comments, texts, and random calls. When they like someone, they really like them! You’ll be wishing you never met them—or me!”
“Fat chance of that, Keegan!” Alex kissed him. “They couldn’t have been more welcoming. Gracie and I got on like a house on fire.”
“Yeah, about that…what were you conspiring about with her? Don’t deny it—you two went quiet when I walked back into the room.”
“Girl stuff!” Alex theatrically zipped her lips.
“Oh, really? Well, that’s me put in my place.” He chuckled. “Honestly, yesterday couldn’t have gone better.”
Alex furrowed her brow. “I hope I can say the same when we visit Florida in December.”
Mark sipped his can of cider. “Robbie and I get along great over FaceTime…”
“My brother isn’t the problem.”
“I’ll charm your mom and sister, you’ll see.” He took another swig.
“Mom and Kathryn are an acquired taste, and with you being an actor…”
Mark grinned. “They’ll see how suited we are for each other.”
She shook her head. “They’re nothing like Dad, Mark. He’s supportive of the whole writing/acting thing—Mom isn’t.”
“It’ll be okay, really.” He kissed her temple. “It’s not the end of the world if she doesn’t like me, and anyway, those ten days will fly by. We’ll be in New York, snapping selfies by that massive Christmas tree before you know it. Just you and me, yeah?”
Her frown turned into a big smile. “Yeah! New York will be so romantic!” She snatched a strawberry. “Hard to believe, though. I haven’t been back to the States in over two years. You’ve been to five countries since January! Crazy!”
Mark took a deep breath. “That country count might creep up to six, Mouse…the PR guy at the BBC sent me a text this morning—four of the Lairds cast are going to the comic con in Toronto…”
“Yeah…?” She chewed, swallowing quickly.
“They kinda want me to join them. You could come too!”
“Ooh, yeah! I’ve never been to Canada…!” She picked up her phone from the blanket and opened her calendar app. “When is it?”
“Three days after Lairds wraps…we’d have to fly out on August 31st. The con runs Friday through Sunday. Truth be told, I could really use the cash. Mum’s house emptied my savings, and the con would be a quick payday.”
Alex squinted. “Shit, my attachment starts on the 30th…”
“Aw, really? Christ, you can’t bail on the National.” Mark bit his lip. “It’s just a con…I don’t have to go…”
“Don’t skip it because I can’t go. With all the Lairds gang, you’ll have a great time. I bet the organizers will do Q&A panels and group photo ops, and the fans will love it. Really, Mark, you should go.”
“Are you sure? It means I’ll only see you for, like, two days before I’m off again.”
“I know, but you’ll be back down the weekend before that—”
“What’s the weekend before that?” He pulled out his phone.
Alex glanced at her calendar. “That industry BBQ thingy in Greenwich.”
“Ah, right. Yeah, I totally forgot to put that in my schedule. God, I feel like a yo-yo…up and down between Aberdeen and London.”
Alex scrolled through a list of industry events in her phone, and one caught her eye. As much as she’d prefer to have Mark home with her, she didn’t want him to miss out. “You know, maybe you should stick around for your movie at the Toronto International Film Festival? It starts after the con.”
“I already told the director no, but…” He looked up from his screen. “I guess I could do TIFF. I’ve never done a film fest before…”
“That South Africa shoot was almost a year ago. It’ll be fun seeing your castmates again—”
“Yeah…yeah, it would.” Mark added the con and TIFF to his phone’s calendar.
“And you’d still be home for a few days before you leave for country number seven…”
“Austria? Yeah, that shoot’s gonna be a tough one.”
Alex left her phone on the blanket and twisted a grape from its bunch. “Hey, remember that clip? The one of Whishy at TIFF for Cloud Atlas? So many fans!”
“Yeah, it was fandemonium! I’ll have to stock up on Sharpies.”
She popped the grape in her mouth. “Aw, I really wish I could go, but…I’m excited about my attachment.”
He pulled her close into a hug. “As you should be, Mouse. They don’t just invite anyone.”
Alex sank into his chest. “That’s why I have to stay, give it my all.”
“Someone’s gonna be writing up a storm while I’m fighting off fangirls and schmoozing at TIFF! You’ll be too busy to miss me.”
“Yeah, won’t even notice you’re gone!” She sat up and returned to his Lairds script. “So, that ditch in Dunalastair? Start at the top?” Alex smiled longingly at Mark and snatched his half-eaten croissant.
MARK
Thirteen years earlier
Dublin, October 2004
“Mark Keegan! What the hell?” Fifteen-year-old Grace snatched her brother by the ear.
“Ow! Christ, Gracie!” Mark dropped a half-empty bottle of cider onto the grass and his eyes flew to his recently acquired friends, a group of boys known for drinking, skipping class, and talking back at teachers.
“Swigging booze in the park during lunch? Jesus, Mark, you’re only twelve!”
“Let go of me—”
Mark’s friends laughed and taunted him. “Oooh, Keegan, gettin’ beat up by your sister? Ya big wuss!”
“Gracie! Let go!”
“Embarrassed are you, Fappy? Tough!” She yanked his ear and marched him out of the park, their feet crunching and kicking through piles of crumpled brown leaves.
“Where are we going?”
“Home for a bollocking, you little wanker.”
“But class starts in ten minutes—”
“Like you care! No wonder your grades have sucked lately.” Grace exchanged his ear for the arm of his jacket and dug in her fingers. “Shut up and be thankful you’re dealing with me and not Mum. She’s doing a double shift at the dry cleaners, so your arse is mine.”
“You can’t do this.” He tried to shake his sister off. “You’re not in charge of me!” Mark tugged his arm away, sending a packet of cigarettes to the ground.
“Jesus!” Grace snapped up the evidence. “Smoking, too? What else have you been doing? Have you been getting high with those idiots? Because I know all about them, Mark. They’re losers. They spend most afternoons in detention—�
�
“Lay off, Gracie. You don’t understand.”
“Oh, I understand all right.” She waved the cigarette package in his face. “Every night last week? You weren’t at footy practice, were you? You were in detention, admit it!”
Mark swiped at her hand but missed. “Gracie, give them back. Please don’t tell Mum. Come on! Give ’em, back!”
She stashed the cigarettes in her bag. “Was it for leaving school grounds during lunch like today? Or mitching class…or drinking? Is that what you do these days? Sneak off on the way back from gym class? Meet your new eejit friends in the park, smoke some fucking weed?! Tell me, or I’m marching you straight to Mum right now!”
Mark had never seen his sister so angry with him and knew she wasn’t bluffing. “I’ve only tried it a few times…”
“Once is too bloody many!” She shoved him towards their semi-detached house. “Get your arse inside before someone sees you.”
Grace slammed the front door behind them. “Mark, what the FUCK! Are you really this thick? Don’t you see that you’re throwing your life away? What’s Mum gonna say? Do you have any idea what this will do to her?”
“Don’t tell her then. Christ, Gracie, just…leave me the fuck alone!”
“Listen, you have to stop this shit, NOW! Dad’s been dead for nine weeks, and you going off the rails like this, becoming a bad lad—that’s just not you, Mark.”
He rolled his eyes. “Okay, I’ll stop—I promise.”
“A promise? From you? That’s worth NOTHING, and you know it. All you do lately is lie.” She shook her head furiously. “I can only hide so much of your crap from Mum. Are you hell-bent on hurting her? Didn’t you learn anything two weeks ago?”
“I didn’t do that on purpose—”
“Oh, come on. That was a dirty tackle. You almost broke that poor kid’s leg, and everyone saw it. Do you think your coach suspended you for nothing? Look, I know your heart is broken with everything that’s happened, Mark—mine is too! But you can’t take out your anger on the football pitch or hang around with those louts, trying to blot out your feelings with drugs and booze.”
London, Can You Wait? Page 2
