by Nancy Warren
“I don’t know who that is, but no doubt you’ve left yourself too open.”
I couldn’t believe she was blaming me.
“Give it fifteen more minutes, and we’ll leave.”
I was going to tell her I’d walk, but I suspected it would take me half an hour to walk back to the center of town from here. The sensible thing was to wait. Not knowing anyone to talk to, I drifted toward the window and looked out into the backyard. I wished I was in the overgrown garden and not in the company of a corpse, the ghost in the mirror and this heavy feeling that plagued me like bad indigestion.
There was a man standing out there smoking a cigarette. He caught my eye because he didn’t seem to be coming toward the house or going away from it. I got the feeling he couldn’t make up his mind which he was going to do. He had curly, black hair and a square face, a very stocky, muscular body. I bet he worked out constantly. Good-looking in a flashy way.
The cigarettes didn’t match the heavy-duty working out, but maybe he was one of those occasional smokers.
He glanced up at the house, and I stepped back so he wouldn’t catch me staring. Then he seemed to decide, threw his butt on the grass and ground it out with his shoe. If he’d made an effort to dress up, it was in the buttoned shirt he wore over his jeans. He took two steps toward the house, and then, to my surprise, I saw Brenda hurrying out to meet him.
I sensed anger coming from her. I didn’t think he was consoling her. It looked to me like they were having an argument. Who argued with someone at their father’s funeral? I didn’t know what to do. It was so none of my business, but I was desperate for an excuse to get out of here. I could pretend I was leaving and make sure she was okay.
Kathleen was busy talking to a woman with a bad perm, so I went into the kitchen and slipped out the door. I walked down the back steps and headed toward the arguing pair. I heard Brenda say, “I don’t care. You’re not coming in.”
He glowered at her. “I’m here to pay my respects.”
She stood her ground, and every line of her body quivered with fury. “He wouldn’t want you here either.”
“How do you know that? You haven’t been here. You don’t know what’s been going on.”
“I know my father. He wouldn’t want you here.”
He reached out and grabbed her arm. “Brenda, I need to talk to you. It’s important.”
She yanked her arm back. “Let go of me.”
I was so busy watching this drama unfold that I didn’t even notice Bridget Sullivan, the teacher, had come out behind me. She muttered something and then strode toward the arguing pair. Unlike me, she hadn’t stayed around to eavesdrop. She was wading right into the conflict. I could imagine her as a younger teacher getting instant discipline when she set her mind to it. She even sounded like a teacher when she said, “And what is the meaning of this, Jack?”
He dropped his swagger and instinctively straightened up. “Miss Sullivan. I hope you’re well.”
“Never mind all that. What are you doing here?”
His face settled into belligerent lines. “It’s a wake, isn’t it? I’m here to pay my respects to Mr. O’Donnell.”
“I think Brenda would appreciate it if you would leave.”
“But—”
“You can go and visit Billy O’Donnell in the graveyard if you’ve a mind to, once he’s been laid to rest. But don’t distress Brenda. Not today.”
“I came here because I’ve got a few things I have to say to Brenda.”
“Not now, Jack.” Brenda turned away and headed back toward the house. I stepped behind a bush so that she wouldn’t have to see me on her way past. It wasn’t that I was cowardly, but some things you don’t want witnessed, and I had a strong feeling that for her, that little encounter was one of them.
I stayed anyway, in case the eighty-year-old woman needed help against a guy that looked like a thug and a bully. But I should have had more faith in her. She said, “You go on home now, Jack.”
“I have to talk to her. I’ve thought of nothing else since I got out of prison.”
Well, that made me perk up my ears. What did the jailbird have to say to Brenda that was so important?
“She’s got a different life now, Jack. And so do you.”
“She owes me a hearing at least. And she knows it.”
“Not here. Not now.”
His face went dark. “You always sided with her. Teacher’s pet.”
She didn’t rise to his bait. “You go on home now. Give your mother my best when you see her.”
And, not really to my surprise, he turned around and slunk off. Bridget Sullivan stood there waiting until I heard an engine turning over, and then an old truck drove past us.
Chapter 3
It felt like a hundred years before Kathleen and I left the wake and headed back toward the high street. We stopped at the intersection where the church stood. I could see the grave was freshly dug, ready for Billy O’Donnell. And hanging over the wall of the graveyard was the yew tree that had caused such consternation. I sat looking at it, thinking the priest was right. Beautifully green branches burst out everywhere as though waving for attention. The bows overhung the graves, touched the church roof and, in the other direction, arched over the road. It had a massive trunk, twisted and wizened, and the branches that stretched in all directions were as ragged as a torn umbrella.
She followed my gaze but must have thought I was looking at the fresh hole in the ground. “Billy O’Connell will be laid to rest tomorrow. The grave’s all ready for him.”
I told her what I had overheard about the yew tree, between Father O’Flanagan and the red-haired guy who didn’t want to do the pruning.
The van idled as she nodded, not looking at all surprised. “He’s not been here so very long, Father O’Flanagan. It’s best not to touch that tree.”
I was surprised and showed it. “Why?”
“It goes back hundreds of years. The yew is a fine tree and known for its longevity and magic. And sure, that’s lasted centuries. No one would dare take it down. It’s survived thunder and lightning and droughts. Wars, pestilence. And still it stands.” Her voice was hushed as though it were a mystic icon and not a simple tree.
Where I came from, we had trees that were a thousand years old. But they were massive cedars. And revered by the native peoples.
“The yew makes very nice wands and divining rods,” she told me.
“But that tree could really use a prune. Look at the way it’s hanging over those gravestones, and it must drop needles and bits of branch on the church roof. No wonder they’re trying to raise money to fix the place up.” I was no historian, but I thought the old church was beautiful and deserving of a little sprucing up, and that yew could definitely use a haircut.
“Well, if you’re going to live here, I suppose you need to know the local legend.”
“Okay. I’m game.”
“There was an evil witch who lived in these parts.”
I felt irritation prickle my skin. “Why do so many stories start with ‘there was an evil witch’? It’s so unfair, not to mention misogynistic.”
“Well now, most times I would agree with you, but of course there are and always have been evil witches as well as the good ones. I do fear she was a bad one.”
“What did she do? Cause the plague?”
She chuckled. “No, love. It seems she may have killed her husbands.”
I turned to look at her. “Husbands? Plural?”
Kathleen seemed content to sit in the van and tell me the tale, which I had to admit sounded better by the side of a creepy old graveyard. “I believe there were several. She was reputed to have killed her husbands and done some other terrible deeds. She was tried and put to death.”
I hated these kinds of stories. Too many innocent women had been hanged or burned for nothing more than being healers.
“The legend is that she was put in the ground upside-down, as they used to do, and with a heavy sla
b over her head. She was buried outside the church, of course, in unconsecrated ground.”
“The locals really had it in for this woman.”
“Indeed.” We both stared at the tree. “But the next day she was seen again. She threatened to kill all the children if she wasn’t paid vast ransoms from the townspeople. They killed her again and buried her, and her familiar with her, and this time the yew tree was planted over her with a spell upon it. So long as that tree stands above her, the evil witch cannot rise again.”
I looked at the tree and then at Kathleen. “It’s like reverse Snow White. Only instead of the young princess being trapped in a spell, it’s the evil one.”
“Evil indeed. So, while Father O’Flanagan might like to have the tree pruned, the locals don’t want to do it. We’re a superstitious lot, we Irish.”
Coming from a witch, that was pretty rich.
“Well, I don’t think you need to worry,” I told her. “A young guy named Archie didn’t look like he was going to get anywhere near that yew.”
She put her foot on the gas, and the grocery van began to move. There were still several hours of the work day left, and Kathleen had to go back to her grocery, and I would return to the bookstore.
As we drove, she said, “I wonder what will happen to the house now. He’ll have left everything to his daughter, of course. But will she come back?”
“If she has a life in Dublin, why would she?”
“It’s a fine, grand house.”
“It’s a fine, grand money pit. That place has beautiful bones, but it looks to me like it would take a fortune to bring it back to its glory days.” Not to mention there was a ghost to get rid of.
“I know. Sad, isn’t it? A place like that wants a family. Those rooms want people in them and parties and entertaining.”
“I did not get the feeling that Brenda was planning to move back. In fact, she wants me to sell her father’s books.” My lack of enthusiasm must have shown in my tone.
“Well, I’m sure there’ll be some good things in amongst the junk.”
I hoped so. I suspected there would be a lot of garbage I’d have to wade through first.
“I overheard her tell Karen Tate that she was giving her all the bits and bobs that she might be able to sell to Granny’s Drawers,” Kathleen said. “I look forward to having a good rummage. Brenda’s mother had some lovely things.”
“Is that what people do here? Rummage through each other’s things once they die?”
“It’s a small town, dear. We find entertainment as we can.”
When I walked into the pub that night, I was glad Karen and I had decided to get together. I’d found the wake unsettling on its own, and then that scary-faced ghost or whatever it was peering at me from the mirror had seriously rattled me. I was glad to have some company other than my own and Cerridwen’s. That cat definitely had her own agenda, and it was amazing how her outdoor roaming time so often coincided with my let’s sit on the couch and snuggle time. Still, she was good company when she wanted to be.
However, a single woman close to my age who could keep up a conversation was probably better company and made me less likely to turn into the strange cat lady out in the cottage all alone.
The pub was surprisingly full, and I wondered how many other people had come here because they’d been to the wake earlier. I was right on time, but Karen was already there, and she waved to me from a quiet table for two in the corner. Perfect.
I walked over and sat across from her. “This is a brilliant idea,” I said. “I really needed to get out.”
“I feel the same way. What can I get you?”
I asked for a red wine, and she went over to the bar. Sean O’Grady and she chatted like old friends. No doubt they were old friends. And she returned not with two glasses of red wine but an entire bottle.
“Sean says if we don’t drink it all, we can take it home.” She grinned at me. “Though I doubt there’ll be any left.”
I wasn’t a big drinker, but I agreed with her assessment. She poured and then lifted her glass in a toast. “Here’s to female friendships.”
We both sipped, and then she set her glass down. “How did you enjoy your first Irish wake?”
I couldn’t tell her about the ghost in the mirror, obviously, so I paraphrased what Andrew Milsom had said, that at least in Ireland people didn’t avoid the subject of death but celebrated it as a passage. Trite but true.
“I don’t think I’d want a wake, personally,” she said. “I don’t want a load of people seeing me after I’m dead. I’d want them to remember me looking a bit more lively.”
I had to agree.
We sipped wine, and while I frantically tried to think of a neutral topic of conversation, she proved herself much more adept at making a new friend. “Tell me all about Quinn Callahan.”
I took another, fortifying sip of red wine. Before I got into get-to-know-you conversation, I wanted to clear the air. “Karen, I’m really sorry about what happened with Declan O’Connor. I didn’t mean to throw you under the bus like that.”
She looked taken aback at my bluntness. For a moment, she didn’t say anything, and so I went on. “It seemed like the only way I could provoke a confession was to bring everything out into the open. But you were collateral damage, and I’m sorry.”
She looked up at me, and her eyes were somber, thoughtful. “You did nothing wrong. We did. Me and Rosie Higgins. Certainly Declan O’Connor, who was the author of his own misfortunes if there ever was one.” She settled back in her chair, one hand playing with the bottom of her wine glass. “Even now, I look back and I don’t know how I could have been so stupid. You had to have known him. He wasn’t much to look at. But the charm of the man. And, even though he was dreadfully unfaithful to his wife and to all of us, in his way, he was a good man. When he was with me, I think he really believed that he loved me and we’d end up together. And probably when he was with Rosie, it was the same. And his poor wife. Anyway, now I look back and I realize what a fool I made of myself. You didn’t do it. I did it to myself.”
I didn’t disagree, but I also had sympathy. “What woman hasn’t made a fool of herself over a man?”
She smiled and tipped her glass to mine until they clinked. “Living here isn’t easy as a single woman. You’ll find in a place where everyone knows your business, they particularly take an interest in you if you’re different.”
Oh, great. I knew how that felt.
“Most of the people live here because their families have been here forever. O’Donnells marry O’Learys, and their children marry each other, and everybody’s cousin or uncle is related to everybody else. Being from outside makes you different. Being single makes you different.”
She sounded as though she were speaking of herself as well as me. “Aren’t you from here?” I asked her.
She shook her head. “I’m all the way from Skibbereen.”
“Skibbereen.” I only repeated it because I loved the way some of these Irish towns sounded. Skibbereen should be something that was made with chocolate, perhaps eaten around a campfire. Not a place where people actually lived. I didn’t know much about County Cork geography, but I knew Skibbereen was only a few miles away. “You don’t count as a local?”
“Definitely not.”
“What made you come here then?”
She got a faraway look on her face. “I needed a change.”
I didn’t want to pry. I wondered if we should think about ordering dinner. And then she told me she’d grown up in Skibbereen to a single mother. “There were only the two of us. Mum worked so hard. She never had much of a job. She was a waitress.” She shook her head. “It’s no wonder I ended up falling for a man like Declan O’Connor. I never had a father, you see. And Mum never had the kind of boyfriends who stuck. What role models have I had? So I make terrible choices like she did.” She sounded so defeated.
“Look, what happened with Declan O’Connor was awful. But it wasn’t your
fault. You’re still reasonably young. It’s not too late.”
She looked at me as though she didn’t believe my words at all. I didn’t really believe them either.
It seemed we had quite a bit in common. I told her that my dad had left when I was young too. I’d also grown up with only a mother. But I never felt deprived. And I wasn’t sure that it had made me distrust men. In my case, I’d married a man who was meant to be my friend not my husband. When I got past the pain and anger of betrayal when he and my actual best friend ended up together, I realized they were perfect together. Somehow, we all ended up as friends. Maybe it was peculiar, but it had worked for us. Emily was still one of my best friends, and I missed her fiercely, as much as I missed her two daughters, who were the closest I’d ever get to children of my own.
She shook her head. A sparkle of anger lit her green eyes. “My dad didn’t leave. He was never there. My mother claimed she didn’t even know who he was.” She shrugged. “And maybe she didn’t. Based on the number of men who came through our doors, I wouldn’t be a bit surprised.”
She had definitely had a very different upbringing than I’d had. I wasn’t entirely sure that it was not having a father that had made it so difficult for her, but more likely the instability of a chaotic home life. Sure, I’d love to know whatever happened to my dad. But he’d turned out to be the guy who disappears and forgets to send child support payments or birthday cards or anything else, which never made finding him a top priority.
He’d been around for my first twelve years, at least, but he was the first man who broke my heart. When he left, my mom was the best mom she knew how to be. When she’d died, I was still only a teenager. That had been bad. And probably why I’d ended up with Greg. He was calm and stable and decent. And there. There for me when I’d needed him.
Karen said, “You should look for your father. Look on one of those internet family tree database things. People are always looking for their lost fathers and children.”
I’d honestly never thought about it. It was a good idea, except I wasn’t sure I wanted to find my dad. What did I want with a man who would walk out on his family? I suspected I was better off without him. I said as much, and Karen’s face grew still. “Sometimes you are better off not to know.”
