by Katy Regnery
I shot Jack Murphy.
My world goes black.
***
“Can you hear me, Ian?” A pause. “Ian, it’s Dr. Trímian—er, uh, Eugene Trímian, the director of Romeo and Juliet. Can you hear me, son?”
I try to open my eyes, but the light is too bright. I clamp them shut quickly.
“That’s it, son. Open your eyes.”
“Where am I?” I rasp.
“Hospital,” says Trímian. “St. Anne’s.”
“The mental hospital?”
“Day treatment center, yes. Can we try opening those eyes again, Ian?”
I open them slowly, wincing at the bright light, but managing to keep them open this time. “Can you…close the blinds?”
Trímian looks over his shoulder. “Oh. Sure. Yes.”
Without the sunshine blaring into my eyes, it’s easier to see. “Thanks.”
“How about some water?” he asks, offering me a plastic cup with a straw.
I take a big sip, grateful for the cool water on my scratchy throat. “I was shot.”
“You were indeed. Just above the ankle. Luckily, it didn’t shatter the bone.” Trímian pulls up a chair beside me. “Do you remember what happened?”
“We headed to the Banshee. Heads down. Saw Jack Murphy in the corner with his lads. He went for a piss. I followed him.” And then…nothing.
“You bolted from the loo, out the door, and caught a bullet just above the ankle from Jack’s cousin, Tavis.”
“Is Jack dead?”
Trímian looks at me severely. “Do you want him to be dead?”
“Fuck, yes.”
“You want to live with his death on your conscience for the rest of your life, Ian?”
“He killed my…” I can’t say it.
“Your brother. Yes, I heard about what happened. I’m so sorry for your loss.” Trímian clears his throat. “But killing Jack won’t bring Albie back.”
I lean my head back into the pillow, staring up at the ceiling as tears flow from the corners of my eyes. “How long’ve I been here?”
“Sean and Luke brought you in last night. You were lucky I was on duty. I had them bring you around back and we snuck you into an empty room on the first floor.”
“That’s me,” I say. “So feckin’ lucky.”
“More than you know.” Trímian reaches for my hand. “Jack Murphy didn’t die, Ian. You got him in the shoulder. He’s probably feeling about the same as you right now.”
More useless tears join the ones already falling. And to my shame, half of them are because I’m so relieved to hear that I didn’t kill pizza-faced Jack.
“I know,” says Trímian, his voice soothing. “It’s a strange mix of feelings.”
“I wanted him to die,” I insist. “To pay.”
“His shoulder’ll bother him for the rest of his life. He won’t be able to forget what happened to Albie whenever it aches, and that’s better punishment than dying.”
There’s comfort in his words, and I cling to it.
“We need to talk.” The doctor squeezes my hand. “You’ve got to leave Ireland, son. A dozen people saw you follow Murphy into the jacks and come out with a smoking gun. You’ll go to prison for sure.”
“And feckin’ Jack what killed Albie?” I demand. “Will he be in the cell next to mine?”
“Albie’s death is being ruled a traffic accident. Only one other child—a friend of your brother’s—can testify that Albie was beat up by Jack Murphy, while Jack has relatives all over the city that will swear he was nowhere near St. Mary’s on the night Albie died.”
“Fuck!” I scream, throwing my cup of water across the room. No justice for my brother. Jail for me. “And Tavis?”
“Claimed self-defense. He was in the neighboring toilet stall when you shot Jack. Gave him a valid reason to shoot at you.” Trímian pauses here, letting go of my hand. “The only one in real trouble here, Ian, is you.”
“They know I’m here?” I ask.
Trímian shakes his head. “No, lad. I wouldn’t rat you out.”
“Why not?”
“Why do you think I started the theater program in the first place?” He cocks his head to the side and when he speaks again, his accent is heavy and streetwise like mine. “Me mam was a Clancy.”
“You were…part of it?” I ask, meaning that the good doctor was part of the ongoing gang wars between the four families.
“Could’ve been,” he says, his posh voice back. He shakes his head. “But, no. I had an aunt in Killarney who took me in young. Got away from it. Went to school, became a doctor…”
I nod. “You escaped.”
“I was given a chance, thank Christ,” he says, running a hand through his gray hair. “And I’d like to do the same for you.”
“Well, I don’t have a rich auntie in the country,” I snipe.
“Tell me this,” says Trímian, his green eyes searching mine. “If you could make three wishes, son, what would they be?”
“Life ain’t a fairytale,” I inform him.
“Answer me anyway.”
I blink at him, my eyes filling with more fucking tears. “To have my brother back.”
Trímian winces, placing his hand on my shoulder and squeezing. “I’m a decent doctor, son, but I can’t bring people back from the dead.”
“Feckin’ lot of good you are,” I tell him, snot dripping from my nose. I sniffle pathetically, lifting my arm to wipe it away and then on the crisp white sheet that covers my chest.
“You need a fresh start, lad,” says the doc. “You must have people somewhere. In Boston? New York?”
I shake my head. “The only people I know are here.”
Which means I’ll be arrested for attempted murder, tried as an adult and put in jail before my seventeenth birthday. I sniffle again, hating the weakness of crying, but Lord Jesus, I guess I have a right to a few tears what with losing Albie and being shot and all.
Trímian takes a deep breath. “I watched you, you know, while you were in the play, during rehearsals.”
“You a poof, doc?” I ask him, leaning away from his touch.
“I’m not,” he says, chuckling softly as he removes his hand from my shoulder. “Married to Jenny Trímian twenty-six years and counting.”
“Why’d you watch me special, then?”
“You’re a good kid, Ian. A born leader. You were the first to offer a hand to the Murphy-Doyle kids and your boys followed your lead. There’s potential in you.” He puts on his “street” voice again. “But you gotta get the feck outta Limerick, son.”
“I got nowhere to go,” I say softly.
“What if you wished for a passport, a plane ticket and a place to stay?” he suggests.
“Sure. And while you’re at it, a million quid, doc.”
“You’re on your own to make the million, but I’ve got a sister in Brooklyn. You know where that is?”
I shake my head.
“It’s right near New York City. Just a bridge away.”
New York City. I’ve always dreamed of it, of course, but never dared to believe I’d actually get there. My life is in Limerick. Always has been. Always will be.
“So what?” I ask him.
“Her name’s Brenda and my brother-in-law’s Craig. Good people. They own a pub.” He chuckles softly. “An Irish pub called Prince’s Tavern. Nothing special here, but the locals there love it.”
“Good for them.”
“They never had kids, Ian. I think…” He frowns for a moment, then sighs. “I think Brenda and Craig’d welcome the chance to help out a good kid who’s had a rough time.”
“Would they, now?”
Trímian nods. “I think—no, I know they would.”
I want to believe him. So badly it actually hurts. But I’m suspicious too.
“Nothing’s free,” I say. “What would I have to do in return?”
His expression straightens, and I can see the street kid he may have been thir
ty or forty years ago, because he’s ice cold when he says, “Never come back. And never, ever speak of what happened.”
I stare at him, amazed by the change in him. His eyes meet mine and it’s impossible to look away because Eugene Trímian, local doctor and amateur theater director, is terrifying when he channels his Clancy side.
“I mean it. I won’t be an accessory to what happened last night. I won’t go down for aiding and abetting. I patched you up, and I’ll help you leave, but I never want to see you again, Ian. You can never speak of me or of what I did to help you. Not a word. Ever. Do you understand?”
The stakes are high for Dr. Trímian—he’s putting his neck on the block to help me, and I will never betray him by putting him in danger.
“I swear it on my Keegan heart,” I tell him solemnly, offering my hand.
“That’s good enough for a Clancy,” he answers, shaking it.
PART II:
Shear Heaven
(Three Years Ago)
Dear reader:
So sorry for the interruption! But, at this point, if you haven’t, I’d advise you to go ahead and read:
Shear Heaven is the love story of Valentina’s brother, Nico; it takes place three years ago, in New York City, during Valentina’s wedding to shipping magnate, Steve Trainor.
You don’t have to read Shear Heaven, of course, and you will still be able to understand and enjoy the remainder of At First Sight even if you skip Shear Heaven. But Valentina figures prominently in Nico’s story, where the circumstances of her marriage to Steve Trainor are briefly discussed and explained.
Whenever you are ready, read on!
Xoxo
PART III:
Present Day
CHAPTER 5
Present Day
Valentina
“Mamma!”
My three-year-old daughter, Carina, sitting in a sea of half-packed moving boxes, lifts her arms for me and I pick her up, nuzzling her soft cheek against mine.
“Che cosa, bambina?” What’s up, honey?
“I want Babbo,” she tells me solemnly, brown eyes searching mine.
“Babbo went to the angels,” I tell her for the hundredth time. “I miss him too.”
“The angels needed him?”
“Mm-hm. They needed a good man like Babbo.”
“And he’ll never come home again?”
Of all the difficult emotions I’ve experienced since Steve’s sudden passing, trying to explain his loss to our daughter, Carina, has been the most excruciating. Steve and I didn’t have a typical marriage, but we became very good friends during our three years as husband and wife. I loved him very much and missing his friendship and company is a constant ache.
“No, bambina mia,” I tell her, resting my lips on her forehead. “But he’ll always love you. Babbo is your angel now. Forever.”
She nods, but her eyes are sad. Too sad for a three-year-old child.
We desperately need a fresh start, my daughter and I, which is precisely why we’re moving out of the mansion we shared with Steve in Genoa, and into the loft apartment he owned in Brooklyn, New York.
Of all the properties around the world once owned by my husband, and now by me, this one is the closest both to Steve’s place of birth and to the church in Manhattan where we were married. I think that’s why I chose it. Because a marriage I dreaded at first and only half-tolerated for the first six months, evolved into the most loving and stable friendship I have ever known.
“Will Babbo, the angel, know where to find me?” asks Carina, cupping my face with her chubby, little hands. “Even if we move away from here?”
“Sí, vita mia. He’ll always know where to find you. I promise.”
With that, she sighs softly, offering me a little smile before wiggling out of my arms and running out of the house, into the garden. I cross my arms over my chest as I watch her go, wondering if I’m making the right decision for us. But when I look around the home we three made together, I know that staying in Genoa isn’t possible.
For the record, my husband, Steve Trainor, a successful international businessman and billionaire, was also homosexual.
We married each other because we needed to: I was a pregnant, unmarried princess, whose family was in debt, and he was a billionaire, plagued by rumors about his sexuality that had always bothered him. By wedding one another, my daughter, Carina, was legitimized, my family was given a generous allowance, and whispers about Steve’s sexuality became non-existent. We lived quite happily in and out of the public eye until three months ago when Steve, who loved steak, eggs and rich sauces almost as much as he loved Carina and me, died suddenly and instantly of a heart attack.
He wouldn’t have felt any pain, the doctors assured me, and I was grateful. But in the face of losing my best friend, partner and the only father my daughter had ever known, it was cold comfort.
I miss him.
Some days, I miss him so much—his cheerful smile and wonderfully warm bear hugs—that I cry myself to sleep. Never, not for a single day in my entire life, had I ever received the level of unconditional acceptance, kindness and safety that Steve offered me throughout our three happy years together. He was a good man. The best.
And the reality is that other than my twin brother, Nico, my life hasn’t been full of good men. If anything, manipulators, users and abusers always seem to gravitate to me instead.
“Highness?”
I look to the entrance of the dining room where my bodyguard, Gaspare, stands with his hands on his hips. When I married Steve, Gaspare and Iago joined us in Genoa, heading up the security team that Steve already had in place.
But since Steve’s death, something about Gaspare feels different. I can’t put my finger on the exact change because it’s very subtle; but I notice his gaze lingering on me sometimes, and for the first time in my whole life, his presence makes me slightly uncomfortable.
That said, he is familiar to me, and I still trust him. We are all probably adjusting to Steve’s loss and our upcoming move to the United States, I tell myself. I’m sure that’s all it is.
“Buon giorno, Gaspare,” I say, my once-stilted English now filled with colloquialisms learned from my American husband. “What’s up?”
“The packers have finished lunch, madame. They’d like to come back inside and resume their work.”
“Va bene,” I tell him, looking around at the chaos. We leave for Brooklyn in four days, yet so much still needs to be packed away in storage or shipped overseas to meet us. “What would I do without you?”
“You’ll never need to find out,” he assures me, his homely face searching mine in a way that makes me feel slightly uncomfortable.
“Thank you. I’m grateful to you and Iago for agreeing to come to Brooklyn with us.”
“We would not trust New York with Italy’s greatest treasure,” he tells me solemnly.
“I don’t know a soul there,” I say. “At least I’ll have you two with me.”
“I wish to be always by your side, princess.”
“You’re an excellent employee,” I answer, reminding him of his place. “Tell the movers they’re welcome to come back inside. I’ll be with Carina in the garden if I’m needed.”
“Yes, madame,” he answers, giving orders into the com on his watch.
Picking up my husband’s laptop from the kitchen counter, I make my way through one set of double doors that leads to a vast, sun-soaked, stone patio that looks out over my daughter’s “playground.” That’s what Steve called it, but it’s more of a one-person amusement park village if you ask me. A lifelike little town built with child-sized buildings and fully furnished for an active three-year-old, he spared no expense in making it the perfect place for imaginary play. I grin as I watch her “shop” at the market with a little cart custom made for her with her favorite doll in the front basket.
“How is she, Iago?”
Once my brother’s loyal bodyguard, Iago is devoted to my daughter now. Nico a
nd Bella live in Lugano, near Lake Cuomo, and employ a minimal staff at their penthouse, choosing to live as commoners instead of royalty. They had no need for Iago’s services, so I gratefully accepted him into my employ.
“She is a survivor,” he tells me. “She misses Signore Steve, but she is strong…like her mother.”
“I’m going to relax for a bit,” I tell him, gesturing to the pool area. “If she asks for me, you’ll know where to find me.”
“Of course, madame.”
Once I’m settled on a lounge chair in the sun, I open Steve’s computer to a file called “If Anything Ever Happens To Me” and look through the many documents and spreadsheets Steve saved there, overwhelmed by his thoughtfulness all over again. He made sure that I would have a step-by-step instruction manual for how to deal with his holdings in the event of his passing, and though I’d never wish him gone, I am so grateful for his instruction and advice from the grave.
I have already sold many of his homes, only keeping this house in Genoa, an apartment in Lugano near my brother, another apartment in London that I love, and the $8M loft in Brooklyn where he grew up. If I decide I want to purchase more property in the future, it won’t be a problem. I have inherited most of Steve’s billions.
He told me to keep my seat on the board of his largest company, Trainor Shipping, and urged me to place everything else under the discretion of Trainor Capital Management which will send me quarterly checks for my profit shares of Steve’s many businesses. Carina and I will be looked after for the rest of our lives, which makes tears of gratitude spring to my eyes.
The rest of my life.
But what the hell am I going to do with it?
In the “If Anything Ever Happens To Me” file, there’s a letter saved as “Personal Advice for Valentina,” which I open and read again for the twentieth time.
My darling and most cherished friend,
You are only reading this if I am gone, and if I am gone, please let me tell you that the years I spent as your husband and Carina’s father were the richest and best I ever knew. Thank you for giving this gay, old bachelor the chance to parent such a marvelous little girl and care for her beautiful mother.
