Taking it all in, Dermot allowed himself a soft “Wow!” He was not expecting this. This was perfect, this was heaven. Here was the Ireland of the imagination; the isle of saints and scholars; poets and pirates. Dermot grinned to himself, stepping from the cliff-face onto the pathway, moving stealthily downwards, the stones slippery with dew.
He reached the firm sand of the beach and started to run along the water’s edge, the wind slicing his eyes, making them water. At the far side of the bay he stripped quickly, throwing his pants and top behind a rock. Then with a Tarzan-like roar, he charged towards the surf, arms outstretched. Running through the shallows, he tried not to scream against the cold as the ground fell away and he went under. He surfaced, gasping and paddling to compose himself, then taking a deep breath started to power-swim around the bay.
Monty spotted him first, and raced down the rocks towards him, cantering into the sea with just a brief backwards glance at his mistress. The little white dog swam boldly out to the man, who waved a greeting as he joined him, turning smoothly in the water to swim another length of the bay together.
Marianne stood anxiously watching this display of bravado, when Dermot scooped Monty onto his back and, taking a lift on a wave, they landed safe and sound a few feet from where she was standing.
“Very impressive,” she laughed, as Monty shook himself and galloped off barking.
“That little fella’s amazing,” said Dermot. “He has the heart of a lion.”
“He has,” Marianne nodded after the dog, “and brighter than most people I know.” She looked at Dermot. “Sometimes, if I take the time to trust his intuitiveness I get very good advice indeed.”
Monty bounded back. He wagged up at Dermot. “You’ve made a friend, anyway,” she said.
“I’m honoured, so,” Dermot shivered, as he bent to rub Monty’s ears.
“You’ll catch your death,” Marianne said. “Let’s find your clothes.” She strode off to where the big man’s discarded garments lay in a pile by the rocks. Dermot raced after her. She lifted his pants to hand them to him, when something fell from a pocket with a loud clank against a rock.
“Oh sorry!” she said, bending to retrieve the phone, “I hope I’ve not...”
Without checking the phone Dermot snatched it back and shoved it in his pants pocket.
“No, no, it’ll be fine,” he assured her.
“Hardly worth bothering with, though,” she said. “The island’s notoriously bad for telecommunications, no signal unless you’re miles out to sea or on top of a cliff.” They both glanced upwards. Dermot caught sight of a flash light, high above. He looked again, nothing there.
“That’s one of my jobs. The lifeboat station will need first-rate communications. We’re already talking to the telephone mast people.” He pulled his sweatshirt down and Marianne could not help but notice Dermot was one of those men who looked good in almost anything. And considering the first time she saw him was in uniform, she marvelled not one female in Dublin city, where indeed ‘the girls are so pretty’, had managed to bag this gorgeous, specimen of manhood.
“Marianne?” Dermot broke her reverie.
She looked away. “I know it’s progress, and I’m usually all for it, but the beauty of this place is that you can’t be reached by the outside world the whole time. You can be selective.” They were strolling along the water’s edge now, “Have as much or as little of the twenty-first century as you want.”
“I get that,” Dermot stood for a moment taking in the sweep of the bay. “There’s a timelessness about the place alright. I can see how you and Ryan fell for it.”
“And each other,” she smiled, eyes twinkling, “though the island certainly put us through our paces when we first arrived.”
“Yes, the storm. Ryan told me about that, devastating wasn’t it?” he said.
“It could have been, but it was like the island wanted us to prove we were worthy of it, like it wanted us to commit to its future.” She stopped to admire the view.
“And in doing that, you had to commit to each other?” Dermot asked, skimming a stone into the sea. Monty followed, but only up to the edge, the water was freezing.
“That’s right.” Marianne slid Dermot a look. There seemed to be a sensitive soul lurking beneath this handsome, hulk of male. Superman or no, Dermot’s teeth started to chatter.
“You could do with a nice cup of coffee,” Marianne said.
“A tot of whiskey in it wouldn’t go amiss,” he said cheekily.
“You’re a man after my own heart!” Marianne replied.
“I do believe I am,” said Dermot grinning, breaking into a run alongside Monty, as they made their way back.
Marianne needed some thinking time before Ryan arrived back on the ferry that morning. If he was returning to his role as the world’s most famous super-spy, arrangements needed to be made, and having six whole months together before filming began would give them plenty of time to make plans.
Not only were they going to have their hands full caring for the little ones, Oonagh’s Project was forging ahead and things needed to be kept on track to meet the deadline. In fact there was so much on the island striving towards a deadline: the rebuilding of the bridge to the mainland; the new state-of-the-art marina and now the lifeboat station. If she were not careful, the next six months would whizz by in a blur. No sooner would she be welcoming Ryan back from his trip to New York, than she would be waving him goodbye, putting on a brave face and living with that awful, hollow dread she kept buried deep inside whenever they were apart.
She pushed the thought away. Slipping through the ravine leading down to the cove that morning, she had not bargained for Dermot Finnegan doing his Man from Atlantis impersonation. She and Monty were used to having the place to themselves, yet who was she to stand in the way of progress, when many of those arriving to make improvements on the island were so ‘easy on the eye’ as Miss MacReady often said. Marianne smiled to herself, trotting to keep up with Dermot and Monty.
Padar was making his usual hash of things in the breakfast department. Marianne had dropped the youngsters off at the pub ahead of her walk. She steered Dermot towards the coffee pot and exchanging Joey’s glass for a plastic beaker, she removed porridge from the microwave and a spoon from Bridget’s hair. She was just grabbing her keys when Larry Leeson appeared in the doorway. Marianne had forgotten about Larry. The New Yorker was preened and polished to within an inch of his life, and although he was brandishing a handkerchief, his normal pallor had receded and there was a faint blush of health about his cheeks.
“Morning all,” he said, heading straight for the worktop where a pack of baby wipes lurked among the clutter. He proceeded to wipe Bridget’s hands.
“Heading to the ferry?” he asked, binning the wipes, checking Joey’s highchair was secure.
“Just off,” Marianne replied, as Padar passed in search of whiskey for Dermot’s coffee.
“Mind if I tag along?” Larry asked, “I need to hear this from the horse’s mouth.” Marianne hesitated. “I know he’s your man, but he’s my client. Please Marianne?”
She shrugged. “Okay, let’s go.”
Padar reappeared flustered, “We’re out of whiskey.”
“The one we use for cooking is in the pantry. Isn’t there an order coming on the ferry today?” she said.
“Yes, you’re right, well remembered.” Padar disappeared. Marianne gave the room a sweeping glance, and, with the children busily breakfasting, pushed Larry ahead and left.
“Has Padar always been like that?” Larry asked as she rattled the 4x4 out of the car park .
“Like what?” she was defensive.
“Flustered, a bit disorganised,” he offered.
“He misses Oonagh, they were a good team. We all do, she was amazing.” The air suddenly filled with sadness. Larry reached over and touched her hand on the wheel.
“I’m so sorry for your loss,” he said.
“So am I,” she
replied. “Every day.”
She drove in silence for a while and then, brightening, “At least I have Ryan coming home. I can’t wait to see him and hear all his news.”
Larry leaned back, gripping the door for support as the car bounced along.
“You and me both, Marianne, you and me both,” he grimaced.
Ryan had an uneventful return trip, flying from Kennedy to Shannon, making the connection to Knock with only one other passenger, who was too preoccupied with his electronic tablet to pay Ryan any attention. There was a time when that would have bothered Ryan. He enjoyed being recognised as a moderately successful actor, hoping for his big break. Now he was an international superstar, anonymity was a luxury, with no need to court the limelight. If a stranger failed to greet him like a long-lost friend, he quite liked it.
After landing, he jumped in a taxi and went straight to Joyce MacReady’s guesthouse. He liked the MacReady’s - a large, local family with personalities ranging from mildly eccentric to barking mad and was disappointed to find one of the menfolk, Pat, not on the usual taxi run. A ride with Pat was always exciting, his madcap driving almost as legendary as the Holy Shrine.
Joyce was non-committal regarding her brother’s whereabouts, as she served Ryan a supper of melt-in-the-mouth boiled bacon and cabbage. In fact, Joyce was quiet throughout the meal, retiring early to leave Ryan alone. He phoned Marianne but the call went straight to voice mail. Disappointed, he guessed she was sleeping: two children, a pub shift and a major project on the go would surely tire anyone, even the super-energetic, workaholic woman he was madly in love with. With no-one to talk to, Ryan too decided on an early night.
“See you tomorrow, my love,” he whispered into the phone, before falling into a deep and untroubled sleep, cosseted in Joyce’s homely comforts. Which was just as well, because if he knew what was waiting to greet him the following morning, trouble would have been first and foremost on his mind.
Chapter Nine
Guess Who’s Coming To Dinner?
Ryan thought he was dreaming as the familiar voice drifted up through the open window. Rubbing his eyes, as bright autumn sunlight poured onto the floral eiderdown, he propped himself up on an elbow, cocking his head. The voices were raised, growing heated, and his spine chilled as every hair on his body rose.
Swinging his legs out of bed, he stepped tentatively across the carpet to the casement window and, standing on tiptoe, peered over lacy curtains into the sweeping drive below. Pat’s taxi was not so much parked, as abandoned. A pile of matching luggage was skilfully stacked beside the car and a tall elegant female stood outside the portico, hands on hips, designer sunglasses on head.
“Just tell him I’m here, I mean to see him and I ain’t going nowhere till you fetch him right down, right now.”
Joyce bustled passed the woman to the car.
“Pat, who told you to unload all this?” she gesticulated at the luggage. “I’ve no booking for this person. You know I don’t take in passers-by.”
Pat shrugged at his sister.
“Sure, how was I to know? She said to come here, she knew your man was here anyway.” He scratched his head.
“I haven’t said he is here. She could be anyone, a reporter, a stalker, anything,” she hissed at Pat.
“I thought the Irish were supposed to be hospitable,” the woman snapped at them.
“So did I, in fairness.” Pat looked glumly at the bags.
“Well, I can’t have people just wander in, willy-nilly, asking to see my guests, who may be here incognito or not even here at all.” Joyce was indignant.
The front door opened and Ryan, hair awry, appeared squinting in the sunlight.
“Thanks for your concern, Joyce, but I know who this is,” he said.
“Am I right then, a stalker, a reporter or some such?” Joyce was intrigued.
The woman spun on her heels to face him.
“And howdy to you too!” she said.
“It’s my wife,” Ryan said sadly. “Ex-wife actually.”
“Jeez,” wheezed Pat, spitting his cigarette butt onto the path. The woman sighed dramatically. Joyce looked at her more closely. She had the look of a foreigner alright, a bit too plastic for Joyce’s taste.
“Really Ryan, I know this ain’t Texas, but these people are downright uncouth.” She moved towards the open door, “And where, do tell, is my son? I certainly hope you have not left him in the care of that whore you’re shacked-up with. I mean really, where is this all going to end?”
Ryan placed his foot across the threshold, barring her way.
“Any more talk like that, Angelique, and I’ll tell you where it will end: here and now and you’ll never see our son again,” he said coldly, glaring back at her, making sure she understood every word.
Angelique threw her shiny hair over her shoulder and eyeballed Ryan.
“Any more of this threatening behaviour, Ryan, and you’ll end up with absolutely nothing. No son, no marriage and no career. So don’t push it. I’ve come a long way to reason with you.” And suddenly she smiled, “Can’t we at least talk?” she said in a little-girl voice.
Joyce was now standing shoulder-to-shoulder with Ryan, arms folded.
“How did you know where I was?” he asked.
She raised her eyes to heaven. “As long as I want to know where you are, I’m going to know where you are, you should know that by now, Ryan.”
He blinked back at her. She was right. Angelique was well-connected; she knew her way round and how to get what she wanted. She always had.
“I only came to talk,” she said, using that soft tone again.
“Talking’s good,” offered Pat. “I’d love a cup of tea myself. We could all have a nice chat over a cup of tea.”
“Shut up, Pat,” Joyce snapped. Ryan stared at Angelique. Angelique continued to smile back.
“Okay, I apologise for calling, what’s-her-name a whore, I take it right back. I’m sure she’s a nice person for a home-wrecker. But I’m desperate to see Joey, we can’t go on like this.” She stifled a sob. Ryan looked at Joyce.
“A cup of tea, so,” said the mistress of the house, “but anymore foul-mouthing against my kith and kin and you’re out the door lady. I don’t care how far you’ve come, or who you think you are!”
“I’m with Joyce on that,” said Ryan.
“Thank feck for that,” said Pat. “I’m dying of thirst.” Joyce stood back to let Angelique inside, as Ryan led the way to the kitchen.
“Isn’t she an actress?” Pat asked his sister en route.
“Well if she is, she’s not a very good one. Wouldn’t trust her as far as I could throw her,” retorted Joyce.
But Pat was busy thinking, making the connection between Ryan’s estranged wife and the famous movie director Franco Rossini. The taxi rank at Knock Airport was not the busiest in the world, Pat had plenty of time to read the gossip columns, and now some of the conversation he overheard his fare babble into her cellphone made sense.
She was arguing with someone, saying she didn’t want to do it anymore, she wanted out, the last time was “too close for comfort”, whatever that meant. But as they bumped over a couple of mountains, she lost signal and threw the phone back in her bag.
Pat was intrigued. There seemed any amount of powerful people with money and connections dipping in and out of the island lately, people who would pay for things, information, contraband, whatever. Pat rubbed his hands together. It could be like old times, he might be able to round up some of the team, settle a few scores, earn back a bit of respect.
“Where is your head at, at all Pat? Are you having a piece of toast with that cup of tea?” His sister’s voice broke through his thoughts.
“I’d rather have a bacon sandwich,” Pat replied.
“You’ll never change Pat,” said Joyce, slamming the bread in the toaster. “Always over-ambitious, you’ll have toast and be glad of it. I suppose your woman from Texas wants eggs over easy?”
“Just coffee,” said Ryan, “I’ll grab my bag. Pat will you take us to the ferry straight away? The sooner we get the Clash of the Titans over the better.”
“You mean we’re going there now?” asked Angelique, emerging from the cloakroom. She had reapplied her lipstick. “But I’m exhausted, I thought we’d at least stay over, catch up?”
“I thought you were desperate to see Joey?” Ryan looked at her askance. “I’m on my way home now, and as you’ve come this far, you may as well come with me and get this over with.”
“Just as you wish, honey?” cooed Angelique, fixing her hair in the hall mirror, as Ryan took the stairs two at a time.
“Don’t call me honey, Angelique. Sometimes you’re far too sweet to be wholesome,” he called down to her.
“Do you know, I can hardly understand a word you say? Poor Joey, to be this far from home, from his own people, in a foreign land,” she drawled.
“We are his people and he is home,” Ryan snapped, heading to his room.
“Only if it’s worth it,” Angelique told her reflection in the hall mirror.
Kathleen MacReady picked up the handset. It was her elder sister, Joyce.
“What’s wrong?” she knew there was a problem, the sisters spoke regularly at an appointed hour; Joyce armed with a cold glass of sherry and Kathleen with her pre-lunchtime whiskey or cocktail if the call was on a Monday. But today’s call was unscheduled and too early for alcohol.
“Trouble,” Joyce told her, asking if she recognised the name of the tobacco company on the butt she had retrieved from the drive.
“Expensive, American,” Miss MacReady confirmed.
“Then it’s big, bad, trouble.” Joyce said. Miss MacReady was alarmed, Joyce was not one for drama.
“Okay, hold on a minute.” Miss MacReady decided she better pour herself a whiskey anyway.
The ferry was just coming into view as Marianne climbed out of the 4x4. The sun had disappeared. Larry pulled his collar up and his hat down against the soft drizzle of the early morning. A couple of vehicles drew up beside them, arriving to meet other passengers. The ferry was small, only able to take half a dozen vehicles and thirty passengers when packed to capacity at the height of summer. In October the ferry was heavily subsidised, bringing only a few tourists, stock for the pub and the odd student destined for the Marine Biology Unit and a long, lonely winter working on a dissertation. Pat MacReady’s taxi often made the crossing during the summer, but out of season he left clients at the ferry port on the mainland, rarely able to secure a return fare.
A Change of Heart (The Heartfelt Series) Page 8
