Dermot was disappointed to find Erin had left before breakfast. He looked down into the drive to find only a pile of leaves where her neat little car had been. Joyce was outside in wellingtons and a wax jacket, sweeping the porch. She talked long into the night, reminiscing about her time in Donegal, when she realised she had a ‘calling’ to support the campaign for the reunification of Ireland, heavily influenced by her mother and the enigmatic men who used to visit their cottage on the island, using it as a halfway house during the volatile nineteen seventies. She and Kathleen were only teenagers at the time. Dermot knew of their mother, the charismatic Bridie MacReady, a ‘dyed in the wool’ revolutionary, but he had no idea how important Joyce was until last night. Now he knew this neat, little countrywoman was highly respected and as active as ever. Would he mention her in his report? He was not sure, the authorities already knew about her, how else would he have been given the connection? But Joyce had never been arrested, questioned even, she must have friends in very high places, he mused as he shaved.
He flicked on the TV. The breakfast news flashed up a report of the small private funeral of the actress Angelique de Marcos in upstate New York. Ryan and Marianne were getting into a black limousine. Larry held an umbrella, shiny with rain, over them. They all wore the same, strained expression. He watched, razor poised, as a reporter pushed a microphone at Ryan.
“What will happen to the franchise now, Mr O’Gorman? Will Mr Rossini continue to make the movies?”
“This has been a very sad and difficult time for us, the whole family, but I’m sure, once we’ve had time to grieve and reflect, it’ll be business as usual. Angelique was devoted to her uncle and a huge fan of his work. It’s what she would have wanted,” Ryan said, matter-of-factly.
Dermot shrugged at the screen, wondering vaguely if Marianne had any idea the type of business certain members of her family were involved in. Any clue of what was part of her, until recently, unknown heritage. He remembered Joyce proudly showing him photos of her mother with members of the organisation, a couple of American supporters and a still good-looking crooner from the nineteen fifties. He had been struck by how like Marianne, Bridie MacReady was, sparkling eyes, determined chin, chestnut curls tumbling past her shoulders. And how the men acquiesced towards her, flanking her protectively, leaning in, trying to gain her attention. She was a looker alright. In one photograph, at a grand event, she wore a fabulous purple dress; it showed off her figure perfectly, her bronze, bare shoulders gleamed. It was nineteen seventy-six, the year of the heat wave, everyone was tanned and happy.
“A well-known photographer took that picture of mother. All the magazines ran it. She was quite a celebrity,” Joyce had told him, proudly.
It could have been Marianne; Dermot was stunned by the likeness.
“What happened to your mother, Joyce?” he asked, as they made to leave the fireside.
“She died,” Joyce said sharply, gathering up the pictures sprawled across the table. “Sleep well,” she called from the stairs, shutting off the lights, leaving him in the darkness with his thoughts.
A loud gong brought Dermot back to the present - breakfast. He shaved speedily and headed downstairs. He had a busy day ahead and needed to get back to the island. Now he knew how and where the arms were coming in, he had to make arrangements. With the guns and explosives just a ruse, a decoy for the biggest shipment of pure cocaine Europe had ever seen, it was going to be doubly dangerous, live ammunition could be unpredictable at the best of times. He loved working undercover. Sitting at the breakfast table alone, he popped the memory stick into his laptop.
Poor Joyce, he thought, living in the past, she genuinely thought she was helping old-style freedom fighters, she had no idea what was really going on, but she had provided him with vital information. He hoped when the whole thing blew wide open, the authorities would go easy on her. Women like Joyce built empires, fed armies and ruled the waves, she was a true queen in her own way, republican or not.
Dermot felt a frisson of excitement as he tucked into his full Irish breakfast but he knew, in his heart of hearts, he could not pull off something as big as this easily. These were ruthless people; it was going to be a tough job.
He was paying the bill when a screech of tyres signalled Pat MacReady’s arrival at the front of the house. He heard raised voices. Joyce and another woman, the dark velvety tones he recognised from last night. He pushed open the large Georgian door. Erin Brennan was standing beside Pat’s taxi. She looked completely different, faded jeans, turquoise sailing jacket, hair flying in the wind.
“Dermot, there you are, thank goodness. Erin’s car’s broken down. Pat spotted her on the road. He’s to go to the airport for a pickup. Are you able to give her a lift at all? I’ll phone the boys at the garage below in the village, they can sort the car out, but she needs to be on her way.”
I’ve to be on my way, myself. Dermot forced a smile, he could never refuse a damsel in distress.
“No problem, no problem at all. Where are you headed, Erin?” he asked, striding across the gravel.
“Thanks, I’m really sorry to put you to any bother,” she said, pushing the hair out of her eyes. “Joyce, I’ll wait till the car is ready, it’s not a problem.”
“Not at all, sure I can have it delivered to you once it’s fixed, Dermot can give you a lift, you’ll be company for each other.” Joyce said.
“Where are you headed?” Dermot asked.
“The island, Innishmahon - do you know it? If you could just drop me at the ferry, that would be brilliant.” Erin said.
“Innishmahon? No bother at all, sure I’m going there myself.”
“Really?” she seemed surprised.
“Yes, I’m the coxswain of the lifeboat, I live there,” he smiled broadly now.
“We have a lifeboat?” she was incredulous.
“Not yet,” he grinned, “but it’s on its way, we’re building the lifeboat station as part of the redevelopment, the new bridge, marina and all.”
“Oh yes, the bridge has gone,” she said.
“Been gone awhile,” Dermot replied, taking her bag as Pat sped away. “So have you by the sounds of things.”
“A very long time,” she said quietly, “a very long time indeed.”
Chapter Twenty Two
The Lost Babies
Marianne slept fitfully on the plane home; she was dreaming about Miss MacReady and Monty. They were on the beach digging for treasure, a pirate ship was anchored just off the bay. They dug a huge hole and found an old-fashioned pram full of photographs. Photos of babies: tiny black and white shots of infants, hundreds of them, and when Miss MacReady flipped them over in her hand, there was a large, red question mark on the back. Somebody asked her the name of her mother. She opened her eyes.
“I wondered if you’d like another, another drink?” Ryan looked down at her huddled beneath the blanket in the seat. “You were murmuring. Your lips are dry.” He smoothed her hair back.
“Just some water please,” she said.
“It won’t be long now,” he reassured her. She gave him a weak smile.
“I’ve never felt so far away,” she whispered.
“I know what you mean,” he told her.
She struggled up to sit beside him. He looked pinched and weary. She took his hand and kissed it.
“Did Mr Rossini mention Joey? When you two went off for a chat, I wondered ...”
Ryan rubbed his chin.
“Yes, he did. He asked me how we were going to break the news to him, were we going to keep Angelique’s memory alive for him, how we were going to educate him, care for him, even what religion we were going to enforce on him!” His eyes flashed at her, “Too many questions, too much detail, too soon, I told him.” He fell quiet.
“We’ve all that to decide in time but Mr Rossini is always welcome to visit, spend some time with his great nephew. He seems quite alone in the world, despite all the glitz and glamour of his career. I can see how he l
oves the ranch and vineyard, how he would love Joey to enjoy it when he’s older.” She kept her tone conciliatory, she wondered what had been said to make the memory of the conversation with Rossini cause Ryan’s temperature to rise.
“That’s all well and good, and as usual, Marianne, you have everyone’s best interests at heart but I don’t trust Franco. I love him, he’s like family to me, he and I go way back, but as much as I love him, I don’t trust him.” Ryan sounded disappointed.
“You don’t think he’d do anything to harm Joey, surely?” Marianne asked in hushed tones.
“No way, nothing like that, but I wouldn’t put other stuff past him, he can be quite controlling in his own way. I can see him trying to lay the law down where Joey’s concerned. What religion, I ask you?” Ryan sat back.
“Well, it’s a valid question, from where he’s standing, trying to cling to the old ways.” Marianne responded.
“Ah, that’s a load of crap, Marianne. Joey can make his own mind up, in his own time. That was one of the problems with Franco and Angelique’s relationship: he was wildly generous, giving her gifts, money, but there were conditions, strings attached, almost like he was jealous she might enjoy herself too much from what he had given her, so he always gave with a condition, she had to do something to deserve it, whatever it was.”
“How do you mean?” Marianne was wide-awake now.
“For instance, the apartment in Manhattan. He gave it to her, but there were certain friends of his she had to entertain and bring other guests there too, entertainers, movie stars, well-known people Franco wanted his friends to meet and socialise with,” Ryan said.
“And who were these friends, where were they from?” she asked.
“Mainly men. Mainly Russian.” Ryan was watching her now; he could almost see the cogs whirring in that journalistic brain of hers.
“Backers?” Marianne looked around to make sure no-one was listening.
“Franco’s always played that very close to his chest. In the olden days it was said the business was built on Mafia money, that Franco laundered funds all over the world. With the type of movies he makes he could easily do that, locations on every continent. But that sort of money dried up and although the movies made profits, Franco spent lavishly, especially after Sophia died. And then the recession, it affected everything.” Ryan told her.
“But surely everything Mr Rossini does is legal and above board. He’s too high profile for anything underhand, isn’t he?” she asked him.
Ryan folded away the copy of the New York Times he had been reading.
“When I resigned from the franchise and flew out to New York to see him that time, he took me to lunch at one of his favourite restaurants. He had two guys with him, like he needed protection. He told me I had to do the movies, complete the contract for his sake. He had to borrow a lot of money and the conventional routes to finance had been closed to him. He said the interest rate was crippling and to have to start all over again with a new, unknown leading man after our success was one pressure, one chance he couldn’t afford to take. He begged me to finish the contract for his sake, for the sake of the family business. That’s why I agreed. I had no choice.”
Marianne nodded, “I know that. It’ll be fine, I know it will. Hey, some of it could even be fun. Remember what that was like, FUN! We could do with a bit of that, couldn’t we?” she poked him in the chest and pushed her hands under his jacket to tickle him.
“Hey stop,” he laughed, “stop, I can’t bear it.” He grabbed her hands.
She looked up at him; she made those slate-blue eyes twinkle anyway. He smiled down and kissed her.
“You’re right. It certainly feels like we should be having some fun. It’s just ...”
“It’s just not right yet, it’ll take a bit of time. I’ve lost people in my life too, remember, and whatever you felt at the end, if there has been love and good times, there will be happy memories too. Hold onto those, hey?”
He nodded and kissed her again. A deep, warm kiss, that melded them together. Marianne released her arms from beneath the blanket and wrapped them around his broad shoulders, pulling him tight to her. No-one kissed like Ryan. It still made her nose tingle.
e HeHe
The cottage smelled of baking - Ryan was learning how to make bread like his grandmother. Marianne was busy on her laptop, lining up tradesmen for Oonagh’s Project, whilst co-ordinating correspondents looking for their families via the Lost Babies website she set up. It never ceased to amaze her how the constant stream of enquiries did not let up, especially after a number of well-known celebrities revealed they too were victims of this insidious practise.
Ryan kept an eye on her when she was working on this particular project. Sometimes it upset her so much she would slam the laptop shut, grab a jacket and march off to the beach with Monty, reappearing hours later with red eyes and a runny nose, Monty trotting solemnly by her side.
“Want to talk?” he would ask, taking her favourite glass from the dresser, fixing her a whiskey with a couple of chunks of ice and that weird Irish concoction, Red Lemonade. Red lemons, who knew! She would shrug, collapse on the rug before the hearth, pulling Joey and Bridget to her if they were there. If not, she would just sit staring into the gold and purple flames, until the fire and the whiskey had warmed her through and smoothed the brittleness away.
This was such a night. Having returned from New York drained, Padar and Sinead scooped the children up and left the lovers to an evening of peace. Ryan was in charge of supper but was so carried away making soda bread for the grilled garlic king prawns, it looked like it was going to be a very late meal. The kitchen was a bombsite, as he prepared a salad of watercress and cherry tomatoes, with yoghurt ice cream and mangoes for dessert. A typical O’Gorman eclectic mix, and with the evening to themselves, it did not matter when they ate.
He joined Marianne and Monty on the rug, slinging a couple of lumps of peat on the fire.
“Hey,” he said, tugging her unruly pony tail, “what’s up?”
She took a sip of her drink and pulled her knees up to her chest. Monty nestled into her legs.
“I was wondering,” she said, staring into the flames, “if with everything else, we’re taking a bit too much on.”
Ryan pushed a strand of hair out of her eyes.
“Go on,” he said.
“Well, most people would find setting up home together, not to mention having one and a half children to look after,” she gave him a smile, “quite daunting and enough to be going on with. But we’ve all the other stuff to deal with as well. I was just thinking that maybe my idea of the holiday home in Oonagh’s memory was rash. Maybe I haven’t thought it through enough, it’s going to take shedloads of money to set up and an inordinate amount of time to run, and I wonder if I’ve overstepped the mark and maybe I should call it all off for a while and just spend time with you, and Joey and Bridget, being, ...well ... being a mom.” She turned to look at him, “I was just thinking. What do you think?”
It was Ryan’s turn to gaze, into the fire. He was trying to prevent his mouth from twitching into a smile.
“I think you’re probably right,” he said after a while.
“Right about what, which bit?” she asked him.
“All of it,” he said.
“All of what?” she was trying to catch his eye, he turned away.
“Everything you’ve just said. I’m sure you’re probably right.”
“Ryan, did you hear what I said? Are you taking me seriously at all? I want to know what you think.” She was annoyed. He looked back at her, trying not to grin.
“Marie, you always ask me what I think about things, and I love you for thinking you take my opinion on board, but ninety per cent of the time you’ve made your decision anyway,” he gave her his beaming Hollywood smile to show he was not remotely offended, “so it doesn’t really matter what I think.”
“What’re you on about? I ask your opinion about everything the wh
ole time. You know exactly where you stand with me. We agree everything jointly.” She went to pour more drinks. Supper was still a long way off; Ryan had only just put the bread in the oven.
“Look, Marianne, I’m your biggest supporter. Anything you want to do, I’m right behind you. You take things on, some of the scariest projects I’ve ever heard of, because you care. You want to make a difference. That’s one of the reasons I love you. And although those two little ones love you too, and need you, they’re not your responsibility.”
“What?” she exclaimed. “Joey’s my partner’s son and I’m Bridget’s godmother. Her own mother, my best friend is dead.” Tears pricked the corners of her eyes.
“I know,” he made calming gestures with his hands, “but the children are ultimately the responsibility of their parents and both Joey and Bridget each have a perfectly good father. There’s no reason why fathers can’t be excellent single parents. The majority of children of single parents, male or female, turn out just fine.” He watched anger and dismay flicker behind her eyes. She put her glass down.
“Exactly what’re you saying?” she asked.
“I’m saying, no-one expects you to give up any aspects of your work, to be a mother to ...”
“Children who aren’t mine, who are nothing to do with me, is that what you’re saying,” her voice was rising, Monty had taken himself off to his basket under the stairs; he had been aware of tension building all evening.
“No, of course not,” Ryan said, keeping his tone even. “I’m saying you must do what you have to. Don’t use Joey and Bridget as excuses to change tack. You have dreams, plans, ambitions to fulfil. I don’t want you ending up resenting us for preventing you from doing what you believe you’ve been brought here to do.”
“Have you spoken to Padar about this?” she was standing, arms folded.
“About what?” he was confused.
“About me not being involved in the children’s lives, in how they’re brought up,” she spat her words at him.
“That’s not what I’m saying.” He pushed his hands through his hair.
A Change of Heart (The Heartfelt Series) Page 20
