Secrets and Shamrocks

by Phyllis Gobbell

  “We appreciate your hospitality, Helen. Really we do,” I said. “And probably there’s nothing we can do to help find the child, but—it feels wrong to be enjoying tea and biscuits when a toddler has been missing for—it’s been close to an hour now, hasn’t it?”

  Helen stood, and we were eye to eye. “Jordan, please don’t think I’m—unconcerned. I am concerned, but Grace seemed—well, she didn’t act as if she thought Little Jimmie was actually in danger.”

  “How could he not be in danger?” I said.

  She waited a moment before saying, “It happened before, just like this.”

  Alex had already left the kitchen. Noises were coming from the front of the house. Voices. The storm door banging once, twice, needing a new spring, I noted.

  I caught sight of a little red-headed boy in his grandmother’s arms. Yes, it had to be Grace carrying Little Jimmie, though they were headed up the stairs, out of my view after just a glimpse. I breathed a silent thank you. Behind them was Enya, no doubt, a dark-haired beauty, her full mouth set in a rigid line, followed by a young man so resembling young Colin O’Toole that I knew it had to be Patrick. The man and two women we’d seen at the end of the parking lot made the storm door bang again and again. I suspected the handsome young fellow was Ian Haverty, judging from Helen’s report.

  And then a cheery, boisterous “Alexander Carlyle! Sure ’tis my old friend or a ghost of himself!”

  I didn’t hear Alex say a word, but I heard his hearty laughter, blending with Colin’s.

  I waited to join the reunion until the bear hugs and backslapping were over.

  Colin squeezed me, too, until I gasped for breath. “Ah, you’ve not lost your beauty, girl,” he said, touching my hair, a darker auburn than his fiery red.

  “Colin, what a scare! Is the little boy all right? Where did you find him?” I asked.

  “He’s a wee bit frightened, but no harm done. Ah, Jordan, Alex, how good it is to have you in our home. Grace will be down as soon as she gets the boy settled.”

  “We should get our luggage from the car,” Alex said.

  “Sweet Mother! You don’t have your room keys, do you? What a fine welcome for our friends! Would you like to go to your rooms first or maybe you’d like a nice cup of tea?”

  “We had tea and cookies—biscuits. Helen took good care of us,” I said, looking around for Helen, but she must have been in the kitchen, cleaning up our dishes.

  “Let’s go get your bags then,” Colin said, heading to the door. He shook his head and said in a sing-song of apology. “All this commotion, Sweet Mother of God.”

  “All that matters is that you found Little Jimmie and he’s all right,” I said.

  “Right you are, Jordan. That’s what matters,” and then with a smile that made his blue eyes light up, he said, “Little Jimmie is safe and sound. All is well.”

  CHAPTER 2

  The only meal Shepherds Guesthouse provided was breakfast, and Alex had made Colin promise they would treat us like the paying guests that we were. Even so, I was not surprised that Colin went back on his promise first thing, pleading with us to join them for the evening meal.

  Grace had come downstairs looking flustered, but seeing Alex and me, she’d managed to put on a happier face. Time melted away as we embraced. I knew we’d take up where we left off, all those years ago. Grace insisted, “I’ll be cooking for our family. Setting two more places won’t make any difference.” But Alex stood firm, and Colin finally gave in. He called a friend of his who was the proprietor of Mitchel House to reserve a table for us.

  “It won’t be crowded on a Wednesday night,” he said, “but they’ll make no mistake about who you are.” He added with a wink, “Now you’ll be wanting to stop by Finnegan’s Pub on your way home.”

  Though the sun had made for a pleasant day, the evening had turned chilly and the night promised to be downright cold. That, we’d heard, was typical May in Ireland. “We could walk. It would be good for us,” Alex said when we’d left Colin and headed up to our rooms to get ready for dinner. Probably, but I convinced him to wait until we could make that short walk—if, indeed, it was short—in the warmth of the sun.

  Alex was waiting when I came downstairs, and he’d made friends with the two women we’d seen earlier that day. “Doreen and Molly Quinn. They’re going into town, too,” he said.

  The one he’d indicated as Doreen took over. “Your uncle offered us a ride. I hope you don’t mind. Molly and I fancy the buffet at the Hayes Hotel. It’s a wee bit out of your way.”

  “Not at all,” I said. It was the first time I’d seen them close-up. They were both petite and fair-skinned, with reddish-gold hair that they wore in a similar style—a kind of page-boy look that flattered Doreen more than Molly—but the age difference was now apparent. As it registered with me that they must be mother and daughter, Doreen said to Molly, “How’s your headache, love? Feeling better?” The young woman might have replied, but I was preoccupied finding the car keys. Doreen said, “Molly plays the violin. She’ll be performing with her ensemble at The Source this weekend. You know The Source Arts Centre?”

  “I read something about it. Sounds like I need to check it out for my book,” Alex began. Chivalrous as always, he opened the passenger door and gestured for Doreen to sit in the front. He must have expected that she’d ask questions as people were apt to do when he revealed that he was writing a book—but it was as if she hadn’t heard.

  “I’ll just sit in the back with Molly,” she said. “We don’t mean to trouble you.”

  “It’s no trouble,” I said. “You can give directions. We haven’t been into town yet.”

  Molly had not said a word. I caught a glimpse of her as I adjusted my mirror. She was looking down at her hands, folded in her lap. I thought of my own Catherine, nineteen. Probably Molly was a little older, or maybe the pants and tailored jacket she wore, much like her mother’s outfit, made her seem older. But her shyness made it hard to tell her age. I could not imagine my daughter remaining silent for more than a minute in a similar setting.

  Doreen was an effective navigator. She pointed out The Source Arts Centre and when we crossed an old bridge, she identified the River Suir. The Hayes Hotel was right in the middle of what appeared to be a lively town center. When we let Doreen and Molly out in front of the hotel, Doreen gave further directions to Mitchel House. She thanked us, and then, from behind me, I heard a timid, “Thank you.”

  I turned to Molly. “I want to hear more about your performance when we get a chance to talk. Maybe at breakfast.”

  I was rewarded with a smile and a nod.

  At the Mitchel House restaurant, I sipped from my wine glass, nearly empty. “I’m beginning to relax for the first time since we arrived in Thurles,” I said.

  “Seems we arrived at a bad time,” Alex said. “But, as they say, all’s well that ends well.”

  I was reminded of Colin’s words: “All is well.” I didn’t believe it. Something seemed off. The whole episode surrounding Little Jimmie’s disappearance left me wondering about so many things. I was anxious for the time we could have a real conversation with Colin and Grace.

  “Alex, did Colin ever tell you Patrick had a little boy?”

  I shifted in my seat, a high-backed booth, as I saw our waiter approaching with a tray. I might have had a big smile plastered on my face. Since our late breakfast in Dublin, shortbread cookies, delicious though they were, had been our only food all day.

  “Colin never mentioned the child, but our e-mails were not what you could call chatty,” Alex said. “I remember when he first told me Patrick and his wife had come from Dublin to help out, and Patrick had been hired at Tipperary Institute. He does something with computers.”

  The waiter delivered our first course—roasted field mushrooms with sweet red peppers and red onion marmalade, topped with gorgonzola cheese. I was glad to see the generous portion. Alex and I had opted to share the starter. We’d both ordered shank of lamb
for our entrees, the waiter’s recommendation. He’d said, “ ’Tis our most popular item.”

  “Do y’need anything else?” he asked. We thanked him, but no, we needed nothing but to take up our forks.

  Typical of Alex’s compulsion to keep accurate notes, he retrieved from the inside pocket of his jacket the small notebook he carried everywhere. “What do you think of Mitchel House?” he asked.

  “It’s more contemporary than I expected.” I noted the modern décor, simple lines, lack of clutter. Upscale, but not pricey. Families with children appeared to be welcome.

  “It’s the twenty-first century everywhere, my dear,” Alex said.

  I raised my eyebrows. I would have imagined that Alex was hoping for a more traditional Irish eatery, but he often surprised me.

  From all indications, he would give Mitchel House high marks. So would I. I’d never cared too much for lamb, but this dish was extraordinary, and I wouldn’t have imagined creamed potatoes could be so tasty.

  Alex ordered dessert, a kind of fruit tart that had to be healthy because it was fruit, he insisted. I was pleasantly full, so I settled for a cup of tea.

  “How about a stop at the pub Colin suggested? Finnegan’s. I saw it, near the Hayes Hotel,” Alex said. I agreed. The scrumptious meal had given me a second wind.

  The waiter came with the check. Alex and I reached for our credit cards and asked him to split. That’s how we always did it. When the young man returned for our signatures, he said, “I hope the O’Tooles are well.”

  “Yes, I think so,” I said, on a note of surprise that he knew who we were.

  “We just arrived today,” Alex said.

  “They’re good people,” the young man said. “I used to do odd jobs for Colin at Shepherds. I refinished a crib and a rocking chair when the little one was born. I like to work with wood. But that was before Patrick and Enya came down from Dublin.”

  “Oh.” The word slipped out. I tried to cover up. “We haven’t really met Patrick and Enya yet. We arrived so late this afternoon. And we’ve barely seen Colin and Grace.”

  Something in my voice must have alerted the waiter. He picked up his copy of the receipts, gave a wide smile, and said, “Tell them hello from Davin Callahan, and you come back now. I hope you enjoy your stay in Thurles.”

  We thanked him and said goodnight, but we sat there a minute longer.

  “What did you make of that?” I said.

  “Maybe Colin and Grace were getting ready for Patrick and Enya and the baby to move in.” Alex drained the last drop of wine from his glass. “But that wasn’t how it sounded, was it?”

  “No, it wasn’t,” I said. “Let’s go to the pub.”

  The pleasure that spread across Alex’s face when we entered Finnegan’s Pub made me smile, too. This was what I—and Alex, apparently—had expected of an authentic Irish pub.

  The bar was tended by an old fellow who laughed as he poured drinks, his eyes twinkling in slits above his pink cheeks. A couple of craggy-faced men at the bar, dressed in working clothes, their gray hair tousled, sat hunched over their substantial glasses of beer, looking like they’d been there a while and didn’t plan to leave anytime soon. A few younger patrons sat at the bar, smiling at the jolly bartender who may have been telling a story as he worked. I took in the scene—small tables, upholstered banquette seating, wainscoting on the walls, sconces giving out gentle light, fireplace not in use in May, but what a treat it would be on a snowy night. A mix of age groups, no one dressed up, as in “going out.” A table of student types wore jeans. The cozy room, long and narrow, was reasonably full but not packed. The noise level was low, a blend of quiet conversation and laughter.

  “Shall we grab those?” Alex said, indicating two barstools. There appeared to be no empty tables. The bartender took note of us and by the time we were settled at the dark polished bar, he was welcoming us to Thurles.

  “Colin O’Toole told me to be looking for you.”

  I wondered how Colin had described us.

  “Now you must have a Guinness. First is on me. I’m Finn. This is my pub—me and my boy’s. Brendan still lets me behind the bar some nights if I promise to behave meself.”

  His laugh was deep and musical. Some chuckling came from others at the bar. The matter settled that we were having beer, Finn went about his business before we could say anything except to thank him. He bantered with someone a few barstools away, mixed a drink for someone else, and then returned with glasses of dark beer.

  A man and woman entered the bar. The woman, whose only outer garment was a sweater, was shaking off the chill. I said to Alex, “Maybe we should have made arrangements to meet Doreen and Molly and give them a lift back to Shepherds.”

  “Doreen won’t mind asking for a ride if someone’s going that way,” Alex said. “I wouldn’t worry. I expect they’re used to walking—it’s what people do here.”

  “They’re not wearing very warm clothing.” I thought of their lightweight tailored jackets.

  “Jordan, it’s May, not January,” Alex said.

  The road out that way was dark, no moon tonight. How safe could that be? But my frame of reference was dark country roads in Georgia. I let it drop with Alex.

  “Look. I think that’s one of the guests at the B&B,” he said.

  The nice-looking young man we’d seen that afternoon was motioning for us to come to his table. We picked up our drinks and joined him.

  He introduced himself as Ian Haverty. “We haven’t met, but I’m a guest at Shepherds. I know you arrived today,” he said with an outstretched hand. “And this is Dr. Malone, a physician here in Thurles.” Alex and I introduced ourselves and we shook hands all around.

  Dr. Malone, dressed in collared shirt and tweed jacket, looked to be forty-something, somewhat younger than myself, I’d judge. His close-cropped hair suggested it might have been brighter at one time, but as he had aged, it had lost its sheen. Still, he was a redhead, as were so many of the Irish, though the shades varied.

  “I’m just leaving,” he said, “but it’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance. Welcome to our little town.”

  “We’ll be in Thurles for more than a week. Maybe we’ll see you again,” Alex said.

  I added, “Though not professionally, I hope.”

  The men laughed. “Give my best to the O’Tooles,” Dr. Malone said, and he bid us goodnight. Ian, Alex, and I fit into the banquette seating without having to squeeze, as the doctor and Ian had taken up more than their share of space.

  “Everyone knows Colin and Grace,” Alex remarked.

  “It does seem that way,” said Ian. “I’ve been in Thurles since Friday, and everywhere I’ve been, people know the O’Tooles and they seem to know I’m a guest at Shepherds.”

  Alex explained that he was from Atlanta, Georgia, and I was his niece from Savannah, that he was working on a book, and Colin had once been his student.

  “What a coincidence! I’m working on a book myself,” Ian said.

  “You don’t say! What are you writing?” Alex asked. I had to hand it to him. I knew he wanted to talk about his book, but I expected he’d get his opportunity.

  “A book of Irish tales,” Ian said.

  I raised my glass. “To men of letters.”

  Alex gave me an appreciative smile, and Ian, who couldn’t have been older than my oldest daughter, added, “And to the lovely American woman who, from the looks of her beautiful hair, must have a few drops of Irish blood somewhere in her veins.”

  I nodded. “My great-grandmother on my father’s side.” We clinked our glasses.

  I sipped at my Guinness as Ian and Alex finished theirs and ordered another round. “Jordan’s the designated driver,” Alex explained to Ian, and I didn’t have to say that beer wasn’t my drink, not even a Guinness, so highly regarded in the Emerald Isle.

  “Now, you were saying about your book,” Ian said, starting in on the refill. Not just a young man with black curls and “dreamy eyes,” as Hele
n had put it, but one with good manners as well, willing to let a much older man go first. I took the opportunity to visit the restroom. I had heard Alex’s spiel once or twice.

  “Just in time,” Alex said when I returned. “Ian was just about to tell me about the book of Irish stories he’s writing.”

  “Let me back up a wee bit,” Ian said. “As I told your uncle, I’m a schoolmaster at The Kerrigan School for Boys. I teach English Lit 9. Try to get the boys interested in Joyce and Yeats and Heaney, the great Irish writers—but you know what boys at that age, thirteen or fourteen, have on their minds.” He took a drink and licked the foam from his lips. “From time to time I try to come up with a new approach. A couple of years ago I had them do a research project on Irish tales. Some of the boys took to it all right. It wasn’t the success I’d hoped for the class. But the fascinating thing that happened was the wealth of stories I discovered. So I began to write, and I guess you could say it got in my blood. I’ve got a dozen stories so far.”

  Alex asked, “Do you have a publisher?”

  Ian gave a shrug. “One publisher I’ve contacted likes the idea but he says I need twice that number of stories for a collection. They’re none of them lengthy. So that’s why I’m in Thurles, hoping to gather more legends and tales. My family’s from Tipperary, and all the stories I have so far take place in this county.”

  “What’s your title?” I asked.

  “Tales My Grandda Told,” he said, his eyes alight with pride. “Some did come from Grandda. I won’t swear all of them did.”

  “I’m impressed, Ian,” I said.

  “Have you come up with any new stories since you arrived in Thurles?” Alex asked.

  Ian laughed. “Finn has stories to fill a book, himself, though I’m not certain he doesn’t spin them out of thin air on the spot.”

  “And you’d want authenticity?” Alex was sounding like a professor, but if Ian minded all the questions, he didn’t show it.