Secrets and Shamrocks

by Phyllis Gobbell

  We all pondered the question. Alex said, “Did the doctor—Hogan, you said—was she able to shed any light on the matter?”

  “She was baffled,” Colin said. “She knew Dr. Malone but not well. She hasn’t been in Thurles long. You know doctors aren’t apt to speak ill of each other, but when I told her Bridget had been in the care of Dr. Malone for more than two years and I was sure he was supervising her medications, she got a very strange look and said, ‘I can’t explain it.’ ”

  Colin’s phone sounded, and he answered. Mouthing “Grace” to us, he stood up and walked over to the kitchen sink to talk. I gathered up our teacups, gave Alex a look, and he got the message that we should give Colin some privacy for his call.

  Colin caught up with us as we started up the stairs. “I thought you’d want to know the latest. Dr. Hogan thinks Bridget should be moved to Dublin. She mentioned a couple of hospitals. I’m going to call my brother for advice. He’s a surgeon in Dublin, I think I told you.”

  Things moved quickly. Before time for dinner, Colin had set off for Dublin with Bridget. Grace was back at Shepherds. She had packed Bridget’s bags and was now on the phone at Reception, arranging for Alex to meet with Father Tierney the next day, to talk about the history of the Cathedral of the Assumption. “Eleven o’clock, and stay for a light lunch?” she said to Alex, and Alex nodded. “He’ll be there, Father, and he’s looking forward to it. Thank you.”

  “What a juggler you are,” I said to Grace. “Taking care of everybody.”

  She laughed. “That’s just the way it has to be. Alex, you’re sure to enjoy Father Tierney.”

  We spoke about Bridget, and though Grace tried for a cheerful tone, it was clear that she was frustrated. “I would have gone to Dublin myself, but it made more sense for Colin to go. It’s his brother, arranging things, and he can sleep over in Donal’s flat after he gets Bridget settled in. And Lord knows I can cook a better breakfast here than Colin can!”

  I had a thought, and before I could consider whether it was a good idea or not, I said, “Would you like to go to Dublin tomorrow? I’ll drive. I might try to meet a friend there.”

  Alex raised his eyebrows. I gave a wave of dismissal. “Whether that works out or not, it doesn’t matter. We can drive to Dublin for the day.”

  “That’s a possibility,” Grace said, her face brightening as she worked it out in her mind. “Colin would like to come back home in the morning. He’s so behind in the office. But with things up in the air with Bridget, it would help if I could be there tomorrow. Maybe we can get some good professional opinions.”

  “Then we’ll plan on it,” I said.

  “Enya will just have to take responsibility for Jimmie until Colin gets back. Since the day he went missing in her care, she doesn’t like to be in charge, but I’ll talk to Patrick. And I wonder if Helen would give you a ride to the church,” Grace said to Alex, covering all her bases.

  “Please don’t concern yourself about that. I can walk,” he said.

  I glared at Alex. “I vote for asking Helen.”

  Mr. Sweeney had just come down the stairs. Alex turned to him, “Oh, Mr. Sweeney, you’re just the man I wanted to see. I might need a ride into town in the morning. Would you be able to help me out, at eleven o’clock?”

  Mr. Sweeney’s persistent frown eased a bit. “I s’pose I could,” he said.

  “Fine! It’s all taken care of,” Alex said.

  Mr. Sweeney went on his way. Grace excused herself, as it was time to begin dinner for her family.

  “Any ideas about what we should do for dinner?” I said to Alex.

  “I’m thinking I’ll do some reading and turn in early. Maybe try a glass of warm milk.”

  I smiled. “I think I’ll just pick up a snack at the market, then, and I should probably make it an early night, too.”

  “In preparation for your day trip tomorrow.”

  “Right.”

  “And meeting that friend of yours.”

  “If that works out,” I said.

  Alex couldn’t possibly know, but somehow I had a feeling he did.

  When Paul Broussard answered, I couldn’t help wondering why I had waited so long.

  I had thought I knew, but in that moment, my reasons made no sense.

  “Jordan,” he said. “It is so very good to hear your voice.”

  “Yours, too,” I said.

  And then there was an awkward pause, but Paul was always able to handle that sort of thing. “Are you still in Ireland?” he asked. I said yes, and he asked, “How long will you be staying?” We would be leaving Thurles Monday, flying out on Tuesday, I said.

  So little time left.

  I told him about our friends in Thurles whose daughter was hospitalized in Dublin. I planned to drive my friend to the hospital, I explained. “Tomorrow,” I said, “just for the day,” knowing as I said it that it wasn’t reasonable to hope a man like Monsieur Broussard would simply drop everything and fly to Dublin in what amounted to a few hours from now.

  He said, “And are you saying that we might meet in Dublin—tomorrow?”

  Hesitating, I said, “I was just hoping. I took a chance.” And then I began to stammer about how I realized this was short notice and he probably wasn’t free, and certainly I could understand if he couldn’t—but he interrupted me.

  “Jordan, please. The answer is yes. I will meet you in Dublin.” I could hear the smile in his voice. “As it happens, I have nothing on my schedule that cannot wait, and I do have a plane, as you know.” Yes, I knew.

  “The flight is not very long. I can be in Dublin in time for a late lunch in the Temple Bar area.”

  We made plans for lunch at The Bank on College Green. I would have no trouble finding the elegant restaurant. I had commented about the splendid red sandstone building as Alex and I had strolled through the touristy Temple Bar area to a traditional Irish pub named Gogarty’s for the music on our first evening in Ireland.

  Paul seemed to know The Bank well. “Exquisitely restored Victorian architecture, and the food and service are excellent,” he said. “It’s my favorite restaurant in Dublin.” I imagined he knew the finest restaurants in every European capital, and beyond.

  “Sounds lovely,” I said.

  Sometimes I believed Paul Broussard could read my mind, even as we spoke on the phone. He said, “Yes, it is a fascinating restoration that I hope you as an architect will enjoy seeing. But you are not too concerned about where we go and what we will order for lunch. I understand. We have much to talk about—the thing that lies so uneasily between us.”

  “Like a heavy concrete barrier,” I said, and I was thinking I didn’t know how we’d get over it or around it. Paul laughed, that warm, rich laugh of his, and it made me hope.

  “You are delightful, Jordan,” he said.

  “I’m glad we can do this,” I said.

  “So am I. I won’t—what is your American expression?—stand you up. I won’t do that again,” he said.

  CHAPTER 19

  I drove to Dublin in the rain.

  Grace’s silence when we left Shepherds Friday morning spoke of her uneasiness, and who could blame her? She had so much on her shoulders—all that went with running the B&B, not to mention the trouble with the Riordans at the bank, trouble that had slipped behind other pressing issues but had not gone away. Trying to make sure that Little Jimmie’s life was as normal as possible. Dealing with Enya. Wondering what the future held for Bridget.

  I began telling Grace about Paul Broussard as a diversion. By the time we reached the M8, the worry lines on Grace’s face had eased, and she was caught up in the “soap opera” of Jordan and Paul. Her words, “soap opera.” She had plenty of questions. I was glad I’d succeeded in making her smile—laugh, at times—but some of her pointed questions were hard to answer: “What do you hope for, out of this relationship?” she asked. “Do you want a long-distance romance? Very long distance. Is it enough to be together a few times a year? Are you ju
st wanting a fabulous fling? Sounds like you almost had it in Provence, so maybe you just need to finish unfinished business. Or do you hope this could lead to marriage?”

  “Marriage? Oh, no. I’m not thinking along those lines at all!” I said.

  “You need to figure out what you want,” she said, “and be honest about it. I remember when you said those very words to me, back in Atlanta about thirty years ago. Something Colin had done, and I was pouting, and you said, ‘Tell him what’s on your mind! How will he know, if you don’t tell him?’ It was great advice. Sure, men are supposed to know, but they don’t.”

  “Paul is very perceptive,” I said.

  She gave a wave of dismissal, shaking her head, as if she did not believe any man could be very perceptive.

  But Paul had to know what it meant when he’d missed the gallery opening in Atlanta and hadn’t explained. He’d said, just last night, I won’t stand you up again. He understood, all right.

  “I had arranged everything, with Alex’s help,” I told Grace. “Alex had the Atlanta connections. I’ll never forget how it felt that night, wearing my little black dress and my stilettoes and my brave face. The gallery owner, his assistant, a reporter doing a story for the arts section of the newspaper who was so excited about interviewing Monsieur Broussard—all of them had the same expression when they looked at me. As if they got it that Paul was just a player, and I had been foolish to think otherwise. Even the artist, Emil, knew something, I think.”

  “Something like—another woman?” Grace said.

  “I don’t know. A man like Paul Broussard—I think he would have handled that kind of thing very differently. He’s had a lifetime of experience with women coming and going.”

  “He has said that?”

  “Oh no, Paul would never say a thing like that, but I just know. You would know, too, if you spent five minutes with him.”

  Grace laughed. “I think I will need to meet this man someday.”

  It was easy to talk to Grace about things I hadn’t confided to anyone. Yes, Paul had called the afternoon before the reception at the gallery, profuse with his apologies. An urgent personal matter. Vague, I thought, but I’d expected he would elaborate the next time we spoke.

  “It was two weeks before he called again. Two weeks!” I told Grace. “Again, he was apologetic, but he was even more cryptic. Said he couldn’t explain yet. Asked me to trust him.”

  “And did you trust him?”

  “To a point,” I said.

  A car flew around me, traveling at about ninety miles per hour. The road was wet, rain coming down in sheets. I slowed down even more. Maybe the weather would change by this afternoon. What did the Irish say, that the only thing predictable about weather in Ireland was that it was unpredictable? I knew it to be true.

  I wondered about Paul’s flight into Dublin, in his private plane, in the rain.

  “I didn’t hear anything from him until a few weeks ago. More than two months. How long was I supposed to wait, to trust? I missed his call—and I didn’t call back.”

  “Jordan! You cut off communication. That’s the very worst thing.”

  “I thought it wouldn’t hurt to let him wait a while,” I said.

  An indulgent smile played on Grace’s lips. She might have been thinking I’d been too long without a man in my life, that I was no more savvy than a teenager. “He must care a lot for you,” she said, “to fly from Paris just to spend a few hours with you. You do look fetching, by the way. Your raincoat—perfect color for you hair. And such style! I haven’t seen anything like it in Ireland. We’re very utilitarian when it comes to dressing for the elements.”

  So now Grace was feeling better, and I was feeling worse.

  “You’re lucky to have this chance to sort it out,” she said.

  But the question rattled in my brain: What if Paul and I couldn’t sort it out?

  St. Vincent’s Hospital was not very different from any hospital in the States. The wide halls and muted colors, the sterile environment, the faint smell of disinfectant. Grace had spoken to Colin that morning before he’d left for Thurles. Likely, we had met him on the M8. Colin had said Bridget would need to go for treatment at a rehabilitation center, but she’d be at St. Vincent’s for a couple of days, as they continued to do tests. Treatment, for how long? Grace had asked Colin. He didn’t know.

  We found Bridget’s room. Nearby was a waiting area. “Take all the time you need,” I said. It was about eleven o’clock. I thought about Alex and had to smile. What would Alex and Mr. Sweeney talk about, as Mr. Sweeney gave him a lift to the Cathedral?

  I checked out the magazines, marveling at the great interest in American celebrities. Why did the public care so much? I found a day-old newspaper and one even older and began to catch up on what was happening in the big wide world I hadn’t thought much about, these past days.

  Grace returned after a half hour. “Bridget’s more herself this morning,” she said. “Maybe she’s got all the drugs out of her system. She’ll have to go into treatment, but it’s very strange, Jordan. She says she only took the drugs because Dr. Malone prescribed them. He insisted, You must take your medications. That’s what he told Colin and me—all he’d ever tell us.”

  I didn’t know what to say. But I had my suspicions that Dr. Malone was not what everyone thought he was. Certainly, in Bridget’s case, his management of her prescriptions raised serious questions.

  “She’s remembering some things she couldn’t remember before,” Grace said. “She hadn’t been able to explain much about her visit to Dr. Malone that night, but it’s coming back to her now, how furious she was with him. She just can’t remember why.” Grace frowned. “I know what the Guards might make of that—but no matter how furious she was, she couldn’t have overpowered him, stabbed him, and moved him to the place in the woods where he was found.”

  “Good that she’s regaining her memory,” I said.

  Grace sat in the chair across from me. “Bridget wants you to go in,” she said.

  I was stunned. She barely knew me.

  “Is she feeling like having visitors?” I asked.

  “She’s much better,” Grace said. “Go on in.”

  Bridget was sitting up in bed, with pillows behind her. Her eyes were clear, the blue made brighter by the deep blue t-shirt that bore some Tipperary sports team’s insignia. Her legs were covered by a sheet, but I had a glimpse of print pj’s. With clean skin and hair, she looked nothing like the young woman I’d last seen when we left Magdala’s cottage two days ago.

  “Grace said you were much better, but I didn’t expect such a great improvement,” I said.

  She gave a shy little laugh. If she felt shy with me, why had she asked to see me?

  “Thanks for all you’ve done . . . Jordan.” She seemed unsure about how to address me. I preferred Jordan, of course. My mother-in-law was Mrs. Mayfair, in my mind.

  “I’m just happy things are turning out well for you,” I said.

  She looked down at her nails, also clean. “Yes, I s’pose things are turning out very well.”

  There was still something in her voice—something older than her years, resignation and a wistfulness that bordered on sadness. Finally, she raised her gaze to meet mine, and said in a more confident voice, “You’re a good friend to Mam. Dad, too.”

  “I’ve known Grace and Colin for a long time,” I said. “With certain people, you can go for years without contact, but when you see them again, it seems like just yesterday that you were together. That’s how it is with your parents. It’s meant a lot to be able to spend this time with them.”

  “I haven’t made it easy for them.” Bridget seemed to be trying to say something that she couldn’t quite get out. “You know I’ll be in treatment for a while, but then I hope I can go home and be a good daughter and a good mother.”

  This was the young woman Grace had wanted me to know. She was a lovely girl. “You will,” I said.

  “Mam will wonde
r why I wanted to speak to you,” Bridget said. “You can tell her I asked you to keep in touch with her, keep being a friend to her, even though you’re miles apart. Everyone in Thurles likes Mam, but she doesn’t have any girlfriends, you know? She just works and takes care of all of us. I can tell how much she trusts you. She would never have brought anyone else to the cottage.”

  “You’ve given this a lot of thought,” I said.

  I was still standing by her bedside. She patted a place beside her and said, “Please, sit here, Jordan. There’s something else. I want to tell you something.”

  When I was settled, she said, “I want to tell you who Little Jimmie’s father is.”

  My breath caught. My voice was not much more than a whisper. “Bridget, that’s something you should talk about with your parents.”

  She nodded. “I will, when it seems right. I hope I can do it. I hope I can trust myself.”

  I didn’t know what she meant. I remained silent, and after a moment, she continued. “It just doesn’t feel like I should put that on them right now, with everything else that’s happened and me going into treatment. I’m a bit frightened about treatment. What if I don’t get well?” She stopped, and I wanted to reassure her, but something kept me from speaking.

  “So I’ve been thinking,” she said. “I’m not going to the priest. Maybe I’ll come around to making my confession someday, but I’m not there yet. I couldn’t tell anyone in Thurles. You’re not from around here and you’re going home, far from Ireland, so my secret will be safe with you.” I nodded that I was on board, so far. “My parents deserve to know, and I want to tell them when I’m strong enough. I don’t know how they’ll take it.”

  At this point, I did speak up. “You’re their daughter, and no matter what, they will love you. That, I am sure of.”

  “I know it’s true.” Bridget pulled at one of the pillows, adjusting it. “Right now, we’re trying to get back, you know, like we used to be. I want to tell them—I promise I do—but I can’t do it now.”