Secrets and Shamrocks

by Phyllis Gobbell

  I gave a slow, deliberate nod and said, “All right.”

  I was no priest, but if she simply needed to say who the child’s father was—if that was what this was about—I would listen, and I would keep her secret.

  “It’s hard to say it, I’ve kept it to myself so long,” Bridget said.

  I laid my hand on hers. “Maybe I can say it for you.”

  Her eyes widened.

  “James Malone?” I ventured.

  She jerked her hand away. Both hands went to her chest, as if she were trying to contain herself. “How did you know? Are you saying my parents have known all along?”

  “No. I just made a guess. I haven’t discussed it with anyone.”

  “They don’t know, then?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “But—how?”

  “Little things.” I remembered Norah Malone’s remarks to Grace and how she had glared at Little Jimmie. She must have known her husband had fathered the baby and believed Grace knew as well. Only now did I identify that it had been contempt in her eyes, contempt for the child she probably blamed for the breakup of her marriage.

  “You were working for him when you got pregnant. His name was James.”

  “It was foolish of me to name Jimmie after him. But at the time, I thought I was in love with him, and I knew I couldn’t have him and my baby couldn’t have his last name. Dr. Malone—James—he was called Jimmie as he was growing up, he said, but that wasn’t something people around Thurles knew. So I named my baby Jimmie. The town is full of men and boys named Jimmie.”

  “I doubt anyone made the connection because of the names, but at some point, somehow, Norah Malone found out,” I said.

  Bridget let her hands fall back into her lap. She seemed, at once, incredibly tired. “What a fool I was, in so many ways.”

  I didn’t know how much longer we could talk before a nurse would make me leave, so I hurried to say, “The thing that tipped me off in the end was all the drugs in your system. The fact that Dr. Malone had been deliberate and systematic in the meds he gave you.”

  Her knowing look told me that she had figured out what I had figured out. She hadn’t mixed up the medications herself, as the doctor in Thurles had suggested. Dr. Malone had used various drug cocktails to induce her mood swings and make her dependent on him.

  Tears began to fill her eyes. Yes, Dr. Malone had provided all the pills. It had started not long after Jimmie’s birth, when she began to imagine the three of them might have a life together, after all, but the doctor refused to leave his wife. “He told me he didn’t love her but he felt sorry for her because she’d had a hysterectomy when she was much younger,” Bridget said. “Not being able to have a baby made her a very unhappy woman and hard to live with, but he honored his vows. I know it wasn’t right for me to ask him to leave her. But it wasn’t right for him to refuse his baby, either.”

  I had my suspicions that the Riordan money might have been the primary attraction for Dr. Malone, and I said so.

  Bridget wiped her eyes, and now the story came in a rush. “He told me I was suffering from post-partum depression and he could give me something for it, and he tried one thing and another. Maybe at first he was trying to help me. I think he was.”

  Who could say if that was true, and if so, when did he change? When did his actions become malpractice?

  “And then, as I only got worse, he said I might be bipolar but he would help me with the medications so I wouldn’t have to go into psychiatric care. After that, I must have just been lost.”

  I cringed at the severity of his manipulation. She was young and trusting. “As long as you were unstable and he could manage the drugs, he had you in his control,” I said. “You wouldn’t do anything to risk the arrangement you had. You wouldn’t give up his name as Jimmie’s father.”

  “I know why I went to him that night,” Bridget said. “I didn’t go for more drugs, but he made me take something even stronger than I’d had before. I don’t remember much about getting back to Magdala’s cottage. I think he took me through the woods. We had a torch.”

  “You said you knew why you went to his office that night.”

  “Above his office, where he lived. That’s where I went. He took me downstairs and gave me—it was something to calm me down.” She rubbed her eyes and blinked. “He took a call from someone and they were arguing.”

  Norah Riordan had told the Guard she was on the phone with him when Bridget pounded on the door. “You remember that he took the call? The phone rang? He wasn’t already on the phone?”

  “His cell started ringing when we were upstairs, and he silenced it. Downstairs, in his office, the phone rang and rang, and he didn’t answer for a time, but it kept ringing. When he finally did answer, he was very angry.”

  I waited, thinking the memory might come back, all clear, but she said, “It’s confusing, but I know I was having a fit about Jimmie. I got it in my mind that I needed money and a lot of it so I could go away with my baby. That’s what I was screaming about. I wanted money.”

  Bridget put her face in her hands. Some time passed, maybe just a minute, but it seemed longer. When she looked up again, she took a long breath. “If you’ll do me this favor, Jordan, I’ll be forever grateful. Do not breathe a word of what we’ve said. Sometime in the next two or three months—I’ll surely be finished with the treatment in three months—you’ll hear from my mother, telling you she knows everything about James Malone. I said it now, didn’t I?” She gave a weak smile. “And you won’t be bound by the secret anymore.”

  “I have to ask,” I said.

  “I know. What if you hear nothing?” She waited a moment, and then seemed to gather courage. “I think that would mean the treatment didn’t work and who knows what would have happened to me, where I might be, or what I might be doing? I pray that won’t be the outcome, but if it is, you’d know I never found the strength I needed to tell my parents about Jimmie’s father. So I’d want you to tell them at that time.”

  “That’s not going to happen, Bridget,” I said. “You’ll get well. You’ll be the daughter you want to be—and the mother you want to be to Little Jimmie.”

  “I hope,” she said in a small voice. Her face crumpled like a child’s. I reached for her and drew her into my arms, hugging her as I would a daughter of mine. Her shoulders began to shake as she sobbed.

  I could hear her father’s words, and I repeated, “We must hang on to hope.”

  CHAPTER 20

  Standing in the spacious bar of The Bank on College Grove, mesmerized by the stained glass ceiling, I was not worried that I had arrived before Paul. I was early. I had left my car in the parking lot at St. Vincent’s. Taking a taxi made more sense than driving in a city I didn’t know, in the rain. I hadn’t imagined how quickly the taxi would get me to my destination. I had time to take in the striking interior of The Bank. Mosaic-tiled floors, intricately decorated plasterwork, sparkling chandeliers—a masterful restoration.

  “The bar was once the main banking hall,” came his voice, “when this was a branch of the Belfast Bank.”

  I turned around. “Paul,” I said.

  He took my hands and pulled me toward him, kissing my cheek. He held my hands a moment longer, his so strong, so alive. “You are a vision, Jordan,” he said.

  I was glad I’d splurged on the cerulean blue raincoat—stylish, Grace had pronounced—rather than one of the gray or beige boxy types that I usually bought on sale. My skirt and sweater were unremarkable, but the raincoat apparently had made a good impression.

  “It’s great to see you,” I said. I could have said he was a vision. Exactly as I remembered. Salt-and-pepper hair, just long enough to be a little wavy. Strong facial features, warm smile, eyes that looked deep into mine.

  Someone appeared to assist us—never a problem with Monsieur Broussard—and took our raincoats. No one asked if we had a reservation. We were ushered to the dining room where the maître d’ greeted us and
summoned a starched waiter to seat us.

  “Good to see you again, sir,” said the young server in his lilting Irish accent.

  Promptly a young woman from the wait staff asked if we cared for a drink.

  “Shall we have a glass of wine?” Paul asked. Wine was not my customary lunchtime beverage, but this seemed like an occasion for an exception.

  “I intended to be early, to be waiting for you,” he told me when the servers had gone.

  “You weren’t late,” I said.

  “I made the mistake of checking into my hotel first. The rain, the traffic, and a taxi driver who may not have believed I know the shortest route to the Temple Bar area—exasperating.”

  I smiled. Paul was spoiled by having his own driver in Paris—even a driver in the little town in Provence where we’d met. He seemed to read my smile. He made a little dismissive gesture and said, “It is not important. I am here, and you are here.”

  He leaned toward me. The table, with its white tablecloth, was a small two-top. I suspected that if he’d wanted a larger one, we’d have it.

  “Tell me, now, about your visit to Ireland, and Alex, and your friends,” he said.

  I tried to hit the highlights, telling how Alex and I had known Colin and Grace for so many years and how delightful Shepherds was. I mentioned our visits to Kilkenny and the Rock of Cashel. Paul gave a knowing nod. No doubt he’d been to both sites. As for Bridget, I kept it brief, saying she would be getting treatment in Dublin for problems with prescription drugs. And then our wine arrived. I knew it was a French wine; I’d heard Paul order. Otherwise, I knew only that it was red and exquisite.

  “So unfortunate about the young woman. I suppose that happens often,” Paul said. “I can only imagine her parents’ worry.”

  “I think she’s resilient—and so are Colin and Grace,” I said.

  I brought the elegant glass to my lips and waited a moment, thinking how we might move forward in the conversation, acknowledge that “elephant in the room.” Paul wasn’t helping. He was just gazing at me, with the hint of a smile that was—sort of irresistible.

  “Was the weather awful, in a small plane? Not that yours is all that small,” I said.

  “The sun was shining in Paris,” he said. “We hit turbulence over the sea, but it was not a difficult flight. I have an excellent pilot. You met him.”

  I made the wine swirl a little. Paul looked at me over the rim of his glass. We could have reminisced about that other whirlwind flight, but I was relieved that Paul stayed in the moment. “I’ll be returning to Paris tomorrow after I meet with a gallery owner I have needed to visit for some time. It is an opportunity to mix business with pleasure, as one says.”

  “I couldn’t believe you’d fly to Dublin just for lunch,” I said in a breezy tone.

  But Paul was all seriousness. “Believe it, Jordan. The meeting I arranged was an afterthought. I am here because of you.”

  And there was the server, a pleasant young man with menus and his recitation of the lunch specials. Without consulting his menu, Paul said, “I must tell you my favorite lunch, especially on a rainy day, is the venison stew, but I have enjoyed many excellent dishes here.”

  “I’ll take your recommendation,” I said, and Paul gave a nod at my wise choice. The ordering was accomplished without much ado.

  Paul and I exchanged another one of those meaningful looks, and he said, “It has been much too long, Jordan.”

  “About that,” I said.

  “Yes, about that,” he said with a soft curve of his lips. “I have much to tell you, and I’m glad you have given me the opportunity to explain—at last.” Was that just a hint of scolding?

  “I should have returned your call,” I said. I was tempted to add, the call you finally made after two long months of silence, but I didn’t.

  He seemed to be studying me. Maybe he was reading my mind.

  “I apologize,” I said with no great warmth.

  “I accept your apology,” he said. “And now it is my turn to say how sorry I am for any disappointment—or perhaps even distress—that I may have caused you. Ah, Jordan, you deserved much better than I have given you these past months. My failures have been unforgiveable, and yet I hope you will find it in your heart to forgive me.”

  Unforgiveable. That was about right. But the man did have a flair for the magnanimous apology. Whatever indignation I had brought with me seemed to be seeping away.

  But not too fast, I reminded myself.

  “I’m listening,” I said.

  Our server brought warm brown crusty bread and creamy butter, managing to do so with minimal interruption, but Paul waited until he was gone. “I spoke with Emil at length after the reception in Atlanta. He said the show was excellent, much credit to you and Alex. It was truly my loss, to miss that evening.”

  “You had that urgent personal matter,” I said.

  Paul moved his wine glass a fraction of an inch on the table.

  I took a deep breath. “Paul, we were just getting to know each other in Provence. It would have been wonderful if you had come to Atlanta, but you couldn’t, and you called, and I shouldn’t have made so much of it. You weren’t obligated to me, except to be truthful.” I chose my words with care. “Even if the urgent matter involved someone—what I’m saying is, if you were involved with someone—what I’m trying to say—is that all I expect from you is the truth.”

  “Jordan, I have never been untruthful to you,” he said. “You are right. There was someone. But it is not at all what you think.”

  My throat tightened. What was I supposed to think? “All right,” I said, the words sharp, betraying the fact that maybe it wasn’t really all right.

  “I was truthful when I told you I had business in New York that prevented me from being in Atlanta before the day of the show.”

  “I believed you.”

  “As well you should have done. But something else happened in New York, the last night of Emil’s show there. A young woman introduced herself.”

  I turned the cool crystal stem of my glass around and around. “You can thank Emil for keeping your secret,” I said.

  “Emil may have noticed her speaking with me, but he did not know who she was. I did not know her.” Paul leaned in even closer. “I was astounded—shocked. Jordan, I did not know that I had a daughter.”

  I was only marginally interested in the lunch salad with goat cheese. Paul scarcely touched his.

  He had told me something of his time in New York when he was in his twenties. I knew he was divorced after a short marriage. I never knew his wife’s name.

  “Amanda,” he said now. “I am sure the attraction for me was that she was so American, or what I imagined an American to be. So exuberant! Such joie de vivre! Also beautiful, but—headstrong, I think, is the word. We had great passion in the beginning. We did not know each other long or well when we married, and we were young.” His gaze was reflective. “Passion is a wonderful thing and much to be desired in the calm seas, but it is not enough for the storms.”

  He let that sink in, and I saw where he was going with it. I knew about the storms of a marriage, even when the marriage felt solid.

  “After a little more than a year, we parted ways. The divorce was accomplished quickly by today’s standards. I gave her a considerable sum, ensuring she would be most comfortable. All of it—the romance, the marriage—was like a dream. I woke up in Paris and could scarcely believe Amanda had ever been in my life. And that was a long time ago. I did not even know that she had died last year. Ovarian cancer. Terrible.” Paul took a drink of wine that was more than a sip. “I have told you about Amanda because her daughter is much like her. Isabella. She is the young woman who came to Emil’s show in NewYork.”

  Nibbling on bread with a bite of salad now and then, I listened in a kind of daze as he described that encounter and their subsequent meetings, his amazement that Isabella—Bella, he called her with fondness—so resembled his former wife, and his ske
pticism when she first revealed that before Amanda’s death, she had imparted a great secret. In her last dying days, she had told Bella that the man she had known as her father, who had been killed in a boating accident on Cape Cod when she was fifteen, was not her true parent.

  “She had a plausible story—but was it just that, a story?” Lines in Paul’s face that I’d never noticed had deepened. “She knew a great deal about me. Yes, she said Amanda had told her everything she knew, but a man in my position would not be prudent to simply accept her statement. I would need verification.”

  I spoke at last. “It would be expected.”

  “Yes! You understand.” He said this in a kind of rush that was not like Paul Broussard at all. Nothing I’d seen before now had shown Paul’s vulnerability quite so clearly.

  “How old is Bella?” I asked.

  “She is thirty-four. She was born two months after I returned to Paris. Amanda and I worked through our attorneys. We did not see each other. I knew nothing about a child.”

  I put down my fork. “And did you get the verification you needed?”

  “Yes. It is true. Bella is my daughter,” he said.

  Over our venison stew, Paul told about Bella as any father might, with pride and some amusement, but there was something guarded, too, in his manner. He said with a frown, “I mentioned to you once that I thought I might have been a good father. I had no idea. It is an experience like no other.”

  I nodded.

  “Bella and I had a furious disagreement, the night before I was to leave New York.” He added, “Before you and I would have been together in Atlanta.”

  We were getting to the heart of things, at last.

  The argument, it seemed, had to do with whether Bella’s claim was truthful. Paul had told her of the need to consult his attorneys. Now he insisted that he’d handled that conversation badly, but from an outsider’s point of view, I could see it seemed only reasonable that he would have doubts about someone coming out of the woodwork, laying claim to his fortune. Wouldn’t any intelligent thirty-four-year-old woman have realized that?