Secrets and Shamrocks

by Phyllis Gobbell

  “I was at the airport, just moments from boarding, when the call came that morning. Bella’s jogging partner had come by her apartment. Bella had taken an overdose of sleeping pills. She was barely alive when they took her in the ambulance. Her friend knew I was leaving the city and she found my number in Bella’s phone. Bella had confided in her about everything.”

  Paul finished off his wine. Our waiter who was so in tune to every nuance at our table appeared to offer more wine. Typical of Paul, he looked at my glass, still half full, and smiled. “I expect we will order coffee instead—and dessert?” I shook my head, and Paul said, “Coffee, then. Deux.”

  He continued, describing the day at the hospital, waiting for the doctors to say that Bella would recover, waiting to see her. “The guilt and anguish I felt—I can’t explain,” he said. “And why could I not tell you the reason I had to stay in NewYork?” He turned his palms up. “My mind was—I can only say I was not myself.”

  “I suppose you weren’t thinking about anything but Bella,” I said.

  “Something like that. But I have reproached myself a thousand times. As time went by, it became even more difficult to tell you about Bella—such a long story. As you might imagine, these months have been complicated.”

  Our coffee came. Paul took his time stirring in the cream and sugar. “I stayed in NewYork for another week—no, two weeks, I think it was.” He gave me a significant look. It was around that time that we had talked. He still had not explained, and then he didn’t call again for two months.

  “I found an excellent psychiatrist for her,” Paul said. “It seems Bella suffers from a depressive disorder but had never been diagnosed. Her mother’s death, trying to accept that the man she believed was her father was, in fact, not, confronting me with the fact that I am her father, which took great courage, and finally my reluctance—my caution, as I saw it—all of these things pushed her over the edge, as they say.”

  Paul talked with more ease, as we lingered over our coffee. He said, “I am not sure if it is possible to catch up when you lose thirty-four years, but we are trying.”

  “You’ve stayed in contact, then,” I said.

  “Indeed. She came to Paris and stayed several weeks. Every day I showed her a new sight, a museum, or a wonderful gallery. She is quite artistic herself. We met with my attorneys and took care of a number of items, as you might expect.” He gave a gesture signaling the business matters were not important. Things like changing his will, making her a beneficiary on insurance policies—those things came to my mind. “I found a nice apartment for her in Paris. I want her to visit often. I would never have imagined all the things a father might do to ensure a daughter’s happiness.”

  I didn’t say a word about overindulgence. Who was I to make judgments? I had known my children all their lives, loved them from before they were born. Paul hadn’t had that opportunity. He was certain she was his daughter. He had every right to catch up. Whatever business he was conducting that related to Bella, he could no doubt afford it. I could not say what it was that nagged at me about this new, overpowering focus of his.

  Lunch ended after nearly two hours, and Paul said, “Voila! The rain has stopped. So it is with the weather in Ireland.” He suggested a walk along the River Liffey. It wasn’t far to Wellington Quay and the beautiful river. Neither of us was surprised when the sun came out, bright as a jewel. We spent another hour, strolling, holding hands. As we grew more relaxed with each other, I couldn’t resist telling him about the priest hole and the gold chalice.

  “The girl hid in the priest hole with her child? Mon Dieu!” he said. I wondered if the thought of his own daughter’s erratic behavior crossed his mind. But he was as fascinated with the discovery of the secret chamber and its contents as I had imagined he would be. “If I can be of assistance with the authentication process, I can recommend an expert archeologist. I am acquainted with two men who are world-class in their field.”

  Of course he was.

  The sunlight took on that late-afternoon glow. I looked at my watch, and I didn’t have to say anything. Paul said, “I know. If you must go, we can get a taxi at that corner.”

  At the corner, he touched my face and turned it up to his. It was a long, lovely kiss. He gave me one of his deep, lingering gazes and said, “Let us say all is forgiven between us and leave it at that. Yes?”

  “All is forgiven,” I said.

  A taxi pulled up, and Paul opened the door for me. He raised my fingers to his lips and kissed them. “Always, it seems, we are saying goodby, rushing to somewhere else, you and I.”

  And that was how we left it.

  CHAPTER 21

  “I think I’m home in time to put Little Jimmie to bed,” Grace said when we parked at Shepherds. Conversation had been light on the return trip. Grace was pleased that Bridget was “more herself,” but it would be “a long way back to the girl she was.” I didn’t expand on my afternoon with Paul or reveal that he had a daughter. Grace had asked that morning what I hoped for, with Paul, and I still had no answer. With Bella adding a new wrinkle to things, it might not matter what I hoped for.

  “You look like you could use a cup of tea,” Grace said as we went in. “Long day.”

  I agreed on both counts. Grace instructed me to make myself at home in the kitchen. I put on the teapot, but she was back before the kettle whistled, and she promptly took over. “Colin had Jimmie all bathed and dressed for bed and was reading him a story. Jimmie didn’t want me to interrupt. ‘Night, night!’ he said, waving me away. I gave him a kiss and left them to it.”

  She prepared a tray, adding some biscuits, and said we should have our tea in the keeping room. She said Colin wanted me to know that Alex had gone to Finnegan’s.

  “I wonder how he got there,” I said.

  “Colin didn’t say. He did say that Alex went on and on about his visit with Father Tierney. They must have hit it off. I was sure they would.”

  I decided I’d go to Finnegan’s, too, later. It was Friday night, and our last chance for music night at Finnegan’s Pub.

  As Grace and I settled in the comfy keeping room, Patrick came in. “We’ll be leaving for Dublin now,” he said.

  “You’re later than usual,” Grace said. “I hope you weren’t detained because of minding Jimmie.”

  “We weren’t. I guess it took Enya a bit longer to pack,” he said. “Do you need anything else before we go?”

  “Nothing else, Patrick. Thank you for all your help while Colin and I have been seeing to Bridget. And please thank Enya for me.”

  He took a step back toward the door, and then turned again toward us, his face grim. “Enya will be staying in Dublin for a time,” he said.

  Grace did not reply immediately. She gave a long sigh before she said, “Maybe she just needs some time to sort things out in her mind. We’ve been through so much—all of us.”

  “That’s the thing—all of us have,” Patrick said. “It’s not just about Enya.”

  “She had a different life before she came to Shepherds,” Grace said. “And all at once she’s minding someone else’s baby and getting up early to put out breakfast and spending evenings alone when you’re helping out in the office. Oh, I’ve fussed about Enya. I won’t deny it. But I can see why it’s been hard on her.”

  “Not your fault, Mam, that Enya’s a bit spoiled.”

  “I was a bit spoiled, too,” Grace said with a reflective smile. “Wasn’t I, Jordan?”

  “Not the word I would use,” I said. “You did have a different kind of life in Atlanta. That’s true.”

  “I can’t imagine you were selfish,” Patrick said.

  “You should ask your dad how hard I was to live with when he first brought me to Ireland, and his dad was dying, and his mother was so needy, and I was a new mother myself who knew little about babies. Ask Colin. See what he says.”

  Patrick’s lips curved into a gentle smile for the first time, and he looked even more like Colin. “If you w
ere hard to live with, I can tell you my dad does not remember a bit of it.”

  Patrick gave his mother a squeeze and had a quick wave for me. “You’ll be here for a few more days, won’t you, Jordan?”

  “We’ll be leaving Monday,” I said.

  “Ah, then I’ll see you again. I’ll be back tomorrow, after I’ve checked in on Bridget.”

  “If you need to stay longer, Patrick—do what you need to do,” Grace said.

  He shook his head. “I won’t be staying.”

  Alex and Ian were leaning on the bar, laughing with Finn as he set new pints before them. I squeezed in beside them. Another busy night at the pub—tables full and not much bar space. It was Friday night, music in the back room. Strains of a merry Irish tune filled the air.

  “Jordan!” Alex said, giving me a little hug. Not like Alex. He was not a hugger. He must have been at the bar for a while. Ian winked, as if to say, I’ve been taking good care of him.

  “You’re in the party going to the Cliffs of Moher tomorrow?” Finn asked.

  I said I was looking forward to it.

  “Irish coffee, right? You’re not big on our Guinness.”

  “Don’t you know, it’s because you make such a grand coffee, Finn,” Ian put in.

  “That’s it,” I said.

  “Yes, I do, if I say so meself,” said Finn.

  I studied Alex. “I see you’ve been managing fine without me. Did you have dinner?”

  “I had a wonderful lunch at Father Tierney’s,” he said, “and I came home with a parcel of leftovers, courtesy of his lovely cook—can’t remember her name but I remember her food!”

  “Sounds like you and Father Tierney became fast friends,” I said.

  That was all Alex needed to start in on a report of his visit with the Father. He may not have remembered the name of the cook, but his memory was keen when it came to the history of the Cathedral of the Assumption and also of the town of Thurles. Incredible that he rattled off dates with such ease. I have trouble remembering my children’s birthdays. After a long recitation, he said, “Father Tierney is a most intelligent and engaging fellow. I must say he did wonders for my opinion of priests, which, generally speaking, has not been high.”

  Ian and I glanced at each other with flickers of amusement.

  I changed the subject, fearful of where Alex might be going with that. “Did you walk or ride from Shepherds tonight?”

  “Helen gave us a lift. She was headed to the golf course, for Charles,” Alex said.

  “I expect they’ve had dinner at some fancy place and they’ll be coming here to polish off the evening,” Ian said. “In any case, you can be sure we weren’t going to walk back home late at night, Jordan, not after what happened out there on that road. We’d get a ride somehow.”

  “It was exactly a week ago,” I noted.

  “Sweet Mother, has it been a week? And we’ll all be leaving Thurles soon. Without knowing the answers to many of the questions that have come up, I’m afraid,” Ian said.

  He had not learned anything new at the Internet café, he said, nor had the Guard given him an update on their investigation of the shootings. “And the poor doctor’s murder—doesn’t seem they’ve made any progress there.” Ian turned up his glass for a long drink.

  “Maybe they just haven’t made their findings public,” I said.

  He laughed. “In a town like this, word gets around. I expect we would hear.”

  A few minutes later, Mr. Sweeney came in, bellied up to the bar, and ordered from Finn’s son, Brendan. Alex gave him a salute. Mr. Sweeney returned just the barest nod. I asked Alex if they’d had lively conversation on the way to Father Tierney’s. Alex said, “About what you would expect. But he did offer to give me a ride back to Shepherds. We met Father Tierney inside the church to set the time, and when the Father began to show me around, we left Mr. Sweeney lighting a candle. You just never know about people, do you?”

  What an assortment of guests we’d met at Shepherds. I hadn’t seen much of Molly and Doreen since that evening I had come in from Red Stag Crossing, wet and dirty. I wondered about them and asked Ian, the best one to know, I thought.

  Ian said, “Doreen has been dragging Molly to sites all around. Keeping her away from me, I wager.”

  I gave him a wry smile. “They’ll be on the day trip tomorrow. Maybe we can keep Doreen occupied so Molly can have a little space.”

  Finn returned with my Irish coffee, and we spoke again about the trip to the Cliffs of Moher. “I thought the English woman who arranged it all would be here tonight, going over every little thing with me,” Finn said.

  At the far end of the bar, someone called out a harsh, “Finn! You’ve got thirsty customers waiting to be served, man!” It was Lucas Riordan.

  “Thirsty’s right,” Finn said in a low voice as he bent toward us. “He’s throwin’ ’em back pretty good tonight.”

  A moment later, Mr. Sweeney edged in beside Alex and said something out of the side of his mouth. Alex glanced at Lucas Riordan and spoke in a low voice to Mr. Sweeney, who nodded and left the pub.

  “What was that all about?” I said.

  Alex said, “He just asked, ‘Who’s that eejit calling out for Finn?’ and I told him.”

  We heard clapping from the room where the musicians played, the fiddle predominant on a jig. I said, “We should try to get in one last set before our time in Thurles is up,” and Alex and I followed the music to the back room. Ian remained at the bar, striking up a conversation with a pretty girl who had just arrived, next to him.

  “I failed to ask about your day in Dublin,” Alex said.

  “It was good,” I said.

  He gave an inquisitive look, a frown, actually. We edged into the doorway of the back room, and at the end of the tune, a group at one table relinquished their seats. Most of the music was instrumental, melodies that managed to be merry and haunting at the same time. We stayed through a ballad that everyone except us seemed to know. About lost love—what else? Ian was standing in the doorway, having struck out with the girl at the bar, apparently.

  “There’s something about the Irish music,” I said.

  “It’s the very air we breathe,” he said.

  Finn pulled up to Shepherds at 8:00 a.m. sharp, and we climbed into his van like children eager for a school trip—Molly, Doreen, Ian, Helen, Alex, and me. Grace and Colin waved us off from the front door, as if we were departing on a long journey instead of a day trip—two or three hours to the Cliffs of Moher. I had to believe they were looking forward to having the whole place to themselves for the day, with just the baby there. Charles said he had a nine-thirty tee time, and Patrick and Enya were in Dublin. Finn had said we’d be back before dark, that we’d want to spend as much time as possible at this “magnificent site.”

  I was sitting next to Helen, who occupied the window seat on the second row. Doreen, Molly, and Ian had the long back seat, and Alex was in the passenger seat next to Finn. At first Doreen and Finn carried on a noisy exchange over the rest of us, but as we all settled into the trip, Alex and Finn began to talk about the history of the Cliffs, and though Doreen monopolized the conversation in the back seat, Ian and Molly spoke from time to time. Dublin, the city and all its attractions, seemed to be their topic. What an attractive pair they made, Ian with his dark curls and Molly, her reddish-gold hair pulled back in a tortoise-shell barrette. The hum of the engine provided a kind of “white noise” that permeated the van, so when I spoke to Helen in a low voice, I doubted anyone was hearing.

  “Are you all right, Helen?” I asked. “You’ve been awfully quiet this morning.”

  Her smile was forced. She took off her stylish, expensive-looking sunglasses and pushed her hair behind her ear. “I suppose you’re right. I’ve been distracted.” She kept her voice low, too. Somewhat surprising that she could. “I’m afraid Charles’s plans to work with Lucas may have gone awry. I suppose he’ll know for sure today, but from all indications, Lucas doesn
’t want my husband’s expertise after all. He simply wants our money.” She gave a brittle little laugh. “The problem is that we have no money to invest with him, even if we wanted to.”

  Helen did not hold back as she explained, all in just above a whisper, how they had fared poorly during the downturn in the economy. Charles had invested much of what he’d earned on the pro tour, and—“That’s gone,” she said with a flippant little wave. “I had family money, quite a lot in the beginning, but not so much now that it’s been our only source of income. The time has come that Charles really must get a job. And when he talked with Lucas at Turnberry, this opportunity sounded so promising. The kind of employment that would suit Charles.”

  “I can imagine,” I said, knowing that being just any golf pro at just any country club would not necessarily suit Charles.

  Helen crossed her arms, rubbing them through her silky warm-up jacket.

  “Yesterday, Lucas put the screws on. Isn’t that the expression? He said, ‘Are you in or out?’ And my husband, poor dear, he knows there’s no money to invest, but he just couldn’t say it. He said he’d talk it over with me.”

  “You had to put the brakes on.”

  “Exactly. And I don’t like doing that.” She gave a sorrowful look and spoke in an even softer voice. “Charles is quite a bit younger than I am. You may have guessed.” She paused as I tried to find the right words, but she let me off the hook. “Never mind. We get along. He is very sweet to me, in spite of the face he puts on to others. I love to indulge him, but sometimes I have to—as you say, put on the brakes. The sort of money Lucas needs for a development of this scale—what he’d want from us is simply out of the question.”

  “Just how large is the development?” I asked, remembering what Colin and Grace had said, that Lucas wanted Shepherds and he’d acquired other properties around them.

  “It has the potential to be very large—if he gets enough investors. A resort. Upscale holiday homes built around a golf course. With tennis and an upscale restaurant, boutiques—it all sounds quite lavish, actually. Eventually, he would like to get a resort hotel interested.”