by Zara Keane
She glared at the glossy brochures on the display rack next to the entrance. Aidan’s rictus was reproduced in triplicate. He was pictured standing in front of a brand new house, shaking hands with a cheery homeowner. Probably someone whose elderly relatives he’d helped fleece.
Olivia tasted bile. How could she have been so foolish? In a bid to better her circumstances, she’d married the devil himself.
Chapter Five
AS WAS TYPICAL for an Irish April, the weather morphed from torrential rain in the morning to blistering sun in the afternoon. By the time Jonas and Mary returned to his parents’ house after their appointment with Gant, it was warm enough to sit in the garden and watch Luca play with his toy cars.
He handed his aunt a cup of black coffee and slumped into the seat opposite. In his memory, Gant’s smug expression loomed large, as did Olivia’s downcast gaze. “Why would anyone stay married to that pig?”
Mary folded her long legs and adjusted her sunglasses. Despite her prim appearance, she was anything but stuffy. Childless by choice and wealthy by marriage, she reveled in being an aunt. “Marriage to Gant has its advantages. Money, for one. What’s a little public humiliation in return for a platinum credit card?”
He snorted. “You don’t believe that.”
“It doesn’t matter what I believe. Who knows what goes on in other people’s relationships? Perhaps they get off on the bickering. Some couples do.”
A vision of Olivia’s pale face rose unbidden, its beauty marred by stress lines around her startling blue eyes and rosebud mouth. No, she definitely didn’t “get off” on Gant’s goading.
Mary peered at him over the rim of her coffee cup. “How does it feel to be a man of property?”
“A huge relief. Luca loves living in the cottage. I can’t thank you enough.”
“I’m glad you’re settling into your new home.” She smiled the twenty-four-carat smile that had once broken half the hearts in Ballybeg. “But you might not be thanking me on the first of the month. Remember what Gant said. In order to keep the transfer of ownership above board and away from the tax man, you’ll need to give me a sum of money every month.”
“All the same, it’s a fraction of what I was paying to rent my flat in Dublin. I’m getting a great deal.”
His aunt regarded him with a thoughtful expression on her well-preserved face. “I’d rather you and your brother get your inheritance now while you’re young and need it most. Besides, what do I need six houses for? There’s only one of me.”
“Even so, you’re very kind to do this. I’d never get a house for that price, let alone two.”
“It’s always good to have a little something to fall back on. It’s up to you whether you want a permanent tenant for the next door cottage or tourists on weekly rentals. Both options have their advantages and disadvantages.”
He toyed with his coffee cup. “Which do you recommend?”
“I went the tourist rental route for years, but I was considering a regular tenant around the time you moved to Ballybeg and were looking for somewhere to live. You can charge higher rent for short-term leases, but there’s more work involved. You’re responsible for cleaning the house between visitors, for example. There’s also the possibility that the house will be vacant for long periods of time during low season, and you’ll need to remember to heat and air the place regularly.”
“So you’d suggest I opt for a long-term tenant?”
“It’s less hassle on a day-to-day basis. Barely any admin work.” Mary drained her cup and stood. “I’d better get back to the dogs. Ludo will be ready for his walk.”
Jonas’s chair scraped against the patio tiles as he stood. “Thanks again, Mary.” He gave her a hug.
She patted him on the arm. “No worries. I’m happy to help. What’s the point in being an aunt if you can’t spoil your nephews?”
“Even when we’re both taller than you?”
“Even when you’re older than I am now and I’m tottering around a nursing home.” Mary bent to kiss Luca’s soft cheek. “Bye to you, too, little man. See you soon.”
After his aunt left, Jonas fingered his smart phone. Luca was playing on the small path that wound through the flowerbeds, each car aligned precisely behind the one before. Although the garden was small, his parents kept it well tended. He liked the greenery, but his father had gone way overboard with the flowers. In the summer months, every spare centimeter was covered in lush blooms.
His gaze dropped to the phone, feeling its weight in his hand. Clenching his teeth, he dialed the number he’d intended to delete a few months ago.
“I’ll be right back,” he said, pausing to ruffle his son’s dark curls. The boy made no response, nor any indication he’d heard him speak. He’d barely closed the kitchen door behind him when the call connected. “Susanne?”
“No. It’s Theresa. Who’s this?”
His ex’s sister. They’d never had much in common, but she wasn’t a bad sort.
“Hey, Theresa. It’s Jonas. Can I speak to Susanne?”
Her cigarette-tinged rasp followed a brief silence. “Susanne’s not here.”
Jonas took a deep breath. “I need to get in touch with her. Do you know her new number?”
“Is Luca okay?”
“He’s fine, but a situation’s arisen. I need Susanne to help look after him for a couple of months.”
Theresa sighed. “Good luck with that. She’s on her honeymoon.”
His grip on the phone tightened. “Honeymoon? She’s married?”
“To Barry Brennan.”
Barry Brennan. One of Ireland’s most revered and feared barristers. Father of the guy Susanne had left him for. She was keeping it classy, as per usual.
“When was the wedding?” The words came out in a croak.
“Last weekend. They held it at Dromoland Castle.”
One of Ireland’s premier hotels—Susanne had gone up in the world.
“How long will she be away?”
“Six weeks, I think.” From the other end of the line, Theresa took an audible drag on her cigarette. “I don’t see her opening her five-star heart and home to Luca. Do you?”
No, frankly, he couldn’t. He’d called Susanne because he was desperate and because he couldn’t bring himself to believe she was serious about cutting ties with him and Luca. What parent did that? Yes, Luca could be hard work. Yes, his diagnosis and its ramifications brought a lot of stress and strain. But the boy was her child, goddammit. You didn’t quit on your kid.
“You still there?”
“Yeah. Thanks for telling me, Theresa. Keep in touch. You know you’re always welcome to visit.”
“I’ll come down to Cork soon, yeah? Give Luca a kiss from me.” She paused. “I’m sorry about Susanne. Frankly, you and Luca are better off without her in your lives.”
By the time Jonas returned to the garden, Luca was packing his cars neatly into a play box. Despite the warm weather, a chill snaked down Jonas’s back.
He gave the little boy a peck on the cheek. “I have to go write. Granddad is going to look after you until Nana gets home. Be a good boy, okay?”
Luca considered his request. “Yes, I think I can be good today, Dad. I’m not feeling naughty.”
Jonas suppressed a laugh. At times, Luca’s literal interpretations drove him crazy, but they could also be highly amusing. “Bye, mate.”
Liam O’Mahony barely glanced up when Jonas entered his workshop, intent on the wooden chair he was carving. He was a few centimeters shorter and wider than his son, but otherwise his spitting image. “Off already?”
“Yeah. I need to get back to work.”
A smile lurked on Liam’s lips. “I don’t know how you stick it. I’d be bored out of my skull if I had to type words all day.”
Jonas laughed. “I’d have no hands to type with if I attempted to use a saw.”
“True enough.” His father’s smile faded into a frown. “Did your mother tell you about her cr
uise?”
“Yeah, she did. I’ll find a solution for Luca.” How, he didn’t know, but he’d have to come up with something.
“You know I’ll help out in whatever way I can, but I can’t take Luca with me on a job. Having him here in my workshop is one thing. Out on a building site is another.”
“I know, Dad. No worries. You and Mam have been great since we moved to Ballybeg.” He hesitated, weighing his words. “I called Susanne.”
His father glanced up from his work. “If your expression is anything to go by, that didn’t go well.”
“She wasn’t there. Her sister answered. Apparently, Susanne got married a few days ago.”
Liam flexed his shoulders. “Your mother said you’re meeting Gavin for a drink this evening. Sounds like you’ll need it.”
“Only a quick drink. I have to put in a couple more hours on my book tonight, so I’ll be back for Luca by nine.”
“Why don’t you leave him here overnight? Have a proper evening off.”
“Are you sure?” He was tempted. It would give him the option to work late without the disruption of Luca’s nightmares.
“I wouldn’t offer if I wasn’t. Come and collect him after breakfast tomorrow.”
“Okay. Thanks, Dad.” He paused in the doorframe. “For everything.”
When he left his father’s workshop, guilt gnawed at his stomach. His mother was right. He’d been relying too much on his parents. They should be in a position to make a spontaneous offer as his father had just done, not be Luca’s regular babysitters. Why hadn’t this occurred to him before? He’d been complacent and had taken advantage of their good nature. Not only did he need an interim childcare solution effective immediately, he needed to look for someone permanent.
Chapter Six
OLIVIA FUMED SILENTLY on the drive home from Glencoe College. Louise Cavendish proved as stiff and proper as her telephone manner implied. While charges hadn’t yet been brought against the boys, Olivia figured it was only a matter of time.
She slapped the steering wheel in frustration and took a sharp right turn into a narrow country lane. Trees, bushes, and fields passed in a blur of various shades of green. Her ancient car might not be the most powerful vehicle on the roads, but she made the most of her accelerator, much to the delight of the local police.
“What were the pair of you thinking?” If her stress levels rose any higher, she’d spontaneously combust.
“We weren’t,” quipped Kyle. His short hair was gelled into spikes, and he reeked of cheap aftershave. If only he’d pay as much attention to his schoolwork as he did to his appearance.
“Smart arse. Why couldn’t Mum or Dad collect you?”
“Mum’s swanned off to an art show—date of return unknown. Dad’s gone sailing with the local deadbeats,” Ronan said from the backseat. These were the first words he’d uttered since they’d left the school.
Olivia swore beneath her breath. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
Kyle shrugged. “You didn’t ask. Besides, you know Mum. She always shows up—eventually.”
Taking another sharp turn and narrowly missing an overgrown rhododendron bush, she pulled up in front of her parents’ ramshackle home. It had once been a picturesque two-story country house complete with a thatched roof and limestone walls. These days, its only redeeming feature was the seaside location. The thatch had long since been replaced by slates, many of which were missing. The walls were more grimy gray than pristine white. In short, the place was a shambles.
Once she’d slammed the car door shut, she marched across the weed-infested driveway. The front door was unlocked. When she nudged it open, the warring smells of unwashed clothing, peat smoke, and cigarettes assailed her nostrils. Her father, Jim Dunne, was seated at the kitchen table, playing cards in one hand and a beer in the other. Flanking him on either side were his partners in crime.
“How’re ya, Olivia?” Buck MacCarthy’s speech was slurred, and he squinted at her through his one good eye. The other was covered by a patch, pirate-style. The story of how Buck had lost an eye varied on the teller and ranged from the prosaic (shot out during a fight with the local gypsies) to the mundane (injured during a drunken encounter with a fishing hook).
John-Joe Fitzgerald, her father’s second drinking companion, treated her to a lascivious once-over. John-Joe worked—if one could call it work—as an Elvis impersonator-cum-stripper. That was one show she’d pay not to see. “Looking good, lass,” he leered.
She fixed him with a hostile stare. “Wish I could say the same for you lot.” She crossed her arms over her chest and regarded the debris with disgust. Dirty plates were piled in the sink, a line of empty beer bottles decorated the sideboard, and overflowing ashtrays were in every room. “The place is in an even worse state than the last time I was here.”
Kyle and Ronan trooped in behind her and slung their schoolbags on the floor.
“Ah, don’t fret,” Jim said with breezy unconcern. “The lads and I will tidy up later.”
And pigs might fly. “Where’s Mum?”
Her father’s cheery face brightened. “Gone to London for an art show. We’re on our own for the next few days.”
Olivia spied the phone by the sink, off its stand and out of juice. No wonder Louise Cavendish hadn’t been able to get through. “You’ll have plenty of time to hang with the lads. Kyle and Ronan are out of secondary school for the next couple of weeks. They got suspended for fighting.” Her father’s expression remained impassive. “I need to get back to the office, but I’ll call round again after work. Do you need me to bring anything?”
“Ah no, love. We have a few things in the fridge.”
She yanked open the fridge door and peered inside. Its contents caused her to recoil. “When did you last go shopping? Apart from a beer run, I mean. There’s meat in here that is literally crawling.”
“Don’t worry.” Her father was concentrating on his hand of cards. “We’ll get takeout.”
She’d buy a couple of bags of groceries after work. The boys needed proper nourishment. “Aidan wants you back at work tomorrow. I can’t keep covering for you. The campaign brochures will need to be stuffed into envelopes and sent out by the evening post.”
“Yeah, yeah. I’ll be there tomorrow. Tell him I’ve got the flu.”
If her father kept flaking on the job, her parents were never going to pay off the debt they owed Aidan. “Tomorrow would be good day to return,” she said encouragingly. “Aidan will be attending the Gnome Appreciation Society luncheon in Cork City.”
“Jaysus.” Her father shuddered. “How many garden gnomes does he own?”
“He had fifteen when we married eight years ago. He now has over one hundred and fifty.”
“Wow.” John-Joe blinked his beady eyes. “Even marriage to my Nora hasn’t driven me to such depravities.”
Olivia laughed. “At least the gnomes keep him busy. Does anyone want anything from the supermarket?”
Ronan shook his head. “Nothing for me.”
“Deodorant,” Kyle said.
She made a note of it on her phone, adding a variety of basic groceries to the list. She eyed her youngest brother speculatively. He was scratching his left arm and looking tense. “Do you have enough asthma meds?” she asked. “You sound chesty.”
“It’ll pass.”
Hmm…She wasn’t convinced, but there was no point in pressing the issue. At fifteen, Ronan was old enough to manage his medication. “When did you two last see Mum?” she asked, keeping her voice low.
“A couple of days ago,” said Kyle at the same time Ronan said, “Early last week.”
Her breath caught. “Last week? She’s been gone that long?”
“So?” Ronan’s tone was surly. “It’s not like we see much of her when she is home. She’s always in her bloody studio.”
Olivia’s hand flew to her temple. “Did she say anything before she left? Give any indication where she was going, or with whom? London’s a
big city.”
Kyle gave a bitter laugh. “Sis, you’ve been out of here too long. Mum doesn’t hold herself accountable to anyone, least of all her husband and children. She simply up and left. Good riddance in my opinion. She destroyed the sofa before she left. She needed feathers for her art. Now I can’t play my Xbox in comfort.”
“What?” She went to the living room door and stepped inside. A thick layer of dust covered every surface. No wonder Ronan’s asthma was bad. The sofa had been ripped apart violently. Alarm bells clanged in her ears. When she saw the blood on the knife, she gasped. “Boys, come quick.”
Kyle popped his head round the door and regarded the knife dispassionately. “Dried paint.”
Olivia sagged against the ruined sofa. Thank goodness. For a moment there, she’d thought…
“Get a grip, sis. We’re a sorry lot, I grant you, but we haven’t stooped to murder.”
“Cheeky sod.” Regaining her composure, she opened the patio doors and stomped through the garden toward her mother’s studio. It made the house look tidy in comparison. She had no idea how her mother moved in here, never mind created art.
Canvases were stacked willy-nilly, paint-dried brushes lay discarded on the floor, and the smell of paint stripper pervaded. She held her nose as she picked her way through the debris, searching for any sign her mother might have left behind her. A note, anything. As she advanced through the room, she checked behind paintings and in her mother’s old-fashioned school desk. There was nothing save the inescapable scent of lilac, her mother’s signature perfume. How that scent managed to assert itself against the paint fumes, she’d never know.
She picked up an old paintbrush and examined it. Bright blue paint was dried into the bristles. Her mother or Kyle could have identified the exact shade. She caught sight of a particularly hideous painting featuring an orange sun with burning cherubs. Charming. Her mother’s imagination was even more macabre than her own. There were a few gallery owners and art collectors who fawned over her work, but Olivia suspected it was her cleavage they were admiring, not her art. She tossed the paintbrush onto the desk in disgust.
