Inish Clare

by Jennifer Rose McMahon

  “Thought it might be you.” Paul’s voice caught me by surprise as he approached from behind. “How’re things, Michelle?”

  His warm voice proved his affection for her, but the hidden tone of disappointment didn’t go unnoticed by me.

  “Oops, I get it.” Michelle’s face reddened and her hands shot up in defense. “Didn’t mean to interrupt anything.” Her sarcastic, drawn-out tone poked fun at us.

  “No worries,” Paul said. “I was just leaving. Maeve could use a friendly distraction for a bit.”

  He leaned in and kissed me, lingering for a moment longer than necessary, reminding me of what I was missing. “Meet you at the library tomorrow?”

  Awesome. He was going to join me at the library tomorrow. Perfect.

  I needed his help researching St. Mary’s and the laundries and what became of the women who stayed there.

  “Definitely. That would be great.” I smiled to hide my disappointed eyes, wishing he would stay. “See you tomorrow.”

  I watched him leave out the blue door and onto Bohermore. And then he was gone.

  Before I could fully wallow in the void of his leaving, Michelle stole my attention, pulling me up the stairs to get ready for our night out.

  ***

  “So what’d you find at the cemetery? Anything good?” Michelle tried on a pink lipstick and smacked her lips in the mirror over my dresser. “Your curse is alive and well, I assume.”

  “Actually, yes. About the cursed part.” I shot her a sideways grimace. “There was some creepy dude in a brown cloak, trying to scare us away.”

  A chill ran through me as the vision of the cloaked figure haunted me again.

  “Seriously. Probably Fergal. What a freak.” Her stiff tone emphasized her disdain for Fergal. “He’s always getting in the way of your dream quest. Dick.”

  She jabbed me with her elbow and snickered.

  “Hmm. Maybe.” I considered if it could really have been Fergal. He was from a rival clan of the O’Malleys, the one likely responsible for the murder of Hugh. But was Fergal capable of masterminding… well, anything?

  “He’d make a good villain for my book though,” she interjected. “I’m gonna tell Declan about this. We need some extra layers for the project. An unexpected antagonist.”

  Her level businesslike tone made Fergal seem less dangerous or not real, but that didn’t change anything.

  “Don’t even say his name,” I whined. “He’s like that nightmare dude, where if you think or say his name he materializes! And then you’re dead!”

  I punched her arm to stifle her.

  “Oh my god! That’s good stuff!” She bounced like I was the best muse a friend could have. “Just no wells! Those creep me out too much!”

  I pulled on my favorite jeans and a cute top that hung a little off one shoulder, almost by accident, showing my tank top, and darted into the bathroom to make an attempt at fixing my hair.

  “Come on. You’re fine.”

  Michelle yanked me toward the door as I reached for my phone and wristlet purse. I stumbled and dragged my feet, feeling like I’d rather stay home. With Paul.

  But going out with Michelle was important too. She was my ballast. A reminder of how totally crazy everything was, but how perfectly normal at the same time.

  “Michelle?” I slowed my pace following her and she turned to me.

  “Yeah?”

  “I’m a little scared.” My eyebrows rose as my eyes misted.

  She stopped short.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I don’t know. I feel like something big is happening. Like I’m about to change or something. And I don’t want to change. I want to stay me.”

  “Maeve, you’ll always be you. Nothing and no one can change that.”

  She reached for my bent arm, weaving hers into it, and pulled me along, arm in arm, toward our evening out.

  Her words hit me deep. “I’ll always be me.”

  That was good because I was heading into some uncharted territory and had to wonder if I would come out on the other side unscathed. I seemed to have a habit of jumping in head first with things here in Ireland without really thinking about consequences.

  I just didn’t want to jump too deep into trouble I couldn’t get out of.

  ***

  Flying past Eyre Square and bouncing down Shop Street, I struggled to keep up with Michelle. She was homed in on a secret destination she refused to reveal and swerved through the busy cobblestone road.

  Summer in Galway brought the crowds and the evening sky stayed bright until practically eleven o’clock, giving the feel and energy of mid-day.

  Giggling the entire way, she took my hand and swung my arm in smug knowingness. Then, without question, I heard it. The deep bass vibrations first, then the smooth sounds of rhythm and blues.

  Mojo.

  I stopped short.

  “No!” I stared at Michelle with pure terror bolting out of my pupils. “I can’t!”

  “Oh, yes, you can. And you will! He’ll die when he sees you.” She was giddy like a schoolgirl.

  “Michelle! You’re evil.” I combed my hair with my fingers and straightened my top. “I hate you.” I pressed my lips together, confirming the presence of subtle lip gloss. “Do I look okay?”

  What was wrong with me? The thought of seeing Rory again sent me to Crazyville. Particularly while playing in the band, and same pub, where I’d first fallen for him.

  “You’re gorgeous, as always! Now, come on.” She yanked me into the hidden, arched doorway of Lynch’s Pub.

  It was packed tight as usual with the local crowd. Pints and chatter filled the space and the music topped it up to overflowing. Hearing the familiar sound of Mojo spread a huge smile across my face and I stretched on tiptoes to try for a glimpse of Rory.

  He was my first… love, I guess. I’d met him when I’d just arrived in Ireland last fall, right here in Lynch’s. Somehow, though, it was not meant to be.

  His future was rocky and unstable, until right before I had to leave. Then he seemed more focused, ready to take the first steps toward accepting his role as chieftain of his clan, something I knew nothing about but which impressed me anyway.

  I sucked in a deep breath as I glanced around the pub. The thought of seeing Rory again was exciting. Maybe too exciting. I bared my teeth at my own thoughts, then bit my lip.

  We squeezed through the crowd, forging our way to our favorite bench against the wall with a clear view of the band. It was the same scene, just different faces. Girls squished together in front of the lead singer, Finn, vying for his attention while Rory, the guitar player, sheltered himself behind the shadow of his amp.

  My heart jumped into my throat when I caught sight of his silhouette.

  “Paul would kill you right now if he knew you brought me here!” I yelled above the music.

  “I know! But I couldn’t resist!” She craned her neck and wove through the crowd to see if she could get a look at Rory. “There he is!” She pointed, taunting me, knowing he would create a rise in me of some kind. “It just seems like he was the start to everything. You know, when we first got to Ireland. I just had to bring you back here!”

  My breathing slowed as I soaked in his form. Our memories flooded me like a tide of raw emotion. He was the first boy I’d ever kissed and I figured that must be why I was reacting to him like this. He’d told me to get in touch when I returned….

  Rory stepped out of the shadows and led the band with a guitar solo that pierced through my soul. It echoed in my chest with a sultry rhythm and I begged for him to notice me.

  As if I willed it, his eyes turned to meet mine and my blood pressure plummeted in his gaze. His mouth opened, like a gasp, and his playing faltered. The music lost time and missed a couple beats as he stared into my face, taking in every feature. I smiled at him and then lost sight as a big guy moved in front of me, pushing toward the bar.

  I heard Rory’s playing regain its pace and the music
tightened up again. I strained to get him back into my view.

  Just as the guy moved away, I caught sight of Rory again, still looking my way. Only this time, it wasn’t a gaze of fond recognition and longing, but a glare of loathing hatred.

  His eyes bored into mine and I recoiled in shock. His gaze penetrated into my soul with judgment and threat. My heart lurched, nearly coming up my throat as my flight response kicked in.

  I grabbed Michelle and pulled her through a wall of people, forcing our way to the door.

  “Let’s get out of here!” I begged.

  We flew down Shop Street, searching for a safe pub to hide in, and jumped into The Quay’s. I pulled Michelle to the back of the pub and fell into a corner nook.

  “What. The hell. Was that?” she said with her lips curled back and eyebrow raised.

  A shudder ran through me, like I’d just heard my final judgment.

  “Holy crap. He hates me.”

  ***

  Flipping through an Irish history book at the university library while Paul googled information on St. Mary’s, I felt a twang of guilt for seeing Rory last night. It wasn’t my idea, but still, I went along with it without much resistance.

  Michelle was laden with guilt too and spent hours replaying it, trying to figure out what was wrong with him—why he’d been so aggressive. She begged for my forgiveness for the setup. A true romantic, she was shaken that she didn’t get to witness a love-struck Rory pining for her “untouchable” best friend. I could kill her.

  I guess my guilt came from the way he made me feel, at first. Butterflies. But it was his glare of daggers that truly disrupted my soul.

  What the hell was that?

  I looked down at the pages again, seeing nothing.

  Rory had distracted me, yet again.

  How did he do that? Every time.

  “I went back to the cemetery last night,” Paul stated, staring down at his computer.

  “What? Why would you do that without me?” I gawked at him. “Paul!”

  I wasn’t sure if my reaction was from the betrayal of him going without me or fear of him going without me.

  “I had to. I didn’t want to bring you back there in case there was trouble. I had to check it out for myself.” He looked straight into my eyes.

  “Okay, fine. So what happened?”

  He pressed his lips together.

  “I snuck along the border and observed. Just ta see if the cloaked arse-hole was still there. To see if we could go back without him interferin’ again.”

  “Yeah?” I leaned in, eyes wide.

  “He was there. Just gliding around among the stones and mostly around the burial mound. Like he was guardin’ it or something.”

  A shudder ran through me.

  “No! That’s so creepy. Crap!” My head shook from the thought of being held away from the cemetery. “Who the hell is that guy?”

  “I have no idea. But for now, we need to stay away from there. Until he’s gone, anyway.” He scrolled through his computer, changing the subject with his actions.

  “You shouldn’t go there without me.” My annoyance rang in my high pitch. “Or at least give me the option. I could have helped if something went wrong. Don’t do that, okay?”

  I reached for his arm and squeezed his wrist.

  He nodded and gave a half-smirk.

  “So, apparently, St. Mary’s has a log of all the names of girls who were sent there and whatever became of them.” Paul spoke aloud as he stared into his computer. “Sounds like it might have accuracy issues, but it’s definitely worth checkin’ out.”

  The unwavering commitment in his steady voice convinced me this was our next move.

  I looked back into my book and saw black and white photos of girls standing in a courtyard, all wearing the same gray frocks and the same short haircuts with bangs, hanging sheets for miles. Blank stares on their faces and slumped shoulders made each girl a shell carbon-copy of the next. There were always two or three nuns, in old-fashioned long white habits and white skirts, off to the side, watching with carved scowls and judging eyes.

  My eyes lifted to Paul’s as fear crept into me, wondering about the fate of Brigid. If I couldn’t find her, I might never get another person’s perspective on the visions and basically, the curse of Grace O’Malley.

  I needed her. I needed her to confirm the visions were real. That she saw the same things and knew Grace was in search of help… or something. Anything.

  Maybe she would have details or information on what to do or where to look next. Without Brigid, I was on my own.

  Paul’s screen had newspaper clippings pulled up from images. They showed a convent-like structure with a big cross at the front gate. It was St. Mary’s. The photos gave it an eerie sense of foreboding, like a “do not enter” warning and a chill shook through me in response.

  “We’re going there?” I asked, baring my teeth in apprehension.

  “Yep.” Paul clicked on more images.

  Excavation photos showed dug up areas outside of the convent, or “Home for Mothers and Babies,” as some captions referred to it. Others used the spine-chilling title, “House of Tears.” One of the headlines said, “800 Babies.”

  “What’s that?” I pointed at his screen.

  He slapped his laptop closed and turned to me, ashen.

  “Babies?” I prodded.

  “They found a mass grave there.” He spoke down toward his lap.

  I swallowed hard.

  He continued, “Our timing is probably not ideal. And they say St. Mary’s will likely be shut down altogether.”

  “We still need to go. Especially now. They can’t hold their secrets there anymore. They have to give up one more, to us.”

  I imagined finding Brigid. Was it even possible? I wondered if she would have answers about Grace O’Malley and the curse that plagued our family. Maybe she would have clues for me, information to help me find Grace, to reunite her with Hugh, or at least somewhere to begin.

  If I could confirm the final resting place of Grace O’Malley, I could return her ring in hopes of reconnecting her to Hugh. That would settle her soul. It felt like the right thing. And for Grace to see Paul and me together, that would bring peace to her, too.

  It had to. Because I couldn’t spend the rest of my life running from a ghost.

  “Paul, what will we say to Brigid? If we find her.” I bit my thumbnail to the quick.

  “No idea.” He stared past my shoulder in thought. “Maybe she could tell us about her visions. She may have more details, different from yours.” He focused on me. “She could know something important and not even realize it.”

  “I don’t want to waste another minute. Let’s just do this,” I decided.

  I stood up and pressed my hands on the table in determination.

  “We’re going to the House of Tears,” I stated.

  Chapter Three

  House of Tears

  My nerves caused me to fumble as I packed my cinch sack for the trip to St. Mary’s—the House of Tears. A jacket, water, tissues maybe?

  It was all moving so quickly. I’d only been back in Ireland for a few weeks and any warmth left of July in Boston was quickly dissipating in the mellow chill of the late Irish summer.

  I threw notebooks and pens from my bag into a pile on the floor to make room for my things for the trip. My class schedule for the fall lay crumpled on top of the pile. The full list of courses made my stomach turn as I wondered if I had taken on too much. Archaeology, Celtic Mythology, History of the Druids—all classes I was sure Paul would not be teaching. That was Rule One, from now on.

  My phone chirped. Paul’s name lit up.

  On my way

  Butterflies fluttered in my belly, searching for their way out. I wasn’t sure if it was nerves for the trip to St. Mary’s or Paul’s affect on me. Both?

  I waited outside my blue door, pacing off my nervous energy. The Celtic crosses up the road in Bohermore Cemetery watched me with
curiosity, always tilting their gaze in wonder.

  “You look more than ready,” Paul jeered through the open window. “Hop in, me lady.”

  He pushed the door open and held a coffee out to me as I got in. His warm smile soothed my twitching nerves.

  “I’m kind of freaking out right now,” I stated. “This is by far the craziest thing we’ve done. I mean, tracking a pirate queen ghost is one thing, but searching for a lost cousin who was sent to the laundries when she was young… now, that’s crazy!”

  I dug at my thumb cuticle until it bled.

  “You’re cute when you’re scared,” Paul teased. “Come here.”

  He unbuckled his seatbelt and reached for me.

  I moved over to him, careful not to spill our coffees as he pulled me right into his arms and held me. He brushed my hair out of my face.

  “You make me crazy,” he mumbled.

  And he kissed me.

  His summer stubble and smell of outdoors thrilled me as my mind swam in color swirls and glowing light. The wetness of his lips made me want more.

  “You’re me heart, Maeve Grace O’Malley. I’d do anything fer ya.”

  He helped me back into my seat and buckled my seatbelt for me.

  As he pulled into the traffic on Bohermore, I watched him. I soaked in his angular features, his cheekbones and lashes. His flannel shirt and khakis. His hair, a little past its trimming date, and his lips. Full and warm.

  “What?” He shot a look at me.

  Shit! Caught in my eternal Paul McGratt love gaze again!

  “Nothing. Just liking you.” I smiled a guilty smile.

  “Good. Keep doing that.”

  He kept his eyes on the road as he picked up speed on the N17.

  Destination Tuam.

  ***

  The white sign with black borders was in the shape of an arrow and read TUAM 5km.

  My breath sucked in.

  Hedgerows flew by, so close to the car they scraped it. The narrow road was a death trap if there was any oncoming traffic. Paul slowed and pressed to the side each time a car headed our way.

  “That didn’t take long.” My apprehension oozed from my words.

  “It’s basically halfway between Galway and Claremorris,” Paul said, keeping to the facts, probably so I wouldn’t start to fidget.