by J. K. Zimmer
“You don’t have to say anything, Ms. Hanes. I can see I’ve made you uncomfortable, and if you’d like me to leave, I will. But before I go, I just want you to know I wasn’t upset with you during the interview. I understand what pressure can do, and considering the pressure you must have felt, I thought you did a great job.” Kevin slid his chair back and stood to leave.
“No, you don’t have to leave,” she said, looking him in the eye. “I mean, if you have somewhere to go. But if you want to stay, I’d like to hear about your work. And you also mentioned a book you thought I’d like?”
Kevin went back to the shelf and returned with the book he had referred to earlier in their meeting. “This is the book I was talking about,” he said, sitting down next her. “I’m not sure exactly what you’re looking for, but if you could give me a little information, I think I could be of some help. I’ve studied the country of Ireland some and know a little bit about it.”
He couldn’t help but study her face as he talked. She was listening intently to his every word, like what he had to say made a difference for some reason. And her physical features seemed to grow more beautiful the longer they talked. He wondered how he was going to keep his mind going in the right direction. He cleared his throat. “So why are you interested in Ireland?”
Her eyes moved to the old book in front of her. “This is why.” Sophie carefully slid the diary in front of him.
He opened the front cover and studied the writing. “This is definitely Gaelic,” he said, then turned the diary over and examined it for another brief minute. “By the markings on the back, it looks like the diary was produced in the early to mid-nineteenth century, but that would be odd.”
Sophie inched closer to look at the diary. “Why would that be odd?”
“Because, by that time in Irish history, the Gaelic language had almost—and let me repeat, almost—been replaced by other languages. Plus more than two million people had been lost to disease, famine, and immigration, so only the poor and uneducated that remained would have spoken Gaelic.”
A wrinkle crossed the bridge of Sophie’s nose once again. “So that means that this diary belonged to a poor woman?” she asked, not completely following his thoughts.
He looked directly into her eyes. “No, it didn’t belong to a poor woman,” he said, pointing to some faint markings in the lower right-hand corner. “See this?” He took her fingers in his and rested them on the markings. “This diary was the property of a woman of wealth. Poor women could not have afforded this book. But the question is, did she purchase it, or was it given to her? And if it was given to her, then by whom and for what reason?” he said, thinking out loud. “I guess those questions can only be answered by the writings within the pages of this little book,” he said, placing his hand over the cover. He stared at the book, thinking. “You know what makes this really odd? Very few wealthy people spoke the Gaelic language. So how did this woman know it, and why would she use it in a personal document?” He leaned back in his chair, pinching his lower lip. “Ms. Hanes, could it be that the woman who owned the diary was trying to hide something, or could she have been an accomplice to something deceitful?” Kevin glanced carefully at Sophie. Her eyes were wide, and the questioning look on her face was priceless. A faint smile set on his lips. He noticed her shoulders had relaxed, but the look on her face was still of surprise, and that was worth a thousand words on paper. He wanted to know her thoughts. He tried to read her but couldn’t. “Why are you looking at me like that?” he asked. He smiled and looked deeper into her eyes as he waited for an answer.
Sophie wasn’t taken aback by his notable stare this time. She couldn’t help but be amazed by his knowledge of the topic at hand and the way he reasoned through different aspects of the diary. This man was much more than a cameraman.
“How do you know so much about the Irish people and their history? And the questions you were asking, what are you besides a cameraman, Mr. Gates a reporter?”
He didn’t answer her question.
“I should have known,” she said flatly.
Kevin tried to read the tone of her voice and the way her eyebrows lifted with her questions. He wondered if she would find his being a reporter a bad thing or a good thing. He knew that many people looked at reporters the same as they did lawyers, and he was hoping that wouldn’t be the case when he told her what his true profession was. There was no way to get out of answering without lying, and he was quite sure that wasn’t an option with this woman.
“All right, the first thing you have to do is call me Kevin. And you have to promise to have dinner with me tomorrow evening before I’ll reveal my true identity,” he said with a waning smile, waiting again for an answer.
She straightened in her chair and pulled the diary from in front of him. “I don’t make deals with strangers,” she said, stacking the books in a neat pile near her backpack. She stopped, looked up, and then stared at him firmly as she spoke. “But I guess if I want to pick your brain and know your true identity, then I have to say…” She paused, unsure if she should say yes. It had been so long since she’d dated or spent any time with a man since Trey, but it was only dinner, and she was sure she could stand to be with someone that period of time. “Yes, I’ll have dinner with you tomorrow, Kevin,” she said, looking down at the diary.
He had cleared the first hurdle with her and was going to make sure he had counted the steps carefully before he attempted the next jump. “All right then, I’ll pick you up at your house around seven tomorrow night. Will that work for you?”
She nodded.
“So Ms. Hanes, to answer your questions about my work—yes, I’m a cameraman, and yes, I used to be a reporter. Three years ago, I discovered that my true love was telling stories through still photography. I love to capture real people in their real lives. Sometimes it’s good, and sometimes it’s bad. But either way, I want my readers to experience the same emotions I did as I witnessed it firsthand. I like to call myself a photojournalist, but you can call me whatever you want.”
“I think photojournalist will be fine,” she said, scribbling something on a piece of paper. “Here’s my address, Mr. Gates—ah, I stand corrected—Kevin. I don’t live too far from here.”
He studied the street name. “Yeah, I know where this neighborhood is,” he said and then looked back at Sophie. “Does this mean our conversation is over for today?” he asked, hoping the disappointment didn’t show in his voice. “I mean, I’d really like to look into your diary a little more, and if you have any more questions, I would be happy to try and answer them.”
“Thanks for your offer, but I really need to get home. There are still some things that need my attention before the weekend is over,” she explained, giving him a quick glance as she stood. “But I’ll see you tomorrow night at seven, right?”
“Seven it is.”
Sophie put the diary in her backpack, and pinched the other two books into the bend of her arm, then looked straight at him. “Kevin?” She stopped short of telling him how nervous she felt around him. There was no denying that he was good looking, smart, and…so much like Trey. It was just too much all at one time no matter how badly she wanted to work on the diary. “Maybe after dinner tomorrow night, we could look at the diary again?” she asked. “That is, if you have time.”
“That’s a great idea, Ms. Hanes,” he said, pushing his chair to the side of the table.
She turned to leave, stopped, and then looked back. “If you want, you can call me Sophie.”
Her brown eyes operated like a snare, trapping him in a cage. He wanted to call her more than Sophie. He wanted to call her on the phone and talk to her all night long. Or better yet, he wanted to invite himself over to her house right then and spend the entire evening with her, maybe longer. He wondered what she thought of him. Did she feel his excitement when he touched her hand earlier? Could she not picture what was going on in his mind when he looked at her? She definitely was a private person, and th
at meant intrigue and allure to a guy who loved a challenge and enjoyed getting to the bottom of a good story.
“I’ll call you Sophie,” he said, giving a wave of his hand and watching as she walked to the front doors.
“Yes, Sophie Hanes, you are a complete package,” he said quietly as he broke a smile. “And with any luck, I’ll be the guy who finds out just what that package holds.”
Chapter Three
Anya
Anya found her mother in the front garden, sitting on the marble bench nestled among the hanging flowers.
“Where is Father this morning?” Anya asked as she sat down.
Mrs. O’Connell sat without a word, lost somewhere in her own world.
Anya had noticed an absence of self in her mother after she had been attacked by a high fever several months earlier. The fever had lasted for more than seven days. When it had finally broken, Mrs. O’Connell exhibited a notable change. She would sit, smile, and say a few words, but as of late, the smiles were few and the words not spoken. She would just sit, staring for long periods of time, saying nothing. Anya questioned the doctors as to whether her mother would ever recover and be her old self. The truth was not encouraging.
Anya took the hand of the woman who had raised her and kissed it gently, feeling a sick emptiness build in her heart.
“What has happened to my family?” she questioned. “First the decline of Father’s businesses, followed by Mother’s illness?”
Her mind’s eye narrowed in hopeless thought. And now, the change in the extravagant life they once lived. She circled the area with her eyes. The one thing the McConnell’s hadn’t lost was the castle Goregoo and the estate just outside their beloved Dool. It remained home for their splintered family.
She looked once again at her lifeless mother sitting and staring, totally unaware of the beauty surrounding her. “Mother?” she asked, hoping once again for a response, none. Alone, she would enjoy what the gardener and groundskeeper had preserved for her. Even they were at the count of two. And their jobs were made possible only at her never ending request that her father continue to employ them for the sake of their families.
Her persistence came with a price, however. Anya no longer went to private school. The cost for three days’ instruction with a governess in the castle trumped the cost of five days away at school. Besides, she was eighteen and nearly finished with her studies, secretly hoping to enjoy more of the social graces that women of her age were privileged to. Her mind quickly grew heavy at the thought. But with Mother not herself as of late, who would guide her in making proper decisions about going to the gatherings and other social activities? Father was hardly suited for such a role, and he was away at work for days on end. She stopped in thought, certainly not Sean. Although he was now twenty-two and older than she, he disturbed her. When he was near, she sensed something about her only brother, something dark. Maybe it was his intense mindset on growing his wealth, his new brewery, his obvious disdain for Father, and his appetite for excessive behavior with women—and men, for that fact. She wished she knew not these things about him, but with Father away so many nights and Sean still living at the castle, she could hear him come in late, and much of the time he was not alone. His behavior was dreadful. Perhaps it is good that Mother was at the castle only in body most of the time. It would kill her to see her son caught up with such people and involved in such coarse behavior.
“Anya, would you ask the gardener to cut some flowers and bring them to my room? I’m frightfully sleepy and need to rest.”
“Mother, you’re here,” she said, taking her hands, clutching them firmly to her cheek.
“Yes, little lass, I will always be here,” Mrs. McConnell said, looking at her daughter through dimly lit eyes. “Will you walk with me to my room?”
Anya held her hand as they rose from the bench. Mother had always been quietly beautiful, and even in illness she possessed that soft quality. It was clear why Father had married her, and yet Anya couldn’t understand his absence from his sick wife’s side over the past long months. As with Sean, there was so much she didn’t understand. Perhaps one day she would.
Over the next several months, Anya watched as her mother’s body slowly deteriorated until she passed in her sleep one night. She watched as her father, who had been so absent, shed tears over his wife’s lifeless body, and then abruptly stopped to make appropriate arrangements for her burial. Everything seemed to be orderly but happening in a thick, wet fog. Even Mother’s request to rest among the trees and flowers was granted. Father followed her wishes precisely. Sean, too, felt the sting of Mother’s passing, but he handled his grief with large amounts of spirits that left him sick and in seclusion for days after.
Days passed into weeks, and Anya would sit in her mother’s bedroom for hours at a time. Being in her mother’s space was comforting. Her mother had said she would always be there, and she was. Anya could sense her.
“Sorry to disturb you, Miss O’Connell,” Colleen said, stepping quietly into the room and seeing Anya sitting near the window, looking out over the eastern garden as did her mother in the last weeks of her life.
“Miss, we need to properly clean your mother’s bedchamber. Your Father feels it is time to air the room.” Colleen was a longtime faithful servant to the family, assuming the running of the household since the day Mrs. O’Connell took ill.
Anya knew what that meant and immediately clutched her stomach. “What of Mother’s things, Colleen? What are we to do with them? Throw them in the street as if they mean nothing?”
She spread her hands out in front of her, fear of losing any last vestiges of her mother evident on her face.
Colleen heard the panic in Anya’s trembling voice as she spoke. The young woman was no stranger to grief—she had witnessed it before. The family servant, only seven years older than the young Miss O’Connell, wrung her hands together, at a loss for kind words. What could she do to help soothe the pain of this delicate matter?
“Miss O’Connell, your father has instructed that her belongings be given to charity.”
Anya jerked her head up, question in her eyes. “What? Has my father gone mad? These are my beloved mother’s personal things. Where but this house should they remain? Nothing is to be taken from this room, Colleen,” Anya said, sitting firmly on the bed.
Colleen looked at the young woman, seeing the hurt and loneliness in her beautiful green eyes. “Miss O’Connell, may I sit with you?”
Anya said not a word as Colleen sat gently next to her. “Miss O’Connell, I know you grieve over your mother, as I do. She was as much a friend as she was the Lady of the house.”
Colleen looked around the room, not wanting Anya to see the glassiness in her own eyes. She cleared her throat. “I do agree with your father, I do. But how about we go to cleaning your mother’s room of things you want for yourself, aye?” She put her hand on Anya’s. “Miss, we can take several days if you like, going through Mrs. O’Connell’s things slowly so you have time to think and decide what you would want to keep.”
Anya squeezed Colleen’s hands as she turned to look into her face. She saw sadness in the pretty face of the woman who had served them since she was but a child, and heard honest concern for her feelings. “You will help me in the cleaning then?”
“Aye, Miss O’Connell, I will help you as you wish and report to your father that the room is being aired.”
Anya looked away, fixing her eyes on the delicate lace curtains and matching throw over the back of the chair. “Can we wait until tomorrow after the governess has left?” she asked, her voice beginning to shake.
“Miss, we will start tomorrow after biscuits and a wet of tea, and if you like, we will open the wardrobe first and then stop for the day until the next.”
“Yes.” Anya wrapped her arms around herself, standing to look out the window once again. “And Colleen, if my brother asks about what we are doing, please send him to me, not my father, for answers.”
&n
bsp; “Aye, Miss, I will do as you wish. I will leave you now and attend to my evening chores if there is nothing else?”
“No, nothing else Colleen,” she said, her voice as distant as her long gaze across the garden.
Anya woke from a fitful sleep, her nightgown clinging tightly to her damp body. The air was close and stale in her bedchamber, in much need of a fresh spring breeze. She touched her feet to the floor and walked to unlatch the closure that allowed the windows to swing open freely. A light breeze rushed in, caressing her face while it tossed her hair from her neck.
“Oh,” she sighed, lifting her chin, allowing the gentle wind to dry the moisture from her skin. She leaned on the sill, continuing to drink in the refreshing breeze, when she heard the faint sound of voices. It was her father’s voice and…Sean. At this hour, what could they be discussing of such great importance? She strained to hear the broken conversation, to no gain. Slipping her robe over her shoulders, Anya padded quietly down the stairs. She glimpsed a sliver of light coming from the door to her father’s study. Anya stepped to one side of the great double doors, Father and Sean in plain view. Both men held a strategic stance, standing dangerously close to one another, their hands tightly fisted and white knuckled.
“What do you know of trust, Father?” sounded the venomous voice of her brother, the veins in his neck protruding in anger. “You say you have others who are trustworthy, others who can take care of your business and the warehouses on the waterfront? Then what of me, Father? Leaving me in charge of nothing but the family estate, to be but a caretaker for Anya?”
She watched as Sean’s eyes seemed to darken.
“Do you take me to be a fool?” Sean pulled on Father’s outer coat. “No Father, you are the fool, and the one who lacks trust.”
“Sean.” Mr. O’Connell’s sharp voice split the dimly lit room. “Be reasonable, you are young and busy with your own dealings. The warehouses are busy with merchants and dock workers. You have spent little time there and know nothing of the comings and goings of the business at hand. I think it best that in my absence; the waterfront is taken care of by those who are familiar with the details and everyday—”
