by Dorien Kelly
Could it be?
Damned horror of a gift, never coming when needed and smacking her upside the psyche when unwanted. Vi let her eyes fall shut. The fiery circular pattern remained, reminding her of her great-grandmother’s notebook. The image faded, then slowly and none too clearly an impression of a baby girl with her father’s green eyes and her mother’s full mouth came to Vi.
“Pale lavender,” she said to her brother, who she knew was hovering nearby, his worried thoughts so loud in her head that he might as well speak. “Paint the nursery pale lavender with a morning sky on the ceiling.”
There, she’d done it. Now would this sensation leave her bloody well alone? She tried to rouse, but couldn’t. Her vision of the babe was replaced by one of the same dark-haired girl years hence leading a flock of younger children in mischief. Not a single one among them could she call hers, either.
Her envy seemed to have one productive aspect, for the moment of seeing passed. Vi opened her eyes, drew in a deep breath, then raised a brow at Michael and Kylie, who were now standing in front of her. “And you’d best make sure that you’ve locked away the breakables and hidden the ladders.”
Michael laughed. “That’s unassailable advice. And don’t think I failed to note that you chose neither boyish nor girlish colors for the baby’s room. Some seer you’ve turned out to be.”
“Really, and would you be wanting to know the baby’s sex?”
Michael’s yes clashed with his wife’s alarmed no.
“No?” he asked Kylie. “If we don’t let her tell us, once the baby’s born, she’ll just say that’s what she saw.”
Vi tried for some of their usual banter. “I’d never do that. At least to no one but you.”
“None of your games, you two,” Kylie decreed. To her husband she said, “I didn’t ask my doctor and I’m not asking your sister, even though I expect she’s more accurate. I’ve no intention of knowing what this baby is till I’m holding him—or her—in my arms. I need something to focus on during labor.”
Chastened, Michael kissed his wife again. “We’ll have it your way, then.”
Kylie pinned Vi with a teacherly frown. “And no telling others, either.”
“Of course not.”
“The baby’s healthy, though?”
“Quite,” Vi assured her.
“Grand.”
Michael gave Vi an appraising look. “You’re still too pale. I’m thinking you need at least some soup before I have to do the unthinkable and carry you to your car, wee sweet Violet.”
Only could Michael, broad of shoulder and soft of heart, get away with teasing her so. “For that, I should make you do it.”
She glanced at her watch. It was already nearly three-thirty and much as she’d like to, avoiding her studio was no longer an option. With her waking dream had come a germ of an idea for the Castle Duneen commission. She wasn’t so rich with inspiration that she could afford to ignore it.
“And thank you for the offer of food,” she said, “but it’s to work for me….” She meant to say more but those circles had returned, dancing in fire. She wasn’t sure how long she fell silent, except it was long enough for Michael to now be giving her a most exasperated look.
“You’re getting fed before you float away altogether,” he said before turning heel and heading to the kitchen.
Kylie walked to the sofa. She somehow managed to lower herself onto it and still look graceful. Another pang of jealousy stuck Vi, followed by the obligatory bite of guilt. Ah, yes, this was why travel to Duncarraig had sounded so appealing. She gave fate a grudging nod. It was a dark irony that she should have run to more sharply personal woes than those she’d fled. She kept her gaze on her sister-in-law’s face while they chatted about village events over the days Vi had been gone.
Soon, Michael reappeared with a paper sack in hand. “I won’t be standing between you and your work, but I won’t be having you starve, either. There’s bread, fruit, and cheese to tide you over till supper.”
Vi rose, hastily telling Kylie to please sit back and relax when it looked as though she intended to move. Michael walked Vi outside and stood by as she and Rog got settled in her car.
“So now that Kylie’s out of range, is it a boy or girl?”
Vi laughed. “I value my life, thank you, so I’ll not be telling you.”
“But I’m your very own brother,” he wheedled. “I promise I won’t tell her.”
“No matter. You’re mad in love with Kylie, and she with you. She knows you too well, Michael. One look at you and she’ll be sure I told.”
“Impossible. I’m not obvious at all.”
Vi could only laugh at her brother’s protest. “When it comes to Kylie, you’ve always been.”
She briefly considered giving him family news of a sootier feather than the stork’s—that of Mam and Da’s battle—but discarded the notion. If Mam was hard on her, she was merciless on Michael. A prison stay, even one not quite wholly deserved, was a sin never to be forgiven according to Mam’s commandments. Michael and Mam had worked a tenuous truce, and Vi doubted it would ever grow warmer between them.
Instead of cause for more upset, she manufactured her very best seer’s smile and said, “Here’s my gift to you, brother. I promise I’ll tell you boy or girl before the babe is born…thirty seconds before.”
With that, she rolled up the window, gave him a wave, and drove off.
“Ready for a marathon at the studio, ma chiste?” she asked her hound.
Roger whimpered, as would have Vi, except she knew it would change nothing. The fire was in her, and burn she would.
On a cold Sunday mid-morning, Liam looked out his window at another dozen or so reasons to be gone from Duncarraig. Yesterday, his family’s tale of lost wealth had appeared in the Kilkenny Courier. The newspaper must have a rabid readership, for earlier he had awakened to a small gathering of the terminally optimistic standing out front of his house, in search of a leader.
In telling them to leave, he’d made the critical mistake of acknowledging them. It had been rather like letting a hungry stray dog look one in the eye. Bonding was instantaneous and irrevocable. They’d stood on the curb, bandying about theories, each less likely than the last. Disgusted, Liam had retreated to breakfast and the telephone. A call to the Gardaí asking for help had yielded little, as no actual trespass was taking place.
Liam walked away from the window before his entourage could take his regard as a sign of welcome. If it were just him, he’d have been gone yesterday and missed this scene. He had Meggie to consider, and God knew he loved her, but she had a way of making matters involved.
His mother had invoked saints he was sure didn’t exist when he’d announced his intention to leave. According to Mam, there was Meghan’s washing to be done, firm arrangements regarding lodging to be made, and Beth in Saudi Arabia to be consulted. And though his mam had never mentioned directly Vi, she’d denounced Ballymuir as a wild and heathen place, and surely unsuitable for a child.
Liam had had no patience for Mam’s subtext. He’d told her that he’d always favored exotic places and had no intention of changing. That had earned him Mam’s silence, though he was sure his da was getting an earful on the topic. Liam planned to be well on the road before Mam could gather her resources for another attack.
“Hey Dad, if I threw a bucket of water from the window, I bet I could hit at least ten of ’em,” Meggie called from upstairs.
That would nearly be a sight worth suffering for. “Then we’d have the Gardaí after me instead of them,” he called back. “Just come downstairs, love. It’s time for us to be off.”
Without a glance in his followers’ direction, he shuttled Meghan to the relative sanity of his mam’s care, and took what subtle barbs Mam could send his way before escaping. After that, he was off to Nan Kilbride’s for one last look about, his procession trailing behind him. Cullen, who was to be watching the place for Vi, let the lot of them enter. Liam watched as h
is shadows climbed out of their cars and began to band together.
“Could you not have stopped them?” he called to Cullen, who was lazing about near Nan’s painted boulder, his smug expression looking very much like another reason for Liam to be gone.
“They’d just create a distraction on the roadside,” Cullen replied as Liam neared. “What do you think of charging them three euros each as a car park fee?”
“And you’d be giving the money to Vi?” Liam asked, knowing far better. Even lazy Cullen had enough Rafferty opportunist in him to turn a money-making opportunity to his own benefit.
“I…ah…hadn’t thought that far ahead.”
“You just hadn’t thought beyond your own pocket,” Liam replied, then started a bit when the cell phone in his own began to ring. He extracted it, turned away from his brother and his followers, and then answered.
It was Beth again, the third time she’d called today, still in a state of high alarm. He had done his best to reassure her that all was under control—no mean feat, considering he’d also had to tell her of Meggie’s expulsion. Even his promise to call their daughter’s school in Atlanta first thing Monday and arrange for books and lesson plans to be sent by express courier hadn’t calmed her.
“One last question,” Beth said this time. “That woman who’s staying in your carriage house…she’s not going to Ballymuir, is she?”
“Vi’s already there,” Liam replied, wishing he were.
“I knew she was involved!”
His ex-wife didn’t sound at all herself. Their divorce had been emotionally difficult, but even in those moments of stress, she’d not been vindictive. Liam attempted to calm matters.
“Beth, Meggie and I are staying in a hotel of sorts, not with Vi. She doesn’t even know we’re coming.” Though she damn well should expect it, he could have added.
“I don’t like this,” Beth said. “I’m going to call my parents. Maybe they can—”
“Don’t,” he said with more force than he’d intended, but his pulse had jumped at her words—ones that sounded a threat to him, when a few weeks ago they would have sounded like nirvana. “Meggie’s fine with me, and here she’ll stay. I haven’t had nearly enough time with her.”
Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted a few of his followers making a break from the pack. “Hang on a sec,” he said to Beth. “Cullen, get them away from the house, and then while you’re at it, off the property.”
“But my car park fees!”
Liam tallied the vehicles while he listened to his ex-wife threaten to hang up on him since she wasn’t worth his full attention.
“I owe you twenty-one euros, then,” he said to his brother.
It seemed bribe enough, for Cullen was on the move.
“Beth, about Meggie,” Liam said into his cell phone, but it was too late, for Beth had been as good as her word. He redialed, got her voice mail, and left an apology even though he knew it would do little good. He’d spent his apology quota on Beth years before.
Cullen had the property cleared and a hand extended for cash with such efficiency that Liam was forced to feel some respect for the sluggard, if not the need to be around him very much longer.
And so Liam began a task surprisingly solitary in nature considering the number of onlookers lining the low stone wall that marked the border of Nan’s property. An empty task it was, too. The sun had started to slip low in the western sky when Liam was forced to admit that Rafferty’s gold wouldn’t be saving his arse today. Or likely any other.
“I’ll be heading home,” he called to the remaining intrepid observers who were sharing both joking comments and what appeared to be a flask of whiskey. “And don’t be expecting an invitation to supper.”
Liam returned to town, noting that most of his entourage had stopped near the family pub. Now, at least, he grasped why his da had been so open with the reporter. Like Cullen, his father had been thinking with his wallet.
Glad to be rid of his tail, Liam moved on to his mam’s house. When he entered, the first thing that struck him was the quiet. Usually she had the television going whether in front of it or not. He stuck his head in the small television room, but it was empty, as was her fussy front room.
“Mam?” he called.
Just then, Meghan came skidding into the hallway from the dining room. “You’re back early, Dad.”
Liam took in the over-brightness of her tone and the way her brown eyes shone with a contrived innocence. He might be a novice at parenting but he was no fool.
“I’m exactly on time. Where’s your grandmother?” he asked as he strolled into the dining room. Meggie’s blue daypack lay on the table with a scattering of CDs around it, and an open bottle of Club Orange sat on the polished mahogany without a coaster beneath it. Clearly, Mam wasn’t in residence, for she’d be having a seizure at the sight.
Meghan positioned herself between him and the door to the kitchen, which was ajar. “Aunt Catherine’s barfing, so Grandma went to watch everyone. I’m staying here since I’d rather die than puke. I mean, what if Aunt Catherine has the flu or something? The last time I had it, I even barfed the water Mom tried to give me. It was totally gross.”
Liam had begun to see a pattern in his daughter’s habits. Sharing of random personal details meant she was hiding something else. He looked at her more closely. Her white long-sleeved shirt was splotched a brownish color here and there, and its cuffs looked to be both wet and stained with the same color.
“What happened to your shirt?” he asked.
“I don’t see anything,” she replied without even looking. Liam tried to glance around her, toward the kitchen, but she repositioned herself in his way.
“Odd. You see nothing at all, eh?” He took her by the elbow. “Let’s go in the kitchen and—”
Meghan dug in her heels. “Wait! Grandma has this awesome soap bar by the washing machine. I’ll get it. You wait here.”
“So what is it you’re not wanting me to see?” Liam asked as he released her, then managed to skirt past her and into the room she guarded.
The astringent scent of brewed tea filled the kitchen. Wet sheets of paper, all tinged an ugly light brownish color, lay across dishes lining the counter-tops. More were clipped to hangers suspended from every available cupboard knob or hook. And Jamie sat at the kitchen table, a mug of what else but tea in his hands.
“Jamie,” Liam said, giving his brother an appraising nod.
“Liam.”
“Do I want to ask what you’re about?”
“Just having a cuppa,” his brother replied with great calm.
“Right.” Like Meghan, Jamie was more the Club Orange sort. “And the paper?”
“We’re aging it,” Meghan said as she came to stand behind her uncle.
“You’re what?”
“Aging it. Uncle Jamie showed me how.”
“I’m trying very hard not to sound an idiot, here, but why might you need paper soaked in tea?” Liam asked Jamie.
“He’s going to make treasure maps for the people coming to town,” Meghan said before Jamie could answer. “You know, like in the movies.”
And there was the final hand in the middle of the back pushing Liam to the town limits. “Jesus, Jamie—”
“Mind your words,” his brother said in a fine imitation of a parish nun. “There’s a child present.”
“One you’re involving in a fraud scheme.”
“Ah, come now, Liam. You’ve got to learn to go where the wind takes you. How do you think our ancestors managed to survive?”
“Through thievery and corruption, according to you,” Liam replied. He flicked at an almost dry piece of paper on the kitchen table. “And this, I’d say, falls into the corruption end of the enterprise.”
“Thievery, too, I suppose, as it’s Mam’s tea we’re using,” Jamie cheerfully pointed out.
“Grand,” Liam replied while Meggie giggled.
“Just meeting a need,” Jamie said. “I
knew as soon as that reporter lady came to visit Da that there’d be treasure seekers arriving. And as long as they’re seeking, why shouldn’t we recoup some of the Rafferty gold with a map or two?”
“It looks more like a few dozen to me,” Liam said. “And you don’t sense a moral issue afoot in all of this?”
“I’m having some fun, is all,” Jamie replied.
“Jeez, Dad, don’t act like this is some big deal.”
Liam didn’t much like his daughter’s comment, for this was a “big deal,” indeed. If Beth got wind of Meghan’s involvement in even this small scam, it would be yet one more reason to pull her from him.
“Meghan, why don’t you go pack up your things?” he asked. “I believe I saw your bag in the dining room.”
“But—”
“Now. And close the door, too.”
Meghan did as told, but none too willingly.
“I’ll give you a questionable sort of credit for initiative,” he said in a low voice to his brother, as he knew his daughter would have an ear to the door. “But involving Meggie? I’d be better off letting Da open the tattoo parlor for her, as he’s promised. At least that would be legal.”
“Tattoo parlor? Hadn’t thought of that one,” Jamie said. “Do you suppose it could turn a profit in a town this size?”
“Forget the parlor,” Liam said, regretting he’d even raised the topic. “Meggie and I are here until tomorrow morning. If you could keep your damn maps to yourself until then, I stand a far better chance of convincing her you meant these as over-priced souvenirs and not wholesale fraud.” He glanced about the kitchen. “Oh, and good bloody luck in getting this room clean and all the stains out of Mam’s rug by the sink. If you don’t, she’ll be chewing your arse till Easter.”
Liam was sure that Jamie’s response of “feckhead” was meant with the utmost of respect and affection.
“Come, Meggie,” he said, pushing open the dining room door slowly enough that his eavesdropping daughter might dodge it. “Uncle Jamie says goodbye.”
