by Zara Keane
She exhaled sharply, her cheeks aflame. Why hadn’t he had the decency to develop a beer gut over the past decade? Or a receding hairline? Life was so unfair.
“Grr!” Wiggly Poo was growling at the Chihuahuas, now held aloft in Deirdre’s scrawny arms.
“My poor babies.” Deirdre fussed over the tiny dogs and fixed Gavin with a quelling gaze. “I blame you for this debacle. If you hadn’t let that mongrel loose, none of this would have happened.”
“Me?” Gavin’s tone exuded outraged incredulity. “I didn’t ask to be saddled with a dog.”
“Mitzi and Bitzi are sensitive around strange dogs, and that one is positively rabid.”
Gavin’s sky-blue eyes darkened. “Wiggly Poo probably mistook them for vermin. An easy mistake to make.”
“Well,” Deirdre said, aghast. “I never.”
Laughter bubbled up Fiona’s throat. “Wiggly Poo?” She gasped, struggling to keep her composure. “What sort of name is that?”
Deirdre glowered at her. “This is no laughing matter, Fiona. My pets were brutally attacked by that savage beast.”
“Bollocks.” Gavin scooped up the puppy. “He didn’t touch them.”
“He didn’t, Deirdre,” Fiona said. “I got to him before he had a chance to do anything more than bark.”
Deirdre’s thin lips parted, baring teeth whitened to a radioactive glow.
“Mummy.” Muireann laid a hand on Deirdre’s arm. “Wiggly Poo’s young. He needs time to adjust.”
“Until he’s tamed, that creature is not welcome in this house.”
Fiona convulsed, losing the battle against laughter.
Deirdre rounded on her. “You’re in no position to laugh, young lady. You’ve destroyed a very expensive dress.”
“Yes.” Muireann smirked. “I invited you to be my maid of honor in good faith, and now… this.” She gestured in the direction of Fiona’s arse.
Fiona’s cheeks grew even hotter, anger mingling with embarrassment. “The dress is too small. I’m sorry it tore, but I wasn’t going to get down the aisle in this frock. Nor in these shoes.” She kicked off the offending footwear and sighed with relief as her stockinged feet sank into the plush carpet.
Deirdre pursed her mouth. “Did you lie about your measurements?”
Fiona gave her aunt the stink eye. “Of course not. Do you think I wanted to humiliate myself by busting out of the dress?”
“In that case, you must have put on weight.”
Muireann tittered. “With the amount you eat, it’s hardly surprising.”
“Steady on,” Gavin said. “Fiona’s not fat.”
Muireann and Deirdre cast him withering looks.
“Get out, Gavin,” Deirdre said. “And take that dog with you. You’ve caused enough trouble for one day.”
Gavin met her glare for glare. “If you want to cast blame, Deirdre, look no further than your husband. He bought the dog.”
Deirdre opened her mouth as if to protest. Gavin cut her off. “What am I supposed to do with Wiggly Poo while we have dinner? I can hardly lock him in the car.”
Muireann regarded the wriggling puppy doubtfully. “Can’t you ask Jonas to look after him? Just for this evening? We can sort out what to do with him later.”
“I can ask. If he has any sense, he’ll say no.” Gavin sighed. “Right. I’ll leave you ladies to change.”
Fiona caught his eye, and her heart skipped a beat. She mouthed thanks, and he gave a curt nod. He hoisted the puppy onto his shoulder and left the room.
All eyes focused on Fiona.
“I knew you were too fat for that dress.” Muireann’s spray-tanned face creased into a smirk.
The suspicion that had been forming in Fiona’s mind crystallized. “You did this deliberately. You gave Claudette the wrong measurements, and you made damn sure to schedule the fittings for when you knew I wouldn’t be able to attend.”
“I most certainly did not.” Muireann’s smirk faded, but there was a wicked gleam in her eyes. “I’d hardly want to wreck my own wedding.”
“Don’t be absurd, Fiona.” Deirdre waved a hand in impatience. “Muireann would never play such a nasty trick.”
“No?” She placed her hands on her hips. “I sent her my exact measurements, and I haven’t put on weight in the meantime. The moment I saw the dress, I doubted it would fit. If Muireann received my e-mail, I assume she passed on the information to Claudette.”
“Naturellement,” Claudette said in her musical Parisian accent. “And I followed them exactly. If you are the size you say, the dress will fit.”
“If the dress reflected the measurements I sent Muireann, it should fit, yes.”
“Are you calling me a liar?” Muireann’s blue eyes widened in faux horror.
Fiona tilted her chin. “Yes, I am.”
“Girls,” Deirdre snapped. “Enough. Whatever happened cannot be undone. I don’t suppose there’s time to make a replacement dress?”
“Not in the chartreuse.” Claudette gave a Gallic shrug “The material was a special order for Madame.”
Quelle surprise. Most people had better taste.
“Mummy, we can’t let Fiona wear one of her Goth getups to the wedding. She’s supposed to be my maid of honor.”
“Here’s an idea.” Fiona’s voice rose a notch. “Why don’t I resign as maid of honor? I’ll spare you the indignity of having me and my unsuitable wardrobe following you down the aisle.”
“You can’t quit,” Deirdre said. “There’ll be an uneven number of bridesmaids.”
“Far be it from us to screw with symmetry.” Olivia stepped forward to stand beside Fiona. “If Fee’s no longer in the wedding party, then neither am I.”
“Are you quitting on me?” Muireann’s nose quivered. “Your husband won’t like that.”
“Feck Aidan.” Olivia’s jaw jutted belligerently. “And feck you. You set Fiona up.”
“Girls, please,” Deirdre said weakly. “I can feel a migraine coming on.” She pronounced it mee-graine.
Fiona caught Olivia’s eye and smiled. She’d rather be just about anyplace on earth than here, but having a friend by her side made everything better. Well, that and having a getaway car at the ready. “If we’re done here, I’m going to change back into my highly unsuitable clothes.” She fingered the torn garment. “I don’t suppose you want the remnants of my dress?”
The twins tittered. Claudette stood mute. Muireann smirked. Aunt Deirdre quivered with outraged disapproval.
“Excellent. In that case, I’ll keep it as a memento.” Fiona removed the shawl from around her waist and tossed it at Muireann. “You can have this back, cuz. After all, you wanted to see me humiliated. I’d hate to deprive you of the pleasure.”
Feeling cheerful for the first time since she’d arrived in Ballybeg, Fiona turned on her heel and marched across the room, swinging her naked arse for all to see.
This time tomorrow, I’ll be a married man.
The sick sensation that had been building in the pit of Gavin’s stomach rose up his throat. He swallowed hard, tried to stem the surge of panic.
Breathe in. Breathe out.
Everything was going to be fine, he thought, flexing his fingers over the steering wheel. He was experiencing a bout of the pre-wedding jitters. Everyone got them, and everyone got past them.
He’d been on edge for the past few days, anxious to get the wedding over and done with.
Not that he didn’t want to marry Muireann. Of course he did. Marrying her made perfect sense. They both wanted kids, eventually, and they’d been a couple since university. They were good together. Content. Not the most passionate of relationships, but he’d gladly sacrifice wild passion for stability and security. In short, he and Muireann were the polar opposite of his mother and the numerous men who’d paraded through his train wreck of a childhood.
With a grim sense of déjà vu, Gavin pulled his car to a stop beside Muireann’s Mini. He’d left Wiggly Poo with Jonas’s paren
ts for the night. At least that was one problem sorted.
The other problem was a little trickier.
Fiona.
His stomach lurched. If only she hadn’t blasted back into his life. Fiona was the last person he needed right now. He’d been stunned to see her standing in Deirdre’s parlor wearing that awful dress. No one had mentioned she was invited to the wedding, let alone the maid of honor.
What the hell had Muireann been thinking? She loathed Fiona. Always had.
And the feeling was mutual.
A vision of Fiona’s exposed backside danced before his eyes, and he quashed the memory with a mental sledgehammer.
Fiona was in his past. His distant past. A short interlude that had ended badly. In all likelihood, she barely remembered their drunken night together in Las Vegas. Unfortunately, he remembered it only too well… in all its pixilated glory.
He sighed and pushed open his door. He’d barely had time to lock his car before Muireann appeared in the doorframe. She looked radiant. And happy. And if her happiness were accompanied by a hint of smugness… well, she’d make a beautiful bride.
“You look lovely.” He kissed her on the cheek, careful not to ruin her makeup.
She put a hand on his arm. “I’m sorry about Mummy earlier. You know what she’s like about her Chihuahuas.”
“Don’t worry about it. We’re all on edge at the moment.”
She nodded and looked past him at the car. “What did you do with Wiggly Poo?”
“He’s with Jonas’s parents, wreaking havoc.”
She slipped her hand into his. “Come through to the living room. We’re having a drink before dinner.”
In the Byrne’s antique-ridden living room, Bernard stood before the fireplace. One bulky arm rested on the mantelpiece, while the other hand clutched a tumbler of whiskey. His florid cheeks were redder than usual. This was not his first drink of the day.
Gavin swallowed a sigh. Bernard was hard to deal with sober. Drunk, he was a nightmare.
“The man of the moment.” Bernard’s smile was a rictus of protruding teeth. “How are you enjoying your last hours of freedom?”
The acid in his stomach gnawed his insides. “Apart from dealing with an untrained puppy, I’m grand.”
“What are you drinking, Gavin?” Deirdre sniffed, not looking in his direction. Mitzi and Bitzi were by her side, ears cocked. They glowered at him with their rat-like eyes.
“Fizzy water’s fine. I’m driving.”
“Nonsense. The boy will have a whiskey. The MacAllan nineteen seventy-four.” Bernard leaned closer. His breath alone was fit to put a man over the limit. “I’m cheating by going for Scotch over Irish, but this is worth it. Retails for over eight thousand euros a bottle.”
“That’s obscene.”
“That’s success, my boy.” Bernard’s mustache bobbed. “Success in a glass. Go on. Taste it.”
Gavin took a dubious sip.
Bernard’s self-satisfied smirk widened.
“Isn’t it perfect?”
“Hmm… not bad.” To Gavin’s undiscerning palate, it tasted like any other whiskey. He put the glass on the mantelpiece and turned to his fiancée. “All set for tomorrow?”
She beamed. “I can’t wait. It’s going to be the best day of our lives.”
“You’ll make a beautiful bride.” Deirdre patted her daughter on the arm in a rare display of physical affection. “The neighbors will be pea green with envy.”
“Screw the neighbors,” Gavin said. “Once Muireann’s happy and having a good time, that’s all that counts.”
Bernard snorted. “Impressions matter, especially in business. You’ll learn, lad.”
Gavin refrained from comment. The Byrnes never missed an opportunity to network. He shouldn’t be surprised that Muireann’s parents saw her wedding as yet another opportunity to grandstand and lick the right arses.
“Take this house, for instance.” Bernard was warming to his theme, his voice increasing in volume with every sentence. “Do you think it’s an accident that I bought it? No. Generations of my family worked the land on the Clonmore estate. They were treated little better than slaves and left to starve during the Great Famine. Now here I am, master of the house, while the present Earl of Clonmore lives in a shack on the other side of Ballybeg. That’s success in modern Ireland.”
Gavin had heard the tale a thousand times. “The Major’s not exactly living in poverty. His house is a nice bungalow. Hardly what I’d call a shack. And if I recall correctly, this was the dower house, not the Earl’s residence.”
Bernard shrugged. He wasn’t a man to let a few inaccuracies interfere with a good story. “But now that the old house has been converted into a hotel, Clonmore House is the largest private residence on the old estate.”
The gong sounded, producing a melodious echo. The gong was a relatively new affectation in the Byrne household, and Gavin cringed every time he heard it.
“Time for dinner.” Deirdre led the way into the ornate dining room, complete with an ugly table centerpiece Deirdre called an epergne.
Gavin sat across from Muireann. Judging by the place settings, it was going to be a five-course meal. The acid burned deeper into his stomach lining. He took a deep gulp from his water glass.
The food was perfectly prepared, but it tasted like sandpaper. He had to get a grip. Being nervous about tomorrow was one thing. Being a nervous wreck was quite another.
He stared across the table at his bride-to-be. Muireann was fine-boned and classically beautiful with straight blond hair and large blue eyes. She was tiny next to his six-two frame, even in heels. Her soft-spoken manner charmed most men, but she didn’t find it easy to make female friends.
Although Fiona and Muireann were first cousins, their surname was the only thing they had in common. Where Muireann was petite, Fiona was tall and curvaceous. Where Muireann was fair-haired, Fiona had a tumble of dark curls. And where Muireann was cool and collected, Fiona was fiery and chaotic.
Unless, of course, she’d changed over the years. Remembering the spark of rage in Fiona’s eyes when Muireann and Deirdre called her fat, he doubted the past eight years had tamed her temper.
He continued to pick at his food. Bernard had seconds at every course, wolfing his food and washing it down with several glasses of red wine.
Deirdre and Muireann maintained a seemingly endless prattle about the wedding and who was planning to wear what and who had gained or lost weight or had “a little work” done on various parts of their anatomy.
“I can’t believe Fiona split her dress.” Muireann tittered with ill-disguised glee. “What a fright she looked!”
“She has no manners and no breeding.” Deirdre sniffed. “Hardly surprising, given her upbringing. I’d hoped a few years in Dublin would improve her sense of fashion.”
“She’d need to be a lot skinnier to fit into fashionable clothes, Mummy.”
“Fiona’s not fat,” Gavin said firmly. “She split the dress because it was the wrong size.”
“Nonsense,” Deirdre said. “Claudette is a professional. She followed the measurements exactly. Fiona either lied about her size or ate too much in the meantime.”
“The sight of her pasty bottom!” Muireann laughed. “I haven’t seen anything so funny in all my life.”
“If that’s true, you need to get out more,” he said tersely. “Fiona’s not skinny, but neither is she fat. And the more you go on about her weight, the more I suspect you deliberately sabotaged the dress fitting.”
“What?” Muireann’s face turned chalky white, and her bottom lip began to quiver. “You’re blaming me for that fat cow destroying her dress?”
“Gavin!” Deirdre radiated disapproval. “What a dreadful thing to say.”
“Well, Muireann? Did you give Claudette the wrong measurements?”
Her eyes darted to the side, then refocused. “Of course not. Why would I want to waste Daddy’s money like that?”
“For a go
od laugh at Fiona’s expense? It wouldn’t be the first time.” He tossed his fork on the table and leaned forward in his seat. “For whatever reason, Fiona brings your inner bitch out to play. Always has, probably always will.”
“Don’t be silly. I played a few pranks on her when we were younger. Isn’t that what schoolgirls do? It doesn’t mean I’d do anything so childish now.”
“So you’re saying Claudette screwed up?”
“She must have.” Muireann fiddled with her napkin, her engagement ring glinting in the light. “Either that or Fiona sent the wrong measurements.” Her blue eyes grew large, and she leaned across the table to take his hand in hers. “We never argue, yet today we’ve had two disagreements. First about the dog, and now over Fiona.”
He focused on Deirdre’s silver epergne. The center bowl overflowed with exotic fruit. Each of the small dishes extending in branches from the centerpiece contained different-colored flowers. His nose itched from all the pollen.
Raising his eyes, he looked at his fiancée. “All right.” He reached for his water glass. “We’ll leave it for now. I don’t want to fight with you, Muireann.”
Especially not the night before their wedding.
Chapter Five
THE CHURCH BELLS CHIMED the hour. Eleven o’clock. Fiona increased her pace, dodged a bike, and crossed the square over to Patrick Street. Despite the late hour, Ballybeg town center was busy. People spilled out of pubs onto the pavement, their laughter floating on the light autumn breeze.
So much had changed since she’d lived in Ballybeg, yet so much remained the same. The terraced houses along Patrick Street retained their brightly colored facades, but several of the businesses on the ground floors had changed. The fish-and-chipper was gone, replaced by a Chinese take-away. The old pound shop was now the tourist information office. The butcher’s had been converted into a private residence.
She was a stranger in her hometown, every difference a sharp shock of reality. Time passed, people evolved, places altered. Memories froze a place in time, and change seemed a violation.
