by Zara Keane
His gaze met the crowd’s, stare for stare.
Mercifully, no one spoke. They didn’t need to. Their expressions said it all.
The hospital waiting room was packed. To Fiona’s right, a woman with a screaming toddler tried to placate the child with a packet of crisps. In one corner, an elderly man was muttering to himself and sneaking sips from a hip flask. Everyone was giving the guy with an open leg wound a wide berth.
She checked her watch for the thousandth time. Two hours since Bridie had been admitted to hospital. Two hours without news.
Just when she’d allowed herself to hope this weekend couldn’t possibly get any worse, it had.
And how.
Bridie’s fall was partly her fault. Yeah, she hadn’t been the one hurling vases around the church, but if she hadn’t gone there in the first place, the fall never would have happened.
Olivia returned from the vending machine bearing two steaming plastic cups. “Get that down you,” she said and handed one to Fiona before taking the seat beside her.
Fiona took a cautious sip. “Ugh. Vile. What is it supposed to be?”
“A mochaccino. I thought you could do with the sugar.”
“At least it’s hot and sweet.” Fiona’s gaze darted from her watch to the clock on the waiting room wall. “Why is it taking so long for news?”
“A two-hour wait is nothing in A&E.” Olivia grimaced at her coffee cup. “Bridie will be fine. She’s a tough old bird.”
Fiona stilled her tapping foot. “I feel terrible about this. If only I’d kept silent…”
“If you’d not come down to Ballybeg for the wedding… yadda, yadda. It was an accident, Fee. If anyone’s to blame for this fiasco, it’s Deirdre for chucking flowers and water all over the church.”
“Fiona Byrne?” A white-clad nurse stood in the doorway, a medical chart in her hand.
Fiona shot out of her seat, spilling hot coffee on her hand. “Yes?”
“Your auntie’s finished her tests. She’s resting in her room.”
“Is she okay?” Please, please, please.
“I’ll let her explain it to you. She’s on St. Ignatius ward, up on the second floor. Room six.”
“Thanks for letting me know.”
The nurse nodded and disappeared into the throng of patients, visitors, and medical staff.
Fiona shook the dark liquid off her hand and tossed her half-full cup in the bin. “Thanks for waiting with me.”
“No bother.” Olivia scrunched her nose. “To be honest, I’m not looking forward to going home and facing Aidan’s wrath. He’s pissed I got mixed up in this.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Stop apologizing. Listen, why don’t I wait for you in the car? We can grab a bite to eat at MacCarthy’s before I go home.”
“I’m not sure I can face people. Everyone’ll want to ask about the non-wedding.”
“Sod them. You’re leaving Ballybeg on Monday, anyway. Let them talk.”
“True,” Fiona said with a sigh. “Ballybeg, Baile Beag. It’s not called ‘small town’ for nothing. Yeah, all right. We’ll need to stop off at Bridie’s for me to pick up shoes first. I’m sick of the sight of these bunny slippers.”
They parted in the hallway, Olivia for the car park and Fiona for St. Ignatius ward.
Fiona took the stairs to the second floor. On the walls, menacing posters warned about hospital hygiene for staff and guests due to the prevalence of MRSA and other resilient bugs. The accompanying photographs were enough to give one nightmares. She disinfected her hands for the third time before entering Bridie’s room.
Her aunt was lying in a bed by the window in a room shared with five other patients. Fiona exhaled at the sight of her. She was shockingly pale, her skin taut and gray. When had she started to get old? She’d always seemed ageless, frozen in middle age.
Bridie looked up when she approached. “Still in the bunny slippers, Fiona?” Her smile was wan. “Or should I call you Mrs. Maguire?”
She bit her lip. “Bridie…”
Her aunt held up a palm. “I knew you were soft on Gavin, but to marry him in Las Vegas?” Her expression of hurt and confusion sliced Fiona to the core. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because I didn’t know we were married.” She pulled up a spare chair and sat by her aunt’s side. “The morning after we said vows and signed papers, Gavin asked the officiant not to register them. He agreed, and we assumed it was sorted.”
“But the papers somehow ended up being registered?”
“So it would appear. But enough about me. How are you feeling? Or should I rephrase to how bad are you feeling?”
Bridie laughed hoarsely. “I’ve felt better, but I’ll live.”
Fiona leaned forward. “What did the doctors say? Is your hip broken?”
“Yes, unfortunately.”
Feck. Poor old Bridie. She didn’t deserve this.
“Do you need surgery? Or can they put you in a cast until it heals?”
“It’s a little more complicated than that.” The lines around her eyes were deeper, pinched. “I need a hip replacement.”
“What?” Fiona gasped. “Isn’t that extreme for a broken hip?”
“Having a hip replacement’s been on the cards for a while. My arthritis is getting worse. The accident’s made it a matter for sooner rather than later.”
“I had no idea your arthritis was that bad.”
“Why would you? You hardly ever call.”
Fiona sucked in air.
Her aunt reached for her hand. “I’m not chastising you, pet. You’ve your own life in Dublin. There’s nothing for you in Ballybeg except bad memories.”
“They’re not all bad. You were always kind to me.”
“Sure, you were an easy child to be kind to.” She shifted position and winced.
Fiona leaped to her feet. “Should I call a nurse?”
“Ah, no. I’ll be grand. Will you call in to see me before you leave tomorrow?”
“Of course. When’s the operation happening?”
“Monday morning.”
“How complicated is the procedure?”
“Hip replacements are routine these days. I’ll be fine.”
“What will happen when you get out? Will you need help around the house? What about the Book Mark?”
“Don’t worry. I’ll get it sorted.”
But would she? Or was she merely fobbing Fiona off? She thought of the plane tickets in her bedside drawer in Dublin, of Singapore Slings and outback adventures. She’d saved for this trip for years, had dreamed about it for longer.
She regarded Bridie’s pinched face and took a deep breath. “I’ll postpone my trip for a week. I want to be here when you get out of hospital.”
“There’s no need, pet. You’re looking forward to going to Australia.”
“I know, but it’ll still be there in a week’s time.” She bent to kiss her aunt’s pale cheek. “Get some sleep. I’ll pop by to see you tomorrow.”
Chapter Twelve
“YOU DID WHAT?” Olivia stared at Fiona, aghast. “Have you lost your mind?”
They were standing in a queue of people waiting to get into MacCarthy’s pub.
The wind off the sea was strong tonight. Fiona pulled her jacket tighter. “I’ve not lost my mind. I’m just postponing the start of the trip by a week.”
“But you’ve been talking about Australia since we were at school. I know how much this trip means to you.”
“Like I said to Bridie, Australia will still be there next week. Barring an alien invasion or some other catastrophe.”
“Knowing your track record,” Olivia said with a wry smile, “nothing is beyond the realms of possibility.”
“Thanks for the vote of confidence.”
“No problem. That’s what friends are for.”
They shuffled to the top of the queue.
“That’ll be ten euros each, ladies,” said the beefy bouncer guarding the door.
<
br /> “Ten euros? To get into a pub?” Fiona waited for the punch line. The man stared at her, his expression blank. “Gareth, that’s moonlight robbery!”
Gareth shrugged. “We’re a club now, Fiona. We’ve got a dance floor and all.”
“You mean the shed out the back? Sure, that’s always been there.”
He rolled his eyes. “Either pay up or leave, Wedding Crasher. You’re not on our VIP list, and there’s a queue of thirsty customers behind you.”
“My newfound notoriety doesn’t land me on the VIP list?” Fiona asked in mock horror. “I’m crushed.” She rummaged through her purse and extracted a crumpled twenty-euro note. So much for a cheap night out. It was a lot easier to argue with an anonymous stranger than a guy she’d known since primary school.
Inside, the pub was packed. As the only venue in several towns to cater to punk rock and metal fans—albeit only on Fridays and Saturdays—MacCarthy’s attracted a plentiful clientele. With the exception of the punk rock blasting through the speakers, MacCarthy’s made no effort to appear either alternative or trendy.
While they squeezed through the throng, Fiona scanned the room. A lot had changed in the years she’d been away, but MacCarthy’s was as shabby as ever. It was a far cry from the trendy clubs in Dublin. The same pictures of long-dead martyred heroes adorned the walls—men who had fallen during Ireland’s troubled history. The leather seats were even more ripped and patched than they’d been eight years ago. The wooden bar was the old-fashioned kind, once richly polished, now dulled and scratched in places. Guinness was on tap as were several other beers. The drink selection was impressive for a country pub, but that was Ireland for you.
The boisterous crowd fell silent watching Fiona battle her way through to the bar. Everyone stared, some piteous, others gleeful.
Shame burned a fiery path from her cheeks to her temples. Perhaps coming out this evening hadn’t been the smartest move, but what was the alternative? Hole up at the cottage and hide? That wasn’t her style.
She took a shuddery breath and jutted her chin. Feck them. Feck them all. Let them talk. Let them laugh. Let them jeer. By the end of next week, she’d be gone, and they’d have found another hot topic of gossip.
Olivia gave her a nudge. “There’s a free table in the snug. It’ll be quieter in there if we want to have a chat.”
In times gone by, the snug was a place of privacy in an Irish pub. People whose presence was frowned upon in a public house could enjoy a drink away from the crowd—women, priests, and policemen. Nowadays, many snugs had been converted into coveted seating areas for patrons seeking peace and quiet.
Fiona tapped her purse. “I’ll order the drinks and food if you grab a table. Tonight’s on me.”
“We can argue about money later.”
“Nothing to argue about.” Fiona waved her friend in the direction of the snug and headed for the bar.
Behind the counter, a bear of a man was pulling a pint. He had the crooked nose and stocky build of a man more suited to playing on a Rugby pitch than serving in a country pub. When she reached the bar, he looked up and his bulldog face broke into a broad smile. “Hey, Fiona. Long time, no see.”
His smile was infectious—all the more so because he was the first person pleased to see her since the debacle in the church. “Ruairí. I heard you were working in New York. Stockbroking, right?”
“Yeah.” He inclined his thick neck in a nod. “I worked on Wall Street for a few years.”
She looked him up and down and laughed. “I can’t imagine you in a business suit.”
The smile widened, making his huge hazel eyes—his only claim to beauty —sparkle. “Me neither.”
“Are you over for a holiday?”
An emotion flitted across his hard features, too quick to pinpoint. “No. I run the pub now. Da’s getting on in years, and Ma… she hasn’t been well.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.” She trailed off, stopping herself from uttering the question on her lips. Had the MacCarthys patched things up? Bridie had mentioned Ruairí leaving Ireland following a massive row with his father, but now was hardly the moment to pry into someone else’s family business. Lord knew she had enough of her own.
He set his elbows on the counter. “What are you drinking?”
“Two gin and tonics, plus two plates of fish and chips.”
“Right-o. Pay here, and I’ll give you your drinks. We’ll bring the food over when it’s ready. Where are you sitting?”
“We’re in the snug.”
“Ah. We’ve fixed the bell in there, you know. Only took us thirty years.” He gave her a wink. “Give us a buzz if you want a second drink.”
“Will do. Thanks, Ruairí.”
While she waited for him to get her drinks, her gaze drifted over the crowd.
And froze.
Gavin Maguire sat slumped at a corner table, looking the worse for wear.
Oh, feck. Of all the beer joints in Ballybeg, he had to pick this one.
Jonas O’Mahony sat beside him, sporting a pained expression.
At that moment, Gavin looked up, his sky blue eyes riveting her in place. Her stomach lurched and she averted her gaze.
“Well, if it isn’t my missus.” His speech was slurred. If the collection of empty glasses in front of him was any indication, he’d been here for a while.
Jonas nodded to her, making an unsuccessful attempt to smother a smile.
“Ah, go ahead and laugh,” she said, leaning against the bar. “You know you want to.”
“I can’t believe you two eejits eloped in Vegas. What the fuck were you thinking?”
“Of our next Long Island iced tea?”
He shuddered. “Jaysus. Those things are lethal.”
“Alas, no. We were still alive the next day and so was Drunk Elvis.”
Ruairí shoved Fiona’s drinks across the bar counter. “Drunk Elvis? Sure, we have one of those in Ballybeg. Do you remember John-Joe Fitzgerald? Looks like your husband is wearing one of his costumes.”
Fiona surveyed Gavin’s ensemble. “Gawd, you’re right. Speaking of Elvis, that suit’s seen better days.”
“I know.” Jonas groaned. “Nora Fitzgerald will kill us when she sees the state of it. I tried to get him to stay home, but after he’d lashed into a bottle of vodka, there was no stopping him. I had no choice but to go with him and try to keep him in check.”
Fiona regarded the collection of empty glasses on their table and Gavin’s disheveled appearance. “Looks like you’re doing a fantastic job of it. I gotta ask… is the wedding-suit-eating dog the same puppy who caused my public humiliation?”
Jonas choked with laughter.
“You heard about me splitting my dress?” Fiona crossed her arms over her chest and looked at him defiantly.
“Muireann might have mentioned it.”
“To the entire population of Ballybeg, no doubt.”
“Didja plan today as revenge?” Gavin sloshed whiskey down his formerly white suit.
Fiona sucked in a breath. What an arsehole. Did he seriously think she’d go to such extremes to get one up on Muireann? “No,” she snapped. “I did not. Oddly enough, I have no desire to be married to you, not even to humiliate my cousin. Not to worry, Gavin. As usual, it’s all about you.”
He squinted at her through unfocused eyes. “Whaja mean?”
“We’ve known each other off and on for, what, twenty years?”
He considered a moment, arithmetic clearly beyond him in his inebriated state. “Something along those lines.”
“In all that time, you’ve treated me with nothing but condescension, even when you were pretending to be nice. Poor orphaned Fiona. Poor plain Fiona. Do you know how I felt when you abandoned me in Vegas?”
“I didn’t abanjun… abandon you. Jush left.”
“Exactly. You up and fucking left.” She placed her hands on her hips and stared him down. “You left me alone in a strange city. So screw you, Gavin Maguire.”
“Steady on. I didn’t mean—”
“You never do, do you? You’re not capable of looking beyond yourself. I’m not even sure you love Muireann.”
“Hey, now.” He made a futile effort to straighten his slumped form. “That’s below the belt, especially given the day I’ve had.”
“What about my day? What about Muireann’s? Surely, of all of us, Bridie’s had the shittiest day?” What the hell had she ever seen in this man? He was totally and utterly self-centered. It was a damn shame he couldn’t marry her witch of a cousin. They deserved each other.
Gavin scrunched his forehead. “How’s Bridie doing?”
“She was carted off in an ambulance, and it’s taken you this long to ask after her state of health?”
“Stop, Fiona. Please. I’m sick of people nagging at me today. My life was fine this morning, and now it’s a fricking mess. I’ve hurt Muireann. I owe her parents their share of the wedding costs. I have a ginormous house with a ginormous mortgage. Considering I’ve just jilted and humiliated my boss’s daughter, I think it’s a safe bet to say I’m unemployed.”
Ruairí’s stocky figure loomed. “Tone it down, Gavin. I’ve been tolerant up to now because I know you’ve had a tough day. You’ve had more than enough to drink. It’s time for you to leave.”
“Ah, no. Come on—”
“No arguments.” Ruairí turned to Jonas. “Are you good to get him home?”
Jonas regarded his drunk friend dubiously. “I’ll haul him there somehow.”
The bartender sighed. “Give me a minute. I’ll ask Marcella to cover me while I drive you to his place.”
“Thanks, mate. Appreciate it.”
“By the way, your food’s ready,” Ruairí said to Fiona. “Janine’s brought it to the snug.”
Food. Her tummy was in knots. The absolute last thing she wanted right now was to eat. “Thanks,” she said in a shaky voice. “Sorry for making a scene.”
He nodded curtly and went to help Jonas drag Gavin out of the pub.
Back in the snug, two plates laden with fish and chips were on their table. They smelled heavenly. Shame she’d lost her appetite.
“Are you okay?” Olivia asked when she took the seat across from her. “Did someone say something?”
