by Zara Keane
“If she’s lucky, she can return to work in four, but we usually estimate six to be on the safe side.”
Her mouth gaped so low she’d start drooling if she didn’t haul her jaw into place. Oh, feck. What had Muireann done?
Nurse Collins’s beeper emitted a piercing sound. “Back to work I go. Stop by the nurses’ station on your way out, will you? We need to organize Bridie’s stay at the nursing home.”
“Nursing home?” What the feck?
“She’ll need to spend a couple of weeks in a nursing home after we discharge her. She’d have to be there even longer if she didn’t have you to look after her at home. Pop by on your way out, and we’ll discuss the details.”
“Uh… sure.”
Nurse Collins and the wheelchair disappeared into a room to the left, leaving Fiona to gather her racing thoughts. This was a joke, right? Were they seriously expecting her to cancel the trip she’d spent five years saving for? She’d taken a sabbatical from teaching to travel, not to play the role of nursemaid and general dogsbody. Would Bridie be out of commission for six whole months?
“Watch out!” An old lady in a motorized wheelchair whizzed past.
Fiona leaped to the side with seconds to spare.
“Sorry, dear. I’m not used to the brakes on this thing yet. Are you okay?”
“I’m grand,” Fiona said, waving her on. “No harm done.”
The old lady moved off down the hall. Would her aunt need a wheelchair when she got out of hospital? How would she be able to go shopping if no one was with her?
The olive green walls spun, forming a whirling tunnel of echoing voices chastising her for her failures as a niece, as a cousin, as a friend.
She went into Bridie’s room. If her aunt had looked poorly on Saturday, today she looked like death—bloodless lips and chalky complexion.
Fiona bent to kiss her.
Bridie opened one blue eye. “Thank feck it’s you. I was afraid Muireann and Bernard had come back.”
“You’re remarkably chipper for a woman described as groggy by one of the nurses.”
Her aunt emitted a derisive snort. “Would you want Bernard and Muireann hovering over you if you felt like shite? One bellowing abuse at all and sundry, and the other moaning about her various woes. I had to pretend to be out of it. It was the only way to get them to leave.”
“You’re dreadful,” Fiona said, laughing. “Can I get you anything?”
“No, pet. Sit down and talk to me.”
She pulled up a chair. She’d tell Bridie there’d been a miscommunication. Her aunt would understand.
“Bernard says you’ve canceled your trip to stay and run the Book Mark.” Bridie’s wan face creased in concern. “Why didn’t you tell me? You said you’d postponed until next week.”
“No, I…” Tell her. Tell her now. “Does Sharon still work part time at the Book Mark?”
“Yes. I don’t know what I’d do without her. She’s a cheeky minx but a good worker.” Bridie slumped further into her pillows. “I’ll be honest with you, Fiona. The business is struggling. Those who can afford it have switched over to digital. The rest are suffering from the economic downturn and sticking to used books. I can’t afford to pay someone to run the shop for me, and I can’t afford to close for however long I’m unable to work.”
“Don’t worry. I’ll get it sorted.”
“Are you sure about this, pet? Won’t you lose money by canceling at short notice? Bernard was convinced your insurance would cover the cancellation cost, but to the best of my knowledge, that buffoon hasn’t traveled farther than the UK.”
A buffoon indeed. With a cunning, calculating cow of a daughter. Fiona’s fingernails dug into her palms. How dare they try to manipulate her into staying in Ballybeg? Bernard had plenty of money. Why couldn’t he hire a nurse to look after his only sister? This trip was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. Why should she have to cancel it?
“Fiona?” Bridie prompted. “Are you losing money on this?”
She unclenched her fists. “My travel insurance is comprehensive…” But I’m certain canceling to look after an injured aunt isn’t covered in the fine print.
“You don’t have to stay, pet. I don’t want you to put your life on hold for a few months because of me.” Bridie’s eyes searched her face for clues.
Fiona tried to coach her facial muscles into a neutral expression. Unwelcome memories flooded her mind. Her parents’ laughter and her brother’s smiling face as they drove along the coast road that fateful day. The oncoming tractor, the screech of brakes, the screams of terror.
The next images featured her aunt. Bridie visiting her at the hospital after the car accident. Bridie by her hospital bed when she woke up after each of the three operations on her leg and spine. Bridie at the rehabilitation center. Bridie taking her to live with her at the cottage.
Fiona squeezed her eyes shut, quashing the memories with a mental sledgehammer. “I have the next few months off work. Australia’s not going anywhere. Of course I’ll stay to help.”
Chapter Fourteen
IT WAS THE WEDNESDAY after Gavin’s non-wedding day. High time—according to a terse text message from his former fiancée—for him to collect his crap.
Thus he found himself in the passenger seat of Jonas’s dad’s clapped-out transport van, driving through gale-force wind and torrential rain.
Luca and Wiggly Poo sat in the back, the former holding a running commentary on the make, model, and serial number of every vehicle they passed on the road, and the latter barking wildly at the few cyclists intrepid enough to venture out in this weather.
“Aren’t you glad you never found a buyer for the cottage?” Jonas asked, swerving to avoid a pothole. “If you’d sold it, you’d be out on your arse.”
“If I’d sold it,” he replied dryly, “I’d be in a position to reimburse the Byrnes their share of the wedding costs. As it is, I’ve no choice but to sell the BMW and hope to goodness we can sell Clonmore Lodge this side of Christmas.”
Jonas cocked an eyebrow. “How’ll you get around without a car? The public transport system’s shite.”
“I’ll buy a used one. Anything with four wheels will do.” Actually, he was gutted at having to sell the Beamer, but he needed cash, and he needed it fast. The wedding had bled his account dry, and the couple of investments that were still worth something after the economic crash were tied up for a few more years.
“I don’t understand why you feel obliged to pay back the Byrnes,” Jonas said. “Losing the money for the wedding won’t make much difference to their coffers.”
“No, it won’t, but that’s not the point. The wedding fiasco was my screwup. I don’t have a problem with paying them back the money they lost. Besides, if I don’t, Bernard will make damn sure I’m not just unemployed but unemployable.”
“That man is a vindictive prick.”
“Tell me about it.”
Jonas slowed the van to a cruise and turned into the driveway of Clonmore Lodge.
“Whoa,” they said in unison.
Gavin stared out the passenger window in mounting horror. He rolled down the window as if a view unimpeded by glass could alter what he was seeing. Muireann had purged Clonmore Lodge of his belongings. She’d chucked his beloved book collection into the koi pond. His clothes, computer equipment, stereo system, and an assortment of miscellaneous items lay heaped on the grass, already muddy from the lashing rain.
“Aw, hell.”
With the exception of a toothbrush and a couple of changes of clothes, he’d moved his belongings from the cottage to Clonmore Lodge four months ago. Now they’d been forcibly ejected from the house to the garden.
He pressed his brow to the edge of the car window, transfixed by the sight of twenty thousand euros’ worth of his property destroyed.
And that wasn’t counting the books. Most could be repurchased, either as a physical copy or a digital edition, but nothing could replace the sentimental value he�
�d placed on each volume. Creases on pages with passages he found particularly moving. Smells associated with happy hours reading and re-reading. The feel of those particular books in his hands and the escape they represented.
“I know you jilted her at the altar, concealed a secret marriage to her cousin, and humiliated her in front of the entire town… but seriously?”
Gavin shot his friend a sideways scowl.
Jonas wore his “poker face”—studied blankness of expression belied by the glint in his eyes and the twitch at the corners of his mouth. “Next stop the clothes shops?”
“Fuck the clothes.” Gavin climbed out of the car, waving his arms in the direction of the pond. “Look what she’s done to my books.”
He sprinted over to the pond and fished out a soggy volume. It was by a fantasy author—one of his favorite comfort re-reads. Muireann knew he loved this book.
Luca and Wiggly Poo spilled out of the car and surveyed the wreckage. Wiggly Poo found an old cable to attack and applied himself to the task with gusto.
Luca peered into the pond. “That can’t be healthy for the fish.”
“She’s done a thorough job, all right.” Jonas flipped through the remains of Gavin’s one and only childhood photo album. “Guess your relationship’s dunzo.”
“No need to sound quite so cheerful.”
“Nah, I’m just pissed you held out on me about Fiona and Vegas.” Jonas wagged a finger at him. “I want a full and unabridged account before Luca and I leave for Dublin.”
“Didn’t I tell you last Saturday?”
“You told me a lot of things last Saturday, mate,” Jonas said with an insouciant grin, “but you were too intoxicated to make sense. Something about a drunk Elvis impersonator marrying you and Fiona, and you paying him off the next morning. Sounded more fantastical than one of my plots.”
“Then I did tell you what happened. That was the truth.”
His friend’s jaw dropped. “Well, fuck me. I was sure you were hallucinating.”
“Alas, no.”
Gavin let the soggy book fall to the ground. His jaw clenched. Yeah, he’d screwed up. Muireann had a right to be angry. She had a right to throw him out, but she did not have the right to deliberately destroy his belongings.
He marched up to the front door and pressed the bell for a good ten seconds.
No response.
He pressed it again, longer this time.
An upstairs window opened. His former fiancée glared down at him through eyes puffy from crying. She’d let her fake tan fade, and the newfound pallor lent her a majestically tragic air. “What do you want? Haven’t you done enough to hurt me?”
“I’m sorry for the wedding screwup. I’m sorry I hurt you, but it doesn’t entitle you to wreck my stuff.”
“Wreck your stuff? You wrecked my life!”
“Come on, Muireann. Quit the dramatics and come downstairs. We need to talk.”
“You publicly humiliated me—” Her voice broke on a sob. “In front of everyone. You’re the last person I want to talk to.”
“You know we need to talk. Preferably in private. If you’re not up to it today, I’ll call by tomorrow.”
Her laugh was forced. “Don’t want to have this conversation in front of Jonas and Luca? I’m sure they’re dying to know why you’re so keen to talk to me.”
“Nope,” Jonas said. “The only thing I’m dying for is a smoke. Come on, Luca. Let’s wait by the van.”
“Gavin wants to know whether or not I’m pregnant.” The words were loud enough to qualify as a shout.
Jonas’s step faltered, but he continued walking, keeping a firm grip on Luca’s hand.
Luca turned, his eyes wide with amazement. “She’s having a baby?”
“Muireann,” Gavin said. “For heaven’s sake.”
Jonas tugged Luca’s hand and propelled him out of earshot. Wiggly Poo bounded after them, not willing to miss the opportunity of another ride in the van.
“No, I am not having a baby.”
His shoulders sagged with relief. Thank fuck for that news.
The look she cast him could curdle milk. “Glad I could make your day.”
“Surely you agree that having a baby in the current situation would be a disaster.”
Defiance faltering, she deflated before his eyes, rage spent. “Tell me the truth. Did you really want to marry me, or were you more interested in signing the deal with my father?”
“Yes, I wanted to marry you.” He answered without hesitation, only noticing after that he’d used the past tense.
Her puffy eyes narrowed. “Why?”
“I…” He scrambled for the right words. “We deal well together—or did up until the weekend. We want the same things in life—stability, security, comfort.”
“How romantic,” she drawled.
He furrowed his brow. “Hearts and flowers have never been important to us. We’re not into fake gestures or drama.”
Her penetrating stare made him squirm. “And yet you’ve caused more drama than Ballybeg has seen in many a year. I’m embarrassed to show my face in public.”
“You have no reason to feel embarrassed,” he said. “This… it’s all on me.”
“Yes, it is.” Her lips formed a hard line. “Which is why you’re not going to object to me using our honeymoon tickets to go on holiday with Mona and Brona.”
Their honeymoon… He’d wanted to go to New Zealand; she’d wanted to go to Mauritius. No prize for guessing who’d won that tussle. “Of course you should go. Your parents paid for the trip. But when you get home, we’ll have to decide what to do with Wiggly Poo.”
“Daddy gave him to us for a wedding present,” she said with a shudder. “I’ll always associate him with being jilted at the altar.”
“What are you saying?” A ball of annoyance formed in Gavin’s stomach, persistent and acidic. “Don’t you want to keep him?”
“I was thrilled when Daddy gave him to me. He was to be our dog.” Her mouth formed a moue of distaste. “But if there’s no us… he’s tainted.”
“What, exactly, do you expect me to do with him? He’s a dog, not a toy.”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake.” She gave an exaggerated sigh. “As far as I’m concerned, the dog’s your problem. Keep him, give him away, toss him to the pound. I’m beyond caring.”
Unbelievable. She foisted a dog into their lives and expected him to deal with the consequences when she decided she was done being a dog mammy.
The anger he’d been trying to keep under control rose to the surface. He’d treaded gently with her out of a sense of guilt, but he was pissed about his wrecked stuff, irritated by her refusal to speak to him in private, and downright furious at her attitude toward the dog. “For flip’s sake, Muireann. You can’t treat a dog like a disposable toy. You brought him into our lives. You can’t go and abandon him.”
“He barely knows me. He’s spent more time with you.”
“Whose fault is that? You wouldn’t answer my calls or return my messages.”
“Go to hell, Gavin. I’m done with you. Sort out your own problems.”
“What about my stuff? You destroyed over twenty thousand euros’ worth of my property.”
She rolled her eyes. “Go ahead and sue me. Good-bye, Gavin, and good riddance.” With that parting shot, she slammed the window shut and disappeared from sight.
On the first day of her temporary career change, Fiona arrived early. Seeing as she had feck all idea how to run a bookshop, she figured she’d better get a head start.
The blustery wind sliced through her thin sweater as she walked down Patrick Street. A typical Irish morning. An image of her sunning herself in Singapore sprang to mind. She swallowed past the lump in her throat. She’d make it to Singapore. She’d make it to Australia. All she had to do was muddle through the next few months, then figure out a way to spend at least a couple of months traveling.
Outside the shop, she rummaged through her bag for the
key. Once she’d dealt with the alarm, she slung her bag on the counter and surveyed the premises.
The Book Mark was situated in a gorgeous turquoise building. The ground floor housed the bookshop, and the top floor was divided into two small flats Bridie rented out to augment her income. In addition to selling used and new books, the shop boasted a small café where patrons could enjoy a scone or a slice of traditional Irish brack washed down with a cup of tea or coffee. The café was located at the entrance of the shop and consisted of six small tables, all named after an Irish author of note. This had been Fiona’s idea several years ago, and Bridie had loved it.
The ground floor of the building had originally been composed of three rooms plus a small kitchen and a storage area little more than a large cupboard. The two rooms at the back had been converted into one and accommodated the books. The café was effectively housed in a separate room, but the connecting door had been removed, allowing customers in the café ample incentive to be lured into the bookshop by a tantalizing glimpse of the latest bestsellers.
The Book Mark was the one place in Ballybeg that contained no unwelcome blasts from the past. In the months following her brother and parents’ deaths and her release from hospital, Fiona had spent many contented hours here, allegedly helping Bridie serve customers but more often than not curled up in the stockroom immersed in a book.
Fiction had been her escape, her grief counselor, and her inspiration, all rolled into one. To this day, there was very little in her life that a good book couldn’t help, if not cure.
Moving her head gently from side to side, she felt the tension in her neck ease. She was in need of a good book at the moment. Thankfully, little had changed in the shop’s layout in the years since Fiona had left Ballybeg. She found the historical romance section with ease and selected a couple of used Georgette Heyer books to read before bed.
She popped the books into her handbag, but ringing them up on the new cash register defeated her. Thank goodness it was Sharon’s day to help. The girl had grumbled when asked to start work an hour earlier than usual, but Fiona needed help getting up to date on suppliers and the accounts. In the meantime, she’d don the yellow rubber gloves she’d found in the stockroom and blitz the place.
