by Zara Keane
Bridie lowered her book and removed her spectacles. “How are you coping with life in Ballybeg?”
A muscle in Fiona’s cheek pulsed. “Ah, you know,” she replied with a shrug. “Not what I signed up for, but I’m surviving. It’s nice to be able to see Olivia regularly.”
“Your aunt Deirdre was in to see me yesterday.”
“Oh, yeah? Does she still have the pitchforks out for me?”
“She said Muireann extended her holiday. She’s spending a few weeks with a friend in Brisbane.”
A pang of envy pierced Fiona’s solar plexus. “Muireann’s in Australia?”
“Apparently. According to Deirdre, you got Muireann’s man, and Muireann got your Australian jaunt.”
“Only I don’t actually have her man.”
The line between Bridie’s brows deepened. “Any news on the divorce?”
“Nothing to report. Aidan Gant started the proceedings, but it’ll take years to go through.”
Bridie patted her hand. “It’ll be grand, pet. Don’t you worry. Did I tell you Gavin came to see me?”
“He did? When?” Her pulse became a rhythmic pummel in her wrist.
“Oh, he’s been in several times. To the nursing home and to the hospital.” There was a sly glint in Bridie’s eye. “Did I not mention it to you?”
“No, you did not,” Fiona said, eyeing her askance, “as you perfectly well know.”
Bridie’s mouth settled into a smug smile. “He’s a good lad, is Gavin, and a good neighbor. He’s been a great help to me over the years.”
“He was always the helpful sort.” Fiona’s racing pulse eased.
“Aye. After selling his BMW, he bought an old SUV from a friend. Plenty of leg room, he says. He’s offered to drive me home when they spring me from here.”
Which would mean she’d be driving to the nursing home with him. Fiona shifted her weight from one foot to the other. “Do you know when you’ll be discharged?”
“The doctor says next week or the week after.”
“How are you finding it in here? Apart from the boredom?”
“I’m surviving. It will be a relief to get home though.”
Fiona scanned the room. It was old and old-fashioned but painted an inviting cream color that was a lot more hospitable than the gross olive green of St. Ignatius ward. “This isn’t a bad place. For a nursing home, I mean.”
Bridie nodded. “This is where your grandmother was before she died. You won’t remember it, of course. You were in hospital after…” She trailed off.
“After the accident,” finished Fiona. “It’s fine, Bridie. The mention of it doesn’t upset me anymore. It was a long time ago.” She unzipped her rucksack and took out a couple of books and a box of Cadbury’s Roses. “Before I forget, here are the books you asked me to bring. The chocs are from Sharon.”
“Tell her thanks.”
“Will do.” She glanced at her watch. “I’d better get back to the shop. I told Sharon I’d look in before closing time.”
“Will you come by over the weekend? I get bored with only those two biddies for company.” Bridie jerked a thumb at the two gray heads in the neighboring beds.
Fiona struggled not to laugh. “Of course.” She bent to kiss her aunt on the cheek. “Take care of yourself.”
“And you too, love.”
On the way out, Fiona paused in the lobby. So Fatima House was the place her grandmother had allegedly signed her last will and testament, witnessed by Deirdre and a member of staff. What was the nurse’s name? Ann Something-or-other… Dunne!
She strode toward the reception desk, noting the slight limp that plagued her when the weather cooled. The gray-haired receptionist was on the phone. She smiled at Fiona and gestured for her to wait a moment. Fiona scanned her nametag. Carol Murphy.
A few minutes later, Carol finished her call and replaced the receiver. “How can I help you?”
Fiona flashed her an ingratiating smile. “My grandmother was in this nursing home fifteen years ago, shortly before she died.” The story sprang from her tongue easily, proving the old adage that the most effective lies stick close to the truth. “Nana mentioned a nurse she was fond of. Ann Dunne, I think she was called. I know it’s been a while, but do you know if she still works here?”
“The name doesn’t ring a bell,” said Carol, creasing her brow in contemplation. “But I started working here ten years ago. I’m guessing she was before my time.”
Damn. Unfortunate, but not surprising. There would have been a lot of turnover in staff after fifteen years. “What a shame. I was hoping to have a word with her. She was such a lovely woman.” Laying it on a bit thick, but what the hell.
“Hmm.” Carol looked pensive, then perked up. “I know who we could ask. Jack!” she called. “Do you have a minute?”
An elderly porter materialized from the other side of the lobby. “Yeah?” He regarded Fiona with a dubious expression.
“This girl is looking for a nurse who used to work here years ago. Ann Dunne.”
The porter’s friendly demeanor turned wary. “Ann Dunne, you say? What would you be wanting with her?”
If his tone was anything to go by, Fiona’s description of Ann as a “lovely woman” might have been a tad shy of the mark. “Ann nursed my grandmother during her final illness. I’d like to get in touch. Do you know where she’s living now?”
The porter snorted. “Ann’s long gone from Fatima House. Good riddance, I say.”
Feck. How was she to respond to that? “I take it you didn’t like her?”
He curled his lip. “No one liked Ann. Except the patients, of course. Oh, yeah. The patients were fond of her—or so she’d have us believe.”
Oh, dear. This did not sound good. “How do you mean?”
“Ann was always getting gifts from elderly patients. Valuable trinkets and the like. There was never a question of her stealing the stuff, but she was a dab hand at cozying up to the old folks and getting them to leave her presents in their wills.”
“Isn’t that unethical?” she asked. “Is it even allowed?”
The porter shrugged. “A tighter watch is kept over such shenanigans nowadays. Back then, if there was no hint of a crime, the nursing home bosses tolerated it.”
No hint of a crime… “When did Ann leave?”
“Long time ago now. I can’t remember precisely. Said she’d won the lottery, would you believe?” He shook his head. “Swanned out of here like Lady Muck.”
“You have no idea where she went?”
“Nah. I doubt anyone else who worked here back then knows either. Like I said, Ann wasn’t popular among the staff.”
“Thanks for your time, Jack.” Fiona smiled at him and Carol and took her leave.
Back in the car, she stared out the windshield at the tall trees swaying in the wind and drummed the steering wheel. The anger that had been simmering since the day Bridie had told her the story of the will was reaching volcanic proportions. If the porter’s tale was true, Ann Dunne was a con artist with a penchant for exploiting her patients. In other words, exactly the sort of person who—with sufficient financial incentive—could be persuaded to sign a fake will.
Bernard was a selfish bastard. If she’d questioned his ability to rip off his sister and niece when Bridie first told her the story, it was because she didn’t want to believe it. But believe it she did. It was time to put Olivia’s Google-fu skills to use once more. Hopefully, this time they wouldn’t result in mayhem.
Fiona clicked her seatbelt into place and reached for the ignition.
Her mobile buzzed, loud and insistent. She moved her hand from the car key to her phone. “Sharon? What’s wrong?”
“Hey, boss,” her assistant roared down the phone. “You’ve got a fella waiting for you in the café.”
Fiona held the phone away from her ear to preserve her sense of hearing. Whoever he was, he couldn’t be Gavin. Sharon would’ve mentioned him by name. “Does this fella have a n
ame?”
“Ah, yeah. Pete, I think. Wait a sec and I’ll check.” There was a clatter at the end of the phone as if something metallic had hit the floor. Fiona gripped the phone tighter. Whatever had gone flying in the Book Mark, ignorance was bliss. “Oy. You in the hat,” Sharon shouted in the background. “What’s your name?”
A muffled male voice responded.
“Fiona? You still there?”
“Yes, Sharon,” she said with exaggerated patience. “I and my bleeding ears are still here.”
“Your man says he’s called Philip. Know him?”
Know him? Oh, feck. What the hell was her faithless, feckless ex doing in Ballybeg? Her pulse accelerated. “I don’t care what you have to do, just get rid of him.”
“Eh?”
“Get rid of him. I’ll pay you time-and-a-half if you do.”
Sharon chomped her gum and considered. “Make it double and you have yourself a deal.”
“You’re utterly merciless.”
“I prefer the term opportunistic myself.”
“I’ll be at the shop within a half hour. Have him gone before I get there.”
Sharon gave a cackle of laughter. “Yes, boss.”
Fiona disconnected and gunned the engine. The moment she thought her life couldn’t possibly get more complicated, flaming Philip showed up.
If Aidan Gant’s slick smile stretched any wider, Gavin would become reacquainted with his lunch.
“You made the right decision,” the solicitor said with honeyed insincerity.
“I made the only decision that wouldn’t force me to emigrate.” Gavin stuffed his copy of the contract into his briefcase and snapped the clasp. “We both know this is a dirty deal.”
“Don’t be so negative. See this as a fresh start.”
A fresh start? Yeah, right. Fresh as a decaying corpse. He’d signed a deal with the Devil. And if Bernard was the Devil, Aidan was the Devil’s advocate. Literally.
“I’ll see myself out.” He was already through the door before Gant could say farewell.
Olivia was seated at her desk, frowning at her computer monitor. She glanced up when he passed. “See you, Gavin.” Her deep blue eyes held concern.
He averted his gaze and muttered a good-bye. He didn’t want sympathy. Sympathy wouldn’t get him out of this bloody mess. His sole chance of escaping Bernard’s sphere of influence before bankruptcy was to sell Clonmore Lodge or the cottage as quickly as possible. In the current economic climate, it seemed impossible.
He’d gone over his options a million times. Finding the cash to reimburse the Byrnes for their share of the wedding costs was never going to happen before the middle of October. Bernard knew that when he’d suggested it as a potential solution. Unless Gavin wanted to leave Ballybeg—and Ireland—contractually binding himself to pay the full mortgage on Clonmore Lodge was the only option. Not to mention the prick’s threats to accuse him of embezzlement… He clenched his fists and exhaled through gritted teeth.
As if to mirror his mood, the weather gods had gone all out. Thunder rumbled in the distance, and hailstones pelted from the heavens. The moment he stepped off the premises, he was soaked and getting wetter by the second.
Right now, he didn’t give a fuck.
“Gavin? Are you okay?”
The voice cut through his consciousness. Her Cork accent was flavored with a dash of Dublin. He hadn’t noticed it before—the lowered vowels and the nasal tinge—but he heard it now, clear as day.
Fiona stood in front of him, blinking through the rain. She was armed with an umbrella and wearing an unflattering raincoat. Hailstones danced at her Doc-clad feet, and rain ran down the bridge of her nose in a defiant rivulet.
She was adorable.
“I’m grand,” he lied.
“Bollocks. You look like shite.”
“Queen of the compliments, aren’t you?” He smiled, despite himself. Her dry humor always had this effect on him. She was direct, forthright, and no nonsense. She was, he thought in a moment of crystalline clarity, the most genuine person he knew.
She angled her umbrella to ward off the wind, but it was a useless endeavor. Her gaze flickered toward Gant’s nameplate. “What did you want with Gant? Something to do with the divorce?”
“No,” he said quickly. “Of course not. We agreed to deal with the divorce together.”
“So… if not the divorce, what?” She gestured for him to elaborate.
He sighed. “This town’s too small for secrets. You’ll hear soon enough. I’ve signed an agreement with Bernard.”
“You prefer your business partners with cloven hooves?”
He roared laughing. “Are you a mind reader? I was thinking the same thing when I walked out of the office.”
She swiped rain from her nose, her gaze never leaving his face. “Are you here on foot?”
“Yeah.”
Hesitation flickered across her face, then hardened into a decision. “Come on. I’ll give you a lift.”
“Ah, no. It’s a ten-minute walk.”
“A walk with hailstones the size of my thumb pelting you from above. Don’t be daft.” Her mouth formed a half smile. “I’ve to look in on the Book Mark for a sec, but I’ll drive you home right after.”
“Ah, no. No need to trouble yourself.”
“Shut up, Maguire, and do what you’re told.”
“You’re a bossy woman.”
The half smile became whole. “So my students tell me.”
The street separating them from the Book Mark was fast turning into a river.
“I hope you can swim,” she said.
He laughed. “I’ll have you know I’m a qualified diving instructor.”
“Good. Because if this keeps up, we’ll have to dive to find my car.”
She yanked him into the quagmire, and they waded across the street to the bookshop.
“Shite,” he said. “The weather’s wild this evening.”
“Not as wild as my life,” Fiona said and pushed open the shop door.
“Fiona!” Sharon MacCarthy leaned over the café counter, exposing a generous amount of cleavage. “And Gavin Maguire. Don’t the pair of you make the picture of marital bliss?”
“Cut the shite. Where is he?” Fiona’s body tensed, her eyes darting around the shop.
“Your actor fella?” Sharon toyed with her chewing gum. “He fecked off a half hour ago. Said he had to get to Cork City for an audition.”
Fiona’s posture slumped in relief. “Did he say if he’d be back?”
Sharon took out a nail file and began tending to her talons. “Nah. All he said was to pass on his regards, and he’d be ‘seeing you.’ Whatever that means.”
Fiona teased her lip ring. “Thanks. You’ll close the shop, yeah?”
“No problem.” Sharon waved her nail file in the air. “Everything’s under control.”
Outside, Fiona’s car was covered in hailstones.
“Who’s the actor fella?” Gavin asked, struggling with his seatbelt.
“Pull it hard,” she said. “The seatbelt’s wonky.”
He yanked, finally getting sufficient length to click the fastener into place. “Your body language didn’t exactly indicate a person thrilled by the prospect of his presence.”
She gunned the engine and eased the vehicle into the busy evening traffic. “Philip’s my ex. He said he’d look me up if he was in the area. I guess news spread that I’d postponed my trip.”
Her ex, eh? And an actor… Gavin was predisposed to hate the guy on principle. “There must be a reason he’s your ex and not your current.”
“Must be.” She didn’t elaborate, and he didn’t push.
Within a few minutes, they were pulling into Bridie’s designated parking space on Beach Road.
For a moment, they sat silent in the stationary vehicle. The air was electric with unspoken words.
“Want to come in?” she said finally. “I have leftover spag bol we can reheat. Nothing fancy, b
ut it tastes good.”
His fickle stomach rumbled. “Sounds delicious.”
He followed her inside Bridie’s cottage. While she reheated the food, he set the table.
“Wine?” she asked. “I’ve a half-full bottle of Pinot Noir if you’re interested.”
“Sure,” he said. “Why not?” Actually, he could think of a million reasons why not, and not merely about the wine. He shouldn’t be here. She was too… tempting. Unsettling. Muireann—when she wasn’t trashing his belongings—was cool, calm, and reserved. Fiona was impetuous and volatile and displayed her emotions with every gesture.
She dished out the food. They ate in wary silence, each hyperaware of the other’s presence.
“How’s Bridie? She said you were going to see her today.”
“Bored.” She smiled at him, warming him from the inside out.
He took a hasty gulp of wine. He should eat and leave, before they did something they’d both regret.
She ran a finger round the rim of her wineglass. “Want to tell me what deal you signed with my uncle? Knowing Bernard, it was nothing good.”
“No,” he said grimly. “Not for me, at any rate. Bernard set me an ultimatum. Either I ponied up his share of the wedding expenses by the middle of October, or I signed an agreement to keep paying the full mortgage on Clonmore Lodge until Muireann and I find a buyer. According to the written terms of the agreement, I have until Christmas to repay the wedding expenses.”
“What about the unwritten terms of the agreement?” she asked shrewdly.
“Bernard doesn’t bring charges of financial fraud against me.”
She sucked in a breath. “The prick.”
“The charges are a load of shite, but Bernard has too many connections for me to believe justice would be served. He knows he has me by the short and curlies. I don’t have the cash to reimburse him for the money he invested in the wedding. If I’d refused to sign the agreement, he’d have blacklisted me. The construction trade’s tight these days. If Bernard told his cronies not to hire me, my career in architecture would be finished.”
Her lips thinned. “That’s blackmail, pure and simple.”
“Yeah, but what can I do? He holds all the power cards. And he knows it.”
