by Russ Durbin
“Yes, but….”
“Further,” the indomitable Ms. Reilly went on, “next summer a duplicate of your wonderful LOVE sculpture from Philadelphia will be coming to Dublin, where it will be displayed on St. Stephens Green for a year. The government is planning a national advertising campaign around it to make Ireland the “land of lovers,” targeting couples young and old in Europe and the states.”
Ms. Reilly was in earnest now, leaning forward and pressing her point. “If we can come to an acceptable arrangement before Christmas, we could get your book on the spring list in advance of the arrival of the sculpture. It’s a perfect tie-in.”
She sat back, sipping her brandy. “In addition, if we can get an agreement done between RTE and BBC, a movie based on the book could be ready before the LOVE sculpture leaves the following year, giving us another shot at increasing book sales.”
“Well, it’s certainly an attractive prospect,” I began, “and the way you have described it, everything seems to fit nicely. Your proposal is almost too good to be true. I don’t suppose you just happen to have a contract already prepared, do you?”
Kathryn Reilly laughed, turning to her partner, “What did I tell you, Malcolm? These Americans get right to the point.”
“As a matter of fact, Patrick, we did take the liberty of having our solicitors prepare a contract,” said Malcolm, smoothly producing a thick document bound in blue paper from his Coach briefcase.
Taking the proffered contract, I thanked them and said I would look over it and get back to them in the next day or two.
“Oh, and Patrick, we’ve faxed a copy to your agent so she can review it as well,” said Kathryn. “I’m sure the two of you will want to talk.”
“Thanks,” I said, slipping the contract into my battered briefcase.
“I’m just curious,” said Kathryn, leaning forward with a hint of mischief in her blue eyes. “How is it that you chose to write a love story—-and, of all things, set in Ireland—in the midst of your writing of western sagas?”
She looked at me with a trace of a smile. “You certainly have captured the Irish culture, particularly the experience of Irish women. It has an authentic feel. Aren’t you suggesting, in your own way, of course, that your story is a bit autobiographical?” In her teasing way, she was fishing.
I smiled to cover my uneasiness at this line of questioning. “Ms. Reilly – Kathryn – please. You’re talking to a writer of fiction. The story is fictional; it’s meant to be read and enjoyed as a good story, nothing more. Of course, I tried to make the people and places as authentic as possible. Otherwise, no one would read it.” After a pause, I added, “Very few have, I’m afraid, so I would say your publishing company is taking a very big risk on my book.”
“You sell yourself short, Mr. O’Connor. I believe we’ll do just fine,” Ms. Reilly said as she rose and held out her hand. “We look forward to hearing from you soon.” Malcolm Sheehy mixed his “dear boys” with his “good-byes” and took himself off with Ms. Reilly on his arm.
It had been a long day, but I wasn’t sleepy. A fast scan of the hefty contract gave me a good idea of what SR&O was proposing. It wouldn’t make me rich, but it was better than I had expected. Talking to Jamie Lipchitz would have to wait until tomorrow afternoon because of the time difference.
Chapter 6
STRANGE TWISTS
I lay on the bed, thinking back to what strange turns my life had taken since my first trip to Ireland in the mid-70s. I had fallen in love with an Irish woman on that first trip, only to leave her to return to my family in Philadelphia. We agreed never to see each other again. Although my wife never knew about Maggie, there were things going on with my wife as she climbed the corporate ladder in her company that I never knew either. Over the next four years, clues to what was happening began to accumulate.
* * *
“Dad, phone’s for you. It’s Mom!” With those words, my 14-year-old son dropped the phone on the hall table and bounded up the stairs three at a time.
“Hi, Kerri. What’s up?”
“Pat, I missed the plane because of an extra long conference so I am staying over in Chicago. I’ll be home tomorrow.” Kerri paused and then asked, “Is everything all right? Are Jon and Beth okay?
“They are fine,” I said, answering her second question first. “And no, things are not all right. Missing planes and staying over has become a habit. You haven’t been home much in the last six months.”
“I’m sorry, Honey, but you know what it’s like,” she said contritely. “Now that I am an Executive Director of Marketing for the anti-inflammatory drugs, I am not exactly in control of my time.” Thanks to her personal drive to succeed and her substantial organizational skills, over the last four years Kerri had moved steadily up the corporate ladder at her company after she successfully developed and executed the marketing plan for the merger of the two pharmaceutical companies. “We’ll talk about it when I get home. I have to run; we have a dinner reservation.”
“We?”
“Yes, Len is here, too. We both missed the plane. See you tomorrow. Bye.”
* * *
I sighed. My life had changed in three major ways in the past 20 years.
One, my wife divorced me. Our breakup occurred to start the 80s. Shortly after the divorce was final, Kerri had married (Len) and had moved to New York with my kids.
She got custody for two reasons. First, she was their mother and the courts generally favor the mother over the father for child custody. Second, she made more money than I and was “better able to provide for their well-being,” according to the courts. It made no difference that I loved them dearly. Jon and Beth cried and hung onto me before they left. I cried too. Another piece of my heart was torn from me in those moments. I wanted to fight Kerri for them, but my attorney told me I was wasting my time and money. The outcome would be the same.
Two, my company was bought out by an international conglomerate that, in its corporate wisdom, thought it could operate much better with one-third fewer worker bees. So, I got the pink slip along with hundreds of others. Suddenly, the judge in my divorce case looked like a genius. Although I got a nice settlement package from the company, it didn’t last long when everything was “outgo” and there was no “income.” Financially, Kerri was far better able to support Jon and Beth than I. I took Amtrak to New York to see them every chance I got. They got to spend a week with me each summer.
With two strikes against me (no wife and no job), it was the last of the ninth and hope was running out when I hit a home run.
With few prospects for a 45-year-old-guy at large, I turned to my earlier love—writing. I had been a damn good writer for The Bulletin and had made a decent living as a free-lancer for a time before I went corporate.
My first novel was The Day Jessie Died. It was historical fiction about the day Mr. John Howard (aka Jessie James) was assassinated. After being ignored and/or turned down by nearly 40 literary agents, Jamie Lipchitz called from New York. She was relatively new at the business of representing writers but she was a shark at the negotiating table and just as stubborn as one.
“You got any more where that (Jessie) came from?”
“I have.”
“Good, fax me a couple of pages each from three other stories you’ve written. I might have a publisher who may be interested. But all publishers are scared that a writer will run dry after one novel. So, we gotta show you have more in the pipeline.”
“Does that mean you’ll represent me?
“Stop wasting my time and money on this call and get those pages to me ASAP.” With Jamie, I quickly learned, everything was ASAP! I had the fax machine going almost before I hung up the phone. Hathaway, Herrington, and Heywood bought and published it. And, as they say in books, the rest was history.
It was a hit; the first western novel in years to be a best seller. Because it was based on an historical event, it actually got a fair review in the Times. That was followed by The Last
Stage from Yuma; Tin Pan Annie, the Gold Rush Queen; The Seed of Abraham (a post-Civil War saga of the west), and The Westerner, the first of a series featuring Rig Mahony, a two-gun son of the West. It was after The Westerner that critics started calling me the new “L’Amour” or the new “Zane Gray.” I wasn’t in their league, I knew, but it was nice to read those comments about my books. HH&H was pleased that its maiden venture into the western genre had paid off and I was now an “established writer.”
Chapter 7
A DEPARTURE
I smiled at the ceiling as I lay there thinking about the events that led me to this return trip to Ireland.
* * *
For months after Jessie I was nagged by this idea for a totally different type of novel, a love story in an Irish setting. It could have been an American woman falling in love with an Irishman, but it wasn’t. No, I had to write about my beloved Maggie. Of course, the names were changed, the characters were fictitious, and most of the actions in the book didn’t really happen. But I managed to capture the essence of the love that Maggie and I shared with my words and, thus, An Irish Interlude was born. I remembered the argument with Jamie and subsequently with my editor.
“Are you crazy? Why are you writing a love story when your westerns are selling as well as the cold war thrillers?” Jamie shook her head.
“Look at my westerns, Jamie,” I said. “Have you ever really read them? Every one is basically a love story, just done up in western garb. Anyway, I have done it and I want it published.”
In the end, HH&H published it, but only after much grumbling and a lot of “You will owe us big time for this, Pat” admonishments. The fact that the book didn’t sell well merely added to the publisher’s irritation.
Chapter 8
MOVING FAST
Sometime during my musings, I drifted off. I awakened with a bad taste in my mouth and my clothes wrinkled. A quick cold shower, teeth brushing and a hot shave, I felt refreshed and went to the dining room for breakfast, taking the contract with me. Breakfast was a leisurely affair while I carefully read the thick document, making notes and question marks to discuss with Jamie later. Knowing my agent, she would already have gone over it in minute detail. As I was finishing my coffee and scribbling the last note or two, a waiter came to the table.
“Mr. O’Connor, you have a phone call. Do you want to take it at your table (this was a really nice hotel) or in your room?”
Looking around and seeing no one nearby, I said here would be fine.
“Hello, Patrick, I hope I didn’t ring too early.” The honeyed voice was none other than one Ms. Kathryn Reilly.
“No, I was just finishing breakfast. What can I do for you?”
“I know you haven’t had time to talk to your agent yet, but I wanted to let you know that BBC would like to meet in London next week. I really think you should plan to stay over and take the meeting. We will be there of course along with a producer for RTE, and I know you’ll want Jamie there as well.”
“Wow! You certainly move fast. Are you sure RTE will go?”
“That’s no problem. Malcolm and the head of RTE are golfing buddies and members of the same country club. That is a done deal. I just wanted to give you a ‘heads up’ on the meeting so you could discuss it when you talk to Jamie. Please ring me when you decide.” She gave me her private extension and her home phone numbers before disconnecting.
I didn’t have to call; Jamie rang me early afternoon.
“You didn’t sign anything, did you Pat?” was her greeting to begin the call.
“No, Jamie, relax. I did go over the contract. It looks good to me. By the way, you were right; Ms. Reilly is the driver on this project.”
“I’ve been through it line by line.” So what else is new, I wondered. “It IS a good contract, better than I would have anticipated. However, there are a few items that we need to clarify before we execute. I had Henry Winslow check it for any legal loopholes.” Henry was one of the attorneys for HH&H.
I was surprised. She either got Henry up awfully early or kept him up very late last night.
“You’re moving almost as fast as Kathryn Reilly. She phoned today to say that BBC wants to meet in London next week.”
Jamie whistled. “I’ll say she’s moving fast. We should take the meeting. You arrange it with Kathryn and let me know. I’ll be there. Meanwhile, let’s go over my notes for the agreement.”
Kathryn Reilly was delighted when I called and asked her to make the arrangements with BBC. A quick exchange of phone calls and the meeting was set at BBC offices in London at 11 on the following Wednesday.
As she finished filling me in on plans for the meeting, Kathryn said, “Patrick, I’m having a quiet little dinner party at my home Saturday night. I’d like you to come and meet some of my friends. It would give you a chance to relax and we could get better acquainted.”
I was silent, thinking about someone other than the voluptuous Ms. Reilly. “Kathryn, that is really nice of you to invite me, but I hope you’ll let me take a rain check. I have some old friends I would like to look up this weekend, so I’ll be out of the city for a couple of days. But thanks anyway. It’s very thoughtful of you.” She was gracious, but sounded disappointed.
Chapter 9
CORK REVISITED
Renting a Ford Granada the next morning, I drove south from Dublin on the first section of a new four-lane highway that hadn’t been there when I was in Ireland 20 years ago. The country’s new-found prosperity was helping improve the nation’s infrastructure. En route to Cork, I encountered many “traffic calming” and “loose chippings” signs as road crews worked to improve the highways.
However, by the time I reached Mallow in the heart of the agricultural Blackwater Valley, I was back to the narrow cobbled streets I remembered. Driving down the main street, dead ahead was the old Mallow Castle. It appeared to block the south end of the street. Actually, the road curved sharply to the right of the castle and continued toward Cork City.
As I pulled into Jury’s Hotel on Western Road in Cork, I noticed that it had a new portico and had been substantially remodeled and upgraded since I last stayed there. Once in my room, I sat on the bed and wondered if Maggie still lived in the tall red brick house just a few blocks down the street.
As I considered whether to try to see her, the butterflies in my stomach started doing rolls and loops, giving me an uneasiness that had been growing since I left Dublin.
What if? What if she were…married? What would I do? No! No! She couldn’t be married, my heart told me. My mind said otherwise. Yes, she very well could be married, have a family, and have no wish to see me again. I was past history. Long past.
I was driving myself crazy, so I snatched my jacket or anorak as she once called it and dashed to the car to drive by the house at least to see if there was a light.
The house was still there, but all the windows were dark. The stone walls around the tiny front garden were in good repair and the garden and house looked well tended.
Turning around in the entrance to Cork College, now the University of Cork, I drove back to the hotel. It would never do to simply arrive on her doorstep unannounced. I would ring her.
Searching through the phone book, I looked for Maggie’s name—Margaret Frances O’Callahan. My God! Did I just overlook it in my haste to find the number? Line by line I went through the thick book. There were lots of O’Callahans but no Margaret and none on Western Road. Then I searched for M.F. O’Callahan. There was one M. O’Callahan, but at a different address in Cork. This one was in Blackrock. I phoned.
“Halloo,” a woman’s voice answered. It wasn’t Maggie, but the voice sounded young. A daughter, maybe?
“Is this the residence of M. O’Callahan?”
“Yes, just one moment. Michael, it’s for you.”
“Hello, this is Mike O’Callahan. Who is this?” a man’s voice asked.
“Sorry, I think I may have a wrong number. Do you happen to know a Marga
ret Frances O’Callahan?”
“No-o-o, sorry. There’s no one here by that name.”
“Thanks. Sorry to have bothered you.”
Discouraged, I pondered my options. I didn’t see Fionna’s name in the directory, either. And I didn’t know the names of Maggie’s brothers or other sisters.
Finally, I tried the telephone company operator. No luck. No such listing in Cork.
Throwing the phone book across the room, I flopped on the bed. Maybe my trip to Cork was in vain. Maybe Maggie—my Maggie—was gone forever.
Wait! I sat up. There was another option, Mary Kate, her best friend. Mary Kathleen O’Hanlan. “Let’s see,” I thought as I retrieved the phone book, “She worked at a women’s dress shop. What was the name? Le Femme! That’s it.” I turned to the yellow pages and thumbed through the women’s clothing section. No such listing.
Maybe I should check out the stores on St. Patrick’s Street. It might be there under a different name. It was raining, of course, and the wind was sharp as I walked downtown Cork. No Le Femme. The store I remembered was gone. Like Dublin, Cork City had undergone a makeover. In place of the woman’s shop was a sparkling new Marks & Spencer department store.
Feeling a bit foolish, I walked in and asked for women’s clothing. Directed to an elegant salon at the rear of the store, I inquired if a Ms. Kathleen O’Hanlan worked there.
“Oh, yes. Ms. O’Hanlan works here. In fact, she is the department head for fine women’s clothing.”
“May I see her, please?”
“I’m so sorry. Ms. O’Hanlan is away at a buyer’s meeting in London. She’ll be back next week. Do you have a card?”
“No, I’m just an old friend. I’ll check back later.”
Bitterly disappointed, I left the store and headed back to Jury’s. The hotel was bright, warm and a lively combo was playing in the lounge when I returned, but I didn’t feel much like listening.
Going back to my room, I made one more try. Mary Kate’s name was listed in the book at the Bishopstown address I had remembered. I phoned; it rang and rang but no one answered. Finally, a recorded voice announced that “No one is available to answer your call. Please leave a message.” With the beep, I explained I was in Ireland on business and staying at Jury’s. I asked her to call when she got home.
