The request had been odd enough, but the source of it—her late husband's Irish cousin—had been the greater surprise. Her attitude about Phillip Ryan had always remained ambivalent. God knows she could never repay what he'd done for her, but gratitude had not come quickly or easily, and even now it was layered with a vague hesitation.
Her husband had died. A horrible accident and not Phillip's fault, but in her grief it had been easy to blame him, to hold him responsible for the worst day of her life. Upon receiving the first of his annual Christmas cards five years ago she'd thrown the envelope away unopened, unable to separate the man from the memories he evoked.
She'd come a long way since then. Now, she could prop his ubiquitous seasonal greeting on the mantelpiece without a second thought and send back one of her own, and remember him with a bittersweet gratitude. Still, when his name had appeared in her inbox, a twinge of reluctance made her hesitate before reading the message.
Kate began thumbing up the piles of clutter on her desk like a botanist searching under rocks, and eventually found the printed copy of Phillip's note and their follow-up communications. He'd seemed to anticipate her guarded reaction in his very first line:
Dear Kate,
I hope you're well. No doubt it strikes as something odd to hear from me outside of the Christmas season. The fact is I'm writing about a lodger I'd like to send your way. He'll be a paying one of course, but might be looking for an extended stay, if you allow such a thing.
His name is Conor McBride, and I've been working as his farm manager for a good few years. For various reasons—his mother's recent death and some personal issues—he's sold his land and is leaving Ireland for America.
In your last holiday card (thanks for that, by the way), you mentioned no end of trouble keeping managers engaged at your place. Conor's experience might be useful to you there. He's a good farmer, though he's maybe not fit for work straight away. He was nearly killed with pneumonia a month ago and he's still a bit shook. A dose of your mountain air would set him right, I'm thinking.
Kate, please will you let me know as soon as you can if you've the space, and the inclination, to board him for a while.
Kind Regards,
Phillip
Kate's eyes skimmed over her acceptance and request for arrival details, and Phillip's apologetic reply.
Sorry not to be able to give more exact information. He says he'll arrive in about a week.
That had been a week ago. Kate was still frowning impatiently at the print-out when she heard a heavy footstep on the porch, and then the doorbell.
"Come in out of the cold, Jared." She rooted around the clutter in a fresh search, this time for the check she'd written earlier. The front door opened a crack.
"Afternoon." Jared's low voice came through the opening. The lazy cadence of his Vermont drawl always made him sound like he was just up from a nap, but he was one of the hardest working young men she knew. "I'm okay out here, Kate. I'm pretty muddy and it ain't that cold, so—."
"Oh, who cares? I'll be washing all the floors down here, anyway. What's a little more mud?"
Kate came from her office, smiling at the disembodied bearded face peeking around the door. With a bashful grin, Jared's eyes dropped to the floor and he shuffled inside.
"We haven't seen you for breakfast, lately. Abigail misses cooking for you."
"I been missin' it, too." Jared sighed. "Been kinda crazy up the house, with Dad and all."
"Oh, his knee surgery! I'd forgotten." Again, guilt poked a sharp finger into her chest. "How is he?"
"Doin' okay. Ornery as hell, so I guess that's good. He had fifty bucks on the ice-out contest. His last pick went by yesterday, so now he's pissed about that, too."
Kate laughed. "I only put down ten but I nearly cried myself when I saw the lake this morning."
"What date is your last pick?" Jared's eyes darted to her face and tailed away again.
"Today. Like, now."
"Shit."
They both laughed.
"Well, there you go." Jared summed up the injustice with equanimity. He swept a hand through his mop-headed tangle of brown curls. "I better get back."
Kate executed a quick maneuver to tuck the weekly check into his pocket. He was expecting it of course, but could acknowledge it only with a soft grunt and duck of his head. Holding the door as he left, her eye wandered to the corner of the hallway.
"Oh, wait a minute, Jared. Can you hang this back up for me on your way down?"
She lifted the wooden sign and gave it a final inspection. Rembrandt Inn, Hartsboro Bend, Vermont. Here at least, was an artistic project she'd finished without paralyzing seizures of self-doubt. She re-painted the sign every year and its installation ordinarily signaled they were accepting guests.
Jared’s sleepy eyes widened. "You open already? Thought you stayed closed until May."
"We do, but I'm taking on a long-term guest, and it sounds ridiculous but I don't know when he's getting here, or how, or if he's still coming. I want to be sure he knows the place when he sees it. If he sees it. God almighty, why did I get myself involved in this? Just hang the sign. If he hasn't shown by the time the ice goes out, I'll take it down again."
"Unless the ice don't go out 'til May." Jared chuckled.
"Not even funny, Jared." Kate reproached him with a teasing scowl. Not the least bit funny."
2
Like a cobra striking at its prey, she stabbed the brush down into a glistening dot of color and then hesitated, the instrument rigid in her grasp. She'd layered the canvas with a fresh coat of gesso to seal the hairline cracks that had appeared since the last application, and Kate stood now with eyes closed, breathing in the soft oily smell from her palette, filled with the anticipation of beginning.
The problem was it could only be called "beginning" if something followed. In an all-too-familiar pattern, hesitation lengthened into paralysis, anticipation faded to anxiety, and "beginning" became inertia.
"Maybe I should try watercolors instead." Kate let the palette drop to the floor with an echoing slap.
Watercolors wouldn't work, either. The medium wasn't the problem. Once, she'd been able to move easily from oils to watercolor to ink sketches, and the connection between her mind and the hand holding the brush was like one long elastic synapse, tingling with precise obedience. She always knew where the next stroke would go, knew how it would look carrying the paint over the canvas. Her hand was as steady and reliable as her life, until a day almost six years ago when it wasn't anymore. Since then, the empty canvas had been a metaphor for everything she'd lost. Except for re-applications of primer she could never bring herself to make a mark on it, could hardly bear to rest the bristles of a perfectly dry brush against its blank surface.
Above her, the room’s track lights flickered and the darkness beyond the windows abruptly stuttered with blue-white light. A roll of thunder followed and Kate's mood brightened. She loved a good thunderstorm.
She moved down the hall to the living room of her third-floor apartment. Its large picture window provided a view of the lake and the road on her left, as well as the trout brook running along the bottom of a gorge on the right, which served as the property's western border.
The fat drops pelting the window were already multiplying as she settled on the sofa, and a minute later the rain was beating down in wind-driven sheets, filling the potholes in the dirt road and adding greater volume to the seasonal flood of the brook.
Cozy and snug, Kate's eyes drooped as she gazed at the storm, but opened wider when a figure appeared on the road—a man, head tucked down against the downpour, carrying a large duffel bag in one hand and an oddly shaped case on his opposite shoulder. He turned up the driveway, briefly illuminated in the pool of light from the roadside sign, and she sat up, bemused and staring.
"Oh, come on. Are you kidding me?"
She hurried downstairs and as he reached the front steps Kate opened the door, leaving the chain lock secured
. "Lousy night for a walk," she remarked through the opening.
He stopped short at the sound of her voice—and of the chain drawing tight against the wood—and darted a rueful glance down at his clothes. "I couldn't agree more, but it seemed a good idea at the time. I'm sorry to be getting here so late. Should I come back in the morning, maybe?"
"That’s remarkably polite. If I said 'yes', where would you go?"
"Hmm. Good question."
With a laugh, she snapped on the porch light and swung the door open. "I think you'd better come inside. From the accent I assume you are the long-awaited Conor McBride."
"I am." He blinked at her in the sudden wash of light, looking startled.
"I'm Kate Fitzpatrick." Opening the door wider she tilted an eyebrow at him. "Welcome to the Rembrandt Inn?"
"Sorry." He stepped forward to take the hand she offered. "Pleasure to meet you, Kate." He swept his hair—jet-black and dripping wet—away from his forehead, revealing straight dark eyebrows and a pair of deep brown eyes. He examined the area around his feet. "I'm flooding the hallway, I'm afraid."
"Doesn't matter. The floor is still due to be washed. Procrastination is my specialty. I'd nearly given up on you. Phillip thought you'd get here three days ago. The ice went out at eight this morning but I decided to leave the sign up anyway."
"The ice . . . went out?" Conor regarded her blankly.
"Local expression." She closed the door on a deafening crash of thunder. "Every year we have an 'ice out' contest. A concrete block is tied to a clock on the lake and people take bets on the date and time when it will fall through."
"Right. I see."
He didn't of course, but it seemed too complicated to explain why she'd come to connect him with the habits of ice on the lake.
"You must have flown into Burlington? How did you get here?"
"Ah, bit of a story, there," Conor said. "Poor planning. I'd no clue Vermont was so short on bus routes. I rode one from Burlington and got as far as Montpelier, then I ended up at the Coffee Corner having a cup of tea and a chat about what to do next. Somebody mentioned your state senator lives nearby, so they rang to find out was he in town, and please could he give this gack of an Irishman a lift."
"You got a ride from Bob Franklin?" Kate grinned. "I'll bet he talked your ear off."
"He did have some things on his mind. I've learned a lot my first day. He stopped at the village store down the road and I was a bit stir crazy, so I decided to walk the last few miles."
"And now, here you are."
His lips twitched into an ironic smile. "Right. Here I am."
Kate had grown mesmerized by the Irish brogue. His voice was deep and quietly resonant, but held a note of splintered hoarseness. When he ducked his head away to clear his throat she snapped back to attention.
"Now I'm talking your ear off and you're standing here soaked to the bone. Let's get you upstairs."
She'd decided to put him in one of the spare bedrooms on the third floor. Asking how long he intended to stay seemed inhospitable, but housing a long-term boarder in a regular guest room gave her less flexibility. The large attic room at the far end of her apartment was an emergency spare, with its own small hallway to provide enough privacy for both of them. The downpour continued pounding above their heads as she inserted the key, and once inside the room a muffled crash of water sounded outside the window. Conor threw her a quizzical glance.
"Do the lifeboats cost extra?"
Kate laughed. "A trout brook runs next to the house on this side and empties into the lake. It'll roar on for another week while the snowmelt comes off the hills. I'll give you the tour in the morning."
She placed the key on the bedside table and turned on the lamp. The bed was an antique four-poster, and on the opposite wall a marble mantle with brass sconces framed a fireplace. In front of it a matching set of armchairs and a low glass table sat on a braided rug, completing the picture of a comfortable attic hideaway.
Conor dropped his soggy duffel to the floor as though glad to be rid of the weight, but was gentler with the bag on his shoulder, which Kate realized was a soft-sided violin case. He set it down on the window seat next to the bed, and while he was stripping off his wet jacket and peering down at the brook she took the opportunity to examine him more closely.
He stood several inches taller than her—a little over six feet, she estimated. Although disheveled and in need of a bath and a shave, nothing could disguise the essential fact: the man was exceptionally good looking. Kate somehow hadn't expected that, but thought it a nice reward for her generosity toward Phillip Ryan.
He also appeared painfully thin and exhausted. In the midst of a yawn Conor turned and caught her staring at him. He closed his mouth, cleared his throat again and sat down on the window seat with a grunt.
"Sorry. Sort of a long day."
"Of course. My exit cue." Kate hesitated, concerned by his wan appearance. "Can I bring you something to eat? Or at least some hot tea? It sounds like your voice is going and I don't want you getting pneumonia again on the first night." A flush warmed her cheeks as Conor stiffened, his face sobering into watchfulness. "I apologize. I shouldn't make light of your illness."
"No, don't worry." He flashed a cautious smile. "I didn't know Phillip told you. I'm fine, though. My voice often sounds like it's going.” He pulled at the t-shirt under his V-necked sweater, revealing a scar below his Adam's apple, about the length of Kate's little finger. "Emergency surgery. Kept me from suffocating so I can't really complain, but the old vocal cords got a good scrape. It’s actually improved quite a bit, believe it or not.”
Fascinated, Kate tried not to stare. "Does it hurt?"
Conor inclined his head, appearing curious as well. "Funny how everyone asks that. No, it doesn't hurt." After a short silence he added, "I'm not hungry but I'd love a cup of tea, and I could do with a shower."
Kate gave him some time to shower and get settled before returning with the tea tray. She knocked on the door he'd left ajar, catching a whiff of shaving cream and sandalwood soap as she entered. Without its layer of dark stubble Conor's face looked even more pale and tired. He'd changed into a black t-shirt and jeans, and was studying the fireplace with a thoughtful expression. She lowered the tray, which connected sharply with the glass table. He jumped at the rattle of china and teaspoons.
"Sorry about that." Kate straightened. "The fireplace works, and we've got more wood if you feel like dragging it up the stairs. Now, I'll get out of here and let you get some rest. Leave everything outside after you're finished and I'll pick it up in the morning. I'm at the end of the hall if you need anything." She had a hand on the doorknob when Conor called her back with a question.
"What else did Phillip tell you? About me, I mean."
"Not nearly enough." She grinned, but then remembering, grew serious. "He said your mother died recently. I'm sorry."
He frowned and colored slightly. "Thank you."
"And that you'd sold your property in Ireland."
"Uh-huh. Anything else? I didn't know you had such a long chat about me."
"We didn't chat," Kate said coolly. The conversation was beginning to feel like an interrogation. "We corresponded by email. I still have the messages if you want to read them."
Seeing her irritation, he dropped his head. "No, of course not. I was only curious."
Kate relented, smiling, but before closing the door stuck her face back into the room. "While we're on the subject I should be asking what Phillip told you about me. I guess I can wait until morning."
The door closed with a soft click, and Conor stared at it for several seconds before turning away.
“How about—'she's deadly feckin' gorgeous'—Phillip might have told me that about you but he didn't, thanks very much.”
He returned to the window seat and unzipped the insulated violin case, removing the suede-covered version inside. Then, as though unpacking a set of nesting dolls, he opened the second case to lift out the v
iolin itself. After confirming the instrument had survived the trip uninjured he put it back, fingers brushing over the scroll in shy apology. The last time he'd played had been while standing in a field behind his farmhouse, offering up a traditional air for his mother on the last day he'd seen her alive. That was less than a year ago, and he'd been an entirely different person. What kind of sound would his hands draw from the strings now, after the things they'd done?
Setting the violin aside, Conor took a pocketknife from the duffel bag and reached again for the insulated case. He sliced along the seam near the bottom, and with two fingers dug inside to retrieve first, a pristine Irish passport and then a U.S. permanent residence visa—a "green card." Tossing both on the window seat he bent to the travel-stained khakis he'd dropped on the floor. From the back pocket he took another Irish passport, this one stippled with airport security stickers and still damp.
He thumbed through the pages, remembering the carefully disguised fear he'd experienced each time he presented it—in Cardiff, Stuttgart and Belgrade among others, and finally on the US-Canadian border. For the past ten days, his circuitous route and modes of transport had not really been poor planning but a combination of meticulous technique and dumb luck.
At the fireplace, he marveled at this further instance of good fortune. He quickly assembled paper and kindling, and put a flame to the pile with a long-handled lighter he took from the mantelpiece. Once the fire was burning high and hot, he cast a final glance at his photo and tossed the passport into the flames. It ignited in a burst of light and the cover writhed and curled like a living thing as it melted.
"Good night, F. James Doyle," he whispered. "Rest in peace."
Maybe he was foolish to risk using his real name in this new life, but watching his globetrotting alias shrivel into cinders, his spirits rose. It felt good to be Conor McBride again.
The Conor McBride Series Books 1-3 Page 36
