Live to Fly Another Day

by Eliza Watson

  Sending Mac to obedience school would be much cheaper than replacing everything he destroyed.

  I flipped on the water kettle next to the microwave on top of a small dorm-size fridge in the kitchenette. I selected a purple floral teacup from my growing collection on a shelf. Besides a half dozen cups from Grandma’s collection, our Irish rellie Sadie Collentine had given me a shamrock-and-ivy patterned one from our Flannery family’s china factory in County Wicklow. A family I had yet to research. My cups also included a red floral one from Emily Ryan—the sister of Grandma’s first husband, Michael Daly—and a gold-and-yellow patterned one from my genealogy client Nigel, a hotel banquet captain in Prague.

  The place was sparsely decorated, but it was mine.

  I wasn’t required to have my ex’s approval before hanging something on the wall, and I didn’t have to make the bed daily. I didn’t even own a bed. That would send Andy over the edge.

  I smiled at the sense of freedom.

  I’d brought the bare necessities from home knowing I’d possibly be returning there after ninety days until I straightened out my citizenship. I could not lose my job. My deferred student loan kicked in this month, and taxes were due in twenty-eight days. I should have listened to Mom and set aside money each paycheck for taxes. However, paying off store credit cards had been good for my self-esteem. Despite feeling inept at genealogy research, I needed the extra income. Yet I couldn’t contact that Scottish couple until I’d completed the research for my existing clients, who’d paid in advance. Before long Gretchen would be pounding on my door, demanding answers. She had enough frequent flyer miles to show up at my apartment on a weekly basis.

  I made a cup of Barry’s Gold tea and took a calming sip as I sat at my desk to return an e-mail to George, my half uncle. Next week I’d finally visit the Daly Estate in England, where Grandma had lived with her first husband, Michael, and son, George. After her husband’s death, she’d left her one-year-old son with Michael’s cousin. Still coming to terms with having a half brother, Mom had decided to wait and come over with her sisters Teri and Dottie this summer so they could meet as a family.

  An e-mail sat in my inbox from Sadie Collentine. Her son had recently set her up an e-mail account so we didn’t have to rely on snail mail. I’d asked her and her cousin Seamus to verify their mothers’ birth locations. Knowing where Grandma’s sisters were born could help me pinpoint Grandma’s birthplace.

  Sadie’s e-mail confirmed Seamus’s mother, Ellen, and her mother, Theresa, had been born in Killybog, County Westmeath. The birth certificates were on file with the registrar’s office in Mullingar. Ellen’s mother’s name had been left blank. No wonder I’d been unable to locate it in the civil records online index. Sadie recalled that Theresa’s parents hadn’t agreed on a name at her time of birth. Theresa later wrote in her first name, and it was never questioned.

  What if Grandma’s first name wasn’t listed on her birth certificate? Would the Irish government accept that as a legal document for my citizenship?

  I e-mailed Nicholas Turney an update on these family birth certificates. The local historian, who lived near Declan’s parents, had helped me sort out my Coffey family tree. He was one of many I’d recruited for assistance in my quest for Grandma’s birth record. Hopefully, he could go to the registrar’s office and search for variables like a missing first name and alternate birth years. Grandma having lied about her age would have been minor compared to all the other secrets she’d kept.

  Chapter Three

  The next morning, I was running early and didn’t have to holler down the street for the bus driver to wait as he closed the door. I claimed the only open seat and booted up my laptop. I spent my daily work commute doing genealogy research. I perused Scotland’s vital records website, hoping Bernice and Gracie’s ancestor’s baptismal record had miraculously appeared since the last dozen times I’d checked.

  According to Nicholas Turney, the Scottish had adhered to a family naming pattern, same as the Irish. Based on the 1871 Canadian census for James McKinney’s family, his firstborn son, John, would have been named after James’s father and the second-born daughter after his mother. That would mean his parents were John and Mary. However, out of the five James McKinneys born in Glasgow during that era, none were born to a John and Mary. I once again tried murdering the surname’s spelling and using various birth years for James, but I still came up empty.

  I heaved a frustrated sigh, glancing out the window. My gaze darted around at the unfamiliar surroundings.

  Where the hell was I?

  I’d taken the wrong bus!

  The bus pulled up to a stop. I flew from my seat. Laptop tucked under my arm, I excused myself, pushing past people standing in the aisles. I hopped off. No clue where I was at, I ordered an Uber. The car arrived in six minutes, but it took us thirty-three minutes with traffic to get across town to Flanagan’s headquarters.

  I raced inside the glass building, scanned my company badge, and smiled calmly at the security guard. While riding the elevator up, I took a deep breath and tried not to look frazzled. I exited on the top floor and speed walked toward my desk, smiling as I passed coworkers in the hallway. I said good morning to Ita—a cheerful younger woman two cubicles down from me—arriving at my desk with a minute to spare. I dropped my laptop bag on the desk next to a photo of Declan dressed in a blue pilot’s uniform, me in a powder-blue flight attendant one, the Eiffel Tower in the background. Halloween in Paris. I was waiting for the day I came in to find the picture of me in the sausage costume on my desk. Gemma obviously hadn’t figured out it was me in the pic with the CEO hanging on her office wall.

  I stared at the insanely hot photo of Declan while smoothing a hand over my flat-ironed hair. I swiped a pale-red gloss across my lips before booting up my laptop to compile my glamping site inspection notes. If my boss inquired about my citizenship status at our 9:00 a.m. meeting, I’d have to be vague. Something I’d become quite skilled at during my stint as an on-site meeting contractor. Attendees were always asking me questions I didn’t have answers to.

  An hour later, I walked into the CEO’s outer office, where Gemma sat in a black leather chair behind a black steel-framed desk. The black furnishings were about as welcoming as her blue-eyed glare. My royal-blue designer dress and black heels helped me exude false confidence. She had no clue I was still paying on the pricey wardrobe I’d purchased to live up to Andy’s expensive tastes and unrealistic expectations.

  “How was the glamping trip?” Gemma smirked, twirling a clump of blond hair around her finger. She’d had her green sparkly nails done for the St. Patrick’s Day celebration.

  Wench.

  “Awesome. It’s going to give me the chance to plan some really creative events. Something unique they’ve never done before.” I made it sound like this would be my shining hour.

  Her smile faded.

  Thankfully, the CEO was available, so I didn’t have to have a glaring contest with Gemma that might end in a brawl that even Gerry Coffey wouldn’t be able to break up.

  I sat in the black leather chair in front of Matthew McHugh’s desk. He was fiftyish, tall, with salt-and-pepper hair. He had on a brown cashmere suit jacket, blue oxford shirt, and dark jeans.

  “How was it?” He gave me a kind smile.

  The type of smile that almost made me want to fess up and admit my delayed citizenship status.

  “Never done anything quite like it. A very unique experience.”

  “Just what I’m looking for. Something different. How are the cottages?”

  “You’ve never been there?”

  He shook his head. “Paddy just bought the place two years ago. A retirement venture.”

  Great. Now I felt obligated to be up front so it didn’t come back to bite me in the butt. Yet I couldn’t let his rellie’s place sound as horrible as it’d been.

  “The caravans are very colorful, and it’s a quiet area except for an occasional moo. One cow got out a few tim
es and paid us a visit.”

  He laughed. “Sounds perfect.”

  “A water pipe broke in town, so we were without water for a few days. Yet it rained a lot.”

  “Good thing it broke now. What’s the chance of that happening twice in two months?”

  Above average, with my luck.

  I presented my ideas for a scavenger hunt at the island’s deserted village with over eighty abandoned dwellings. A rock-climbing adventure that would give teams the satisfaction of helping each other scale a low-lying cliff. And Zoe’s idea of herding cows back in the field. He seemed to like the whole cow slant.

  “Rustic. Just what we need. Like one of those survivalist TV shows. Thanks for checking it out. I knew you were the right person for it. Gemma isn’t really the roughing-it kind.”

  Talk about a backhanded compliment. I was made of sturdier stock than fragile-flower Gemma, so now I’d get all the shit jobs?

  Gemma knocked, then entered with a contract to be signed.

  While scanning the document, the CEO said, “Oh, and great job finding a new venue last minute for the St. Patrick’s Day group.”

  “My pleasure,” Gemma and I said simultaneously.

  I glared at her, and she smiled innocently, avoiding my gaze. I couldn’t believe she’d thrown Rachel under the bus and then took credit for finding a new venue. Bitch.

  Our boss gave us a curious stare. “Ah, okay.” He blew off the awkward situation and handed Gemma the signed contract.

  She sashayed out without looking at me.

  Rachel would go ballistic.

  “The August incentive this year is between Vienna, Florence, and Dubrovnik. You should start looking into costs to see which will work best as far as budget.”

  Prague would work best since I’d never even heard of Dubrovnik. Or how about Dublin’s Connelly Court Hotel, where I’d stayed three times? A preferred vendor, their contracts were likely cut and dried. I’d never negotiated a hotel contract, done banquet guarantees, or anything planning related except check hotel and restaurant availability for Rachel’s meetings. I couldn’t turn to my sister for help. She’d warned me I’d be in over my head. My heart hammered.

  “If you could compile a cost comparison by the end of next week, that’d be grand.”

  I’d have to cram my first twenty-hour online meeting planning course into this weekend. Maybe it was a good thing the program wouldn’t be held in Ireland, as I might not be allowed back in the country for ninety days if I was forced to leave in June.

  Wait a sec. Did that mean I wouldn’t be allowed in any EU country?

  I took a calming breath before I hyperventilated and fainted on the CEO’s desk. I refused to admit to my boss, or myself, that a glamping trip was more my speed.

  “Gemma worked it last year with Joyce, so she’ll be a good resource for questions. You can get the program binder from her. She’ll be assisting you on-site.” His tone held a sense of hesitation, his gaze narrowed with curiosity.

  I didn’t want him to think I couldn’t play nice with coworkers, so I plastered on a perky smile. “Perfect.”

  I walked out to Gemma’s desk and requested the binder.

  She slid a massive white binder off the shelf behind her and presented it to me, weighting down my arms. It would be too heavy to lift into an airplane’s overhead bin and probably wouldn’t fit under the seat in front of me.

  “Joyce kept a lot of handwritten notes that aren’t in the computer file. She was old school. I hope you’ll find everything you need in there.” Her devious smile said I wouldn’t.

  I’d have to come in after hours and empty her shred bin into a garbage bag so Zoe and I could play arts and crafts, gluing all the pages back together.

  It was all I could do not to call Rachel and wake her up at 4:00 a.m. to tell her the wench had let her take the fall for her restaurant error. She got up at five, so I called her an hour later and filled her in.

  “I screwed up,” she said.

  “What?”

  “After you left me the message, I checked, and I never sent the final payment. I don’t know what happened. I’ve had a hard time focusing lately. I just feel off.” She sounded matter-of-fact over having made a fairly big mistake. She used to wig out over one typo in a ten-page meeting agenda.

  “Oh well, shit happens.”

  But it never happened to Rachel.

  Even worse, it hadn’t happened to Gemma.

  * * *

  I arrived home a little past six. My shoulder throbbed from the weight of my computer bag, and I couldn’t move my wrists after carrying the binder from hell, too big for my bag. Zoe was knitting like a madwoman to replace the half dozen hats Mac had destroyed. Mac was supervising from the floor, giving Zoe his best puppy eyes, but she wasn’t caving. She was a stronger woman than me.

  She patted the cushion next to her. “Ready for your first knitting lesson?”

  “You were serious?” I dropped my computer bag on the floor, and the binder hit the desk with a thud. “I’m never going to be able to learn to knit a dog sweater or a cat hat in a matter of two days.”

  “Mac said the same thing.”

  “About me or him?”

  Zoe rolled her eyes. “Cheer up. It’s the weekend.”

  “Which I get to cram a twenty-hour online class into, hoping it even touches on hotel contracting.”

  She popped up from the couch. “I got Chinese takeaway. Kung Pao shrimp, your favorite.”

  “Awesome. Thank you so much.”

  Zoe removed the containers from the dorm-size fridge and stuck them in the microwave. I poured two glasses of cabernet in teacups from Grandma’s collection, not having yet bought dishes.

  I booted up my laptop. “I just have to shoot a quick thank-you to Nicholas Turney. He’s going to the registrar’s office on Monday to search for my grandma’s birth record.” I opened my e-mail to find one from a Thomas Ashworth.

  Dear Ms. Shaw,

  I am contacting you in reference to George Wood, who has become gravely ill. He is currently hospitalized at Lancaster Memorial. I think it best if you are able to pay him a visit as soon as possible. I know how much you mean to him.

  Sincerely,

  Thomas Ashworth

  Head Gardener, The Daly Estate

  George was gravely ill?

  My chest tightened. How could I not go visit him? George had connected with my family thanks to my genealogy research. I’d put him in touch with his paternal aunt Emily Ryan and our cousins Sadie and Seamus. Emily promised to meet up with him when she returned to Dublin from the Canary Islands in April. And Seamus, at the age of eighty, had never ventured outside Ireland, so he and Sadie had invited George over for a family reunion in June. I’d have to notify them of George’s condition.

  Were we the only family he had outside of his wife, Diana?

  Had he been ill when we’d met last month in Prague? Was he dying? I’d been anxious to visit the Daly Estate, but not under these circumstances.

  “What’s wrong?” Zoe asked.

  “George Wood, my mom’s half brother, is really sick.”

  “What’s wrong with him?”

  “Not sure. The e-mail is from one of the estate’s employees, who says I should go see George in the hospital.”

  “That’s absolutely mad that you have a rellie with an estate. Where ’bouts is he?”

  “County Lancashire. A small town in the north.”

  “Take the ferry. It’s probably much cheaper than flying at this late notice, and then you don’t have to hire a car. The ferry is lovely. If you haven’t drank martinis the night before, out clubbing with the girlies.”

  “I’m not sure if I get seasick. I’ve only been on a dinner cruise in Paris and a canoe trip down a river with the Girl Scouts. We had to carry our canoes across land twice, and it took me weeks to get the fiberglass slivers out of my hands.”

  But my fear over taking a huge ferry, across a huger body of water, ran much deeper
than fiberglass slivers in my fingers.

  “I have the craft show, or I’d tag along. I need the money. I’ll go bonkers if I don’t get out of my parents’ house.”

  “Rachel arrives late tomorrow afternoon. I’ll wait for her.”

  “Should you be waiting if the poor bloke is so sick?” Zoe sat down at my laptop and pulled up the ferry schedule. “There’s a high-speed one departing at eight a.m., getting into Holyhead, Wales, at ten.”

  “Wales? How far is that from George?”

  Zoe scrunched her forehead. “Two, three hours.”

  “I can’t drive two or three hours to George’s. And a high-speed ferry would make me barf for sure.”

  “A regular ferry is eight hours to Liverpool. Going into Wales, you could bypass Liverpool. Declan could probably catch a flight to Manchester, and you could pick him up there. Maybe Rachel could fly in there also. It’s in Lancashire.”

  “Would Mac be allowed on a ferry?”

  Mac let out a bark.

  Zoe nodded. “Luckily, I got his passport and vet papers when we’d planned to visit you in the States this spring.”

  “I can’t drive in Dublin or onto a ferry. I get nervous when I have to drive my car into the stall for an oil change, afraid I’m going to drop into the opening in the floor.”

  “I’d be more worried about the ramp collapsing and the car dropping…” Zoe trailed off, noticing my panicked look. “That only happened once, maybe twice. Very rare. And the drivers survived. You’ll be grand.”

  “Not if I have a heart attack before I hit the water. If I’m afraid to drive in Dublin, I certainly can’t drive to Manchester to pick up Declan.”

  I’d driven twice in Ireland. The first time I’d almost taken out an old man walking his dog. In my defense, he shouldn’t have been walking down a narrow road while it was snowing, even in a reflective vest. I then panicked in a roundabout, stalled the car, and was almost rear-ended. The second time I’d only driven a short distance in a rental car before returning it and having Declan take me to the airport Christmas day. Flying alone was one thing. My parents dropped me off at the airport, my flight was usually nonstop, and a car picked me up upon arrival. Taking a ferry when I’d never been on one, sailing across the Irish Sea to an unknown land, then driving hours was beyond terrifying.