Live to Fly Another Day

by Eliza Watson

  I lived for the day they were nonexistent.

  “So why can’t you rent a car in England?”

  “Bloody car hire companies blacklisted me. Consider me a high risk.”

  I nodded. “I used to consider you a high risk.”

  When we’d met, Declan had a bit of a womanizer reputation. Once I got to know him, I realized it was a survival tactic so he wouldn’t become emotionally attached to a woman after his wife’s death. Thankfully, I’d ignored Rachel’s warnings and discovered the real Declan for myself.

  He gave me a sly smile. “I’ve had two rental cars nicked here. The car hires were starting to think I had a theft ring, even though I found the one Peter had hidden and returned it. The agent wasn’t happy we’d been too knackered to clean out the streams of toilet paper after a mate’s bachelor party in Liverpool.”

  “What about the second car?”

  He shrugged. “Never found it.”

  “I can’t wait to meet Peter’s girlfriend, Charlotte.”

  The woman who’d been able to tame Peter Molloy’s wild ways. I’d met the owner of Molloy’s pub at Christmastime. He’d helped me connect with my rellies Sadie and Seamus.

  “She undoubtedly has a lot of interesting stories about you guys. I bet she and I will be great friends.”

  Declan quirked a brow. “That’s what I’m afraid of.”

  Chapter Five

  George lived near Dalwick, a village bordering northern Lancashire and Yorkshire counties. The closest hospital was in Lancaster—a lively college town filled with heavy pedestrian traffic, stone buildings, and quaint shops. A medieval castle sat atop a hill. Sadly, we were there to visit a modern hospital constructed of concrete and glass, not a historical stone fortress.

  We walked up to a young nurse in a pink uniform at the reception desk and inquired about George.

  “Are you a relative?” she asked.

  I nodded. “He’s my uncle.” I wasn’t sure if half uncle would allow me visitation rights.

  The woman glanced over at her coworker, who nodded. “She’s the only family member who’s been here to see him.”

  That about made me burst into tears.

  “His wife, Diana, isn’t here?” I asked.

  The two women exchanged glances.

  “He has a wife?” the one asked the other.

  “Does who have a wife?” an older nurse asked, walking up.

  “George Wood.”

  She shook her head, snatching a file from a shelf. “She’s been gone several years.” She whisked off.

  The nurse in pink gave me a curious stare. How hadn’t I known this if he was my uncle?

  “I haven’t visited in a while.”

  She gave us the room number and allowed Mac to join us as long as we only stayed a few minutes. Declan slipped his hand around mine and led me down the hallway in a daze, Mac trotting on a leash in front of us.

  “Why did George lie about his wife being alive? She’d supposedly baked him my grandma’s Irish brown bread. He’d said it was the most delicious bread he’d ever had. That they’d drank tea from my grandma’s cups I’d sent him. Is he even really my grandma’s son? Maybe in his baptism picture Grandma and Michael had been godparents like I’d originally thought. Rachel had questioned his claim from the start. I never had.”

  “In all fairness to George, not being up front about his wife having passed doesn’t mean he’s lying about everything. It’s tough losing a spouse.”

  But Declan had never lied, claiming Shauna was alive. He merely hadn’t told me he’d had a wife until we were working our second meeting together, in Paris.

  “Might be healthier than not talking about her a’ tall. It was fiercely difficult for me to discuss Shauna. It became easier to just not talk about her period. Lucky to have found love again. Hopefully, George will.” Declan brushed a kiss across my lips and gave my hand an encouraging squeeze.

  We entered George’s room. Beeping monitors and a wheezing sound came from behind the white privacy curtain. I peeked cautiously around the curtain at a thin, pale man with an oxygen mask over his mouth and an IV in his arm. He looked nothing like the cheery George I’d met at the trendy lounge in Prague. My eyes watered from the memories of our first visit…and the overpowering scent of flowers. Purple pom-poms, yellow daffodils, and pink peonies filled vases lining the windowsill, desk, and nightstand.

  Shaken by George’s fragile appearance, I occupied myself with a vase of colorful tulips. The card read Get well soon. Fanny. I snapped my hand back, realizing I was invading George’s privacy. He probably hadn’t even read his cards.

  Mac hopped up on the bed, coming dangerously close to the IV line entering George’s lower arm. George didn’t even flinch. Declan snatched the dog off the bed seconds before a nurse walked in.

  “Is he in a coma?” I asked her.

  I’d been so stunned upon discovering George’s wife had died I hadn’t inquired about his condition.

  She shook her head. “He’s quite weak from the pneumonia and is heavily medicated. Is out most of the time. Came to for a bit last night but wasn’t coherent. The fluid in his lungs is a concern. If the issue doesn’t resolve itself soon, we’ll have to insert a catheter and drain it.”

  I grasped hold of Declan’s arm, feeling light-headed at the thought of the procedure. “Would he have to be put down for that?”

  The nurse looked baffled and a bit mortified.

  “Ah, she meant put under,” Declan said.

  “Oh, God yeah, put under. Sorry. I was thinking about my cat when…never mind.”

  The nurse nodded faintly. “Merely a local anesthetic.” She gave us a sympathetic smile but no reassurance that George would be up and walking around in no time at all. She left.

  “At least he doesn’t have to be put under,” I said. “That’d probably be risky at his age. When my cat Izzy was fifteen, she had to be put under for bladder stone surgery, and she had a reaction. They had to put her down.”

  I sucked in a calming breath, needing to be strong in case George could hear us. If he could, I didn’t want to mention that Mom and Rachel were coming. That might make him think he was in really bad shape.

  Which it sounded like he was.

  * * *

  I input George’s address in the GPS, and we headed toward his house. We rounded a corner on a one-lane country road and encountered a half dozen sheep munching on shrubs lining the sides of the narrow road. Unfazed by our arrival, they continued dining. Declan honked the horn. Their ears shot back, and one gave us an annoyed glance, then went back to eating. If I were able to open the door, I’d hop out and shoo them up the road. The sheep trotted for a short distance, then stopped for dessert.

  Fifteen minutes later, we came upon a black iron gate with a plaque set in a stone wall that read Daly Estate. A tingle of excitement raised the hairs on my arms. Declan opened the unlocked gate without triggering an alarm. I glanced up at the surveillance camera as a sheep ran toward the gate. Declan darted in its path, blocking the entrance. I placed Mac on the seat and jumped out. I distracted the determined animal while Declan drove in. Mac was now awake and barking up a storm. I quickly closed the gate behind us. I flashed the sheep a victorious grin, then glanced up at the security camera.

  That video clip had better not show up on social media.

  We headed down a tree-lined gravel drive. Fields gave way to mowed grass and yellow daffodils. Shrubs in the shape of dogs appeared to be running alongside us, escorting us to the house.

  “The head gardener, Thomas Ashworth, must have quite the landscaping team,” I said.

  At the end of the drive, a shrub resembling a man towered over one side, a woman on the other. Her breasts and every curve of her body trimmed to perfection. My gaze narrowed on the man’s private parts.

  “Are those nudes?” I said.

  “The Venus de Milo and David.”

  “They must be good if you can recognize them in the form of shrubs. But s
eems kind of risqué for a proper English estate.”

  “It’s art. Quite good, it is.”

  We parked in the circular drive in front of a red brick mansion. The home looked the same as in the picture George had given me. Except bigger. I sucked at gauging square footage, but my parents’ ranch was sixteen hundred square feet, and about seven or eight of my family’s home could fit in this one. Yet two or three of this mansion would fit inside Downton Abbey. Huge was relative.

  I stepped from the car and set Mac on the ground. “I can’t believe my grandma and her husband once lived here. They probably held garden parties under large white tents and played cricket on the lawn.”

  “The house is a wee bit bigger than your granny’s cottage in Ireland, I’d say.”

  It was bigger than the Daly Estate up the hill from Grandma’s family home in Ireland, where the Dalys had looked down on the Coffeys, disowning their son for marrying one.

  Five months ago I’d visited my first castle, Malahide Castle near Dublin. This wasn’t as grand, but it was impressive enough to be a historic stately home on my long bucket list. Yet I wasn’t in the mood for playing tourist, having my pic taken in front of the house. I wanted to step back in time and take it all in, as Grandma likely had when she and Michael strolled up the drive over eighty years ago, hand in hand. They’d undoubtedly been anxious to embark on their new life together, unaware that Michael’s would sadly end just two years later.

  Closed red drapes hung in the white lattice-framed windows. Mac sniffed a purple lilac bush. He’d recently used the doggie rest stop, so rather than doing his duty, he plopped down in the sun next to the bush. I didn’t want the lingering smell of puke to be everyone’s first impression of us, so I tied Mac’s leash to an iron pole near the front door.

  Declan gave my hand a reassuring squeeze. I inhaled a shaky breath and rang the doorbell next to the massive wooden door. My heart raced with anticipation. I hoped the interior was reminiscent of Grandma’s era and hadn’t been modernized with large-screen TVs in the den and a shiny stainless-steel kitchen.

  I rang the doorbell again. “I can’t imagine nobody is here, unless we missed them at the hospital. There’s surely a housekeeper and a cook, since his wife passed away, and Thomas, the head gardener. The gate wouldn’t be open if nobody was home. Right?”

  I clanked the iron door knocker against the solid wood. As if that would be louder than the doorbell.

  Declan turned the brass knob, and the door clicked open.

  I grasped hold of his arm. “We can’t just walk in.”

  “Why not? George said it’s your place as much as his.”

  I bit down on my lip in contemplation. “Yeah, but still…”

  Declan opened the creaking door wider. “Hello,” he called out, poking his head inside. He paused a moment before withdrawing and closing the door, wearing an uneasy smile. “Right, then, probably rude to just be letting ourselves in.”

  Why the sudden hesitation?

  My curiosity trumped proper etiquette.

  I opened the door and stepped into a small foyer. A shiver shot through me from the cold temperature and dreary atmosphere. I walked into the salon, peering around in shock. “Omigod…”

  My voice echoed off the bare hardwood floor and through the empty room, up a wooden staircase to the second floor. At the top landing, a yellow-and-red stained-glass window allowed sunshine to filter in through a dirty film. A vase of yellow daffodils sat in the windowsill, trying its hardest to perk up the room and camouflage the musty smell. Bright areas of red paint, where artwork or wall décor once hung, broke up the faded walls, as did meandering cracks in the plaster. A lonely painting hung over the fireplace—a refined-looking couple and young boy in front of a Christmas tree. George and his adoptive parents? The stern-looking man reminded me of the portrait at the Daly’s home in Killybog, Ireland, but not quite as scary.

  “Was the place robbed while George has been in the hospital?” I said.

  “The staff and neighbors would surely have noticed lorries clearing out the salon.”

  I looked around. “What staff?” I gestured to a set of freshly cut scratches and grooves across the dark wooden floor. “Whoever hauled stuff out didn’t give a rip about the floors.”

  “Maybe he was in the middle of moving when he became ill.”

  “We e-mail several times a week. Why wouldn’t he have told me he was moving from a home that had been in his family for generations? What had he planned to do when Rachel and I visited next week?”

  I tried not to be upset when George was lying in a hospital bed fighting for his life. Yet I was hurt that he hadn’t confided in me about the estate or his wife.

  I walked across the foyer. Even the squeak from my rubber-soled shoes echoed faintly through the room. Framed photos of George’s family and mine mingled on the fireplace’s wooden mantel. A large vase of pink peonies sat on each end.

  I shook my head in disbelief as we continued through a wide doorway leading into a library. The built-in bookcases—void of books—almost reached the high oak-paneled ceiling. One scarred shelf displayed recent and vintage family photos and floral bouquets in empty wine bottles and clear jars. The home’s vases were likely all in George’s hospital room with peonies, daffodils, and pom-poms. I frowned. Had all the flowers come from the estate except for Fanny’s tulips?

  A worn red velvet couch and a cocktail table sat in front of the marble fireplace. An antique desk with a fancy inlaid wood design and leather upholstered chair faced a tall curtainless window. The wavy glass provided a distorted yet breathtaking view of the colorful gardens. I fought the urge to throw open a window and let the musty air out and some warmth and sunshine in.

  In the next room, a small occasional table with two chairs sat in the center of a large formal dining area with yellow walls and white crown molding.

  Declan eyed three crystal decanters on the table, containing gold- and brown-colored liquors. “Good man.”

  I was more interested in the silver teapot next to the decanters and Grandma’s three cups I’d sent George. Hopefully, I wouldn’t be taking them back to Ireland with me. At the end of the room, Declan opened a white door leading to the kitchen. I gasped, startled at the sight of an older man at a massive cast-iron stove.

  The short man raised a frying pan with both hands. Besides the fact that he struggled to keep the iron pan in the air, his wide-brimmed straw hat, yellow wellies, and floral apron made him appear quite harmless.

  “What the bloody hell are you doing here? House isn’t for sale yet. Now get out before I call the police and have you arrested for trespassing.” He attempted to shake the pan at us, grimacing as if the weight might break his wrists.

  “Not here to buy the place,” Declan said. “We came to visit George Wood in the hospital.”

  “Are you Thomas Ashworth?” I asked.

  The man’s weathered features relaxed, and he nodded faintly, lowering the pan. He wasn’t exactly what I’d expected from such a regal-sounding name. Not that dressy wool pants, a tweed jacket, and riding boots would be practical attire for a gardener, but that was how I’d envisioned him.

  “I’m Caity Shaw. You e-mailed me.”

  A sense of relief washed over his face. “Caity Shaw. Why, I’m so glad you came.” He removed his straw hat. “Please excuse my lack of manners. Thought George’s greedy cousin or that annoying fella from the bank was sending over more prospective buyers. That man’s poor mother would turn over in her grave if she knew he was beating down doors bullying money out of the respectable people she’d known her entire life.”

  Ignoring bills and past-due notices didn’t make them go away. Bill collectors were quite persistent. Like sending a repo company to steal your sporty red car right from in front of your house while your mom was eating breakfast.

  “So the house is going up for sale?” I asked. “Where’s George living?”

  “Hasn’t moved anywhere yet.”

  �
�Where are all the furnishings?”

  Thomas heaved a sigh, dropping down in a chair at a small wooden table. “Has sold most everything off to pay bills, yet still owes.”

  Why hadn’t George asked us for help? Because he’d contacted us for moral support, not financial. According to the nurse, no family had been to visit him. My family, Emily Ryan, Sadie, and Seamus were likely the only living relatives to help him through these tough times. It didn’t sound like he could rely on support from his greedy cousins.

  “What will he do when the place sells? Where will he go?”

  Thomas shrugged faintly, looking too depressed about it to even lift his shoulders.

  A teakettle whistled on the stove.

  The gardener went to stand, and I placed a comforting hand on his shoulder. “I’ll get it.”

  He gave me an appreciative smile.

  The cupboard contained a full set of china—a bluish green with fancy gold scrollwork and yellow roses. George had mentioned he would reciprocate my kindness for sending him Grandma’s teacups with one from the Daly’s china collection.

  Thankfully, it was still intact.

  I poured hot water into a china teapot and added several tea bags. I placed three cups and saucers on the table, along with a plate of sliced bread and a small bowl of jam sitting on the counter.

  “The china is one of the only things George hasn’t been able to bring himself to sell. It’s been in the Daly family for generations. Same as my family. My father was the head gardener before me, and his father before him. I grew up in the cottage down the dirt road just inside the entrance. Will remain there until someone buys the place and evicts me.”

  I poured tea, then sat next to Thomas.

  “It’s a historic home,” Declan said. “Any chance George could be getting government funding or a national trust to help him out?”

  Thomas shook his head. “England has many country homes in need of assistance. And the house had to be open to the public for inheritance taxes to be waived. George is probably still paying on those. After the theft, George’s parents refused to open the front door for friends, let alone strangers.”