Family Affairs

by Pamela G Hobbs

  They chatted casually about various local people and entertained each other with the local gossip and latest news. As the conversation continued, Dev was mentally filing her face away, but then had a better idea. He reached for his phone and held it up then took a few shots of the two women opposite him.

  “Lean towards Mary Louanne, Frankie, so I can get a better picture of you two Yanks,” he said.

  The second Mary Louanne realised what he was doing she recoiled as if stung. “No, don’t, do not take my photograph!” She practically snarled at Dev and reached across to grab his phone.

  “Hey, hold your horses!” He held it out of her reach. “It’s just a few photos as a memento – you girls look cute.” He made a show of sliding through the few he’d taken. “Look, I’ll email them to you, if you like, so you have your own copies.”

  He turned the phone screen towards them and Frankie reached for it. “Oh! they’re nice, Mary Louanne. Look . . .” She angled it towards her companion.

  Mary Louanne seemed to have calmed and she took the phone from Frankie’s hands. She studied the few pictures, using her finger to flick from one to another.

  “Oh, I guess they’re okay. I just hate having my likeness taken – always have. Ever since I was a little girl, from what my Daddy says. Silly me.” She smiled ruefully at Dev. “Devlin, honey, would you mind going in and asking Jimmy for an Irish coffee for little ole me? I’m chilled and that would surely warm me.”

  She batted her eyelashes at him and Dev was so surprised and not at all sure that she was joking that he got up to do as she asked.

  “Want one too, Jones?” he asked Frankie.

  “Sure, thanks,” she replied. “Good thinking, missy.” She turned to Mary Louanne. “You’re right, it is a bit chilly now.”

  Dev returned a few minutes later with their drinks and shortly after that Mary Louanne stood to leave.

  “Why, thank you both for a lovely time. I’ll be seeing you at the weekend soiree, about seven, you said?” She looked to Frankie for confirmation.

  Frankie nodded. “Yup, seven’s good and it’s casual, Mary Louanne, so don’t dress up – we’ll all be just hanging out. See you then.” She raised her hand in salute as Mary Louanne walked away.

  “I didn’t know she was coming on Saturday evening,” Dev remarked.

  “Is that a problem? Thought you said it was okay?”

  “No, God, no – anyone is welcome to the do. I just didn’t realise you two were that close, is all.”

  Frankie shrugged. “Not close, really.” She paused as if thinking. “I guess I just find her comforting in an odd way.” She shrugged again. “Who knows, maybe it’s the accent that makes me feel at home?”

  “I’d have thought our accents would do that.” Dev knew he sounded irritable.

  “You would think. When I’m in the US I crave an Irish accent – have been known to seek out degenerates in pubs just to hear the likes of you.” She wriggled her eyebrows at him. “But here, lately, I’m missing the old twang. Daft, I know.” She put down her empty glass and stood up, stretching. “Come on, Devlin Francis Fitzgerald, let’s get walking before the night totally sets in.”

  “You sound like Mum when you use my full name. It’s not an attractive quality in you, let me tell you,” he grumbled.

  “Are you saying your mom isn’t attractive? Ha! Wait till I tell her that her baby boy is badmouthing her.”

  The light-hearted bickering continued all the way back to the lodge where, with no reference to the events of earlier, they headed to their respective beds.

  Neither slept well.

  Chapter 10

  “So, how many are we expecting?”

  “Well, the usual suspects and any hangers-on who turn up on the night. Relax,” Caro said down the phone on hearing Frankie’s gasp. “It’ll be grand. It’s always a bit mad, but we do it every year and no incidents to report yet. Well, nothing major, anyway. Or at least no hospitalisations. That we know of.”

  Frankie couldn’t help laugh, but her friend’s description of the fast-approaching annual Fitzgerald August bank holiday barbeque bash had put her nerves on edge.

  “When will you all be down? And was I supposed to send out invitations or phone people or what?” She ran her hand anxiously through her hair.

  “Did you?”

  “Did I what?”

  “Send out invites?”

  “No. God, should I have?” Frankie groaned. “Oh! blast it, I’ve ruined everything . . . hey, stop laughing. I thought you were serious and I’m stressed enough as it is.”

  “No invites. People just come. It’s tradition and everyone brings something. We usually have about forty or so and even when it rains – and my God, we’ve had some seriously wet bank hols – we just pile into the house and cram into every nook and cranny. It’s great craic.”

  Caro reminded Frankie about what food to order in and what she and the others would be bringing, and how it really wouldn’t help to have her panic. “Frankie, relax, would you? I’m telling you, it’ll be grand and now the locals will be only delighted to have a celeb in their midst, so you can be the party piece on behalf of the Fitzgeralds.”

  “Party piece? You have to do a party piece? Shit, Caro, I hate being put on the spot. I get all nervous and . . .”

  “I’m joking! Jesus, Frankie, take a pill and I’ll see you on Friday about midday, okay?” She hung up, still laughing at the absolute horror in Frankie’s voice. Frankie, world-famous actor, getting her knickers in a twist over a family-do party piece. Laughable, absolutely laughable.

  Frankie heaved a sigh of relief. Okay. She could do this. She could. It was just . . .

  “Did I hear you mention party piece?” Dev asked as he poured some steaming coffee into a large mug and took a deep swallow. His expression proved he, too, believed in the coffee god. He caught Frankie’s raised eyebrow. “What?”

  “There is no party piece. I checked with Caro,” she stated smugly, “so you can’t freak me out any more than I am.”

  “What I don’t understand is how a woman of your obvious talent could be even remotely freaked out by doing a turn in front of some family and friends. Aren’t you trained for this?” He propped his superior ass on the kitchen table, one knee bent and the other leg stretched out in front of him. “Isn’t this, well, your job? I mean, if someone asked me to take a photograph I wouldn’t freak out.” He drank from the dark brew once more.

  “And aren’t you just wonderful.” She dripped sarcasm from every syllable. “And it was my job. Not any more. That chapter is over.”

  Dev sat fully up on the table and swung his legs backwards and forwards slowly while studying her intently. “Yeah. About that. I know I apologised for sticking my oar in before, but you never actually told me what you’re going to do now. And I promise,” he said, holding his hand up in Scout’s honour, “no cracks about ageing models!”

  Frankie leaned towards him, took the mug from his hands, topped it up with some fresh coffee, took a long drink herself and handed it back to a bemused Dev. She had been both dreading and longing for this conversation. She’d always known it would be Dev she told first. Despite the rather volcanic relationship they appeared to be having at the moment she knew, irrefutably, that he’d ultimately support her. So, here goes nothing . . .

  “You take photographs for Explorer Monthly, don’t you?” She looked at him for confirmation.

  “Yeah. So?”

  “Do you ever read the articles by FMJ? They aren’t in every month but there have been about six over the last year or so.”

  “FMJ? Did he write the one about the village in Bolivia? Oh! and the one about unusual traditions in northern Finland?” At her nod he continued, “Yeah – I have read them. Pretty insightful but a unique style. Why? Do you know him?”

  Deep breath. “I am him.” Another deep breath. “Her.”

  “Come again?”

  “I’m FMJ.”

  “Yeah, right. So how d
o you know him? Seriously.”

  Frankie reached over and took the mug from his grasp as he was about to sip, and put it very deliberately on the table next to him. She rested her hands on his shoulders, arms out straight. Standing directly in front of him. “I am F Francesca, M Mary, J Jones. I’ve been writing for a few years and always scribble down my thoughts about every new place I visit, both as an actor on location and through the children’s charity I sponsor. It’s . . . I don’t know . . . it’s a way of showing respect for what I gain from other people’s worlds, I guess.”

  She saw dawning awareness filter across Dev’s face as he began to realise she wasn’t making it up.

  “One of the script writers on set, in India, I think it was, saw me writing and asked to see what I was at. Truthfully, I was about to say no, absolutely not, when I was called for a scene and had to dash. I told him it was personal – maybe I should have said private – but anyway, the rest, as they say, is history.” She shrugged, becoming a bit uncomfortable under his continued unfaltering gaze.

  “He liked the way I worded stuff and gave me the name of a publisher he knew. As it happened the following month, after the film wrapped, I ended up in hospital for a week with exhaustion and started typing up my journal into some form that seemed readable for others, not just myself.”

  “I remember.”

  “Pardon?”

  “Nothing.” Dev seemed embarrassed. “Never mind. So. Wow. A writer.” He reached up and caught one of her hands in his, and in a surprisingly old-fashioned gesture, bent forwards and placed a kiss on her knuckles. “One day, maybe, you won’t blow my mind with your talents.” He smiled at her. Straight at her, his head shaking back and forth in wonderment. “But not today. You’re bloody amazing, you know that, right?” He kissed her knuckles again. “So, what does your agent think?”

  “Ah.” She pulled out of his reach. “Therein lies the rub. Jason isn’t happy about my decision to continue writing and back away from acting, but I genuinely know that for me, right now, I can heal myself better and move on if I do this, my way. Do you really like my stuff?” she asked hesitantly.

  “Well, I wouldn’t call it ‘stuff’,” Dev laughed. “It’s storytelling, I think. Yeah – that’s what I’d call it. The articles made the reader engage on an emotional level with the people described. You made the reader engage. That’s pretty damn hard to do, you know. Come here, babe.” He pulled her into an enveloping bear hug and rocked her gently, safe in his arms. “The parents will be stoked. Everyone’ll be stoked.”

  He planted a kiss on her hair. She smelt of sweet pea or summer or heaven. She smelt like Frankie.

  Damn. Damn.

  Space is what he needed, he decided. Space. As Dev disentangled himself from the embrace he’d initiated – idiot – he tried to remember the stern lecture he’d given himself the previous night as he lay miserable in his bed. Distance and space were the key words he remembered. Why now? Jesus, he needed more caffeine. Oh yeah – to give her time to deal with all her issues and not crowd her with his. Yeah, that was the grown-up deal he’d made with the gods in the wee hours.

  If anything was ever to happen between them, anything serious, and he wasn’t at all sure it would, he needed to back off for now and not attack her, taste her, devour her, at every opportunity. In fact, his brain had decided that after this weekend, he was heading straight back to Dublin until his exhibition opened in a few weeks and after that, well, he’d see how his bargain was panning out.

  “Dum-di-dee, dum-di-dee, he likes my work, he likes my work, dum-di-dee . . .” Frankie hummed along to her little tune, inordinately pleased with herself, with life in general, with Dev in particular. She plumped up cushions, whacking them against each other and replacing them on various couches. “He likes it, he likes it, dee-dum, dee-dum.” She twirled – yes, twirled – with a throw rug hugged to her chest and a huge smile on her face. Had life ever been this good? “Dum-di-dum.” Singing not being her strong point, she kept her almost melodic humming to a low decibel while finding herself simply unable to stop.

  She sprayed some polish on the clear surfaces and shined them to a sparkle. The drawing room and the family room at the lodge were now vacuumed and dusted and ready for visitors. Of course, the hope was that the lovely weather would continue through the weekend and the entire party would be al fresco.

  Frankie hummed some more dum-di-dee as she pushed the brush along the polished wood of the hall as she swept. She made her way into the kitchen having swept and mopped in there earlier and it was liberally scattered with double pages of The Irish Times newspaper soaking up the wet. She winced, knowing the professor would grumble at such desecration, but truthfully it was headed for the recycle bin anyway, so who cared? Not her. Not Frankie and her dum-di-dee happy tune.

  She opened the fridge door and unpacked some ingredients to make a variety of marinades for the selection of proposed dishes. She seriously impressed herself with her new-found culinary skills. The Fitzgeralds had two usable barbeque grills, both gas and efficient.

  God, Frankie remembered the old rows over gas versus charcoal and taste versus expediency. It was Jo who’d won in the end by means of a demonstration. After a long day at a nearby beach she’d taken them all home, tired, salty, sandy and starving. She’d purposely not prepared anything in advance for dinner, having set her plan in motion earlier. With a hungry brood bleating around her, including her increasingly grumbly husband, she lit the charcoal in the kettledrum then wandered into the kitchen to rustle up some burgers and a toss a salad.

  A gin and tonic and some cheese and crackers later, she’d been almost immune to the pleading cries of her offspring as they’d begged for dinner soon – now, pleeease. By the time the coals were hot enough to take the food, both Flynn and Dev had bruises, and Dev was rubbing his shoulder in pain. Molly was crying, Frankie was sulking sitting on the rocks by herself, and Caro had flounced to her room in high dudgeon and slammed the door.

  Ali had sat crossed-legged on a garden chair staring at the barbeque. “They won’t cook any faster just because you’re glaring at them, my child,” Jo had murmured as she loaded on some skewered vegetables in an attempt to be healthy. She heard Patrick roaring from the study – something about his bloody whiskey having disappeared – and smiled to herself. The ravenous crew finally inhaled their dinner about fifty minutes after they arrived home and they were so cross with each other that they’d griped and sniped all the way through the meal.

  Jo sipped her second – or perhaps her third – G & T and said pleasantly to the assembled family, “You know, you’re right, Patrick, the taste from the coals is far superior to any fast, fake gas burners we could use – I can really get the essence of the outdoors, can’t you?”

  It was seven tired, cross faces that glared back and two days later, two Australian Outback top-of-the-range gas barbeques were delivered to the lodge. Result.

  Those grills had been replaced at least once over the intervening years and Patrick took great pride in keeping them clean, always putting them undercover for the winter months. Well, now the gas canisters were full and the long-handled tools were at the ready, they were good to go.

  The booze had arrived from the local supermarket and a few cases were to be collected from the local wine shop for, as Patrick used to say, “those in the know”. They’d collect the meat from the butcher on the square later in the afternoon and all fresh produce was to be bought first thing in the morning.

  Frankie looked at the clock over the kitchen window and quickly switched on the kettle – the Fitzgerald gang should be pulling into the drive soon; they’d texted from Galway and would need a cuppa.

  She glanced at the mirror in the hall as she made one last sweep through to check everything was shipshape. Her glossy hair was loose about her shoulders but she’d tied on a colourful headband, giving a jaunty look. Her lashes had a touch of mascara and eyeliner, and her favourite peach lippy set her mouth off to perfection. Franki
e didn’t really see any of this. She saw a contented woman staring back – a woman in a Breton striped three-quarter sleeve, close-fitting T-shirt and worn navy linen drawstring shorts with ancient white keds on her feet.

  She usually saw worry and anxiety around the eyes and the beginnings of a frown line on her forehead. But today? Today, she saw a contented woman and she had Devlin Fitzgerald to thank for that, albeit unwittingly. His unstinting praise had buoyed her no end. She knew she could write, her editor knew she could write. And now Dev did, too. A smile blossomed on her face as the traditional horn-beeping erupted from the driveway. They’d arrived.

  Dev paused as he clambered over the rocks on the edge of the property. He tilted his head towards the sounds of chatter and laughter coming from the patio area just ahead of him but still out of sight. He closed his eyes and just listened. His dad’s deep baritone, his mum’s brisk but lilting answers, Toby’s higher-pitched tones that these days had a catch as his teens brought him to the edge of manhood. More female sounds – Caro’s, Alice’s and there, the one he was listening for, Frankie’s. Her laugh was husky, relaxed and pure molten pleasure direct to his groin.

  He allowed himself the luxury of simply enjoying the sound of her – no pressure, no one watching him watching her. No agenda, just the ebb and flow of her very specific accent – mostly Yank, for sure, but with overtones of Irish burr and inflection. She could read the bloody telephone book and he’d be entranced. Yup. Him and every other man on this planet. Her voice was one of those things that drew him like a siren.