She’d received two “jinx” emails since the laptop was returned – the first one had just about caused her to have a coronary right there at the kitchen table. She’d been on her own and had literally yelped in shock. Her fingers trembling, breath held, she’d opened it without stopping to think if that was the right thing to do or not. It was much like the others – short, nasty and direct.
BITCH – I KNOW WHERE YOU ARE
– IT’S ONLY A MATTER OF TIME.
CAN’T WAIT . . . CAN YOU?
She’d pretty much sat slumped over the table for several minutes, staring at the screen between her fingers, willing it to go away. Pushing back, she’d stumbled to the sink and poured a glass of water – a glass of water and a cool cloth was Jo’s cure-all for the many scrapes and bruises her children had accrued. No cloth to hand, but the simple act of hydrating forced Frankie to breathe and to swallow, lowering her galloping heart.
The screen still blinked its ugly words at her and a strange calm descended on her. Bastard! He’d taken enough from her both literally and emotionally and she was done. No more hiding from this mess and pretending it would go away. Enough was bloody enough. Before she could change her mind, she forwarded the message to Flynn with a quick explanation and a promise not only to do the same if more arrived, but to meet him in Dublin to discuss some kick-ass strategy to finally stop this guy. She was so relieved with her decision, her sense of taking back control, that the following day when another jinx email arrived she didn’t even open it – just passed it to her super-cop brother with a “See. You don’t get to screw with my head any more” flourish.
Now, as Frankie relaxed back in her chair, she closed her eyes and slowly brought Stephen back to her mind’s eye. How could she laugh and joke and relax with the Fitzgeralds when a good, kind loving man was dead because of her? How could she lie awake at night and wish for another man’s kisses? Forget lying awake at night – hadn’t she practically devoured him on the hall floor in the middle of the bloody day? Frankie groaned and tried to breathe normally – unsure if her escalated heart rate was down to memories of Stephen or a certain blue-eyed devil.
Almost seven months since the shooting and if this was another era, she’d be dressed in black for another five, her social life curtailed rigidly. Was she suffering survivor’s guilt? Some onlookers would say she wasn’t suffering at all, but then, if they were kind, they might say “but she’s an actress” and can therefore mask her angst. She missed Stephen. She did. But she wasn’t afraid to admit, if only to herself, that she didn’t miss him the way he deserved to be missed – she didn’t miss him enough.
“Darlin’, darlin’, cooee!” Mary Louanne’s voice reached Frankie’s ears sometime around late afternoon on what was supposed to be the day before Frankie returned to Dublin.
The rooms upstairs had all the windows thrown open to give the house a decent airing before it was locked up tight again. The southern accent sounded like it should be heard on a cotton plantation, not the somewhat damp coast of the west of Ireland.
Frankie stuck her head out of her bedroom window and called down, “Hi there! I’ll be down in just a moment – take a seat if you can find a dry patch.”
She closed the window and, going from room to room, did the same with the others – it had only been drizzling the last hour or so and the sun was making an effort to show again. Like a typical Irish day, it had been glorious all morning, then the clouds had billowed in, it had lashed with rain, the sun had come back out, followed swiftly by a wet drizzle, and now it was all change again.
Frankie threw a dove-grey cardigan over her shoulders, slipped her feet into a pair of leather flip-flops and hurried downstairs. She’d spent the previous day cleaning the study, living room and dining room, and the lovely old-fashioned scent of polish hung in the air. She pulled open the back door and strolled out onto the patio.
Mary Louanne had indeed made herself comfortable. She’d discarded a damp cushion and retrieved a dry one from under the umbrella and now lazed back in one of the Adirondack chairs, to the manner born.
“Why, there you are!” she exclaimed as if just discovering China. “I’ve popped by several times in the last few days but you just seem to be out visitin’ or something.” She made it sound slightly accusatory, which Frankie found irritating.
“I’m sorry you had some wasted trips, Mary Louanne, but as far as I remember we didn’t have an appointment to meet up. Or am I mistaken?” She propped herself on the arm of the chair opposite, letting it be known she wasn’t settling in for a chat.
“No, darlin’, but I thought with the family all gone and all, we could have some lady time. You know,” she broke off, waving her hands about, “a few cocktails, maybe go dancing. Fun stuff to while away the hours. We Yankee belles need to stick together, now don’t we?” she pleaded, fluttering her eyelashes.
Frankie groaned inwardly. She liked Mary Louanne. In small doses. But she certainly wasn’t going dancing with her! Maybe the southerner was lonely. Maybe Frankie could be the bigger person and give a little of her time – after all, she’d be gone tomorrow and Mary Louanne would be left here. Part of Frankie mentally wanted to slap herself and chant, “Not my problem, not my problem,” but she was partially raised by the very hospitable Fitzgeralds and not entertaining a guest simply wasn’t done.
“Tell you what, Mary Louanne, I’m kinda busy right now, but why don’t you swing by around seven thirty this evening and we’ll have something to eat and sit out for a bit if the weather holds. Does that suit?” She stood up, forcing Mary Louanne to do the same, and walked her back around the house towards the drive.
“Oh, honey, that would be just peachy! I’ll pick us up a nice bubbly and some chocolates and maybe some pie.” She trotted off down the drive waving gaily behind her.
Peachy? Does anyone say that any more? Frankie shook her head in bewilderment. Sometimes Mary Louanne seemed like a tragic character from a Tennessee Williams play and other times she appeared like an extra from the film Gone with the Wind. But what Frankie noticed most about her was that she seemed sad and a bit lost at times, and that tugged at her own heart strings a little. Maybe having felt those exact same emotions in the not too distant past allowed Frankie a certain sympathy with this countrywoman.
She headed back into the kitchen and took a glance in the fridge to see what she could rustle up for dinner, seeing as how she’d let the cupboard go bare because of leaving the next day.
Time to try out her culinary skills!
Mary Louanne arrived promptly, complete with a bottle of bubbly, an apple pie and a box of chocolates.
“That’s so generous.” Frankie took the gifts. “Please sit and pour yourself a glass.” She waved her arm towards the kitchen table, which she’d already set, and turned back to the stove. “I’m just doing something really simple since I’ll be gone tomorrow.”
Mary Louanne gasped. “Gone? Why, where are you off to, may I enquire?” She expertly eased the cork from the bottle, managing not to spill. “Glasses?”
“Top cupboard on the left.”
Proper champagne glasses in hand, Mary Louanne continued speaking as she poured and offered Frankie a glass. “Why, I had no idea you were leavin’ so soon! Are you going back home?”
Frankie raised her glass in salute, one eye on the pan behind her. Home? Where the hell was that, anyway? “No, no. Or at least not straight away. I’m going back to Dublin to be at Dev’s exhibition opening and then I’ll head back to the US for a while before deciding what to do next.” She put down her glass and began serving the pasta dish.
“Oh, that handsome devil! I heard about the opening and saw the posters up in the town – I might even get to the show myself since I intend to do a bit more sightseeing before my visa runs out. So,” she picked up her fork, “you two are pretty cosy, huh?”
“Dev and me?” Frankie could actually feel herself blush. She returned the pan to the stove and tossed the salad as she sat down. �
��I guess it depends on your meaning of cosy. We are close. He’s such a good friend. You know, the kind who tells you how it is even if you, in fact, don’t want to know?” She arched her brow at Mary Louanne, who nodded in agreement.
“I hear you, honey. We all need those kind of friends. This is delicious, by the way, compliments to the chef.”
“Thanks, it’s just simple – pasta and chorizo with some spinach, tomatoes and Parmesan. Easy but tasty, which is my kind of meal. Help yourself to salad.” She handed over the bowl and Mary Louanne spooned some out on her plate.
“Honey, I know you say you and Devlin are just friends, but,” she said, waving her fork around to emphasise her point, “and correct me if I’m wrong, I see all manner of smouldering between you two! Smouldering, I tell you! He looks at you as if you’re a thing of beauty, which of course you are, and you look at him like you could just eat him right up!”
Frankie’s cheeks pinkened again.
“Honestly, there’s nothing between us,” she insisted. “It’s been a difficult time for me and he and his family are a great support.” She sighed, wondering if she should confide in her guest. Oh, what the hell. “Did you know I was engaged until recently? It was in some of the entertainment magazines, which I’m not sure you read, so I don’t know how much you may have seen.” She looked enquiringly at Mary Louanne, who just nodded with her mouth full.
Frankie didn’t know if that was to say yes, she knew, or just go ahead, so she decided to keep on going. Maybe sharing with someone who didn’t love her would be good – a fresh eye, so to speak.
“My fiancé, Stephen, was killed, shot while I was with him, and the culprit hasn’t yet been found.” She took a deep breath and glanced up for a reaction. Mary Louanne had brought her hand to her mouth in shock.
“Oh, darlin’, that’s just awful, simply awful for you. I do remember something along those lines, but I rarely read those cheap old rags. So, what happened? Did he die, right there? Are you simply heartbroken? Are you devastated? Oh, I’d never have mentioned Mr Smouldering Hottie Devlin like that if I knew you were grieving so deeply. I’m truly sorry.” She leaned forwards and grasped Frankie’s hand in hers, tears welling.
Frankie felt like a fraud in the face of Mary Louanne’s concern. She patted the hand covering hers and pulled away gently.
“Actually, being around the ‘hottie’, as you so delicately put it, has helped me realise that maybe my feelings for Stephen weren’t as deep as I first thought.”
Frankie realised it didn’t matter what she said to Mary Louanne, since she wasn’t family and wasn’t in a position to pass judgement. Maybe she’d found a sounding-board to help her sort through her thoughts – one whose, mean as this may sound, opinion didn’t matter one whit to Frankie.
She smiled at Mary Louanne. “Would you like a top-up? And why don’t we sit outside on the patio and chat?”
Mary Louanne held up her glass and followed her determinedly onto the deck and into the long evening ahead.
Chapter 12
The drive back to Dublin was relatively uneventful. Now that Frankie had become used to the Irish roads and was comfortable with the left-hand drive, she winced remembering her attempts hurtling down the M50 on her first day over two months ago. She was looking forward to seeing the gang again and was definitely up for a girls’ night with Caro, Ali and Molly. Now that she’d aired some of her deepest feelings with, to all intents and purposes, a virtual stranger, she knew she needed to be upfront with her pals. She may even have to face that conversation with Dev, too.
Who was she fooling?
She was absolutely going to have that conversation with him and probably sooner rather than later.
She manoeuvred her car like a pro around the various junctions on arrival at the M50 again and gave herself a mental pat on the back as she followed the signs, indicated appropriately and took the correct exits, smoothly blending back into traffic – amazing what the experience driving on Western roads can do for one’s confidence! She’d filed her written pieces early this morning before leaving the lodge and felt pretty sure that they’d be accepted as is. She’d check her mail later but didn’t really expect a reply for at least another twenty-four hours.
She’d finally ushered Mary Louanne out close to eleven o’clock the previous night and was glad to see the southerner’s car had been collected before her morning run at about eight. She’d lent Mary Louanne a flashlight to aid her walk home – there was always an abundance of them in the lodge for actual blackouts and for late-night walking guests. Patrick had a thing about torches, as he called them, and batteries, so both were always in stock.
Mary Louanne had said she would come to Dublin for Dev’s opening, though Frankie had subtly tried to dissuade her – what if Mary Louanne blurted out some of Frankie’s secrets before she’d the chance to open up to Dev or the girls? That would be mortifying, not to mention a slight to the people she cared about most. Why is it, she mused, driving towards Dalkey, that it was easier to talk to a person one barely knew than admit your failings and inadequacies to those you purport to love?Guilt? Fear? Embarrassment? I imagine I should tick all those boxes, she thought as she swung into the driveway. Would Jo come out like she had that first day, an age ago now? The crunch of wheels on the gravel often brought the inhabitants to the door and this was no exception.
“Hey, handsome,” she greeted Toby as he rushed out of the door.
He allowed a big hug and then politely walked around to the back of the car to get her bags. “Can you open the boot?” he asked and then just walked around her to pop it open via her keys, which he simply took from her hands.
“Did someone mention my name?” Patrick walked out of the door, a glass of whiskey in his hand, and gave her a one-armed hug. “Well, it’s six o’clock somewhere,” he grinned as she eyed the glass with a raised eyebrow.
“Oh, Patrick, unhand that girl and stop acting like a louche.” Jo leaned in for her own hug with Frankie. “Don’t mind him, darling, he’s drinking ginger ale! Come in, come, and how was the journey?”
Before Frankie could answer, Caro came out, after more hugs. You’d think they hadn’t seen her in years as opposed to weeks. Patrick and Toby carried the bags indoors while Jo headed to the kitchen and switched on the kettle.
“I’m sure you’re dying for a cuppa.” It wasn’t really a question, more an assumption and one with which Frankie was more than ready to comply.
“Perfect,” she said as she sat down at her “spot” at the large kitchen table.
“Toby made flap jacks,” Caro announced as her son came back downstairs from delivering bags. “He’s so handy to have around and becoming quite the baker, too. Great for my taste buds, not so much my waistline.”
Frankie grinned at the young man as she leant over and took one from the plate. “Oh my goodness! These are divine, Toby. Well done you!”
She took the tea Jo had poured and as they all settled down around the table and the chat about the journey and various bits of news unfolded, Frankie relaxed into the welcome. She decided to take the bull by the horns and actually tell them about her writing. Copies of her articles were printed out and resting in folders ready to be handed round and yes, it was a bit anal, she was well aware, but she needed them to see that she’d already been in published, and successfully, in case anyone was going to laugh at her. She reached into her tote bag and handed out two folders, one for Patrick and Jo, and one for Caro and Toby.
“I have something to tell you – I’m quitting acting. It’s my choice,” she added quickly amid the “Oh nos!”, “Whats?” and “You can’t!” (from Toby). “I can.” She smiled at Toby reassuringly. “I have. Well, almost – I still have my agent to convince!”
She spent the next half-hour discussing her thoughts and decisions with those around the table. As it was a discussion, in true Fitzgerald fashion, lots of opinions were aired, and everyone threw pros and cons for her choice into the mix. Alice and Molly ar
rived halfway through, full of apologies for being late for her return to Dublin, and had to be filled in. They were shown the prepared folders, too, and while one was reading, the other was listening and asking questions.
Following a second pot of tea and the demise of the flap jacks, the Fitzgeralds were all on board. They were amazed, flatteringly so, at her in-depth articles. Well, most of them were but Patrick said he always knew she was a writer.
“Do you remember those papers you’d hand me to look over, years ago when you were in the first year in Trinity? Do you remember what I used say?” He turned to Jo. “You remember, don’t you?”
Jo had a wistful look in her eyes and upon reflection had to agree that the professor was indeed right. “You used to say, ‘Damn, why isn’t she doing English? That girl can put words together!’”
“Well, I’m sure I put it more eloquently than that!” the professor protested.
“No, darling,” his long-suffering wife declared, “that’s a direct quote!”
When the laughter and ribbing had died down, Frankie took out her laptop and showed them her latest pieces on Connemara, the ones just filed that morning. There was a rather nail-biting silence in the kitchen while all huddled around the screen to read.
“Huh!” grunted Ali. “Anyone would think you knew the area really well,” she continued, praising as only the Irish could.
“If I wasn’t already bored with the whole place I might go visit after reading this,” Molly added.
Jo, much more normal in her reactions, gave Frankie a big hug. “Darling, it’s perfect!”
Even the professor put in his two cents.
Family Affairs Page 16