A Secret in Clover Cove: a heart-warming romance set on the beautiful west coast of Ireland

by Maggie Finn

Only Tessa and her father knew the truth, that Simon Drake hadn’t picked up a paintbrush since 1998, the day Tessa’s mother had walked out. First he had grieved, then he drank, then he slid into a depression. His fans – even his agent – had understood. He was heartbroken, he had a sensitive disposition, all true artists did. And sensitive people needed time to heal. So it had made sense when Simon had withdrawn from his social whirl, shut up the flat in Chelsea and moved to Trew Point, their rambling country pile high above Port Quinn. Tessa had been at art school at the time, young and oblivious to her father’s pain. It was true about the artistic temperament; they did tend toward the dramatic, so Tessa was shocked when, at the end of her final year, she visited Simon at Trew Point to find him drunk, broken and, most worryingly, dry.

  ‘I can’t do it anymore,’ he had told her. ‘I can’t paint.’

  Tessa had tried everything. She’d got him sober, cleaned him up, filled his studio with paints and brought in pretty models to stimulate his muse. Nothing worked. He was in despair.

  Tessa looked out across the harbor. So she had started painting for him.

  At first, she had done it as a way to inspire her father, show him the sort of thing he could achieve if only he’d pick up a palette again.

  She’d forced a pencil into his hand. ‘Show me. If you did something now, what would you do?’

  Sighing, he had sketched a rubber plant standing forlorn in the corner of the studio. ‘And what colors would you use?’

  He’d shrugged. ‘Green.’

  So Tessa had squeezed out some aquamarine and daubed in on top of the crude sketch. ‘Like this?’ she had said. She knew his work and techniques inside out and created a canvas, a simple still life of the rubber plant standing in the corner of the studio. Tessa had thought it was lumpen, clumsy, a gauche copy.

  ‘That’s it!’ Simon had cried, looking alive for the first time. ‘You can do it for me. I’ll direct you, tell you what I would be painting and you just follow.’

  Tessa had been appalled and refused outright, arguing that it was deceitful at best, if not actual fraud, but Simon hadn’t seen it that way.

  ‘After all, it’s what Michelangelo and the Old Masters did. No one cared that the paintings were done by his students.’

  Tessa had tried to walk away, but three months later, she had found her father sitting in the living room, the curtains drawn, worse than ever. So in the end, it was no choice at all.

  She painted while he directed and her white lie brought hope back to Simon and the light came back in his eyes. And of course the critics and the buyers had welcomed him back with open arms. A return to form, a tour de force, they had said.

  By now Tessa had moved to Clover Cove and was beginning to restart her own career, creating sculptures from things she had found on the beach, but Simon’s input had become less and less, his visits to the studio tailing off, the invitations up to Trew Point stopping entirely. It was almost as if Simon was embarrassed by her, a dirty secret he didn’t want to be reminded of. Simon would come down just before a show, choose the canvases he liked best and sign them.

  Tessa was trapped. If she tried to stop, Simon would slide back into depression. Even giving the proceeds to charity didn’t help; the guilt ate away at her. Not because she was deceiving the art buyers: for them, art was investment and they certainly didn’t care how the paintings came to be, only that they were ‘a Simon Drake’. She’d studied art history: Andy Warhol hadn’t called his studio the Factory for nothing – the screen-print portraits for which he was famous for had often never been touched by his hand until he came to sign them. Warhol even took the idea one stage further, having his minions pump out brightly colored dollar signs, then raking in the cash in a gigantic circular post-modern joke that seemed to delight both artist and buyers. But it didn’t sit so well with Tessa and, if nothing else, it kept her from concentrating on her own work.

  Perhaps that was why she had avoided getting too close to men over the past few years. It would be hard to keep the secret from them.

  ‘How have you got yourself into this mess?’ she whispered to herself, drying her tears and blowing her nose.

  It was funny really, she thought, looking out over the harbor. Here she was in one of most beautiful places in the world, with some of the most influential art experts in the world queuing up to buy her paintings. Tessa should be on top of the world. Instead, she was weeping on a bench, wishing she just had someone to love her.

  Sighing, she pushed herself up and walked slowly back to the gallery. Ted was in his office, talking excitedly on the phone. Giving the good news to wealthy clients, perhaps. Ted’s career had been linked to Simon Drake’s as much as Tessa’s. When her father had first moved to Trew Point, Ted had run the only gallery in Port Quinn. Hearing of the great man’s arrival, he had ingratiated himself with Simon, becoming a drinking buddy and confidant, and Simon had rewarded Ted with the honor of becoming his sole agent. No wonder Ted had been keen to get every last canvas on the wall.

  She walked among the paintings, remembering Ted’s gushing praise. He had of course been talking about Tessa’s work, praising her skills, her choice of color, her use of form and texture. But Tessa couldn’t take any pleasure from that as she knew Ted – and all the critics and buyers – were seeing the art through a magic filter. They didn’t just see paintings, they saw ‘Simon Drake Paintings’, artworks that were sprinkled with art-world fairy dust, given extra weight and importance because of the perceived genius of their creator: Simon Drake.

  She gently touched one canvas, feeling the swirls and brushstrokes. Even to her, it felt like the work of someone else.

  ‘Guess who I just had on the phone,’ said Ted, walking up behind Tessa. ‘Heinrich! He’s coming a day early for the show.’

  Heinrich was the biggest player in London, a buyer with a public gallery. If Heinrich – one name, like Madonna or Pele – approved, it meant you were made.

  ‘That’s great,’ said Tessa, faking a smile. ‘Really great.’

  But she didn’t feel great. She felt sick to her stomach, wished she was back on the beach, gathering shells and driftwood, a million miles from all this.

  ‘So I’ll see you there?’ asked Ted.

  ‘Where?’

  ‘At the show?’

  ‘Of course, of course.’

  Tessa had no desire to go, to stand there while people gushed and waved checkbooks, but it was the only way she got to see her father these days.

  ‘Knock knock,’ said a deep voice and Tessa turned to see a tall figure standing in the gallery’s entrance.

  ‘Charles Balcon,’ she smiled, stepping across to kiss his cheek.

  She glanced at Ted and saw him drinking it in.

  ‘See you later, Ted,’ she called breezily, taking Charles by the arm and steering him back out into the sunshine. Ted was an inveterate tattletale and Tessa had no desire to be a bulletin point on his latest gossip report. When they were safely alone, Tessa smiled up at the handsome blonde man.

  ‘So what brings you to Port Quinn?’ she asked.

  Charles held up a paper sack containing two baguettes and a bulging carrier filled with what looked like onions. ‘Fetching groceries; it’s what I’m reduced to.’

  ‘Can’t get the staff, eh?’

  He gave her a lop-sided smile. ‘I’m the staff in this instance, actually. I bought all this for Maurice.’

  ‘Maurice the chef?’

  Charles nodded. ‘Apparently, there’s been a terrible supply problem up at the Watch House. And if Maurice can’t offer his famous French onion soup, the world will grind to a halt. According to Maurice, anyway.’

  Tessa felt a tension between them, an intimacy. She supposed he knew her better than most, after all.

  ‘It’s good to see you, Tess,’ said Charles. ‘And I was glad to get that message from you the other day.’

  Ah, that explained the visit to the gallery, thought Tessa. She had texted Charles suggesting they
meet for coffee, her part in Kate and Molly’s cunning scheme to pump him for information about the Ross Oil project. She had done her best to make it sound neutral: ‘Be nice to have a catch-up sometime’, something like that, but she had known there was always a chance he would take it the wrong way. Clearly, he had decided to seek her out sooner rather than later.

  Tessa looked at him, wondering why it hadn’t worked out between them. He was gorgeous, intelligent, worldly – and he’d certainly been keen. He’d even named a variety of his award-winning sloe gin after her. Perhaps it was me, she thought. No, she was sure it was her, preferring her self-imposed isolation out there on the beach, just her and Ghost the cat.

  ‘Actually,’ said Charles. ‘As I’m on this mercy mission to the Watch House, why not come along – I’m sure Maurice would give us a ladle or two… unless you’ve already had lunch?’

  ‘Afraid so,’ she lied. ‘Perhaps another day.’

  She didn’t want to give him false hope, but at the same time, Tessa knew she wouldn’t get a better chance to play spy for Kate.

  ‘So is this sous-chef thing a new career for you now the Ross Oil thing has fallen through?’ she said casually as they walked back towards the road.

  Charles shook his head. ‘I’m not sure I could handle being shouted at by a Frenchman all day long. And anyway, don’t believe everything your friend Kate tells you about Ross.’

  ‘Oh? Is it back on?’

  Charles smiled mysteriously.

  ‘Who can say? But never say never. Let’s just say further developments are imminent.’

  ‘Intriguing.’

  ‘You know me, Tess. Always exciting.’

  ‘Seriously though, do you think it might actually happen? I mean, hasn’t the church put a stop to it all?’

  Tessa gave him what she hoped was a disarming smile. ‘I’ll declare self-interest here: obviously, my studio is one of the closest buildings to the water and I want to know if it’s likely there will be a turbine or a tanker parked outside my window.’

  ‘Yes, I can see that,’ said Charles, then looked at her in a curious way. ‘Can I ask what you would do if Ross Oil did start building by the harbor?’

  ‘Oh,’ she said. ‘I hadn’t really considered it. I suppose I’d have to leave.’

  Charles nodded, his face serious and, Tessa thought, a little sad.

  ‘Why?’ she asked. ‘Would you pass up a million Euro from Ross Oil to keep me in Clover Cove?’

  Charles began to speak, but stopped. She followed his gaze: just up the road, Connor and Ryan were leaving the bar and heading towards them.

  ‘My cue for an exit, I think,’ said Charles. ‘I’d better get this bread to Maurice before it goes stale.’

  His blue eyes met hers. ‘Nice to see you, Tess. And we should have a proper catch up soon; call me, yes?’

  She watched him go, wondering once again why she had let it fizzle out.

  ‘Everything okay?’ asked Connor, his eyes on Charles Balcon’s back. Tessa was aware that there was some sort of animosity between Charles and Connor, that they had been close at one time, but something had gone sour. C’est la vie, she thought, glancing back towards the gallery.

  ‘Yeah, sure,’ said Tessa. ‘Just take me home, okay?’

  Chapter Eight

  Danny stood on the cliff and stared out to sea. The breeze plucked at his jacket; the age-old journo’s uniform of tweed coat, plain shirt and knitted tie was made for the office, not coastal strolls with the wind coming in off the Irish Sea, but the view more than made up for the frozen face.

  Danny had planned on going back to his cottage; one of the perks of being a roving reporter was that you got to rove; as long as you were filing good copy, Ciaran didn’t care where you were doing it from, especially as if it meant you were out chasing down a story. Danny was actually on deadline for a riveting piece about the long-running proposal to expand the rugby stadium in Rosgowan, the larger town to the East. Danny had sat through a long press call about it wherein the mayor and local councilors had spoken enthusiastically about the benefits to the community: jobs would be generated, local tourism would be boosted and Elton John had expressed interest in staging a concert. Danny had briefly considered making a few phone calls to check whether Sir Elton was actually aware of his imminent appearance in a small Irish town, but dismissed the idea. The tone was to be supportive and upbeat even if the real headline should have read ‘Local Councillors Cock-a-hoop Over Possibility Of Making Small Fortune In Kickbacks Over Construction Contract.’

  You’re too cynical, that’s what his mother would have said. That job has made you see the worst in people.

  Danny thought it was the other way around. People chose jobs that suited their personalities. Caring methodical people became doctors, authoritative types went into the Garda. Oh, and shallow, pretentious people became artists. His mind flashed back to his meeting with Tessa Drake. That particular case was even worse: spoilt prissy schoolgirl riding on her father’s coat-tails. No wonder she was arrogant; Little Miss Drake had never needed to work for anything in her life.

  So why can’t you stop thinking about her, then? Said a voice in his head, a voice that sounded suspiciously like his mother’s.

  Danny turned away, walking along the clifftop towards the little stone chapel, which had stood keeping watch over the cove for hundreds of years. Danny was a romantic; he liked to think of his job as having a similar function. Writers had the power to guide people, to change opinions, sometimes even mold society with their words. Orwell, Marx, Dickens, they’d all had impact for good or ill and even at a local level, newspapers still had a role in letting people know about injustice or turning public opinion. Was he cynical? Danny shook his head. Happy, sunny people who saw rainbows everywhere didn’t make good reporters. A journalist needed to assume the worst, look for the angles and hidden agendas, otherwise they might as well be copying the press release. Of course, hard-nosed investigative work wasn’t a big part of working on a local paper and before the Ross Oil story, Danny had done his fair share of garden fetes, sports round-ups and stories about sponsored swims. But he also knew he had what it took to move up into the big leagues. Was that arrogant? No, he’d done good work on the story so far – good enough to catch the attention of one of the biggest editors in New York. He looked back towards the horizon. Somewhere out there, Manhattan was shining, waiting for him.

  ‘Ahoy there Danny, is it yourself?’

  ‘It is Father, how are you?’

  Father Dec – or rather the Reverend Declan O’Farhy, to give him his proper title, not that he could convince his congregation to use it – was standing by the chapel’s door.

  ‘Just tidying up after last night, why don’t you come inside out of the wind?’

  Danny nodded and ducked inside, where he found the priest gathering up hymn books from the chapel’s pews.

  ‘So was it the first Tuesday last night?’

  ‘It was,’ said Declan. ‘We always get a decent turn out, or enough to fill the chapel here anyway.’

  The ancient stone chapel had been built in 1689, if the weathered carving above the door was correct, and while its function as a place of worship had long been replaced by the larger church behind the village square, it was still a tradition to hold an evening mass in the chapel on the first Tuesday of every month. Danny wasn’t a regular, but he had once written a story about it and had, despite himself, been rather moved. He gave Declan a hand stacking the books on a shelf.

  ‘So what brings you up here Dan?’ he asked finally.

  And that’s why Declan is a priest, thought Danny with an inward smile. Caring, but direct. Cuts straight to the chase. Dec had taken over as Clover Cove’s parish priest from the formidable Father Ray when the latter had been promoted to Bishop. Declan was a good man, and had managed to walk the difficult line between looking after his flock and dealing with the endless village politics.

  ‘You mean “what’s troubling you my son
?”’ smiled Danny.

  ‘Well, is something troubling you Dan?’

  ‘Can’t I just be taking the air?’

  Declan smiled.

  ‘In this wind? No, I tend to find people walking on the cliffs are here because they want to think. Or talk, one way or another.’

  ‘It’s good of you to ask, but I’m fine, Father.’

  Dec raised an eyebrow, but didn’t push the point. Another tick for the priest, thought Danny.

  ‘Actually, I wanted to speak to you.’

  ‘Me? What about?’

  Danny inclined his head towards the cupboards to the left of the altar. ‘The famous parish records, the ones with the power to stop the American menace.’

  ‘Ah, so it’s a professional call? Well don’t be putting words into my mouth, young Daniel. I’m not taking sides here.’

  ‘Of course, of course,’ nodded Danny. ‘I just wanted to make sure I got the story right: as I heard it, it was Bishop Ray who showed the church documents to Kate O’Riordan, is that right?’

  In a dramatic last-minute twist, the Bishop had stopped Ross Oil from running their cables across Charles Balcon’s land by unearthing an ancient charter proving that the beach and the cliffs of Clover Cove were in fact the property of the Church of Ireland.

  ‘That was the story I heard, sure,’ said Dec, ‘But then I read it in your paper.’

  ‘Didn’t Bishop Ray tell you about it afterwards?’

  ‘Danny, you know as well as I do that Bishop Ray has his own way of doing things. If you want to know how it happened, you’ll have to talk to the Bishop. I wasn’t here, I’ve only heard it second hand.’

  ‘Come on Dec…’

  ‘Speak to the Bishop.’

  That was exactly what Danny didn’t want. Bishop Ray didn’t approve of Danny, despite Danny’s mother being one of the Bishop’s most devoted followers. In fact, that was likely the source of his disapproval: Diana Brennan telling Ray how badly behaved her son was and what a disappointment he was to her. That, and the fact that Danny had been something of a tearaway as a teenager, hanging out with Ryan James and his older brother. And the Bishop certainly didn’t approve of the James boys and their pub: Bishop Ray was deeply against ‘the demon drink’.