by Luanne Rice
Dar accused Rory of wanting to spend the night cyber-stalking her ex, and Rory snapped that Dar was obsessed with a dream that had stopped existing the day their father sailed away. Dar had shown her the board and told her what Tim had said about their father, and for a moment Rory felt speechless. Then she came back strong.
“He wasn’t some other woman’s to love,” Rory had said. “He and Mom never got divorced.”
“I agree with you.”
“Who is this guy, anyway?” Rory had asked. Arms folded across her chest, stalwart, deep blue eyes suddenly coal black. “He doesn’t know us, and I’ll bet he never met Dad.”
“He seemed so convincing, and did carve that sign . . .”
“Well, it’s a pretty name for a boat. He could have come up with it on his own.”
“It didn’t sound that way,” Dar said. “Why would he lie? I can’t believe Dad came here and had a love affair.”
“Think about it, Dar. He was a selfish asshole. He left us for a ridiculous reason. Who cares anymore? Why are we finding it hard to believe he’d get involved with someone else?”
Dar left her alone. They had checked into a harbor guesthouse, seedier than Rory would have liked and nothing like the charming hotel in Kinsale, but with a direct line of sight to McCarthy Manufacturing—obviously so Dar could keep her eye on the place. This time the sisters had adjoining rooms. It was just as well; Rory was losing patience fast.
The flight from Boston was in, and they saw Delia lugging her suitcase behind her. No wheels, no extendable grip, an old Samsonite with a patched handle that looked about ready to give out. Once she came through the gate, Dar and Rory surrounded her in a welcoming hug.
Dar hefted the suitcase. Rory took Delia’s shoulder bag. They started off down the hall. Rory kept silent, just waiting for Dar to find the words to start filling Delia in. But to her shock, Delia was the one stammering, trying to get something out. Her face was beet red and her eyes bloodshot, as if she’d been crying or drinking or both all through the flight.
“What is it?” Dar asked, stopping short.
Delia shook her head. “Not here,” she said in a strangled voice.
Now they were really hurrying, hauling ass out the door, down the sidewalk, into the Opel.
Rory handed her a bottle of water. Delia guzzled it down, then clutched the near-empty bottle to her chest.
“Tell us what’s going on,” Dar said as they climbed into the car. Silence until she started it up, drove out of the parking lot, and then the floodgates broke.
“Jim and I are separated,” Delia said, her voice still strained, her red face cracking into wrinkles as the tears began to pour down.
“Deel, what happened?” Rory asked.
“I’m so sorry,” Dar said.
“We kept fighting about Pete, and Jim said he’s given up on him. He said Pete’s acting like an addict! And he accused me of never being home anymore, first the Vineyard, now Ireland, and I tried to tell him this isn’t a vacation, it’s us trying to find our father, and he just sat there planted in front of CSI. Watching someone with tweezers pull broken glass from a dead person’s eyelids, and I just lost it. And then he said, ‘Go to Ireland then! But don’t expect to see me when you get back!’” She put her hands over her face.
Rory and Dar were silent. Just for that moment, Rory didn’t hate Dar. She knew they had to come together for Delia.
“Words spoken in anger, right?” Dar said.
“Definitely,” Rory said.
“But he’s never like this. We might fight, but we always make up.”
“Maybe he’s taking it out on you because he’s so frustrated with Pete,” Rory said.
“That’s like saying you’re on Jim’s side,” Delia said.
“I’m not at all,” Rory said.
No one spoke for a while. Rory held the map in her lap, but Dar wasn’t asking directions. She seemed to know exactly where she was going.
“At least Jim didn’t say ‘divorce,’ ” Rory said after a few minutes. “I don’t believe in it for our family. At all.”
“Jim says Pete’s not in our family anymore. He said he took the money we sent him to buy drugs. That he’s a druggie!”
“He’s not a druggie,” Rory said.
“Jim said he inherited our ‘family problem.’ He was referring to you, Dar. Being an alcoholic.”
“He could be right,” Dar said. “Sometimes it’s genetic. But at least I’m sober, and last I heard Pete was, too.”
“The way I feel right now, I could join the party,” Delia said. “Let’s stop for a pint. We can drink to Jim.”
“It’s nine in the morning,” Rory reminded her.
Delia shrugged, the hurt back in her face. “I wasn’t being serious.”
“I didn’t really think you were,” Rory said, reaching back to pat her on the knee. They exchanged smiles.
“Oh, one good bit of news regarding the broker and buyers,” Delia said.
“Tell us,” Dar said.
“Their title search did come back iffy. Morgan called to tell me because apparently she couldn’t reach you on your cell. I also gave her Rory’s e-mail address.”
“Iffy?” Dar asked, giving Rory a small smile.
“Let’s not get our hopes up yet,” Rory said.
“It’s supposed to be pretty straightforward. The land’s been in our family since the 1600s. It started off on Grandfather’s side of the family, and that never changed until he died and left it all to Grandmother. And then to Mom and the three of us.”
“And you and Mom never found anything else when you went to Town Hall?”
“No,” Dar said. “But maybe they dug deeper.”
“You did say that their expensive team would turn up Dad’s land grant if it really existed,” Delia said.
“Now I don’t want to get ahead of ourselves. But I’m wondering . . . is it possible that this could be a deal breaker?” Rory asked.
“I’m thinking the same thing,” Dar said.
“You have been all along,” Rory said, jabbing her arm. “It means we were right to come here, find out what Dad was after.”
Rory nodded, and Delia tried to hold back a yawn. “It’s so exciting,” she said. “Takes my mind off Jim and Pete. . . . I want to talk more, but I think jet lag’s hitting me . . .”
“Have a good nap,” Dar said.
Time passed. Delia curled up in the small back seat. They drove another half hour, reaching a narrow, slate-colored river, the Awbeg, a tributary of the Blackwater.
“She’s just in after a long flight; exhausted,” Dar said in a near whisper to Rory. “I don’t want to tell her till she’s ready . . .”
“Tell me what?” Delia asked. “I’m just resting my eyes.”
Dar took a deep breath and reached into the door pocket. She removed the wood carving, handed it back to Delia.
“Oh my God,” Delia said, sitting upright, tracing the deeply scored letters in Irish Darling. “Did you find him? Is he actually here?”
Dar filled Delia in about the Kinsale harbormaster, McCarthy Manufacturing, and what Tim McCarthy had said.
“What Dar hasn’t told you is that we’re on our way to see someone.”
“Who?” Delia asked, beaming. “You found him?”
“We’re going to see a woman,” Rory said.
“Who?”
“Tim McCarthy’s mother,” Dar said.
“What does she have to do with us?”
“Tim told Dar she loved Dad,” Rory said.
“Whoever she is, she’s expecting us,” Dar said. “I called ahead. And we’re almost there.”
Dar felt the tension surrounding her and her sisters, but even more, curiosity. For once she didn’t need Dulse to live her adventures for her. She knew she was on her father’s trail, closer to him than she’d been since she was twelve.
The Blackwater Valley reminded her of inland parts of the Vineyard: farms, woods, glades, stone walls. With
the car windows open, she smelled gorse, holly, and a distant hint of salt from the sea. The Blackwater and its tributaries wove a braid of bright water, and Dar let the peace and beauty of the region calm her heart.
She followed Tim’s directions to Kanturk: the market town at the confluence of the Allua and Dalua rivers in the heart of Duhallow in northwest county Cork. The road just outside town tunneled through thick and ancient overarching beech trees, both lovely and menacing. There was a ruined castle, dominating the hill with sorrowful beauty.
Parking the car a distance from the nursing home, she and her sisters got out. No one spoke. She knew they needed time to decompress before going in. A small bakery drew them with smells of fresh bread and sweet rolls.
A bell tinkled when Dar opened the door. A young red-haired woman stood behind the gleaming counter.
“May I help you?” she asked.
“Yes, please,” Dar said. “We’d like to take something to a resident at St. Anne’s.”
“What does she like? Chocolate or a nice fruit tart? Or perhaps a savory?”
“Well, I don’t know,” Dar said. “I’ve never met her.”
The young woman nodded, as if that happened all the time. She watched Dar gaze up and down the case. Dar thought of her mother and grandmother, tried to think of what they would have liked.
“It’s a kind thing you’re doing,” she said. “Visiting the old people. Imagine, a stranger bringing you a treat. May I make a suggestion?”
“Please,” Dar said.
“Don’t get her anything too gooey and sweet—she might have diabetes. And nothing too salty—she might have high blood pressure. Now, you can’t get away with plain bread; it has to be sweet but not so much so their sugar acts up. Get her a nice flaky roll. It has a dusting of powdered sugar, and I’ll put some butter and jam in the bag, too. I always say, go the middle way.”
Dar smiled, thankful.
“Do you own this bakery?” Dar asked.
“Oh, no,” the young woman said. “My aunt does. So this is your first time in Kanturk? Well, there’s so much to see.”
“I’m afraid we don’t have enough time to see the sights.”
“If nothing else, go see the Dalua Bridge, and read the inscription engraved upon stones set into the northern parapet. You might find something that will put you at ease. We have three lovely bridges here, as well as the River Allua, but I think that is the one you most need.”
“How can you tell?” Dar asked.
Dar would have asked more, but the bell tinkled and another customer came in. The shopkeeper winked, and Dar paid and left. Outside, her sisters were sitting on a bench, taking in the watery beauty. The town was all gray stone and rushing water, the twin rivers flowing beneath three arched bridges.
She glanced at Tim’s directions, and she and her sisters headed across a four-arch cut-stone pedestrian bridge. She felt a chill, hearing the water rush below. Slowing down, she glanced at the ironwork. No carving, wrong bridge. The clear water flowed over stones and sand. Her sisters had been moving in single file behind her, but she stopped them.
“The nursing home is just there,” she said, pointing to a long, low white building immediately across the bridge, bordering the town park. “I’m glad we’re together to do this.”
“So am I,” Delia said.
“It just feels so strange to me,” Rory said. “We’re about to meet a woman who supposedly saw Dad long after we did.”
Something had shifted. It happened so often with her sisters, a magical switch being thrown, lifting the tension and making them okay.
They approached the white stucco building and rang the bell beside the bright red door. An elderly nun dressed in a starched white habit and veil answered the ring and greeted them smiling.
“Hello,” Dar said. “Are you Sister Theresa? I’m Dar McCarthy; we spoke earlier?”
“Yes, welcome. And you must be Rory and Delia,” she said. “Please come in. Mrs. McCarthy is looking forward to your visit.”
“Mrs. McCarthy?” Delia whispered as they walked down a sterile white hallway. “Did he marry her?”
“Everyone in Cork is named McCarthy,” Rory said.
“That’s true,” Sister Theresa said. “A lot of them are. Now, she has her good days and her bad days. It can change like the weather. She can be quite articulate, even poetic. But don’t be upset if she strikes out or falls asleep in the middle of a sentence. She had a stroke, and has made excellent progress. Emotions are difficult for her. Mention something that bothers her and she will either wax elegiac or change the subject, as if the question had never been asked.”
“Does a man ever come to visit her?” Dar asked.
“That is for her to tell you,” Sister Theresa said. “The truth is, I’m not completely up to speed on her file. Just a fortnight ago I was transferred from a larger home in Cork City.” She grinned. “They’re putting me out to pasture, and I love it. Now, let me just check what’s in the bag, and I’ll take you to her.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Their heels clicked on the white tile floors. Every surface gleamed, but nothing could disguise the smells of old people dying. It took Dar straight back home, to the wicker hampers lined with plastic to hold her mother’s diapers at the end.
Sister Theresa took them to the last door on the left and said loudly, “Hello, we’re here, Cathleen. With a sweet for you.”
“Come in,” Cathleen called in a soft brogue.
Cathleen was dressed in her finest: a navy blue silk dress, pearls at her throat. She sat in a wheelchair, tied to the chair with a red sash around her waist so she wouldn’t slip out. She was tiny, with skinny veined wrists. Her spine curved so acutely, she had to arch her neck to view her visitors. Her white hair was neatly brushed, tied with a piece of green yarn. Only her blue eyes—curious, warm—made her seem young.
“We brought this for you,” Dar said, handing her the pastry bag.
Cathleen looked inside as if it were Christmas morning. She reached inside, pulled the roll out, and began to eat.
“It’s very good,” she said with her mouth full. “Thank you.”
“Would you like it with butter and jam?” Dar asked.
Cathleen shook her head. “It’s good . . . like this.” Her lips and the fine hairs around her mouth were covered with powdered sugar and flaky pastry. She ate slowly, making sure she got every crumb. Rory and Delia watched her eat. Dar glanced around the room for photos, letters, anything that would indicate her father had ever been here.
“Do you have someone in your life?” Rory asked. “Someone to bring you treats and visit with you?”
“My son,” she said, concentrating on the roll. “Sometimes. I worry that he is angry with me.”
“Why?” Rory asked.
“I wish he’d come more often, but he’s busy.”
Cathleen bowed her head, as if blocking her company out, as if all that existed in her world were the remaining quarter of her sweet roll. After a long time she finished eating and looked up.
“Three sisters,” she said.
“Yes,” Delia said, surprising Dar by the way she went straight to Cathleen and knelt by the chair. “How can you tell?”
“You look just like him,” she said.
“Like who?” Dar asked.
“Sisters are good,” Cathleen said. “I had sons.”
“Who do we look like?” Dar asked again.
“Dar, don’t push her!” Delia whispered, as Cathleen’s head tilted forward, chin resting on her chest, perhaps falling asleep.
“Nothing is fair,” Cathleen said.
Cathleen stayed quiet a long time. Dar couldn’t look at her sisters; she felt so afraid and so hopeful. She thought of herself at twelve, sitting on the stone wall, looking up at the stars with her father. She gazed down at the tiny old woman and hoped stories would pour out, details about him that Dar had been wishing to hear for so long.
“It’s not fair when boats are
lost at sea,” Cathleen said, tears pooling in her blue eyes. “And it’s not fair when you love someone and he goes away.”
Now Dar knelt beside her. “Who went away?”
Cathleen delicately removed a white tissue from her left sleeve and blew her nose.
“You’re so sad,” Delia said.
“Not for me,” Cathleen said. “For my son. And for his daughters.”
“Your son?” Delia asked. “Tim . . .”
“He was so good to Tim,” Cathleen said. “Almost like a father. I wanted that for my son . . . a good father like Michael. Such a fine man.”
“We’re Michael’s daughters,” Dar said, taking her hand.
“Did he talk about us?” Delia whispered.
Cathleen did the best she could to nod her head. “Darrrrrr,” she said, stretching out the name, closing her eyes, seemingly exhausted.
“And Delia and Rory, too?” Delia pressed.
“Three girls,” Cathleen said. “His three . . .”
More tears spilled over, and she began to moan, rocking in her chair.
“Where is he?” Dar asked. “Does he visit?”
“ ‘Hence Bluepool’s waving groves delight
Amuse the fancy, please the sight,
And give such joy as may arise
From sylvan scenes and azure skies,’ ” Cathleen quoted, choking back tears.
“Cathleen . . .” Dar began.
“The famine was great here. Go to Elbow Street and see where the starving people lived, twelve to a cabin, until they died. Your father . . . was so moved.”
“He came here?”
“Of course. For the castle, and to search . . .”
“He searched the castle?” Dar asked.
“The old fort, we call it. It belonged to our chieftain, but d’you know the English Privy Council judged it too grand for McDonough McCarthy, just because he was an Irish subject. The king took it away from him!”
“The chieftain was a McCarthy?” Rory asked.
“Directly in your father’s line. We helped answer his questions, helped comfort him when he didn’t prevail at first.” The memory seemed to shake her, and she closed her eyes. Without opening them, she said in a trembling voice, “No matter how disappointed he was, he was kind to me and Tim.”