Now You See Her

by Joy Fielding

  “It’s just up the way a bit, across St. Patrick’s Bridge. It has a nice outdoor patio. Makes it easier with the carriage and all.”

  Marcy smiled, trying to collect all her conflicting thoughts into one place, make them more manageable. She gave up when that proved impossible. Instead she smiled even wider, revealing the two rows of perfectly straight white teeth Peter had once found so irresistible, and said, “Lead the way.”

  THIRTEEN

  IF LIAM WAS SURPRISED to see her, he didn’t show it. Nor did he let on that he recognized either of them.

  “And how are you today, ladies?” he asked, approaching their tiny round table on the small outside patio. There were perhaps a dozen people crowded into the makeshift space, the sun throwing a circle of light, like a giant floodlight, on the wild pink rhododendrons and flirty bluebells that lined the black wrought iron enclosure.

  Marcy marveled at how she’d failed to notice such magnificent flowers on any of her previous visits. Had she always been so unaware of her surroundings? “We’re good, thank you.”

  “Lovely afternoon, isn’t it?” he continued.

  “ ’Tis,” Shannon agreed shyly. “So warm.”

  “Nice change.” Marcy felt her heart flutter inside her chest and wondered whether it was her proximity to Shannon or Liam that was the cause.

  Inside her carriage, Caitlin started howling.

  “Unfortunately, some things never change,” whispered Shannon, glancing apologetically toward the other patrons, most of whom seemed oblivious to the baby’s wails.

  “And what do we have here?” Liam peered inside the baby’s carriage. “Somebody doesn’t care much for the sun, I see.”

  “Somebody doesn’t care much for anything,” Shannon said.

  “Think she’d fancy a bottle of Beamish?”

  The blush that accompanied Shannon’s laugh almost matched the surrounding rhododendrons. “I know I would.”

  “Two Beamishes?” He looked toward Marcy for confirmation.

  “I think I’d better stick with tea,” she told him.

  “Make that two,” Shannon concurred quickly. “Mrs. O’Connor would have a right fit if I came home with beer on my breath. She says that Ireland is paying dearly for its drinking culture, that in the last twenty years alcohol consumption has increased by almost fifty percent and that binge drinking is assuming epic-like proportions among teenagers and young adults.”

  “She says all that, does she?” Liam asked.

  “She says that according to a recent survey, more than half of Ireland’s youth experiment with alcohol before the age of twelve, and that by the time they reach their mid-teens, half the girls and two-thirds of the boys are drinkers.”

  “Shocking.” An amused grin played with the corners of Liam’s lips. “So, you work for the O’Connor clan over on Adelaide, do you?”

  “Yes. Do you know them?” A look of apprehension suddenly clouded Shannon’s small green eyes.

  “I know of them,” Liam clarified. “Who doesn’t? One of the richest families in Cork,” he explained to Marcy. “Wasn’t his father murdered by the Sinn Fein?”

  “Shot and killed while on a visit to Belfast in 1986,” Shannon said quietly.

  “Guess we were all pretty crazy back then,” Liam said.

  Marcy thought of reminding him he would have been just a child back then but quickly thought better of it. What was the point of reminding him again of the difference in their ages?

  “So, two teas and some warm milk?”

  “I have a bottle of apple juice with me, thanks,” Shannon said before Liam hurried off. “Not that she’ll take it. Unless you’d like to try?” she asked Marcy hopefully.

  In response, Marcy held out her arms, and Shannon quickly scooped up the crying baby and handed her to Marcy, along with her bottle.

  “Hello, sweetheart,” Marcy cooed, kissing the tears from Caitlin’s wet cheeks and smoothing a few delicate wisps of reddish-yellow hair away from her forehead. “Who’s my sweet girl?” In the next instant, the baby was lying still against Marcy’s breast, suckling contentedly on her bottle.

  “Bloody amazing,” Shannon marveled. “I don’t know how you do it.”

  Marcy shrugged, wondering when her power to comfort her own children had deserted her. Not that her son had ever required much comforting. A spectacularly easy baby who’d matured into an independent, easygoing young adult, Darren was his sister’s opposite in almost every respect. Marcy had always wondered if Darren’s temperament was innate or if he’d somehow sensed his mother could handle only so much. She searched her memory for the last time her son had come to her with a problem. Had he ever? And had she been too preoccupied with Devon to notice?

  “You should come over to our house,” Shannon was saying, “give Mrs. O’Connor a lesson.”

  “From what little you’ve told me about Mrs. O’Connor,” Marcy said as thoughts of Darren retreated to the far corner of her brain, “I don’t think that would go over very well.” She watched a young man in the corner of the patio throw his head back and laugh out loud. How nice to be able to laugh with such unrestrained abandon, she thought, suddenly picturing the young man she’d seen laughing earlier with Shannon. There must be a way to inject him into the conversation, a way to bring him up without arousing undue suspicion.

  Shannon demurred, looking uneasily from side to side, as if checking for spies in their midst. “She’s not so bad really. She tries really hard with Caitlin.”

  “I’m sure she does.”

  “I think she just thought it would be easier.”

  Marcy nodded. We all do, she thought, watching Liam approach with their teas.

  “I see somebody has the gift,” he remarked, putting their ceramic teapot in the middle of the table, followed by a pair of sturdy, all-white cups and saucers.

  “Isn’t she amazing?” Shannon asked.

  “And beautiful to boot,” Liam said with a smile. “Can I get you anything else? Some biscuits perhaps?”

  “No, thank you,” Shannon said.

  “I’d love something sweet,” Marcy said at the same time.

  Liam winked. “Sweets for the sweet.”

  Shannon leaned forward conspiratorially. “I think he likes you,” she said as he left the table.

  Marcy felt her cheeks grow pink.

  “You’re blushing,” Shannon exclaimed with a laugh.

  Marcy corrected her. “It’s a hot flash.”

  “What’s that?”

  “It’s when … nothing.” She didn’t have the patience to explain the joys of menopause to the curious young woman. “You’re right. I’m blushing.”

  “Glad to see I’m not the only one. I blush all the time. I hate it.”

  “It’s very charming on you.”

  Shannon’s face turned almost fuchsia. “Do you really think so?”

  “Absolutely. And I’m sure that the young man you were talking to earlier would agree with me.” What the hell—it was as good an opening as she was likely to get.

  A look of confusion caused Shannon’s blush to spread toward her ears. She cocked her head to one side like a curious cocker spaniel.

  Was it possible she’d imagined the whole episode? Marcy wondered. It wouldn’t be the first time she’d seen things that weren’t there. At least according to Peter and Judith.

  “Oh. Oh, yes, of course,” Shannon said. “You mean Jackson.”

  “Jackson?”

  Shannon lifted the teapot from the table. “Shall I pour us a cup?”

  “Thank you.”

  “Smells delicious. I love a good cup of tea, don’t you?”

  “Yes, I do. Interesting name … Jackson,” Marcy remarked.

  “Calls himself Jax. With an X.” Shannon giggled. “He says it’s the way they do things in America.”

  Marcy felt her pulse quicken. “He’s American?”

  “No. Just watches a lot of American telly.” She took a sip of her tea. “Mmmn. This is de
licious. Have some.”

  Marcy immediately lifted her cup to her lips, feeling the hot and soothing tea as it filled her mouth and trickled down her throat. “Do you get a lot of American television shows over here?”

  “Some. Mrs. O’Connor isn’t a fan. She says American television is too violent and a return to violence is the last thing Ireland needs.”

  “Mrs. O’Connor is a woman of strong opinions.”

  “Yes, she is that. Nice, though,” Shannon added quickly, stealing another glance around.

  “So is this Jackson someone special?” Marcy asked after a pause. A smile accompanied the slight shrug of her shoulders, as if to suggest the question was innocent and of little consequence.

  Shannon almost choked on her tea. “Oh, no. No. I barely know him.”

  “More like a friend of a friend, is he?” Marcy pressed, straining to keep her voice light.

  Shannon looked a little confused, her green eyes narrowing, almost disappearing, and then suddenly widening again. “Oh, look. Here come your biscuits.”

  “Brought you a few extra,” Liam said, laying the plate of sugar-dusted cookies on the table, the back of his hand brushing up against Marcy’s, sending gentle spasms of electricity up her arm to the base of her neck. “My treat.”

  “I told you he likes you,” Shannon whispered as he made his retreat. “Oh, shortbread. My favorite.”

  “Have one.”

  “Can’t. Mrs. O’Connor doesn’t approve of eating between meals. She’s always going on about how slovenly and undisciplined young people are these days, says there’s an epidemic of obesity in the world, that it’s all a matter of self-control and that a person’s character is revealed by what they eat.”

  “Mrs. O’Connor sounds like a bundle of laughs.” No wonder her baby is always crying, Marcy thought. Then, in the next breath, Sure. Blame the mother.

  Shannon’s face looked as if it was about to burst into flames. She put her hand to her heart, as if preparing to take an oath. “I’m afraid I’ve given you the totally wrong impression about Mrs. O’Connor.”

  “You didn’t.”

  “She’s really a very nice woman.”

  “I’m sure she is. Have a cookie.”

  Shannon quickly grabbed one off the plate, nervously bit off its end.

  “So, are Jax and Audrey friends?” Marcy asked, throwing caution to the wind. The subtle approach was clearly getting her nowhere.

  “How did you know that?” Shannon took another bite of her cookie, washing it down with a sip of her tea. “Are you psychic?”

  Marcy shrugged, as if to say, Lucky guess. “Isn’t she the one who said boys only bring you grief?”

  Shannon giggled. “She does say that, yes.”

  “Sounds like she’s speaking from experience.”

  “They used to be an item.”

  Marcy felt the hot tea in her throat turn to ice, forming a cube that wedged in her larynx. She practically had to scrape the next words out. “Used to be?”

  “Over and done. She said I could have him, if I wanted.” Shannon’s cheeks went from red to purple.

  “And do you?”

  Shannon waved away the suggestion with a nervous flutter of her fingers. “Oh, I don’t think Mrs. O’Connor would approve of someone like Jax.”

  “Why is that?”

  “He’s a bit on the wild side.”

  “How wild?” Marcy asked.

  “He’s got a bit of a reputation. Nothing awful, mind you, but not exactly the kind of young man you bring home to mother.”

  Marcy shuddered, recalling the man Devon had been involved with in the months prior to her supposed drowning. “You don’t know what you’re getting yourself into,” she’d warned her daughter.

  “You don’t know what you’re talking about,” was Devon’s instant retort.

  “Not that he fancies me or anything,” Shannon was saying, a fresh wave of blood washing across her cheeks.

  “Why wouldn’t he?”

  Another nervous giggle. “Well, you don’t see the boys exactly lining up, now, do you?”

  “I think any boy would be lucky to have you,” Marcy offered, her frazzled brain working a mile a minute. If Audrey and Jax knew each other, she was thinking, if they’d once been lovers, surely that meant there was no way his running into her with his bicycle could have been coincidental. It had to have been deliberate.

  Which meant what?

  That Devon knew her mother was here? Or that someone was trying desperately to keep her from finding out?

  “You really think so?” Shannon asked hopefully.

  “I absolutely do.” Marcy smiled at the baby in her arms. “She’s falling asleep,” Marcy commented, and in the same breath, “So, how long have you known Audrey?”

  “I met her just after I started working for the O’Connors.”

  “Is she from around here?”

  “No. I think she’s from London originally.” Shannon suddenly started to laugh.

  “What’s so funny?”

  “You should hear her impression of Mrs. O’Connor. It’s hilarious. She has the accent down pat.”

  Marcy cleared her throat in an effort to keep a scream from emerging. “Does she do other accents as well?”

  “Oh, yes. German, Italian. American. She’s quite amazing, really. Do you think I could have another cookie?”

  “Help yourself.”

  Shannon took another cookie from the plate, broke it into two equal halves, then stuffed one half inside her mouth. “Guess it’ll come in handy when she goes to California.”

  “She’s going to California?”

  Shannon nodded, scooping up some wayward crumbs from around her lips with her tongue. “So she says.”

  “Does she say when?”

  “Pretty soon, I think.” She returned the uneaten half of her cookie to her plate, staring at Marcy with wary eyes. “Why are you so interested in Audrey?”

  Marcy shrugged. “Just making small talk. These cookies are the best. Here, you have the last one.”

  “No. I really should be getting home.” Shannon pushed back her chair, started to stand up.

  “Do you think it’s a good idea to disturb the baby?” Marcy asked quickly.

  Shannon acknowledged the sleeping baby in Marcy’s arms with a deep sigh. “You do have a way with her.”

  “I’m sorry if I ask too many questions,” Marcy apologized. “It just gets a little lonely,” she added for good measure, “traveling by myself.”

  “Oh, I know how you feel,” Shannon said, softening immediately and reaching for the other half of her cookie. “When I first moved to Dublin, I was so lonely. I didn’t know anyone. Even after I came to Cork, it was so hard at first. I had no one to talk to. I can’t tell you how many nights I cried myself to sleep.”

  And then you met Audrey, Marcy wanted to say. Instead she said, “And then you got a job with the O’Connors.”

  “Yes. And then I met Audrey,” Shannon volunteered on her own.

  “And Jax.”

  “And Jax,” Shannon agreed. “Not that I get to see them very often. Mrs. O’Connor keeps me pretty busy.”

  “I’m sure she does.”

  “Don’t get me wrong. She’s a lovely woman. Very fair and generous.”

  “I’m sure she is.”

  “I hope I haven’t given you the wrong impression.”

  “I’m sure you haven’t.”

  “I’m very lucky to have this job.” Shannon looked toward the tavern’s front door. “You fancy some more tea?” She waved toward the window.

  “Sounds good.” More tea meant more time for questions.

  The tavern’s front door opened. Footsteps approached their table.

  “Could we have another pot of tea, please?” Shannon asked politely.

  Marcy looked up and smiled, expecting to see Liam. Instead she saw Kelly.

  “Well, hello, there,” the waitress said, recognizing Marcy immediately. “I see yo
u found Shannon all right.”

  The blush instantly drained from Shannon’s face. “What?”

  “I’ll be right back with your tea,” Kelly said, spinning around on her heel and returning to the inside of the pub.

  Shannon was already half out of her chair, the red in her cheeks having returned with a vengeance, spreading down her neck and disappearing into the top of her T-shirt. “What did she mean, ‘I see you found Shannon all right?’ Have you been asking about me?”

  “No, of course not. She must be confusing me with someone else.”

  “And you must be confusing me with an idiot. Do you think I’m stupid?”

  “Please sit down. I can explain.”

  “Asking all these questions about me and my friends! Did Mrs. O’Connor put you up to this?” Shannon demanded, tears filling her eyes.

  “What?”

  “She sent you, didn’t she? To check up on me. Find out who my friends are, who I see and what I do. You’re going to report back to her all the nasty things I said.…”

  “You didn’t say anything—”

  “I’ll lose my job.…”

  “I have no intention of saying anything to Mrs. O’Connor.”

  “What do you want then? Who are you?”

  Marcy noted Shannon’s outrage was beginning to attract the attention of some of the other patrons and kept her voice purposefully low, hoping to encourage Shannon to do the same. “My name is Marcy—”

  “It’s not Marilyn?” Shannon demanded in outrage, as if lying about her name was the worst of Marcy’s transgressions. “Give me the baby,” she ordered, a note of hysteria creeping into her voice. “Give her to me straightaway.”

  A portly, middle-aged man got up from his seat at a nearby table. “Is there a problem here?”

  “She won’t give me back my baby.”

  As if on cue, Caitlin opened her eyes and started to whimper, the whimper quickly becoming a cry, the cry metastasizing into a howl.

  “Give the girl back her baby, ma’am,” the man instructed, as others on the patio rose from their seats.

  “Of course I’ll give her back the baby,” Marcy protested. “I’m not trying to steal her baby, for heaven’s sake.”

  Caitlin’s screams filled the air as Shannon lunged toward Marcy and the crowd closed in. A brawl broke out between two would-be Sir Galahads. Punches were thrown. An errant fist connected with Marcy’s cheek.