I just thought I’d let you know, Fiona had said. It didn’t work out, and they’ve decided to separate. And Geraldine had said, Thank you for telling me, because it couldn’t have been easy, and they’d nodded at each other, and Fiona had drifted away again as Geraldine had reached for a slice of the shop-bought apple tart that Dolores Mulcair always tried to pass off as her own.
“That poor little baby,” she said now, unbuttoning her jacket.
Stephen said nothing.
“It didn’t take him long, did it?” Geraldine hung the poker back on its hook. “At least he lasted over a year with Hannah.”
“Well, we shouldn’t—”
“Oh, God,” she said abruptly, swinging around to look at her husband in dismay, “I’ve just thought of something.”
“What?”
“He wouldn’t try and get back with Hannah, would he?” She regarded Stephen anxiously. “Maybe he already has. Maybe that’s why Hannah dropped that lovely Scotsman.”
“Hang on now,” Stephen said. “You’re letting your imagination run away with you. We’ve absolutely no evidence—”
“No, but it would make sense, wouldn’t it? There was no reason for Hannah to finish with that nice man. They were getting on so well.”
“Geraldine, we don’t know that, and people break up all the—”
“Oh God,” she said again, dropping onto the couch next to him. “Stephen, she wouldn’t be that foolish, would she?”
“No, love,” Stephen said patiently, “I really don’t think she would.”
“Because he’d only turn around in a few months and break her heart all over again.”
“That’s probably true.”
Geraldine stared into the fire, frowning. “Should I ring her, do you think?”
“No,” Stephen said firmly. “Definitely not. We have to let Hannah live her own life.”
“Yes,” she said, “I suppose you’re right.”
But the doubt was there all the same, the worry was there. And she knew well that Stephen was worried, too, even if he’d never admit it.
“I don’t know what I’ll do with the pair of you,” their mother said crossly. She turned to Wally. “I don’t know why you bothered coming for your tea, when all you’re doing is pushing it around your plate. And you”—stabbing a finger at Vivienne—“haven’t had a proper meal in ages.”
“I have so,” Vivienne said. “I’m just not that hungry today.”
“Not for ages,” their mother repeated to Wally. “She’s doing her best to get that anorexia.”
Wally smiled. “Hardly.”
He studied his sister, who did seem quieter than usual. It occurred to him that she might be pining for John Wyatt—maybe she’d had a thing for him that nobody had noticed.
“And why aren’t you eating?” his mother demanded of Wally. “You’re hardly watching your figure, are you?”
“God, no.” He speared a piece of boiled potato. “Look, I am eating.” But the potatoes held no more appeal for him than the poached salmon or buttered carrots—and he certainly wasn’t pining for John Wyatt.
“We got a temporary replacement for the man who left the band,” he said, to take his mother’s mind off their poor appetites, “but we’re still looking for a permanent saxophonist. It’s either that or force Viv to play two instruments at once.”
The ghost of a smile flitted across his sister’s face. “Even I can’t do that.”
He wished again that he could somehow inject some confidence into her. He’d thought that being in the band might be good for her, but the experience didn’t seem to have had the smallest effect. She played the pieces, but she might as well have been at home in her bedroom for all the attention she paid to her surroundings. She was as shy and withdrawn in company as she’d ever been.
In the car later, on the way to Vintage, he said, “It’s a shame John left, isn’t it?”
Vivienne nodded. “It’ll be hard to find someone as good.”
No sign of discomfiture, no indication that the loss of John mattered beyond its implications for the band. “Anything wrong, Viv?” he asked her. “Anything you want to get off your chest?”
She turned to him, and he glanced from the road to her face.
“No,” she said, after the briefest of pauses. “Nothing at all.”
While she was moving down the columns as she always did, the name caught Alice’s eye and stopped her in her tracks.
“O’Brien, Jason,” she read. “Fifth-birthday remembrance. Our darling son, taken from us suddenly on 26 March. Gone but never forgotten.”
She lay down the paper and imagined them sitting around the kitchen table of number 37. Their families there, of course, to support them. Tea cooling in cups, remembering his last birthday maybe, the four candles on the cake, the party with his little friends gathered around. None of them knowing it was to be his last.
She remembered the mother at the courthouse, the hate plain in her expression as she’d looked at Alice. Your husband destroyed us, she’d said, her features twisted and ugly with pain. Don’t come near us again.
But Alice had already stopped driving to Springwood Gardens, and she’d given up visiting the cemetery. Now she stayed in the shop with Geraldine in the afternoons and went home at the usual time.
“The house is quiet without you,” she’d written to Tom. “I never realized how quiet it is, living on your own. I planted out the hanging baskets. They’ll be in full bloom when you get home. I’m thinking of painting the sitting room, maybe cream this time, for a change. I’m a bit tired of the white. What would you think?”
She didn’t tell him about Ellen. He didn’t need to hear that now.
I can’t believe it, Ellen had wept on the phone. My father drove while he was drunk and killed a child. How could he? How could you have let him? Why didn’t you tell me, Ma? Why did I have to hear about it from Avril O’Regan?
The smallness of Ireland. Someone from Clongarvin working in the courthouse in Galway, some clerk with a sister living in the same neighborhood as Ellen. A chance remark, a few careless words, and Ellen knew.
Alice had sat quietly on the bottom stair with the phone to her ear until her daughter had run out of questions. Listen, she’d said then, her eyes closed, her words slow and careful. Listen to me. I’ve just got back from dropping your father into a treatment center in Dublin. He’s there to try to stop drinking. He’ll be there for a month, maybe longer. The accident happened the morning after a night out, and neither of us realized he could still be…under the influence. I didn’t tell you because, right or wrong, I thought I could spare you all this.
She’d taken a ragged breath then, and Ellen hadn’t jumped into the silence. We have both gone through hell in the past few months, Alice had said tightly, so I need you not to be angry now, because I’m not sure I can take any more—and her voice had broken then, and she’d bitten her lip and stopped talking, her eyes still squeezed shut.
Oh, Ma, Ellen had said, her voice thick with tears, too, I’m sorry. I’m not angry, at least. I don’t know what I am. It’s just…
I know, Alice had whispered. I know what you mean.
Ma, I’m coming home, Ellen had said then, when Dad has to…when the case comes to court. You’ll need someone with you. I can get a couple of weeks off, and Lenny will hang on to the kids. Let me know when you have a date, and I’ll book my flight.
Alice had opened her mouth to protest—and then she’d shut it again, thinking about having Ellen sitting beside her when Tom was on trial. Her daughter’s hand to hold, her child’s arm in hers while Jason’s parents sat in the same room.
“The strawberries will be good this year,” she’d written to Tom. “I sprayed the roses—there was a bit of greenfly. I’m afraid the front lawn is full of daisies again, even after that stuff you put down last year. I’ve mown it, but I can’t get the stripes like you can.”
She didn’t mention the shop. She didn’t tell him what she wa
s planning. Time enough for that.
“For sale—ebony clarinet, as new. €45. Location: Ireland. Seller: Adoc2401.”
He put the cursor on “submit” and pressed the mouse button, and off it went. That’s that, he thought. End of story. He’d given it his best shot, and he’d failed.
“What now?” he asked Kirby, crouching to scratch the dog’s rough coat. “Should I go out and get drunk and pick up a nice young one?”
Kirby grunted, tail swinging lazily.
“You’re a great help,” Adam told him. He shut down his computer and rummaged in the chest of drawers until he found his trunks. A swim would help. A few fast laps up and down the pool should clear his head and banish the gloom. And if that didn’t work, he might just consider a few pints later on.
At the sight of him, so wholly unexpected, Hannah’s stomach lurched. She pushed the tray she’d been refilling back under the counter, her heart beginning a steady, heavy thudding.
“Hi, stranger.” Patrick smiled. His suit as immaculate as ever. His shirt so white it must have been brand-new. “Long time no see.”
She should probably congratulate him on the baby, but the words refused to come. She could feel the warmth in her face. “Hello.”
He looked around. “Hey, I like this,” he said. “It’s great.”
She made no reply.
He moved closer, and she instinctively took a step backward. If he noticed, he made no sign.
“Han,” he said, planting his hands on the counter, looking straight into her eyes, “I need to say something to you. I know this isn’t the ideal place, but”—he gave a small laugh—“to be honest, I wasn’t sure you’d agree to meet me anywhere else, and I can’t say I’d blame you.”
She said nothing. He was still full of easy charm; that hadn’t changed.
He held her gaze, his expression contrite now. “You probably want to kill me after what I did to you—and you’d be dead right. I was a total bastard.”
Still Hannah didn’t respond. Her heart thumped, and she could feel the blood pulsing through her. She folded her arms, willing a customer, or Una, or anyone, to walk in.
Patrick rubbed a hand across his face. “Look,” he said, “Han, I think this really isn’t the place for what I want to say—someone could come in any minute. Can we meet up when you’re finished?”
She shook her head slowly. “I don’t want to meet you,” she said, her voice steadier than she’d expected. “I have nothing to say to you.”
“Han,” he said earnestly, “I completely understand how you feel. But…I really need to talk to you. Please.”
His eyes, such a deep brown you could melt into them. She’d kissed those eyes; she’d gazed into them over a candlelit table.
“Anywhere you like,” he said. “Name a time.”
She watched his mouth forming the words. She remembered it on her skin. She knew what it tasted like.
“No,” she said. “I’d like you to leave now.”
“Han, listen to me.” He spoke rapidly, leaning toward her, his upper body slanting across the counter. His familiar aftershave wafting over to where she stood. “Leah and I are done, we’re finished. It was a huge mistake—it should never have happened.”
Hannah looked at him, her arms tight across her chest, her heart still thumping, her face too warm.
“She meant nothing to me, nothing,” he said. “I was a prize idiot.”
How many times had she told him she loved him? How many nights had she lain in his arms, imagining them growing old together, looking forward to all the years in between?
“She gave me the come-on,” he said, “and I was stupid enough to fall for it. You must believe me—she meant nothing.” He took a deep breath. “Han, it’s you, it was always you. You must believe me,” he repeated.
So sincere, looking at her so earnestly. Hannah uncrossed her arms. She planted her hands on the counter and gazed steadily into the deep brown eyes. Their faces were inches apart. “And what about Nora?” she asked softly. Her palms damp against the cold glass.
Patrick frowned.
“Leah threw you out, didn’t she?” Hannah said. “She found out about Nora, and she threw you out.” Her legs were trembling, but her voice didn’t betray her.
“Han, you can’t believe—”
“What? I can’t believe you’d do it again?” His air of injured innocence was beginning to grate. “The thing I can’t believe, Patrick, is that you honestly think I’d have you back.”
He reached toward her, and she stepped away quickly. “Don’t.”
“Han, it’s all in the past,” he said. “None of them meant a thing, I swear. You were the—”
“Why don’t you go?” she said loudly. “Why don’t you just turn around now and leave?”
“But you haven’t—”
“Patrick,” she said coldly, “please leave. I have nothing more to say to you, and there is certainly nothing more you could say that I would want to hear.”
He began to back away. “I’ve sprung it on you,” he said. “I can see that. I should have waited, like I was planning to do.”
Hannah said nothing.
Patrick reached the door, still looking at her. “We’ll meet up,” he said, “when you’re ready. When you’ve had time to think. Give me a call, and we’ll talk about it.”
She watched his hand reach for the handle. She heard the tinkle of the old-fashioned bell as he pulled the door open. “I love you, Han,” he said. “You’re the one.”
She waited until the door had closed behind him, until he’d disappeared past the window of Cupcakes on the Corner. She leaned against the back wall then, taking long, deep breaths, feeling her heartbeat gradually returning to normal.
None of them meant a thing.
She’d been right about Nora, which made two women he’d deceived. Which meant he’d slept with Nora when Leah was pregnant with his child. She wondered how many more there’d been, how many other flings he’d enjoyed when he was still with her.
How blind she had been, how trusting and blind. She remembered how she’d longed to have a baby with him, how she’d brought the subject up more than once. She thought of Leah, left now with a child to raise alone, and shuddered. How easily it could have been her.
She watched the steady flow of people past the window, the odd one glancing in. She looked around the shop—her shop—and she thought of the hours of work that had gone into achieving it, and the slog it still took to keep it afloat. She remembered the uncertainty of her first few weeks, the mistakes she’d made and learned from.
She pictured Adam draped along the red couch in the evenings, Kirby sprawled on the floor beside him. She thought of how her life was full of possibilities, and that at thirty-three she hadn’t used half of them up yet.
The door opened, and the bell tinkled as Una walked in. “Well,” she said, “you look pleased with yourself.”
“The station,” Nora said, settling into the passenger seat. “You don’t mind me sitting here, do you?”
“Not at all,” the driver answered, putting the car in gear and pulling in to the stream of traffic.
She’d recognized him as soon as he’d driven up. She remembered the green eyes. She decided he’d do to restore her bruised ego—not that she had any intention of letting that bastard Patrick Dunne upset her for long.
She could smell her spicy perfume thick in the air, which meant he could too.
“Going far?” he asked.
“Pretty far,” she said. “California.” She giggled. “But as far as you’re concerned, the station will be fine.”
Stretching her legs out, plenty to show in the little gray skirt. Nice and brown, too, from the spray she’d treated herself to yesterday. She caught the lightning glance he gave them. Piece of cake, this would be. Good job she’d left plenty of time to catch the train.
He stopped at a red light. “Wouldn’t mind some Californian sunshine myself right now.”
“
Yeah, this weather’s crap. I don’t know how anyone sticks it.” Running a hand absentmindedly along her bare thigh as she spoke. The station still a good ten minutes away. Plenty of time.
“You from around here?” he asked.
Nora yawned, stretching her arms above her head, her top rising to show golden midriff. “Born and bred, I’m afraid. But I’ve lived in the States for years. Just came back for a few months, and now I’ve had enough. You?”
“Yeah, born here, too. Grew up on Fortfield Avenue.”
“You’ve driven me before,” she said. “You wore a woolly hat—total fashion disaster.”
He laughed. “Hey, gimme a break—it’s chilly driving around in winter.”
Nora smiled. “I have to say,” she said, crossing her legs, causing her skirt to ride up further, “that you’re not half bad without the hat.”
“Thanks.”
“I suppose you have a wife at home,” she said.
He changed gears as they approached a roundabout. “Nope. No wife.”
She waited for him to ask about a husband, but he didn’t. “Footloose and fancy free, then, like myself.”
No response—but she’d never objected to a challenge. “Hey,” she said, as if she’d just thought of it, “my train isn’t for another while. Fancy a coffee or…whatever?”
He glanced at her again. “Love to,” he said, “but I’m up to my eyes. Sorry.” He took the roundabout’s second exit, the one that led to the station.
Nora turned to look out the window. “No problem,” she said. “Just a thought.” Who cared about a taxi driver too dumb to appreciate what was being handed to him on a plate?
He approached the station and pulled in. He unloaded Nora’s luggage. She paid him what he asked for and waited while he counted out her change.
“Safe trip,” she heard him call after her, but she didn’t turn back.
Of course he’d been flattered by her offer. What hot-blooded male wouldn’t be gratified by a come-on from an attractive woman? And he saw nothing wrong with a bit of afternoon delight, under the right circumstances.
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