by Mary Malone
“But Seth? Can you honestly trust him? Aren’t you worried he’ll lead us down some crooked path?”
Her mother’s shoulders went back, defiance in her eyes that anyone dare criticise her beloved brother. “At least he’s willing to help! And Seth’s discretion is unquestionable.”
Her insinuation that he was offering assistance while Frank had refused wasn’t lost on Beth.
“But Kieran is Seth’s nephew? Have you told him who we’re ousting?” Beth lowered her voice to a whisper, glancing around the café, paranoia increasing her awareness.
“Naturally I explained your predicament to him. And of course he understood the implications but he’s still willing to help in whatever way he can.”
Lifting her teaspoon, Beth stirred sugar into her coffee. Knowing Seth’s approach, she suspected at best his involvement would be too heavy-handed.
Marian sensed her disapproval. “Seth sees it like any other business deal, not a split of family loyalties. And so should you!”
Beth inhaled sharply.
“What’s more,” Marian continued, “I’ve helped him out of a few tight scrapes over the years – unknown to your father I might add. He’ll come good for me.” Her expression softened. “And for you.”
Beth felt uncomfortable at the thought of her uncle hearing about her plans to oust her brother. And to make matters worse, Marian had already alerted Kieran to that fact. And now Seth. Sighing, she relented.
“What does Seth suggest then? How much does he know about these situations?”
Marian fiddled with her teaspoon. “What he doesn’t already know, he’ll find out.”
“But what’s he going to do? What reasons can we use for overturning the will? And will they be legal?”
“Leave it with Seth. He’ll find a way to make it work.”
“Don’t tell me he’s going to fabricate a new will?”
Marian smiled at her daughter’s question. She’d made the same suggestion when she’d spoken to her brother. “That would have been the simplest option, but too difficult to make it stand up in court according to Seth.”
“No matter what he proposes, I’m guessing there will be an element of dishonesty attached. I’ll mess the whole thing up if I have to take the stand in court!” Beth rubbed the serviette along the palms of her hands. Her mother’s mention of court had scared her, the word ‘perjury’ flashing in neon lights before her eyes. What hope would she have of convincing a judge and jury that she’d given her aunt due care and attention while her brother swanned between continents? None, she reckoned. They’d see right through her and they wouldn’t be up to much if they didn’t.
Marian placed a hand over her daughter’s, giving it a gentle squeeze. “Nothing so obscene or public, Beth. He’s working on a couple of realistic options that he feels could work.”
Beth’s anxiousness escalated to fear, a cold sweat running down her spine. I haven’t thought this through properly, she thought. “No, Mum,” she gushed. “This is crazy, too risky. Being in debt to the banks is one thing but lying in court – and what about legal costs?” She paused for breath, eyes wild, fingers fidgeting nervously with her serviette.
“Shh!” Marian silenced her. “Seth will be discreet. He knows a doctor who may be persuaded to produce documents and question Polly’s sanity at the time her will was written.”
Beth cringed. Her mother had described this as ‘nothing so obscene’? Had she heard correctly? Producing false documents and questioning Polly’s sanity? Too cruel.
“Ah no, Mum. We’d never get away with that. Polly had the same GP for years. And he knows the family too. He wouldn’t jeopardise his practice, risk being struck off – what would he stand to gain?”
But Marian was insistent. “Seth’s going to use a geriatrician, somebody further up the hierarchal ladder than her GP. There are ways around everything.”
“Ah, Mum, what about her dignity? And Dad? He’ll never speak to me again!”
“He’ll get over it.”
Beth scrunched the serviette into a tight ball, circling it between the palms of her hands. “It’s not worth this much upset.”
Marian shot her daughter a defiant look. “Polly’s dead and buried, in the earth as lunch for the worms. None of this will do her any harm.”
Beth brought her cup to her lips, swallowing the remainder of her coffee without even tasting it. “I’ve changed my mind, Mum. I’m not going through with this. I’ll fight the banks whatever way I can, see what business I can drum up with this new venture,” she took her phone from her bag and waved it in her mother’s face, “with the summer months ahead.”
Marian shook her head, running a hand through her short hair. “Don’t be ridiculous. Nothing’s set in stone. This is just one of the options open to us, the one that Seth recommended. But he probably has a few others up his sleeve. We can go back and talk to him.”
Beth raised an eyebrow, petrified her uncle had already started proceedings. “Mum, I’m happier to leave things stand. Good luck to Kieran.”
The waitress came to their table, offering a coffee refill. Both women refused.
“Let’s hear Seth out at least.” Marian eyed her youngest daughter, wanting more than anything to erase the pain from her face and see the light return to her eyes.
Deep in thought, Beth smeared an extra blob of cream onto her scone, looking around the café. As her eyes rested on Carl, she was shocked – horrified would be a better description – to see her father taking a seat in the pew beside him. What the hell was that about?
“Mum, don’t look now but Dad has joined Carl at his table. Have they been in contact recently?”
Marian totally dismissed Beth’s warning and turned right around, meeting Frank’s gaze head on.
“Marian, Beth,” he said, giving a nod and casual wave before returning his attention to Carl. But he looked alarmed.
Beth’s instincts were on red alert. Instantly uncomfortable, she looked away, wishing there was a side door out of the café so she could avoid bumping into either her husband or father. But no such luck. Unless she waited for them to leave, she’d have no option but to walk past them.
“Why are they together, Mum?” Her head ached. “Could it be something to do with Polly’s house?”
“Of course not!”
“You’re sure, Mum?” Beth pushed her plate away.
The enjoyment from her calorie-laden treat had been well and truly ruined. The two men in the corner booth – engrossed in what appeared to be an extremely serious conversation – had once meant so much to her, and she to them she’d believed. And now she was panicking at the thought of having to walk past them. Her relationship with Carl was probably doomed from the beginning and she wasn’t sure there was any way forward for them. If anything they were living in their own private purgatory, unable to reverse out of the mess they were in or escalate forward to something better.
And then there was Frank, the father she’d idolised as a little girl.
“Earth to Beth!”
“Sorry, Mum, I was miles away.”
Marian was still surveying the two men discreetly. “They could just be discussing golf?”
“Carl doesn’t play,” Beth replied flatly.
“Oh well, I’m sure it’s nothing sinister and certainly nothing to do with the will. Your father’s adamant Polly’s decision stands.”
Beth couldn’t relax. She hadn’t the heart to continue. “Can we leave now, Mum? I can’t relax with Carl and Dad on the far side of the café.”
Marian nodded. “Of course, if that’s what you want. Why don’t we just leave things to Seth and see what he comes back with?”
Beth zipped up her jacket, watching Marian fixing a bright pink scarf under the collar of her navy rain mac.
“Ready then?”
More despondent (if that was possible) than when she’d arrived, Beth followed her mother, relief coursing through her when the waitress chose that moment to serve Ca
rl and Frank. She skirted by their table as the waitress served them toasted sandwiches. She was saved the trouble of choosing between stopping to talk or avoiding them. What it didn’t save her from, however, was the snippet of conversation she overheard as she skimmed by the waitress.
“Kieran might offer some help but not a word to Beth . . .”
Frank’s sharp tone rang in Beth’s ears.
Beth’s stomach churned. She didn’t wait to hear any more. She hurried onto the street. Taking great big gulps of fresh air into her lungs, she waited for her heart rate to return to normal. What on earth was going on? What could her father – and maybe her brother – be discussing with Carl? I must be going mad, she thought. They barely tolerated each other. Dad refused to help me, yet he’s blatantly cutting a deal with Carl and making sure I’m kept in the dark!
Hurrying to catch up with Marian, she linked her mother’s arm and fell into step, her head spinning as they walked the short distance to the car park.
“Thank you for calling Seth, Mum,” she said, planting an unexpected peck on her mother’s cheek. “Your support means everything to me. And you’re right. I should listen to what Seth suggests before making a decision.”
”You’re welcome, pet. But not a word to your father until this whole sorry messy is sorted out.”
Marian pulled her scarf over her mouth, hiding the smile spreading across her face as she glanced upwards and imagined a ghost of Polly Digby glaring upon them from high above the overcast sky.
Chapter 20
In College Street Library in Toronto, Charlotte was busy researching Project Kieran, as she’d come to think of it. Sitting in front of a computer screen, totally engrossed in the world of litigation, lodging caveats and viable evidence, she was oblivious to the mêlée of students positioned in small groups at tables around the library, cramming for their upcoming exams. Trawling through large legal tomes, she’d turned to the Internet, concerned that Canadian law differed in part to the Irish legal system.
“Ten minutes to closing.”
Charlotte smiled at the librarian, unable to believe two hours had passed. “No problem. I’m almost done here anyway.”
“Irish?” the librarian enquired.
“That obvious?”
“To me it is anyway. My maternal grandparents come from County Wicklow. You know it?”
“Vaguely,” Charlotte replied, printing the article she’d been reading. She took her page from the printer, folding it in four and slipping it into her handbag along with the others she’d printed earlier. Plenty of reading to do later, she thought. “I’m from West Cork, southern tip of the country.”
“But isn’t Ireland a tiny country? I thought everybody knew everybody there. That’s what my grandma told us.”
“In a manner of speaking,” Charlotte agreed. “Wicklow’s on the east coast, bordering Dublin – our capital. Ever visited?”
The twenty-something ran her fingers through her long dark hair. “Not yet, but hopefully one day. You here on vacation?”
Charlotte shook her head. “I work in HSBC.”
“But you’ve still got family back home?”
“My parents, one brother and one sister.” Surprising herself, she added, “I’m toying with the idea of returning home soon though.”
“Gosh, it must be difficult to be so far away from family.” The librarian tidied the tables around Charlotte as she chatted. “I see mine every day – don’t think I’d survive without my daily dose of hugs! Don’t you miss home?”
Charlotte felt an unexpected pang of envy for the relationship the other girl was describing. Maybe I’d have been homesick too if I had a family of huggers! But the Dulhoolys weren’t demonstrative, neither in public nor in private. Slipping into her lightweight fleece – finally the temperatures were increasing and she’d happily shed one layer of clothing – an image of their West Cork home came to mind – large in size but light on atmosphere! She couldn’t say she’d felt any more alone in Toronto than she’d often felt in the big rambling house in Ballydehob. Hardly surprising our history of relationships is so appalling, she thought, with our parents’ constant bickering!
“Texting and emailing makes it easier,” she responded eventually. “It’s not like I’m waiting for letters to arrive.”
“I’d bet! Not to mention Facebook and Twitter. Best way to keep in touch, I guess?”
Charlotte fussed with her handbag, her cheeks flushing. She had deliberately avoided social networking, not wanting her profile up there for all to see.
“How long do you plan on staying back home?”
She met the librarian’s gaze and shuddered inside. Toronto had provided a safe haven since her fiasco with Philip Lord. “It depends . . .” she began, faltering as she searched for an explanation. Depends on so much, she thought, unwilling to voice it aloud.
“I’m sorry if I’m prying –”
“Oh no, you’re not!” Charlotte realised she’d made the librarian feel uncomfortable. “Depends on how much I enjoy the visit. And whether my ghosts have been laid to rest,” she added with a smile, taking lip balm from her jacket pocket and smearing it across her lips. She took a glance at her watch. After nine – too late to get a massage appointment with Giovanni. His sensual touch would have been a welcome release from the memories her conversation had stirred.
“Call in and let me know how it goes – if you decide to come back here, that is.”
“I’ll bring you a stick of Wicklow rock,” Charlotte smiled.
The librarian frowned in confusion. “A Wicklow rock? You’re allowed carry that back on the aeroplane.”
“It’s a candy stick,” Charlotte explained, “not an actual rock from the ground!”
They spent a few more moments chatting about Ireland, Charlotte selling it proudly to the Canadian librarian.
“Maybe one day I’ll come by and visit. You can advise me on where the best places are.”
“Oh, you’d be so welcome. And Wicklow has the most magnificent scenery. Dublin too – it’s a real cosmopolitan city. And West Cork – where I hail from – and Kerry, our nearest neighbouring county, have wonderful scenery and are renowned for giving a true Irish welcome. You’ll have to sample the Irish hospitality! You won’t be disappointed.”
“That’s what my mum says too. She’s only ever been once but was blown away by its beauty. She says the grass over there is greener than anywhere else in the world. Is that true?”
Charlotte grinned. “Ireland certainly boasts the greenest grass in the world and if you can find the end of the rainbow, you’ll be rewarded with a crock of gold!”
Students made their way toward the exit, the overhead announcement advising patrons that it was time to leave.
“See you again, I hope,” she said, following the others to the exit door.
“I’ll be too busy chasing rainbows,” the librarian replied with a laugh.
On her walk home from the subway station, Charlotte’s mind buzzed. Faces she’d walked away from became images in her head, confusing the bravado she’d felt recently and making her seriously question a trip home.
Am I off my head even considering going back to Ireland, she wondered? I’m seldom lonely, rarely without a number to call if I fancy a little company, and never without a credit balance in my bank account. And of course I have my weekly hour on Giovanni’s plinth. But the voice in her head reminded her of how dead she felt inside? Why do I crave passion and fulfilment? Weekly visits to the massage parlour were an ideal solution in the aftermath of heartbreak, but as a long-term solution lacked real emotion and vibrant connection with another human being.
She broke into a run, clutching the handle of her bag as it bounced against her. The librarian had planted the seed of an idea in her head. Social networking might well provide the solution she was looking for. If nothing else it’d give her a squint at how her old life had progressed in her absence. And by ‘old life’ she meant the lavish circuit she’d indulged
in, enjoying a prospering career as though it would never come to a stop . . . but, in true disaster style, she’d ignored the alarm bells, stepping into a nightmare where a one-way-ticket was her only way out.
Back in her apartment, she dropped her bag on the couch, changed into her cosiest pyjamas and dressing gown and settled in for a night’s surfing on Facebook. Charlotte couldn’t wait to delve into the lives of those she’d left behind. But first she needed a bogus account. Protecting her identity was essential on this occasion. Setting out on a stalking mission, the last thing she wanted was to be discovered, the new persona she’d created for herself in Toronto married with the shame she’d left behind.
Munching on a wholemeal cookie, she turned on her laptop and set about registering as a new Facebook user. Damn, she thought, reading the conditions and realising she’d need an email account as verification. Opening a second internet session, she created a fictitious email account, did the necessary to activate it and then returned to the Facebook page. By now her initial giddiness had worn off and a modicum of common sense was setting in. No matter what I discover, what’s done is done. I’ve left that phase of my life well and truly behind.