‘For me too,’ Abbey told her.
‘And your mum?’
‘She’s been out of touch,’ said Abbey. ‘She doesn’t know about any of this yet.’
Suzanne looked startled.
‘I’ll tell her soon,’ Abbey said.
‘How will she react, d’you think?’
‘As shocked as the rest of us,’ said Abbey. ‘But she’s good with stuff, my mom.’
‘As you are, it seems,’ said Suzanne. ‘I believe you tried to resuscitate Dad.’
‘And failed.’
‘At least you tried.’
Abbey said nothing. She still felt raw about the whole thing, but it was a welcome change for someone to appreciate the effort she’d made.
‘Did you like him?’ asked Suzanne.
‘I didn’t have the chance to get to know him,’ Abbey replied. ‘We only spoke for a few minutes. Walked around the garden. But he was nice to me.’
‘Dad. Nice. That’s a first.’
‘Oh?’
‘He was never nice to me,’ Suzanne said. ‘Ugh. This is why I hate the whole thing around death and funerals. The past gets dredged up and you rediscover old hurts you thought you’d plastered over.’
‘What hurts do you have?’ asked Abbey.
Suzanne shrugged. ‘They’re in the past. They should stay there.’
If only the past could stay in the past, thought Abbey. But it had a nasty habit of coming back to haunt you.
‘So tell me a little about yourself,’ said Suzanne. ‘What d’you do?’
Abbey told her about her nail art and Suzanne involuntarily checked her own nails, which were square and buffed. Then Abbey took out her phone and opened the Mariposa website. She scrolled to the pictures of her work and Suzanne gave a low whistle of appreciation.
‘Gosh, that’s good,’ she said. ‘So vibrant and electric. And, well, artistic.’
Abbey grinned. ‘I studied art before I got into this,’ she said. ‘I still like painting but I get a great buzz out of nails.’
Suzanne continued to look at the pictures. The Mirador Hotel didn’t have a spa or a beauty salon and there wasn’t a lot of room for anything too grand, but the idea of offering nail treatments to guests was a good one. Women liked to look good on holiday, and blinging nails was a great way of jazzing up your appearance, especially if you were make-up-free around the pool. Perhaps if she managed to buy the hotel, she could get some advice from Abbey on the treatments a manicurist could offer. Though she was getting ahead of herself, wasn’t she? She still hadn’t managed to put together enough of a consortium to make an offer on it.
Abbey, realising that Suzanne had lapsed into a daydream, and supposing that she was thinking about her father, sat in silence. It was a few minutes later before Suzanne, whose mind had wandered off into worries about the finance, blinked a couple of times and apologised for her lack of attention.
‘I’ve had a long day,’ she added. ‘And it’ll be equally long tomorrow. I should go to bed.’ She drained her glass and stood up. ‘It was nice meeting you.’
‘You too,’ said Abbey.
‘Are you coming to the funeral tomorrow?’
‘Yes.’ Abbey looked at her anxiously. ‘That’s OK, isn’t it? It won’t upset you?’
‘Not in the slightest,’ said Suzanne. ‘As for the rest of them – I’m sure they’ll have got over the shock. Actually, it’s good of you to come.’
‘I’m glad you think so.’
‘Family situations are never easy. Believe me.’ Suzanne’s tone was heartfelt. ‘Anyway, we’ll all be on our best behaviour, I’m sure. So don’t worry. You’ll be grand.’
I’ll be grand, thought Abbey, as she watched Suzanne walk out of the bar. Ryan says so. Suzanne says so. I hope they’re right.
PART 5
THE WILL
Chapter 20
The day of Fred’s funeral was the hottest of the year so far. Temperatures were in the high twenties and the sun shone from a perfect blue sky. Clara, the receptionist at the Harbour Hotel, told Abbey that there hadn’t been a month like it since she could remember. Clara had been amazingly kind when she’d learned about Mr Fitzpatrick’s death and had been as helpful and supportive to Abbey as she could possibly be. She was the one who’d given advice about going into Dublin so that she could buy something suitable to wear, because Abbey felt her own clothes were far too casual for a funeral.
After her conversation with Suzanne, she felt a bit more relaxed about her decision to attend the service. Ryan Gilligan had already told her that good turnouts were mandatory at Irish funerals, and it was a question of the more the merrier. Abbey still wasn’t entirely sure this applied in her case, and she planned to hang back and not get in the family’s way at all.
However, Ryan had called her before breakfast to say that they were now prepared to meet with her after the funeral and find out more about her and her mother. Abbey wasn’t entirely sure what she’d say to them. She’d only come to Ireland so that Fred could be reassured that Ellen forgave him for abandoning her as a baby. She hadn’t intended to have any contact with his family at all. Left to herself, she’d have been quite happy to return home straight away. But she knew the Fitzpatricks had questions and she hoped that she’d be able to put their minds at rest, whatever those questions might be.
The phone in her room shrilled and Clara told her that Ryan Gilligan had arrived to collect her. She picked up her bag and went downstairs. It was the first time she’d seen Ryan in a shirt and tie and she was struck by how formal and how much less approachable he appeared. Then he smiled at her.
‘Great day for a funeral,’ he said as he led her outside. ‘I’m sure Fred would’ve liked it.’
‘You think?’ She got into the passenger seat.
‘Definitely,’ said Ryan. ‘I bet he was an outdoors man.’
‘I don’t know what sort of man he was,’ said Abbey. ‘Which, despite everything, makes me feel a little uncomfortable about showing up today.’
‘You’re doing the right thing,’ said Ryan. ‘And the family will be grateful for your support.’
Abbey glanced at him. There had been a hesitation in his voice. A sudden lack of conviction. Which made her wonder if he knew something about them that she didn’t.
Although Abbey had been brought up as a Catholic, she hadn’t spent much time inside churches. The last time she’d set foot inside one had been for the wedding of one of her clients in the red-brick St Patrick’s Church on Mission Street. It had been a joyous day, photos had been taken in the Yerba Buena Gardens afterwards, and Abbey had felt connected to everyone around her thanks to the warmth of the ceremony.
Her most recent experiences of funerals had been those of her grandparents, but that had been ten years earlier and at a Boston crematorium. This was different. The pews nearest the altar were already occupied by Fred’s family, while other friends were scattered throughout the rest of the church. Organ music, vaguely recognisable, was being played softly in the background. Abbey shivered, even though the building was warm inside.
She chose an empty pew halfway up the aisle and sat down. She had a spray of flowers for Fred’s coffin but she wasn’t sure if she should place it there yet or not. It seemed that many people had left their tributes at the service the night before.
‘I’ll put them up for you,’ said Ryan softly. She handed the spray to him. He walked up the aisle with it and left it near the altar. Abbey was grateful to him for being with her and for supporting her. It was, she thought, beyond the call of duty for a legal firm to take such care of someone who wasn’t even a client. But perhaps Fred had been a good one. Perhaps Ryan was still being paid by him.
There was a rustle at the side of the altar as the priest walked out, the organ music grew louder and the funeral Mass started. Abbey allowed her thoughts to drift as the priest spoke. She knew the words even though she seldom used them. She wondered if they were a comfort to the Fitzpatricks. She hope
d they were.
When the priest talked about Fred, he described him as a much-loved member of the community and a man of strong faith. He added that he was sure that Fred and his beloved Ros were now happy together for all eternity.
Abbey couldn’t help wondering how things worked out in the afterlife in circumstances such as Fred’s. When there were other women involved. What kind of welcome would be waiting for him? Had Ros and Dilly met? Had they spoken about him? How did they feel about him, always providing you felt anything at all after you died? She would’ve liked the answers to those questions, but they weren’t the ones the priest was addressing.
Nor did he say anything about Fred having had another daughter. Of the fact that latterly he’d been consumed by guilt about what had happened to her. Or that he’d eventually found a granddaughter he hadn’t known about. Those topics were clearly ones for another day. Or, thought Abbey as she glanced at her watch, ones for a few hours’ time.
Suzanne listened to the priest’s words and bit her lip. Not because they made her sad but because she had to restrain herself from jumping up and shouting that it was all a lie and that her father hadn’t given a shit about anyone other than himself. And in making contact with Abbey Andersen, nice and all though she appeared to be, he still wasn’t thinking about anyone other than himself, because he clearly hadn’t cared about the impact knowing about her would have on the family. But what was the point in creating a scene? she asked herself. There was nothing to be gained by saying that he’d made her life and her mother’s life a misery with his attitude and his philandering and that it was fortunate there wasn’t a whole pew full of his extramarital offspring instead of a lone girl.
Put it out of your head, she told herself. It’ll all be over soon and you can forget about Dad and forget about Don and Gar too. You’ll soon be back in Girona getting to grips with business which is far more important.
That morning, while she was getting dressed, she’d received a phone call from Petra saying that she was working on another potential investor and that she was keeping her fingers crossed. Unfortunately, though, Beatriz was getting twitchy about the enterprise as she’d been approached by someone else looking for money. Swings and roundabouts, said Petra. If we can land one more member for our consortium, we’ll get the deal done. The call had frustrated Suzanne. Why was money always such a damn problem? Why did it always get in the way?
She glanced at her father’s coffin and tried not to think that he might have left her something. He’d been so hard on her before, so unwilling to understand her or to listen to her, that she could think of no reason why he might have changed now. But she was the successful one, wasn’t she? She mightn’t have had the chance to prove it to him, but she was. She deserved some damn recognition from him. It didn’t matter that he was dead.
Donald was thinking about his speech after the funeral Mass. As the eldest son, it was his task to say a few words about his father, to bring him to life (at least metaphorically) for the people who’d come to say goodbye to him. Donald was quite good at this sort of thing – being able to talk about every conceivable topic was an important part of being a sales director – but it was hard to know what to say about Fred. He’d been a tough father and an even tougher boss. He’d been cantankerous and difficult. He had a daughter that nobody knew about. Donald wasn’t planning on mentioning her. There was no need to pick at wounds, new or old. He’d stick to the positives and recall how Fred had worked hard at building the company from humble beginnings to the success it had become. A success which meant that he had died in his beautiful home on the hill instead of the two-up, two-down terraced house he’d started his married life from.
Zoey slipped her hand into her husband’s. She was thinking of Fred’s house too and planning what she would do to it if Fred had left it to her and Donald as he should have done. She remembered telling Fred how much she liked it, and, one day, him asking her if it was the sort of place she’d like to live, at which she’d nodded eagerly and said that it was perfect. She didn’t say that on moving in she’d immediately hire decorators because it needed a lot of upgrading to turn it into anywhere she’d actually live. It was a trophy home in a trophy location and that was what mattered. It would be great to invite her friends there and show off the magnificent views. They’d envy her more than ever then. And she deserved to be envied. She really did.
Gareth knew that Donald and Zoey had designs on the house. His brother had said as much a short time ago when they’d met for a drink. It had been after Fred had hurt his wrist and Donald had rung Gareth to discuss their father’s long-term care. Gareth had been quite insulted by the call, because, as he’d told Donald, Lisette spent a lot of time looking out for Fred. She did his shopping every week, he’d said. Called in to see him every Saturday. Which wasn’t always convenient, but she did it anyway. And she’d continue to do it. Donald had been taken aback at that, Gareth knew. Donald and Zoey dropped in to Furze Hill from time to time, but not regular as clockwork like Lisette.
Gareth had seen the flicker in Donald’s eyes when he realised that Gareth had a greater toehold in Furze Hill than him. Nevertheless, he’d made his comments about being the eldest and Fred’s business partner (a low blow that) and had said that their father had talked about a family member taking the house over after his death. Gareth had said that Lisette loved Furze Hill, a comment that he knew had startled his brother. Seeing the look on Donald’s face had given Gareth great satisfaction. Sometimes, he thought, Donald could be too damn cocky for his own good. But maybe he had a reason to be. Maybe he knew things that nobody else did.
Lisette had a headache. It had been with her ever since the news of Fred’s death, and nothing seemed to shift it. The previous evening Suzanne had seen her reaching for the Panadol and had offered her some tablets from her own bag. Like horse tablets, Suzanne had said, and with a dosage to match. Got rid of the worst of everything. But Lisette didn’t like taking tablets at all; she’d only started swallowing Panadol out of desperation. She’d tried meditating later on, in the bedroom, but of course that had been useless because the only meditation she’d done had been on Fred’s will. She wished she’d looked at the copy she’d seen peeking out from under the papers that day. Maybe he’d even wanted her to look. Maybe it would have been worth a row with him.
She rubbed the back of her neck.
Or maybe not.
Because her grandparents had been cremated, Abbey had never been to a burial before. She followed the crowd of people as they gathered around the open grave. She heard one of the mourners comment that Fred was joining Ros at last, and she supposed that the Fitzpatricks had some kind of family plot. Which was a bit spooky, she thought, if practical.
In fact the whole thing was vaguely spooky from Abbey’s perspective. There was a finality about putting a coffin in the ground that passed you by at a cremation. It was more primeval, somehow. The heat of the sun was scorching the backs of her bare legs and she moved a little so that she was in the shadow of another mourner. Ryan glanced enquiringly at her but she mouthed back that everything was fine, even though the heat was making her feel slightly dizzy.
The words of the priest were being carried away on the warm breeze, so it was difficult to hear the latest set of prayers. A man and a woman, like her at the edges of the crowd, were holding a whispered conversation about whether it would be OK to slip away immediately afterwards or if they needed to go to the nearby hotel where the family had organised refreshments for the mourners. Abbey wished she could slip away too. But the plan, according to Ryan, was that she’d accompany him back to the hotel, and then afterwards the family would get together and talk with her.
The day after tomorrow, she thought. All this will be over and then I’ll be back home. And my worries will be my own again. Worries like sorting out my finances and finding a place to live. The previous night, after she’d gone to her room, she’d googled apartments in San Francisco and had despaired of finding anythin
g suitable. Nearly everything seemed to be out of her reach, but she hadn’t been able to keep her attention on her search anyway. Looking for an apartment had seemed like part of another life.
She realised that the priest had finished speaking and that the crowd around the grave was beginning to disperse. Ryan took her by the arm.
‘It’s only a few minutes to the hotel from here,’ he said.
‘Is it formal?’ she asked.
‘Huh?’
‘The refreshments. Do they make speeches, that sort of thing?’
‘No, no, nothing like that,’ Ryan told her. ‘It’s just a way of people being able to say a few words to the family in more relaxed surroundings. They have some food, something to drink …’
‘Like a wake?’
‘Well, no. The body’s usually there for a wake,’ Ryan explained. ‘This is very relaxed, I promise you.’
‘That suits me. All I want is for the family to know that I’m sorry about Fred and that it was good meeting them.’
‘Sounds perfect,’ said Ryan. ‘Ah, Alex, there you are.’
His colleague from the law firm had come over to them.
‘What a day,’ said Alex as he ran a finger around the inside of his collar. ‘You’d swear it was high summer.’
‘A cracker, isn’t it?’ agreed Ryan. ‘You feel like you should be going to the beach rather than a cemetery.’
‘You’re coming back to the hotel?’ There was a question in Alex’s tone and yet Abbey could also hear that it was a command.
‘Of course,’ said Ryan.
‘Good,’ said Alex.
Abbey looked from one to the other. There was something going on here, she thought, although she had no idea what it was.
‘Are you?’ she asked.
‘What?’ Alex turned to her.
‘Coming back to the hotel?’
‘Yes,’ said Alex. ‘Fred was a friend as well as a client. He used our firm from the start. Worked with my father before me.’
Things We Never Say Page 19