A Change of Heart (The Heartfelt Series)

by Adrienne Vaughan

  “I heard you on the phone earlier?” she said, arranging herself on a large cream sofa.

  “I called Lena, to tell her what happened. She’s going to let Mr Rossini know the score. The jewellery belongs to him, he’ll have to deal with the insurance company, not our responsibility anymore. The method of transportation - by that I mean you and the airline - was all agreed. We’re in the clear.” He handed her a glass. She took a grateful sip.

  “That’s good to know. They’ll pay out then?” she asked.

  “They’ll have to, eventually.” He came to join her on the sofa. He looked cool and elegant like the room: soft turtleneck sweater, pale grey slacks.

  “And if the jewellery turns up?” Miss MacReady was impressed by how relaxed Larry appeared.

  “It won’t, not in its current form anyway.” He checked his watch. “No, that’s long gone by now and good riddance.”

  Miss MacReady watched his mouth as he drank. She moved a little closer; he gave her a smile.

  “I can’t help feeling I was set up, part of a sting. Call me a romantic but it was like a bad thing happened for all the right reasons.” She gazed into his eyes.

  “You’re a romantic,” he said, looking back at her.

  “Then kiss me,” she whispered, her lips nearly touching his.

  “With pleasure, ma’am,” he replied and at last she tasted that warm, sweet mouth full-on.

  They arrived at the bar between 46th and 45th. The archetypal Irish pub, a proper New York tradition, with huge semicircle windows, olive green paintwork and gleaming brassware at the entrance. A welcome mat stretched the width of the pavement, emblazoned with a shamrock and the words ‘Maguire’s Bar and Grill’; a massive gold and green striped awning ran the length of the building. Larry stepped out of the cab, taking her lavender-gloved hand and guided her to the building, opening his arms to encompass the impressive frontage.

  “Well, what d’ya think?” he said. “One of my best pals has had this joint forever, inherited from his grandfather. It does well, works damn hard though.”

  Miss MacReady smiled, Larry and his ‘work ethic’, she stood on the sidewalk and took in the building. A feeling passed through her, like a ghost.

  “Have I done the wrong thing? Is this the last place an Irishwoman visiting New York wants to go, an Irish bar?” he looked askance.

  “Not at all, same name as the pub on the island, I’ll feel instantly at home.” Miss MacReady beamed at him, tipping her matching lavender trilby over one eye. She would have preferred a visit to Tiffany’s of course, but Larry had been stressing about her visit ever since they had agreed she would take the jewellery back. He had gone to a lot of trouble and she wanted him to enjoy it as much as she did.

  They swung through the doors; every surface gleamed and shone, crisp white table cloths, sparkling glassware, gleaming cutlery. A doorman in green livery raised his hat.

  “This is Malachy, Kathleen, or Sergeant Malachy should I say,” Larry grinned.

  “Long retired,” laughed the big man. “Is this guy bothering you ma’am?” he asked, winking at the glamorous female on Larry’s arm.

  “Ah sure, bother away, I’m delighted to be bothered at all!” She smiled up at the broad, fair-skinned face.

  “No way, you’re Irish, heavens above, you’re the real deal.” The ex-policeman looked down at her. “Where are you from ma’am?” But before she could answer, Larry whisked her away.

  “Pushy, ain’t they, these Irish?” he said nodding back at the doorman, as an elegant maître d’ swivelled into view.

  “Mr Leeson, madam, your table is ready, follow me.” Another Irish accent, this time cultured, with a hint of the north. A young cloakroom attendant appeared to take Miss MacReady’s coat and hat. Larry shrugged out of his sheepskin jacket and they followed the maître d’ through the glistening tables to a window booth, a few steps from a small dance floor and shiny, baby grand piano. Miss MacReady took her seat. A napkin was placed on her lap, water poured, breadsticks and butter served. She squeezed Larry’s hand on the table.

  “This is lovely.” Her gaze swept the room, laughing young couples on weekend breaks, well-heeled middle-aged women on shopping trips, friends, families, lovers. Sunday brunch in New York - a glorious, time-honoured tradition.

  The waiter indicated the buffet table: fresh fruit; pancakes; syrup; eggs of every description; hash browns; ham; steaks, the menu inexhaustible.

  “Ma’am if you would like to help yourself, I’ll bring drinks, what’s it to be?” the waiter asked.

  Larry nodded at her, “Well Kathleen, it’s nearly Monday, Sunday anyway, what about one of your favourite cocktails?”

  “Oh yes,” she grinned up at the nice looking young man, “a Bloody Mary please, good and spicy. Will you join me Larry?”

  Larry raised an eyebrow, “Why not, it’s a special occasion after all.”

  They enjoyed a sumptuous meal and two hefty Bloody Mary’s apiece when Miss MacReady decided it was time to help the pianist out with a song. Larry was about to protest. He knew she could sing, but a singalong in a country pub was a far cry from a classy joint in uptown New York; he did not want Miss MacReady to embarrass him, or herself. He need not have worried. Miss MacReady was nothing if not surprising, she could sing alright. Her rendition of ‘Wind Beneath My Wings’ brought diners to their feet and, because her public demanded it, Miss MacReady finished her set with a swinging version of ‘You Make Me Feel So Young’, one of her mother’s favourites.

  “Do you bring all your young ladies here?” Miss MacReady asked, twirling the stirrer with the bar’s logo in her drink.

  “Every last one!” Larry teased, “Funnily enough it was Ryan who discovered the place. He knew Mac, the owner, who of course has Irish roots. Mac was good to us when we were struggling actors off-Broadway, fed us, gave us free drinks. Now this is my patch, office across the street, apartment a few blocks away. You could say it’s my local.”

  “I can see why you love it, New York, your life here. It’s so, well alive.” Miss MacReady sat back to survey the surroundings yet again: the huge floor to ceiling mirror behind the slick, marble bar, brass lamps standing tall along the length of it, the waiters in their crisp white aprons bustling to and fro, traffic humming outside.

  The door swung open and Larry raised a hand in recognition.

  “Ah, here’s Mac now, I’d like you to meet him,” Larry said.

  The man, tall, broad-shouldered, about Miss MacReady’s age, saluted back, indicating he would be right over. He removed his coat, gave it to the cloakroom attendant, chatted briefly with the maître d’, then nodding at tables, walked through the room towards them. He looked relaxed, in control.

  “Well Larry, haven’t seen you in a while, someone said you were in Ireland,” the man said warmly, a hint of accent only, “and who is your charming companion?”

  Larry stood up to shake his hand.

  “Great to see you Mac. Allow me to introduce Kathleen MacReady, a very good friend of mine, all the way from the old country.”

  Mac held out his hand. Miss MacReady did not take it; she just looked up into his face.

  “We’ve met,” she said. “Hello, Brian.”

  “Kathleen MacReady, I, I can’t believe it,” the man stammered.

  “You know each other?” Larry was surprised, pleased. Miss MacReady remained seated. She took her napkin from her lap and folded it neatly, placing it on the table.

  “Larry, would you mind if we left now,” she said quietly. “I feel rather tired.”

  “Don’t go!” Mac, or Brian, or whatever his name was, said loudly. People looked over at them. “Please don’t go,” he said more quietly. “I’ll just die if you go.”

  She could not bear to look at him. “And I’ll just die if I stay,” she whispered, getting unsteadily to her feet. Larry rushed to take her arm.

  “Kathleen?” he was bemused.

  The other man reached out towards her, “Please don�
��t let me spoil your brunch.”

  “Spoil my brunch, are you joking? You, who has spoiled my entire life.” She shrugged him away. The man waved a hand. Waiters appeared pulling out chairs. The cloakroom attendant arrived with their outer garments.

  “A cab for my friends,” he said to the maître d’. Miss MacReady walked the length of the restaurant head held high. She took her seat in the cab, Larry beside her. Mac or Brian shut the door.

  “Is that who I think it is?” Larry asked, holding her hand.

  “You mean is that the piece of shit who fathered my child? Yes, Larry it is.”

  “Ah,” Larry sat back as the cab pulled away. “I’d better cancel the booking for dinner then, I thought we’d go there on your last night, you were such a hit!”

  “It’ll be his last night if I ever see him again,” she said, glaring out of the window at the city streets, pink spots of anger stinging her cheeks.

  Now Brian Maguire had Kathleen MacReady back in his life, he was not prepared to let her go easily. By the time the florist had made four deliveries, Larry’s apartment was filled with flowers - white roses, her favourite. Every card the same message. ‘Meet me, we have to talk, Brian’. She was tearing up yet another into tiny shreds when Larry appeared with tea and toasted bagels. He sat beside her, taking her hands in his. She had not slept a wink. “Won’t you even contemplate seeing him?” Larry tried. She shook her head. “It was all such a long time ago, surely you could at least talk?”

  She turned tear-filled eyes on him.

  “He’s been here all this time, not dead, not lost. Living and working in New York. Never a word, no hint, nothing.” She pulled her negligee around her. She seemed suddenly small, birdlike. “I want to go home now, Larry. I can’t even stay in the same city, I’m sorry.”

  Larry sighed, he had never seen such a change in a person; the frivolous flirt he had been escorting around town vanished.

  “Sleep on it?” he offered.

  “But that’s the whole point Larry. I won’t. I can’t sleep, eat, Christ, I can barely talk.” And she left the room. Later, he heard her crying in the bathroom, the door locked. Larry phoned Mimi and asked her to change Miss MacReady’s flight; she would be going back to Ireland that very day.

  When the man sat down beside her, clicking his seatbelt shut, she did not look up. She closed her eyes ahead of take-off. She did not open them again until the refreshment trolley was at her side. She licked her lips; she could do with a drink.

  “What can I get you ma’am?” the pretty stewardess asked.

  “Have a cocktail Kathleen, it’s Monday,” the man beside her whispered in her ear.

  “I’ll need a fecking large one if I’ve to sit next to you all the way back,” she told Brian Maguire fiercely.

  “Better make that two,” he said to the stewardess, “I’ll have whatever the lady’s having. I always do.”

  Marianne was itemising the contents of some of the boxes they had discovered in the attic at the big house. One in particular would appeal to her mother, crammed full with furs, gowns and bags of accessories, and not all of it moth-eaten. One dress in particular had caught Marianne’s eye, a swirling purple satin, lined with lavender silk, as new as the day it was made.

  She and the team had been hard at work all day, but they were getting there. She was exhausted. She laid her pen down, and was just about to drift off to sleep when the shrill ring of the telephone woke her with a start.

  “It’s me Marianne, your mother.” Miss MacReady sounded tense, yet excited. Marianne wondered why she was telephoning from New York. More news on the mugging? Had the jewels re-appeared?

  “Can you come over?” Miss MacReady asked.

  “To New York?” Marianne was sluggish.

  “No, I’m home, can you come up to the post office?”

  “Now?” Marianne’s stomach rumbled. When had she eaten last?

  “It’s important, I need to see you first before anyone knows I’m back.”

  Miss MacReady replaced the receiver. “She’s on her way,” she told the man standing beside her.

  “Okay, if you’re sure the shock won’t kill her,” he said, running his fingers through his hair.

  Careful to avoid the tins of paint on the landing in the half-light, Marianne told Monty to stay and headed out into the early evening.

  The revelation that the handsome man standing next to the postmistress in her inner sanctum was her father rendered Marianne speechless. She heard a loud whooshing in her ears and her throat started to burn, eyes darting from one to the other. Miss MacReady took her by the hand and sat her down on the large, floral sofa. The whole room appeared in black and white except for that garish piece of furniture. Marianne’s mind whirred blankly.

  “Anyway, I wanted you to know first, meet in private, take it from there,” Miss MacReady was saying. The man was pouring a drink; he handed it to Marianne. She looked up into his face. Why was it so familiar? She had never seen him before in her life. She took a sip.

  “I’m sorry,” she whispered.

  “I’m the one who’s sorry,” he said, a warm, soft voice, a hint of the island, shades of New York. “Yet thrilled, delighted beyond my wildest dreams to meet you Marianne, my daughter, finally.”

  “It’s a lot to take in, probably best not to even try,” Miss MacReady said, lighting candles all over the place.

  “Was it planned for you two to meet up? Did you know he was there, in New York?” she asked when she eventually found her voice. The man was sitting quite close to her, a strange look in his eyes.

  “Ah, when fate decides to lend a hand,” Miss MacReady said, staring at them both. The man shook his head.

  “Could someone start at the beginning?” Marianne said, her heart-beat nowhere near normal.

  “Good plan,” Miss MacReady said, drawing up a footstool to sit as close to them as she could. “Let me take you back, right back to a little girl on a boat. It’s only a small boat and her mother is sailing it. She’s a good sailor and the little girl loves it. It’s a summer’s day and they’ve just landed on a tiny shale beach, which leads to a formal lawn, with a tall, elegant building in the background.

  “There’s a little boy playing on the beach, building a very lavish sand castle. He’s singing to himself, the breeze blowing his dark curls like a black halo around his head. He sees the mother and little girl and stands up, politely waiting for them to reach him. He extends his hand to the little girl and says, ‘My name is Brian Maguire, what’s your name?’ ‘I’m Kathleen MacReady,’ says the girl and promptly falls in love with him, and from that day on, despite coming from very different backgrounds, the two are inseparable and will love each other until the day they die.”

  Marianne blinked at Miss MacReady.

  “But I’m guessing you’d like a bit more of the practical detail,” Brian said, smiling at Marianne.

  “Only tell me what I need to know,” Marianne replied. “Mother can be either vaguely ethereal or brazenly graphic depending on her mood.”

  He laughed out loud, making the women jump.

  “Mother. I like that, suits her doesn’t it?” he said, and Miss MacReady gave a sparkling smile as Brian Maguire told his side of a very typical ‘girl gets pregnant, family disowns her, boy is sent away by his parents’ story and Marianne listened in awe as she watched the years between them fall away and this long-time, brokenhearted couple weep fresh tears for the child they thought they had lost and a life together they never shared.

  “But, you didn’t stay in touch,” Marianne said eventually in a small voice.

  “I wrote every week, the only message I received was ‘The baby died, Kathleen never wants to see you again’. The postmistress at the time ...”

  “My aunt, Dolly,” Miss MacReady interjected.

  “Destroyed each and every one of them,” Brian said. “She was under strict instructions from our parents to prevent us ever communicating with each other again.”

  �
��So they made sure you could never be together, never marry, never have any more children?” Marianne asked, shocked by all she had heard.

  “That’s the truth of it,” Brian looked up at Miss MacReady. “And now we’ve found each other again.”

  Miss MacReady’s face was wet with tears.

  “How cruel, our own parents, it was obvious we were in love, we were young, it wasn’t even a mistake, you were a gift, a precious gift.” She blinked at Marianne. “My own mother did this despicable thing to her own child.” Miss MacReady put her hand to her throat, where a rash of anger burned.

  “Now Kathleen, don’t talk like that,” Brian said, trying to mollify her.

  “I will talk like that, ruined my life that bloody bitch did,” she flashed at him.

  “At least it’s not my fault anymore,” Brian said smiling at Marianne, who liked him more and more the longer she spent with him.

  “Well, well, well, there’s a turn-up, as they say,” Ryan was tearing lumps of ham off a joint Marianne was resting ahead of carving it for the ‘Ham & Egg’ special on Maguire’s lunchtime menu. He had just had a pint with his old pal Brian Maguire or Mac, as he called him and was filling Marianne in, on how the island connection had meant Mac instantly took to him, and his buddy Larry, when they were young, out-of-work actors in New York.

  “He was a bit like a kindly uncle to both of us,” Ryan explained, disappointed they could not spend more time together, before Miss MacReady took Brian to the airport and he headed home to New York.

  “I bet those who remember him were surprised to see him?” Marianne said, putting mustard into little pots.

  “Sean was his usual happy self about the whole thing, asking was it still Halloween, seeing as the dead had come back to haunt us!” Ryan was smiling.