Pete smiles at her. ‘You heard the man, honey; you get some shut-eye now, hear? Everything’s OK.’ He squeezes her hand briefly.
She gives him a tired grin. ‘Yeah, I think I’d better lie down before I fall down. Thanks for being here, Pete.’ She turns to John, her smile fading. ‘Sorry I shouted at you earlier.’
‘No problem.’ He shrugs. His face looks drawn. ‘You were worried. I may as well head off too; tell her I’ll phone in the morning – and can I come and see her on Saturday?’
Angela nods. ‘Drive carefully.’ They’re like polite strangers.
After Pete and John leave, Lizzie heads down towards the caravan, telling Angela she’ll see her later. They’ve put a ‘Closed’ sign on the restaurant door.
Her eyes are gritty; it hurts to blink – but she feels that sleep would be impossible; her head is spinning. Maybe a walk . . .
She finds herself on the beach, scrunching along by the sea as she has so many times before. It’s not yet noon, but the day is grey and cold; winter is well on the way. She walks a bit faster and tries to sort out the jumble of thoughts and questions cluttering up her head.
How on earth could Charlie and Deirdre’s relationship have gone unnoticed in Merway? How long had it been going on? Where did they meet? No doubt Deirdre will tell Angela everything . . . eventually. How is she feeling now, on her way home? And why didn’t she go to London with Charlie? What happened to make them split up in Birmingham? She’s probably on a plane right now, maybe the same one that took her and Charlie to England last night. Lizzie glances up at the white sky; it’s too cold for the seagulls. She hugs her arms tightly around herself – she should have put on a jacket.
And Joe . . . God knows how he’s feeling this morning. She assumes the gardaí have been in touch with him, too, to let him know. What a horrible thing for him to have to deal with – his son facing a criminal conviction . . . Will Charlie be charged with abduction, since Deirdre is underage, even if she went with him willingly?
Lizzie shakes her head – too many questions. She makes her way back to the caravan and lies on the bed fully clothed, sure she won’t sleep.
Eight hours later she wakes up to the sound of knocking. She drags herself up and opens the door; Angela is standing on the step with a bottle of wine.
‘She’s back, she’s asleep.’ She holds up the bottle. ‘I need it, even if you don’t.’
Lizzie smiles blearily and moves aside to let her in. When the fire is lit and they’re sitting with two full glasses, Angela tells her everything.
‘He swept her off her feet. He told her she was the only girl he’d ever loved – can you imagine? – said they’d get married once she was sixteen, he had a friend who’d give him a job in London . . . and the little innocent creature swallowed every word.’
She shakes her head slowly. ‘And this was going on for months, Lizzie – since way before the summer. How could I not have seen it coming? How could I have been so blind?’
Lizzie takes a sip; the wine has a full, spicy taste. ‘What happened when they got to Birmingham?’
Angela’s face hardens. ‘He robbed her, that’s what happened. They went to the station and he took her wallet to get their tickets, left her minding the bags – and vanished. Can you believe it?’
‘Oh, God.’ Lizzie thinks of Deirdre, sitting there waiting for him; watching the time go by, becoming more and more anxious, telling herself that he’ll be back . . . and slowly realising that he’s gone. ‘The poor thing.’
Angela nods. ‘He left her penniless in a strange city – in a foreign country. Thank God she had enough sense to go to the police.’
‘How did they meet?’ Lizzie thinks again of the scene outside the chip shop, and wonders guiltily if she should have mentioned it at the time; could all this have been avoided?
‘She was at a bus stop in Seapoint, and he drove up in Joe’s car and offered her a lift – she knew him to see, knew he was staying with Joe, so she got in. Can you imagine him holding any kind of conversation, that moron?’ Angela’s face twists again. ‘She says she wanted to tell me about him, but he insisted she shouldn’t. Of course he did. He knew fine well I’d have put a stop to it.’
She takes a gulp of wine. ‘He was taking money from her, Lizzie, telling her he was putting it away for them. She had over a thousand euros saved from what I gave her for working here; it’s practically all gone. He even made her take out that two hundred pounds in Birmingham – told her that the money she’d given him was in a bank account in London, that they couldn’t touch it till they got there. Not that I care about the money – but if I had him . . .’
She pours more wine for them both, then looks over at Lizzie. ‘Did you know he was Joe’s son?’
Lizzie knew she’d ask at some stage. ‘He told me, the night of the barbecue – but I didn’t feel it was my place to repeat it.’
After a minute, Angela says, ‘I suppose it wouldn’t have made any difference . . . we’d still have had no idea that they even knew each other . . .’ She looks up at Lizzie again. ‘I saw Joe following you down to the beach – I wondered what that was all about.’
Lizzie shrugs. The memory of that night is too raw – she can see herself flinging back his jacket, telling him to leave her alone . . . She looks down into her glass. ‘I’d rather not go into it – we had a bit of a falling-out.’
‘Oh, Lizzie; I thought you were down in the dumps lately.’
They’re both quiet for a while. Then Angela says, ‘I said some terrible things to him last night. D’you think he’ll ever forgive me?’
‘Of course he will. You were out of your mind with worry; anyone could see that. He knew you didn’t mean a word of it.’
Angela still looks worried. ‘I hope you’re right . . . It’s just that I went down to the shop earlier, to apologise to him, and it was closed.’
Lizzie looks up quickly. ‘Was it?’
Angela nods. ‘I suppose he needed to take a bit of time out . . . I’ll go down again tomorrow.’
She pauses, then starts to speak again, more quickly. ‘Lizzie, I’d like to take Dee away for a break somewhere – maybe up around Connemara; she loves it there. I think she needs to go someplace where no one knows her for a while. D’you think you and Trish Daly could manage the restaurant for a few days? You could close the B&B till we got back, and you’d only have the evening meals to do.’
‘Of course – that’s no problem. When were you thinking of going?’
Angela considers. ‘Tomorrow’s Tuesday . . . If I got myself sorted, we could go on Wednesday maybe, till the weekend.’ She twirls the stem of her glass. ‘Pete might be good to have on standby, if you need extra help; I’ll call around to him at some stage tomorrow and ask him, if you like.’
As she says his name, a slight blush creeps into her cheeks. Lizzie decides to ignore it – they’ve had more than enough intrigue and drama for one day. Besides, she’s not altogether sure she’s comfortable with the notion of Pete and Angela disappearing off into the sunset. What about her?
When Angela eventually leaves, Lizzie changes into her pyjamas and goes back to bed, because it’s what you do when night comes. After an hour of counting sheep, she reaches up and cranks the window open an inch; maybe the sound of the sea will soothe her. The cold, salty air drifts in – at least it’s stopped raining – and she pulls the duvet up around her ears. At her feet, Jones gives a soft mew. She can just make out the faint rattle of the water on the pebbles. She breathes in deeply, letting her thoughts drift.
I suppose we’ll be open for business again tomorrow evening – just as if nothing has happened. I’ll head into Seapoint to do the shopping in the morning . . . I’ll need to get together with Trish, too; I could call to her on my way home . . . Wonder what Pete thinks of us all now, after the high drama – probably wishes he was back in the States . . . I hope Mammy remembers to bring back those library books – she’s been getting very absent-minded lately. I’d be ha
ppier if she had an electric cooker; that gas could be dangerous . . .
And, inevitably, her thoughts veer towards Joe. It was good of him not to say that I was the one who’d seen Charlie and Deirdre together . . . considerate, even in the middle of that mess . . . Wonder how he’s feeling now . . . I wish I hadn’t shouted at him . . .
When she closes her eyes, she sees Angela draping an arm around his shoulders in Doherty’s one night and saying, ‘Lizzie, did you ever see such a hunk in your life?’ and Joe grinning up at her and threatening to have her arrested for harassment. She thinks of the little wooden fuchsia on a silver chain that he gave Angela for her birthday, and how she threw her arms around him and kissed his cheek. She sees him in the back room of the shop, head bent over a piece of wood, sensing her there and looking up and smiling at her.
She remembers his face last night as he stood and listened to Angela pouring all her fear out on him. And today the shop was closed.
Eventually, towards dawn, sleep returns.
Chapter Twenty-seven
Two days later, Angela and Deirdre head off in Angela’s old Opel. Deirdre is pale and subdued, avoiding Lizzie’s eye as she walks out to the car with her canvas bag. Lizzie pretends not to see her – Deirdre spent most of the previous day in her room, obviously not wanting to meet anyone.
Angela appears in the doorway with two much bigger bags. ‘Give us a hand, Lizzie.’
The weight of one bag takes Lizzie by surprise. ‘Hey, I thought you were only going for a few days – this feels like you’ve packed for six months.’
Angela winks at her. ‘Well, we thought if we liked the look of the place we just might stay there altogether – didn’t we, love?’
Deirdre smiles faintly, still not looking at Lizzie. They load the bags into the boot, and Angela gets into the car and rolls down the window.
‘Now, you’ve everything you need, haven’t you?’ Lizzie nods. ‘Remember to say it to Trish about using the lettuce in the fridge first – she’s a terror for not checking what’s there. And you have my mobile number – and Nuala and Ríodhna will be around in the –’
Lizzie flaps a hand at her. ‘Look, would you ever get going? I’m tired of reminding you that I’m a full partner now, and any disasters will affect me just as much as you. To tell the truth, it’ll be great to have the place to myself – I’m planning all sorts of changes.’ She bends down and grins in the window, conscious of Deirdre staring straight ahead in the passenger seat. ‘I always thought you could fit a few more tables in the restaurant – and a bit of Indian food would be nice for the next few nights.’
Angela gives Lizzie a dangerous look. ‘You move one thing in that restaurant, change one ingredient of my menu –’
But Deirdre ignores them; she’s not interested in being humoured. Lizzie gives up – it’s probably too soon for her to laugh at anything – and moves away from the car. ‘OK, OK, I’ll do as I’m told. Have a lovely time, and give me a ring when you get a chance, to let me know how ye’re getting on.’
She waves them off and walks around to the back of the restaurant. She’s quite excited about being in charge for the first time – and Trish is well used to how things are run. They shouldn’t have any problems.
She wonders briefly if she should have mentioned to Angela that Pete is coming around tonight. But Angela herself suggested that Lizzie use him as a backup; and that’s all she’s doing, really. Trish will go home around nine, and Lizzie and Pete will finish up, and then sit down and have dinner. And maybe some wine. She’s not trying to seduce him, for God’s sake. She’s just decided that she needs a bit of distraction.
Especially as Ripe is still closed – or it was when Angela called around yesterday afternoon.
‘Maybe he’s gone to England – you know, to be with . . .’ Angela couldn’t bring herself to say Charlie’s name.
Lizzie nodded, and tried to shove away the feeling of dread. Is Joe gone for good? Has he decided to leave the place where his son has done such damage, and make a start somewhere else? For the rest of the day she can’t get him out of her head.
So she needs some distraction. She heads into the kitchen to get organised for the day.
Pete arrives in the evening; when everyone has gone home, he and Lizzie have a late dinner and drink a bottle of wine and talk for a long time. And when they finish talking, Pete hugs her tightly and kisses her cheek and goes back to Dominic’s house, and Lizzie heads down to the caravan and goes to bed.
Early the next morning, before any shops in Merway are open, there’s a knock at her door.
He looks terrible; pale and unshaven and desolate.
She leans against the door-frame and looks at him.
Chapter Twenty-eight
It’s as if someone has lifted a veil, or rubbed away a patch on a misty mirror. Lizzie looks at him standing there on the caravan steps and knows, as clearly as she knows her own name, that she will love him till the day she dies. Whatever he does.
‘Come in.’ She steps back to let him through.
Joe steps past her into the caravan, shrugs off his jacket and slumps into the nearest seat. He rests his elbows on the table and rubs a hand over his chin; she hears the rasp of his stubble. The skin under his eyes looks blue-white.
She pulls the cord tighter around her dressing-gown and puts the kettle on, then takes out cups and sugar and milk and spoons. He doesn’t say a word, just watches her with weary eyes. When the tea is made, she puts the pot on the table and sits opposite him.
‘Lizzie, I have to talk to you.’
Lizzie says nothing, just holds on to the empty cup in front of her and wonders if she’d manage to pour tea without spilling it.
‘I just got back from England.’
When he says nothing more, she finds her voice. ‘What happened?’ She’s surprised at how normal she sounds.
He plants his hands on the table and looks at them. ‘He’s being remanded in custody; they wouldn’t agree to bail. And he may be extradited; no one’s sure yet.’
He looks back up at her. ‘Lizzie, he was responsible for the break-ins here – the cinema and the newsagent’s; they identified his fingerprints . . . Not only did he take what he could from me, he stole from my friends – and then Dee . . .’
Lizzie reaches over and pours his tea. Then she puts down the pot and covers one of his hands with hers.
As soon as her hand touches his, he slowly laces his fingers through hers and pulls her hand to his chest. It’s as if he needs something to hold on to. She feels the heat of him through his shirt, feels his heart thumping.
‘Lizzie . . .’ He presses her hand against his chest. Her name, when he murmurs it, sounds different. He lifts his eyes again and looks at her. Such intensely blue eyes. She waits, afraid to speak.
He takes a deep breath. ‘Lizzie, I know I’ve messed up . . .’ He holds tightly to her hand. ‘I’ve been a total idiot.’ The ghost of a smile flashes over his face.
Her eyes travel from his face to her hand, trapped under his, pressed into him. ‘You have.’ If her heart goes any faster it’ll take off.
Joe nods, still looking at her. Then he takes her hand away from his chest and cradles it between both of his on the table. ‘You know I’m mad about you, don’t you?’
Lizzie can’t talk; all she can do is look dumbly at him and pray that she doesn’t break into hysterical laughter. His palms are warm; her hand is on fire. Joe’s eyes never leave her face as he talks. ‘When you worked in the shop, you were like . . . a breath of fresh air coming in in the mornings. I forgot to worry about him while you were around . . .’ One of his thumbs strokes the inside of her wrist softly, back and forth, back and forth; something behind her knees responds.
‘But – and I know how daft this must sound, believe me – I felt I couldn’t make any move towards you while he was here, acting the way he was. I needed to sort that out before I . . . started to get involved with anyone.’ Another bashful smile flies across h
is face, his eyes crinkling slightly.
Before I started to get involved. Every word he says is music. Lizzie realises that she’s holding her breath, and lets it out slowly. Damn and blast that table between them; only for it, she’d be all over him. On second thoughts, maybe it’s just as well that it’s there.
For the moment, anyway.
The heat in her hand is travelling up her arm; she feels her neck begin to get hot. She wills him to get to the point before it gets all red and blotchy.
Joe takes a hand away from hers to rub his face again. He looks exhausted; she wonders when was the last time he got any sleep.
‘And now . . . ’ He drops his eyes; she holds her breath again. ‘Well, with everything that’s happened in the last few days . . .’
He pauses again; and suddenly Lizzie decides that she can’t wait any longer.
‘Joe McCarthy – are you or are you not asking me out?’ God, what is it about him that turns her into such a brazen hussy?
He looks at her in amazement. ‘No, Lizzie, of course I’m not asking you out.’
No, you’re not asking me out? Have I made some massive, gigantic mistake here? She looks at him blankly, heart plummeting.
Then he lifts her hand to his mouth and presses his lips against her palm. ‘Lizzie O’Grady, do you think for one minute I’d be happy with just a date?’
He watches her face as it softens and clears, and he sees the smile begin. ‘I knew the minute I laid eyes on you, that first day you came into Ripe and admired the sign and asked me where the woodcarver’s shop was – I knew that day that if anything ever happened between us . . . ’ He kisses her palm again, so softly, eyes never leaving her face. ‘. . . it would be quite . . . momentous.’
Her whole body is melting. His voice is curling around her, wrapping her up. ‘That ridiculous April Fool was worth it just to see your face . . . When you said you’d take the job, I couldn’t believe my luck . . . Every time you walked into that back room and put on the kettle, I wanted to grab hold of you . . . When you picked up the pieces I was working on, I watched your hands . . . I couldn’t get your face out of my head; I could hear you laughing when you weren’t there . . . You have no idea what your smile does to me . . .’
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