by Alber, Lisa
Grabbing his one decent jacket, Ivan almost missed the sound of footsteps fading toward the storefront downstairs. He checked his watch: 7:00 p.m. Lonnie ought to be at the hotel primping for his fake date with Merrit Chase. A fetching woman, true, and more quality than Lonnie deserved, but a little too—he didn’t quite know the word—unblinking?—for his taste.
Ivan knelt and listened with ear to the floor. Lonnie’s computer chimed its start-up medley. Lonnie, working? Hard to believe, but it could be true. Ivan pressed his ear harder against the floorboard. Lonnie’s mobile rang with the old-fashioned telephone sound. A mumbled conversation ensued, and then Lonnie’s voice rose through the floor—“You heard me, another installment tonight”—then fell out of range again.
Would Ivan see a percentage? No, and this injustice was precisely why he needed a spine. He returned to his bed and the stack of crates that served as his nightstand. There, a newspaper clipping that he’d retrieved off the Internet a few days previously waited for the proper timing. His latest investigative haul, little did Lonnie know. Ivan slipped the article between the mattress and box spring, recalling the Chase-McCallum marriage announcement he’d handed over to Lonnie on the onset of Lonnie’s new venture as blackmailer. If not for the announcement’s mention of the Chase family name, Lonnie wouldn’t have cared about Merrit—except to try to shag her, of course.
Ivan admitted, not without regret, that Lonnie’s natural cynicism had led them toward a series of astute research inquiries. As Merrit’s laptop had revealed, her last name did indeed link her to the Chase-McCallum coupling, proving Lonnie correct: her arrival had something to do with the enigmatic matchmaker. Still, to Ivan’s way of thinking, Merrit’s arrival was indeed a spooky coincidence in timing—much to her bad luck.
***
Kevin perused the Plough and Trough while stifling a yawn. Mrs. O’Brien and her band of women had outdone themselves this year. Posters featuring lions—everything from The Lion King Disney animation to twilit lion profiles on the Serengeti—plastered the walls. Streamers dangled from the ceiling, and a nasty-looking chocolate cake with licorice whiskers stood in the corner under the front windows.
“Ay, Kev, you were glad you weren’t here for the preparations,” Alan, the pub owner, said. Five pints of Guinness sat beside his elbow, their foam settling down to the perfect level for a topping off.
“I’d have been sick with it for sure, even more than I am now.”
“The black stuff will do you well.”
“Indeed, as it always does.”
Along with Danny Ahern, Alan was one of Kevin’s closest friends. The three of them had swallowed their share of Guinness together since well before cop life and family life sucked the juices from Danny, bar life leeched the color out of Alan, and concerns more intangible weighted Kevin’s shoulders. The sense, for example, that he could no more control his life than he could the clouds overhead. Even this birthday party was out of his hands. Used to be that Liam’s birthdays were cozy yet merry affairs. Kevin had fond memories of standing under Liam’s elbow and basking in secondhand praise while Liam’s friends traipsed in and out of their old cottage. It seemed to Kevin that the whole world had worshipped Liam the way those long-ago nuns from his early childhood had worshipped the father, the son, and the Holy Spirit. Only this worship began and ended with laughter, which made the Church of Liam a religious order Kevin could follow.
Now, the annual party was more gimmick than celebration, all to jumpstart the festival. Kevin had heard talk about making this day, August 30th, an unofficial town holiday. Matchmaker Appreciation Day. Pure bollocks, that. Kevin refused to discuss this cock’s ball of an idea, given that it implied a posthumous tribute to Liam. When the topic came up, all he felt was an overwhelming urge to polish his specs.
“And where’s Liam?” Alan said.
“He wasn’t ready to come in yet. I wager he’s walking around the plaza just to prove he can. Surprised Danny isn’t here yet though.”
“He’ll be along as soon as Ellen stops messing him about. He could use a vacation from his life.”
“Couldn’t we all?”
“Now you’re having me on—unless it’s work, you haven’t stepped foot outside the county in a decade.”
“Maybe I’ll surprise you one day.”
“For shit, you are.” Alan topped off one of the waiting pints, pushed it toward Kevin, and continued on down the bar, filling other drink orders.
Kevin arranged his glasses on the countertop. They reflected hazy light circles cast by the overhead fixtures. He slid his face into his hands for a moment of darkness, not that he wasn’t without these anyhow, but just now, he didn’t want to notice the dripping Guinness tap or the knick in the bar top that he’d left last year. All sights he’d seen too many times.
“Heads up, mate,” Alan said, back again. He retreated to the other end of the bar.
Kevin raised his head to a pleasing world of blurred bottles. The fuzzy edges reminded him of the many times he’d stared at Jesus on the Cross through the spaces between his fingers. One of the hazy light circles in his lenses disappeared and Kevin turned around, unsure who he was expecting, but definitely not Emma.
“New specs?” she said. “Put them on, then, give me the pleasure at least.”
So he did, curious despite himself. She reappeared in focus, and he watched her watch him for a moment before she perched on the stool next to him and let her legs dangle. She hadn’t changed since a year ago, or at least not much. She still preferred dresses with elasticized waists, but now the elastic hung loose over nonexistent curves. She’d cut off her hair too. If she’d hoped to turn herself boyish, she’d failed. Vulnerability suited her.
“Your hair looks nice,” he said.
“This was months ago. Has it been that long? How could it go so long in this place?”
He shook his head even though he did know. He’d made himself scarce since last year’s festival, which was to say since Emma’s rape. A year is nothing, he thought, looking at her, surprised by a fresh wash of regret and self-recrimination.
“I’ve been busy with the business—”
She brushed aside his excuse. “No need.”
Right, no need to wax on about his construction projects, not to mention his pro-bono work. Good works bring you closer to God, so the nuns had proclaimed. He’d like to believe this. But did he have faith that he’d catch a glimpse of the bigger meaning if he volunteered to reshingle the Quinlan’s roof; did he have faith that if not, his actions still had meaning; and again, if not, was it enough to be satisfied with the Quinlan’s gratitude and the lamb roast they’d insist he take home to share with Liam?
And, if not, what then?
“Alan, top me off like the gent you are while I fetch Liam,” he said.
Emma stood. “Don’t you leave. I wasn’t staying anyhow.” She stared down the bar at nothing, or maybe at Alan’s photos of his twice-ugly dog. “I wanted to reconnect, a little, just to—I don’t know—to make sure you’re all right. Today of all days.”
He was already halfway to the door but turned back to catch Emma stealing a hasty gulp from his beer. She wiped her mouth with a hint of her old insouciance. Kevin stepped toward her and brushed a hand through her hair, its wiry feel he remembered. “Lonnie’s sure to be here tonight,” he said.
“And who will that wankstain be squiring this year? Feel for her, I do.”
Kevin expected her residual anger but not what arrived with it, something he couldn’t grasp but that hinted at her self-doubts, her conflicts. And her longing? Or maybe simple disillusionment at the injustice of it all.
Outside, but not fast enough to elude his leftover spite, he spied his father on Marcus’s bench. Liam’s chiseled profile appeared younger than Marcus’s until Kevin stepped close enough to once again be startled by Liam’s tissue-paper skin. He sat down next to Liam.
“I was admiring this fine blanket.” Liam nodded toward a blue afghan that
covered Marcus’s lap. “Quite nice.”
“And warm too.” Marcus capped his flask and set it aside. With elbow hooked over the back of the bench, he leaned across Liam to capture Kevin in the conversation. “That Merrit Chase, there’s another generous soul like you, Kevin. Made this for me herself, she did.”
Liam’s eyebrows rose in a motion so slow Kevin wondered what he was thinking.
“She’s a tourist,” Marcus continued. “Unmarried, I might add.”
Ah, here we go, Kevin thought. Yet again with trying to marry him off. He tilted out of their conversation. Sometimes he forgot that Liam had a history that stretched beyond Kevin’s existence. Liam had watched Marcus grow up, for example. According to Liam, young Marcus sang in the choir and dreamt of being the next great Irish rocker. Now Marcus was a faded version of his potential best self. But then, Kevin wasn’t far behind.
“Let’s get inside before the crowd gathers,” Kevin said. “You’re welcome to join us, Marcus.”
Marcus raised his head from the dazed smile he’d aimed at the ground. “That Mrs. O’Brien, she’d nip the gin out of me flask before letting me in the door.”
“I’ll send out food,” Liam said.
Marcus reached for his flask. “Oh ay, but I forgot that you can ask Merrit for a blanket of your own if you’d so like. Told me so herself she’ll be at the party escorted by Lonnie the Lovely. You’ll have at saving her, good Kevin, just like your Emma?”
Kevin rounded on Marcus, but Liam held up a hand. “Let’s hear what Marcus means to say. Marcus?”
To Kevin’s irritation, Marcus shrugged and swigged from his flask. “Never mind then. Cheers.”
• 7 •
Liam’s party was officially under way as confirmed by the people-buzz leaking into Merrit’s flat from the Plough and Trough next door. Her flat wasn’t much, just a box of a room with furniture pushed up against the walls and a tiny bathroom in the corner. Her landlady’s lace doilies and runners sat under the lamps and over the sofa bed arms and along the coffee table. Merrit supposed the average tourist loved the Irishness of all this handmade lace, but all she felt was sticky-stuck in a spider web. Especially now, as she paced the length of her narrow confines.
Downstairs, her landlady’s beagle howled, a sure sign that Mrs. Sheedy was about to cook up something with cabbage. Merrit opened the window above the sink to preempt the fumes. Outside, moonlight filtered through high cloud cover, and the breeze smelled of nothing, as if the currents that flowed over the Atlantic were more pristine than those over the Pacific. Merrit loved the empty smell, cool and clear as water. To calm her nerves, she inhaled until the breeze caught peat smoke drifting from the Plough’s chimney.
Knuckles rapped on her door. The knob turned and Lonnie sauntered inside wearing a cream linen suit with narrow pant legs and a black, collarless shirt. Nice suit. Too bad he looked so slimy within it.
“Safe place, our Lisfenora,” he said. “I’m glad to see you trust us enough to keep your door unlocked.”
“Not safe enough, apparently. Give me a second. You’re early.”
She stepped into the bathroom, wondering if Lonnie ever felt a prick of contrition. Just one sharp little nudge. About anything. But no—silly thought. She knew in her instinctive way that self-reproach wasn’t in Lonnie’s emotional repertoire, just like she’d known that the woman, Kate, hadn’t invited Merrit to join her table out of kindness. Something about Kate fascinated Merrit, but she couldn’t pinpoint what.
Merrit applied lipstick and put on her mom’s moonstone necklace. She opened the medicine cabinet’s door so she could watch Lonnie in its mirror. He tucked her latest cash “installment” into an inner jacket pocket. She’d left the money on the telephone stand next to the door, ready to grab on her way out the door.
“Just so we’re clear,” she said, “a party with hundreds of witnesses isn’t the way I plan to meet Liam for the first time. So, please, please, refrain from drawing attention to me.”
Lonnie stepped out of mirror range. “Hello-o, what do we have here?”
Rustling papers reminded her of the unmade sofa bed. She hadn’t bothered to tidy it because she’d planned to wait for Lonnie outside. Worse yet, her mom’s notebook lay on the pillow. Springs squeaked when she landed on the bed and made a grab for it.
“Aren’t you the feisty thing?” Lonnie swung away from her and flipped to a page at random. “I need to get to the heart of this Liam character,” he read. “Your mother, the intrepid journalist, willing to do just about anything to get her story, was she?”
“Just give it to me. You got your money, what more do you want?”
Lonnie bowed and dropped the notebook onto the bed. “Nothing I don’t already know, is it? Get on with you then, the festivities await.”
Merrit pulled the rubber band out of her hair but didn’t bother tidying the waves that fell heavy against her shoulders. “How about answering a question first.”
“Ah, Jesus, now you’re going to slag me? You’ll be asking me how I could take money from strangers. If that’s the way this evening is heading, I’ll be needing a drink now.” He opened cabinets in the kitchenette. Finding nothing, he trolled the fridge and pulled out a beer. Just like Marcus with the edge on him, Lonnie twisted off the top and downed it in one go. “Right, so here’s your answer—I’ve got a hard-on for cash not linked to the family business. I’ve been told since this tall how lucky I am to have the hotels, a loving mother and affectionate sisters, and a father ready to be proud of me. And I could give a shit.”
“That’s quite the sob story. Seems to me you could go to Dublin, get a career.”
“Don’t go getting that pious look. You’re a worse cock-up than I am, coming halfway around the world to find solace, or love, or fuck-all if I know, boo-hoo for you. Christ.”
Merrit stepped into her sandals, trying not to let on that he’d driven his point home a little too well. A moment later she closed the door after them, and Lonnie in his shiny dress shoes tapped down the stairs ahead of her.
***
Inside the Plough and Trough, Merrit stood against a wall angling for a glimpse of Liam, who sat within a throng of well-wishers in the corner of the room. For the most part, she could see only the closest talking, laughing, and drinking heads. Lonnie wasn’t among them, thank goodness. With a glance at his watch, he’d excused himself and disappeared into the crowd. She didn’t mind if he never returned.
Merrit pressed herself against the wall as more people squeezed into the pub and the entire crowd shifted. The Plough was a genteel but shabby place, full of wood paneling and brass fixtures that used to gleam. The largest selection of whiskey bottles Merrit had ever seen hung upside down on the wall behind the bar. With fake nonchalance, Merrit sipped her two ounces of Bushmills and nodded at the old gents seated to her left. Wedged in good and tight between them and the gift table to her right, she felt somewhat protected from the buffeting crowd, somewhat invisible, somewhat safe to observe Liam in peace. She liked his kindly face, the type of face that invited intimacies of all kinds. She knew this well from reading her mom’s notes, and now she witnessed it in action as he clapped a hand on a man’s shoulder and laughed at something he said. A spasm of longing caused Merrit to cough on a sip of whiskey.
“Watch yourself there, love. You’ll topple the presents,” Mrs. O’Brien called as she pushed her way toward Merrit. Her voice pinned Merrit’s eardrums like a couple of mounted bugs. “I swear I don’t know what people think to give Liam. There’s not a thing in this world the man needs except a woman around the house.”
Mrs. O’Brien wore a shiny blouse left over from the 1980s. Shoulder pads and a large bow enhanced her doughy chin. With her overwrought teased-up hair, she reminded Merrit of a poodle with a bad stylist. Behind her, one of the daughters—Mariela? Constanza?—scanned the crowd with an impatient expression.
“Now, where’s my Lonnie at?” Mrs. O’Brien continued. “My boy, he’s social to
be sure, has too many friends to keep count.”
Merrit sipped, noting the way the daughter rolled her eyes and eased away from Mrs. O’Brien with a, “Right, I’m off then. Meeting a friend.”
“And what friend is this?” Mrs. O’Brien said, but the daughter had already slipped into the crowd. “Really, I don’t know what’s wrong with her lately.”
Merrit sipped to hide a smile, remembering what Marcus had said about Mrs. O’Brien nagging the devil out of hell itself.
Mrs. O’Brien added two presents to the table and began rearranging them, all the while talking to no one in particular and everyone in general. She blocked Merrit’s view of Liam, so Merrit settled back to wait her out. She uh-huh’ed in response to Mrs. O’Brien’s rant about inconsiderate children and stretched her neck to peruse the bar, where foreign currency papered a section of wall and hurling trophies lined the uppermost shelf. She caught Kevin Donellan angling for a glance at her through the moving heads. He directed a statement to the tall man next to him, who glanced over his shoulder and shrugged. Merrit recognized him as he returned to contemplating the whiskey bottles. Detective Sergeant Danny Ahern. Practically a brother to Kevin, Marcus had said. And it would seem so because the two men sat together drowning themselves in pints, not talking much yet looking utterly comfortable with each other.
Kevin glanced at her again. His blinks in her direction unnerved her even though, before disappearing, Lonnie had pointed him out and insisted that Kevin—Liam’s adopted son, he kept repeating—didn’t know her for anyone but Lonnie’s date. That may have been true, but she was supposed to be observing Kevin, not the other way around.
“Can’t stand the bastard.” Lonnie had rubbed a finger along his perfect nose. “He landed me in the hospital last year because I dared shag his precious Emma. They’d broken up already, for Christ’s sake. Besides which, she was mad for it after his flaccid fumblings.”
She’d barely heard him after the word “adopted.” Liam’s adopted son. She hadn’t considered adoption, much less that the son would be about her age. She’d imagined Liam with a young wife, a woman he had met as he entered late middle age, a companion of sorts, but one who’d wanted one child before Liam got too old.