by Zara Keane
Not everything in Ballybeg was different, though, nor everyone. Her aunt’s bookshop was still on Patrick Street, the familiar turquoise paint a welcome sight. Olivia was as warm and welcoming as the first day they’d met in primary school. And Muireann was still a first-class cow.
After the arse-baring disaster, she and Olivia had gone out for a drink. Now it was time to return to Bridie’s house and face the music.
Feckity feck.
She hated disappointing her aunt. Requesting she consider being Muireann’s maid of honor was the first time Bridie had asked her to do anything family-related for years. She went through phases of promoting family togetherness before giving it up as a lost cause.
Fiona turned into Beach Road, each step slower than its predecessor. The tide was out, and the smell of damp seaweed was overpowering.
Most of the homes along Beach Road were old cottages that had endured the strong Atlantic wind for over a century. Each cottage was painted a different shade, but none was as remarkable as Bridie’s. Under the faint light of the street lamps, it was a lurid pink—an eyesore, even in the context of colorful Ballybeg. It suited its owner perfectly.
Said owner was standing on her doorstep, plump hands on broad hips. Her peach-rinsed hair was in tight curlers, and she wore a voluminous fluffy bathrobe the same shade as her hair.
Next door, the lights were out in Gavin’s cottage. Did he still own it now that he’d moved in with Muireann? Fiona’s cheeks burned at the memory of him rescuing her this evening. Trust her to get into such an embarrassing situation, and trust Muireann to orchestrate it.
“What’s all this about you being fired from the wedding?”
“It’s past eleven.” Fiona shut the gate behind her. “Shouldn’t a person of your advanced years be asleep?”
“Cheeky minx. I’m sixty-four, not dead. Now get inside and tell me what happened.”
Bridie stood to the side, and Fiona squeezed past into the small cottage. She shrugged off her coat and walked by the multitude of knickknacks and ornaments that adorned every nook and cranny of Bridie’s home.
“We’ll have cocoa,” her aunt announced when they reached the cluttered but cozy kitchen. “And you’re making it. After listening to Deirdre screech down the phone at me for an hour, you owe me one.”
Fiona laughed and rummaged in the cupboard where the tea and other hot beverages were stored. “Any chance I’m disinvited from the wedding in addition to being fired from my post as maid of honor?”
“Not a hope. Deirdre particularly said she’d like you to attend.”
“Bollocks. She doesn’t want the neighbors gossiping about a family feud.”
Her aunt’s bushy eyebrows formed a unibrow of disapproval. “How did you manage to have a major falling out with Muireann within an hour of arriving in Ballybeg?”
“It’s a talent.” She poured milk into a small saucepan and added cocoa powder. “I’m aware you were angling for a reconciliation between us. I told you it wouldn’t happen.”
“I know you did, missy.” Bridie lowered herself into a kitchen chair, wincing from the effort. “I should have listened. But your dad would have wanted you to go to Muireann’s wedding, and I sometimes get to wondering if the rift between you two isn’t partly my fault.”
“What makes you say that?” She turned mid-stir and regarded her aunt. “Muireann and I have been sparking off one another since preschool.”
“Yes, but I’ve made no secret of my feelings toward Bernard. Maybe that wasn’t fair.”
“Under the circumstances, you’re entitled to feel bitter.”
“Perhaps, but Mammy’s will shouldn’t affect your relationship with your cousin. It’s not her fault Bernard inherited so much and the rest of us so little.”
“Nana’s will has nothing to do with my issues with Muireann. She managed to piss me off all on her own.”
Fiona stirred the cocoa a final time and divided the frothy liquid between two mugs. She placed one in front of her aunt and took the seat across the table.
Lines of pain etched Bridie’s forehead, the grooves deeper than Fiona remembered.
“Are you okay? You look like you’re in discomfort.”
“Ah, I’m grand,” Bridie said. “My hip’s paining me this evening.”
“Arthritis?”
“So Dr. Mulligan says. It’s worse in the winter. Now stop stalling and tell me what led to you being fired as maid of honor. I only have Deirdre’s rant to go by, and I don’t place much store by her account.”
“Long story short, my maid of honor dress was too small. It ripped.” Fiona’s cheeks grew warm at the memory of Gavin’s big hands on her waist.
“Didn’t you send your measurements to Muireann?”
“Yeah, I did.” She took a sip of cocoa. “She swears she passed on the correct measurements to the dressmaker. I don’t believe her.”
“Hmm. And you had a fight?”
“Yeah. It ended with Olivia and me no longer welcome in the wedding party. Whether we quit or were fired is open to debate. At any rate, we won’t be trailing down the aisle after Muireann.”
“Olivia too?” Bridie licked cocoa off her upper lip. “Aidan won’t be pleased.”
“Not much pleases Aidan Gant.” Fiona scrunched up her nose. “I don’t get what she sees in him.”
“Financial security is not to be scoffed at. Take it from one who knows. Gant stands to make a lot of money from Bernard’s new shopping center.”
“Olivia mentioned that. Where are they building it?”
“Out by Fir Road.”
Fiona frowned. “Isn’t that part of the land Bernard inherited from Nana?”
“Yes. He’s been angling to build on it for years, but the old guard on the town council wouldn’t approve the plans. Now that his cronies Aidan Gant and George Jobson are on the council, the plans got pushed through.”
“Nice for Bernard.”
A bitter half smile twisted Bridie’s lips. “Nice for Bernard’s bank account.”
“Speaking of money… there’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you.”
“Ask away.”
“I can’t help noticing the house is looking a bit—”
“Shabby?” Bridie looked her straight in the eye.
“Well, yeah,” she said awkwardly. “But it’s more than that. It’s fairly obvious you need to get a new washing machine, and the sink in the bathroom leaks. Are you doing all right? Moneywise, I mean.”
“I get by.” A muscle in her aunt’s cheek twitched. “I can afford to put food on the table and pay my bills. That’s more than most can say in this economy.”
“Right. And the Book Mark?”
“It’s a bookshop.” Her aunt’s eyes dropped to the worn kitchen linoleum. “People don’t have money to spare for new books, and the used book exchange is more a service to my customers than a big earner. Those who can afford to buy books are going the digital route with the capsule thingies.”
Fiona suppressed a smile. “Tablets?”
“Yeah. That’s what they’re called.” Bridie drained the last dregs of cocoa from her mug and stood. Her stance was awkward, and she was favoring one side. “I’d better get to sleep. Listen, if you decide you’re not going to the wedding tomorrow, would you sort your old stuff? There are at least three boxes of junk in your old room. If you haven’t touched them in eight years, I doubt they contain anything important.”
“Yes, boss.” She gave a mock salute. “What time’s the ceremony?”
“Eleven.” Bridie put a hand on her shoulder. “I’m sorry you came down to Ballybeg for nothing, love.”
A pang of guilt nagged Fiona’s conscience. She should visit more often. Or at least call more than once every few months. She squeezed her aunt’s hand. “Not for nothing. I’m glad to see you.”
“It’s great to catch up with you before you head off to the other side of the world.”
She beamed. “I can’t believe it’s actually
happening. I’ve been planning this trip for so long it seems surreal.”
“I remember you talking about going to Australia when you were barely old enough to find it on a globe.”
“Bridie,” Fiona asked tentatively, “how important is it to you that I go to the wedding?”
“For better or worse, I’d like to put the past behind us and behave like a proper family for one day. Your dad was always the peacemaker. Now that he’s gone…”
“In that case, I’ll go to the ceremony, at the very least.” She planted a kiss on her aunt’s plump cheek. “And when I get back from Oz, I’ll come down to Ballybeg more often. I promise. You’ll be sick of the sight of me.”
The rest of Gavin’s pre-wedding meal with the Byrnes passed without incident.
After dessert, Muireann and Deirdre returned to the living room to discuss the last wedding details. Although what there was to be decided, he had no idea. How much more micromanaging could they achieve between now and tomorrow morning?
“Let’s go into the library.” Bernard rose unsteadily to his feet. “We’ll have another glass of the MacAllan.”
Bernard’s library was yet another affectation in a house full of affectations. The oak bookshelves were stuffed with valuable first editions of the classics, yet no one in the Byrne household would ever consider reading one.
Gavin sat in a stiff leather armchair and gazed at the spine of Thomas Hardy’s The Mayor of Casterbridge. How much had it set Bernard back? A few hundred? A few thousand? All for a book the man would never read.
A cigar clenched between his front teeth, Bernard sloshed whiskey into a tumbler and shoved it toward Gavin. He poured himself an even larger glass. “Pre-wedding nerves, lad?” He took a gulp of whiskey, then a puff of his cigar. “We’ve all been there.”
Gavin coughed discreetly through the plumes of pungent smoke. “I’m grand. The joking about Fiona went too far for my taste.”
“Fond of Fiona, are you?” Bernard’s shrewd gaze speared him to the spot.
“Before today, I hadn’t seen her for years.” And had tried not to think of her. “But yeah, we always got on well.” Better than you’ll ever know.
Memories of that crazy night in Vegas surfaced again. Hazy, colorful, loud. And the look of hurt and betrayal on Fiona’s face the next morning when he announced he was leaving.
“Fiona has an inferiority complex. And no sense of style. My sister is hardly a good influence on her. She’d have been better off coming to live with us after her parents died.”
“From my understanding, no such offer was extended.”
Bernard’s mustache bristled. “Nonsense. We’d have been happy to have her. But enough about my niece. Let’s talk business.”
Gavin’s ears pricked up. The contract. It had to be about the contract.
“Aidan Gant’s drawn up the papers to make you our new design director. They’ll be ready to sign when you get back from your honeymoon.”
And not a moment before… Bernard was loving having him on a chain.
He swallowed a mouthful of MacAllan. “I’d hoped to get it all sorted out before we left. That was the original plan.”
Bernard swirled his glass. “Yes. I’ve been distracted by the wedding prep.” He regarded him with a steely expression. “I’m confident you’ll make my daughter very happy.”
He stared at the paisley-patterned carpet. “I’ll certainly do my best.”
“Excellent.” The older man stood and flashed him a snake-like smile. “I’ll have the contract ready for you to sign as soon as you’re back from Mauritius.”
He was tempted to tell Bernard where to stick his contract, but common sense prevailed. Too much was at stake here, not least Muireann’s feelings. If working for her father for a couple more years was the price he had to pay for financial stability, well, we all made sacrifices.
He got to his feet. “Right. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Deirdre was rearranging flowers in the hallway when he emerged from Bernard’s lair. “Muireann’s already gone to bed,” she said, poking and prodding at a yellow floral arrangement that was making his nose itch. “A bride needs her beauty sleep.”
“I’ll nip up and say good-bye.”
Upstairs, he knocked on Muireann’s bedroom door and went in. She was already in her nightie, brushing her long blond hair. She paused midstroke when she saw his reflection in her dressing table mirror.
“I’m sorry about earlier. Let’s assume Claudette messed up.” He put his hands on her bare shoulders and kissed her neck.
She pulled away and resumed her hair brushing. “Forget it. You’re probably just nervous about the wedding.”
He let his arms drop to his side. “I’m not fond of public speaking, but it’s more than that. These past few months haven’t been easy—for either of us.”
She tugged at a tangle. “Planning a wedding is stressful. As is moving house. We’ve done both this year.”
“At least it’ll be all over by tomorrow night.”
She turned to look at him, an odd expression on her face. “That’s a funny thing to say about your wedding day.”
“Big events with tons of guests aren’t my thing.”
“Why did you agree to it?”
He shrugged. “I know how much a traditional wedding means to you.”
She bit her lip. “You’re looking forward to the honeymoon at least?”
“Yes. Yeah. Of course I am. A holiday is exactly what we need.” He bent down and pecked her on the cheek. “I’d better let you get some sleep. Besides, Jonas will be waiting for me at the cottage.”
Her baby blue eyes met his. “I love you, Gavin. I’ll be a good wife to you.”
“I know you will. I love you, too.”
And he did. Of course he did. So why did the words weigh down his tongue like lead?
Chapter Six
ON HIS WEDDING DAY, Gavin rose early for his morning run. Dawn was breaking when he closed the door of his cottage. His hand stilled on the door handle, and his eyes strayed to the nameplate on the wall.
Abhaile, the Irish word for home.
He’d loved this house the moment he’d seen it, ramshackle though it was. Where his mother saw a dump, he saw potential. Where she saw a financial drain, he saw an opportunity. And where she saw an unwanted abode, he saw a home.
Now it was no longer his home.
If his mother had despaired of the cottage, Muireann despised it. She’d set her heart on a big house, and her parents were willing to sell them Clonmore Lodge. Gavin had caved, acknowledging the cottage was too small to raise a family. The cottage was up for sale, but no interesting offers had come through yet. He was relieved, even though they needed the money. If a buyer didn’t materialize soon, he’d have to find a tenant. But that was a concern for another day.
He headed down the short path and out the gate. He crossed the road and stood at the railings overlooking the beach.
What a view. The tide was out, exposing a vast expanse of wet sand. It was rocky in places, sandy in others.
He took the steps down to the beach two at a time. At the bottom, his trainers sank into damp sand. After a few preliminary stretches, he began to run.
He pounded down the strand, his lungs burning, his mind free. The only activity more calming than this was swimming, but even he wasn’t crazy enough to wade in today.
After a couple of kilometers, he stopped to catch his breath. He wiped sweat from his brow and took a swig from his water bottle. The sea was wild and the tide had turned. The waves crashed and foamed, and the blue-green water crept up the sand.
He should get back to the cottage. There was a lot to do before he left for the church. Plus he had a guest. Yeah, breakfast with Jonas was something to look forward to. He hooked his water bottle.
“Gav!”
He whipped round.
Jonas was pounding down the sand toward him, clad in an old T-shirt and what appeared to be swimming trunks. A lit cigaret
te dangled from one hand. His dark hair stood on end, and thick stubble shadowed his jawline. Despite his disheveled appearance, he looked better than Gavin felt.
“Morning.” He grinned at his friend. “Didn’t expect to see you up this early, never mind jogging.”
“Trying to get fit. The sedentary lifestyle and all that.”
“Bollocks,” Gavin said with a laugh. “You’re sickeningly fit for a man who sits on his arse all day and writes.”
“Mental exertion, mate. Crafting stories uses a lot of energy.”
“Yeah, right. More like a high metabolism and good genes. Enjoy it while it lasts.”
“I’m jogging, aren’t I?” Jonas took a drag from his cigarette. “I’m trying to set an example for Luca.”
“With fags and beer?”
“Shut up.” Jonas grinned. “At least I’m not about to get hitched.”
“You could give it consideration. Luca’s nearly five.”
A shadow flitted across Jonas’s tanned face. “You’re distracted, mate. I told you Susanne and I are on a break.”
“Another one?” How many times had they broken up since Luca’s birth? Four? Five?
Jonas shrugged. “Nah. Same break as last time we spoke of it. This one’s just lasting a while. Luca’s diagnosis hit Susanne hard.”
“For feck’s sake. He’s on the autism spectrum, not terminally ill.”
His friend gave him a sharp look. “It’ll be fine, okay? I don’t need relationship advice from a reluctant groom.”
If Jonas had punched him in the gut, Gavin couldn’t have felt more stunned. “Reluctant? Where did you get that impression?”
“Come on, Gav. We’ve been friends since secondary school. You’re not exactly what I’d term a blushing groom.”
“A bout of pre-wedding jitters. It’ll pass.”
“Make sure it passes before eleven this morning.”
Gavin stared out to sea. “Why don’t you worry about your own relationship and let me worry about mine?”
“Sorry, mate. I’ll back off.”
“Forget about it. How about a full Irish breakfast back at the cottage?”