How could he explain without appearing as if he blamed her, for blame her he did not? Reaching across the table, he took her hands in his own. She did not pull away. “Try to understand, Emma. I didn’t make a decision to drink or not to drink. I simply hadn’t the urge to drink during the years you were with me. Later, after you left, long after you left, I drank more and more. It was a gradual thing. I did not wish to stop. Those were difficult years for Danny and me.”
Her eyes were wide, gray-blue, haunted. “Why did you keep him from me, Patrick? You couldn’t have believed Mabry.”
“Ah, but I did believe her, Emma. Mabry is more often right than wrong. But I did not keep Danny and you apart because of it.” He released her hands, stood, and walked to the window.
“Why, then?”
“Anger,” he said simply, resting his head against the cold windowpane. “I was angry with you for so long it was part of my life. I wanted to hurt you, and Danny was my weapon.”
“You hurt him as well, and you hurt Mollie. She missed not having a father.”
Turning, he looked at her, sitting at his table the same as if thirty years had not passed since the last time she had done so. “I went to California, not even two years after you left me. Did you know that?”
She shook her head.
“I went alone to the address you wrote on the back of Danny’s letters.”
Her expression was troubled, innocent. How long would it take her to understand?”
“You were living in a grand house with more rooms than a hotel.” Still she looked at him, unashamed.
“It was Ward Reddington’s house. You were living in Ward Reddington’s house with my daughter.”
The color rushed to her cheeks.
“I came to see if there was any way we could be a family again, and you were living with another man, after less than two years.”
“Oh, Patrick.” Her laugh was part shame, part exasperation. “You didn’t understand.” She shook her head and looked down at her hands. “I’m so sorry that I didn’t make you understand that I wasn’t coming back, not ever.”
“It no longer matters.”
She looked up, surprised, “Really?”
He smiled. “Aye.”
This time her laugh was one of relief. “Maybe there’s a chance for us.”
“For our family there’s a chance, but not for us, not together.” It had taken him a great many words and three decades to say it, but there it was.
She smiled, and this time she reminded him of Mollie. “I’m glad I came.”
He grinned, remembering why he’d been so taken with her all those years ago. “I’m glad, too, Emma.” He turned serious again. “But I’m not glad of why you came.”
She stiffened. “What do you mean?”
“Luke and the girls are Irish, not American. Their parents were Irish. Sean is an exceptional young man. We don’t always see things the same way because he never cared much for Danny, but he loves the children and he can provide for them. He’s young. He’ll marry someday. The woman he marries will know the children come with him.”
Once more he took her hands. “Admit it, Emma. Your husband can’t be happy about raising three young children when it’s nearly time for him to retire.”
Emma flushed. Patrick was remarkably astute. Either that, or the situation was so obvious anyone could assess it.
“You’ve the legal right,” Patrick continued, “but I want you to think about what I’ve said. It won’t be like it was with Danny. No one will keep the children from you.”
Emma tried to resurrect the edge of the bitter anger that had taken hold of her when she first heard that Danny had died. But she couldn’t. The hurt was there, but the rage was gone, and if she looked at it truthfully, she was better for it.
“I’ll think about it,” she said.
CHAPTER 21
Mollie watched Mrs. McEwan hold a handkerchief to her lips, close her eyes wearily, and lean her head back against the torn upholstery of the Aran Seagull. She didn’t really know Fiona McEwan. The woman was older. Her children had grown and left the island, but on her way to school in the morning Mollie had waved to her as she swept the front steps of her small cottage.
Fishing inside her purse, Mollie produced a roll of peppermint Lifesavers, leaned forward, and touched Fiona’s shoulder. “Would you care for a mint? They might help.”
“It’s kind you are, Miss Tìerney,” she said, “but nothin’ helps the seasickness. I’ll be feelin’ grand again once we reach Galway. The ocean is all which ways today, isn’t it?”
Mollie smiled. “Will you be coming back tonight?”
“No, lass. I’m to visit my sister in Ballyshannon, thank God. I’ll not be braving the trip for another week or two.” Once again she pressed the handkerchief to her mouth. “I think I’ll step outside for a bit of fresh air. Sometimes that helps.”
Mollie watched her stumble down the aisle and disappear through the flapping plastic curtain that led to the deck. She settled back, unbuttoned her coat to absorb the heat from the grate directly above her, and stared out the scratched glass window at the rolling gray sea. Garrett had given her the name of an attorney in Dublin who specialized in maritime law. Over the telephone Daniel O’Shea had completely disarmed her. Mollie’s experience with lawyers was limited, but she was sure most of them didn’t answer their own phones or make appointments. Mr. O’Shea did both, and he’d agreed to meet her in Galway, a four-hour drive from Dublin.
At first she’d been skeptical of an attorney who appeared to have time on his hands, but Garrett assured her he was competent and even renowned. Better still, he worked on a contingency basis. Now her hope was that he would help. “Please, say you’ll help,” she whispered fervently, fogging the window with her breath. Closing her eyes, she deliberately pushed aside the tangle of relationships in which she’d found herself since coming to Ireland.
It had all been so simple before. Life flowed like a lazy, slow-moving river, no rapids, no flooding, just a steady, harmonious progression with her mother and Ward, her friends and Garrett. No, she amended, not Garrett.
Even so, the picture was a tranquil one, no surprises, no highs, but certainly no lows. Mollie was beginning to understanding the value of tranquility, the kind in which life-altering decisions had no place. And yet what kind of life would it be without children, sticky-fingered, wide-eyed, so innocent and precious her heart hurt to watch them sleep?
She avoided her next, obvious question, the one about the man who would have an equal interest in those children. It was still too close, too personal to take out her feelings, brush them off, and inspect them. She would do that later, when time and more distance than twenty-six miles across the sea to Galway, had leveled them out.
Galway on the cusp of Christmas a gasp of color in the wintery grayness. Red bows and green garlands draped invitingly over street lights and shop signs. Silver and gold bells hung from every door, and the strains of popular carols faded in and out as customers came and went, opening and closing doors behind them. Inviting smells waited from bakeries and tea shops. A dusting of snow covered the streets, and to Mollie, who had never seen a snowy Christmas, the Irish city looked like something out of a Dickens fairy tale.
Buttoning her coat up under her chin, she wrapped her muffler loosely around her neck, stuffed both gloved hands into her pockets, and walked away from the bus stop toward High Street. She had never been to the restaurant where the attorney suggested they meet, but he’d assured her that it was a popular one in Galway.
She found it easily, a small shop with frosted windows, crisp curtains, and a welcome sign over the door. Mollie hung her coat and smiled at the friendly waitress who nodded at her from behind the counter before looking around. Several tables were occupied, including one with a man whose face looked as if it belonged on a Marlboro billboard. He was finishing off a substantial breakfast, Mollie took a quick look at his faded denims, plaid shirt, and hiking boots an
d immediately disqualified him. The lawyer from Dublin had obviously not yet arrived.
Choosing a table by the window, she folded her arms, prepared for a wait. The road from Dublin wasn’t always predictable in winter. Mr. O’Shea might be more than a few minutes late. Accepting the inevitable was something she’d come to terms with since arriving in Ireland. It wasn’t only the roads that were unpredictable. The Irish had a different conception of time than Americans did. Hours of operation were posted but not necessarily followed, especially in winter. A shop with a nine o’clock opening might have its doors unlocked by eleven, and if the weather was bad or there was a horse race in the vicinity, the proprietor might decide not to open at all. Pharmacy hours were unusual, too. Prescriptions were called in to the local chemist day or night, and if he had gone fishing or taken a few days off, it remained unfilled. Banks were open on Wednesdays. Bakeries, butcher shops, libraries, and the post office operated on the whim of whoever was in charge of the key. Only the pubs could be counted on, and the churches. Rain or shine, their doors were open until well after midnight during the week and ten on Sundays.
Gradually, Mollie had come to accept these quirks as part of Ireland’s charm. Settling in for what might be a lengthy wait, she stared out the window, at people hurrying by, stamping their feet and blowing on their hands. Winter in Galway.
Daniel O’Shea watched her for a bit. He knew who she was the instant she walked through the door. She was a woman who stood out, not pretty, just beautiful, the kind who would make a man do a double take and stumble. Garrett Michaels had described her essentials perfectly. What he’d left out were her other qualities, the intriguing ones that became obvious after only a few minutes. Mollie Tierney was indeed tall, attractive, and blond, but she wasn’t Irish, at least not a hundred percent, and definitely not Catholic Irish. Irish women approaching their thirtieth birthdays did not look twenty, nor were their bodies the kind found in health-club advertisements. She’d shed her coat, revealing a conservative sweater and slacks, but it wouldn’t have mattered what she wore. It was the woman one noticed, not the clothing. She walked as if she were comfortable inside her body, an alluring walk, the kind that left grown men weak.
She’d turned away from where he was sitting, leaving only her profile visible to him. Her hands were on the table, one on top of the other, perfectly still. She’d smiled at the waitress, nodded at something she’d said, and turned to look out the window, absorbed in the scene outside. Unlike most Americans, she didn’t check the watch on her wrist or even look around the small restaurant after her first cursory glance. She simply waited and watched. Even after the waitress brought her a pot of tea, she left it, continuing to gaze out the window completely engrossed in the images, as if she couldn’t get enough or by some miracle her sight at been restored and she was seeing it again after a very long time.
Daniel finished his toast, crossed the floor to stand before her, and held out his hand. “Miss Tierney? I’m Daniel O’Shea.”
She looked up. He was gratified to see the look of surprise on her face. Masking her initial reaction, she shook his hand and motioned him to the chair across from her. “Please, sit down. Thank you for coming all this way so early.”
No mention of his unorthodox clothing. No coyness or flirtatiousness in her manner, not even a hint of self-consciousness. Perhaps women like her had no need of such devices. “How can I help you, Miss Tìerney?”
Now she would ask him to call her Mollie. It happened every time, the first step, the subtle segue into the personal. He wouldn’t hold it against her. The leap to using Christian names was a common practice in a new, informal world. He would call her Mollie, and she would call him Daniel.
She came right to the point. “You’re familiar with the oil spill on the Aran Islands?”
It was front page news for the entire week. “Of course,” he said politely.
“Then you know that the fishing industry has been completely decimated. Men are out of work, and it’s December.”
Keeping his eyes on her face, he waited for her to explain her connection with the fishing community of Inishmore.
“I want you to represent them in a personal damage suit against Transom Oil.”
Daniel frowned. “Who, exactly, would I be representing?”
“The men of Inishmore and their families.” She frowned. “I assumed Garrett explained all this.”
“To a degree.” He leaned forward, elbows on the tablecloth. “There is some precedent for suit in this case, Miss Tìerney. The Valdez oil spill has been recently settled, but it isn’t something that happens overnight. That judgment was ten years in the making. Your friend in America suggested that the families on the island needed compensation much sooner.”
Her face paled. “Ten years?”
“Aye, and they were lucky the oil company didn’t appeal. Otherwise it would have been longer. Often it’s the heirs who collect, Miss Tierney, not the actual victims.”
He watched her wet her lips. Garrett Michaels said she was smart. She would sort it out quickly, and then he would find out why she had taken on a cause with no hope of personal gain.
She didn’t disappoint him. “Why did you come all the way from Dublin to tell me this?”
His heartbeat accelerated. “There’s another way, but it won’t bring millions in compensation.”
“We don’t need millions.”
His voice changed. “We?”
“The fishermen and their families, all of us.” She waved her hand. “Without a living wage, a great many of them will be evacuated.”
He still didn’t understand. “Surely you know your teaching job is secure, at least for the year. It doesn’t matter whether you’ve fifty students or a handful. The government is committed to providing an education for the children of the islands.”
She stared at him, bewildered. “What does my job have to do with anything? I’m in no danger of starving, no matter what happens.”
Daniel was thoroughly confused. It was time to ask the direct questions. “What is your interest in this, Miss Tierney? Why are you the one approaching me?”
“I was born in Inishmore. My father lives there. I have two nieces and a nephew who mean a great deal to me, and I have the time to help.”
Daniel had kept his eye on the Aran oil spill waiting for just this occasion, wondering if and when someone from the island would contact him. It wasn’t the issue that had taken him by surprise, it was the messenger. “In other words, this is personal?”
He watched the color rise in her cheeks, watched her look away. He waited.
“I don’t need money, Mr. O’Shea. I’ll be leaving the island at the end of the school year.” She met his glance once again. “This isn’t about me. Do you need a retainer to take on the case?”
“Good Lord, no!” She’d surprised him. “There will be money enough when it’s over.”
“Are you so sure we’ll win?”
He grinned. “Absolutely.”
“How long will it take? These people need compensation immediately, and they don’t want any part of the dole.”
“I’ll meet with the attorneys for Transom Oil. It’s possible, with a bit of persuasion, that they’ll agree to pay a portion of the damages in payment plans to the affected families.”
“When would that be?”
“Three months if all goes well, maybe six on the outside.”
He could see her disappointment. Mollie Tierney had an expressive face. “I’m sorry, Mollie, but that’s the best I can do.” He meant it, just as he meant to break through the formality that characterized most of his first interviews. He liked her, more than he imagined he would. Garrett Michaels had not impressed him. Mollie did.
“Is there anything to be done?”
“Evacuations aren’t as terrible as they sound. Most people find relatives to help them settle in. The economy is good. Jobs are easier to find than they’ve ever been. Their government stipends will hold them over for
a while.”
She moved her hand in a brief, emphatic motion of denial. Her eyes were very bright. Daniel had the dreadful sensation that she was about to cry. He reached across the table and covered her hand. “Mollie—”
“The economy is good for skilled people,” she said, her voice choked with unshed tears. “They won’t settle in. The island is all they know. Everyone who is capable of leaving already has.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Inishmore’s population has remained stable for centuries because it can only sustain a limited number of people. Children grow up knowing they’ll leave. They prepare for it, all except those who can’t or won’t because of temperament or preference or ability. Many of them aren’t of an age to begin again. Those are the people who face evacuation, Mr. O’Shea. What we’re looking at is a tragedy.”
“I see.”
She looked down at her untouched tea. “Thank you for your time.”
He raised his eyebrows. “Now wait a minute. You aren’t giving up, are you?”
“I still want you to continue with the suit, if that’s what you mean. These people deserve something, even if it’s after the fact.”
“Good. I’ll need information, numbers most of all, income averages, expected time the men will be unemployed, who else the oil spill is affecting, restaurants, merchants, that sort of thing.”
“I don’t know any of those things, but I can give you the name of a person who does.”
He pulled out a tablet of paper and a pen from his shirt pocket.
“Sean O’Malley would be the best place to start.”
Surprised, he looked up. “I attended university with a Sean O’Malley from Inishmore. He’s a playwright, a rather well-known one. Could it be the same man?”
“There’s only one that I know of on the island.”
“Surely he’s not one of those who isn’t capable of beginning again.”
Mollie smiled for the first time during their meeting. “He’s one of the other ones.”
“Ah, the temperamental ones who stay out of preference.”
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