Best Served Frozen (The Irish Lottery Series Book 4)

by Gerald Hansen

  “We're living the high life, youse!” Fionnuala said, gulping back champagne.

  “Aye, I could get used to this,” Paddy said, reaching for the drinks bin and running his hands over the craftsmanship of the Rolls.

  “I already have,” Fionnuala replied, as if with Zoë in the family, limousines would always be in her future.

  She knocked on the window separating them from the front. It rolled down and she asked the driver to turn on the air conditioning. Not because it was warm and stuffy (in fact, a chill had arrived with the clouds early that morning), but because she could.

  “This air-conditioning makes me feel dead Yank!” Fionnuala said, and made to nod in the direction of the air-conditioning, but couldn't tell where it was coming from. She smiled all around her instead.

  “Poncy, nancy boy drinks,” Paddy said with a scowl, looking down at his bubbling flute.

  “I'm sure ye'll find, Da,” Lorcan said, “Champagne works just as good as lager.”

  “I agree,” Maureen said.

  They clinked their glasses.

  Padraig, Siofra and Seamus seemed happy enough with the wide selection of juices and sodas and the many channels on the TV, which Padraig was flipping through.

  Fionnuala kicked off her clogs and lay back on the seat, the mannerisms of How To Be A Lady long forgotten; who needed them when sat in a limousine? The windows were tinted and nobody could see.

  “Dear God in heaven above!” Maureen suddenly gasped.

  “What's up, Mammy?” Fionnuala asked in alarm.

  “The wanes! Where's the wanes?!”

  Paddy, Dymphna and Lorcan looked at the backs of the wanes' heads before the telly.

  “They're right here.”

  “Ye need to get the prescription of them glasses checked out.”

  “Naw! Dymphna's wanes!”

  Dymphna gasped. She put down her flute.

  “They're in the bedroom. How could I have forgotten?”

  “Ye're a daft eejit, that's how,” Fionnuala scowled.

  “Just tell the driver—” Paddy said.

  “Chauffeur,” Fionnuala corrected.

  “Yer man behind the wheel there. Have him roll down his wee window and tell him to go back.”

  “Aye,” said Padraig. “It gives us more time in the car, so it does. More time to watch real telly!”

  Fionnuala did just that. Their driver looked so handsome, and she was excited he was wearing a cap. She winked at him as he rolled down the window. He didn't look back. The limousine turned around and headed back to the Moorside.

  “Och, what a marvelous day it's gonny be,” Fionnuala was forced to admit to Dymphna.

  “And it's only gonny get better, Mammy,” Dymphna replied. “Once we get the wanes on board, of course.”

  “Aye, that I'm sure of,” Fionnuala said with a nod. “Unless, Paddy, ye forgot to make the reservation at the church for the day!”

  She hooted with laughter at her little joke, and the others had to laugh along.

  All except Paddy. He sat beside her, champagne flute clutched in his large hand. Stunned. Dread filled him as the limo passed the Free Derry City wall (another tourist must-see).

  One thing, Fionnuala had asked him to do. One. And he hadn't done it. If he searched the catacombs of his brain, maybe he could understand why. There were the long hours at work, the calling of the church time and again three months before, his mate at its office on holiday, and being placed on hold over and over, the sound of music down the line, the one time it had been Bryan Adams' “Everything I Do,” hanging up and making his mind up to do it again soon. But a day turned into a week, and a week turned into a month and now... Now it was unbelievable. His beloved daughter looked like a dream in that gown, eager and nervous and excited about the vows she and her fiancé were about to exchange. But now there was nowhere to exchange them.

  The limo pulled up outside their house.

  “Stay youse there!” Paddy barked, to the surprise of them all. Perhaps champagne didn't really suit him at all. But, no, he was taking the champagne with him. “I'll collect them flimmin wanes!”

  He threw open the door, heart pounding, sweat pricking his brow, and ran towards the house.

  CHAPTER 37

  Zoë's BMW pulled up to St. Fintan's 45 minutes early. She wanted to ensure everything was on course at the church. She had left Rory scrubbing his face, trying to remove as much of the fake tan as he could, the handsome black suit she had bought from Harvey Nichols laid out on his bed. She had told his head in the sink the limo would pick him and Georgie up at 11:30. The best man had dragged Rory up the stairs at 4:30 AM and passed out beside him.

  Zoë grappled the iron handle of the ancient door and pried it open. She peered inside the dusty grandeur. Odd. There was another wedding going on. She closed the door and looked at her very expensive watch. St. Fintan's certainly didn't leave much time between ceremonies! she thought. Perhaps Catholic weddings were a bit speedier than Protestant ones. Perhaps there was a quick, high turnover, like budget airlines did with their passengers and planes, a kind of rent-a-priest express, shove one group in like cattle, bless them, shove the rings on, get them kissed, toss them out, five minutes for cleanup, then shove another group in their place. Peculiar.

  Not that she cared much about the ceremony itself. This gloomy old church with its leaky holy water fonts and crumbling stone facade stuck thanklessly between the betting shop and the homeless shelter, the homeless shelter she had made a few charitable donations to, wasn't where the wheeling and dealing would be taking place. Pews weren't made for that; it would come later. The reception was across the river on the outskirts of the Waterside, at the country club she was a member of and occasionally played a round of golf at. Indeed, she had encouraged her invitees, perhaps even coerced, those movers and shakers of the Derry business world to avoid the ceremony itself and show up for the reception at 2:00 PM.

  The reception where Zoë had concentrated her efforts. She was hoping to not only give her son a wife, but nab herself a few business deals. After the first meeting with the Flood woman, she realized, as suspected, she'd have to do the majority of the work herself, and she had. Yes, the wedding was avocado, so the linen tablecloths of the country club event room were that color, and the napkins and plates and well. And the welcome totes, which were filled with milk-and dark-chocolate truffles, red-wine vinegar and olive oil, sea salt and crushed pepper (and, it certainly verged on the tacky, but she had had her office staff slip in some promotional material and special deals for her various enterprises, including two-for-one entrances to the Amelia Earhart center, a complimentary cut of meat from the butchers, a £10 gift card for Dreams and Wishes, and a month's free storage at the Pence-A-Day lockups).

  Ping! It was as if the caterer had read her thoughts; she was sending Zoë a photo text, letting her know the reception was ready. The photo was a view of the ivy-draped chandeliers that hung over each dining table, their candles, avocado, casting a warm, romantic glow on the floral and moss centerpieces below. Ping! A photo of the long garlands of greenery draped across the linen. Ping! The dramatic green string lights with intertwined petals that hung from the ceiling between the chandeliers. Ping! On the shelves of the sideboards, rows of crystal wineglasses that had been turned into elegant café lamps with mini vellum shades, green. It certainly was a green reception, Zoë considered. A very green room. Though that's what the Flood woman had wanted.

  Ping! Ah! Finally a bit of color, or at least a color other than green, the bouquet of berries and calla lilies that were tied to the back of the bride's chair. Ping! And the tall centerpieces, the two foot high vases of hydrangeas and oncidium orchids that seemed to hover above the table. They looked startling, frozen in mid-air like that, but the caterer had explained this was so that they wouldn't interfere with the guests' lines of sight. Ping! The lower centerpieces of roses, peonies, hyacinths, and hydrangeas.

  Ping! Zoë gasped. She clutched her heart. She
blinked. She peered at the latest photo on her phone, unable to trust her eyes. What was this ghastly pink thing, this monstrosity that verged on the, the pornographic? Was it really meant to be, actually meant to be the cake? Meant to be eaten? She blanched, and then the blood poured into her face. Her finger hovered uncertainly over her phone. She wondered if she should tell the caterer to 'accidentally' knock down the phalli. But then she had to smile and finally a little laugh forced itself from her Sephora-ed lips. Marvelous! she texted back.

  Her clients, already alerted to what Zoë's son was marrying into, would hopefully find the, well, she supposed she'd have to call it the cake, as it was supposed to be the cake, entertaining. Racy, saucy. Maybe even a bit titillating. Perhaps they'd have pity on her and sign bigger deals. There rarely seemed to be a dull moment with this Flood family. She was realizing they, especially that peculiar mother, her soon to be sister-in-law, were adding something to her life that had been sorely lacking in her relentless days of spreadsheets and Power Point presentations and net and gross profits: fun. Perhaps this pairing of Rory and Dymphna was for the best.

  THE VEIL PRESSED AGAINST the soft leather of the limousine's plush bucket seating. It fell mid-thigh, with scalloped edges and embroidery in metallic silver thread, embellished with caviar beads and tiny pearls. It was stunning. Under it, Dymphna's face was now glowing, and it had nothing to do with her mother's slap. That had long been dismissed, just the latest in a long line of slaps across the face dealt to her over the years. As Dymphna sat there and sipped champagne, enthralled at the luxury that surrounded her, and the promise of the new life stretching before her, a father for her children, a soul mate for her, she felt her old life, the drudgery and squalor, the spewed insults and hatred from her mother, slipping away. The ring finger of her left hand tingled in anticipation. Soon her fresh, clean life, just like the lines of the furniture in Zoë's living room, would begin. She wondered when her new mother-in-law would allow her maternity leave from the chip van. It shouldn't be long now. And then Dymphna would never step foot inside that van again. And she had just thought of the name for her third child. For her and Rory's child, Fabrizio or not. This was indeed the happiest day of her life.

  “Right!” her mother roared. All jumped, their heads twisting towards Fionnuala. “Now that we've impressed the neighbors—I know not a soul round these parts we're going through at the moment—now we've some free time, with nothing left to do but show up and sit in the pews, I think now's the time for the wee something I've been dying for to show ye, Dymphna.”

  Paddy and Maureen eyed Fionnuala with suspicion. She reached into her purse, rummaged around, and tugged something out. Paddy and Maureen yelled their protests.

  “Och, for the love of God, woman!”

  “Not on the wane's way to her wedding!”

  “Ye kyanny be serious!” Lorcan said.

  “It's now or never,” Fionnuala insisted, brandishing the pieces of the card, which she had carefully taped together so that it approximated what it had when she first slipped it out of its envelope. Siofra, Padraig and Seamus turned back to the soccer on the telly, Lorcan looked down at his phone, and Keanu and Beeyonsay kept sleeping. For once.

  Dymphna looked uncomprehending at the card her mother was making her way across the expanse of the limo to hand her. But she felt a sick feeling in her stomach, and it wasn't her third child stirring.

  “Them minted bastards the Barnetts might be on their way to the church, quite possibly in a limo even grander than wer own right now, and Dymphna's a right to know what a sarky, hateful bitch her auntie be's. Ye didn't believe me, Dymphna, when I told ye last night. But she did send that funeral wreath to ye for yer special day. I'm sure ye saw the remnants of it in the scullery and the sitting room, did ye not? Doesn't matter, but, as here be's what really matters. I've the proof of her hatefulness right here in me hand.”

  Fionnuala had finally reached her and plopped herself down beside her. She pressed the card into Dymphna's hand.

  Paddy shook his head, lips tight with anger. Maureen was like a mirror image at his side. Lorcan gulped down more champagne. Padraig changed the channel. Transformers.

  A hysterical wail rose from Dymphna's throat.

  “Read the back and all.” Fionnuala flipped it over for her and pointed at the words. “Ye can see there, plain as day, Rot In Hell. All Of You, she's added as well, so I don't know why youse are defending the disgraceful bitch!”

  Dymphna gnawed on her fist as tears rolled down her face.

  “Me makeup!” she sobbed, and then the anger raged in her. Her head reeled. Her brain struggled to comprehend. And it had never been primed for comprehension. Was this what it felt like when the reveal came at the end of the long con? Had Auntie Ursula been deceiving her all these years? Was she really cold, hateful, callous? Or...maybe her auntie Ursula had been drunk when she wrote it; the handwriting on the back looked somehow different from her aunt's familiar script on the front. Or maybe she had taken up drugs over there in the States? Dymphna had seen a show about it on the telly, how most Yanks were addicted to a wide array of prescription drugs because the drug companies wanted large profits, how they wanted to hook the entire nation, how the USA was nothing but a country of medicated, out-of-their-minds addicts, putting on a show of being rational, normal human beings as they went about their daily lives, but secretly shoveling down handfuls of the mind altering pills passed to them over the counter...legally!

  Whether that were the case or not, as Dymphna stared at the hateful words scribbled on the card, she felt a chasm opening, a distance growing, pushing her further and further away from the kind, generous Auntie Ursula she had grown up with. Life in the USA must have changed her into a cold-hearted, sarcastic bitch.

  “I hate her! I hate her!” Dymphna wailed. Fionnuala nodded happily even as she cooed and brought a tissue—a real one from the leather box on the side of the limo!—up to her daughter's eyes.

  “Hold on a wee moment, now,” Paddy warned.

  “We don't know, love, if it was just some terrible misunderstanding,” Maureen said.

  “I think it's a joke,” Lorcan said. “There be's black humor, ye know.”

  “Why would me auntie want me in Hell?” Seamus asked, lower lip trembling.

  “That's not wer auntie,” Siofra said. “I don't believe it. And, anyroad, them flowers she sent looked like they was wile beautiful. Until Mammy stamped on em and made em ugly.”

  Padraig snorted and went back to the cartoon.

  “Ye know what yer mammy's like, love,” Paddy ventured finally.

  “Ye kyanny argue, but, with cold, hard facts!” Fionnuala snatched the card from Dymphna and waved it in the air before them.

  Paddy ignored Fionnuala's glare. “We've to wait to hear—”

  “I'm shocked, shocked she would do such a thing,” Dymphna bawled, grabbing the card and tearing it back into tiny pieces. They fluttered to the plush carpeting. “Dreadful mingin sarky cow!”

  “I'll help ye stomp on them pieces if ye want me to,” her mother said.

  “And...and...” Dymphna struggled to get out through the tears, “to do such a hateful thing after they just won all that money and all.”

  Paddy, Maureen, Lorcan and Siofra froze.

  “I thought we wasn't supposed to tell—” Siofra began.

  “I don't know about 'just,'” Fionnuala said, still shooting daggers over at Paddy. Was he becoming immune to her as well? “That lottery win was years—”

  “Naw! Not that!” Dymphna interrupted, the tears still flowing down. “When they won them bags of dosh on the telly the other night! From them investor yokes.”

  “Pah! What are ye on about?”

  But Fionnuala saw them all staring in disbelief at Dymphna (except Padraig). She knew they knew something she didn't. Traitors!

  “What,” she roared, “are youse not telling me?!”

  “They went on that, oh, I don't know, some Yank show. But like Shark
Tank or Dragons Den, it was. $150,000 they won!”

  “$150,000?! And youse didn't tell me?! Traitors! Flimmin fecking backstabbing traitors!”

  The driver was winding the partition down in alarm.

  “Roll that fecking window back up, ye servant!” Fionnuala roared. It slowly went back up. “Ye all saw them win the dosh? Why did nobody tell me?”

  “Er...ye were sleeping, like,” Lorcan said.

  “And did youse not think to wake me up?”

  “Why?” Maureen asked. “Just so's ye could spit at the telly?”

  “Aye!”

  Dymphna was getting more and more riled. “I don't know why youse is giving Mammy such abuse. Do youse think me auntie Ursula and uncle Jed just happened to make their way over here to Derry for me wedding the moment they won?”

  “Me arse they did!” Fionnuala roared into their faces. “They flew over here to rub wer noses in it yet again! Pockets bulging with dosh while we struggle to rub two pennies together.”

  “Ye're sitting in a limo, Mammy,” Lorcan said.

  “And you keep yer bake shut, son!” Fionnuala roared. “We'll be dumped on the pavement, toppled out back into the gutter, the grating, the moment the wedding's over, and back to wer lives of misery we'll go, except for you! Living the life of Riley in that Florida, ye're gonny be! Or so ye think, anyroad! Have you any clue, do ye not know what I...do ye think that illness...”

  She clamped her teeth shut. She had the potato in her purse, slathered in the toxins of the oven cleaner, waiting for his palate and his plate at the reception. And she had slipped in the can of Yeuch-B-Gone as well, in case the spud needed a touch up. Lorcan would never make it Florida. She counted to ten, composed herself into a Lady pose, then smiled.

  “I don't know what I was on about there,” she said into their confused faces. “Right! If them Barnetts does show their faces, they'll rue the day they decided to book that flight. Loads of abuse, they're gonny get, from me and wer Dymphna. And that's all that matters. This be's Dymphna's day, after all. Let's just enjoy the rest of the ride. Oh, look! Look out the right side, would youse? Ye can see the Derry walls! Not much longer, so we've got!”