“This pain,” he said. “It’s torture.”
Slowly, she turned around. The glow from the bedside lamp illuminated his shiny head, which stood out of the murk like a floating skull. She knew about his pain. The hospice folks had explained it all, and it was horrible to witness. Yet, he didn’t seem to be in that much pain right now. She stepped forward. And then again. Until she stood next to him. She reached out to adjust his pillow. Andrew’s hand latched onto her arm. Merrit steeled herself not to flinch at the dried-up boniness of his fingers pressed against her skin.
“You’re a coward,” he said. “But then why should I be surprised. Runs in your family.”
“What are you saying? Why now?”
“All those years your mother kept up the pretense that she loved me, not him,” he said.
Patting her chest, Merrit retreated to the Barcalounger once again. She dropped to her knees and felt around under the chair for her inhaler. She pushed at the chair, but it was already wedged into the corner of the room. Worse still, she didn’t have the strength to maneuver it over the edge of the rug and away from the wall.
Breathing hard, her brain fuzzy with exhaustion and distress, Merrit staggered to her feet. Andrew’s insidious, creeping, rasping voice kept at her. His lips smirked. They pulsed, they pursed, they stretched around more words.
“Your mother was a lying whore.”
No.
“She screwed a goddamned hippie freak—an Irish hippie freak—and said it didn’t matter. Nothing but a mistake.”
No. No.
Merrit grabbed the morphine syringe. She managed to gasp, “Just to sleep for a bit. Until the hospice nurse arrives.”
“You’re so weak. Look at you. Poor baby can’t breathe.”
Merrit leaned against the lounger, panting. White bubbles floated across her vision. She lifted the syringe and depressed the plunger the tiniest bit. One bitter drop of morphine landed on her tongue. Andrew’s hand spasmed toward her and fell back. His voice wheedled up a notch, its incessant buzz pitched high.
“Your fault she died,” he said.
NO.
Merrit acknowledged the truth of the matter: Andrew had never loved her, and he never would no matter how hard she tried to be the perfect daughter. Sobbing, beyond caring, just wanting to survive this moment, she dripped another smidgen of morphine onto her tongue. Calm down, lungs, please.
“If not for you, she’d still be alive.”
NO NO.
White hot despair and guilt coursed through her, so molten that anger seeped in around its edges. She pictured her mom striding away from her, hurrying away really, because she’d wanted to flee her spiteful child. Merrit opened her mouth, but nothing came out except a painful wheeze.
“You should never have been born. A mistake.”
NO NO NO.
Merrit clenched the morphine syringe, shaking. The fly still buzzed, louder than ever. Her vision narrowed into a dark tunnel through which all she saw was Andrew’s caved-in face. His hateful face.
“The man your precious mom fucked right before she fucked me back in 1975? He never wanted you either. Ask him yourself. After you read the notebook.”
Her head exploded. “Shut up!” she screamed.
*****
The white hot rage subsided and Merrit’s vision cleared. She blinked, disoriented and shaky with leftover adrenaline. It took her a moment to realize that she still held the syringe. She gaped down at the plastic vial—now empty—and then at Andrew’s self-satisfied rictus of a smile, at his eyes focused on nothing. Depleted to her very core, she sank to the ground and let the syringe roll off her palm. The haunting image of the church gazed down at her as it always had, but now it also beckoned her. Come home to Ireland, it seemed to say. Find out the truth.
A trickle of longing surprised her. Yes, she’d discover the truth that had simmered beneath the facade of her parents’ marriage, which was the truth that defined Merrit’s very existence. Her mom died long ago, leaving Merrit alone with Andrew. Now Andrew was dead, leaving her—what?
Guilty. Lost. Possibly irredeemable.
She stared at the empty syringe lying beside her on the rug. The truth. From her real father.
Part I
Friday, August 29th – Sunday, August 31st
“Better well-intentioned duplicity than truth’s fallout.”
—Liam the Matchmaker
Liam Donellan’s journal
Ah Kevin, as you know, we Irish, closet superstition mongers all, find solace and hope in imagining faeries, in calling upon the spirits of the long departed in moments of stress, in deifying the woman who gave birth to Jesus. Whether the wood sprite at home in the local thicket or the Holy Virgin, we Irish, we tend to prefer our myths to daily realities. Hence, the fame of the Matchmaker of Lisfenora. Me.
In the ’70s free-lovers traveled here in hopes of a good shag during the matchmaking festival. And you’d best believe I was the shag king who scoffed when a stranger proclaimed that my swagger masked kindness, the proof of which was my talent for creating happily-ever-afters. Matchmaking is the best part of me, true, but only a part of a flawed whole.
Here’s what she said, this stranger: “You have something, whether it’s an amazing knowledge of human nature or an uncanny sixth sense, I don’t know. What do you call this ability of yours?”
She was an American journalist, you see, and she wanted a rational explanation for my success rate. So I said, “There are math and music prodigies, no one doubts that, so why not a—” and here I stopped for I didn’t know what to call myself. A gut-instinct virtuoso? An intuition whiz? Bloody hell, an empath—that soulless word used in science fiction?
“Call me charmed for it,” I said.
Chapter 1
For the seventh day in a row, Merrit sat on a plaza bench in Lisfenora, County Clare, Ireland. She sat with back straight and sure against the bench, and with bare legs stretched out and crossed at the ankle. Unlike most tourists—especially her fellow Americans—she wore flip-flops instead of sturdy walking sandals, and a skirt instead of hiking shorts. Day after day, she appeared to be waiting for someone. While she waited, she jabbed her knitting needles through blue yarn hard enough to skewer the poor sheep to death.
One of the locals, Marcus Tully, lounged beside Merrit with hands settled over his crotch. A fresh, unopened flask perched next to him. As usual, Merrit had invaded his self-assigned bench in the plaza with its centerpiece statue depicting an illustrious O’Brien of generations past. Fuchsia-lined walkways radiated from the statue like bicycle spokes. Sunlight cast a mellow glow onto colorful gift shops and pubs that pushed up against the sidewalks. All of it was bathed in an Irish heat, milky and cocoon-like compared with August in California.
Merrit stopped knitting to stretch out her fingers and gaze around the village. She reminded herself to be grateful that her journey had brought her to Lisfenora rather than to one of the nondescript villages she’d driven through after her red-eye flight. Lisfenora was only thirty-five miles from the Shannon International Airport, yet she’d imagined she was driving into the outback, Irish style. Drystone walls snaked for miles over the hillsides, delineating emptiness rather than relieving it. One-horse—or maybe that would be one-pub—villages rose out of the early morning mists and slid away as the green expanses took over again. The roads narrowed, and Merrit hugged the embankments as she drove, unsure of herself because of the left-handed road rules. She gripped the steering wheel and scraped along the hedgerows, predicting head-on collisions every time a car barreled toward her from the opposite direction.
Two hours after leaving the airport she had arrived in Lisfenora jet-lagged and frazzled, but also intact despite the scratches marring her rental car’s paint job. One glimpse at Lisfenora and she’d heaved a soul-unburdening sigh. Charming, yes, and lively, and obviously historic. It was a far cry from the claustrophobia and trauma she’d left behind in California.
Lovely, all of it, and s
he’d absorbed everything from the failte welcome mats to the old-fashioned name boards and cheery shop fronts, trying to imagine what her mom had felt when she’d first seen the village. The fact that her mom had looked upon the same stained glass transom windows had amazed Merrit most of all.
Unfortunately, after a week, her amazement had long since faded. She was here for a purpose, after all, and her purpose had led her to pester every local she’d met to no avail. She’d given up cajoling information out of Marcus days ago.
“I’m after warning you not to waste your time,” he’d said. “Liam’s address and phone number are off limits to tourists. You’ll have to wait for the matchmaking festival to start and stand in line with the rest of the love-starved wankers.”
The problem was that Merrit wasn’t just any tourist, was she? She’d bet Marcus would lead her to Liam the Matchmaker if she revealed she was Liam’s long-lost biological daughter. But this knowledge was hers and hers alone.
Well, almost hers alone. Anxiety constricted her chest as she fumbled her knitting. She counted back the stitches along the shorter edge of the afghan and continued on with the trim that she’d begun earlier in the day.
“Yonder Ivan, one of God’s own victims,” Marcus said as a short man with jutting Adam’s apple and red Albert Einstein hair rounded a street corner and disappeared from view.
Merrit waited, hoping for more, then shrugged away the knot in her stomach, or rather, tried to, but the same tension that disturbed her sleep prevented her from relaxing now. “I wouldn’t call Ivan a victim. He seems savvy in his own way.”
“And how would you be knowing that?”
“I’ve met him. At the Internet café.”
Marcus’s grunt came along with a wrist flick. He drank with athletic gulps as if his body needed replenishing—and fast. The silver vessel settled back onto his lap, discreetly covered by his hands. Merrit thought he’d doze, but he surprised her.
“I’m a bloody ghost for all I’m noticed.” He nodded to himself. “Sozzled I may be, but I’m not deaf or blind. Oh, and here comes that Lonnie the Lovely. Bloody piece of shite. Who’s minding the café while Ivan is at his lunch?”
Marcus sank into grumbles as Lonnie came abreast of them from the direction of the hotel that lined one side of the plaza. Merrit averted her gaze, trying to keep her needles clicking in steady fashion. Her knuckles turned white with the effort.
“Marcus, you manky old git,” Lonnie said, “made your move on Merrit yet? Get on with you or I will.”
“You’d like to try, wouldn’t you then. Push yourself on her. That’s your way, you damned—”
“Watch yourself, old man.” Lonnie turned toward Merrit, smiling as if Marcus didn’t exist. “Pleasure to see you again.”
Lonnie in his tight Euro-jeans and linen dress shirt bowed to Merrit and strolled off in the direction of Internet Café, which he owned.
“You stay away from him,” Marcus said. “He’s a shifty sort.”
Too late. Since Merrit’s arrival, Lonnie had aimed himself at her like a money-seeking homing device. Within twenty-four hours of meeting her, he’d boasted of knowing that she was Liam’s bastard daughter—and of knowing a few other things besides. What he might know about her had caused her lungs to spasm. She’d peppered him with the obvious questions. How could you possibly know I’m Liam’s daughter? What other things do you mean? Other things about me, or about Liam, or both?
Unfortunately, Lonnie had only smiled and shrugged. “I’ll let you dangle for a while longer. More interesting that way.”
Slimebag.
Lonnie could sabotage her fresh start with a fresh parent. What a depressing, not to mention infuriating, thought. This was why she couldn’t sleep, and why she sat here knitting an afghan when she could be out exploring the ancient sites her mom had visited thirty years ago, especially the church that had haunted Merrit from its position on the living room wall. Merrit longed to feel Atlantic winds chapping her cheeks and scouring out the ache that had shackled her since long before Andrew’s death.
Instead, here she loitered, vigilant despite Marcus’s insistence that before the festival started she’d sooner see a leprechaun than see Liam. She loathed the idea of Liam learning about her from a nasty piece of work called Lonnie O’Brien. Yes, he was one of those O’Briens, descended from the founding father himself to hear Lonnie tell it. And he was quite the talker when it suited him. She imagined gossip about her circulating the pubs, which was to say the village. Lonnie could say anything, and she’d had enough public speculation aimed in her direction to last the rest of her life. This was a good enough reason for her to pay Lonnie cash in exchange for his silence. For now.
She dropped her needles and slouched like Marcus. Meeting Liam wasn’t supposed to be this difficult. She couldn’t have predicted villagers circling the wagons around their celebrity, this matchmaker who’d put Lisfenora on the map, who’d managed to turn an annual festival into an event known to lovelorn singles all over Europe and North America. Unfortunately, the longer her quest took, the more apprehensive she became. The possibility of rejection loomed larger than she had expected now that she was actually in Ireland.
“Look there, will you?” Marcus said, interrupting Merrit’s thoughts. “Now you’ll be seeing how beloved is your Lonnie. That’s Danny Ahern.”
Marcus had brightened at the sight of the man named Danny, a detective sergeant, Marcus said. Perhaps this detective sergeant with the careworn facial stubble and graceful hands could help her out with her Lonnie problem.
“See there?” Marcus said.
Indeed, Danny had stiffened at the sight of Lonnie and then plastered a neutral—some might call it professional—smile on his face. The two men stood at the edge of the plaza near a row of parked cars, Lonnie doing all the talking and Danny all the nodding. After a moment, Lonnie walked on and Danny grimaced in Marcus’s direction. “Cheers, Marcus,” he called. “Have to get on, but you’ll take care not to annoy our Lonnie, will you? Seems to think your presence might be throwing off his business.”
“Piss poor shite I call that!”
A smile sparkled for the barest moment before Danny tossed up a wave and departed.
“Village life,” Marcus said, yawning. “After a time, you’ll recognize all its muck, sitting here. Not that Lisfenora’s muck is special in that regard. That Danny’s a good one though. A lifesaver to me, that’s the truth. And like a second son to Liam, I might add. Quite the threesome, them.”
Second son?
“The matchmaker has a son?” Merrit said.
“Indeed. Kevin. But he’s not much about the village since last year’s festival. Been keeping himself scarce you might say. As anyone might expect, truth be told.”
Merrit waited, but once again Marcus lapsed into silence. That was the problem with Marcus—just when he started to open up, he stopped talking. Still. A son, a brother. Maybe she could get to know Liam’s son first. She imagined a man similar to her, but younger—yes, surely several years younger—with reddish brown hair and a small bone structure. She’d always wanted a brother. How she used to pester her mom to have a baby, little knowing that her mom could no longer bear children after her own birth.
Her mom had loved children.
Marcus’s head tilted onto his shoulder. His eyelids fluttered, and Merrit leaned closer, breathing in the smell of mint toothpaste and gin fumes. The bags under his eyes looked heavier today, swollen with bluish half circles. As ever, sitting next to him comforted yet pained her. She was drawn to his kindly father-figure presence, and it was this, precisely, that caused her heart to clutch with worry about his welfare. Marcus, a widower for many years now, had admitted to a daughter dead to him, yet he also appeared in clean slacks and button-down shirt. Thankfully, someone helped him out, and this someone probably provided the mint toothpaste, too. Unfortunately, Marcus’s patron didn’t bother about Marcus’s tatty sneakers painted with green and yellow stripes—some teena
ger’s idea of a fun time while Marcus snoozed, so he said.
“Marcus?”
He harrumphed.
“Tonight I’ll finish this afghan for you. It’s the least I can do in exchange for invading your space all the time. You’re my first friend here, you know.”
“Off with you then. I’m that wrecked.”
“OK, but I’m coming back later with food. I insist you eat something.”
Merrit rolled up the afghan and tucked it under her arm. Despite Marcus’s terse shrug, she spied the beginnings of a smile stretching his lips. He’d never toss aside one of her afghans like so much garbage, leaving her to wonder why she’d bothered.
Chapter 2
Merrit walked down one of the plaza’s paved spokes, hoping to catch sight of Danny, the detective sergeant. From what Marcus had said, Danny was an honorary member of Liam’s family. She could introduce herself, start a conversation, bring up Liam. She could try, anyhow.
The plaza sat like a bump at the top of the T-juncture where Burren Street ended at what the locals called the noncoastal road, which was to say that in either direction it meandered toward the coast through other noncoastal villages with other plazas. Turning right once she reached the noncoastal, Merrit headed toward the village church, which wasn’t breathtaking—hardly St. Patrick’s Cathedral—but in a certain light, like now when softened through clouds, the nineteenth-century walls reflected a peaceful yellowish glow.
The detective sergeant had disappeared into the throngs of tourists who strolled along in a carefree way, no doubt anticipating their future love connections. Merrit squeezed through a gaggle of Germans and pardoned herself past two Englishmen until she was forced to slow down behind a gang of women who turned out to be none other than Lonnie the Lovely’s mother and sisters. Just her luck. She backtracked but not fast enough to avoid catching the matriarch’s eye through their reflections in a pharmacy window.
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