The Conor McBride Series Books 1-3

by Kathryn Guare

  Conor looked down at the bench, a different sort of pain slicing through his chest. "I doubt she wants anything from me."

  "Nonsense. Who do you suppose sent me over with the tea? I mentioned you were not in your room and she instantly knew where you'd gone. She was quite alarmed." Frank smiled. "A little time and space my boy, and patience. You are a challenging package of oddities to be sure, but Kate is a woman of spirit, and you are far too good—and far too handsome—for her to give up on you."

  In the week following Frank's departure, Kate slept little, usually waking with a dull headache and a jaw so clenched she had to coax her brain into letting it loose. She spent the better part of each day in her office with the door closed, emerging only to escape into the twilight for a restless hike through woods and meadows.

  Her predominant emotion during this time was anger. Not a blistering rage—that might have blazed hot and fast and burned out more quickly. Her anger seemed like a low fever she tended daily, a symptom to indulge when the underlying disease is too frightening to tackle. It took root with the first glimpse of her wedding portrait lying exposed on the coffee table as a bloodless piece of evidence, and it became the only firewall she had to prevent the revelation from destroying her.

  Irrational and unfocused, nothing wandering within its radius was exempt from her resentment, including Conor. She made no pretense about her intention to avoid him, but on the rare occasions when their paths did cross she didn't ignore him—she did something worse. She managed their exchanges by playing the role of the quintessential innkeeper asking after her guests. How did he feel? Was there anything he needed? Her superficial tone clearly hurt him, but she couldn't seem to stop. Conor didn't complain, and since she treated him like a guest he behaved as one. He kept mostly to his room as he convalesced, playing his violin softly in the mornings, and she often heard his lilting voice in the lobby outside her office, charming the real guests into senseless enchantment.

  Abigail served as their reluctant envoy, passing messages and providing updates in sad confusion until Kate at last confided in her. The situation once more proved the solid worth of her friend. Kate had always known Abigail's blustering theatrics were a salt meant to flavor the environment as needed. She understood when to grind the mill, and when to put it away. With tensions running high Abigail provided quiet leadership, comforting the inn's skittish staff and offering a listening ear for its two most miserable occupants.

  The crisis reached its tipping point after eight days, on an evening of cold rain. Kate had stopped in the relative shelter of some pine trees, near the composting remains of the garden. She saw Conor coming across the meadow with a closed umbrella, his capped head bent against the icy downpour. Reaching her, he offered the umbrella with a tentative smile, but she crossed her arms and gazed beyond his shoulder.

  "You're being foolish." She sniffed. "You shouldn't be out here in this."

  "I might venture to say the same. Here. Take this if you're going to stay outside."

  She took the umbrella roughly from his hand. "Why don't you ever use one yourself for God's sake?"

  He stuck his hands into his pockets and shrugged. "Because men are feckin' eejits. We'd sooner be caught naked than under an umbrella."

  "That's ridiculous."

  "Yeah."

  At least she'd managed to stop talking to him like a robotic hostess, but Kate couldn't bring herself to go further. She stood under the umbrella, signaling him with stony silence.

  "Kate, I understand you don't want to talk to me. I suppose I just wanted to tell you how sorry—"

  "Conor, stop." She held up a hand, frowning impatiently. "Look, a lot of this isn't even about you, so don't try to take it all on and be a martyr to some misplaced sense of guilt. You do that, you know."

  "Right, but—"

  "No." She motioned again for him to stop. "Shut up and listen. You didn't lie through two years of marriage or let me nearly drown in the ocean, or do anything to try to hurt me. You don't own that guilt, so leave it alone. But you did bring this down on me. Of course you didn't intend to, but because you showed up at my door I'm dealing with something I might never have needed to know, and you know what? That would have been fine. He lied to me, he nearly got me killed, he robbed me and was ready to try again, but however unintentional, the one kindness Michael did for me was to let me think he was dead. What good does it do me to know the truth? What the fuck am I supposed to do with it? I've got all this unwanted reality and for that, yes, you're right to apologize. For that, you need my forgiveness."

  "Will I ever get it, do you think?"

  "I don't know."

  Conor's head had been bowed throughout this tirade, his face obscured by his cap. Now, he pulled the bill more firmly over his eyes, and without looking up turned and walked back to the house.

  As soon as he'd left her, Kate realized the anger that had fortified her was exhausted, expelled into the night with one furious outburst. In its place, confusion and sorrow finally came forward, like a distant relative at a funeral, waiting in the corner until recognized.

  She'd committed to a life with the man she knew as Michael Fitzpatrick because she thought it offered more meaning than the lifestyle her family embodied. She'd treasured the memory of every happy time they'd shared, but now she reflected on the moments of unease she'd banished from her mind, of his aloof moods and unusual limitations. Of disappointments she'd accepted. She'd too easily assumed responsibility for everything. Her own privileged upbringing had created a sense of self-conscious guilt, something that seemed like the opposite of entitlement. He'd seen her vulnerability, and had used it against her.

  What could she infer from any fonder memories, now? Those times when they'd been happy together. Had any of his attentions been sincere, or merely tactics employed to advance an end? Was anything they'd shared genuine? Had he loved her at all?

  The sobs came at last, and she was relieved to finally give in to them. Kate turned and put her face to the rough, cracked bark of the pine tree, surrendering to the pain her soul must accept if it was ever to heal.

  She returned long past the dinner hour, slipping in through the front door. Being Monday, the dining room was closed, the ground floor quiet. The darkness was softened by pools of light from the few scattered lamps that remained on through the night. Kate heard the muffled movements of guests overhead, and she smelled bacon, which meant Conor must have eaten breakfast for supper again. A "fry up" as he called it, was about the sum total of his cooking prowess.

  She retreated upstairs, took a long hot shower, and put on a pair of silver silk pajamas. Then, she crept back down to the kitchen to fix herself a sandwich and a cup of tea. She left the lights off and sat eating in darkness, listening to the wind and the occasional creaks of the settling house, at peace for the first time in weeks.

  She paused on the way back to her room, seeing the light still spilling from a crack under Conor's door. She thought of his face as she'd railed at him—bleak and compliant, as if her negation was no more than he deserved.

  He hadn't deserved it, of course. She'd perversely withheld forgiveness for something that wasn't his fault. After a few seconds of indecision Kate walked to his door. She knocked, and entered at his quick invitation.

  Conor reclined on the bed with a book propped open on his chest, in the same V-necked sweater and gray khakis he'd been wearing on the day she met him. He looked well; his color was good and his eyes had recovered their dark glitter. He seemed surprised and hesitantly pleased to see her, but now that she was inside the room Kate wasn't sure how to begin.

  "I noticed your light. I just wanted to make sure you were okay. You were insane to go out in the pouring rain, Conor. The doctors warned—"

  "Right." He cut her off quietly, a flash of disappointment in his eyes. "The summary of what the doctors have warned me about is already well represented, and repeated often. Thanks for checking, though. I'm fine."

  "I'm sorry. I didn't mea
n to start out like that."

  She considered leaving, but then came in and closed the door behind her, leaning against it. Conor swung his legs from the bed and sat up to face her. He looked wary, and she didn't blame him. Almost too afraid to go on, she stalled for time.

  "What are you reading?"

  Without taking his eyes from hers he shut the book and showed her the cover. Robert Frost. "The man to go to. Sort of like Vermont's version of Yeats."

  "The secret sits in the middle." She gave a shaky laugh. "I'd never heard it before, and now that poem seems like the theme to our life."

  Our life. The inclusive pronoun was not lost on him, and seeing his hopeful smile Kate's eyes filled. She'd been damaged, and had paid dearly for her misplaced trust—but so had he. They each had what the other needed.

  "Will you help me?" she whispered. "I can't sit there alone with it."

  He was on his feet before she'd finished. Kate lifted her arms to circle his neck and sank her fingers into his hair, feeling his chest expand in a grateful sigh as she kissed him. It was long and deep and she was the first to come up for air. Undeterred, Conor moved down her neck, his breath stuttering as her hands slipped beneath his sweater, pressing against the warm, hard muscle of his stomach before sliding down under his belt.

  Shaking, she fumbled with buckle, button and zipper while his fingers moved up her sides until the slippery silver top was lifted off over her head. He explored every inch of her with slow intensity, his mouth lingering on each susceptible area and landing at last on a place that turned her legs to water. With a hand on the small of her back, he pulled her against him with a jerk, and she felt as much as heard his gravel-edged hum of satisfaction.

  "Come here to me, chuisle. You've more sweet spots than a honeycomb. Let's see how many more we can find." They stepped from the tangle of clothing on the floor and he drew her down onto the bed. As her hips settled against him, he took in a sharp breath.

  "Did I hurt you?" Kate gently ran her fingers over his side, and Conor exhaled a quiet laugh.

  "Not there. And not the way you think."

  He rolled her beneath him, his mouth covering hers while his calloused fingertips began a slow passage over the curve of her breast and down her stomach. The indescribable sensation pulled a husky, unfamiliar sound from her throat, and as her back arched, Kate felt something dig into the back of her shoulder. Without pausing, Conor reached behind her and pushed the book to the floor. It landed with a ponderous thud as his musical voice sounded close her ear.

  "Good night Robert, aul' fella. Promises to keep, don't you know."

  27

  As the last sliver of space between them disappeared, Kate’s universe condensed until it contained only as much as her arms and legs could embrace. Later, exhausted but ready to talk, they tentatively confronted the "secret" sitting in the middle, and the enigma at the source of all of its pain. Once started their conversation continued well into the night, streaming through a filter of bewilderment rather than anger. Some questions held out hope for solution—such as where the man might be and what he planned to do next—but others would remain forever unanswerable.

  "He sent me a Christmas card every year," Kate said. "A money-laundering, paramilitary fugitive, my fake dead husband, sent his fake widow a Christmas card every year. What kind of bastard does that?"

  "A sick bastard." Conor lay spooned against her with his hand resting on her stomach. Kate felt his chest moving in a deep, regular rhythm against her back.

  "Are you falling asleep?"

  "Absolutely not."

  His hand started traveling south. Kate smiled and captured his fingers, and since their electrifying texture was a matter of some fascination for her, she lifted them up for closer inspection.

  "I wonder if he thought this would happen. Between you and me." She brushed her lips along the top of each of Conor's fingers. "He set the whole thing up for you to come here. Why? Wasn't it a risk?"

  "Risk be damned. I think he can't resist fucking with people's lives. I was actually the one who suggested coming here. He'd mentioned this place a few times over the years—what a laugh it was, his cousin's widow trying to run a farm. I'm sure he had another laugh when I gave him an easy way to keep tabs on both of us. And here was me, sick with guilt and so grateful for his help. Good old Pip Ryan.”

  "I don't even know what name to call him anymore." Kate said.

  "I can think of a few."

  "You know what I mean."

  "Right." Conor sighed. "Let's follow Frank's lead and stick to Robert Durgan. The name for a man none of us knows."

  "What about me? He was declared dead. Am I still married? Or was that even legal?" Without warning, Kate felt close to crying again. "What do I call myself?"

  He swept aside her hair to deliver a warm kiss behind her ear. "I can think of a name there as well."

  Kate twisted in his arms to face him, smiling sadly. "Is this a proposal?"

  "Only if you're ready for one, but I'm guessing you're not."

  "When I am, will you ask again?"

  "I'll go on asking for the rest of my life. If that's what it takes." Conor's face was the very image of transparent sincerity. No mystery. No equivocation.

  "Don't be ridiculous." She snuggled in closer, tucking her head under his chin. "It's not going to take that long."

  With eyes still closed Kate shifted, rolling into the kiss lightly brushing her cheek while a hand on her waist stopped her momentum. She felt his lips curve into a smile.

  "Careful, love. You'll end up on the floor."

  Kate forced open one sleepy eyelid to focus on Conor, already dressed, kneeling by the edge of the bed in the pre-dawn darkness.

  "Sorry for waking you. Go back to sleep."

  "What time is it?"

  "Only half-four."

  "Oh my God." Kate burrowed drowsily under the covers. "How can you stand doing this every day?"

  He laughed, and kissed her again before getting to his feet. "I've got to admit, it just got a bit harder."

  After he left she drifted off, but woke less than an hour later with her arm stretched across the mattress, as though straining for something just out of reach. With the passage of years she'd grown accustomed to the emptiness next to her, but now after being warm and full for one night, the space seemed colder and twice as wide as she remembered. She pulled her arm back to the warmth of her side and decided there was no point in lying in bed any longer.

  She showered and dressed, but instead of heading downstairs Kate brewed coffee in the french press she kept in the apartment's kitchenette. She wasn't ready to put on her public face just yet, or confront any new challenges, or do anything that might resurrect the pain she and Conor had managed to subdue. Lingering in the moment, and hoping it could stretch around the clock to give them at least one normal day, she carried the steaming mug into her studio, drawn irresistibly to the window framing the barn on the opposite hillside. Through the darkness a light from the milk room beamed a watery fluorescent glow.

  After first ignoring them and suffering the consequences, Conor had obeyed the hospital's discharge orders and remained idle for a week before returning to work a few days earlier. Kate gazed at the square of light, visualizing him in the barn. The radio would be on—WDEV for the morning, VPR in the afternoon—its soundtrack occupying only half his mind while he moved in rhythmic, prayer-like stillness.

  A movement on the road caught her attention, and as Abigail's car turned up the driveway Kate realized she'd been staring and daydreaming for longer than she'd thought. She left her mug in the sink and headed downstairs for a second cup of coffee with her chef before beginning her own routine.

  Productivity eluded her that morning. Kate couldn't manage to concentrate on anything, but she finally switched on her computer and while it chugged to life she made a half-hearted attempt to organize the piles surrounding her, which gave her another excuse to think about Conor. She badly needed his flair for bringing
order to chaos, and decided to find some ploy to put him on desk duty one day soon.

  She reviewed the registration system for the day's arrivals and checked the dinner reservation list, and then opened her email. The first item in her inbox had been sent at two o'clock that morning. Kate clicked on it with a sense of foreboding, and needed only an instant to read its terse message.

  "Crap." She sat back and sighed, her tender fantasies colliding with reality. It was seven o'clock in the morning, and the "normal" part of her day was already over.

  "Ghedi, did you remember to pick up soy milk?" Abigail asked the question without turning from the stove. "We're due any minute for the special order I told you about yesterday. Oatmeal with raisins. Soy milk only."

  "Soy milk, ma'am? Oh yes, yes. Yes. Oh dear."

  Waiting for his breakfast at the kitchen island, Conor looked up from his newspaper. The Somalian chef's dark, liquid eyes had fastened on him in stark panic. He gave the young man a reassuring wink.