"Never. I will not believe it." He stood so swiftly she gasped. "He was but a child, younger even than Kitty. We teased him to distraction. Kitty would never have married Andrew."
Before she could say anything else, he began to fade.
"Fitz, are you all right?"
"Never. Never. Never."
And then he was gone.
The sunlight was just beginning to streak through the filmy windows. She collected the papers, pulled a few more threads from Donal Byrne's blazer, and went into the kitchen for a strong cup of tea.
Maura was just finishing the last page of Donal's papers when someone knocked on the front door. She had slipped into an old pair of jeans and a green sweater, both of which offered warmth against the chilly, damp morning,
It was something of a surprise that Donal Byrne, the coldly calculating businessman, could write with such passion. For long stretches she even forgot who the author was, that he considered her an "obstacle,"
that every kindness had been part of an overall battle plan.
Had she read his papers without knowing him, she would have wanted to meet him.
The second knock was louder than the first, and she reached the front door before the third.
It was Donal Byrne.
"I hope I didn't wake you," he said charmingly.
Her stomach flip-flopped, and she crossed her arms.
"No. I was awake, reading your papers."
"Were you?" The smile dropped from his face. He seemed so fresh, so clean. "What did you think? I wrote them years ago, of course. Were they of any help?"
"Yes. Thank you. They were very interesting." She shifted, aware that she should probably ask him in for tea or coffee. But she was unable to get the memo out of her mind. However wonderful he seemed, that one slip of paper held his real thoughts about her, all she needed to know.
"Are you sure all of your information was accurate?"
"Why, yes. I didn't vary from the basic historical facts. I simply elaborated on the possible reasoning behind them." He ducked, as if trying to get a better view of her face. "Are you angry with me?"
"No. Why would I be angry with you? I hardly know you."
"You just seem, well, distant."
A car horn honked as it turned a corner, and she glanced over at it. Anything to avoid looking into his face.
"I suppose you want your blazer back." "Well, yes." "I'll get it for you."
It was rude to leave him standing on the steps, but she had to get away, to put some space between them. The house seemed a warm comfort, refuge from the world, folding her into its safe walls.
When she picked up the jacket, she made sure the memo was still in the same pocket. And she pushed his papers back into the manila envelope. Nothing should remain of him. Nothing at all. He was pulling up a sock when she returned. "My socks don't match." He grinned. "I believe if the mystery of the Bermuda Triangle were ever to be solved, it would contain at least five dozen of my socks alone."
"And pens," she answered before thinking. "Boxes of pens that seem to evaporate the moment they're opened."
Why did she answer him?
He laughed, and she shoved the blazer and the envelope at him. "Here."
For a moment he seemed startled. "Thank you. By the way, last night was grand." She said nothing.
"I was wondering if you would like to have dinner again tonight. There's a place in Donnybrook I've heard of, very posh. I would even drive, so you can wear stilts if you please." "No, thank you." "No?" "That's what I said. I appreciate the offer, but no,
thank you."
"Tomorrow night, then?"
"No, thank you. Listen, I really have to be going now."
"Maura, I..."
"Good-bye." She hesitated just a moment before closing the door. From the other side he could hear the latch tumble into place. She was locked in, he was locked out.
Slipping on the blazer, he stood staring at the park across the street. A child ran from its mother, and an old man walking a tiny dog stopped to light a cigarette.
It was an odd house, to be sure. And the woman residing within seemed to fit it perfectly.
So why did he feel as if he had just been kicked in the stomach? It was an unfamiliar, uncomfortable reaction, one he did not like. Not one bit.
The meeting was going well.
Donal stood at the podium, looking down at all of his superiors from the pharmaceutical company. He knew them all, had known them and worked with them for a decade.
Yet somehow, here in Dublin they seemed like strangers. They whispered in German and spoke to him in German, even though most of them spoke perfect English. It was as if they felt it necessary to assert their nationality, to make sure they did not become Irish during their three-day stay.
Had he been like that in Munich?
"Ladies and gentlemen," he began, fumbling with his papers. This was to be the final meeting. Once they saw the factory, the possibilities, it was a done deal. "The Irish government is prepared to make a very generous deal in terms of tax benefits."
When he was in Munich, he remained stubbornly Irish. He spoke his German with a broad West Cork accent, even though he could speak the language fluently, idiomatically. Just as the Germans held on to their language, he had done the same.
As did Americans.
What had happened with Maura?
"Furthermore, should any land adjoining the property become available, the government will match, punt per punt, whatever we negotiate. In other words, we will get the land for half price."
They did not seem to understand him. There was a delay, then murmuring, and finally slow applause.
Had he said something to cause offense?
The night before, at dinner with Maura, he had tried to behave correctly, but he had been taken by surprise when he discovered how very much he enjoyed her company. There were moments, long stretches, when he actually forgot why he was with her, who she was and his ultimate goal. She was simply a delightful companion, fun and bright and so beautiful that he found it almost painful to look into her eyes. Could she be angry about his behavior? No. That wasn't it. The evening had been exactly as he had described it—grand.
Someone was asking a question, a stout man in the back. He knew the man's name, could even envision the man's wife—an equally stout woman with a single graying braid wrapped around her head. Yet he was unable to recall his name.
Donal had not been listening.
"Excuse me?"
The man repeated his question in German.
Suddenly Donal couldn't understand the words. They all ran together, spilling into the air like so much muck, meaningless, almost funny.
He had never been nervous in front of an audience, never thought twice about getting up and speaking before large groups. Now he felt silly and self-conscious.
"Urn," he said clearly. "Yes. Of course."
He tugged at the button on his jacket cuff as he spoke. "Now, of course . .."
The entire sleeve tore away.
There was a hush over the room as he very deliberately pulled the sleeve off, watching with a detached fascination as he held up the blue blazer sleeve. He placed it on the podium, and yanked at the other sleeve. That, too, pulled from his body, smooth as silk.
He laid the second sleeve next to the first on the podium.
"Any more questions?"
At that a few of the people began to laugh. Gingerly at first, then, as he smiled back, the laughter exploded. They all thought it was planned, part of his presentation. And they loved it.
He slipped his hand into a pocket as they applauded, and felt a piece of paper there. As some of the Germans rose to their feet, he glanced at the paper.
The memo. He hadn't been able to find it. He'd written it days prior to her arrival. There wasn't even a date on it. It had been his smug plan to remove her, the faceless American.
Not that he would have carried through with such brutal force. The memo had been more of a sabre-rattling exerci
se for himself than an actual game plan. He had used the words obstacle and force and, to add to the insults, persuasion.
And with certainty, he knew Maura had read it.
"Thank you," he said, stepping down from the podium in his blue blazer vest, threads waving at the
armholes.
"Donal, don't you have more to say?" hissed the red-haired fellow from the government. What was his
name again?
"Could you take over for me? I have a telephone call to make." He shook the man's hand and headed for the exit, leaving the sleeves dangling.
All he could think of was how she must have felt when she read the memo.
That, and how cruel he had been to a woman whose only crime so far had been that her refusal to sell her company was standing in the way of his dream.
Something was wrong with him. Perhaps he should have heeded the advice of his physician. When Donal had made a simple request for something to help him sleep at night, the doctor had suggested he see a psychiatrist instead, that sleeping pills would only mask the symptom but not address the problem itself. Then again there were the dreams, always the dreams, of a house and time, of people who seemed vivid in bursts of light, so real at moments they overshadowed his waking hours. He had invented an alternate life for himself, one of love and joy and even
fear and confusion, a place he could forever dwell without the risks of reality. He needed to speak to someone about it all, and someday he probably would.
But what could a psychiatrist tell him that he didn't already know? That he was lonely, that the success of his career had not filled the hole that seemed to be at his very core, the emptiness that was now so ingrained it was a part of his identity.
No, it was his identity. He was defined by this aloofness, the brittle veneer that kept most people safely at bay. Without another person questioning, wondering, he could avoid peering into his own depths and exploring all that was lacking.
So he had been taking over-the-counter sleeping pills, not that they did any good. Slumber and peace still eluded him.
The way he had treated Maura was part of the problem now, and he had no right to make her miserable simply because his own life was so empty. He had no right at all.
He needed to make a telephone call, and he needed to do it before he lost the courage. chapter 8
The idea came to Maura that afternoon. Like most great ideas, it occurred while she was doing anything but trying to come up with a great idea.
It was so obvious, the way to save Maiden Works, that she dropped the paper towel she was using to clean a front window and simply stared back into the parlor. Her eyes did not take in the mess, the dirt and dust it would take weeks to even make a scratch in. Instead she saw the future.
She would turn Maiden Works into a successful
business.
The smile spread across her face as her mind elaborated. The building was quaint, in a tumbledown sort of way. All she had to do was add a thatched roof, and presto, Maiden Works could go from a money-losing furniture factory to a folk museum. The employees could stay on, from Kermit MacGee to Jimmy O'Neil and everyone in between,
but they would be dressed in authentic period clothing.
Of course, she could decide on a specific period at a later date. That didn't really matter.
What did matter was that the building was on a main road, directly en route to the Wicklow mountains. The workers could go from manufacturing unsold furniture to manufacturing tourist goods. The possibilities were endless—they could make doll furniture. No, better yet, Fairy Furniture. Spelled "Faerie" or in some other archaic fashion. They could also make shillelaghs. And, of course, wooden shamrocks and key rings and perhaps even tiny villages.
But before the busloads of tourists would be taken to the shop, they could watch the men working away, sipping their tea and chatting among themselves.
Perhaps the tourists could even have tea with the workers!
Hopefully, these changes would bring in enough money to save her father's company. But until then, she would probably have to sell the town home to keep everything afloat. The house alone would fetch a good price, as would the contents, the furniture, and carpets.
But what about the ghost?
"Don't think about that," she said to herself. Perhaps this was better, just to sell the house and get on with her life. Perhaps she was becoming too absorbed in the life of a dead man to be considered altogether sane. The house, with all of its secrets and charms, was making her downright wiggy.
Of course she would need to convince Charles MacGuire of the importance of the plan. There wouldn't be much of a problem there. He seemed
to ...
"You!" Maura had very nearly walked right through Fitzwilliam Connolly, who stood leaning against the
doorway.
"Indeed."
"Please," she gasped, placing her hand over her racing heart. "Please don't do that again. You scared
me to death."
"Well, at least then we'd be on equal footing," he grinned. "I do apologize for not announcing my arrival in a more suitable fashion."
Finally she, too, smiled. "It is your home, Fitz. You
just startled me."
"I've been meaning to ask you something." "Really? Go ahead, I'm waiting." "Why in the name of Jesus do you call me Fitz? In my entire lifetime, and as far as I can tell beyond that, I have not been called Fitz. Only rarely was I called Fitzwilliam, and that was mainly from blood relations who had lived under the same roof for more than a decade,"
"What did your younger brother call you?"
He laughed, and Maura was taken aback by how
white and strong his teeth were, whiter even than his
shirt. A piece of hair had fallen from the leather tie
that held it, and he pushed it out of his way with an
impatient hand. "Andrew called me Fitzwilly. I suggest you refrain
from addressing me thusly." "Why is that?" "Because I was usually forced to halt him by means
of physical force, by tickling or holding him by his ankles over a horse trough." As he spoke, the smile gradually faded.
And Maura, as she watched his expression change, realized the same thing: He could no longer perform even the slightest of physical tasks.
"Oh," she whispered. "I'm sorry."
"Nay. Do not worry yourself." He straightened. "How can a man who is unable to hold a piece of paper be a threat? I am far from even becoming a nuisance."
"Ha. That's what you think, barging in here unannounced."
He remained silent, nodding once in acknowledgment of what she had said.
"I do not know precisely why I am here now," he admitted, glancing around the room.
"Have you ever been here in the daytime? I mean, since .. . well. You know what I mean."
"Not that I can recall. It all seems . . ." He rubbed his eyes, suddenly fatigued. "I feel as if I have been asleep for a long time. And during that slumber I have been dreaming all sorts of peculiar things, of people I've never seen coming and going, of extraordinary clothing—women in monstrous attire, men in strange cloaks, with hair shorn and whiskers long. And I dreamed of children, unfamiliar children who seemed to grow quickly, and then they were gone."
She wanted to ask him questions, yet did not wish to invade any sort of sense of privacy, to strip away the only thing he had left.
"And then I recall a funny old man in a tasseled hat."
"Delbert! I'll bet that's who it was—the man who I inherited this place from."
"Is that who it was?" His gaze rested on her for an uncomfortably long while. "And then I saw you."
She swallowed and began to look away, but his eyes, his very presence was far too compelling.
"I watched you while you slept."
"You did?"
"I should probably apologize for that as well, for watching a woman as she slumbers alone in her bed."
Shifting her weight, Maura crossed h
er arms and shrugged. "These are rather extraordinary circumstances. I don't suppose there are any set rules of etiquette for this situation. It's a far cry from no white shoes after Labor Day or chewing with your mouth
closed."
Again he said nothing for a long while, simply watching her movements. He remained motionless.
A chill seemed to flutter through the room, to fill the corners and cause the drapes to move so lightly, it may have been her imagination.
When she turned around he was gone. She knew, even before she looked, that he had left. The emptiness had already told her. "I hope you come back," she whispered. The telephone rang, an intrusive, angry sound in the quiet gentleness of the moment.
"Please come back," she repeated as she went into the kitchen and picked up the phone. "Hello?"
"Maura, this is Donal Byrne." Her first instinct was simply to hang up, but she resisted. Instead she remained silent.
"I know you're there," he said. "I can hear you breathing."
"Yes. I'm still here."
"Maura, listen. I have to explain something—this isn't easy for me. Will you hear me out?"
"For a few minutes."
"Thank you. First of all, I have to tell you that I enjoyed last night. I did not know what to expect, but much to my surprise I truly enjoyed your company."
"Much to your surprise? How very kind of you to . . ."
He laughed, but this time she did not feel herself responding. "Poor choice of words. I am not used to wearing my heart on my sleeve. In truth, at the moment I have no sleeves at all."
"Would you, by chance, be wearing your blue blazer?"
"As a matter of fact I am. It is more of a blazer-vest now. Sure to set a fashion trend in Germany."
"Germany? Why in Germany?"
"Because that's where the executives are from."
"You've lost me."
"The executives to whom I was giving a major presentation. They seemed delighted with the pull-away sleeves."
"Well.. ." She would not feel guilty. She refused to allow herself any regret for what she had done. "Why don't you just write them a memo? You seem to have a gift in the realm of brief, concise statements."
"Maura," he began, then he stopped. "I wrote that sometime last week, and I never did send it. It was pure business. You know, it was a bluff—really bluffing no one but myself." "So you wrote a memo that you had no intention of