"Yes! Splendid, simply splendid—far better than I had ever hoped. Now, have you had a chance to chat with Charlie MacGuire?"
"No, I'm afraid not."
"Well, not to put too fine a point on it, but we really had best let him know all of these exciting goings-on. Can't have the solicitor left out in the cold, can we? Or is it out in the blue? I can never remember. Shall I give him a jingle?"
"Well..." She couldn't leave here. Not with everything so up in the air.
Not without Fitz.
"Please, dear. Do us both a favor and call Charles first thing in the morning."
"Do you suppose you could stall the buyer?"
Biddy looked stunned. "Why ever for? In hopes of getting a higher price? My dear, I can't imagine a higher price."
The telephone rang. "I'll be right back."
"Not to worry, my dear. I had nothing else to say, just popped by. Cheerio!"
And she vanished before Maura had a chance to ask her in. The phone rang again, but not before she realized why Biddy had left in such a rush.
The poor woman had sensed Fitz and probably the evil presence as well. She simply could not tolerate the place, and only the anticipation of a fast, lucrative sale could induce her to enter the doorway ever again.
"Hello." Straightening the cord, which had become entangled with a corner of the curtain, the phone slipped from her hand, clanking on the floor before she could return to the call.
"I'm sorry," she laughed. "I just dropped you. I'll begin again. Hello."
"Perhaps we should begin again." His voice was low, without any warmth or humor. "Donal! Oh, I'm so glad you called. I can explain this morning."
"You already have. There was another man there, and he was justifiably angered by my presence."
"No, no that's not the whole story. It's more complicated than that."
"There is nothing complicated about the situation. It's the oldest story in the world, Maura."
"Believe me, this one's got quite a twist."
"I'm sure it does."
With an exasperated sigh, she realized the only thing to do was to tell him the whole story. She had tried and utterly failed to come up with some logical explanation, but the further the tale would develop, the more questions arose than were answered. Perhaps he would think her insane.
On the other hand, Biddy Macguillicuddy might back her up on this one. She was most certainly aware of Fitzwilliam.
"Donal, I will explain, but I have to do this in person, face-to-face."
"I'm not sure that's a good idea. We seem to get into trouble when we see each other."
"Please. I really have to tell someone, and you're the only one with whom I feel comfortable sharing the whole story." That wasn't quite true. She'd rather not be forced to tell anyone, especially not Donal, but the fact was he had been witness to something that had to be explained.
"Fine. Where would you like to meet? There are a few things I need to tell you, as well."
"Could you come over here tonight?"
"Will your friend mind?"
"Don't make this any more difficult than it already is."
"I'm not the one making the situation difficult. Remember, I was the target, not the vase assassin. So I repeat, will your friend be there?"
"I'm not sure. He more or less comes and goes as he pleases. You'll understand better once I explain."
"That's unlikely," he muttered. "All right, fine. Should I come round at half six?"
She flipped up her wrist and checked her watch. That was a little more than two hours away. "Great. I'll see you then."
"Good-bye, Maura." There was a slight hesitation in his voice, as if he would say more.
"Bye."
Then she heard a gentle click and the peculiarly tinny dial tone.
At least she would see him tonight, she thought.
When the doorbell rang just a half hour later, Maura wrapped in a bathrobe, her hair scattered in wet tendrils about her shoulders, assumed it was Donal.
"An hour and a half early?" There wasn't time to do much more than shake her head like a retriever and answer the door.
It was Charles Macguire.
"Oh, dear me!" His face turned a mortified shade of red, and he turned his back. "I am sorry. I tried to ring you a few moments ago, but there was no answer, so I just thought I'd pop these papers over. Oh, dear."
"Don't worry, Charles. Please come in. Could I get you something?" He nodded. "Perhaps a better sense of timing." When she laughed in response, he finally relaxed.
"Now what are these papers about?" She gestured to the envelope under his arm.
"Oh, yes. They are about the sale."
Maura was momentarily stunned. "You know about it?"
"Yes. I was informed today."
"I... I'm so sorry, Charles. I should have told you myself." Hadn't she told Biddy she would tell Charles the next morning?
"Not to worry. All we have to do is sign a few documents to release the property for sale."
"Charles, I really don't want to do this. I just have no other options."
His craggy face softened. "I understand, my dear. You have been placed in a most difficult position. The best thing is to sell it off, get a good price, and be done with it."
"So you're not angry?"
"Me?" He seemed genuinely surprised. "Why on earth should I be angry that you wish to sell what is yours? Here, sign this one first."
"Oh, I'm so glad, so relieved." With just a slight hesitation, she signed.
What would happen to Fitz? She pushed the thought away. Somehow she would manage to resolve the situation. No buyer could push her out of the place right away. Most certainly she could arrange to stay for a while.
"Fine, excellent. The buyer is ready, as I understand it."
"That's what I hear as well." She tightened the belt on her robe.
"I'm surprised you know so much."
"What do you mean?"
"Nothing, really. But from what I was told the buyer wanted this thing done swiftly and quietly. You understand, so as not to upset anyone."
"Oh." She really didn't understand, and was just relieved that Charles wasn't angry. "Well, I suppose I should finish getting dressed."
"Right! I'll get these going on their way." He paused. "By the way, are you free this evening?"
"No. Well, I'm not sure, maybe later."
"Grand! Come round Nesbitt's if you wish, the later the better."
"Thanks. I'll try." She smiled, and Charles blinked once before returning the smile.
Once he was back on the street, he kept thinking of her smile, the way she looked in that bathrobe with her hair all wet and smelling like a pine forest. If only he could be ten years younger. Make that fifteen.
Folding the papers up, he also wondered about how easily she had signed them. Perhaps he had misunderstood her in the beginning.
In any case, within a few short days Maiden Works Furniture would be in new hands, financed by a German pharmaceutical company, and run by Donal Byrne.
And he whistled as he walked to the Shelbourne for his first Jameson of the day. chapter 12
Donal, usually pathologically prompt, was almost twenty minutes late.
"I apologize," he said the moment she opened the door. "I lost track of the time at work."
He stepped into the hallway, a tweed jacket slung over his shoulder in spite of the chill in the air. Maura simply took in the sight of him, the strength and sheer vitality of his presence. Even standing still, he exuded energy, as if simply standing was something of a trial.
Polished though he was, with expensive clothes and impeccable grooming, beneath the veneer there seemed to be a wildness just waiting to spring forth. He was about to speak again, when he seemed to have lost his train of thought.
They stood in silence, as his gaze remained fixed on her face, drifting only long enough to take in her body, lingering at her waist, where a belt cinched a pair of jeans. Instead of making her feel
self-conscious and
underdressed, his languid perusal made her cheeks burn with a tingling warmth, as if she were suddenly cloaked in the most sumptuous of garments, the most beautiful of gowns.
Even after a full day of work, he was crisp and fresh. His eyes settled again on her face, and a softness was there, one she had never noticed before. As if he'd been caught, his thoughts transparent in turbulent blue, he looked quickly down, shifting slightly as he stood.
For a moment he stared at the floor, the exact spot they had been the night before. Her gaze followed his downward, and she cleared her throat for lack of anything better to say or do.
"Would you like to come in?" She was halfway to the parlor by the time the words were out. Instead of answering, he simply stared at the floor.
"Yes." He moved quickly into the parlor, leaving his briefcase and jacket in the hallway.
There was an uncomfortable tension between them, and Maura wasn't sure how to clear the air, to ease the tension.
"Please sit down." She motioned toward an overstuffed couch. He nodded once and sat, one of his legs nervously moving up and down, heel tapping against the floor.
"So, shall I go first or should you?"
"I... maybe I should." She settled on the same couch, close enough that they could touch if either seemed so inclined. For the moment they remained stiffly apart, in separate corners, as if awaiting the ding of a bell. "All right." She tucked her legs beneath her. "I really don't quite know how to begin."
"How about by telling me who tossed all of those objects? That seems a good place to begin."
She swallowed, realizing when asked point-blank that what she was about to say sounded absurd. For the past couple of days she had grown so used to Fitz, the strangeness of the situation seemed to have faded on her. He wasn't a ghost, a man who had been dead for well over two centuries. He was just Fitz, her friend.
"He's a friend of mine," she said at last.
"I see. I had already assumed that." Donal rubbed his jaw, producing a slight scratchy sound from a new growth of barely visible whiskers. "Is he an American staying here with you?"
"He's not American, he's Irish."
"Irish, is he?" Donal seemed surprised. "From Dublin?"
"Originally, I believe so." This was getting uncomfortable.
"Did he attend university? Perhaps I know him."
"Well, yes he did, but I doubt you would know him. He went to Trinity."
"He did? I know many folks from Trinity. When did he graduate?"
"Oh, he was way ahead of you. Way, way ahead."
"I see." Donal frowned, casting her a sideways glance. "Is he a relation of yours?"
"Yes, but a distant one." How much longer could she keep this up?
"Distant. Does he have any claim on your inheritance?"
"Well, not exactly. Although he should, by all rights. He just doesn't have much need of the factory or the deed to the house at the moment. He's a wonderful man."
"Interesting. May I meet him?"
"I'm not sure. There's a little problem."
"What sort of little problem?"
"Well . . ." Now she began to tap her foot nervously, and she crossed her arms, as if giving comfort to herself.
"Come on, Maura. There is something wrong here—you've behaved strangely since this morning. I've managed to control my temper. I'm all ease and serenity. Tell me. I believe I have a right to know."
"Would you like some tea?"
"No, I would not." He was unable to hide his irritation. "Can you just tell me the man's full name? Surely that would not put too much of a strain on you."
"His name." She began to pull a thread from her cuff. "Well, his name is Fitzwilliam Connolly."
The thread unraveled further, and a button dropped to the floor.
"His name is Fitzwilliam Connolly," Donal repeated. "So he must be a descendant. But wouldn't he have been more likely to inherit than you? I know they searched all over for you, and I can't imagine how they managed to miss a Trinity graduate named Fitzwilliam Connolly." Then he paused before reaching down for her button and handing it back to her.
"And my mother," he said. "She was brilliant at digging up unlikely sources, not to mention the more obvious ones. She spent months at Trinity, looking through their archives for information on the original Connolly. I can't believe she would have missed him."
"Well." She tucked the button into her jeans pocket. "He may not have been available for comment when your mother was working." "Quite possibly. Still, she was very thorough." "Donal." She took a deep breath. "I don't know how else to say this but to just come out with it— Fitzwilliam Connolly is a ghost."
Very slowly, he turned his entire body to face her. "What kind of a bloody joke are you playing?"
"It's not a bloody joke. Just listen to me and remain calm. Please hear me out."
He made no attempt to move, nor did he encourage her in any way. He simply stared in blank disbelief. "Okay, this is what happened. On the first night I was here—right before I met you, in fact—he came into my bedroom. I thought he was a burglar or at least some sort of intruder. Then he walked through my luggage, and I realized he was a ghost." "Maura, I..."
"Please listen! He didn't know he was dead. He thought I was the intruder, and I had to convince him what had happened. He thinks there's more to the story, by the way, much more than Patrick Kildare killing him. So I told him I would do anything he needed. That's why I was researching him, trying to find out the basic facts."
Donal remained silent, and then he reached out and touched her face. "Maura. Come closer."
She slid across the sofa, perplexed but relieved that he didn't get angry or accuse her of some sort of
trickery. His arm went about her, and he kissed her forehead. Before he could pull her closer, she leaned back.
"What are you thinking?" She needed to know.
"It really doesn't matter."
"Yes, it does! I've just told you that there's a ghost in this house, and you don't seem to react at all."
"Now let me get this straight." His voice was soft and rational. "Fitzwilliam Connolly has been living here with you, and it is he who asked you to research his own life, and it is he who threw all of those items at me this morning. Is that right?"
"Well, not exactly. He says that someone else threw the stuff at your head."
"Ah. I see. Would this other person also be of a deceased nature?"
"As a matter of fact, yes. You don't believe me, do you?"
"Maura. How shall I say this?" His hand dropped over hers. "I believe I have underestimated the strain you've been under."
"You mean you . . ."
"Please." His hand tightened. "Now it's my turn. Listen to me."
"You don't believe me," she said, her voice hollow.
"Maura, hear my side of this tale. Your father died last year, and I must apologize for not being more sympathetic. It had more to do with my own self-centeredness than with you. I believe I was afraid to let our relationship go from business rivals to something more intimate, and I wrongly thought mentioning personal events would muddy that line."
"What are you saying?" "Maura, I was wrong. I was blinded by my generic dislike of Americans. I've been stubborn and narrow-minded, blaming you for my own problems."
She simply stared at him, her mouth slightly open.
"I know. I'm more surprised than you are." He smiled. "But it's true."
"What about the ghost? Do you believe in Fitz?"
"Oh, Maura, I'll help you through this. Perhaps together we can find the help you need. You've been trying to do this all alone, first the company in Wisconsin, now over here the demands on all sides. I felt that way in Munich, as if the weight of the world rested on my . . ."
"You don't believe me, do you?" She withdrew her hand from the warmth of his, and he looked down at his open palm.
"I believe you believe it," he hedged.
"In other words, you think I'm crazy
."
"No. Not crazy, not at all." When he reached for her again, she ducked and pressed herself into the far corner of the couch. He continued speaking in a soft tone, as if coaxing a cat from the limb of a tree. "Listen to me. When my mother died, I thought I heard her when it rained."
Maura didn't answer. She just watched him.
"My mother used to love the rain. She's the only person I ever knew, especially in Ireland—where fine days are prized and few—who actually preferred rain to the sun. She would sing along to the patter of the drops on the window, make up silly little songs, nonsense lyrics, just because storms used to frighten me. And the month after she died, there was a great
downpour, and I was going through her papers and suddenly heard her voice again, singing some song I had never heard but knew she had made up."
"You heard your mother, so why won't you believe me?"
"But I didn't hear my mother. Don't you see? I missed her so much, longed for her so very much, that I imagined hearing her voice. And strangely, I felt much better after that. It was my mind's way of coping, I suppose. My mind's way of fooling my heart and of easing my loss."
"But this is different," she pleaded. "Why would I imagine Fitzwilliam Connolly? It's not as if he was someone I knew."
"Oh, Maura, don't you see? You could use him right now, someone to help with the burden. Who better than the man who began all of this? And there is the added attraction as well."
"What added attraction?"
"He is safely dead. Unlike someone like me, your ghost can make no demands. Since you don't have to risk a real emotional tie, where by necessity you put yourself in a vulnerable position, you cannot be hurt."
She blinked. "God help us, you minored in psychology at college, didn't you?"
"Well, yes, as a matter of fact I did. But that doesn't invalidate what I just said. Now tell me, did you invent him before or after you did your research?"
"Ugh! Can't you be more open-minded about this? I mean, don't you believe in ghosts just a little?"
"I do not, Maura. In fact, I am fundamentally opposed to the very notion. Such superstition has held the Irish back for generations now. No. I do not believe in ghosts or witches or fairies or little people."
"Donal..." She thought of Fitz, of the way he had reached her. "Donal, do you believe souls can touch?"