Donal followed Maura as she ran from the National Gallery.
"Can you slow down and tell me what's wrong?"
No response followed his question. She simply kept walking, her face drained of color, her expression both resolute and flustered.
"If you won't tell me, tell George over there on the lawn." He gestured toward a bronze statue of George Bernard Shaw, but it took her a few moments to realize who he was talking about.
"George? Oh, I see." Finally she paused. "Donal, may I ask you a question?"
"Certainly."
"Has Fitzwilliam Connolly always worn black in that portrait?"
Donal blinked. "Do you mean has he ever changed outfits?"
"Well." She stepped aside to allow a group tour to
pass. "I mean, is there a portrait just like that one, only he's wearing different clothes? Perhaps pale blue satin with a brocade waistcoat and powdered wig?"
"Maura, you must be joking. Of course not. That painting is the only known likeness of the man. And frankly, from what I've read of him, you couldn't pay him to pose as Little Boy Blue."
"But that's just it!" She grasped one of his wrists. "Before I had that dream, he was to be married to Kitty in pale blue satin. Aunt Sarah had determined it, but I talked her into letting him wear plain black."
"It was just a dream." He reached forward and brushed a piece of hair from her eyes. "What you probably imagined was the blue portrait. The one you just saw is in every biography of him and in every illustrated history of Ireland I can think of."
She was about to argue, and stopped. "Oh my God, you're right," she said softly. "I must be losing my mind."
"No. Of course you're not. You've just had some very vivid dreams. You're in a new country with unfamiliar surroundings."
He glanced at her with a wary smile. Clearly she did not believe him.
"I have to go," she said abruptly.
"Where?"
"Anywhere. I just have to think for a while. Maybe I should call home and find out what's going on with the company. Or perhaps visit the factory. Maybe both or neither. I just have to focus, to think."
"I see." Shoving his hands into his pockets, he shrugged. "Well then, would you like to have dinner tonight?" "I, well. I'm not sure." She just needed some time alone to gather her thoughts and try to figure out if she was headed for a nervous breakdown or simply addled. "When I decide, should I just give you a call later?"
"That would be grand. And if I don't hear from you by half seven, I'll ring."
"Fine. And, Donal?"
He turned, and she was struck by how incredibly handsome he was.
"Thank you for everything."
With a hesitant nod, he smiled. "Good-bye, then."
"Bye."
And he watched her as she passed through the gates on her way home.
Jimmy O'Neil was about to fetch another cup of tea when a suspicious movement up front caught his eye. When he saw who it was he smiled. "Mr. Byrne, good day to you!"
"And to you as well," Donal greeted as he walked through the factory door.
"And now are there to be any Germans with you this afternoon?"
"No, no Germans today, Jimmy. May I speak to you?"
"Certainly, Mr. Byrne." Jimmy's face became serious, an expression that struck Donal as particularly incongruous.
"The truth is, Miss Finnegan may be coming here this afternoon."
"Herself?"
"Herself," he confirmed. "How kind of herself to be showing an interest in the factory, and she no longer owning stick nor stool of the place."
"Well, that's the problem, Jimmy. She doesn't know I'm in charge."
A reddened hand pushed one of his ears forward. "What was that you were saying?"
"You heard me." Donal sighed. "Lord help us, she thinks she is still the sole proprietor of the Maiden Works Furniture Factory."
"If I may ask, how did you manage that triumph of surgical wordplay? A genius you must be, a rare bard of the nuance, if you don't mind my saying so."
"No, Jimmy. I'm afraid it's worse than that. Well, she didn't ask, and—I just haven't told her."
"You haven't. . ." The sputter of his sentence dwindled to nothingness.
"Excuse me?"
"It just seems to me, sir, that you have not been fair with the lady, not fair at all at all." The last four words were pronounced as one rolling word.
"Well, the situation became rather complicated."
"And are you thinking that I didn't see that, and me with two perfectly good eyes and ears?"
"I know. What I'm saying is that I would like you to listen to her as if she still owned the place. Just for today, you see. Just until I can find the proper way to tell her."
Jimmy O'Neil's eyes narrowed to a pair of pale blue slits, more eloquent than any words could possibly be.
"Oh." Donal straightened. "And have you had a chance to look over my proposed improvements?"
"I have indeed, sir." "And what do you think of them?"
"Not much."
Donal was about to continue, and stopped. "Pardon?"
"I said, I don't think much of the proposed changes, nor do the other men."
"Come, Jimmy. Your job is secure."
"Mine and mine alone. What would you be needing an air vacuum for, built into the walls to suck away the wood shavings? And who's to operate the computers?"
"We will try to retrain the men. Those who would rather not, well, we will give them a very handsome severance package."
"Fine. Just enough for a wake."
"Jimmy, let's discuss this calmly."
"I am perfectly calm," he stated, although with every other word he rose on the balls of his feet in an effort to meet Donal eye to eye. "We are artists, Mr. Byrne. We make furniture by hand, as did out fathers and, in some cases, grandfathers. And are you saying that running a computer will give the same results?"
"No, no, of course not. But this company is doomed to fail unless it can turn a profit. The overhead is too high, the materials too costly, and the work too slow for us to do so at present. By using less expensive materials, pressed woods with fine wood overlay, for example, we can reduce the production costs. And by programming automatic cutting and sanding machines, we will also reduce the manual labor involved, thus reducing the price we will have to charge to clear a profit."
"And thus reducing the men in the company's employ."
"Jimmy, listen. Many of the men are past retirement age anyway. With the pension they can relax and enjoy their days . . ."
"Most of the men are the sole support of their entire families! Don't you see? In many a case their sons and daughters are still unemployed or underemployed, at best. It's not just the man and his white-haired wife anymore, sitting about and enjoying their golden years by stitching tea cozies and watching the grandchildren. Perhaps they should have taught you that in Germany, with all those fancy school courses."
"Jimmy, please." Donal realized they had attracted a crowd, and he waved uneasily at the rest of the staff. "Gentlemen. Hello."
A few murmured "hellos" were returned.
"I'll do as you say, Mr. Byrne," Jimmy O'Neil said at last. "For today I'll do as you say because I would rather not cause the American lady any distress. It seems to me that meeting you may have already done that, and I'll not add to it."
With that, Jimmy O'Neil left to fetch his tea, and the other men scattered, shooting Donal pointed glares over their shoulders.
"I'm only trying to help." They didn't seem to listen. "Fergus? Mike? Did you hear what I said?"
But they all left. For the first time since he began this project, Donal Byrne had a terrible thought: What if he was wrong? It took Maura several tries to get through to her secretary back home in Wisconsin. When at last she did, a flustered Rachel Wells answered the telephone on the fifth ring.
"Maura Finnegan's office," she said weakly, as if expecting someone to disagree. There was either commotion or static from the telephon
e lines in the background.
"Rachel? Hi, it's me."
"Maura! Thank God you called! Things have been insane here." She seemed to be on the verge of tears.
"What's happening? Why didn't you call me if things were so terrible?"
"The phone company wouldn't let us." She sniffed.
"That bad?"
"That bad. I have dozens of messages for you—so many, we've used up all those pink pads. Some from the bank, some from vendors wanting to be paid, the packaging plant, the caterers from that launch party last month. Oh, Maura, it's really hit the fan here."
"Rachel, I'm so sorry. All I can say is that I'm trying to sort it out on this end."
"You should really speak to Peter Jones. He's been shouldering all the mess, if you know what I mean."
"Thank you, Rachel. Yes, can you transfer me to him?"
"Oh, wait a minute—before I forget. Roger Parker called a few days ago."
Her throat went dry. Roger. The cause of her troubles, most of them anyway. She attempted to sound casual, and hoped that transatlantic static would assist.
"Roger? Hum. How is he?"
"He wanted to see you. When I told him where you were, he seemed to know that already. Anyway, I gave him your Dublin number and address. I hope that's okay."
"Of course!" She hadn't meant to shriek. Thank God, he hadn't called. That would be the last thing in the world she needed. "Thank you, Rachel. Hang in there, all right?"
"Sure, Maura. I'm transferring you now."
There were some clicks and a buzz, and then Peter Jones.
"Well, Maura. I'm afraid Finnegan's Freeze-Dried is in a fine kettle of fish."
"Oh?" Maura bit her lip. "A new recipe?"
"Very funny. No, Maura. I don't know exactly what's happening, since you have not given me much authority here. I'm just putting out the smaller fires as they occur, and doing so blindly, I might add."
"I'm so sorry." She swallowed. "All right. I'll call up bookkeeping and grant you permission to see the books. You won't like it, Peter."
"I'm aware of that already." She thought she had lost him, and then he spoke again. "Maura, just what were you thinking?"
Instead of hedging, she answered plainly. She was simply too tired of the whole thing to come up with anything except the truth. "I don't know. I thought that I could save everyone, everything. That just maybe something wonderful would happen in Dublin, and I could bail us all out."
"Well. I'll take a look at the books."
"Peter?"
"Yes." "You're upset."
On the other end she heard him sigh. "Maura, you're like a daughter to me. I love you dearly."
"Thank you."
"It's just that, well, my dear . . ."
"Yes?"
"I've never thought you had much of a head for business. I told your father this, and he wouldn't listen. He always said you were a financial whiz."
"And you knew better?"
"Not necessarily. I just saw a very sweet redheaded kid in a step dancing costume, trying her damnedest to please everyone. You were always doing as you were told, always smiling and making everyone happy. Everyone, that is, except yourself."
"Oh." Her voice had become very small. "I'll straighten things out in bookkeeping."
"Accounting," he said. "I need to talk with the accounting department."
"Oh, sure. Right."
After she hung up the telephone, she felt miserable. Everything she touched seemed to turn to coal.
The kitchen was strangely comforting in its stark plainness, and her gaze went to the stove. Here she had experienced such a wonderful dream in a magical world. Perhaps it was not a real place, only a corner of her mind where tranquillity and happiness dwelled. Still, it was her place, her happiness.
Was it better to live in a miserable real world or a wonderful imaginary world? Did it really matter, as long as she was content?
Her fingers ran over the knob, lingering, touching it with a gentle caress. All she had to do was turn the
knob, and she could see Aunt Sarah, sullen Andrew, and, of course, Fitz.
Then she stopped, withdrawing her hand.
What am I doing? she thought.
She was both appalled and frightened, confused by the way her mind had nearly betrayed her.
The factory. She would go to the factory and start rectifying the situation. That would straighten out her mind, perhaps help her regain her sense of self.
She had to do something, anything, or else she would surely go mad.
The men at the factory did not seem surprised to
see her.
In fact, it almost seemed as though they had been expecting her. Jimmy O'Neil met her at the door, his white hair stiff and splendid, his ubiquitous black jacket and trousers, frayed at the cuffs, a slight moss color in places.
"Athugh gothether motergergle," he waved. "Good to see you, too, Jimmy." Maura smiled. "I have some ideas to discuss with you. Do you have a few moments?"
He nodded, and gestured to the table where the workers had their tea, the oilcloth table covering swept free of crumbs.
"Thank you." She sat where he indicated, and he settled across the table. "I have an idea of how to turn this factory around."
"Grand," he said clearly, although with a distinct lack of enthusiasm.
"Now, I'm sure you've noticed that Dublin attracts a great number of tourists." Jimmy grunted, neither a yes nor no, just a simple grunt.
"Well, I'm sure you've also noticed that the Maiden Works Furniture Factory isn't exactly beating off customers with a stick."
To that Jimmy did not respond at all. He simply stared at her with his pale blue eyes, bloodshot and shrewd.
"Instead of furniture, we will make items appealing to tourists. Small things, key chains, ashtrays, blackthorn walking sticks, cottages—you know, the sort of stuff tourists pay way too much for."
"Why do we need to make them at all?"
"Excuse me?"
"It just seems to me that places in Dublin sell those things at every corner and shop front. Why would they come halfway down the Wicklow Road for more of the same?"
"Well, you see, that would be the real draw. They could actually watch you make the items. The employees would be dressed in costumes, and the tourists would get a big kick out of seeing you make their key chains, then maybe having tea with you." "So it's a sideshow we're to become, is that it?" "No, no. Not at all. . ."
"Miss Finnegan," he began, standing. "Ather mother billight keptheings." "I'm sorry, I didn't quite understand . . ." "Gother dallagh." And with that he left. Maura sat for a few moments longer, waiting to see if Jimmy would return. When it was clear he would not, that she would just sit until the factory closed,
she left, wondering how she would ever have the nerve to return.
There was solace, peace to be had at the town house.
How could she have sold it? Of course, nothing had been finalized—perhaps she could still get it back.
From Jimmy O'Neil's reaction, she knew that her idea of changing the factory would not work as easily as she had hoped. Indeed, she questioned whether she would even repeat her suggestions. Spoken out loud, with Jimmy's face a mask of censure, it seemed crass and insulting.
But the town house welcomed her, a non-judgmental friend, an oasis of peacefulness. She slumped into a sofa in the front parlor, not terribly comfortable, but hers, all hers.
Closing her eyes, she imagined a scent of scones, of sharing a dish of tea with old, very old, friends.
The doorbell rang. Perhaps she could just ignore it, the intrusive blare, and they would just go away. The bell rang again and again. And then she heard the sounds of a key in the lock, the slow turning of the front door.
"Here we go!" It was Biddy Macguillicuddy, her voice drifting across the marble hallway like a merry cloud. "Lucky I have a set of keys . .. Why, Maura, my dear! I had no idea you were in! We rang and rang, and since there was no answer, in we came."
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At last Maura opened her eyes. There stood the real estate agent, and she could only see the shadow of another person. "Ah, and with me is a fellow Yank, here to look over the house."
Reluctantly, Maura stood up, prepared to meet the stranger.
And from the doorway, out stepped Roger Parker.
chapter 16
Hello, Maura." His voice was still smooth as polyester silk.
She walked slowly toward them, her surprise giving way to anger as she approached. It was really Roger, her tormentor, the man who had made her entire life wall-to-wall misery. Roger.
"You know each other?" Biddy Macguillicuddy was
delighted, her face becoming alarmingly red, the
plastic cherries pinned to her lapel quivering with the
wearer's glee.
"Know each other?" He winked. "We were engaged
to be married."
Roger smiled, his too-perfect teeth out of place on his mouth. To Maura his smile suddenly looked like a packet of white Chiclets gum, lined up in symmetrical rows. Once she had kissed that mouth, she thought with perplexed distaste. "Roger, what are you doing here?" The question was almost comically understated.
Biddy clapped her hands. "Now isn't this something?"
Roger continued to smile, his sweater tied with calculated ease around his shoulders, one thumb looped around his belt.
He just didn't fit in Dublin. He was utterly out of place, all slick charm and pale facade. Everything she had so admired about him .in Wisconsin looked glaringly absurd, from his Montgomery Ward catalog pose to his perfectly combed hair.
And, of course, there was the little matter of his lying about every aspect of his life, making an utter fool of her, then dumping her when he discovered she wasn't quite the wealthy heiress he had believed.
"May we have a few moments alone?" She actually managed to smile at the real estate agent.
"Of course! I'll step away and leave you lovebirds together." With great squishing of her rubber-soled shoes, she crept into the kitchen.
"I can't believe you're here," she said between clenched teeth.
"Happy?" A lazy smile flit across his mouth. "Your secretary said ..."
"My secretary has no idea you give pond scum a bad name."
An expression of smug satisfaction was on his face as he reached for her. She ducked, but he was undeterred, his features remaining unruffled. "You're more beautiful than I remembered."