"Let me handle this," he had said, chucking her under her chin.
It had been so easy, such a relief. As the days passed, Roger seemed less and less available. His four daily phone calls dwindled to three, then two, then one every other day until finally they stopped altogether. It had only then become clear—Roger left her as soon as he realized the company was on the verge of collapse. He had not [ wanted Maura. He had wanted her company.
Unfortunately, both the company and Maura were utter failures.
And now he was gone. Not only had Roger left Maura, he had left Milwaukee and the state of Wisconsin as well. He had vanished into thin air, taking
with him the remaining balance of the company accounts—including the overdraft of nearly one hundred thousand dollars.
Earlier that morning she had called Harvard in hopes of tracking him down through their alumni office. Nobody going by the name of Roger Parker had been in the class he had claimed as his own. Indeed, nobody with his name and major from his alleged hometown had ever attended Harvard.
It was only after the woman at the alumni office had commented on the name of Roger's hometown that Maura realized why it had seemed so familiar. He had claimed to be from Grovers Mill, New Jersey.
"Isn't that where Orson Welles set War of the Worlds?"
Of course, it was. For whatever Roger claimed to have done or been or lived could invariably be traced to a scene in a movie or play. His was a life of pure fiction, and Maura had been all too willing to believe every line.
She jumped, aware that the boardroom had been quiet. They were staring at her again, all of the executives of Finnegan's Freeze-Dried. Soon they would all know what had happened, what she had done.
With a forced smile she looked at the man standing at the head of the table. He was the marketing director of Finnegan's Freeze-Dried Cabbage, ready to present the results of his newest project. It was yet another effort in their never-ending search for new uses for dried cabbage flakes.
". . . and the testers were also quite thrilled with the range and variety of our product," he concluded. Who cares, she almost shouted. In another week there would be no product, there would be no company. Instead she took a deep breath and nodded for him to continue.
Peter Jones had no idea that his job of twenty years was in jeopardy. He had two kids in college and a big mortgage. Like everyone else at the table, he had not been shown the complete financial report.
She recalled that when she was a child, Peter Jones used to laugh out loud at the outfit her parents made her wear every St. Patrick's Day, the green-and-white shamrock number still moldering in the suburban Whitefish Bay house, awaiting a Finnegan granddaughter to commence a second generation of torment.
Concentrate, she told herself. Make everyone think you have a grip on the situation. Act interested in Peter Jones's report.
"Excuse me," she interrupted.
Peter Jones paused. He still viewed her as the carrot-topped kid in the green step dancing getup.
"Peter? Could you please clarify that last statement?" Maura tried to curb the edge to her voice.
"Of course, Maura."
Poor guy, she thought. She had to think of something. She had to come up with a way to save the company, to save these people's jobs.
Roger had left after betraying her, but the truth was that by believing Roger when she had so desperately wanted to, she herself had betrayed the employees. In the end she alone was accountable.
Peter Jones continued. "You see, we have hired the very best recipe testers in the nation. They have
treated several dozen delightful items, all using liberal amounts of Finnegan's Freeze-Dried, of course. We create an entire advertising campaign employing my new recipes."
"May we hear a sample of the menu?" Maura was pleased with herself. She had been paying attention. She sounded interested.
"Of course, Maura. We have managed to employ cabbage in every aspect of this menu, from drinks to dessert. To begin with, there will be a new cocktail this fall—sure to be a rage among all the upwardly mobile individuals in the nation. Forget the margarita, throw away the Beaujolais. The new drink of choice will be Absolute Finnegan's."
"Pardon?"
, "We have contacted the vodka company, and they :are a bit reluctant to join forces at this precise moment. But I assure you, once they taste the sophisticated blend of pureed Finnegan's Freeze-Dried Cabbage and their vodka, they will be absolutely . . ."
"Cabbage and vodka?" Maura's exhausted panic suddenly gave way to a manic urge to giggle. She felt like a mourner at a funeral who recalls the most riotous joke ever told. The rest of her life was a shambles. She eventually had to tell everyone assembled that she had single-handedly destroyed the company, that they would all soon be jobless, yet all she could do was think of how funny freeze-dried cabbage seemed. "Equal parts cabbage and vodka? Just like
that?"
Peter Jones straightened his spine. "We serve it in a hurricane glass with a sliver of raw potato on the rim." Maura managed to transform her guffaw into a sneeze. "Bless yous" rounded the table.
She averted her eyes as she spoke. "How does it taste, Peter?"
"Well." He took a fortifying breath. "It is rather sophisticated. One of the kitchen testers who created the recipe likened it to some of the great but unlikely combinations in culinary history. Who would ever imagine pate—made from duck and goose livers-could taste so sublime? Or that sauerkraut and corned beef could make a Reuben?"
He pressed forward. "Our first idea was to ignite the cocktail. A flaming drink is always impressive. Bu the whole kitchen smelled like a tenement."
"I see." Maura bit her lip and noticed other board members were suddenly staring directly ahead. It was often hard to discuss Finnegan's Freeze-Dried Cabbage with a straight face.
"So we serve it chilled over shaved ice. It is bracing drink with a nice kick to it." Jones began paging through his notebook. "Let's see, we have brunch dishes, such as Creamed Cabbage on Toast Points and Eggs Benedict Finnegan. Then there are your piquant dishes, perfect for every occasion—the Homestyle Cabbage Dijon, Crepes a la Cabbage, and so forth. Desserts include Chocolate-Dipped Cabbage Fondue and Emerald Cabbage Sorbet." [
At that moment Maura was startled, and relieved,, by a tap on her shoulder. Her secretary, with a concerned look on her face, passed a typed message.
"Maura—sorry to interrupt. There is an overseas call from Dublin on the line with urgent legal information. Will you take it now or return the call?"
Legal information. Her heart sank. Had word spread already of their disaster? Were the sharks circling—from Dublin, no less?
Maura smiled as she stood. Whatever the call was about, it couldn't really make much of a difference. Unless a sudden miracle occurred, everyone would soon know Maura Finnegan had managed to destroy everything that had been entrusted to her.
She simply didn't care anymore, about cabbage or recipes or presiding over the meeting or the crumbled slip of paper she left behind on the table. "I'm sorry, Peter. There is a matter of great urgency I must attend to. But could you please continue?"
The expressions on the other board members' faces were of repressed mirth mingled with tedium. Thank God they don't know, she thought as she left. Please— let me think of something.
The miracle arrived in the form of an echoing longdistance phone call.
Within a matter of hours, Maura was informed that she was sole heir to a town house and furniture factory in Dublin. More calls, confirmations, and frantic cross-Atlantic faxes arrived from a solicitor's office, from two Irish banks and a government official.
The estimated worth of the estate allowed her to take out an emergency loan to keep Finnegan's Freeze-Dried afloat for at least another month. It was, indeed, a miracle, a brief reprieve. Although this wasn't really the best time to fly to Ireland to claim her inheritance, it would be worth it if the sale of the properties provided enough money to save Finnegan's Freeze-Dried. By th
e following week, Maura Finnegan had sent an interoffice memo to the staff concerning her departure. Peter Jones was informed that he would be temporary head of Finnegan's Freeze-Dried, and he was clearly delighted.
Luggage was brought up from her parents' basement. Telephone calls were made to friends and business associates. Everything had been arranged swiftly and efficiently, handled with the dispassionate care of a well-oiled assembly line.
Maura saw the journey as a final stab at redemption. Her round-trip ticket had been paid for by the bank. It was an Aer Lingus standby, the modern day equivalent of steerage. Just as her ancestors had traveled to a New World, she, too, was on a voyage— her maiden voyage—to a new world—a new life.
But she was not returning to the land of her ancestors in triumph. The irony was not lost on Maura that in venturing to Ireland she was attempting to win the exact thing millions of immigrants had sought in the New World.
She was seeking a second chance.
chapter 2
Maura refused to be seduced by Ireland.
The moment she boarded her flight, when the attendant greeted her in Irish and pointed to a "cozy seat with a grand view," Maura set her chin in defiance.
This was not a journey to be enjoyed. She did not deserve enjoyment or even mild pleasure. This was a trip of salvation, not a vacation.
She learned long ago that Americans were embarrassingly quick to fall in love with all things Irish. She watched tourist after tourist board the plane and fall prey to the intoxicating Celtic charm.
"This is not a holiday," she muttered to herself as she cinched the seat belt a little too tight.
But a euphoric sense of anticipation swept over the passengers, Irish and American, as they settled into their seats. Maura had been on dozens of flights, including trips to Paris and the Caribbean, and there had always been a business-as-usual routine about boarding.
This was different. Even as the plane waited on the tarmac for an extra forty-five minutes before takeoff, everyone behaved as if on a giddy holiday.
Perhaps she could simply enjoy the flight. Maybe leaving all of the angst of the past few weeks behind would clear her mind.
Maura tapped a foot and paged through the in-flight magazine, wondering if the couple sitting across the aisle would actually develop full-blown brogues by the time they landed. She couldn't help but wonder how a country as small as Ireland had managed to culturally entrance so much of America.
Her own life was a perfect example, with a childhood that had been punctuated by step dancing lessons and watching her mother decorate their home in shamrock-themed splendor. She had felt the weight of her own Irishness in Wisconsin, distant though it was in years and miles from Ireland.
In spite of her pure colleen looks, the emerald eyes, and thick red hair, Maura was less than half Irish. Indeed, the red hair had been a legacy of her German grandmother. But her German grandmother had never carried the last name Finnegan, nor had she graduated from Notre Dame, home of the Fighting Irish.
Her entire life had been spent trudging unwillingly through an Irish heritage of dubious authenticity. Now the last laugh was on her, Maura Finnegan, new and temporary heir to number eighty-nine and a half Merrion Square.
Another thought was lurking darkly in the back of her mind. As a child, she'd had nightmares about Ireland. It was a strange place to have nightmares about—not Transylvania or some eerie moonscape but green and friendly Ireland had haunted her dreams.
She could trace it back to a flutter of activity when she was in third grade. A girl from England had enrolled in her school, and Maura had told her mother that she wished she, too, could speak with such a lovely accent.
Her parents had exchanged glances. Then her father told her that perhaps she could, indeed, speak with an accent. Finnegan's Freeze-Dried was seriously considering an offer from the Irish government to move its headquarters to Ireland.
Odd, how just a mere sentence had turned her world upside down. Her parents never realized the rampaging fear that had enveloped her with the suggestion. She remained silent, but all she could think about was leaving Whitefish Bay and all of her friends, her home, all that was familiar and taken for granted.
At night she would lay awake, eyes wide in the darkness, and imagine being the new girl with the funny accent. No one would want to play with her, and if they did, she would always be different, not like the rest of the kids.
What were kids like in Ireland? Did they ride bikes and play with dolls? Did they watch the same TV shows? Would the teachers at her new school be mean?
Night after night she had remained awake, clenching the sheets in her hands, wondering and worrying until tears would inevitably roll from her unblinking eyes, trickling into her ears until she rubbed them away. But the thoughts remained, always there just beneath the surface, even during the day.
Her parents never mentioned the move again, and it wasn't until she was in the fifth grade that she finally had the nerve to bring the subject up at the table.
"Move to Ireland?" Her father paused as he dished mashed potatoes next to his meat loaf. "Oh, that! Honey, that deal fell through years ago. No, baby. We're staying right here in Wisconsin. Pass the salt, please."
So that was that. She had been tormenting herself for almost two years over nothing.
Maura had forgotten all about that old fear until she began making preparations for this trip. Then it had returned with a vengeance, new and far more powerful, as if laying dormant for almost two decades had endowed it with supernatural strength.
Her childhood nightmare was becoming a reality.
"First time?" asked a chipper woman to her left.
Maura glanced around before realizing the woman had been speaking to her. "Pardon?"
The woman spoke slowly. "Is this your first time in Ireland?" She was wearing a jumpsuit made from purple parachute material. Maura wondered if it was a fashion or safety statement.
She almost pointed out that they were not, in fact, in Ireland yet, but somewhere over Bangor, Maine. Yet on the movie screen was a video about Gaelic football, the attendants were passing out tea with Kerry Gold cream, and someone in the back of the
plane was singing "Paddy's Green Shamrock Shore." This was not the time to quibble about technicalities.
"Yes, it is," Maura managed to return the woman's smile.
"I've been eight times," the woman announced with pride, chest out as if ready to receive a medal. Maura had long ago noticed that Irish Americans rate their Celticness with the number of trips they've made to Ireland. One was acceptable, two was better, and three or more journeys lifted the traveler from the realm of tourist to the lofty circle of native Celts on a pilgrimage home.
The woman then leaned toward Maura, a wink flashing from her oversize bifocals. "You'll fit right in, dear. You have the map of Ireland right on your face."
And if Maura had a penny for every time someone told her she bore the map of Ireland on her face, she could have retired years ago.
"Thank you," Maura replied automatically. Why was she expected to take every reference to her Irishness as a compliment? Did other nationalities have the same problem? Did people say "You have the map of Bulgaria on your face" or "You certainly look French Canadian," and expect to be repaid with lavish thanks?
Maura clenched her fists and tried to calm herself, aware that she was managing to make a perfectly pleasant flight into an emotional nightmare.
This was an opportunity, she reminded herself, a golden chance to try something new. She could save the business, secure a future for herself as well as the employees. Why was she trying to sabotage the inheritance before she even set foot in Ireland? The answer was simple. Maura Finnegan was afraid.
Never before had she undertaken such a terrifyingly unfamiliar task. Her life had thus far been dictated by her parents and by circumstance, then by Roger. There was never serious consideration of any college other than Notre Dame, never any doubt that her first few months worki
ng at the family company would eventually stretch into years. There was a comforting sameness to her life that had been not at all unpleasant.
Her father's death following so soon after her mother's had been a stunning blow, of course. The only uncertain moments had come in the realm of romance, where relationships were volatile, where she didn't know exactly how to act or how to feel. Before Roger, before her father's sickness, her future had seemed as predictable as St. Patrick's Day arriving on March 17.
Now she was traveling to a foreign country in order to right a terrible wrong. And she had to do it all alone.
With a shuddering sigh Maura closed her eyes and ( tried in vain to sleep. And as had been usual lately, I even that small task was unsuccessful.
The airplane passed through a gentle puff of clouds, the final approach before landing in Dublin.
Maura rubbed her eyes, not willing to blink for fear she would miss her very first glimpse of Ireland. At first there were hazy, indistinct patches of earth cloaked in a gauzy mist.
Then the mist cleared, and in spite of the self-imposed cynicism that had consumed her for the past few weeks, she gasped.
The land below her was the most beautiful sight she had ever viewed. There was an ethereal splendor to the countryside, a vivid weave of colors and shades and brilliant sunshine that seemed impossible, even mythical. The browns of the earth were rich as chocolate, the greens were overlaid with yellows and blues. It did not seem real, more like a painting rendered with a magical pallet and a brush kissed by fairy dust.
Before she could scoff at her own imagination, more beauty streamed in through the plastic window. The green of the hills was a hue she had never before imagined, lush and intense, as if layer upon layer of clover and grass were meshed in a single color. Crisscrossing the fields were rugged stone walls, luminous gray and white, and small cottages, some with thatched roofs. A shaft of sunlight burst through the clouds, and as the plane banked, a rainbow, pastel colors glowing over the early morning dew, arched over a hill.