One thing she was convinced of was the importance of keeping the dream to herself. As whimsical as Charles MacGuire seemed to be, he was still a lawyer. Should he view her as mentally ill or in any way incompetent, it would be his primary duty to ensure the safety of the estate. She had no doubt she would lose the house and the factory in the stroke of a pen.
Just as she began to descend the steps, the telephone in the kitchen rang. It was a peculiar sound, a metallic jingling unlike the pulsing beeps of Touch-Tone phones. She picked up on the third ring, works then—grand!"
Charles and his voice of unrelenting cheerfulness assaulted her ear, and she held the receiver at arm's length.
"Hello, Charles," she whispered, hoping he would take the cue and speak in a softer tone. He did not.
"I had the phone switched on this morning. Hope you don't mind. Do you have a cold? Your voice sounds a bit weak."
"No. I'm fine."
"Brilliant! Now I did hear from this chap Donal, Byrne, and you're to have lunch with him this after-' noon."
"Oh. All right." For some reason she was nervous about meeting the businessman. "Will you be there?"
"No. I think it would be best if you two discussed the matter alone first. I've discovered that the presence of a solicitor seems to put people on edge. Just have a lovely meal—I'm sure he'll grab the check."
Her finger twirled the telephone cord. "Where am I meeting him? And how will I know him?"
"I can't help you there—I've never met the bloke. I assume since he's Irish, he must have the same devastating attractiveness which we all modestly claim."
An involuntary laugh escaped from her end of the conversation.
"I'll make another assumption and suppose that you just thought of a rather humorous joke that is too bawdy for mixed company. Now, let me see here, I wrote down the time and place somewhere. Here we go, right where it should be, under the tea mug. You're
to meet him at half one this afternoon. And he's making it easy on you—you're to meet at the Shelbourne. Can you find it again by yourself?"
"Yes, that won't be a problem. But is there anything I should know about this guy?"
"Not that I can think of. Just have a jolly good lunch. And you might try the salmon—they do a fine job of the salmon at the Shelbourne. And don't forget the Dublin Bay prawns if they're on the menu. Oh, and this lovely soup . . ."
"Would you like to come and order for me?"
"Grand idea entirely!" Charles chuckled. "Now ring me this afternoon and let me know how it goes off, what you think of his offer. Don't dismiss him until you've really weighed the options."
"Thank you." She smiled. "I really appreciate everything you've done."
"Not at all, my dear, not at all. Now off you go."
After hanging up the receiver, and with over three hours until her lunch, she decided to explore the neighborhood. It was a beautiful day with just a trace of hazy fog, the sun casting a purplish hue over the city.
There was a fresh scent that seemed to linger with each breeze, and she paused in Merrion Square Park and later in Phoenix Park. She strolled over the Half Penny Bridge, walked down O'Connell Street past the General Post Office that still bore the bullet holes from the Easter Uprising of 1916. There were department stores, bookstores, shops that carried nothing but woolens and lace.
She did check her watch just before noon and wandered some more. There were bronze statues positioned all over the city. One, just at the foot of Grafton Street, was of Molly Malone, although a woman with two small children said that it was usually called "the Tart with the Cart." Next to the Half Penny Bridge was another set of statues, two women on a bench called "the Hags with the Bags," and finally a river with a woman's face in the center. The artist meant it to be Mother Ireland, but it had been unofficially renamed "the Floozie in the Jaccoozie."
Again she checked her watch. And blinked in surprise. It was one forty five—she was already late.
"I'm never late," she muttered to herself, trying to get her bearings. She was all turned around, mistaking the corner of Phoenix Park for St. Stephen's Green, asking directions and receiving conflicting answers, each guide convinced that his or her route was indeed a shortcut.
By the time she made it to the Shelbourne, it was just after two in the afternoon. The lobby was lavish but welcoming, Georgian splendor at its most comfortable. She could see it better now than two nights before, when jet lag and simple confusion made everything run together. Now, even in her haste, she noticed how plush sofas and chairs contrasted with the stiffly ornate molding on the walls and ceiling.
Slightly out of breath, she patted her hair and straightened her shoulders.
"Hello," she said to the host, who greeted her from his podium in the restaurant doorway. "I'm here to meet Donal Byrne. Is he here yet?"
"Heavens, yes. He's been here since a quarter past one."
Great, she thought. The one punctual Irishman, and she's late.
The dining room was full of tourists and businessmen and bustling waiters. She was led to a table by a window, where the solitary figure of a man sat reading a book.
His back, the first glimpse she had of Donal Byrne, was broad, and he shifted as he turned a page. Even in the natural light, his hair was very dark, if not black. Leaning against the foot of his chair was an expensive-looking briefcase.
"Mr. Byrne? Miss Finnegan has arrived," the host said before bowing slightly and leaving.
She saw his hand clench, such a small movement, and then he rose to his feet.
"Miss Finnegan?"
Whatever she had expected, it most certainly was not the man who now faced her. He somehow looked familiar to her.
Donal Byrne looked down at her, his eyes—an astonishing shade of blue—betraying nothing.
"Please sit down." He gestured to the empty chair, and mutely she nodded and sat, very nearly flipping backward when she tried to scoot the chair forward.
Without a word he stepped behind her and eased her into place. She felt the warmth of his hands on the back of her chair.
"I'm sorry I'm so late. I lost track of the time."
He didn't say anything as he returned to his own chair.
Donal Byrne was a very handsome man. His face was almost boyish, but that was simply a matter of his coloring, a fresh vitality over the vaguest of tans. He looked like a man who spent time outdoors, not in a gym, or perhaps playing some sort of sport. What would he play, she wondered. Tennis? No, that wasn't right. Soccer? Maybe. Just maybe.
"I do hope you're enjoying Dublin so far, Miss Finnegan." And the way he spoke was glorious. His accent was different from the others she had heard, from Charles or the people at Nesbitts and, thank goodness, from Jimmy O'Neil. It was more pronounced than the Dublin accent of Charles, more of what she had imagined an Irish accent to be.
"Oh, it's just wonderful!" She giggled nervously. Her voice had reached an embarrassingly high pitch, Several other diners glanced at her.
A waiter handed her a menu, but she didn't want to look at it, not yet.
Donal Byrne closed the book he had been reading. Maura smiled at him. His eyes were truly remarkable. Any woman would love to have eyes that blue. Yet he was utterly masculine. Everything about him was masculine, almost ridiculously so, from the squarish cut of his jaw to the black eyebrows, straight and severe, to his mouth.
It was hard to look away from the mouth, from his lips. He had yet to smile, but Maura had no doubt it would be a glorious smile.
He leaned down and slipped his book into his briefcase.
"What are you reading, Mr. Byrne?"
Why did she say that?
For a moment he did not respond. He simply stared at her.
Without taking his eyes off her, he reached down
and pulled out the book. It was then that she noticed the little finger of his left hand, the slight bend at the joint that made the entire finger slightly crooked.
Where had she seen that before?
>
Brusquely, he pushed the book across the table to her.
She smiled, and read the title. "Let's see. Microeconomics and the European Common Market. Sounds like a real gripper." She handed the book back across the table, and he slipped it back into his briefcase. "I'm personally waiting for the movie to come out. I hear Mel Gibson's been signed."
"Miss Finnegan, would you please look at the menu and order? I was here on time, and I am starving."
She felt her cheeks turn hot. "Please call me Maura."
The menu was thankfully large enough to hide her face. She stared without comprehension, meaningless words clustered in strange clumps. The selections merged together like a chalk drawing in the rain, as her eyes began to ache.
It was ridiculous. What was wrong with her? Why was she so intimidated by him?
The waiter was at their side, pencil poised.
Donal Byrne cleared his throat before speaking. His fingers drummed on the table, the noise muffled by the thick linen tablecloth. From the safety behind her menu fort she watched his hands, the dark hairs on the back of his strong hands, the crooked finger.
"Miss Finnegan, do you know what you'd like?" His voice was still harsh, annoyed.
Yes, she thought to herself, glancing up at Byrne. I would like you to be civil to me. Instead she said, "Why don't you go first, Mr. Byrne?" He hadn't asked her to call him Donal. That she had noticed.
"Fine. I'll start out with the Dublin Bay prawn salad, and then I'll have the grilled salmon."
"Very good, sir. And you, ma'am?"
"I'll have the same thing." She folded the menu am' gave it back to the waiter.
"Excellent. And would you like some wine, sir?"
Maura paused. Maybe if he had some wine, he'd lighten up. Maybe he wouldn't seem to dislike her so very much.
"No. Just water. Miss Finnegan, would you like anything?"
Part of her wanted to order a double martini. In fact, most of her wanted the double martini. "Water will be fine, thank you."
When the waiter left, they lapsed into silence. She made another attempt at conversation. "I'm rather surprised you were here on time, Mr. Byrne." Why on earth was she beginning to speak with a British accent? She was clenching her jaw so tight it ached. "Yes, I am indeed surprised you were here so promptly."
"You are?" It was the first time his voice was free of that peculiar edge.
"It's just that I understand that in Ireland, having a one-thirty appointment means thinking about it at one-thirty, pulling on your jacket at one forty-five, and arriving sometime after two."
There. Wasn't that what Charles MacGuire had said when he arrived late at the Mont Clare?
"I see." The edge was back in his voice. "A picture
postcard view of Ireland, where all the wee happy folk frolic away in shamrock-colored top hats. Well, let me tell you something, Miss Finnegan. I was raised in a small town in the west, what you Yanks would call picturesque. We had tour buses pass through every day, and your blue-haired American ladies with their plastic cameras would snap our photos to send off to their friends in, in—where are you from again?"
"Wisconsin," she whispered.
He nodded once. "To send to their friends in Wisconsin."
She wouldn't cry. She refused to give him the satisfaction. She would not cry.
Just then the waiter slid a parfait glass filled with hideous faces before her. There were pinchers and beady eyes and scorpion tails.
And she screamed.
The waiter paused and glanced at Donal Byrne. "Your prawns, miss."
The restaurant seemed to have grown silent as everyone stared at her.
"Oh, of course." She tried to maintain some sort of dignity. "I wasn't expecting. . ." What could she possibly say? That she wasn't expecting a tall glass filled with science fiction monsters? That she was expecting shrimp cocktail, not something from a Godzilla film? "Thank you," she said at last.
She was so mortified, she didn't notice the brief smile that flitted across Donal Byrne's mouth. If she had, she would have realized her guess had been correct.
His smile was indeed glorious. Maura Finnegan was not what he had expected. Donal Byrne poured himself a stiff tumbler of Jameson and settled into a worn chair, his favorite. It did not match the rest of his flat, not in the least, but he loved the lumpy comfort of the old chair, the upholstery worn thin on the armrests and the back, the hideous shade of orange and olive tweed. It reminded him of home.
Once the thought of home had made him feel safe, but that was before, when he was still in Munich, Since returning to Dublin the dreams had started again, vague as they had always been, now with a new ' sense of terror. When he was a university student he had always assumed the dreams were simply a product of his overworked mind. Yet now they brought with them a real fear, not for himself but for someone else. His mother? No. Not these dreams, Not anymore.
He took a sip, and then another. Maura Finnegan For some reason, Charles MacGuire had given Donal the clear impression that she was a rather plain American, young but plain. When she finally arrived at the Shelbourne, Donal had been taken aback. She was beautiful. Not in a traditional way, at least she wasn't beautiful the way other Yanks were. Instead, she did seem more like an Irish beauty, an idealized one, will translucent skin and green eyes and hair that would seem too red on anyone else. On her it was perfect. Of course, she also had those good American teeth. What was it about American teeth? Were they all straight and white and flawless? If Charles MacGuire had possessed an ounce'
professional integrity, he would have warned him about her appearance. Then again, what could he have said?
"Mind the heiress, bucko. She's a looker."
All MacGuire had said was that she was delightful and had a wonderful personality. That's where Donal had been misled. In his experience, any woman described as having a "wonderful personality" usually suffered from some sort of physical affliction. Most often, she had a full mustache, perhaps mismatched limbs, or a squinty eye.
Not Maura Finnegan.
He wanted this factory, Maiden Works Furniture. No, more than wanted. He needed it to complete his dream. His future was linked to Maiden Works. The factory would be modernized, new machinery made, if possible, in Ireland and manned, most certainly, by Irish men and women.
It would give them an option so many others had not had, an option he himself had not had: to stay in Ireland. To remain at home and work at a good job instead of going to England or Australia or, God forbid, America.
Donal had very nearly been forced to move to the Bronx when he first graduated from university. His cousin, with a doctorate in physics, was already there, illegally working as a bartender. There were thousands of Irish in America without green cards, working as nannies or bartenders or waiters. More often than not they held at least university degrees.
Donal had been lucky. Just as he was about to pack up for the Bronx, he was called to interview for a job in Munich. After three more interviews he landed the job with a German pharmaceutical company. He remained there for nearly ten years, nose to the grindstone, working long hours and weekends.
It had paid off. The firm had honed enough faith in him to back his business ventures in Ireland.
Maiden Works was perfect for his needs. On the threshold of bankruptcy, it was ripe for the picking. The building itself was not too large, but hopelessly outdated. With new equipment and personnel, it would be easily modernized. All it needed was guidance and vision and, of course, more than a little cash. These were things he had. Now all he needed was the factory itself, what should be the easiest item on his list.
And at last Donal could stay in Ireland. Perhaps one day marry an Irish girl with Irish values.
Then came this American.
Unlike many of his friends, he had never been fond of Americans, especially Irish Americans. They were by far the worst of the lot, grimacing and complaining about warm bitter beer, always asking for ice cubes in their drinks, always
taking blasted photographs. They spoke in loud voices, as if the Irish were deaf. The men all wore trousers hitched with low-hanging belts, the women wore bright-colored sweaters and seemed enchanted with simple woolens and ashtrays and scarves printed with artificial Celtic patterns.
They went into restaurants and asked for their style of food, they checked into hotels and expected American-style accommodations. Many times he had heard tales of bed-and-breakfast hosts tormented by these visitors.
If they wanted everything to be American, why didn't they just stay at home?
They seemed to view the world as their own personal theme park. Everything was for them, to have at their leisure and pleasure. Everything was disposable, a throwaway mentality he had never understood, nor had he ever wanted to understand.
Poor Maura Finnegan, the expression on her face when the Dublin Bay prawns were set before her. She had clearly been expecting shrimp, not the six-inch crustaceans that were more like crawfish than peeled shrimp.
He had to grudgingly admire the way she overcame her initial shock and watched him, gamely imitating his method of pulling them apart. Donal did notice that she kept turning their faces away from her own.
Never mind. Soon she would be back in Wisconsin, and the company would be his. She would again run her father's freeze-dried cabbage concern.
Perhaps he should have mentioned her father's death, a polite acknowledgment of his passing the previous year. From what he had learned from MacGuire, she had been devastated. But he couldn't be overly concerned with niceties, certainly not to someone who stood in his path. It would muddy the water. He couldn't afford to let emotions, anyone's emotions, get in the way.
He would put out of his mind the way he treated her at lunch. If he thought about it, he would most certainly be ashamed. By the end of the meal she had answered his questions in monosyllables, asking him to put his offer in writing for her later perusal. One thing he could not afford was to think of her as a woman. She was an American, a businesswoman. She was his adversary, his opponent.
That's why he had allowed her to pick up lunch. He thought that would even the playing field, so to speak, but she had seemed bewildered. Later, when he recalled how she had surreptitiously checked her wallet, he realized that she might have been worried about having enough money.