As outrageous as it seemed, as absolutely irresponsible as it was on the part of the employees, Maura couldn't help but be both amused and somehow touched. These were men who had worked together for a long time and had forged relationships beyond the walls of Maiden Works.
The reality was that there was not enough for the employees to do, not enough work to keep them all busy, thus the frequent, lengthy tea breaks. Something had to be done. She asked about getting a taxi back to Merrion Square, and Jimmy O'Neil shook his head and said something.
"Drith to methelp," he grinned.
"Good man," someone chimed, and the rest agreed.
"The best." She nodded. He may have just offered to vivisect a cat, but everyone seemed pleased just the same.
So she was somewhat surprised when he took her by the arm and lead her to a small red car. The front and back fenders were held on with string, and the rear windshield was missing. He held the door for her, and it was at that point she realized he intended to drive her home.
At least, she hoped that was his intention.
He started the car, smiling and pointing to the left, then the right. Obediently, she looked to the left and the right, an expression of wonder on her face as she pretended to understand what he was saying.
This time she didn't even attempt to locate seat belts. In a vehicle bereft of windshields, proper fenders, and—she noticed with alarm—functioning latches on the doors, the mere notion of a seat belt seemed hopelessly optimistic.
Jimmy O'Neil was a far better driver than Charles MacGuire, and soon she was able to relax and even catch a word or fleeting phrase of his conversation.
Suddenly he pointed to two hitchhikers, both with overloaded backpacks, a Nordic-looking couple. She realized he intended to give them a ride, and she smiled.
He was a kind old man, she thought.
The hitchhikers were grateful. In broken English they told her they were from Sweden and had been traveling for six weeks. Jimmy O'Neil spoke some apparently friendly words, but they obviously couldn't understand.
After a while they gestured to the side of the road, where they clearly wished to be let off. Jimmy grinned, nodding with comprehension, his brushy white hair remaining stiff and upright throughout. He leaned over Maura, and she pressed her back against the car seat in mild alarm.
He punched a button on the glove compartment, and out swung a fully functioning taxi meter.
"Two pounds sixty," he said with the clarity of a college professor.
The two hitchhikers exchanged puzzled looks.
"You're charging them for the ride?" Maura asked incredulously.
"Thatha mot ther car!" Jimmy replied indignantly.
Maura reached into her purse and handed him three pounds. He chuckled and released a lever on the dashboard. It was for the back door, unlocking it for the passengers. It occurred to her that had she not paid, or if they hadn't been able to come up with the fare, he might not have unlocked the doors.
By the expression on the hitchhikers' faces, the same thought had also occurred to them. They thanked her and scrambled out of the car as quickly as their backpacks would allow.
"Do you always do that? Pick up foreigners and charge them for the ride?"
Jimmy O'Neil stared at her mouth as if he couldn't understand her, and drove away. They rode in silence, and when they reached Merrion Square, he winked.
"Thatha moth ter car," he said, or perhaps repeated, she wasn't sure.
"Next time, ix-nay on the ide-ray," she muttered struggling with the car door. It finally gave way under a fierce kick. As he drove away, she heard him laugh loud and hard.
The National Gallery was literally next door to Maura's home on Merrion Square. In the front yard was a statue of George Bernard Shaw, a patron of the museum who had spent many hours there in his youth.
She wasn't quite in the mood for an art gallery. At least, not until she stepped over the threshold. And then, that was the only place she could imagine being that afternoon. The place was remarkable, with stunning paintings and sculptures spanning centuries, all exquisitely displayed.
She followed a trio of monks in coarse brown robes and sandals, eavesdropping on their conversation.
"Ah, another by Jack Yeats . . ."
"Did you see this one, Brother Brendan? One of Moynan's best, I believe ..."
"Is the American girl still following us?"
At that point she ducked into another room, right after a cluster of schoolchildren. And there, in the center of the grand gallery, was a full-length portrait of Fitzwilliam Connolly.
"Good Lord," she exclaimed out loud. No one seemed to take note of her, and slowly she approached the painting.
It looked a little like the man, just a little. The clothing was nicely drawn, satin breeches glinting impressively, and a striking velvet drape in the background was absolutely marvelous. But his face was all wrong. Whoever executed the painting—and she peered at the brass plate to catch the artist's name—had made his nose too long and his chin too short. The eyes were almost there, dark enough, but without the flash of intelligence she had seen, the humor. And the artist had painted them so close together, they very nearly gave the impression of being crossed.
Perhaps it was the powdered wig, with the set curls, that irritated her the most. Or the foppish brocade jacket in a particularly galling shade of baby blue.
Fitzwilliam Connolly was not a fop, nor had he ever dressed as a fop. Of that she was certain. In fact, she couldn't imagine him sitting still long enough to be painted. He seemed to be in constant motion.
"I hope he didn't pay for this," she muttered to herself. Again she looked at the nameplate below the painting.
"Fitzwilliam Connolly. Artist, Katherine Bur-bridge Connolly, circa 1768."
Well, that explained it. The poor man was already dead by the time the work was done and had no control over the ridiculous clothes they dressed him in.
Was the Katherine who painted him the same one he had mentioned to her, the Kitty he thought had been behind her appearance in his home? If so, she had indeed been quite the prankster. The portrait was evidence enough of that.
It bothered her all afternoon, that silly painting. Even as she showered and dressed for the dinner with Donal Byrne, she kept on thinking of the simpering
painted smile on the man's face. It was nothing like Connolly's real smile, the dangerous undertones that seemed to lurk just below the surface.
Once again, Donal was frighteningly punctual. If she had been watching the sweep hand of her Timex, she was sure that the rusty doorbell would have rang right as the hand clicked to the twelve.
This time Maura was ready, purse in hand. For some foolish reason, she had decided to wear her prettiest dress, one she had worn to a wedding the year before. It was an ankle-length cream silk with a pattern of soft roses. The sleeves were capped, the neckline scooped but not too low. With the hat she wore for the wedding, she had been told she looked like a character from an F. Scott Fitzgerald novel. Without the hat she felt less conspicuous, but she did wear the same towering shoes. By the end of the reception she had very nearly gotten the hang of walking in them, so she felt it safe to wear them for a second time.
Even if Donal Byrne didn't think she looked attractive, at least she felt attractive.
Donal Byrne stood on the crumbling front steps, looking impossibly handsome in a blue blazer, khaki trousers, a button-down shirt, and, of course, the obligatory red-and-blue striped tie. Yet somehow he managed to transcend the clean-cut cliche of his clothing. There was something almost wild about him, his black hair more unruly than she remembered, and his eyes—his eyes—that extraordinary shade of blue. In the brightness of the Dublin afternoon the pale blue was circled with a darker color. Those same eyes widened as he saw what she was wearing. "Miss Finnegan"—there was the faintest hint of a smile—"now aren't you looking fit today?"
"So are you, Mr. Byrne."
He straightened his tie with one han
d, and she realized there was a large manila envelope in the other. "I have the information on Connolly for you. I can't find all of the books. I'm afraid they are still boxed up from the move from Munich. I'll get them for you as soon as possible."
"Thank you." She put the envelope inside before closing the door.
Donal took a step back, his eyes focused on the door to the town house. "Are you sure you'll be warm enough?" He ran a hand through his hair, still staring at the door. He felt unsettled, uncomfortable at being so close to the home. Again he spoke. "The evenings can get pretty chilly in Dublin, even in the springtime."
"I'm fine. It gets well below zero back home in the winter." Why would he care about winter in Wisconsin, she asked herself.
"Well, I hope it won't get quite that cold tonight. Do you need a hand with the key?" He stepped to the doorway, his jaw set.
"No, thank you." After much struggling, she was finally able to close the door. "I think this needs a new lock."
"Nah," he said. "Just a bit of oil should fix it nicely. Americans are always wanting to throw away perfectly good things if they happen to be old."
"That's not true. How can you make a statement like that?" This was going from bad to worse. "Listen,
maiden voyage
Mr. Byrne, maybe we should just forget tonight. This may be a disaster in the making." She began to pull out the keys again to go back inside.
"No, wait. Please. Forgive me."
It would have been easy to dismiss him had he not started to laugh. "I swear, I don't know what it is about you. I don't believe anyone has brought out worse behavior in me since Billy Connors in primary school."
Just out of curiosity, she turned to see what he looked like when he smiled. That was all. Simply human curiosity.
Very slowly she turned toward him, and the instant she saw his face, she tightened her hold on the key.
He was so handsome. And so familiar.
Again he laughed and reached for her hand. She didn't have the time or inclination to pull away.
"Come. Are you hungry?" There seemed to be no notion of canceling the date on his part. "We'll go to a place just around the corner. Can you walk in those shoes?"
He gave a dubious glance at her wobbling ankles. She had only worn them at that wedding reception, and she had been sitting down most of the time, so she herself wondered if walking was an actual option.
But the last thing she wanted to do was prove him right.
"Of course," she said lightly. As she stepped down the concrete stairs, grasping the shaky railing, she noticed a very faint smile on his face. Her hand-overhand progress would have been more appropriate for rappelling down the side of a cliff, but it did get her onto the street. Crooking his arm in her direction, which she accepted with a shrug, he began at a brisk pace. She took three steps for each one of his, struggling to keep up and listen to his running commentary on historic sites.
"Now that building, of course, is Leinster House, the Irish equivalent of Parliament. It used to be a private home, built by the earl of Kildare in the middle of the eighteenth century. And if it looks familiar, it may be because the man who designed your White House in Washington used this as his inspiration. Are you sure you can walk in those shoes?"
"Of course I can." She tried to take a larger step, but only succeeded in dipping to the left. "Is your car parked nearby?"
"I didn't drive tonight. I thought it was a grand night for a stroll. The restaurant is just a bit ahead. Now, the interesting thing about Leinster House is that it looks different from each side. From this angle, it resembles a sprawling country mansion. But from the Kildare Street side, it appears to be an unassuming town house . . ."
His voice had a magnetic, lilting quality, a soothing tone even as he spoke of houses and landmarks. It was a voice she could never imagine tiring of, a voice that would always be compelling.
Finally they reached the restaurant, a strange little place called The Griffin in a back alley. She hadn't thought it possible, but Donal Byrne had managed to find a Dublin restaurant devoid of all charm and warmth. The decor was straight out of a Sears catalog,
from the red vinyl chairs to the black velvet matador painting displayed over a plastic fireplace. There was a large needlepoint of John F. Kennedy, a smaller one of the pope, and a laminated cardboard plaque that read "An Irish Prayer."
"Ah, we're in luck," Byrne winked. "We've beaten the crowd."
As far as she could tell, they were the only people within a two-block radius. She couldn't imagine throngs of diners pushing through the entrance, all eager for the ambiance of The Griffin.
"Here, take a seat." He pulled out a chair for her and picked up two menus.
"We seem to be alone. Does anyone work here?" Just as she spoke, her voice echoing off" the hard plastic surfaces, there was a loud clatter from the kitchen, and the door swung open.
"Donal! A thousand welcomes!" A short, stocky man with a pencil-thin mustache approached their table, arms spread wide. His apron was stained with brownish splotches that suggested either dried blood or liberal splashes of Gravy Master.
"Hello, Nino." He extended his hand, and the two men shook furiously before turning their attention to Maura.
Nino's eyebrows shot toward his gleaming hairline.
"This is Maura Finnegan, an American."
"So you're the one who inherited Delbert's Disgrace and the factory. An Irish welcome to you!"
"Nino is not actually Irish, so he has absolutely no right to offer you an Irish welcome." Byrne announced. "He's from Italy." "But I learn English in Clare," he said proudly.
His accent was, indeed, as peculiar as the restaurant.
"Wine, Donal?"
"Certainly, Nino. You know very well that no one can eat your food unless the wine comes first."
Instead of being offended, Nino laughed joyously and clapped Donal on the back before scurrying off for the wine.
"You won't get this on a tour bus," Donal said as he opened the menu.
"That's certainly a safe bet." She glanced at her own menu, removing a dried lettuce leaf from the beverage selection list, and realized it was an Italian-Irish restaurant. Stews and soda breads were listed alongside linguini and pesto dishes. The pizza column included toppings such as rashers, poached eggs, breakfast sausage, and grilled kidneys.
Nino returned with two wineglasses and an open bottle that wasn't completely full. A new stain was on the bib of his apron—a path of red wine. His chin had a small dribble of wine.
"Here we go." He grinned. "Would you like to taste it, Donal?"
"No thanks. I trust you've already done that. How is it?"
"Grand! I got a bit of cork in the first swallow, but the second and third were brilliant."
"Well, that's good enough for me. Maura?"
"Fine." He had called her by her first name. Did he even realize it?
"Nino," she said looking at the menu. "Are there any specials today?"
"Specials? Every day is special!"
Byrne took a sip of wine. "It really doesn't matter what you order. I'm afraid everything is awful."
Nino clapped in agreement. "He's right, of course. But if I were you I'd stay away from the cabbage frittata and the kidney pizza."
"And take a miss on the potatoes with pesto sauce," Byrne added. "The linguini with cod and bacon ravioli is pretty wretched as well. What kind of soup are you opening up tonight, Nino?"
"Ah, minestrone or chicken noodle."
"The soup comes straight from a can, so it's fairly consistent."
The front door opened, and three customers entered. "Nino," one of them called. "So the sanitary board hasn't closed you down yet?"
Nino beamed. "Not yet! You've come just in time—we're deciding which can of soup to open."
As the evening progressed, Maura realized they had not been kidding. The food was terrible. The soup was indeed canned. The meatball in her pasta—a shape she'd never seen before, Nino seemed to call it
either "foot" or "fool," and she wasn't sure if he was referring to the shape, the main ingredient, or the person who ordered it—was made from lamb. The salad was a quartered head of iceberg lettuce served with a dollop of house dressing made, Nino confided, by blending equal parts mayonnaise and steak sauce.
But Donal had been right. By the time they were finished with dinner, there was a line snaking outside and down the alley. And in spite of the food and strange surroundings, she realized that she'd had a delightful time. Whether it had been because of Nino or Donal or just the quirky charm of the place, a quality that had nothing to do with the decor and everything to do with the people, she couldn't recall having a more wonderful meal.
"Just imagine how popular this place would be if the food was actually edible," he said as they left.
During dinner he had called her Maura several times, and she had used his first name once. She enjoyed the way he pronounced her name, the vowels seemed to take a longer time than usual to escape his lips.
She also learned that Donal Byrne had a marvelous sense of humor. He laughed easily, even at some of her comments, which she found an endearing trait.
And he was a good listener. She found herself telling him all about her parents, about growing up in Wisconsin, college. All too soon it was time to leave in order to make the curtain at the Abbey Theatre.
"It's not far," he said as they walked passed Trinity College to O'Connell Street and over the bridge.
It was difficult to determine what was more uncomfortable, her feet in the ridiculously high heels or the rest of her body in the light dress. It had become cold enough that she could see Donal's breath as he spoke.
As they waited for a crossing light to change, he took off his blazer and placed it on her shoulders. "I know that it isn't as cold as Wisconsin, Maura, but I don't recall your lips being this shade of blue before."
"Thank you." She slipped her arms into the jacket, enjoying the warmth from his body. There was something intimate about wearing his jacket, something wonderfully physical.