The Celtic Riddle (34 page)

After a few minutes of silence, I heard loud echoing footsteps, and
a man in bowler hat, black suit, and umbrella, his face painted
completely white, stepped into the circle of light. I kept staring at
him, thinking I should know who he was, but I couldn't figure it out,
and in the end I gave up trying.

"And now, for your viewing enjoyment," the man said. "For one last
time on the silver screen, sailor, world traveller, scholar,
antiquarian, successful entrepreneur, and family man, from County
Kerry, Ireland, please welcome, ladies and gentlemen, Missssster
Ea-monnnnnn Byrrrne!"

The screen behind the man lit up, as his footsteps died away, and
there, larger, much larger, than life, was, as announced, Eamon Byrne.
"I suppose you're wondering why I called you all together," the giant
face said. "Particularly," and here he coughed, "particularly seeing as
how I'm dead."

"I've seen this one," I said to the empty theater. "This must be
summer reruns."

But it wasn't.

"I wish," Eamon Byrne said looking right at me. "I wish more than
anything, that I'd told them, all of them, my sister Rose, my friends,
my business partners, my staff, Kitty, John, Michael, even Deirdre, my
wife Margaret, but most especially my darling daughters, my little
Eriu, Fotla, and Banba-I wish that instead of saying those horrible
things I did, that I'd told them that I love them."

And with that the screen went blank and I was back in my hospital
room.

This, it seemed to me, called for decisive action. With all the
strength I could muster, I opened my eyes. I must have been gone
awhile, because Breeta was no longer there. All the rest of them were,
though, and they were the ones I wanted to talk to.

"She's awake," Alex exclaimed.

"About time," Moira said, smiling at me.

I tried to move my lips. It was a slow and painstaking process. "I,"
I said, slowly and as distinctly as I could. They all leaned forward.

"Love," I said. Their eyes widened.

"Ou," I concluded, trying to take all of them in one glance. There
was something about the Y sound I couldn't manage.

"Even ou, dive," I said slowly. He hugged Moira and planted a sloppy
kiss on my cheek.

"Brilliant!" Rob said, smiling down at me.

My next trip to Ireland was some months later, to testify at Charles
McCafferty's trial. I was not there long, the trip cut short by an
incident that still plays across the back of my eyelids from time to
time, or drags me from my sleep, gasping and tearing at the bedclothes.
On the first day of the trial Charles had looked relaxed and confident,
as if certain his charm would carry the day. And you know, it might
have. On the second, as he was being lead to the courtroom from the
paddy wagon, his arms shackled behind him, Conail O'Connor stepped from
behind a van, raised a rifle, and shot him dead. The trial was a big
one, covered by media from all over the country, and the scene was
played over and over on television, Charles dying in slow motion time
and time again.

In my mind, he saw his killer, although I can't be sure he did. I
think he probably viewed his own death with the same detached
equanimity he had his life. On the other hand, I'm not sure how I feel
about all this. While I consider him more sinning than sinned against,
particularly where Michael Davis is concerned, I feel the occasional
small tug of compassion when I think of Charles. I can only hope the
Byrne/Mac Roth blood feud died with him.

On a happier note, Byrne Enterprises is making its way back, led by
a triumvirate: the three Byrne sisters. The family is planning to
donate the silver reliquary to a museum, as soon as they have enough
income to qualify for the tax receipt, and will use the savings this
allows them over the next few years to expand the business. It's going
to be a long road back, but somehow I know they're going to do it. I
like the idea of Byrne Enterprises being run by the triple goddess of
the Tua-tha de Danaan-Eriu, Fotla, and Banba. How can they fail with
all that magic on their side?

Sean McHugh is running one of the businesses again, as vice
president of something or other, reporting to his wife and
sisters-in-law, but Fionuala and Conail have permanently called it
quits. Conail apparently thought that if he revenged the family on
Charles, his wife would stand by her man. He was wrong. Last I heard,
Fionuala, not one to be wasting time visiting her ex-husband in prison,
had set her sights on Ryan McGlynn. One can only hope, for her sake,
that the resemblance between Tweedledum and Tweedledee goes only skin
deep.

Second Chance has been sold. Margaret has made her way back to
Connemara, and, much to my surprise, has actually written me to inquire
about my health. The others have stayed in the Dingle: Eithne and Sean
have a small house in town and Breeta is living quite happily in Rose
Cottage with Paddy Gilhooly and their lovely baby girl. They've named
her Rose. I found an absolutely wonderful antique bed for the little
darling, and shipped it over. Alex has refused to charge them any rent,
so Breeta and Paddy are gradually fixing the place up for him,
including putting in electricity and a new lane from the main road.
Alex says that someday, a long time from now, he plans to retire there.
Vigs, I gather, stays with the cottage.

Jennifer Luczka is off to university. She's doing well at her
classes. She also has a new boyfriend. She's bringing him home to meet
us at Thanksgiving. Rob is steeling himself for the ordeal.

It is taking me considerably longer than I thought it should to get
well again after the operation, the perils of being in your forties, I
suppose. As Rob keeps telling me, middle age isn't for wimps. The
doctors have told me to take it one day at a time, which I've tried to
do, impatient though I usually am. I do feel reasonably well, at last,
and am grateful to be alive.

Moira has decided that my life would be much better if there was a
man in it, a view I'm not sure I share, and she has set her sights on
Rob as my next partner. All I can say about this is that if Rob and I
continue our current glacial progress toward a more intimate
relationship, by the time we actually get there, we'll only be capable
of chaste kisses before we pass each other the glue for our dentures.
In the meantime, however, I'm not much interested in anybody else.

Moira has also decided, in an indirect way, some other things about
my future. Greenhalgh & McClin-toch is gone, but McClintoch &
Swain is back in business. Sarah Greenhalgh, who didn't find retail
nearly as exciting as she thought it would be most of the time, and way
too exciting the rest of the time, asked me if I'd care to buy her out.
The decision for Clive and me to reunite, in a business sense only,
came at a three-way conference at my kitchen counter.

"I have a proposal for you," Clive said carefully, clearing his
throat and glancing over at Moira as he spoke. "With Sarah intent on
leaving, and your having been a little under the weather for so long,
we've been thinking you might like some help with the store. What do
you say to our getting together again? You have a much better sense of
the kinds of furniture and furnishings people like than I do, and you
really do your research on antiques. I like to think I'm good at the
design stuff, pulling it all together. What do you think?"

I looked at the two of them, Clive his usual rakish self, although
somehow apprehensive, Moira looking quite uncharacteristically
diffident. I looked down at my coffee cup, watching as a small pool of
frothed milk expanded across my saucer from the spoon, and for a moment
or two my life with Clive, the good times and the bad, flashed before
my eyes. For some reason, I also thought of Charles, and a long, sad
tale of inappropriate love, and I could feel myself getting angry all
over again, whether at them or myself I didn't know.

Then I thought of all the laughs I'd shared with Moira, the late
night conversations, the support we'd given each other through the
tough times in retail and in life. I remembered when we'd had our
impacted wisdom teeth out at the same time, then taken a limo back to
my place, where, curled up in blankets and flannel nightgowns purchased
for the occasion, we sat up most of the night by a roaring fire,
sharing a very fine bottle of scotch through clenched teeth, as our
faces swelled. And I remembered being told that Moira, when she heard
I'd been shot, had grabbed her handbag and passport, called Clive, then
driven directly to the airport without so much as a toothbrush, calling
her travel agent from the car and demanding to be put on the first
flight headed in the general direction of Ireland. When I looked up,
Moira had a expression on her face that was part hope, part pleading.

"You could think about it for a while," Clive said.

"No, I don't have to. It's a good idea," I said.

Clive was angling to call our new shop Swain & McClintoch rather
than its original name, which predates our divorce. His second ex-wife
Celeste was not too inclined to advance him any cash, however, and my
dear friend Moira wisely stayed out of it. Under the circumstances, the
bank was keener on my signature than his, so McClintoch & Swain it
is. We opened with a very splashy party to which we invited everyone we
could think of, and where champagne-real champagne-flowed copiously. I
would not normally throw such an extravagant party: I mean, we're still
paying for it months later. But who cares? Under the circumstances, I
felt I was celebrating my new life, not just the new store. I've
learned many things in the last few months, not the least of which is
that life is a precious, and fragile, gift.

As unconventional as it may be to work in partnership with your
ex-spouse, it's going okay. Irish Georgian is doing reasonably well for
us. Just as I hoped he would, Clive mixes the paint and does a sketch
of the room, complete with color swatches; I, with Eithne Byrne as our
part-time agent and picker in Ireland, get the furniture. Whatever we
need, Eithne finds. She's working out really well, and having a good
time of it, I believe. I expect she'll open her own shop in Ireland
soon enough, once Byrne Enterprises is on more solid footing, but I
think, I hope, our relationship will continue.

And if Irish Georgian doesn't work for you, name your place. We'll
see you get the complete look, furniture, furnishings, plants,
lighting, window and wall treatments, whatever it takes. So far, we've
done the Mediterranean, Tuscany, Mexico, Bali, and beyond. There's a
whole world out there, and before I waft off again into that great
silver screen in the sky, I plan to see it all.