This Irish House (23 page)

Pocketing the receipt, Kate grabbed a jacket and locked the door behind her. Maeve would have a fresh perspective. She would beg a cup of tea from her friend.

Maeve answered the door in a multicolored Hawaiian sarong tied in a double knot around her tanned hips and a brief white spandex top. She had a half-finished martini in her hand. Kate stared at her in amazement. “It's ten o'clock in the morning and we've hail on the way.”

Maeve shrugged her shoulders. “I've been on the treadmill. If I get cold, I'll change.” She pulled Kate inside and closed the door. “Half of Ireland is drunk by this time of morning. You know that.”

“Times have changed, Maeve. People are working now. Drink isn't such an important part of our lives.”

Maeve shook back her red mane and snorted. “I'm too old to change and I'm not working.”

Kate didn't take off her jacket. “I didn't come here to argue.”

“Then don't criticize me.” Maeve's tone was sharp. She looked at Kate and was instantly contrite. “I'm sorry, love. Pay no attention to me. I'm always a witch when I've had a few too many.”

Kate followed her friend into the drawing room and slowly removed her jacket. “Is something troubling you, Maeve?”

Maeve's laugh was brittle. She sat down beside Kate and crossed her legs beneath her. “I'm forty years old, single, childless and my prospects aren't at all good. On those rare occasions when I take stock of my life, I wonder what I've done with it.” She lifted her glass and swallowed the last of her drink. “I've accomplished nothing, Kate, absolutely nothing.”

“That isn't true,” Kate protested. “You're an accomplished artist. Your work is wonderful and you're a dear friend. What would I do without you?”

Maeve's yellow-green eyes were very bright. “You're a love, Katie, but in the end, perhaps you won't think I've been such a dear friend.”

“I don't understand.”

“I'm gone most of the time and I'm close to inebriation when I am here. What kind of friend is that?”

“I don't remember your drinking that much, Maeve.” Kate was obviously troubled.

“Let's not talk about me anymore,” Maeve said. “Isn't today a workday?”

Kate smiled. “I should be working. Instead I came for a cup of tea and some conversation.”

Maeve's hand flew to her lips. “God, I'm hopeless. Follow me into the kitchen and I'll brew a pot of Bewleys.”

Ten minutes later, fortified with steaming cups of tea and a pot that promised more between them, the two women sat across from each other at Maeve's solid oaken table.

“Tell me your troubles, Katie,” she began.

The urge to tell Maeve about Neil Anderson was strong, but she decided against it. Her own feelings regarding Neil weren't settled. Until they were she would wait. “I went into Patrick's room today to clean out his things,” she began.

“Good,” Maeve broke in. “It's about time.”

“I found this.” Kate reached into her pocket and pulled out the booking receipt. She handed it to Maeve.

“It's a booking receipt.”

“It's also an international phone number.”

Maeve squinted. “So it is.” She returned the slip of paper to Kate.

“I called the number but no one answered.”

“Why would you call?”

“I want to find the woman, Maeve.” Kate's voice was tight, strained. “I must find her.”

“What good will it do?”

“I need to know what her relationship was with my husband.”

“Will it make you feel any differently about Patrick?”

“Yes.”

Maeve sighed. “Whatever you find won't bring him back, Katie. Nor will it change anything at all. Why do this?”

“It will change everything.”

“All right.” Maeve lifted one perfectly shaped eyebrow. “Let's assume worst case. Suppose Patrick was unfaithful to you with this woman. Suppose she was his mistress. What will you do?”

Kate's mind was blank. She floundered for words. “I don't know. Talk to her, maybe.”

“For what purpose?” Maeve persisted.

“Stop badgering me, Maeve. I don't know.”

“Shall I tell you?”

Kate stared at her. “Please, do.”

“You want to see her, to know if she's more attractive than you. You want to know if he promised her anything, if he was the same person with her that he was with you, if she was better in bed. Women always want to know those things.”

“You sound experienced.”

“God, I need a cigarette. Do you mind if I smoke?”

“As a matter of fact, I do.”

“Am I right?”

“Is it so wrong to want to know those things?” Kate countered.

“I can answer them all for you.” She ticked them off on her fingers. “She will be attractive, but not more attractive. He won't have promised her anything. Their lovemaking will have been entirely different, but no better and he won't have been the devoted husband and father. Different needs will have been fulfilled. You will be terribly hurt and become embittered. You'll hate her and then you'll hate him. Is that what you want, Katie?”

“On the other hand, she could be a business acquaintance and all my worries will have been for nothing.” She appealed to Maeve. “Isn't that worth finding out?” “You tell me.

How will you feel if it's worst case?”

“I don't know. I'll solve that one when it happens.” She looked thoughtfully at Maeve, at the thick red hair, the feline green eyes, the smooth tanned skin, and wondered how Ireland could have produced the sheer, beautiful, sultry, foreign quality of her. “You would do it differently, wouldn't you?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“I don't believe in full disclosure.”

“Do you really believe it's better to live a lie?”

“It isn't a lie, Kate. It's simple omission. We don't need to know everything about the people we love. When we try for that kind of omniscience, they become diminished. Don't you see? No one can live up to the kind of scrutiny you're proposing.” She was more earnest than Kate had ever seen her.

“I can,” Kate said quietly.

Maeve stared at her. “Congratulations, Kate,” she said tonelessly. “Let me know when they canonize you.”

Kate held the telephone in her hand for a long time. Was Maeve right? Should she leave Patrick to his privacy or would the not knowing haunt her forever? Once again, she slowly punched in the numbers on the booking receipt. The phone rang once, twice, a long, single ring. She wasn't prepared for the woman's voice on the other end of the line.

“Hello,” she stammered. “Can you please tell me the name of the party I've reached?”

“Who is calling?” the voice replied.

“My name is Kate Nolan. I found this phone number and wondered—”

There was a moment of silence, then a click and dial tone.

Frustrated, Kate replaced the receiver.

The voice wasn't right. The woman was too old, with the demeanor of a domestic. Impossible scenarios flitted through Kate's mind. Neil was a Special Forces investigator. He said he would help her. She would ask him to find the address through the phone number. He would know how to do that. She'd seen movies. Then she would book a morning flight to New York, find the address and knock on the door herself. She would book a room for the night just in case the person wasn't home. Deirdre was in school and Kevin was at Tranquility House. She would be home before anyone knew she had gone. Perhaps she would ask Maeve to go with her, Maeve who knew New York City as well as Kate knew Belfast.

D
eirdre waited on the corner where the Eglantine and Malone Roads crossed each other. Belfast was an orderly city. Traffic was heavy but, unlike Dublin, no one drove over the speed limit and no one crossed against traffic lights. A green-suited member of the RUC walked past her and nodded. She ignored him, pretending she hadn't noticed. Deirdre was angry with herself. She missed Peter. It was absurd. She hadn't known him very long, only a few weeks, really. But in that time he'd filled up her spare moments. It was odd, when she stopped to reflect, how much more she'd missed him than she had her own father. Not that Peter's exit from her life could ever come close to the wrenching pain she'd felt immediately after her father's murder. But Patrick Nolan had been devoted to his work. Sometimes he didn't come home for days and, when he did, he remained closeted in his study. Deirdre couldn't recall a time when she'd actually had a conversation with her father. It was different with Peter. He'd become part of her daily life.

She was having second thoughts about continuing her education at Queen's. Her mother had warned her against it. She'd tried to explain what it was like living in a city with a Protestant majority. Deirdre listened but hadn't believed. She'd chosen Queen's not only because of its reputation for excellence in the sciences, but because her mother worked in Belfast and it was close to home. She'd had no idea how she would feel as a member of a despised minority population. In the Republic only six percent of the entire population was Protestant. Because their numbers were so small, they were cultivated and appreciated. It was not the same for Catholics in the Six Counties. Deirdre did not have the words to describe the feelings of oppression and paranoia that followed her everywhere except areas heavily frequented by university students.

The coffee house was half-empty. Deirdre ordered a cappuccino and slid into the corner booth. She spread out her books, opened her
Ancient
Civilisations
text, shook her hair over her face and settled in for a lengthy stay. History did not come easily to her, not like mathematics and physical science. Peter was the one with a gift for understanding the subtleties of politics, ancient or modern. She could have used his tutoring for her last exam.

“Hello, Deirdre.” The voice came from a booth near the wall.

She turned, saw him in the flesh and couldn't stop the look of dismay that crossed her face.

His welcoming smile faded. “I saw you come in,” he explained. “It seemed awkward not to say anything.”

She nodded. “How are you?”

“Miserable,” he confessed. “And you?”

“I'm busy,” she said truthfully.

He frowned into his coffee.

“Wouldn't your grandmother like your business?” she asked.

Peter grinned. “Gran can't make a proper cup of coffee. Hers is strictly a tea shop. Besides, I had a late night and needed the extra caffeine.”

“How did you do on your exam?”

“Which one?”

“History, of course.”

“Well enough. What about you?”

Deirdre groaned and the words spilled out. “I'm hopeless. It's so disappointing. I'm just not interested, Peter. How am I ever going to get through? I don't know things other people know and I don't care about Philip of Macedonia, Alexander the Great or Napolean.”

He stood and walked around to where she sat. Pointing to the empty seat across from her, he asked, “Do you mind?”

She should turn him away. It would be better for both of them. “No,” she said.

“Would you like to hear my theory?” he asked after he sat down.

“Do I have a choice?”

“You have a mental block,” he continued, ignoring her question. “Somewhere, you decided it wasn't important to know why the Battle of Hastings changed the course of English history. Ever since then you were lost.”

“How did you get to be so smart?”

Again he grinned, ignoring her sarcasm. “It's obvious. You have an excellent mind, almost legal in its ability to synthesize information. Your ineptness in the humanities makes no sense.”

“What do you suggest I do about this so-called mental block?”

He thought a minute. “You could hire a tutor,” he said. “I know of an exceptional one who hires out at seven pounds an hour.”

“I'm serious.”

“Well then, my second suggestion is to read historical fiction.”

“That's absurd.”

“No, it makes perfect sense. Reading plot driven novels will stimulate your interest. You'll remember events, people and places when you come across them in texts if you've heard of them before.”

“I don't know.”

“Try it. You're Irish, Deirdre. We Irish love stories.”

He'd surprised her. She didn't think Protestants considered themselves Irish.

“I don't have a great deal of time to read novels, Peter.”

“We've the best writers in the world right here in Ireland. You're missing out on one of life's true pleasures.”

“I've never seen you read a novel.”

“I don't read when I'm with people. What would be the point in that?”

“Maybe I should hire a tutor.” She frowned. “It's just that it costs money and I don't want to bother my mother with this just now.”

“I'll help you.”

“I don't think so, Peter.”

He leaned forward, eyes intent on her face and spoke earnestly. “It wouldn't be the same as meeting socially. We'll discuss our studies, that's all.”

She hesitated. Why not? No one could object, not if the intent was purely for purposes of raising her exam scores. “All right, but I won't be able to pay you much.”

“We'll work that one out later.”

Deirdre smiled. “I will pay you, Peter. I promise.”

Kate answered on the second ring. “This is Kate Nolan.”

“Hello, Kate. It's Neil.”

They hadn't spoken since the night in his flat, over a week ago. “Hello, Neil,” she said coolly.

“How are you?”

“I'm well, thank you.”

“You left a message,” he said after a moment of awkward silence.

“Yes. Could we meet?”

“Of course. Where?”

“Brennan's at noon.”

“I'll be there.”

Kate stared at the phone. She was strangely depressed. So much for his loving her. How could a man be in love and require no contact beyond a night of intimacy? She wanted no part of Neil Anderson's kind of love. But she did need him. She mustn't lose sight of that.

Brennan's, with its dark wood and smoky corners, was a perfect place for an illicit meeting. Not that his meeting with Kate was illicit, Neil assured himself. But he had a feeling she would rather no one knew about it.

He chose a secluded table at the back of the restaurant. He saw her before she saw him and his breath caught. What was there about a woman that made her stand out? She lit up the room as if she was the only one there. Spunky, fey, elegant. The words came to his mind. She filled his senses. He was conscious of smoky hair, clear, light-filled eyes, sharply defined bones, a walk that combined the sensual and athletic. Where had she been the last twenty years of his life? The question was rhetorical. She was Patrick's wife, Deirdre and Kevin's mother. Neil could have stared forever, but she'd seen him. Suddenly he was nervous. He stood and pulled out her chair. “Hello, Kate.”

“Hello.” She looked directly at him. “Have you ordered?”

“I waited for you.”

She picked up the menu and glanced at the page. “I think I'll have the chicken salad and a Squash.”

Neil couldn't begin to concentrate on food. “Is everything all right?”

“I'm not sure.” Again she looked at him without blinking. “I was beginning to think our interlude existed only in my imagination. Were you ever going to call me again?”

He schooled his features into a polite mask. She'd shocked him. Neil couldn't remember the last time he'd experienced such an emotion. No woman of his acquaintance, no lady anyway, would have brought up such a subject. He made an instant decision to be just as straightforward. “Believe it or not, I've given it quite a bit of thought.”

“Go on.”

“You scare me, Kate,” he said honestly. “I don't want to start what can't be finished.”

“I don't understand.”

“I'm forty-two years old and single. Brief affairs hold no appeal for me. I'm thinking about whom I want to wake up next to for the next thirty years. I see no point in involving myself in a situation that has all the potential for heartbreak.”

She opened her mouth and closed it again without saying anything. Then she wet her lips. “What about Kevin?”

“I'm working on it.”

“Can you tell me what you've decided?”

“I'd rather not.”

Kate sipped her water. He noticed that her hands shook. She was not as coolly collected as she appeared. “Can you tell me if he'll be safe?”

“I'll do my best, Kate. Believe that.”

She nodded.

The waitress took their order, returned with their drinks and left them alone again.

“I need your help,” Kate said, changing the subject.

Neil waited.

She pulled a slip of paper from her purse. “This is a New York City phone number. I want you to find the address of that number.”

“Have you tried it?”

“Of course,” she said impatiently.

“And?”

“A woman answered. She was probably a maid, a very discreet maid.”

“I see.”

“You did say you would help me.”

Neil pocketed the number. “I'll help you, Kate, on one condition.”

“What condition?”

“You won't leave the country without telling me first.”

“Do you have any idea how arrogant you sound?”

Neil grinned. “You'll never catch a man by insulting him.”

Her face flamed. “I have no desire to catch a man. Besides, if he can't stomach the real me, I wouldn't want him anyway.”

“Thank you. It helps to be informed.”

“I thought you didn't want to be involved in a situation with a potential for heartbreak.”

“I've changed my mind. I've always been a risk taker.”

“Well, I haven't,” she snapped. “All I want is my address.”

He sobered immediately. “This is illegal, you know.”

“It's done all the time.”

“Not by me.”

She said nothing.

“What do you hope to gain by this, Kate? Whatever you find, it won't be pleasant. Patrick was involved in a great many things, none of which will delight you. Why not just leave it and move on?”

“I want to know if I've lived a lie.”

“We all live lies.”

“I don't.”

He sighed. “And if you have?”

“I don't know,” she said honestly.

He frowned. “Do you agree to my condition?”

“I have no choice.”

“Of course you do.”

“I don't see it that way, however, under the circumstances, yes, I agree.”

“I was afraid of that,” he muttered under his breath.

Neil was having a difficult time reining in his temper. The boy was obstinate and rude. Only the fact that he was Kate's son kept him from abandoning his mission. He tried a different approach. “Are you hungry?”

Kevin shrugged.

A beggar sat on a pile of newsprint in the shadow of a vendor's awning and held out a cup. Neil pulled out a coin from his pocket and dropped it in. “How does fish and chips sound?”

“I'd rather have a burger.”

Neil looked around.

Kevin pointed to the McDonald's marquis on the corner of the next street.

Neil managed a smile. American-style hamburgers weren't among his preferred foods. He took another look at the boy's face and made a decision not at all consistent with what he was feeling. “Come along, then,” he said.

When they were seated across from each other in the sterile, plastic-covered booth, Neil tried a different approach. “Will you leave Ardara when the time comes?”

“What?” Kevin looked confused.

“When you're grown and this is behind you.”

“I hadn't thought about it.”

“Surely you've considered university and what you'll do for the rest of your life.”

Kevin shook his head. “I'm not much of a student,” he offered, “not like Deirdre.”

“A trade perhaps?”

“I don't think so. Mum would have an attack.”

Neil bit into his fish sandwich managing the question and the chewing at the same time. “I can't imagine your mother having an attack over anything.”

Kevin looked somewhere over Neil's shoulder, considering his answer. “She doesn't really,” he agreed, “not usually. There was that one time when she picked me up from the RUC barracks in Belfast. You were there,” he reminded Neil.

“I don't remember her losing her calm. It must have happened after you left.”

“I told her to leave me alone.” Kevin grinned. “It was my language she didn't like, and my tone.”

“I see.”

Kevin kept on talking. “She pulled over to the side of the road, got out and started running.”

“What?” Neil stopped chewing.

“She does that, you know, runs at every opportunity.”

Neil didn't know. He remembered her athletic stride, the toned muscles, the absence of fat. Kate was a runner. It wasn't important, or was it? Somehow, his perception of her changed, tilted slightly in another direction. What did it mean? Why did it pull him up short?

“How long has she been running?”

“Five years or so. She started up after my da died.”

He'd said
died,
not the harsh
murdered
or the benign
passed
away.
Neil swallowed the last of his fish. Why was he obsessing like this? What difference did it make to know that Kevin thought of his father as dead and his mother and sister considered him murdered, or that Kate Nolan had passions that exorcised themselves through harsh physical exercise?