A Change of Heart (The Heartfelt Series) (28 page)

 “You okay?” Erin asked, flipping the tea towel over her shoulder, “you haven’t said more than a sentence in days, and you’re losing weight, they won’t want you back in that film if you look like a seven-stone weakling.”

 Ryan gave her a half-smile. Erin went to the fridge, grabbed a bottle of vodka and poured them both a shot. Ryan raised his hand, “I don’t ...”

 “Drink? Jeez, have you taken the
pledge
as well?” Erin asked.

 “No, I don’t drink vodka, it makes me drunk,” he told her.

 Erin burst out laughing. “I see, and it’s only vodka that does that, the stout or the whiskey or the wine has no effect?”

 “You know what I mean,” he nodded at the glass, “you go ahead.”

 “I’ve every intention,” she said haughtily, “don’t need your permission.”

 Ryan started to gather up his papers.

 “Don’t go, I was only joking,” she told him.

 “Can I be frank, Erin,” he asked.

 “Be anyone you like Frank,” she smiled.

 “I’m not in the best of form and you’re just a bit too much like hard work.” He stood to go.

 She held up her hands. “Sorry, know where you’re coming from. Tell you what - I’ll get you a nightcap, we’ll put some music on and just chill for half an hour. I won’t even talk, okay?” she seemed genuinely sorry for him. He thought about it.

 “Okay,” he said, quietly.

By the time Erin returned Ryan had packed his work away and
Roxy Music’s ‘Avalon’
was on the radio. He was standing at the window, gazing into the dark. She handed him a drink.

 “You guys’ll work it out. You’re in love, it’ll be grand,” she said, knocking back the shot, “Christ, that’s rough,” she said, shaking her head, then smiling at Ryan. “You’ve just had a bit of a crap time - Angelique’s death and everything. Did she die here?”

 Ryan turned back into the room. “No, on the plane,” he said.

 “Was she okay when she left, not out of it, not in a coma or anything?” Erin asked.

 “They wouldn’t have let her on the plane in a coma now would they?” Ryan gave her a quizzical look.

 “I just wondered if you thought there was any, what do they say, ‘foul play’?”

 “No I do
not
,” he continued “Marianne saw her on the beach, she was already packed and ready to go. They came back here, Larry arrived to go with her to the airport and home. Why do you ask?”

 Erin was swaying to the music.

 “Just curious, you know. Do you think she killed herself?” she asked. Ryan had not touched his drink.

 “Yes, there’s no doubt Angelique killed herself, Erin. She had been killing herself for a long time. Whether she deliberately decided to kill herself on the flight home, who knows? I doubt it. I think she just died, from what, who knows? The autopsy said death by misadventure, the toxicology report showed high levels of alcohol in her system.
My
opinion, cause of death – lifestyle – simple as that.”

 Erin moved to face him, still swaying.

 “Yeah, I suppose that could be true of so many,” she said.

 “Nearly everyone really,” Ryan said, dryly.

 “Dance?” she asked, holding out her arms. She lost her balance. He lunged to save her, holding her up.

 “Phew, this stuff is strong,” she smiled crookedly.

 “How many have you had?” he asked.

 “Just a few. I can drink vodka. I have a quick nip while I’m helping out, numbs the brain,” she hiccoughed.

 “And everything else,” he laughed. She turned to jelly in his arms.

 “You laugh. First time you laugh since you came here. Ah, poor sadly Ryan, love Marianne so much, she loves you too, go back and say you love her. She’sha great girl.” She wobbled again. It was easier if Ryan just held her up, while they swayed.

 “She is,” he agreed, “a great girl. I didn’t think you two were mad about each other though?”

 “Ah, Padar told me she and Oonagh were very close. She probably thinks I wasn’t much of a sister, not around when Oonagh needed me. She’s entitled to her opinion. Bit stuffy though but hey, s’up to her. But you be a good movie star and go back to her, she’s as miserable as hell too. Do us all a flavour, eh?” She slurred.

 “I’m hoping absence makes the heart grow fonder,” he said, but it was too late, Erin had flaked out, wrapped around him with her head on his shoulder. He gripped her tightly, trying to steer her towards the stairs and bed. He did not see Dermot staring wide-eyed through the window, on his way in for a late one. Dermot scowled, changed his mind and headed onto Weathervane where a light still shone.

“Hey,” Dermot Finnegan filled the doorway.

“Hey,” Marianne replied listlessly. He eyed the hair in a topknot on her head. She was wearing one of Ryan’s skanky sweatshirts and jogging bottoms covered in dog hair. She looked good enough to eat as far as Dermot was concerned.

“How’s it going?” he asked.

“So, so,” she said.

“Mind if I come in?” he took a step closer.

“I’m not really very good company at the moment,” she told him.

“That’s okay nor am I,” he smiled. A big brash, Dermot Finnegan smile, and Marianne let big brash Dermot Finnegan in. He sat down. There was an empty whiskey tumbler on the table. He picked it up; it looked like a glass thimble in his huge hand.

“A nightcap, perfect,” he said to her.

Marianne took another glass off the dresser and poured them each a large one.

“Is everything okay?” she asked him, “you know, over there.” She nodded towards Maguire’s.

“Sort of,” he replied. “I’m more concerned about you, how you’re getting on?” There was a file beside him on the table; he turned it to read the words on the front.

“
Lost Babies Case Studies.
” The file was huge. “Are there really this many?” he ran his thumb down the paperwork. “There must be hundreds here.”

She nodded solemnly, her eyes were sad, the corners of her mouth turned down.

“I’ve just reunited my thousandth baby with his long-lost mother. He’s thirty, so not a baby anymore, and she’s spent the last three decades mourning him. I can’t help feeling someone should be punished for that.” She sounded deflated.

Dermot agreed, “I suppose the trail has gone cold at this stage, no way of tracing back who was actually responsible for taking the baby and telling the mother he died.”

Marianne sighed, “Usually more than one person involved, a team, deceitful and despicable each and every one of them.”

He looked up at the dresser, a couple of her trophies in among the delph. “I’d no idea you’re
Marianne Coltrane – the famous award-winning journalist
, I’m full of admiration, I really am,” he said.

“There’s no reason you would know that,” she shrugged, blushing.

“But you set it all up, run the charity, the website, it’s all voluntary too. I think it’s amazing work.” He lifted his glass, he noticed she was not drinking. “Here’s to you.”

She took the file from the table and put it in her desk.

 “It chimes with me, you see,” he went on. “I was a
Lost Baby.
In one sense anyway, abandoned as an infant and adopted by the Garda who found me. Luckily he and his wife didn’t have children so I fitted the bill perfectly. They spoiled me rotten, only family I’ve ever known or needed.”

 “I didn’t know,” she gave him a small smile, “worked out well for you, that’s good.”

“My mum was convinced the angels sent me. That was always good enough for me too. A simple soul, me.” His eyes softened. “What’s your story then?”

She was tired. She wished Dermot would just drink up and go. She felt lonely, isolated this past week. She was hoping he would bring news of Ryan, maybe a message of some kind and then leave.

“I was adopted too,” she said putting papers away, tidying around him. “The discovery of my birth mother is relatively new and with both my parents passed on, that’s fine.”

“I know all about it. Miss MacReady collared me in Maguire’s one night when she found out I was the only person on the island who didn’t know the story. Your father sounded a right bastard abandoning her like that, especially when her own family had disowned her.”

Marianne did not want this conversation now.

“We only have one side of the story to be fair,” she said brusquely. Dermot speaking about her father like that made her uncomfortable, but Dermot always made her uncomfortable one way or another. “I’m sorry Dermot. I’ve a busy day tomorrow.”

“I won’t stay long,” he said not moving. “I just wondered would you show me the website, explain it to me. I’m fascinated and you never know I might be able to help in some way. I’m quite a good detective.”

The cynic in Marianne gave him a look.
Was he serious?

“Okay, but just briefly,” she said. “Come through.” She went into the cosy sitting room, the last of the peat glowed in the hearth, the curtains were drawn against the night.

“This is nice,” Dermot said, bringing with him two replenished whiskey glasses. “Nothing makes a house as welcoming as a peat fire, bowl of stew and a good woman.”

Marianne laughed. “Are you a nineteen fifties ad for
Bord na Móna
or what?”

“Aha, she laughs,” he grinned back at her, “a smile suits you.”

She laughed again. “Dermot, you’re too cheesy for words.”

“Amn’t I?” he said, handing her a drink. “Now don’t show me the sad stuff. Have you a happy page, one with thank-yous and grinning pictures of people reunited?”

“That’s what I’ve been working on,” she flicked on the computer. “Some brilliant success stories, look,” and her mood lifted, the passion for her project making her eyes shine and words sparkle. An hour later they were jabbering away like the oldest friends.

“So, being adopted, not an issue for you?” he asked. They were on the sofa now, pictures from albums strewn between them as Marianne described different boats she sailed with her parents.

“Not sure, now you ask.” She looked at him. “I always felt as if I was surplus to requirements where my parents were concerned. I often wondered if they thought adopting me made them complete, when they were already complete.”

Dermot shrugged. “Why was that then?”

“They were highly organised, everything compartmentalised, the only thing they were passionate about was their research and each other,” she told him.

“Maybe that was just their way. Did they love you?” he moved closer to her.

“Yes, I’m sure of that.” She smiled at him. He was a little bit out of focus - he was either too close, or that last whiskey had been too large.

“How could they not?” he said dreamily. She felt his hot breath on her cheek.

“Dermot, I think you might be a tinky-winky bit drunk.”

“No way, snot at all,” he gave a wobbly smile. “Ah maybe a tiddle bit,”

“Come on,” she said, putting her glass down, standing up, a slight sway, that whiskey was a
very
large one. “Off you go, home now.”

“Aw, do I have to go? Just one more little nightcap,” he drawled.

“Home Dermot, and go steady. If you fall in the sea getting onto the boat you’re a gonna, no-one to save you round here. Lifeboat’s not ready yet you know,” she said sternly.

“You can’t send me home like this surely? I’ll fall in the sea and be a gonna, no bloody lifeboat or anythin’.” He started to giggle.

“Come on.” She grabbed his arm and tried to hoist him up.

“Ryan doesn’t deserve you, you know. Won’t stay, he’ll go back to all the glitz and glamour, addicted to it, always has been,” Dermot said, trying to focus on her.
Here we go,
she thought. “Thinks he wants a quiet life, but he dusn’t, he’s so vain, can’t cope without his adoring fans, honestest. You need a proper bloke, someone who’ll mind you, stay on the highland, someone like me,” he slurred. He tried to get off the sofa twice, gave up and slumped back.

“Now, now,” she wagged a finger at him, “none of that talk, I love Ryan, he loves me, we’ll be fine.”

“Really?” Dermot was bemused. “Ah shite, don’t say that, I’m mad about you meself.”

“That’s very nice, Dermot, and I’m sure that’s not entirely true. You’re just feeling a bit sentimental and you need to go home.” She tried to pull him up but he fell back. She took his arm and hauled at it, but he was a dead weight.

“I hope he’s true to you, had a trebbible reputation when we were ...when we were ...” his eyes were closing.

“Dermot, Dermot, wake up! You can’t say here, Dermot!” She slapped his cheeks. His head slumped forward, he started to snore.

“Shit!” she said loudly. No response. Monty scraped at the door, she let him in. He sniffed Dermot and trotted back into the kitchen. He looked at his mistress.

“Nothing to do with me,” she told him. “Can’t take his drink!” And kissing his snout bade him goodnight, leaving Dermot out for the count on the sofa.

Ryan was letting himself in, as Dermot let himself out.

 “What – the -?” Ryan said, giving Dermot the once-over: dishevelled hair, stubbly chin, red-rimmed eyes.