A Change of Heart (The Heartfelt Series) (3 page)

Unrolling his raincoat ahead of venturing outside, a shrill voice cut through the hubbub about him.

“Larry, Larry Leeson, yoo-hoo!”

He turned to find Kathleen MacReady, native of Innishmahon and the island’s resident postmistress, waving at him enthusiastically from behind the arrivals barrier. Unsure why, he was immediately delighted to see her. They had met before, and as guardian of the island’s erratic telephone system had spoken on numerous occasions, usually when Larry was in search of Ryan. Despite her somewhat eccentric dress sense, he found her intelligent and engaging, and right now, her smiling face was a very welcome sight indeed.

He strode towards her, arm extended for the traditional handshake. Miss MacReady threw herself at him in an enthusiastic embrace, kissing him on both cheeks in what she hoped was a suitable greeting for one of the most successful theatrical agents on the planet.

 “Great to see you Mr Leeson, how was your journey? Pleased to be on terra firma I shouldn’t wonder.” She busily helped him into his raincoat, her shrewd eyes taking in the greenish pallor of the far from seasoned traveller.

 “A nice surprise Miss MacReady, but surely you’re not here to meet me? How the heck did you know I was coming?” Larry asked.

 “Well, with all the excitement of Ryan’s announcement live on the telly and then his arrival with the little fella yesterday, I had a pretty fair idea you wouldn’t be far behind. You’re either here to get him back on track or finish with him altogether.” She swished towards the exit.

 Intrigued, Larry stopped and placed a hand on her arm.

 “You surmised all that and came to meet an airplane you were only guessing I would be on?” He was amazed.

 “Not at all, Mr Leeson,” Miss MacReady laughed, “sure didn’t Joyce ring and tell me you were on your way. I’m good but my crystal ball is a little rusty.” They swept through the doors.

Larry was dismayed to find Miss MacReady’s brother, the taxi driver Pat grinning at them toothlessly from the window of his battered cab. Pat had chauffeured Larry the last time he had travelled from the airport to the bed and breakfast and it had been one of the most harrowing excursions the New Yorker had ever encountered. Realising he had no choice, Larry hoped, with his elder sister on board, Pat might navigate the vehicle in a more considerate fashion. Miss MacReady slid into the rear seat beside him.

“Have there been any improvements to the road since I was last here?” Larry asked anxiously.

“Not at all,” said Pat, flicking his cigarette butt out of the window. “Worse if anything,” he said smiling at them through the rear-view mirror.

“I tell you what, let’s take the scenic route.” Miss MacReady was enthusiastic. “It’s a little longer, but sure the views make up for it, don’t they Pat?” Pat looked quizzically at his sister. There was only one road to the bed and breakfast, the same road which led to the ferry port. There were a couple of ‘off the beaten track’ pubs along the way, alright.

He nodded. “Scenic route it is, so,” he grinned. There might be a pint and bite to eat on the agenda.

Larry looked out at the rain-swept car park, the rolling grey of the hills beyond.

“A spot of lunch and a glass of something will put a whole different complexion on things,” she said, squeezing Larry’s knee, “you see if I’m not right Mr Leeson.”

“Please call me Larry,” he said, trying to smile.

“And you must call me Kathleen,” she beamed into his face. “We must get to know each other better, you being so close to Ryan and he being almost my son-in-law.”

Larry nodded and then, realising what she said, “What?”

“Oh, I’ve loads to tell you. You wouldn’t believe how much has happened on the island while you’ve been over there in sleepy old New York.” She batted her lashes, as Pat lurched the taxi into the oncoming mist. Larry felt his irritable bowel syndrome kick in big time.

Ryan watched the thin streak of dawn stretch to a slice of silver-grey over the eastern cliffs from one of the guest bedrooms at Maguire’s public house. He could just make out the sign - Maguire’s Purveyors of Game and Quality Victuallers. He craned his neck to look down the lane towards Marianne’s cottage but outside was just an inky murk, too early for any lights signalling someone was up and might be willing to share tender words of welcome over hot tea and warm toast. He could hear the gulls rising, calling their sharp cries as dawn broke, the Atlantic cold and blank in this, the last hour between night and day.

 The door creaked behind him, he let the curtain fall. Padar stood there, hair on end, blinking into the room. He rubbed his chin and looked at the cot, Joey was fast asleep.

“Go,” Padar whispered. “I’ll look after things here.”

Ryan did not need telling twice. He was already showered and shaved. He pulled his battered leather jacket over his sweatshirt, looked briefly at this sleeping son and touching Padar on the shoulder in thanks, slipped down the stairs and out into the lane.

He knew the spare key hung behind a grinning gargoyle on the terrace. He let himself in quietly, moving swiftly to the terrier’s basket under the stairs. Monty opened his eyes and growled softly. Picking up Ryan’s scent he wagged his tail. Ryan signalled for him to stay, and, undressing down to his shorts and T-shirt, tiptoed bare foot up the stairs, pushing open the bedroom door at the top.

The light was just beginning to seep into the room, oozing through the gloom it fell on a sheen of satin, edged with velvet thrown across the bed. He stood in the doorway, his gaze sweeping across the sleeping form, her russet mop of hair on the white pillow, the soft curve of her cheek, sweet, slightly smiling mouth. She had pushed the cover away, the strap of her nightdress fallen from her shoulder, the skin glowed smooth and pearlescent.

He held his breath as he watched her, the rise and fall of her chest as she slept, the smooth hollow at her throat. As he leaned against the door frame, he gave his body permission to release all the passion and longing he had been suppressing for so long. He felt it bubble inside him, and as his desire rose to the surface, he could bear it no longer. He wanted her, he needed to make her his once again.

He knelt on the bed, taking the hand she had flung across the covers in his and putting her fingers to his mouth, kissed them playfully, running his nails like butterfly wings along her arm. She murmured and turned towards him, eyes closed, still sleeping. He slipped beneath the covers and slid his hands upwards, under the cool silk of her nightdress to her thighs, stroking her skin until her legs parted. She made a purring sound and turned away from him, pulling her knees together. He smiled, his lust was too strong to be so gently rejected. Gripping her waist he pulled her to him, pressing his erection against her bare buttocks. She murmured again. He brought his hands up to her breasts, cupping them in his palms as he pulled gently at her nipples with his fingers. She moaned. He lifted her hair and nuzzled the back of her neck, nibbling her earlobe, breathing soft, hot breaths at her skin. She threw her arms up, wriggling backwards against him. She stilled, her eyes opened.

“Ryan?”

“It had better be,” he said, deep in her hair. She caught her breath, waited and then, turning abruptly, straddled him in one swift movement. Her eyes were laughing. He caught her by the wrists.

“Not so fast my little minx,” he said, grinning up at her. “My turn, I think.” He pushed her backwards, pressing her flat onto the bed, and holding her hands above her head, was on top of her in an instant. She screamed.

“You bastard,” but she was giggling.

He leaned forward, lifting her chin with his fingers, to look directly at her.

“I’m desperate for you, I can’t wait another second.” He pushed his tongue through her smiling lips. She looked slyly under her eyelids at his face as he kissed her: she wanted to eat him.

“Have me then,” she said, relaxing back, guiding him into her. She shuddered with pleasure. He did not move inside her, staying still, savouring the deepness. She wrapped her legs around him; locking them together. “Make love to me,” she whispered.

He started to push against her, first slowly and rhythmically, then harder and faster. She clamped him to her, holding him with every fibre of her being, taking him in, bringing him to where he belonged. She filled herself with him, with their lust and their love. She looked up into his flinty eyes, half-closed with desire and she thought she would explode with happiness. He was home.

Chapter Three
The Postmistress Always Rings Twice

Joyce MacReady was delighted to welcome the weary American into her elegant Georgian farmhouse. Having shared the house with a famous ballerina for many years, she still had friends from the world of stage and screen and was hoping to enjoy an interesting evening in his company, as the last time he visited he had been far too tired for conversation. Joyce’s life would have been very different if it were not for her guests, the large house empty and isolated without a constant stream of globetrotting visitors.

She pumped his hand firmly, greeting her sister with a brief hug and her brother with a glare. She had prepared a sumptuous dinner of smoked fresh cod with leek sauce to start, slow braised brisket of beef served with colcannon and shallot gravy and then the lightest, most delicious lemon meringue known to man.

Joyce kept a good cellar too. She had always enjoyed the finer things in life and loved hunting, shooting and fishing. Miss MacReady often said her sister should have married gentry, but Joyce had never been the marrying kind.

They talked long into the night, the focus of the conversation being Larry’s plight in the light of Ryan’s resignation. Joyce considered herself an expert in the legal department, having helped the ballerina disentangle herself from a number of inappropriate fund-draining charitable arrangements. Miss MacReady also considered her knowledge of law extensive and was preoccupied with the rights of her ‘adopted grandson’, as she referred to Joey. Would the little boy be able to stay in Ireland, where he would receive a proper education and be allowed to lead a normal life?

Larry’s head was buzzing. His client’s predicament was complicated enough. The abduction of the child, albeit his own, had exacerbated the situation intensely. Pat had been fairly circumspect throughout, for which Larry was grateful. His sisters aired their opinions most vociferously, but Larry could not understand a word Pat said. Add a full mouth of food to the equation and he stood not a chance.

Crumbling some delicious Irish Brie onto a cracker, Joyce forced a small cigar on each of the menfolk, while she went to fetch the port. Larry and Pat stood companionably in the porch, puffing sweet tobacco into the night.

“Better weather than las’ time you came, anyway.” Pat said, checking his cigar was alight.

Larry nodded. At least it was not raining.

“A lot’s happened since that night, that’s for sure,” Pat continued, “good and bad. Your fella’s not much help though, always seems to bring bad luck with him. Well, that’s what the locals think.”

Larry took his cigar from between his lips. He had not smoked in years, what with his asthma and his allergies but he was really enjoying the cigar.

“He’s one guy. Don’t lay all the blame at his door. The storm was a force of nature, don’t forget,” Larry said good-naturedly.

Pat shrugged.

“Some say him and that Marianne-one are the force of nature. A lot of people think there’s been nothing but bad news since they turned up,” he muttered.

Larry frowned at him under the porch light.

“Hey, that’s only bar-room talk. I need Ryan back on my side of the pond right now, but he and Marianne want to make Innishmahon their home, they’ve made real friends there.”

“The problem is he brings too much attention to the island, there’s always a spotlight on him, the media and such, people can’t go about their business,” Pat said, blowing a smoke ring upwards.

“What business? Fishing and tourism is all I see?” Larry tried a laugh.

“There’s more to the island than that, much more, the island has always played an important role in the running of the nation, the job’s not done yet,” Pat eyeballed Larry.

Pat had never been so articulate in his presence: it was clear he had a message to impart. They were quiet for a long moment.

“Are you saying there are people who want him out of the way, want to scare him off?” Larry asked, intrigued.

“That depends on what’s needed. We could be talking scare tactics, you know, a type of ‘horses head in the bed’ warning, or worse.” Pat put two fingers to his temple and pulled an imaginary trigger, “Bang...gone.”

“Oh, you exaggerate Pat, this isn’t
Mafia
country,” Larry was dismissive.

“No it’s not, but Joyce says some of our lads would leave that crowd standing in the extermination department, if you take my meaning.” Pat had finished his cigar, “It would be better if you get him
and
her back to the States and keep them there.”

Larry gave a little laugh, these Irish, so dramatic. Unsmiling, Pat ground the cigar underfoot.

“Pick up your stubs,” Joyce called from the hallway, bustling into the drawing room, decanter in hand.

Pat slapped Larry on the back, “Do as you’re told, there’s a good man,” he said and went back into the house.

Despite being dog-tired, Larry did not sleep well. He twisted and turned until he woke with a start, sitting bolt upright, sweat trickling from his chest to his stomach. He had been dreaming of the scene in
The Godfather
, a man wakes up covered in blood to find his favourite horse has been decapitated, the severed head placed beneath the sheets.

 Larry shuddered, snapping on the bedside light. The reassuring glow cast soft shadows across Joyce’s opulent drapes and cushions, helping to calm him. He reached into the drawer for his nebuliser, willing his heart to still as he breathed in the soothing steroid. He could hear the wind howling through the trees, rain beating against the window. No wonder he could not sleep: Mimi had forgotten to pack his ear plugs, and the weather in this country was so damn noisy, it sounded like someone was beating against the pane.

He pulled the covers over his head and closed his eyes. All was still and then another sound: the door opening. Someone entered the room. Larry froze. They came, across the floor, to the bed. He felt warm breath at his ear. He was terrified, convinced he was going to die, be killed stone dead, right here, right now...

 “Are you asleep, Larry?” a voice hissed. He did not answer. Maybe they would go away. “Larry, are you asleep?”

He recognised the voice and drew the covers back slowly. Kathleen MacReady was nose-to-nose. His eyes swept over her, and once assured she was brandishing neither cut-throat razor nor horse’s head, he released a breath.

“Not now I’m not,” he said, sliding upwards, clasping sheets to his chest. Uninvited, Miss MacReady sat on the bed, her red satin dressing gown splayed out around her, bringing the vividness of his blood-soaked dream to life.

“You called out. I was just checking,” she smiled. The poor man was clearly disturbed, his face snow-white, eyes shot with red.

She patted his arm. “Bad dream?”

Larry nodded. Miss MacReady poured water from the jug on the side. She handed it to him. He could smell perfume. She was wearing lipstick. Her ruby nails matched her gown. It slipped from her thigh. He could see stocking-tops. He swallowed.

“Can I get you anything, any medication?” Miss MacReady knew all about these New Yorkers, uppers for this, downers for that.

“No, no,” Larry tapped the nebuliser.

“Asthmatic?” she asked.

Larry nodded.

“I wouldn’t have thought New York smog and all that air conditioning would be any help at all. A bit of mountain air, some ions off the sea, that’s what you need. You do look bit peaky, if you don’t mind my saying.” Although Larry always welcomed discussion of health-related issues, he was in no mood for even this topic at three in the morning.

“Can I get you a drink - a hot whiskey, milk with a drop of rum in it, Horlicks?” she offered. He shook his head at each suggestion. “Very well,” she said, moving around the bed, tucking him in as if he were a child, moving his glass so he could reach it easily. He watched her warily. She knew stuff. He needed to keep her close, on side.

“Thank you, Kathleen,” he said, his voice small and tight, “just a dream, I’m not a good traveller.”

She tutted, “Sure, I know that. Isn’t that why I came to meet you? Silly man, family’s family around these parts.”

Larry gave her a quizzical look. Surely Miss MacReady had enough family, she seemed related to everyone he met.

“You do seem troubled though, Larry, something more than just the Ryan debacle, maybe?” she asked sweetly.

He shook his head.

“No, that’s bad enough. He’s no idea how much trouble he’s in. We’re all in as a matter-of-fact,” he said.

“Come, come Larry. It’ll all look better in the morning, things always do. And anyway, it’s only a film, a bit of nonsense with fast cars, glamorous women and an evil villain.”

Larry tried to guffaw, it came out as a snort.

“It’s the evil villain I’m worried about,” Larry said, half to himself.

Dropping a kiss on his forehead, Miss MacReady shimmered out. As the door closed softly behind her, he was sure he heard a horse whinny in the darkness. He slid quickly beneath the covers.
Get a grip Larry, for Chrissakes. This is the west of Ireland, horses everywhere,
he told himself.

Hoping to ease Larry’s passage and warn her loved ones of his impending arrival, Miss MacReady used Joyce’s landline to telephone first Maguire’s and then Weathervane later that morning, surmising correctly that the newly-reunited lovers might, at the very least, be having a lie-in.

Padar agreed to go and make one of the holiday cottages habitable for the stressed-out American and Miss MacReady assured the landlord she would inform the inhabitants of Weathervane that Larry Leeson, of Leeson & Leeson (New York) Limited was on his way.

“Sounds like trouble,” Padar said over the crackly line.

“Well, it’s really none of our business. It’s something for Ryan and Mr Leeson to sort out.” Miss MacReady was snippy.

Padar smiled as he replaced the receiver. Miss MacReady always knew everybody’s business and was not beyond interfering, particularly when she considered it was in everyone’s best interest. Declaring an issue out of bounds was unusual. It sounded very serious indeed.

“Are you serious?” Ryan exclaimed into the ancient Bakelite telephone, which sat in defiance of the twenty-first century on the polished mahogany table in the hallway of Weathervane cottage. “Already, he’s here already?”

“Yes, I was sure he would come, weren’t you?” Miss MacReady.

“I knew he’d come, but so soon? He hates flying, travelling of any description, I thought it would take him at least a week to work himself up to the trip,” Ryan said.

“He does seem very worried, alright. Far more stressed than last time and that was bad enough,” she told him.

“Oh great,” Ryan said, “there’ll be any amount of pleading, coercing and blackmailing to get me back into that contract. I just wish I’d a bit more time to think things through,” he said, more to himself.

“You mean you haven’t thought this through?” came a voice from, the kitchen.

“Sorry Kathleen, I’ll have to go, no doubt see you later,” Ryan said, replacing the handset abruptly. Marianne stood in the doorway. She was wearing his sweatshirt, her hair twisted into a pile on top of her head. Arms folded, legs crossed, she was trying not to laugh. Ryan shrugged, giving her his lopsided grin.

“I did wonder if it was all as simple as you made out. I knew it was a three-movie contract, I’d resigned myself to that.” She smiled at him. It was so lovely to see him standing there, in her hall, having just left her bed.

“I needed you to know I’d give it all up for you. You and Joey, that’s all I care about,” he said firmly.

“And baby Bridget and don’t forget Monty,” she said. Monty looked up from his basket, wagging his tail at the mention of his name.

“Yes, little Bridget and Monty too, I need everyone I love together, in the same place. I need to be putting down roots, getting settled, before it’s too late.” His eyes were boring into her.

“It’s never too late,” she kissed him on the nose, “and I’m glad you made the grand gesture to be with us, for us all to be together. I love that you did it so boldly, live on TV. But like so many things that appear easy, the devil’s in the detail.” She met his gaze full-on.

“You’re right,” he said, looking across the little garden and beyond to the sliver of Atlantic, barely visible in the swirl of pewter mist.

“Come on then,” she said, downing the coffee she was hoping they could linger over, before going back to bed to make uninterrupted love once more, “let’s go and see what Padar needs help with ahead of the arrival of Mr Leeson.”

Ryan continued to stare out to sea.

“I’m gonna need help too,” he said, in a quiet voice, “starting with a good lawyer.”

“That’s okay, once this starts to rumble there’ll be lawyers all over it, I shouldn’t wonder,” she laughed, pinching his bottom as she left to get dressed.
It’ll be fine, we can face anything once we’re together,
she thought,
still glowing from their lovemaking. Nothing’s going to drive us apart ever again.

Although Padar had generously offered to take care of the children so Ryan and Marianne could be properly reunited, total chaos greeted them when they arrived back at Maguire’s.