Beneath an Irish Sky (Choc Lit) (6 page)

The tension was slowly draining out of Jack’s neck and shoulders. This leisurely lunch in a nice venue with a good-looking woman was exactly what he needed. Emer had been telling him all about her childhood in a small town in County Mayo, on the west coast of Ireland, where her father was still the local doctor. The memories she shared of a convent education, Irish dancing lessons and long carefree summers on Achill Island were soothing in their remoteness. So completely unlike Jack’s early years, split between a grim boarding school and the family estate at Edenbridge, where fun was never on the agenda.

‘How many brothers and sisters do you have?’ asked Jack, grinding pepper onto a plate of pan-fried Toulouse sausages with mash. His appetite was coming back.

‘Three,’ said Emer. ‘My older sister, Maeve, lives here in Dublin – she’s married with three sons. My other sister lives in America, and my brother’s working as an accountant in England. So we’ve all scattered, but we try to get the Sullivan clan together – including aunts, uncles and cousins – at least every other year.’

‘The Sullivans,’ mused Jack. ‘Wasn’t that a TV soap?’

‘So it was! But I’m sure it consisted of more than an hour of boisterous redheads talking over one another. The real Sullivans wouldn’t get great ratings.’

A scatter of raindrops rattled against the porthole window. For once Jack welcomed the dreary weather. It was a good reason for them to prolong the meal, snug and dry indoors, and he’d get the chance to hear more about Emer’s life. ‘So what made you choose counselling as a career?’ he asked.

Emer’s knife and fork slowed, and she frowned. Perhaps he should have let her choose the topics, although career was usually a safe one. Jack poured them both more water, giving her time if she needed it to prepare an answer.

‘Actually, it’s a bit of a sad story. Maybe best save it for another day. I don’t want to drag the afternoon down.’

‘I’d like to hear it,’ Jack said gently. ‘If you feel up to it.’

Emer nodded, took a sip of her drink, and began the story. ‘I met Michael at university. We were both studying psychology. It was like we’d known each other forever. We were going to get engaged when we graduated …’

‘Were?’ prompted Jack.

‘We buried him instead. Such a waste. Party on the beach in Kerry, too much to drink – went and got himself drowned, the poor eejit.’

‘Emer, I’m so sorry.’

‘Me too,’ she murmured, looking out at the rain. ‘A light definitely went out for me with his passing.’

Jack knew exactly what she meant. He’d felt that way after losing Caroline, and then Annie. The world made no sense and nothing mattered any more. When he next spoke, it was as one survivor to another. ‘How did you get through it?’

‘Threw myself into my work,’ admitted Emer, triggering another jolt of recognition. The success of Stewart Enterprises had become almost an obsession for Jack back then. ‘Seems like I spent every waking hour studying,’ she continued. ‘Classic displacement behaviour – bury the grief in order to survive. My friends and family were so worried. They persuaded me to see a counsellor. I wasn’t the easiest of patients but something kept me going back, and it worked. I pulled through.’

‘So that’s why you chose a career in counselling?’

‘I actually started my PhD researching stress in emergency personnel, but the more time I spent in hospitals, the more I was drawn to the patients. I switched my PhD focus, then did an internship in trauma counselling.’

Brains, beauty
and
compassion. One powerful combination.

‘Have I got food on my face?’ Emer asked, brushing at her chin.

He’d been staring. ‘No, you’re just perfect,’ he said, and meant it.

She smiled and grabbed her glass, holding it to her cheek. ‘So, what’s your line of business?’

Jack didn’t really want to talk about himself but he’d humour her. ‘It’s a family business. Stewart Enterprises. Leisure and property development. My father built it up from nothing. He started on a shoestring, saved hard, made some lucky investments, expanded, and earned his first million by the age of twenty-five.’

‘A real rags-to-riches story.’

It did sound impressive. Jack had grown up in awe of his father. The man who could do anything. And a knighthood at sixty-five to boot. He doubted he’d ever be able to top that.

‘And what about your mother? Did she work?’

His mother. Lady Grace. Not many people in Baronsmere could claim such an impeccable ancestry. ‘No, she never worked. All she wanted was to make a good marriage,’ he said. ‘She was the daughter of a respected Cheshire family, but the family fortune dipped during the Depression. She had the right connections, my father had serious money, so they got married.’

‘Sounds like they were made for each other,’ said Emer.

‘Hardly,’ muttered Jack, but he didn’t want to get into all of that. His parents already seemed to control so much of his life. He wanted to be free of them today.

There was an awkward silence after his comment and Jack tried to think how to get the conversation going again on an even keel.

Emer did it for him. The dessert trolley was wheeled past and she pointed. ‘Look at those profiteroles. Let’s have some for dessert. Pure decadence but I think we deserve it, don’t you?’

The possibility of being able to wipe a smudge of chocolate from the corner of Emer’s mouth cheered Jack immensely.

‘So did you kiss him?’ Maeve’s chopsticks were poised over the takeaway carton of king prawn mushrooms.

‘Maeve!’ Emer produced her best scandalised expression. ‘I hardly know Jack!’

‘You’ve had lunch with him twice. And both times he paid. Nowadays that’s virtually a proposal of marriage.’

Emer smiled and wrapped some noodles round her fork. She’d never been able to get the hang of chopsticks even though a Chinese takeaway at her flat had been the sisters’ monthly ritual for years. ‘After lunch, we went for a walk on the Green and then up to Trinity.’

Maeve waggled a chopstick in Emer’s direction. ‘You’re out with a hot man and you show him round your old university. Did you never watch
Blind Date
? You clearly need some tips.’

Emer laughed. ‘He wanted to see the sights. We had a really nice afternoon.’

‘I don’t think men like him are looking for “nice”, to be honest.’

Emer frowned. ‘Men like what?’

Maeve grabbed the computer printout about Jack that Emer had shared with her earlier. ‘By all accounts, he’s a rich man. He could have any woman he wants. He’ll not be one you can keep on hold for long.’

‘So what should I have done, Maeve? Lunged at him in the hallowed cloisters of Trinity College?’

‘Well, it would have given him some kind of sign at least.’

‘A sign of what – that I’m a willing whore?’

Her sister dropped the takeaway carton and gave a mock shriek. ‘Emer Sullivan, wash your mouth out with soap!’

As usual, Maeve did an expert impression of their mother and both women burst out laughing. Emer looked at her sister with affection. It had been a big decision to tell Maeve about Jack – it made him and the beginnings of what they might have together seem more real.

‘Are you seeing him again?’ asked Maeve, wiping the tears of laughter from her eyes.

‘Tomorrow. He’s taking me to dinner at the Beaumont.’

‘Ooh – swanky. That’ll give you a chance to dress up a bit. Now, let’s see if you’ve still got anything suitable in your wardrobe to entice a man. Or did you get rid of it all after that idiot Colm made the biggest mistake of his life?’

They went into the bedroom and Maeve critically swished through the hangers of clothes in the wardrobe. Emer was in two minds about Jack. She
was
attracted to him but there were still so many unknowns. And whether he realised it or not, he was grieving for his dead wife. Not only that, but all the trauma of her leaving him had also been resurrected. It wasn’t the best time for him to get involved with a new woman. If it all went wrong, Emer would be left the wrong side of thirty holding the pieces of another failed relationship. That was a sobering thought and Maeve’s excitement as she pulled out what she called The Seduction Dress couldn’t make it go away.

The campfire was strong, the wood crackling and snapping. It gave everyone’s face a golden glow. Luke watched them all, parents and children, huddled together, delaying the dead of night with their laughter. Potatoes were cooking on the fire and his friend, Padraig, was flipping a coin through his fingers, trying to make it disappear. It had been their favourite game all summer since they’d seen a street magician do it. In the background, one of the men was singing a lullaby to his baby daughter.

These were his people. This was his life. And it was good. He pitied folk stuck in their houses. They missed the sun creeping slowly up of a morning, and they never fell asleep under the stars or stood in the woods during a rain shower to catch that earthy growing smell as the plants drank their fill. They missed out on so much.

‘Now then, young Luke, let’s see what the future’s storin’ up.’

Jessie had taken hold of his hand, smoothed the palm out flat, and she was peering hard at it in the dim light. No one really believed she had the gift of sight. It was just a bit of fun. Some of the men laughed at her and said certain things happened to everyone so it was easy to guess them. Luke only knew he loved Jessie with her mop of grey-white hair and easy smile, and he’d do nothing to offend her. He listened carefully as she spoke.

‘Ye’ll grow into a handsome man …’ Jessie began.

There was a hoot of laughter and Padraig’s da said, ‘Sure, and you’ve only to look at Annie to know that!’

‘Your first love’ll be your last love,’ Jessie continued. ‘And there’s choices ahead. Money’s there for the askin’ but the price is high.’

His mother shifted position beside him. ‘That’s enough for tonight, Jessie,’ she said. There was something in her voice he couldn’t quite place.

‘How ’bout a song, Annie?’ someone asked.

‘The babies’ll wake,’ said Annie.

‘Now wouldn’t the angels themselves want to be awake to listen to your voice? Luke needs a song on his birthday.’

The evening ended in music, his mother’s voice ringing out sweet and clear in the Galway darkness. The words of the song burned themselves into Luke’s memory, along with the scent of woodsmoke and the gleam of fire in the eyes of those he loved …

That memory of his eighth birthday was so clear, Luke felt he could reach out and touch it. But those people and that feeling of safety vanished once he and Annie moved out of Jessie’s cramped but homely caravan to live with his grand-da. His uncles were always around then, and the good times ended, the days all running bleakly together like endless rain. And now he would never see his mother again, never hear her laugh or sing.

There was no one Luke wasn’t angry with at that moment. Himself for feeling so vulnerable. Annie for leaving him. Joe for treating Annie like a maid and knocking her about when the mood took him, and Liam for letting him. His grand-da, a good man but weak. And Luke was angry with Jack just for being Jack. A father who hadn’t cared for twenty years and was now taking over. Trying to make Luke question everything he’d been told. Well, if his mother had lied, she’d had good reason. Jack Stewart wasn’t going to insult her memory. Luke had managed fine without the man who fathered him, and although it rankled to accept his help now, it was only for a few weeks, thank God.

God was someone else he was mad at, and Luke said so to Father Brennan, the elderly priest from the hospital chapel who’d turned up earlier. The man’s benevolent smile had irritated Luke right away. The last thing he’d wanted was to hear about God’s will.

‘At least your mother is with God now,’ the priest had said, after telling Luke how normal his reaction was.

‘Is bein’ killed at forty somethin’ to be grateful for, then?’ Luke had snapped. ‘Well, I hope she tells Him what she thinks of his reward for being a good Catholic. All her life she had nothin’.’

‘She had you.’

The priest meant well, but Annie had actually stopped living the moment Luke was born, and then he’d finally killed her.

‘I’ll pray for you, Luke,’ Father Brennan had said as he left. Christ, priests were on a different planet.

Jack woke from a nightmare about Annie. They were trying to bury her but he knew she wasn’t dead. No one would listen to his protests.

He slowly freed himself from the bedsheets he’d thrashed into a tangled mess during the dream. The clock told him it was three in the morning, but he had to get up and move around, to try to clear the residual horror from his mind.

The fluorescent light in the suite’s kitchen hummed into stark brightness and Jack reached into the fridge for a beer. He slumped at the kitchen counter, holding the cool can against his cheek. He missed Matt. And Maggie. And Claire, the sister who was always on his side, no matter what. He’d phoned her the day after speaking to Matt. Told her about Annie and Luke but asked her to keep it to herself until he got back. The last thing he needed was his father flying over and asking a million questions.

So long as he was here in Dublin, Jack felt oddly safe. As if time had temporarily stopped, which in a way it had. The real nightmare would begin once he got back to Baronsmere. Then there would be arguments and tension and confusion, none of which he could easily resolve because of his uncertainty that Luke was his son. He was being forced to go out on a limb.

Jack opened the can and took a long swallow in the hopes the alcohol would shut down his monkey mind. Seeing the mobile on the counter, he flicked it on and scrolled through the gallery of photos to find the one taken today by a stranger on St Stephen’s Green. There it was: Jack and Emer, arm in arm, smiling in the watery sunshine. He tapped his finger and zoomed in on Emer. She wasn’t Hollywood beautiful, but she had a pretty face. Good skin, even features. And those big green eyes – so lively, so mischievous.

What he liked most about Emer, though, was that she spoke her mind. Not in the way his father did, with the intention of bludgeoning someone into submission; not even in the way Maggie did, which sprang from an irritation at everyone else’s inefficiency. When Emer told you the truth, however painful it was, you somehow knew that you needed to hear it. That she had your best interests at heart.