Legacy of Secrets (82 page)

“Roederer Cristal,” she said firmly, dialing room service. She’s a quick learner, my Brigid.

I was rescued by Shannon and Eddie’s quick thinking after they found my note and Brigid told them of our suspicions. They had called the cops and so had the security guard, who had been looking for me. And with five cars of New York’s finest, how could I not be saved?

In return I had sent a generous donation to the Police Pension and Christmas Fund and a note of thanks, with an invitation for any one of them, should they be passing through Connemara, to come and visit me at Ardnavarna. And I meant it.

The champagne arrived with a complimentary bowl of caviar, courtesy of a fellow guest who had heard about my exploits, and I preened myself in my little pink marabou bed jacket, wondering who he was and whether we shouldn’t ask him to share our champagne.

“Another admirer, Maudie,” Shannon exclaimed, because there had been so many cards and gifts from well-wishers who had read the story in the newspapers and seen us all on television. We were famous and I have to admit I was enjoying all the attention.

“We must drink a toast,” Brigid said, looking solemn, because she still hasn’t gotten over the fact that she almost lost me. But instead it was that nasty J. K. who lost out. He shot himself before the police could do it for him. He knew that it was his “time to go.”

“A toast to Lily,” I said, raising my glass, “because without her, we might never have met.”

“And to my great-grandfather, Ned Sheridan,” Eddie said.

“And to my father,” Shannon said softly. “May he rest peacefully now.”

There were tears in her eyes as we drank the toast and Brigid sniffed noisily. She can cry buckets at the drop of a
hat and I told her briskly to drink up and not be a silly old woman, and for once she didn’t argue with me.

And I looked at the two young things, smiling at me and at each other, and I wondered if they knew yet that they were in love. Maybe that’s one thing it doesn’t take age and experience to recognize and understand. But one thing is certain, I surely love them.

I refused to allow them to accompany us to the pier when we sailed the following week, back to England on the
QE2.
I knew it would be too sad a leavetaking, and instead we said our good-byes at the hotel, in privacy, so we could all cry as much as we wanted. Though in fact not one of us shed a tear. We laughed and joked and hugged and kissed and swore we loved each other and that we would stay in touch and see each other soon.

My last view of my dear “grandchildren” was their smiling faces through the windows of the limousine as I waved good-bye. I threw them a kiss and that was that.

Our stateroom on the lovely liner was a bower of blossoms, and looking at them, I thought of Lily on the old
Hibernia
and how she would have enjoyed present-day travel, whisking between continents in speed and luxury. It would have been just her style.

Brigid and I hung over the deckrail, staring at the Statue of Liberty disappearing into the dusk and then, with a regretful sigh that it was all over, we went down to join our fellow passengers for dinner.

But the last thing I thought of that night as I fell asleep, lulled by the movement and with the infinity of the Atlantic Ocean in front of us, was of their dear, young, smiling faces that I had come to love so much.

K
NOWING ME AS YOU DO
by now, you will understand that I always have to have the last word. Even after “the finale.”

I’ve just come back from a long ride along the strand, the same one Lily used to take with Finn, and the one you know so well by now. I’m sitting in my chair by the window with the dogs tucked in beside me, as always, and they are twitching
in
their sleep as they chase rabbits through the leafy woods of dreamland. The petals of the Gloire de Dijon roses are falling and those that remain are curling brown at the edges, but their scent is still beautiful as it drifts toward me, and there’s the smell of the ever-present peat fire and the wonderful freshness of the air.

Brigid is in the kitchen cooking up a fresh batch of scones for tea and regaling the girls with her tales of America. She is quite the celebrity in the village, with her stories of the high life in New York and Washington, smart in her Bloomingdale’s dresses and her cowboy boots, which, thank heavens, have replaced the old green Wellingtons as her favorites.

It has surely given both us old ladies something to talk about on the long dark autumn evenings that are fast approaching, and we shall warm our hearts with the memories as we toast our toes by the kitchen fire. In fact I’ve enjoyed myself so much sleuthin’, maybe I’ll take it up as a
profession. “Maudie Molyneux, Private Investigator.” That would be a first for the Molyneuxes!

I think often about my dear “grandchildren.” They telephone me every week, and send me letters. Eddie from Los Angeles, where he has a role in a new movie. Not a big one, he told me, but “significant” and all our high hopes go with him that he will achieve the success Ned Sheridan did. Shannon is in L.A. too. She has decided to follow in her father’s footsteps and maybe revamp the fortunes of his company, and with that in mind and Lily’s fortune in her bank account, she is studying architecture at a very advanced school there. The darlings are both planning to visit me in the spring and I can’t wait.

I dream about them, you know. I can see their wedding now, here at Ardnavarna. Shannon a beautiful bride in white silk and lace and Eddie the handsomest groom since my pa’s day.

Maybe they haven’t thought of it themselves yet because, for the young, there is always plenty of time. But I am planning on a guard of honor made up of locals mounted on their horses and dressed in their best hunting pink, with their riding crops raised to form a triumphal arch, and even the darling dogs will be wearing smart red ribbons. And all the guests will come from miles around, dressed in their best; the sun will shine, the sea will glitter, the Gloire de Dijon roses will be in full bloom and their scent will mingle, as it always does, with that of the peat smoke and good food and the dust of ages, here at Ardnavarna.

Ah, my dear friends, laugh if you will, but an old lady is entitled to her dreams, isn’t she? And who knows, maybe you and I shall see each other again. Sometime.