Things We Never Say (17 page)

‘That would be nice,’ said Abbey, who, although she’d eaten everything that had been put in front of her on the plane, was feeling hungry again. She turned to Ryan. ‘Would you like to join me?’

‘That’s very kind of you,’ he said. ‘But I’ve got to check in at the office and catch up on some paperwork. So …’

‘Sure, no problem.’ It occurred to Abbey that over the last few days she’d thought of Ryan Gilligan as a friend. As someone who had her best interests at heart. Someone who cared about her. But he was nothing of the sort, just someone doing a job. She’d forgotten that. ‘Thanks for looking after me so well,’ she said.

‘No problem. It was good to meet you.’

‘You too.’ She held out her hand and he took it, before dropping a swift kiss on her cheek.

‘Take care of yourself,’ he said. ‘A cab will be here at one o’clock to bring you to Mr Fitzpatrick’s. OK?’

‘Sure.’

‘Good luck.’ He released her hand and walked out of the hotel.

She wanted to call after him, to tell him that she was nervous and ask him to stay with her. But she knew she was being ridiculous. She took her room key from the receptionist and picked up her bag.

She suddenly felt very alone again.

The room was beautiful, and the views across the water were breathtaking. Abbey stood in the bay window, watching the sailing boats as they skimmed across the entrance of the harbour, and a tug boat as it chugged its way to its moorings. She was glad that she was staying here, near the sea, in a place that, although nothing like San Francisco’s Fisherman’s Wharf, was still a working harbour. She could smell the salt of the water and the hint of tar through the open sash window, and she could hear the screech of the gulls as they wheeled overhead. It was comforting.

Her phone rang, startling her. She took it out of her bag and answered as soon as she saw Pete’s name.

‘How’re you doing?’ he asked.

It was good to hear his voice.

‘I’m standing in the cutest little hotel, overlooking a miniature harbour,’ she told him. ‘The sun is sparkling off the water, there are fishing boats and artists and people walking along the pier.’

‘Sounds like home from home,’ said Pete.

‘Not entirely,’ she said. ‘But it’s very pretty. You’re up late.’ She glanced at her watch and realised that it was the middle of the night in San Francisco.

‘Wanted to make sure that my girl was all right,’ he said. ‘Besides, I needed to do some catch-up, and night-time is good for that. No interruptions. What are your plans?’

‘I’m going to have breakfast in a few minutes,’ she told him. ‘Then I’ll take a walk around the town. And after that, I’ll be meeting Mr Fitzpatrick. My grandfather.’

‘You’re OK about talking to him?’ asked Pete.

‘I’ll tell him everything he wants to know,’ said Abbey. ‘I guess he deserves that. Though I’m not sure how he’ll feel about it. But hey, what odds? He’s here, Mom’s in Los Montesinos, they’re both doing their own thing, and I’ll assure him that one way or another she definitely forgives him.’

‘Are you nervous?’ asked Pete.

‘I don’t know exactly,’ admitted Abbey. ‘I feel a bit weird about it, but it’s not like I’m going to get involved with the whole family or anything.’

‘Are you sure you’re all right?’ said Pete.

‘I’m fine,’ Abbey assured him. ‘Now go to sleep.’

‘Good night, honey.’

‘Good night,’ she said and ended the call.

The hotel breakfast was lovely – lots of fresh fruit and yogurt, meats and cheeses, all of which Abbey loved. Usually her breakfast was a coffee and Danish from Starbucks, and although she was a big fan of their coffee, a skinny latte and Danish on the go couldn’t match having a sit-down breakfast overlooking the ocean. (Sea, Abbey reminded herself when she thought this. She wasn’t near an ocean. Dublin overlooked the sea.)

After breakfast she went outside and walked along the pier, the lower level first, where it was warm and sheltered, and which seemed to be popular with mothers and babies out for a morning stroll. When she reached the lighthouse at the end, she stared across the water at the small island known as Ireland’s Eye, which was accessible to visitors by boat. She thought about taking a trip, but decided to wait for another day. After all, she had a whole week for tourist things. Unless she bailed out early.

She turned around and followed the walkers returning to the town along the higher pier wall. The sun was still warm but the wind buffeted her as she picked her way along the uneven surface. It was exhilarating, though, and she felt awake and refreshed when she’d completed the walk. She continued her stroll around the marina and then back through the town towards the hotel.

All of a sudden she experienced another flashback. To a time when she and her mother had walked along a pier together, towards the hotel they were staying in. She’d been young at the time and she couldn’t remember what country they’d been in. All she remembered was Ellen pointing at the building and saying ‘home at last’ because it had been a long walk and Abbey had complained about feeling tired. She remembered thinking that the hotel wasn’t home, but that it was somewhere she could lie down and rest. She remembered wishing that her mother wasn’t so energetic, always wanting to be different places, do different things. She remembered promising herself that when she was old enough, she’d find a place she loved and live there for the rest of her life. Ellen had done that now, in Los Montesinos. Abbey had tried to achieve it in San Francisco. She thought she had. She felt more at home there than anywhere else in the world. She had everything she wanted on her doorstep. She hadn’t had the slightest desire ever to cross the Atlantic. But now that she was here, she was glad she’d come. Even if things didn’t work out the way her new grandfather wanted them to.

When she got back to the hotel, she changed into a pair of skinny jeans and a loose floral top. Then she went down to the reception area and sat in a deep armchair near the window, where she was able to watch the activity on the street outside while waiting for her taxi. Clara, the receptionist, asked her if she needed anything.

‘No, everything’s good so far,’ said Abbey.

‘Have you ever been to Ireland before?’

‘No.’

‘Lots for you to explore, so,’ she said cheerfully.

‘I guess so. If I have the time.’

‘Sure, of course you’ll have the time,’ said Clara. ‘Dublin’s easy enough to get around. You can catch the Dart into town from here and you’ll be there in twenty minutes.’

Abbey looked at her in confusion.

‘It’s the suburban train,’ Clara explained.

‘I thought this was the town,’ said Abbey.

Clara shook her head. ‘Howth is a village,’ she said. ‘Town is Dublin, the city.’

‘Right,’ said Abbey.

‘It does sound slightly bonkers,’ Clara said cheerfully. ‘But that’s the way it is. If you get the bus, it will say City Centre on the front. As well as An Lár. That means city centre but in Irish.’

‘OK.’ Abbey was feeling confused again.

‘Ah, you won’t get lost,’ said Clara. ‘Dublin’s too small for that. We’ve plenty of brochures here for all the main tourist sights. Let me know if there’s anything special you want to do and I’ll help you organise it. And if you’re here to trace your roots, I can help you with whatever you need.’

‘Thank you,’ said Abbey. ‘But I’m pretty much being organised for now, roots and all. And I think this might be my cab.’

A red taxi had pulled up outside the hotel and the driver came inside.

‘Ms Andersen,’ he said.

‘That’s me.’ Abbey got up, said goodbye to Clara and followed the driver outside.

‘Right you are, love,’ he said. ‘Furze Hill. Great location.’

The driver kept up a running commentary as he drove up the steep road towards the summit of Howth Hill.

‘Gorgeous here in this sort of weather,’ he said. ‘A bit bleak in winter. Though that’s just my opinion.’

He was right about its beauty today, thought Abbey as they reached the summit. A carpet of yellow gorse stretched out in front of her, leading to the now aquamarine blue of the sea. In the distance, on the other side of the crescent bay, she could see a peak in a ridge of purple mountains.

‘The Sugar Loaf,’ said the driver. ‘Wicklow. The other side of the city obviously. Another place worth visiting.’ He pulled up outside a high double-sized wooden gate. ‘Furze Hill.’

She looked out of the car window. The gate was at street level but the land behind it rose steeply and she could make out the edges of the house, shielded by shrubs, at the top. It was spookily reminiscent of Pete’s home, both in the way it was hidden from casual view and the way it overlooked the water.

She opened her purse. ‘How much?’

‘On the account, love,’ said the driver.

‘Oh.’ She fumbled for some coins and handed him a couple, unsure of the correct tip.

‘Ah, no need,’ he said. ‘But thank you.’

She got out of the cab and waited until the driver had disappeared around a bend in the road before turning towards the gates of the house again. She guessed that these gates led to a garage. There was a wooden pedestrian gate a little further on, with an intercom beside it. She looked at it hesitantly.

She realised that, despite what she’d told Pete, she was nervous. She wasn’t sure why. All she had to do was give Fred Fitzpatrick information about Ellen and listen to him saying sorry. And yet her heart was pounding in her chest and her hands were trembling. She wished that Ryan Gilligan was beside her now, telling her there was nothing to be nervous about. Ryan had been a sort of steadying influence. Although, she reminded herself once again, all he’d been doing was his job.

What would this man want to know about her mother? What would she tell him? How would he react?

She took a deep breath. It didn’t matter how he reacted. None of it mattered. They were connected by blood, but that was all. They didn’t mean anything to each other. His opinion was irrelevant. She pressed the button.

After a few seconds, a rasping, slightly breathless voice said, ‘Yes?’

‘This is Abbey Andersen,’ she said. ‘Here to see Fred Fitzpatrick.’

‘I was beginning to wonder if you were ever going to ring the damn thing,’ he said. ‘Come in. Come in.’

The pedestrian gate clicked open. She pushed against it and stepped inside.

Uneven steps were carved into the hillside and led through a tumble of tall grasses, trees and flowering shrubs to the house. She walked up them slowly, stopping once to look behind her and over the beautiful bay again. The sun was warm on her shoulders and she could feel beads of perspiration forming on her forehead. Her heart was racing. She remembered Ryan Gilligan suggesting that maybe she needed some counselling after he broke the news about Ellen’s father. She’d scoffed at the idea then. But she was wishing now that she’d talked to somebody about it, someone who could put things into perspective for her. Because right now she was wondering if she was out of her mind.

The house, when she reached it, was a single-storey building with a very retro look. It had a wide paved area at the front, huge picture windows and a stone-clad chimney. The walls were painted a buttercup yellow. The front door, in honey pine, was ajar.

She tapped at it nervously and then pushed it further, poking her head around it, her eyes struggling to adjust to the dim interior after the bright sunshine.

‘In here,’ said a voice.

She stepped inside. The hallway was a big square, tiled in terracotta with a large Aztec-patterned rug in its centre and rooms leading off from each side. The walls were covered in an eclectic mix of small paintings, prints and photographs.

‘This way,’ the voice said.

It had come from the right-hand side of the hallway. She walked across and entered what she realised at once was the main living room. It was long and wide and the floor-to-ceiling windows on both sides overlooked the sea.

‘So you’re Abbey.’

She’d glanced at the view before looking at the man who was sitting in an armchair in a corner of the room. She knew that he was in his eighties, but he held himself well. His pale blue eyes were clear and alert in a round face with an almost bald head. He was wearing a suit and tie, the jacket tightly buttoned over a stomach that was also rounded.

‘Mr Fitzpatrick?’ she said.

‘Who else?’ His laugh was rasping and he coughed afterwards.

‘Stupid question,’ she agreed and walked over to him. ‘Abbey Andersen. Pleased to meet you.’

‘My God,’ he said slowly as he took the hand she’d extended politely towards him. ‘You’re the image of her.’

‘My mother?’ Abbey was startled. This man had never known her mother. Anyway, she wasn’t at all the image of Ellen.

‘No. Dilly. Her mother. She was just like you. Same eyes. Longer hair, but …’

He sniffed loudly while Abbey stood uncertainly in front of him.

He took a hanky from his pocket and blew his nose. ‘I don’t know what’s got into me,’ he said. ‘I hadn’t thought of that woman for years and now I’m snivelling over her. Sorry.’

Abbey said nothing.

‘Maybe all I wanted was for you to be her.’ He returned the hanky to his pocket. ‘Now that I look at you … well, you’re like my daughter too. But she’s darker; there aren’t that many natural blondes in Ireland. Dilly was one of them. She was beautiful. So are you.’

Abbey was finding it difficult to take in that she was apparently the image of a woman she’d never even known had existed until recently. And that the old man considered her beautiful, which she knew she clearly wasn’t.

‘I’m sorry about how things turned out,’ she said.

‘Sit down, sit down.’ He waved at her and she pulled an upright chair from its position near the wall until it was facing him before sitting on it. ‘I’m sorry too. Now, I mean. I didn’t think of her much back then. It was a silly love affair. It didn’t mean that much. I was probably tired of her before she even got pregnant.’

Abbey was silent.

‘She was fun. A bit of devilment in her, that’s what attracted me. That and the looks, of course. But they broke her spirit in the end.’