Things We Never Say (23 page)

‘Well, you’ve said hello,’ said Gareth. ‘Now go outside and play.’

He watched as the two of them scrambled down from the table and went into the garden.

‘Why did we keep them off school today?’ he asked Lisette.

‘Out of respect for your father. And because it would have been awkward to pick them up from school and then go to the removal,’ she said.

‘Less awkward than having them spout nonsense in front of our guest.’

‘Your sister,’ Suzanne reminded him. ‘Not just a guest.’

‘Sorry,’ said Gareth.

‘So tell me about this woman,’ said Suzanne. ‘This long-lost relative who conveniently happened to show up as Dad dropped dead.’

‘I’m glad you think that’s suspicious,’ said Gareth, who filled her in with more detail than Donald had on the previous day’s events.

‘So why didn’t the mother come too?’ asked Suzanne.

Gareth shrugged. ‘I’ve no idea. We only barely got to talk to her and the next thing that sidekick of Alex’s ushered her out of the house. I don’t like it, though.’

‘Why?’

‘There’s something not right about it all,’ said Gareth. ‘Why now? And, like you said, where’s the mother? What do they want? What did Dad want with them?’

‘He was very upset about the Magdalene laundries,’ said Lisette. ‘I suppose he wanted to find out that they were OK.’

‘A bit strange,’ remarked Suzanne, ‘given that he never gave a toss about whether the rest of us were OK or not.’

Gareth shot her an understanding look.

‘Maybe he’d mellowed in his old age,’ said Lisette.

Gareth grunted. ‘As if.’

‘So we’re meeting her after the funeral,’ said Suzanne. ‘That makes today a right barrel of laughs, doesn’t it?’

Gareth said nothing. Lisette got up from the table and fetched some biscuits. Suzanne sipped her coffee.

Home, sweet home, she thought.

It was nine o’clock by the time Suzanne arrived back at the hotel. The removal service, where Fred’s coffin had been taken to the church in readiness for the funeral the following day, had been lengthy, with a steady stream of friends turning up to console the Fitzpatricks on the death of their father. People she hadn’t seen for years had queued to shake her hand and murmur words of sympathy, but the truth was that she’d felt a fraud for thanking them. And she’d felt a fraud too for the sudden feeling of loss that had engulfed her after they’d left the church. It was ridiculous to feel anything, she thought, for a man who’d been nothing but a thorn in her side and who’d carried the secret of his … well, she supposed love child would be the term that was used now … anyway, the man who’d kept his other child a secret from them all.

Don and Gareth were still furious about it, although Suzanne got the impression that they were more angry about him having invited the American granddaughter to see him than the fact that she existed in the first place. Lisette had been remarkably quiet, but Zoey had remarked that these things happened and they should all get over it because wasn’t the girl going to go back to the States immediately the funeral was over? So what was the point in stressing about it all? Forget it, was Zoey’s mantra. Forget it, forget her.

Suzanne was quite impressed by the attitude of Donald’s second wife. It was perfectly clear to her that Zoey had married Donald for position and security – a kind of Jane Austen combination that shouldn’t have been relevant in the modern world but obviously still was. Whatever her reasons, though, Suzanne thought that Zoey was good for her brother. There was no doubt that she looked sensational, and she managed him well too, saying the right thing at the right time and deferring to him when it seemed important to him.

But then, Suzanne mused as she accepted yet more condolences from someone she didn’t even know, Zoey had her eye on another prize. She knew this because she’d heard her sister-in-law murmuring to her husband about Fred’s will and the fact that Alex was going to talk about it after the funeral, which was all very Agatha Christie-ish, and did Donald think there was the slightest possibility that Fred’s exit had been hastened in some way by seeing Abbey Andersen? Had he been so shocked by her appearance that he’d just keeled over? Suzanne had eavesdropped shamelessly as her brother reminded his wife that there was no evidence of that and that Dr Casey had said that Abbey had done a good job on the CPR, but Zoey had sniffed and muttered that old men were total fools and it was easy to give them a heart attack. At which Suzanne herself had had to turn away because she’d wondered if Zoey was talking about Donald himself.

Anyway, they’d gone back to Gareth and Lisette’s after the removal. There’d been an awkward moment when Deirdre, Donald’s ex-wife, had asked if she was invited and then said that she didn’t want to go anyway, before flouncing off with her two daughters in tow, leaving the rest of the family to continue thrashing out the whole situation about the American girl. But Suzanne had no interest in going over and over things with them. So she’d told them that she was very tired and wanted to go back to the hotel, and even though Gareth had offered to drive her, she’d said that she was perfectly happy walking.

She was deep in thought as she strode across the reception area to the lift. As she waited for it to descend, she glanced towards the bar. It had been a long day and the idea of a drink was suddenly appealing. She left the reception area and walked up to the bar counter instead, where she ordered a Jameson and ice.

She took the glass and looked for somewhere comfortable to sit. Somewhere she wouldn’t be disturbed. And then she saw the woman sitting at the table near the window. She was wearing jeans and a light knitted top. Her blond hair was carelessly scrunched around her face and one leg was crossed lazily over the other. She had a glass of rosé in front of her and was engrossed in a red-covered Kindle.

Oh my God, thought Suzanne. That’s her. It has to be. I recognise the way she’s sitting. I recognise her. She’s Dad. She’s me. She’s the American.

She hesitated for a moment, and then crossed the room.

‘Excuse me,’ she said. ‘I think I know you.’

Abbey Andersen looked up from the book she’d downloaded that day. And her eyes widened in shock.

‘I see you know me too,’ said Suzanne.

‘You’re Mr Fitzpatrick’s daughter, aren’t you?’

Suzanne nodded. ‘Suzanne.’

‘You remind me of my mother,’ said Abbey. ‘Although you’re a lot younger,’ she added hastily. ‘More my age, I guess.’

Suzanne smiled slightly. ‘I suppose I’m your aunt. I should be older and wiser than you.’

‘Half-aunt,’ said Abbey. ‘Though that sounds kind of weird.’

‘The whole situation is weird. Mind if I sit down?’

‘Of course not.’ Abbey was pleased to have the chance to talk to one of her newly discovered relatives in a less emotionally charged atmosphere than before.

‘It was a shock, finding out about you,’ said Suzanne.

‘For me too,’ Abbey told her.

‘And your mum?’

‘She’s been out of touch,’ said Abbey. ‘She doesn’t know about any of this yet.’

Suzanne looked startled.

‘I’ll tell her soon,’ Abbey said.

‘How will she react, d’you think?’

‘As shocked as the rest of us,’ said Abbey. ‘But she’s good with stuff, my mom.’

‘As you are, it seems,’ said Suzanne. ‘I believe you tried to resuscitate Dad.’

‘And failed.’

‘At least you tried.’

Abbey said nothing. She still felt raw about the whole thing, but it was a welcome change for someone to appreciate the effort she’d made.

‘Did you like him?’ asked Suzanne.

‘I didn’t have the chance to get to know him,’ Abbey replied. ‘We only spoke for a few minutes. Walked around the garden. But he was nice to me.’

‘Dad. Nice. That’s a first.’

‘Oh?’

‘He was never nice to me,’ Suzanne said. ‘Ugh. This is why I hate the whole thing around death and funerals. The past gets dredged up and you rediscover old hurts you thought you’d plastered over.’

‘What hurts do you have?’ asked Abbey.

Suzanne shrugged. ‘They’re in the past. They should stay there.’

If only the past could stay in the past, thought Abbey. But it had a nasty habit of coming back to haunt you.

‘So tell me a little about yourself,’ said Suzanne. ‘What d’you do?’

Abbey told her about her nail art and Suzanne involuntarily checked her own nails, which were square and buffed. Then Abbey took out her phone and opened the Mariposa website. She scrolled to the pictures of her work and Suzanne gave a low whistle of appreciation.

‘Gosh, that’s good,’ she said. ‘So vibrant and electric. And, well, artistic.’

Abbey grinned. ‘I studied art before I got into this,’ she said. ‘I still like painting but I get a great buzz out of nails.’

Suzanne continued to look at the pictures. The Mirador Hotel didn’t have a spa or a beauty salon and there wasn’t a lot of room for anything too grand, but the idea of offering nail treatments to guests was a good one. Women liked to look good on holiday, and blinging nails was a great way of jazzing up your appearance, especially if you were make-up-free around the pool. Perhaps if she managed to buy the hotel, she could get some advice from Abbey on the treatments a manicurist could offer. Though she was getting ahead of herself, wasn’t she? She still hadn’t managed to put together enough of a consortium to make an offer on it.

Abbey, realising that Suzanne had lapsed into a daydream, and supposing that she was thinking about her father, sat in silence. It was a few minutes later before Suzanne, whose mind had wandered off into worries about the finance, blinked a couple of times and apologised for her lack of attention.

‘I’ve had a long day,’ she added. ‘And it’ll be equally long tomorrow. I should go to bed.’ She drained her glass and stood up. ‘It was nice meeting you.’

‘You too,’ said Abbey.

‘Are you coming to the funeral tomorrow?’

‘Yes.’ Abbey looked at her anxiously. ‘That’s OK, isn’t it? It won’t upset you?’

‘Not in the slightest,’ said Suzanne. ‘As for the rest of them – I’m sure they’ll have got over the shock. Actually, it’s good of you to come.’

‘I’m glad you think so.’

‘Family situations are never easy. Believe me.’ Suzanne’s tone was heartfelt. ‘Anyway, we’ll all be on our best behaviour, I’m sure. So don’t worry. You’ll be grand.’

I’ll be grand, thought Abbey, as she watched Suzanne walk out of the bar. Ryan says so. Suzanne says so. I hope they’re right.

The day of Fred’s funeral was the hottest of the year so far. Temperatures were in the high twenties and the sun shone from a perfect blue sky. Clara, the receptionist at the Harbour Hotel, told Abbey that there hadn’t been a month like it since she could remember. Clara had been amazingly kind when she’d learned about Mr Fitzpatrick’s death and had been as helpful and supportive to Abbey as she could possibly be. She was the one who’d given advice about going into Dublin so that she could buy something suitable to wear, because Abbey felt her own clothes were far too casual for a funeral.

After her conversation with Suzanne, she felt a bit more relaxed about her decision to attend the service. Ryan Gilligan had already told her that good turnouts were mandatory at Irish funerals, and it was a question of the more the merrier. Abbey still wasn’t entirely sure this applied in her case, and she planned to hang back and not get in the family’s way at all.

However, Ryan had called her before breakfast to say that they were now prepared to meet with her after the funeral and find out more about her and her mother. Abbey wasn’t entirely sure what she’d say to them. She’d only come to Ireland so that Fred could be reassured that Ellen forgave him for abandoning her as a baby. She hadn’t intended to have any contact with his family at all. Left to herself, she’d have been quite happy to return home straight away. But she knew the Fitzpatricks had questions and she hoped that she’d be able to put their minds at rest, whatever those questions might be.

The phone in her room shrilled and Clara told her that Ryan Gilligan had arrived to collect her. She picked up her bag and went downstairs. It was the first time she’d seen Ryan in a shirt and tie and she was struck by how formal and how much less approachable he appeared. Then he smiled at her.

‘Great day for a funeral,’ he said as he led her outside. ‘I’m sure Fred would’ve liked it.’

‘You think?’ She got into the passenger seat.

‘Definitely,’ said Ryan. ‘I bet he was an outdoors man.’

‘I don’t know what sort of man he was,’ said Abbey. ‘Which, despite everything, makes me feel a little uncomfortable about showing up today.’

‘You’re doing the right thing,’ said Ryan. ‘And the family will be grateful for your support.’

Abbey glanced at him. There had been a hesitation in his voice. A sudden lack of conviction. Which made her wonder if he knew something about them that she didn’t.

Although Abbey had been brought up as a Catholic, she hadn’t spent much time inside churches. The last time she’d set foot inside one had been for the wedding of one of her clients in the red-brick St Patrick’s Church on Mission Street. It had been a joyous day, photos had been taken in the Yerba Buena Gardens afterwards, and Abbey had felt connected to everyone around her thanks to the warmth of the ceremony.

Her most recent experiences of funerals had been those of her grandparents, but that had been ten years earlier and at a Boston crematorium. This was different. The pews nearest the altar were already occupied by Fred’s family, while other friends were scattered throughout the rest of the church. Organ music, vaguely recognisable, was being played softly in the background. Abbey shivered, even though the building was warm inside.

She chose an empty pew halfway up the aisle and sat down. She had a spray of flowers for Fred’s coffin but she wasn’t sure if she should place it there yet or not. It seemed that many people had left their tributes at the service the night before.

‘I’ll put them up for you,’ said Ryan softly. She handed the spray to him. He walked up the aisle with it and left it near the altar. Abbey was grateful to him for being with her and for supporting her. It was, she thought, beyond the call of duty for a legal firm to take such care of someone who wasn’t even a client. But perhaps Fred had been a good one. Perhaps Ryan was still being paid by him.