Читать книгу The Man On The Cliff - Janice Macdonald - Страница 7

HALF AN HOUR LATER, with apologies to Hugh Fitzpatrick for being late, Kate squeezed into one of the narrow wooden booths at the back of Dooley’s main lounge. “Obviously, I should have allowed more time for getting lost,” she said, peering at the reporter through a blue haze of cigarette smoke.

“Ah, don’t worry about it,” Fitzpatrick said with a grin. “Sure, it’s no crime to waste a little time now and then.” He glanced over at the bar where half a dozen men in cloth caps and heavy jackets sat nursing pints, then lifted his empty tankard in the direction of the bartender. “And this is as good a place as any to do it.”

Kate studied him for a moment. Mid-thirties. Hawkish nose, sallow complexion. His hair dark, lank and a shade too long. Old tweed jacket, jeans and a black turtleneck. Struggling-writer type, she’d dated a few of them. They were always bad news. Lost in the world that existed between their ears. She watched him light a new cigarette from the one he’d been smoking. Judging from the empty glasses on the table and the speed with which he’d consumed the last pint, she figured he’d had some firsthand experience wasting time in bars.

In the window behind him, she caught a glimpse of her own reflection and moved her chair slightly to avoid the image. She didn’t need confirmation that the damp air had frizzed her long red hair, or that fatigue had created circles under her eyes and made her skin paler than usual, which caused her freckles to stand out.

A headache had been gathering strength for the past hour. Kate wanted to ask Fitzpatrick to extinguish his cigarette, something she would have done without hesitation back in Santa Monica. Since they were on his home turf and she needed his assistance, she decided to tolerate the discomfort.

She could hear the click of billiard cues, raucous laughter and American rock music coming from the next room. The smells of beer and fried fish hung heavily in the air, potent if not particularly appetizing reminders that she’d eaten nothing all day but cake and chocolate.

“Are you still serving food?” she asked the rotund and balding bartender when he brought Fitzpatrick’s drink to the table.

“We are.” He wiped a cloth over the table. “Fish and chips. Sausages and chips. Egg and chips.”

“Anything that’s not fried?”

“Not fried?” He scratched his ear. “Let’s see. Raw fish, raw sausage and raw potatoes.”

She grinned. “I’ll just have some chips then.”

“She means crisps,” Fitzpatrick told the bartender. “I speak a bit of American. What flavor?”

Kate shrugged, stumped.

“We’ve only prawn,” the bartender said.

“Prawn then. And a Diet Coke, please.” Over at the bar, one of the cloth caps muttered something in the ear of the man next to him, and they both looked over their shoulders at her. She smiled sweetly, maintaining eye contact until they turned away.

When she returned her glance to Fitzpatrick, he grinned at her.

“You’re a novelty,” he said. “Cragg’s Head isn’t exactly a mecca for American tourists at this time of year.”

The surreptitious glances had been going on ever since she’d arrived. If she’d walked in stark naked, she could hardly have provoked more interest. The sensation was strange and one she didn’t particularly enjoy. Back in Santa Monica, the tweed jacket and beige wool pants she’d picked up at Nordstrom’s annual sale had seemed to strike exactly the right note of country chic. Here in Dooley’s they apparently screamed American tourist.

“Why is it you’re interested in Moruadh?” Fitzpatrick asked.

He pronounced the name the way Moruadh had taught her to do. Mora. “It’s Gaelic,” she’d explained. “Some sort of sea creature.” And then she’d laughed. “Let’s hope it’s a mermaid and not a whale.” No last name. “Moruadh is plenty,” she’d said.

Kate considered Fitzpatrick’s question. “I knew her. Kind of.” The bartender bought over the chips and the Coke in a glass with no ice. She tore open the bag. “About three years ago, I interviewed her for a magazine article. She called me several times after that and we became…” She hesitated. Friends would be a stretch, they’d never actually met and their lifestyles couldn’t have been more different. Moruadh sang to packed crowds all over Europe. Kate wrote about sheep-herding contests in Bakersfield. Moruadh spent long weekends in ancient and picturesque stone cottages in Provence. Kate spent weekends shuttling her ancient Toyota Tercel between the Laundromat and the supermarket. Moruadh had enjoyed success and recognition Kate herself never dreamed of. Still there had been this connection. Which was why the news of the singer’s death had come as such a shock.

“We shared dating horror stories,” she told Fitzpatrick. “Moruadh’s were a lot more glamorous than mine, but we’d both come to pretty much the same conclusion.”

Fitzpatrick looked at her.

“Men are jerks.” She bit into a chip. “Nothing personal, of course. Just the combined wisdom of our experiences.”

He moved his head slightly to exhale a cloud of smoke, turned back to face her again.

“And then I read about the accident—”

“Moruadh’s death was no accident.” Fitzpatrick tapped ash off his cigarette. “She was murdered.”

“You believe that, too?” Kate asked and felt her face color. She’d suspected that herself, but at least wanted to create a semblance of objectivity. She dug into her bag for a notebook, looked at Fitzpatrick. “So what’s your theory?”

Fitzpatrick laughed. “My theory, huh? Well, let’s just say, my theory is that murder is cheaper than divorce, which incidentally wasn’t legal in Ireland at the time of Moruadh’s death. Maguire could have gone to England or France, of course, but he must have worried she’d go after his money.” He drank some beer. “That’s more than just a journalistic theory. I know Maguire.”

“But her career was going fairly well. I mean she must have been making pretty good money herself?”

“Nothing compared to Maguire’s money. The three of us grew up together. His family had plenty, Moruadh was the daughter of the gardener. We had that in common, she and I, peasant stock.” He lifted his glass again, wiped the back of his hand over his mouth. “My mother was a housekeeper on the Maguire estate. Moruadh enjoyed playing the two of us off against each other.”

“You and Maguire?”

He nodded. “For as long as I can remember. Of course, he had an unfair advantage. More pocket money than either of us had in a year. More of everything. And nothing has changed much over the years. He’s always had it all. Money, looks, women falling over themselves for him.”

“Was she in love with him?”

He shrugged. “Moruadh never knew her own mind. Maguire’s an aloof bastard. The more he kept his distance, the more she ran after him. He didn’t pay her a lot of attention until her career started taking off. When that began to wane—a year or so before she died—so did his interest in her. Pushing her off the cliff was an expedient way to end things.”

Kate kept her expression neutral. She fished in the bag for a chip, bit into it. “The Garda ruled it an accident. I read the investigation report. The cliffs were unstable. She lost her footing—”

“Ach.” He made a gesture of contempt. “Investigation. It was a farce. The old superintendent had been in the Maguire family’s pockets forever and he was a bit of an idiot anyway so he was easily taken in by Maguire.”

“Yeah, but pushing her off the cliffs seems a bit…well, extreme, don’t you think?”

He shrugged. “That’s Maguire. Have you met him yet?”

“Not yet.”

“You’ll get along famously.” He gave a wry smile. “Niall Maguire always gets along famously with beautiful women.”

“You’re not exactly Maguire’s biggest fan, huh?” she asked, deciding to ignore the compliment.

“You could say that.” He inhaled, narrowed his eyes against the expelled smoke. “Sure, it’s hard to feel a lot of warmth for someone who gets away with cold-blooded murder.” He tapped ash off the cigarette. “To be honest, though, I’ve never liked him much. No doubt it goes back to the stale cakes and bags of his old clothes my mother used to bring home from the big house. I’ve had an aversion to castoffs ever since.”

Kate watched him for a moment. Face twisted with emotion, he stared off across the room in the direction of the bartender who was drying pint glasses with a white cloth. She understood only too well how resentment and envy hardened into hate.

At fourteen, gawky and freckled with a mouthful of braces, she’d overheard an aunt say how unfair it was that, while Ned had heartbreaker written all over him, his little sister, Katie had none of the looks in the family. Months later, her father had to grab Kate’s arms to stop her clawing Ned’s face after they’d had a minor spat. She felt a stab of sympathy for Fitzpatrick.

“Sorry.” He shook his head, smiling slightly as though embarrassed. “You’re not here to listen to me vent my spleen about Maguire.”

“Hey.” She shrugged. “We all have our hang-ups.”

“I have these letters from Moruadh,” he said as though she hadn’t spoken. “Letters she wrote from Paris. I’ll show them to you. She complains bitterly about Maguire, saying how much happier her life would be if he would leave her alone. Sure, we’d both have been a lot happier.” He gave a harsh laugh. “But for Maguire, she’d still be alive and we’d be married.”

Kate looked at him. He’d answered a question that had been floating around in her brain since they’d started talking. There was something about the way he said Moruadh’s name, the look on his face as he spoke about her. But Moruadh had once confessed that she was only attracted to good-looking men and, while there was a certain appealing quality about him, Hugh Fitzpatrick was far from handsome.

“That surprises you, doesn’t it?” He was watching her face. “I can see that it does. Thinking that I couldn’t possibly be her type, weren’t you? A beautiful girl like Moruadh could have anyone. Why Hugh Fitzpatrick, who doesn’t have two pennies to rub together? That’s what you’re thinking.”

“I don’t like being told what I’m thinking,” Kate said. Especially when it happens to be right. “And you’re absolutely wrong.” She felt her face color. “If I looked surprised, it’s because I don’t remember her mentioning your name.”

Fitzpatrick seemed unconvinced. His face had darkened. Kate felt a tension that hadn’t been there moments before.

“I’ve always thought that there are two types of women,” he said after a moment. “Those who can’t see beyond pretty faces like Maguire’s and those who can.”

“Listen, Hugh,” she said, feeling rebuked, “in my fantasies I’m a tall, well-endowed blonde named Ingrid. Men flock to me.” She paused to let that sink in. “My reality is a long, long way removed from that. So don’t think I’m unaware of what it’s like to be judged on appearance.”

His broad smile, and the way his eyes lingered on her face told her that he’d read into her remark something she hadn’t intended. They were two drab birds in a gaudy flock, the look said, sensitive and under-valued. Let’s appreciate each other, it said. Kate yawned. The bar had almost emptied out. There were other things she wanted to ask him, but they could wait for another day.

Fitzpatrick was only one source, so it was too early for gloating, but she felt encouraged by what she’d learned so far. Clearly her theory about how Moruadh died wasn’t as off base as her editor at Modern World believed. Establishing her credibility with Tom was important if she ever wanted to move from the financially precarious world of freelance assignments to the more stable and lucrative staff job he’d hinted might be coming up. Still, he’d teased her for her stubborn refusal to accept the accidental death verdict. “Kate the Intrepid,” he’d laughed. “Relentless in her crusade to prove that beneath every male chest lurks a murderous and dowardly black heart. News flash, kid. Accidents happen.”

Kate drained her glass. Yeah, and husbands get away with murder. In the end, she’d worn Tom down and he’d given her the assignment. The trip had maxed out her credit card, but if she left Ireland knowing the truth about Moruadh’s death, it was worth the expense. And if she wrote a good article, Tom might even offer her a full-time position.

“You’re here for how long?” Hugh asked.

“Ten days.”

“There’s a lot to see. Galway is interesting. Would you like to go out one evening? We could have something to eat, talk a bit more. Hear some music.”

“Thanks.” Not wanting to step on his feelings again, or to mislead him, she hesitated. “But I really need to focus on the article.” She feigned a yawn. “And if I don’t get to the place where I’m staying, I’m going to fall asleep. My body clock is still on California time.”

Disappointment flickered in his eyes. “Are you interested in looking at the letters Moruadh sent to me?”

“Sure. I’ve got interviews scheduled for the next few days, but I could come by your office.”

“Right.” He appeared to be about to say something else, then he leaned across the table. “Maguire’s guilty, Kate.” His voice was low, impassioned. “He murdered Moruadh. He thinks he’s free and clear, that he got away with it, but he’s wrong. If it had happened today, under the watch of the new superintendent, he would be behind bars, but we can still make that happen. The two of us—”

“Hold on a second.” Startled by his sudden intensity, Kate leaned back in her chair, widening the distance between them. His eyes, dark and deep set, seemed to bore into her as though by sheer concentration he could make her believe. “You’re getting ahead of yourself. I still have a lot of people to talk to before I reach any conclusions.”

“What can I tell you to convince you?”

“What you’ve told me already has been helpful, but I’m going to need more than that.” Across the room, the remaining patrons were getting in their last curious looks at her before they toddled off into the night. “For starters, I want to talk to Maguire himself.”

“Sure, and Maguire will turn on his charm, and you’ll believe whatever he chooses to tell you.”

She met his eyes for a moment. “Obviously you don’t know me.”

KATE REMAINED at the table after Fitzpatrick left, making a few quick notes while the information was still fresh in her mind. Engrossed in her thoughts, she didn’t notice the bartender until he reached for the empty glasses.

“Anything else for you?” he asked.

“No.” With a yawn, she gathered up her notebook and purse. “Well, actually, you could tell me how to get to the Pot o’ Gold. It’s the B&B I’m staying in.”

“I know it well,” he said. “My wife runs the place. Just around the corner, you can’t miss it.”

Kate thanked him and dropped a handful of coins on the table. As she started toward the door, he called out to her.

“Listen, love, are you married?”

Kate stared at him. God, he had to be sixty. Was he trying to pick her up?

“Oh, not for me.” He laughed, obviously seeing the shock on her face. “My wife.”

“Your wife?”

“My wife. Look, do yourself a favor. When you get to the house and she asks you, tell her you are, otherwise she’ll have you engaged to a pig farmer faster than you can say Lisdoonvarna.”

“Lisdoonwhat?”

“Exactly. Married with two kiddies, tell her. Better yet, say you’ve a bun in the oven.”

Kate smiled and stepped out into the night. After the warm smokiness of the pub, the air hit her like a cold blast. She darted down the narrow alley behind Dooley’s to the muddy patch of grass where she’d parked. Vapor streaming from her mouth, she put the purse on the roof of the car while she unlocked the door. Inside, she buckled her seat belt then remembered the purse and got out to retrieve it. The car’s sudden movement sent the purse sliding from the roof and into a puddle of water. Naturally, she’d neglected to fasten it.

A tube of lipstick glinted up at her from the murky water; the apple that she’d saved from the flight bobbed and sank. As she bent down to retrieve her floating passport and airline ticket, the day seemed to cave in on her and she felt herself on the edge of hysteria—not knowing whether to laugh or cry.

She picked everything up and got back in the car again. As she started the ignition, a combination of fatigue and jet lag and—why not admit it?—loneliness left her suddenly so desolate and empty that her chest hurt. Married. No, she wasn’t married. If falling in love with the right guy was a college course, she would have flunked half a dozen times. A Love 101 dropout, auditing courses on Intro to Celibacy and Elements of Spinsterhood.

For a moment she just sat there with the windshield fogging, the car shuddering beneath her. Here she was in a rental car in some dark alley in a remote village thousands of miles from home and no one was waiting back in Santa Monica for her to call and say she’d arrived safely. No one was counting the days until she was home again. No one gave a damn and that was the truth of it. Sure, she could do her conjuring tricks. Divert the eye. Look over here, look over there. See how busy and full my life is. When she faced it right on, though, there was nothing. No center. Nothing but black emptiness.

“Get over it.” She put the car in gear, adjusted the rearview mirror and peered into it for a minute. “Quit feeling sorry for yourself,” she told the face with the under-eye circles that stared back at her, “or you’ll blow the assignment. Tom will replace you with some twenty-something and you’ll end up jobless, homeless, wandering around Santa Monica with all your stuff packed in a shopping cart and sleeping on benches on Ocean Boulevard. Is that what you want?”

It wasn’t and by the time she parked outside the Pot o’ Gold some fifteen minutes later, she’d pulled herself out of the funk. Imagine the worst and whatever happens probably won’t be quite as bad. One of the tools in her coping kit. That and the breezy, confident mask that only slipped when she was too tired to maintain it. By the time she rang the bell, it was firmly back in place.

The woman who answered the door wore a red wool dress that hugged her slim figure and set off her black hair and blue eyes. Recalling the sixtyish bartender at Dooley’s who looked a good ten years older, Kate wondered if she’d misunderstood what he’d said about his wife running the place. If she’d got it right, the two seemed an unlikely pair.

“Kate Neeson.” She stuck out her hand. “I’m really sorry I’m late.”

“It’s all right, darlin’. Patrick called to say you were on your way.” Smiling, the woman shook Kate’s hand. “Annie Ryan. Sure, I did get a bit worried, it’s the way I am. My houseguest isn’t home yet and I’m running to the window every five minutes.” She peered at Kate’s face. “You’re all right, are you? Your eyes are a bit red.”

“I’m fine,” she said, but Annie looked so doubtful, Kate felt the need to offer more reassurance. “It’s allergies.” She improvised. “Probably the damp air.”

Annie patted her arm, as if to say she wasn’t convinced but she’d go along with it, and ushered her along the hallway and into a brightly lit room that smelled of wood smoke, furniture polish and flowers. Kate glanced around. Flower-patterned couches and armchairs grouped cozily around the flickering fire. The glow of amber lamps on the teacups set out on a low table by the hearth.

“This is really nice.” She smiled at Annie, her spirits revived. “It’s so warm and inviting. I was…well, ever since I arrived, I’ve been getting lost and everything’s kind of strange, but I think it’s all going to work out.” She stopped, embarrassed. Why was she blabbering like this to a complete stranger? It wasn’t even like her. But Annie, who was bustling around the room, poking at the fire, seemed to find nothing amiss.

“Make yourself at home now. I’ll have someone bring in your suitcases.” She helped Kate off with her coat, disappeared with it, and returned moments later. “While you’re here, you’re part of the family. Now, will you have a cup of tea and a bit of supper? I’ve a lamb stew in the oven, but if that’s not what you fancy, there’s a chicken pie. By the way, love,” she said as Kate started up the stairs, “there’s a phone in the hall, should you want to ring your husband. You are married, aren’t you?”

NIALL LOOKED across the vast stretch of Buncarroch Castle’s great hall to the mantelpiece where his business partner, Sharon Garroty, stood, hands on her hips, her expression one of severely strained patience. She had on narrow black trousers and a black silk blouse, her pale blond hair pulled into a tight bun at the back of her head.

“What I really can’t understand,” she was saying, “is exactly how you could just forget about signing papers on a fifty-thousand-pound loan because you were too busy snapping shots with a little twit of a coed who obviously has designs on you.”

“Put that way,” he said, pulling off a boot, “I’m sure it must be hard to understand.”

“And how would you put it then?”

“I’ve explained already that I forgot we were to meet at the bank. I’ve also apologized for forgetting. Either accept it, or don’t. I won’t spend the night justifying myself to you.”

He removed the other boot and stood dangling it by the laces as he looked at her. If he’d told her that anger enhanced her beauty, she’d no doubt throttle him, but it was true. The faint pink of anger that tinged her creamy skin was as flattering as the most artfully applied cosmetic. Often his assignments involved photographing beautiful women, but few of them had her classic sort of beauty. Clearly, though, it wasn’t the moment to mention it.

He averted his eyes from Sharon and from the eagle on the chimney wall immediately above her head. It had been there for as long as he could remember, but the sight of it, wings outstretched in frozen flight, had always depressed him and they’d talked of taking it down. Or he had. Sharon thought it should stay. They’d talked of turning the castle into a small and exclusive hotel, and Sharon had argued that the eagle—along with the various hunting trophies and stuffed animal heads that adorned the walls—were what tourists would expect to see.

He had dropped the subject. Although he didn’t like the thought that the trophies might suggest his endorsement of blood sports, he disliked a fight even more. Whatever gene the Irish had for volatility had bypassed him completely. Tonight unfortunately, the likelihood of avoiding confrontation was as remote as a month without rain.

Bits of mud had flaked off his boots, and Niall scooped them up and threw them into the grate. While he was the castle’s owner, Sharon made no secret of the fact that she rather fancied herself as lady of the manor, graciously opening her stately home to wealthy tourists. Where he fit into that picture, he wasn’t quite sure. He was hardly the lordly type. More the groundskeeper, he reflected, his thoughts drifting to the cromlech that dotted the grounds and an idea he’d had for a series of pictures of Celtic stones.

“Who is this Elizabeth girl?” Sharon demanded. “Is she the one who’s always ringing the studio?”

He ignored the question, carried his boots across the great hall, down a stone-flagged corridor and into the kitchen. Behind him he heard the tap of Sharon’s heels. He opened the pantry door and did an inventory of the nearly empty shelves. Two tins of mulligatawny soup, some pilchards and a bit of moldy cheese. He thought of the savory smells in Annie Ryan’s house and wondered whether the American woman might be staying there.

Again he regretted not making sure she’d found her way safely. Tomorrow, perhaps, he’d ring Annie Ryan just to check whether the American was there. He peeled waxed paper from the Stilton. After tonight’s inquiry about Elizabeth, a call would almost certainly convince Annie that he had an obsession with stray women. Sharon’s voice again interrupted his thoughts.

“You didn’t answer me. The girl you were supposed to meet? She’s the one who’s always ringing you, isn’t she?”

“She is.” In the bread bin, he found half a loaf of brown bread. It had gone stale, but he didn’t care. Aware of Sharon behind him, he hacked off a piece, sandwiched it around the cheese. After he’d finished eating, he brushed the crumbs into the sink, put the bread back in the bin and went to the back door. Through the windowpane, he looked out into the dark night and after a moment heard a flurry of movement outside, followed by a frantic scratching at the woodwork.

“Rufus.” He pulled the door open, and a large gray dog burst into the kitchen on a blast of cold air. “You’ve awful-smelling breath, d’you know that?” He scratched the dog’s wiry head. “And you’re a bit of a scruff bag, too. If you ever hope to interest that little Pekingese down the road, you’ll have to do something about yourself.”

“Oh, I see.” Sharon spoke at his shoulder. “You’re just going to ignore me, is that it? Sure, the bloody dog gets more attention than I do. Maybe I should get down on all fours and bark at you. Would that do it?”

Over the dog’s head, he met Sharon’s ice-blue stare.

“It’s a character flaw, you have,” she said. “You know that, don’t you? Your head’s always up in the bloody clouds. You’re not grounded in reality.”

He pushed the dog down. The charge wasn’t exactly new. Three years ago when they’d first become partners in the small art gallery, she’d teased him about mentally disappearing. For a while, it had been a joke between them. Sharon would knock on his head, inquire if anyone was home. Gradually, the teasing started to get a bit of an edge. It wasn’t until they’d started sleeping together that she’d taken to calling it a character flaw.

On the dresser, there was an unopened bottle of whiskey that he’d bought to take up to Sligo. The converted lighthouse he’d bought a few years back was his favorite place in the world, remote and beautiful—with a constant crash of the ocean all around. He could do with a little of that solitude right now, he thought, with a glance at Sharon. He poured a little whiskey into a couple of glasses and handed one to her. She downed it in one gulp, carried her empty glass to the sink, then returned to where he stood.

“She’s a bit young, isn’t she, Niall? Have you thought of what people will think?” She put one hand up as though to ward off an outburst. “All right, you say she’s just a student in your class and it’s all perfectly innocent. Maybe that’s true, but people talk.” She gave him a meaningful look. “As you well know. I didn’t say it to the bank manager, of course, but can you imagine if I’d told him you weren’t there because it was more important to be with this…this little tart?” A faint flush of pink stained her face. “Can you?”

“I can.”

“But you don’t care, do you? It really doesn’t matter to you what people think. You lock yourself away in your own little world, and nothing else exists.” She stopped, left the room and returned a few moments later with a large white envelope. “Maybe this will bring you back to earth. It came today.” She handed it to him. “From that boyfriend of Moruadh’s in Paris. It was addressed to you, so I opened it, but the letters inside were for her.”

He took them from her. Half a dozen gray envelopes.

He riffled through them. All had been opened. Letters from him sent during the year before Moruadh died, forwarded by one of the many men who had drifted through her life at that time. He looked up and met Sharon’s eyes.

“Did you open these?”

“They were already open.”

He looked up at her. “Did you read them?”

“One of them, I glanced at. It said something about her needing to get help and—”

“I know what it said, Sharon. I wrote it.” He got up and walked across the kitchen to the window and stared out at the dark night.

“I don’t make a habit of reading your personal mail,” Sharon said. “You know that. You had that exhibit in Paris last month, and I thought that this was something to do with that. A business matter. We’re supposed to be partners, aren’t we?”

He didn’t answer.

“Whatever you think you understand from what you read,” he said a moment later, “you understand nothing at all.”

“But Niall—”

“You understand nothing,” he repeated. “Moruadh was a talented young musician, greatly loved and admired by everyone who knew her.” He said the words as though by rote. “She was also a beautiful woman who had a lot of admirers. Her death was a tragic accident and an incredible loss to us all.”

Sharon stared at him as though transfixed.

“Is that clear?”

Various emotions played across her face. For a moment, she seemed about to speak, but then she shrugged and took his glass to the sink.

“There’s another matter I wanted to talk to you about.” He sat down at the table, watched as she pulled out a chair. “Look, I think we both know this isn’t working, Sharon. Us, I mean. We spend half our time together arguing over one thing or another. There’s just—” he shrugged “—nothing there anymore.”

“Oh, really?” She got up from the table, crossed the room. Regarded him, arms crossed, her back against the wall. “Nothing there, you say? And do you know why that is? Niall? Do you have the faintest bloody idea why there’s nothing there?”

He waited for her to tell him.

“No, of course you don’t, because you’re as oblivious to what’s happening with us as you are to everything else going on around you. Well, I’ll tell you. You’ve lost touch with yourself, Niall. You can’t connect.”

He bent to pick out a burr from the dog’s coat. “You’re right, Sharon. I can’t. Don’t. Won’t. I’ve never been much on giving guided tours of my psyche. Go and find someone who emotes. There’s a drama teacher at the college who’ll sob at the drop of a hat. I’ll find out if he’s available.”

“Sure, make a joke of it. It’s the easy way, isn’t it? Well, fine. It’s over, finished. I’ll survive. And you’ll meet someone new and it’ll be fine at first, just as it was with us. She’ll fall in love with your looks and the way you have about you, so bloody interested with all your questions and rapt attention, but you’re like a collector. You take what you need, but you give nothing back.”

“Well, that’s my problem, isn’t it?”

“Yes it is, Niall. And frankly, I’m glad to be done with it. You’ve got something locked away up there and you’ll sacrifice anything before you let it out.”

AN HOUR OR SO AFTER Sharon left, Niall sat at his desk in the study, going through the rest of the mail. Press notices from his show in Paris, an invitation to a gallery opening in Dublin. Another letter from the American writer who wanted to interview him about Moruadh. For a moment, he held the blue envelope in his hand, its color triggering a memory of a spring day five years ago. Wisps of clouds, a lark high in the sky. A windy hillside…

Moruadh had found a gentian, the first of the year. A bright blue flower that she’d held out for him to see. There was a bit of doggerel that went along with finding the first one. They’d both learned it as children, and he had recited it in Irish, one of the few scraps of Irish he knew.

“May we be here at this time next,” he’d said.

“I won’t be,” Moruadh replied. “I’m going to die.”

Her eyes as blue as the flower in her hand looked right into his and he felt a chill across his back.

“What is it? Are you ill? Is there something wrong?”

“There is not.” She smiled, one of the lightning-quick smiles that lit her face like sunshine. “Nothing at all.”

“Then why would you say something like that?”

“Because it just came to me.”

“You’re standing in a field on a sunny day and it just comes to you that you’re going to die?” He started to become angry with her. “Sure, it makes perfect sense.”

“No, it makes no sense. It just came to me.”

At a loss for words, he shook his head at her.

“Ah, Niall.” With a laugh, she tossed the flower aside. “Don’t try to understand. Some things aren’t meant to be understood.”

By the same time the next year, she’d claimed not to remember that day with the gentians. Niall looked at the blue envelope again, and without bothering to open it, threw it into the wastepaper basket at his feet.