A Novel of Contemporary Ireland
by
Suzanne Barrett
County Waterford - 1993
Meaghann sank into the opposite chair. "I've rented out the keep. Uncle Tom suggested it, and it seemed a good idea. It's working well. And Quinn-- "
The priest took the tray from the elderly housekeeper and set it on a table. "Oh, thank you Mrs. Aherne." He poured two cups of tea and offered one to Meaghann.
"Quinn, you say?" he asked after settling back in his chair. "Have I met the fellow?"
Meaghann cast an uneasy glance at the priest's piercing eyes. Clear and questioning--definitely questioning. "Quinn Lawlor. His family left Timnagh in the sixties. You might remember his father, Patrick."
"Hmmm. I'd just come down from Maynooth then," the priest mused. He took a bite from a square of cake on his plate. "Yes, of course I remember Paddy. A firebrand if ever I saw one." His brows formed a continuous line across intense blue eyes. "Not unlike his son, I'm told. A man in a dangerous occupation."
"Then you know about Quinn."
Father Donovan contemplated the cup of tea in his hand. "Just what I hear--that he's a war correspondent. I've seen a piece or two about him. Perceptive young man, so they say."
"He's writing a book, now--since his accident."
"Why haven't I seen him at Mass?"
"He's...busy, I guess."
The bushy brows rose. "Too busy to keep the sacraments?" The priest subjected her to a precise scrutiny. "My dear girl, you realize that having a man living on your property will cause tongues to wag."
Meaghann twiddled the strap on her shoulder bag. "Tongues wag whether there's cause or not. I intend to pay it no mind, Father."
"Just so long as you know what you're inviting. I'll not see God mocked in my parish. 'Tis easy for a woman alone to be beguiled by a man such as that one."
A chilling silence settled over the room. "What do you mean 'such as that one'?"
"Read the paper, my girl. Your boarder has a fair reputation with the ladies."
Meaghann plunked her cup and saucer down on the tray. "His life is his own business, Father. Not mine."
Meaghann sucked in a breath, then lurched to her feet. Everybody knew Con and Cait's mother had run off with a Tinker when the twins were babies and that their father, Sean, had spent the better part of a year drinking and whoring in the village until he met Sally, the twins' stepmother, and married her. Now, he was a model husband and father, but the older villagers and Father Donovan never forgot his long ago indiscretion. "Thank you, Father," she said, her voice stiff. "I must be going."
Her cheeks tingled as she let herself out. Damned self-righteous man. Aunt Brid must have run straight to Father with the news. Brid's genetic inability to miss a piece of gossip had brought more than one set of troubles to their lives. Meaghann strode to her car, plunked herself on the seat, and lurched into the lane of traffic. The transmission complained as she missed a gear. Neither the villagers nor Father Donovan would dictate to her what she did with her life.
She braked with a squeal of tires in front of the village market. It was her life, after all. Were a few weeks of happiness too much to ask for?
But all the same, she had better be sure she wasn't making Blind Billy's bargain. After all, she was much older than Quinn. And she wasn't experienced, or educated like the women he had known. Her clothes, even her manners, were plain. Countrified. But those things, she acknowledged, were insignificant when compared to her biggest problem. As long as Quinn harbored bitterness against her people, she couldn't tell him about her family. Or herself. Certainly not about their fierce love for Ireland or their fight for freedom. He'd never understand.
She reached into the rear seat for her shopping bag, then slung her purse over one shoulder and stepped from her car to the curb.
Inside the market, Meaghann wandered down each aisle. With Quinn very much on her mind, she moved mechanically, dropping items from this shelf and that into her basket. She paused at the meat counter and selected a plump fryer for dinner.
From behind the meat case, Liam Connaughton handed her the wrapped chicken. "Hear ye've put Con and Cait Foley on full time, Meaghann." He flashed her a good-natured smile.
"Would ye be wantin' one cut or two?"
Meaghann stared at the butcher's bulbous nose. "Why, two, I suppose."
"Thought so. My Mary says you got a fellow stayin' at your place. Would he be anyone I know?"
For an instant, Meaghann's heart stopped. She stared at the butcher, and let out a slow breath. "You don't know him, Liam. He's an American--a writer."
"Then he'd be the fellow I saw askin' around about the Fenian graves. A fine doorful of a man he is, never mind the limp."
The Fenian graves! The hastily dug graves for the village men who'd taken part in the Rising of 1867. The mention of their graves always made her eerily aware of the secret associated with that obscure plot of ground, a secret only she knew.
Meaghann eyed the butcher curiously. "When did you see Mr. Lawlor, Liam?"
"Oh, t'wasn't more'n two hours ago. He was walkin' past the shop, talkin' to old Dennis."
And what mad stories would he have told Quinn about her family? Meaghann shuddered. Near her great-grandfather's grave existed another, shallower grave, known only to her. Her father had discovered it, and it had changed his life. Quinn must never find out!
She felt the blood drain from her face. Taking the package of meat from the butcher, she dropped it into her basket.
If any stories were to be told about her family and their part in the Rising, she must be the one to tell him.
Father Donovan returned and directed Meaghann into his study. "Now," he said, lowering his robust frame onto an overstuffed chair, indicating she should do the same. "Tell me about this boarder. I trust you're...having no difficulty?"
The priest tented pudgy fingers over the black worsted wool of one thigh. "The one that wears the shoe knows where it pinches, girl. See you remember it." His fleshy lips thinned. "We don't need another Sean Foley. One fool in a parish is enough."
Meaghann nodded and made a perusal of the chops displayed in the center of the case. "For the summer at least. I'll have a bit of your sirloin as well."
Talking to the news agent, was he? Gathering material for his book. Meaghann groaned. Dennis meant well, but too often he embroidered great, grand tales for the occasional tourist who happened to stop at his corner shop. Tales about the various risings and the parts played by the villagers. To hear Dennis say it, every man's forebear had been a Volunteer in one insurrection or another.
"Th--thank you, Liam," she stuttered. "Give my love to Mary and the little ones."
Santa Cruz, California
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