She drew in her breath. He checked his watch.
‘I had hoped to meet Paddy.’
‘Paddy is in Sligo on business. You can see him in the portrait of my late husband, if you like. The spit image.’
Rain streaming onto the glistening panes. The fire smoldering. A clock ticking.
‘I don’t suppose anyone from Broughadoon has sent their compliments?’ she asked.
‘Why, yes. They did. Thank you for reminding me. Mr. William Donavan sends his compliments.’ What William actually said was, ‘A tip of me cap to the oul’ scrape.’
‘You must pass mine along to him, and to the rest of the household,’ she said. ‘And Mister Kav’na…’
‘Yes, Mrs. Conor?’
‘I hope you won’t need reminding.’
‘You can count on it.’
The doors opened. Three rain-soaked dogs burst into the room, followed by James Feeney and a stout and laughing priest wearing a dark suit. Seamus and his silver tray brought up the rear.
Deo gratias.
He stood, took a deep breath, buttoned his jacket. Tonight, he would be the evening gazette.
Fourteen
Messages at Broughadoon.
‹Googled your lodge and got email address. Pray for Lew Boyd he has prostate cancer it’s a good thing he married that little Tennessee woman when he did. Saw Dooley and Lace-Dooley was filling up the truck, they were headed to the lake for a picnic. He is tall as a chimney and she is pretty as a speckled pup-looks like I may have to buy a new dress, ha ha. Knowing you I called Puny and low and behold she found your cell phone ON THE HALL TABLE. Have canceled yr international plan, etc since you won’t need it. You should make a list when you travel and CHECK IT TWICE!!!
‹PS-I already have a small Waterford vase, so large would be great.›
‹Unable to contact yr cell, emailing u at B’doon from LaGuardia. K needs hair appt tomorrow-will C ride with her? Blow dry. Pls make arrangement as necessary for after one pm if possible. Looking forward, W›
‹Hey, Dad, whats the deal? Can’t connect w/ yr cell phone. Dooley›
The afternoon nap-he was perishing for want of it.
Thinking of Lew, he prayed his way upstairs, slipped into their room, undressed, and climbed into bed next to his napping wife.
But he couldn’t sleep. He was wired from the coffee he’d slugged down at the bridge table. At Catharmore, they didn’t know from decaf.
‘Home is the hunter from the hill…’ She turned to him, smiled. He was ever amazed that she appeared glad to see him.
‘It’s hard being too beautiful to get invited anywhere,’ she said, propping on an elbow.
‘You’re invited up one afternoon before we leave; Seamus will show you around. Except for bridge days, she naps from two ’til four.’
‘Well done, darling. It’s a little cool, I’ll just put on my robe and you can tell me everything.’ She sat up and slipped into the Shred, then thumped down beside him, expectant.
‘Emma says Lew Boyd has prostate cancer.’
‘Thank God he has Earlene. I’ll pray. I’m so sorry.’
‘Puny found my cell phone.’ He felt sheepish; he’d almost rather it was stolen. ‘She saw Dooley and Lace on their way to the lake. Dooley emailed to say he couldn’t contact my cell. And Katherine would like a hair appointment for tomorrow after one o’clock-she hopes you’ll arrange it and ride with her.’
‘Only Katherine would fly all night, change planes, drive to Lough Arrow, then race out to get her hair done.’ She drank from her water glass. ‘I’ll take care of it; surely there’s some place around here. Okay, get going.’
‘Where to begin?’
‘The house.’
‘As handsome on the inside as it is plain without.’ He told her about lintels, cornices, columns, pilasters; stuffed fish in glass cases; the windowed kitchen, the tumbled garden.
‘Did you see the surgery?’
‘Seamus says they don’t venture belowstairs except at gunpoint. More than a little dereliction going on at Catharmore, but most of it out of view.’
‘What does she look like?’
‘A little like Rose Kennedy, and a lot like Liam. You’ll enjoy seeing her portrait as a young woman-it could pass for a Sargent but was done by an Irishman. She told me she’s dying, but Feeney said later she’s dying in the same way we’re all dying. He said he’s trying to get her in for blood work, he’s concerned for her liver, but so far there’s nothing seriously wrong that leaving off the drink wouldn’t cure.’
‘Was she the ogre?’
‘She was eviscerating, to say the least. I was alone with her for maybe twenty minutes, but it seemed an eternity.’
Rain streamed against the windows.
‘She eased up over drinks and lunch-maybe a bit sloshed, and quite the coquette. But as soon as the cards hit the table, she was a terror all over again.’
‘Who was your partner?’
‘Three guesses. I dealt the first hand, and if you could have seen mine, you’d have foundered yourself with laughter. Talk about dying.’
‘A bust.’
‘And then some. But her cards were good and I managed to provide a little help, after all. They couldn’t set us-we won.’
‘Hooray!’
‘An amazing piece of business with the dogs. They bounded into the drawing room sopping wet-she looked them in the eye, pointed to their beds, and away they slunk with nary a yap. I’d pay cash money for that trick.’
‘How is my good doctor?’
‘Feeney inquired about you at length, he’ll drop around tomorrow evening. He told some great stories about his country practice, but I must say Father O’Reilly was the life of the party. His Irish name is Tadhg O Raghailligh-call me Tad, he says. Told me that Tadhg translates to the anglicized Timothy.
‘He seemed to take pleasure in something Freud said, that the Irish were the only people who couldn’t be helped by psychoanalysis.’
‘Makes me prouder still of my drop from Connemara,’ she said.
‘He grew up in a two-room cottage with his parents, five brothers, three sisters, and a pony.’
‘A pony? In the house?’
‘Only in winter. Tad was the eldest, and right from the get-go, set apart by his mother for the priesthood. From infancy up, she introduced him as her son the priest. In seminary, said he slept in a room with only two other boys and felt lonely as Longfellow’s cloud-missed the body heat and the roughhousing. ’t was no comfort bein’ rich, he said. A charming fellow.
‘We went on a bit about Irish poetry-in the old days, he says Ireland’s standing army of poets never fell below ten thousand.’
She drew in her breath, marveling. He relished the role of Gazetteer.
‘Then we talked about the pull Ireland puts on its scattered people, the way it has of calling us back. Tad says no use to look for our ancestors in the cemeteries and church registers-we meet them in the DNA of the folks across the table, in the street, in the pew. I realized I was breaking bread with people whose ancestral blood was spilled with that of the Kavanaghs. It was affecting.’
‘And these lovely men keep coming to her bridge table, year after year?’
In a way that’s almost certainly conflicted, I think they care about her. Hard to imagine, but… in a nutshell, glad I went. How about you?’
‘Painted like a house afire.’
She took her sketchbook from the night table and opened it and held it up for him to see.
Pud.
He laughed outright.
Pud sitting in the wing chair near the fire, looking at the painter-solemn as a judge, as Peggy used to say.
‘You’re an amazing woman. This is extraordinary. We’ll have to frame it and hang it over the telly.’
‘Something’s going on with my work-it’s getting better, I think. It started with the portrait of Maureen-some huge step has been taken, I don’t understand how or why. You know I’ve always been comfortable painting animals but afraid of painting people. Today, I kept waiting for the fear to come back, but it didn’t. It’s thrilling. Look.’