A Change of Heart (The Heartfelt Series) (6 page)

Chapter Six
A New Career In A New Town

Dermot Finnegan was classically good-looking: tall, broad-shouldered with slim hips, a mop of sandy blond hair and greenish eyes. He laughed easily, with a robustness about him that left whoever he was talking to with a feeling of confident heartiness. Dermot was a man to be trusted, leaned upon. Dermot got things done and, it had to be said, Dermot had an awful lot of things to do.

 He pulled the door of his neo-Georgian south Dublin apartment shut and threw his holdall into the boot of the 4x4. Punching a code into the sat nav, he put his phone on speaker and swung out of the cul-de-sac heading for the motorway going west. He had a good three and a half hour drive ahead of him and as dawn was breaking behind him, he would have a pretty clear run out of the city and on towards Mullingar.

 Trying to suppress the bubbling excitement in his stomach, he flicked on the radio to catch the early morning news. He wondered if a large haul of cocaine, recently discovered in a disused warehouse near the airport had made the news yet. It was his dogged thoroughness that uncovered the packets of white powder, hidden in the miniature suitcases of a consignment of dolls dressed as air stewardesses; a clever ploy but Dermot had it sussed. He was keen to know if his boss had managed to keep the story under wraps, holding it in reserve for when the Gardaí needed a PR boost or a minister wanted to give the recession-battered populace of Ireland a little respite.

 The clipped vowels of the newsreader rang out. The lead story was a visiting South Asian diplomat promising a new technology factory, followed by a motorway pile-up in the north and the
Lotto
rollover. He smiled to himself, Chief Superintendent McBride was still keeping a lid on it then, buying a bit more time for Dermot to pick up the thread on the far side of the country and see what he could uncover. It was his job to unearth the ringleader, the gangland bigwig co-ordinating shipments in through a number of ports.

Dermot had been integral in the Dublin sting; first in line when they burst upon the gang, bold as brass, loading the consignment into a fleet of illegal taxis, the perfect decoy to speed unchallenged through the city streets and out across the Dublin county border. He was damn good at his job, but he wanted a change, a bit more out of life. He sped along the motorway, making good time; it was still too early for rush-hour traffic to impede his escape.

Dermot’s father had been a policeman, but Dermot had railed against the concept of a job for life and ‘ran away to join the circus’ as his father put it. He became an actor, much to his father’s dismay and his mother’s quiet pride, but when he returned, out of work and broke, still young enough to join the force, he decided to make a career of it after all, winning his father’s approval at last when he was named the force’s top marksman. But Dermot wanted to work undercover, using his acting skills to pull off a big job, and now this was his chance. An opportunity to make his mark, go out in a blaze of glory, before finally hanging up his badge.

 Musing as he drove, Dermot was looking forward to this new assignment. One of the drug runners had cracked under interrogation, letting slip the next consignment was coming in via an island off the west coast, where a large construction project meant workers coming and going could disguise any extraneous activity. Dermot hit on Innishmahon. It had to be.

 Tenacious as ever, Dermot discovered the island had been granted a lifeboat station, and a lifeboat station needed a coxswain, a captain to take the helm and run the show. As a fully qualified yacht master, first aider and serving officer of the Gardaí, Dermot was the perfect candidate.

In no time, Dermot was digging out his sea-boots, defrosting the fridge and kissing a handful of admirers goodbye. Innishmahon beckoned, a friendship needed rekindling, a lifeboat needed launching and a drugs ring needed busting. He switched off the radio and put his foot to the floor. He could almost see himself, scorching a trail across the map of Ireland
Indiana Jones
style.

Marianne drove Ryan to Knock Airport with the two youngsters in car seats behind them and Monty sitting happily on guard in-between. They giggled and gurgled for a while and then dropped off to sleep. Monty curling up into a ball as soon as he was satisfied his wards were slumbering. Marianne remembered Oonagh telling her a run in the car around the village was a sure way to get Bridget off when she was fractious. Marianne was impressed the ploy worked with Joey too.

 She told Ryan he should take the trip to New York alone. It was business after all. But he was to be under no illusion, as soon as the agenda was settled, future trips would include all four of them, five if Monty could be accommodated, she wanted him clear about that. Initially he had been stubborn, refusing to even discuss going to New York, arguing with Larry that what was done, was done and let the lawyers to deal with the fallout. But when Marianne, fully appraised of the situation by Larry, backed up by a lengthy telephone call with Lena, told him he should go and get things straight with the studio, Ryan finally conceded and arranged to meet Franco Rossini in Central Park, two days later.

 “They’re fast asleep,” Ryan said, watching her profile as she drove, turned-up nose, the sprinkle of summer freckles fading, her expression impertinent, even when she was concentrating.

 “Good, I’m sure Kathleen wouldn’t have minded babysitting but when she told me she was having dinner with Larry, I didn’t want to impose,” she said.

 “I know,” Ryan laughed. They were surprised when Larry said he was staying on for a while and would not be joining Ryan on the flight back to Shannon and on to JFK. “What’s that all about, surely not a romantic encounter? I mean I love Kathleen but she’s years older than Larry, I’d have thought...”

 “About the same age difference as us. Are you suggesting he’s a toyboy? Why wouldn’t he be attracted to a charming, intelligent older woman? She’s quite a catch, with all those post office savings accounts at her fingertips.” Marianne alluded to the fact Larry was ‘careful’ with money, one of the reasons Ryan said he never married: too scared a wife would make inroads into his bank account.

 “Well, if you put it like that,” Ryan smiled, “but has she no love interest of her own. I mean she’s still a sexy woman, and definitely sends out all the signals.”

 Marianne slapped his thigh.

 “Ryan, that’s my mother you’re talking about.”

 “Well, only just your mother,” Ryan replied. He was still getting used to the idea. A strange story of coincidence alright, but one that explained why Marianne felt instantly at home on Innishmahon.

Ryan too, had always felt a strong connection to the island. Brought up by his maternal grandmother nearby, he spent holidays fishing with her brothers, until he won the scholarship to the School of Performing Arts and, after that, hungry for success, joined a rock band, returning two years later to find his grandmother dead and the brothers estranged.

Looking back at the babies and the little bundle of white fur, he squeezed Marianne’s knee.

“It’ll be alright,” she said, sensing his mood of foreboding, Ryan was not looking forward to the trip.

“You’re right, I need to eyeball Franco and talk it through with him, face-to-face. Larry’s a drama queen, we know that, but Lena’s level-headed and she seemed, not stressed exactly, but more, well fearful,” Ryan told her.

They picked up the signs for the airport; only a few miles to go and they would be parted again. A sense of sadness hung between them.

“There’s a lot at stake. See what he has to say, take it all on board. We can discuss it, chew it over, make the best decision we can, what more can we do?” she said as they turned into the car park.

Sensing they had reached their destination, Monty awoke and placed his paws on the console between the driver and passenger seats. Ryan took him in his arms and cradled him against his jacket, nuzzling the dog’s wet snout.

“You take care of the family while I’m away little man,” he told him. The sharp dark eyes stared back into Ryan’s. Monty knew what his job entailed; he wanted Ryan assured of that.

Realising Monty, their comfort blanket had moved, the two toddlers started to stir.

“Shall you just drop me off? No need to disturb Joey and Bridget, do you think?” he asked her.

“Airports and goodbyes are likely to be a big part of their lives, the sooner they accept that the better,” she said, matter-of-factly.

“But we don’t want them upset,” Ryan offered.

“That’s why they have to get used to it. Then they’ll know when and what to get upset about,” she smiled, trying to ease his concern, “they’ll soon love airports as much as I do. They mean someone is going on an adventure or someone’s coming home. Who doesn’t love an airport?”

He laughed and leaned across to kiss her.

“You’re so
Love Actually
sometimes,” he said, referring to her favourite film.

“All the time,” she grinned.

They arranged the children in their new double buggy, clipping Monty’s lead onto the frame, as Ryan slung his bag over his shoulder, taking charge of the steering. Bridget was wide awake and gurgling at Joey, explaining the sights and sounds all around them. Joey sat, white-faced, looking from one adult to the other. Marianne, sensing his anxiety, took him up in her arms and Monty promptly jumped into the spot beside Bridget, who carried on her conversation regardless. Ryan and Marianne laughed. Ryan covered Monty up with a rug as they trundled through the entrance, ignoring the
No Dogs Except Guide Dogs
sign.

“You’re nearly boarding,” Marianne said, pointing at the screen. The next flight to Shannon boarded in five minutes, ahead of an arrival from Dublin.

“I won’t be gone long,” he assured her.

“You need as long as it takes,” she replied, unnecessarily fixing the collar of his jacket with her spare hand. He touched the necklace at her throat, the exquisite weathervane, studded with diamonds he had commissioned for her, to remind her that wherever he was in the world, she was his world and he would be coming back to her.

“Love you,” he said, slate-blue eyes glinting. The doors slid open. A tall, fair-haired man led a small conga of passengers out into the main hall.

“Well, look at that! Ryan O’Gorman and Marianne, all the gang come to meet me. Hello, hello.” Arms flung wide, Ryan and Marianne looked up into the beaming face of Dermot Finnegan.

“Sure I was all loaded up and heading across country when the car gave up the ghost. I’ve fair battered it over the past few months to be honest, so when the recovery man towed it away, I grabbed what I could carry and headed to the nearest airfield. One of my buddies on the force keeps a couple of light aircraft. A quick phone call, slight diversion and here I am,” Dermot laid his cup back in the saucer. The crockery looked like a toy tea-set beside his huge hands. Marianne sipped her coffee.

 “A happy coincidence then,” she smiled back at one of Ryan’s oldest friends. “How long have you known about the lifeboat station?”

 “Not long. If I’m honest I kind of manipulated the appointment. I fancied a change of scene and you guys seemed so taken with the island and your life there, I thought, what harm, could be a fresh start?” he said.

 “I thought you were happy in Dublin, in the guards,” she said.

 “I am, was. But I’ve been in the job a long time. Very stressful, and you and Ryan seemed so, well together. I thought, do you know what Dermot, maybe it’s not too late for you after all, maybe there’s a
happy ever after
for me too,” he gave her a half-grin.

 Marianne touched the large, calloused fingers.

 “No-one special in your life?” she asked, gently.

 “There was,” Dermot tapped the table, “complicated, wasn’t to be, you know how it is.” He looked away, nodding at the babies dozing in the buggy beside them. “Little pets, God bless them,” he whispered, “Will Ryan be gone long?” he asked, looking towards the doors they had watched Ryan pass through, waving a hurried goodbye, bemused by his friend’s appearance but seemingly happy to leave all he loved standing at his side.

 “Take care of my gang till I get back then.” Ryan’s parting shot as he kissed them all farewell, including Dermot. He was an actor, after all.

 “As long as it takes,” Marianne replied.

 “Trouble?” Dermot asked. Marianne was not sure how much Dermot knew about Ryan’s situation, or how much Ryan would want him to know.

 “Just business,” she answered brightly, gathering the wherewithal to get the show on the road. “Would you like a lift? I need to catch the next ferry. I know they would come for us if we were stranded, but I don’t want to use all our favours up too quickly.”

 “Right with you,” said Dermot, tucking Monty under his arm as they left the airport’s small cafe and headed out to the windswept car park.

Marianne strapped the youngsters into their seats. Dermot checked his phone.

 
Clocked and following.
The text read. The weather was coming in as they drove carefully away.

Chapter Seven
The Big Apple

Franco Rossini loved New York City. His visits were rare these days, obliged to spend too much time in Los Angeles. He waved the two men away, crossing the little bridge to his favourite bench. It looked down into a small arbour of trees and bushes, beautiful at any time of year but never more stunning than now, as the burnt copper and ruby reds of autumn swayed softly in the breeze, clinging hopefully to each branch before a final, fluttering farewell gave way to the inevitable arrival of winter.

 He sat down wearily on the bench, splaying his arms along the back of the seat. He crossed his legs at the ankles, briefly admiring the fine Italian shoes and English silk socks. He let his head fall back, eyes open, relishing the cocoon of towering New York buildings peering over the edge of the park, framing the precious oasis, the whole scene domed in a cobalt, cloudless sky. Franco sighed. The hum of downtown Manhattan just yards away, a world away. This was the stillest and happiest he had been for some time. A good place to be, at the heart of his home.

 As if he just remembered something, he felt inside his jacket and took out a delicate, pearlescent box. He flipped it open, popped a small pill under his tongue, closed the box and slipped it back in his pocket. He heard footsteps. The man he was waiting to meet was striding purposefully towards him. Dark aviator glasses, battered leather jacket with the collar turned up, faded jeans, worn deck shoes. Franco sighed. He did wish one of his most high-profile stars would make more of an effort in the style department.
Jeez, he looked like an out-of-work bit player.

The man gave him a broad grin. Devastatingly handsome though. Franco smiled back, even a full-blooded heterosexual male like him could see, he was still a damn good-looking son of bitch!

 “Ryan O’Gorman, as I live and breathe.” The men embraced and Franco kissed him on each cheek. “You look like shit,” he said, slapping Ryan on the back, beckoning him to sit. Ryan thought Franco did not look too good either, but declined to comment.

 “Great to see you Franco, it’s been too long,” Ryan said, and then the smile disappeared. Slate-blue eyes looked directly into Franco’s warm brown gaze, “give it to me straight Franco, how much trouble am I in?”

 Franco resumed his splayed arm, crossed-leg position on the bench. He threw his head back and looked at the sky.

 “To be honest, O’Gorman,” he said, “It is I who is in the trouble my friend, big trouble.”

 Ryan frowned, sat back on the bench next to his boss, and waited.

 For a while Franco said nothing, just continued to gaze at the sky. Ryan knew him well enough, particularly under the circumstances, to wait for his boss to speak first. After a long silence, Franco fished around in his pocket and took out a pack of cigarettes. He gave Ryan one, put another between his own lips and lit them both with a slim, gold lighter. He took a long drag and blew the smoke out through his nostrils. Ryan did the same.

 “They told me to give up,” Franco said, rolling the cigarette lovingly between finger and thumb, “I never did do what I was told.” He gave Ryan a wry smile.

 “Me neither,” Ryan smiled back.

 Franco looked at the cigarette lighter as it lay glinting in the palm of his hand. He flipped it over and read the inscription out loud.

 “‘
Mira sempre alla luna, se la manchi, sarai sempre tra le stele.
’ My father’s saying: ‘
Always aim for the moon, if you miss it, you’ll land on the stars.’
I gave him this when I made my first movie. He treasured it, till the day he died. A lot of people think it refers to ambition, and maybe it does, but ambition takes many forms. Perhaps the greatest ambition is love; the love of a good woman, the chance to be together, share love and grow love, so you have something to hold onto all the days of your life. That’s one hell of a moon to aim for.”

 Ryan nodded. This was the Franco he liked best. The Franco who would seek him out when things were not going well on set; the Franco who would pull up a chair, sit beside him, smooth the troubled waters; the philosopher, the wise old sage, telling of what he has learned of life, what is in his heart.

 “Have you landed on your moon, O’Gorman?” Franco asked, looking him straight in the eye.           

 “I think so,” Ryan said.

 “Then you must grab it with both hands and hang on. Does she feel the same way?”

 “I think so,” Ryan repeated. “In fact, I know so. When we’re together, it just feels right, know what I mean?”

 Franco nodded, puffing gently on the cigarette between his lips.

 “She stops the churning inside, yes?”

 Ryan blinked at him. How did he know about the churning, the incessant whir of butterflies he felt whenever he was alone, without Marianne. He nodded.

 “My Sophia, she did that too. Fought like an alley cat with me all our married life, but she stopped the whirring inside, she made everything alright, even when it wasn’t. A good woman, my moon and stars.”

 They fell silent again, companionably smoking their cigarettes.

 “Angelique wasn’t right.” Ryan thought he would seize the opportunity, put the record straight.

Franco raised his hands.

 “Hey, I knew that. Thought you were crazy getting mixed up with her. I will take care of her, of course. She’s family, but she’s real bad news. Sad, but true.”

 “I’m glad you see it that way. I never meant...” Ryan stopped.

 Franco gave Ryan’s knee a fatherly pat.

 “I know, never meant to hurt anyone, never meant her to get pregnant, have a child, I know. He’s with you, the boy, yes?” Franco turned to look intently at Ryan.

 “Yes, with Marianne and our godchild, in Ireland. He’s fine.”

 Franco nodded.

 “Good, that’s good. I like Ireland, nice country, good people. Marianne, she has family there too, her mother close by?”

 Ryan was not sure how much Franco knew, probably everything knowing him.

 “Yes, some good friends too, we’ve all been through a lot together.”

 Franco smiled.

 “Okay, now I understand and I am happy for you.” The movie mogul went back to gazing at the sky. Hoping he was being dismissed, Ryan stood to go.

 “Thanks, Franco. I can’t tell you how relieved I am, I’ve been worried sick, we all have. Thanks a million, Franco, I really appreciate it.” Ryan put out his hand, Franco ignored it.

 “Now you know I understand you, it’s time for you to understand me. We’ll go eat and I will explain in words of one syllable why you cannot back out of this contract, why you have to make these movies,” Franco stood up. Two men appeared out of nowhere, standing a discreet distance away. Ryan checked them out.

 “Does my life depend on it?” he asked, not entirely joking.

 “No, mine does,” replied Franco. “Now what shall we eat, Italian or Italian?”

 Ryan loved the way Franco always gave a guy a choice.

They walked the short distance to Mulberry Street and went through the discreet side entrance Cesare Martinez reserved for his A-list patrons. The Italian restaurant was a favourite New York stop-off for royalty, movie stars and politicians, each afforded the opportunity to dine discreetly in a private booth or join the hoi polloi in the main restaurant if a higher profile was required. Cesare always had a couple of tame paparazzi on standby, should any of his clientele require a little publicity boost.

 He heard his old friend Franco Rossini was in town, so had come on duty early, knowing his fellow countryman could not visit New York without sampling some of the best Italian food in the world. He stood at the entrance waiting to greet him. They hugged and kissed, patting each other on the back. Cesare raised an eyebrow at Ryan. He heard the star had quit, ‘was standing down for personal reasons’ the reporter on the celebrity news channel said.
Bullshit,
Cesare thought at the time. Franco extended an arm to Ryan, indicating he was to be welcomed also. Cesare was relieved. He hugged the younger man, crushing him against his solid, little body. He had known Ryan for years, having just opened the restaurant when the young actor hoping to land a part on Broadway, came looking for work, waiting tables between auditions. They went way back.

 Recognition rippled through the early lunchtime diners, acknowledging the appearance of one of the world’s hottest movie stars and his famous boss. Women turned to gaze at Ryan and smile at Franco, the men checked them out.

 “A booth please, my friend,” Franco said. “We need privacy today.”

Cesare took them to a quiet corner.

 “How hungry are you guys?” he asked. He never gave his friends a menu; he knew what they liked to eat. Cesare preferred to create something on the spot, hand-picking the freshest ingredients to produce something seasonal, a mouth-watering delicacy, with the unmistakable twist that made his, one of the most popular eateries in town. He left the men to their discussion, Franco sipping mineral water, Ryan a cold beer.

 “This place, eh?” Franco gave a wave, encompassing the restaurant.

Ryan nodded. “I love it, never changes,” he said.

 “Ah, you may think not, but it does change, subtly,
minimale,
to stay in business, keep ahead of the times, change what needs to be changed, keep the things that make it the best, eh?” Franco popped an olive into his mouth. Ryan noticed the two men who followed them take a table at the edge of the other diners, facing the door. He looked from them to Franco. Franco shrugged.

 “Things change, times have been tough, we’ve lost some major sponsors, I had to refinance the franchise.” Franco took another olive from the dish. “The last movie and the next two have been carefully planned to pay for the restructure. That’s the deal. It costs in excess of one hundred million dollars to make just one
Thomas Bentley
movie, schedule three and certain aspects come out cheaper, more cost effective as they say these days, but it’s an expensive game, you know that.”

 Ryan’s beer remained untouched. Franco continued.

 “The restructure is also expensive. Let’s just say because a few of my other ventures lost money, the conventional route to finance was not an option.”

 “Meaning the bank wasn’t interested?” Ryan asked. He guessed Franco was referring to a couple of experimental projects that had been critically acclaimed, yet flopped at the movie theatres.

 “Precisely,” Franco said, “I had to go elsewhere for the money, I got what I needed, but the interest rate, well let’s just say it’s pretty high.”

 “Can be extortionate,” Ryan agreed.

 Franco flashed him a look. “A word I’d prefer you didn’t use. The truth is, the movie,
your
movie has broken all records, a huge hit. But one swallow doesn’t make a summer. We need all three in the can, and out there earning so we can pay our new backers back, shake hands and walk away, everyone happy.” Franco glanced over at the two men, he looked far from happy. “We can’t change the leading man at this stage. You being in the next two movies more or less guarantees their success. You can’t back out Ryan, even if I let you, they won’t.”

 Ryan watched Franco stab another olive with a cocktail stick, his brow creased in a frown. He was probably fifteen years his senior and today looked every minute of it.

 “What about the company assets, you can sell them surely, the cars, the jewellery, the paintings, there’s property too isn’t there?” Ryan asked in a quiet voice.

 “What I
could
sell, I did, but you can’t secure a loan without collateral, you know that. The backers need something to guarantee their investment. I’ve held on to just enough to do that, but things are tight, real tight. Once the box office returns are in, we can start to pay something back, but we need capital to fund the next one and we need to make the movie as soon as we can. Fans are fickle, there’s always someone sniping at our heels, trying to steal our crown. We gotta get on with it Ryan, and we can’t do it without you.”

 Ryan pulled his chair up close and leaned across the table.

 “Franco, I quit. I get all the reasons why it’s not a good idea, and I’m sorry if this is causing a big problem, but I’m still out. I want my life back.”

 Franco sighed, taking the cocktail stick from between his lips. He laid his hand flat on the table and pushed the stick hard into the skin. He kept his eyes fixed on Ryan. Blood started to ooze where the wood had pierced the flesh.

“What the...?” Ryan tried to pull the stick out, but Franco would not release the pressure, he continued to press the stick into the back of his own hand.

“You’re making me bleed, Ryan. I need you to understand, if you have your life back I will lose mine. Everything I’ve worked for, everything I represent will be gone. I will die a broken man, I will take the shame of failure to my grave, the memory of my family, my beloved Sophia, blackened forever. If I can’t pay my backers they’ll wipe me out. They’re ruthless. I knew that when I accepted the deal and the only way you won’t appear in the next movie, is if you can’t.”

“What do you mean?” Ryan was still staring at the back of Franco’s hand.

“You can’t make the movie because you’ll no longer be around, you’ll have been wiped out too.” Franco looked unblinking into Ryan’s eyes. The blood from his hand was staining the tablecloth, the red turning pink on the white linen.