A Change of Heart (The Heartfelt Series) (7 page)

Cesare appeared carrying two steaming bowls of delicious seafood risotto. Franco took his hand out of sight.

Cesare clapped, “A fresh table cloth, now!”

“Okay,” Ryan swallowed, “okay I get it. I’m in, I’m still in.”

Franco’s expression did not change.

“Cesare, any of those tame
paps
of yours around today?”

“Always,” Cesare smiled, arranging cutlery on the fresh cloth.

“Let’s have our picture taken then.” Franco said wrapping a napkin around his wounded hand, “we’re back in business!”

“A compromise, what kind of compromise?” Marianne was speaking into the handset of the landline in the cottage. Ryan sounded every one of the thousands of miles away.

 “I’m going to do the next movie and then half of the following one. We’re going to work a takeover of the role into the storyline,”
e toH

he told her.

Marianne’s heart plummeted. She tried to keep the disappointment from her voice.

 “Sounds reasonable. Are you okay about it?” she asked.

 “Are you? I’m still prepared to tell Franco no deal, if that’s what you want,” he said. Ryan was a good actor, but Marianne could tell this was bravado.

 “Will the compromise tick all the boxes, take the pressure off, satisfy everyone?” she said, running through in her mind
all
the lives this decision affected. “It’s a big ask.”

 “I know, but Franco assures me we can make it work. If you’re happy, well as happy as you can be about it, I’ll agree.”

 She thought for a long moment.

He filled the silence.

 “I’ve asked for special conditions too,” Ryan continued. “For instance, any long stretches away on location, you and the little ones can come and spend some time; so we’re not apart for too long and collaboration, I’ve asked if there is anything you want to help with, maybe editing or styling, you can get involved with that too.”

 Although his obvious enthusiasm made Marianne smile, she fleetingly wondered at the wisdom of yet another of Ryan’s schemes, but could see what he was trying to do, make the best of things, she appreciated that.

 “I’m sure you’ve done your best. When will you be home?” she asked.

 “Fly out tomorrow, home the day after. I’ll stay at Joyce MacReady’s and take the first ferry back to the island in the morning.” He had a smile in his voice now.

 “How long till you start filming?” she was anxious.

 “Six whole months!” he whooped. “Happy days.”

 “Good,” she laughed. “Get back quickly; we don’t want to waste a minute.”

 “No,” he was laughing too. “Knowing you, we won’t.”

Chapter Eight
The Man From Atlantis

Although he had seen pictures, nothing prepared Innishmahon’s newest inhabitant for his first encounter with the savage glory that was the island’s landscape. Having grabbed a bite and bed the previous evening in Maguire’s, Dermot Finnegan was an early riser and, pulling on jogging bottoms and a sweatshirt, headed out as dawn seeped pearlescent streaks into the dark-grey sky.

 He turned right out of the pub’s front portal and jogged towards a glittering shard of cliff, blanking off the view of the sea beyond. He ran steadily, following the tract left by holidaymakers as the lane turned to sand and the trail continued right up to the monolith of stone before him. He followed, and just when he thought he reached a dead end, he saw it, a sliver of an opening, so skilfully designed by nature, it was easy to miss, like an optical illusion, he had to concentrate to see it.

Intrigued, he slipped through the crevice into a pitch black cave and holding onto the walls for balance, shivered as his feet sank into cool sand. Standing to catch his breath, he could see light, a slash of grey against the blackness and taking a step forward, pulled himself through the gap. His foot slipped and, terrified he would fall to his death, he threw himself back against the cliff-face, clinging to the rock for dear life. Counting to three, he looked down to find he was perched on a tiny ledge, he saw the ledge stepped down to another track. He was on the side of a cliff alright, but one with a natural stone staircase which trailed and wound through the rock leading to a beach; a perfect horseshoe of golden sand. Magnificent cliffs scaled the skyline on either side of the bay, providing the perfect frame as the rolling Atlantic buffeted the brittle hinterland, before waves, destined for the beach, swished towards the shoreline.

Taking it all in, Dermot allowed himself a soft “Wow!” He was not expecting this. This was perfect, this was heaven. Here was the Ireland of the imagination; the isle of saints and scholars; poets and pirates. Dermot grinned to himself, stepping from the cliff-face onto the pathway, moving stealthily downwards, the stones slippery with dew.

He reached the firm sand of the beach and started to run along the water’s edge, the wind slicing his eyes, making them water. At the far side of the bay he stripped quickly, throwing his pants and top behind a rock. Then with a
Tarzan-like
roar, he charged towards the surf, arms outstretched. Running through the shallows, he tried not to scream against the cold as the ground fell away and he went under. He surfaced, gasping and paddling to compose himself, then taking a deep breath started to power-swim around the bay.

Monty spotted him first, and raced down the rocks towards him, cantering into the sea with just a brief backwards glance at his mistress. The little white dog swam boldly out to the man, who waved a greeting as he joined him, turning smoothly in the water to swim another length of the bay together.

Marianne stood anxiously watching this display of bravado, when Dermot scooped Monty onto his back and, taking a lift on a wave, they landed safe and sound a few feet from where she was standing.

“Very impressive,” she laughed, as Monty shook himself and galloped off barking.

“That little fella’s amazing,” said Dermot. “He has the heart of a lion.”

“He has,” Marianne nodded after the dog, “and brighter than most people I know.” She looked at Dermot. “Sometimes, if I take the time to trust his intuitiveness I get very good advice indeed.”

Monty bounded back. He wagged up at Dermot. “You’ve made a friend, anyway,” she said.

“I’m honoured, so,” Dermot shivered, as he bent to rub Monty’s ears.

“You’ll catch your death,” Marianne said. “Let’s find your clothes.” She strode off to where the big man’s discarded garments lay in a pile by the rocks. Dermot raced after her. She lifted his pants to hand them to him, when something fell from a pocket with a loud clank against a rock.

“Oh sorry!” she said, bending to retrieve the phone, “I hope I’ve not...”

 Without checking the phone Dermot snatched it back and shoved it in his pants pocket.

 “No, no, it’ll be fine,” he assured her.

 “Hardly worth bothering with, though,” she said. “The island’s notoriously bad for telecommunications, no signal unless you’re miles out to sea or on top of a cliff.” They both glanced upwards. Dermot caught sight of a flash light, high above. He looked again, nothing there.

 “That’s one of my jobs. The lifeboat station will need first-rate communications. We’re already talking to the telephone mast people.” He pulled his sweatshirt down and Marianne could not help but notice Dermot was one of those men who looked good in almost anything. And considering the first time she saw him was in uniform, she marvelled not one female in Dublin city, where indeed ‘the girls are so pretty’, had managed to bag this gorgeous, specimen of manhood.

 “Marianne?” Dermot broke her reverie.

She looked away. “I know it’s progress, and I’m usually all for it, but the beauty of this place is that you can’t be reached by the outside world the whole time. You can be selective.” They were strolling along the water’s edge now, “Have as much or as little of the twenty-first century as you want.”

 “I get that,” Dermot stood for a moment taking in the sweep of the bay. “There’s a timelessness about the place alright. I can see how you and Ryan fell for it.”

 “And each other,” she smiled, eyes twinkling, “though the island certainly put us through our paces when we first arrived.”

 “Yes, the storm. Ryan told me about that, devastating wasn’t it?” he said.

 “It could have been, but it was like the island wanted us to prove we were worthy of it, like it wanted us to commit to its future.” She stopped to admire the view.

 “And in doing that, you had to commit to each other?” Dermot asked, skimming a stone into the sea. Monty followed, but only up to the edge, the water was freezing.

 “That’s right.” Marianne slid Dermot a look. There seemed to be a sensitive soul lurking beneath this handsome, hulk of male. Superman or no, Dermot’s teeth started to chatter.

 “You could do with a nice cup of coffee,” Marianne said.

 “A tot of whiskey in it wouldn’t go amiss,” he said cheekily.

 “You’re a man after my own heart!” Marianne replied.

 “I do believe I am,” said Dermot grinning, breaking into a run alongside Monty, as they made their way back.

Marianne needed some thinking time before Ryan arrived back on the ferry that morning. If he was returning to his role as the world’s most famous super-spy, arrangements needed to be made, and having six whole months together before filming began would give them plenty of time to make plans.

Not only were they going to have their hands full caring for the little ones, Oonagh’s Project was forging ahead and things needed to be kept on track to meet the deadline. In fact there was so much on the island striving towards a deadline: the rebuilding of the bridge to the mainland; the new state-of-the-art marina and now the lifeboat station. If she were not careful, the next six months would whizz by in a blur. No sooner would she be welcoming Ryan back from his trip to New York, than she would be waving him goodbye, putting on a brave face and living with that awful, hollow dread she kept buried deep inside whenever they were apart.

She pushed the thought away. Slipping through the ravine leading down to the cove that morning, she had not bargained for Dermot Finnegan doing his
Man from Atlantis
impersonation. She and Monty were used to having the place to themselves, yet who was she to stand in the way of progress, when many of those arriving to make improvements on the island were so ‘easy on the eye’ as Miss MacReady often said. Marianne smiled to herself, trotting to keep up with Dermot and Monty.

Padar was making his usual hash of things in the breakfast department. Marianne had dropped the youngsters off at the pub ahead of her walk. She steered Dermot towards the coffee pot and exchanging Joey’s glass for a plastic beaker, she removed porridge from the microwave and a spoon from Bridget’s hair. She was just grabbing her keys when Larry Leeson appeared in the doorway. Marianne had forgotten about Larry. The New Yorker was preened and polished to within an inch of his life, and although he was brandishing a handkerchief, his normal pallor had receded and there was a faint blush of health about his cheeks.

 “Morning all,” he said, heading straight for the worktop where a pack of baby wipes lurked among the clutter. He proceeded to wipe Bridget’s hands.

 “Heading to the ferry?” he asked, binning the wipes, checking Joey’s highchair was secure.

 “Just off,” Marianne replied, as Padar passed in search of whiskey for Dermot’s coffee.

 “Mind if I tag along?” Larry asked, “I need to hear this from the horse’s mouth.” Marianne hesitated. “I know he’s
your
man, but he’s my client. Please Marianne?”

 She shrugged. “Okay, let’s go.”

 Padar reappeared flustered, “We’re out of whiskey.”

 “The one we use for cooking is in the pantry. Isn’t there an order coming on the ferry today?” she said.

 “Yes, you’re right, well remembered.” Padar disappeared. Marianne gave the room a sweeping glance, and, with the children busily breakfasting, pushed Larry ahead and left.

 “Has Padar always been like that?” Larry asked as she rattled the 4x4 out of the car park .

 “Like what?” she was defensive.

 “Flustered, a bit disorganised,” he offered.

 “He misses Oonagh, they were a good team. We all do, she was amazing.” The air suddenly filled with sadness. Larry reached over and touched her hand on the wheel.

 “I’m so sorry for your loss,” he said.

 “So am I,” she replied. “Every day.”

She drove in silence for a while and then, brightening, “At least I have Ryan coming home. I can’t wait to see him and hear all his news.”

 Larry leaned back, gripping the door for support as the car bounced along.

 “You and me both, Marianne, you and me both,” he grimaced.

Ryan had an uneventful return trip, flying from Kennedy to Shannon, making the connection to Knock with only one other passenger, who was too preoccupied with his electronic tablet to pay Ryan any attention. There was a time when that would have bothered Ryan. He enjoyed being recognised as a moderately successful actor, hoping for his big break. Now he was an international superstar, anonymity was a luxury, with no need to court the limelight. If a stranger failed to greet him like a long-lost friend, he quite liked it.

 After landing, he jumped in a taxi and went straight to Joyce MacReady’s guesthouse. He liked the MacReady’s - a large, local family with personalities ranging from mildly eccentric to barking mad and was disappointed to find one of the menfolk, Pat, not on the usual taxi run. A ride with Pat was always exciting, his madcap driving almost as legendary as the Holy Shrine.

 Joyce was non-committal regarding her brother’s whereabouts, as she served Ryan a supper of melt-in-the-mouth boiled bacon and cabbage. In fact, Joyce was quiet throughout the meal, retiring early to leave Ryan alone. He phoned Marianne but the call went straight to voice mail. Disappointed, he guessed she was sleeping: two children, a pub shift and a major project on the go would surely tire anyone, even the super-energetic, workaholic woman he was madly in love with. With no-one to talk to, Ryan too decided on an early night.

 “See you tomorrow, my love,” he whispered into the phone, before falling into a deep and untroubled sleep, cosseted in Joyce’s homely comforts. Which was just as well, because if he knew what was waiting to greet him the following morning, trouble would have been first and foremost on his mind.