A Turn for the Bad (6 page)

What would Gillian do? Not about the baby—she'd
already made it clear that she wanted the child. But Maura doubted that Gillian could make a living from her painting, even though she was talented. And she didn't want to rely on Harry, not that Maura could blame her, based on what she'd seen of Harry. A nice guy but not the steadiest in the world. Although he had been very good to his great-aunt Eveline . . . Maura drifted off to sleep.

Maura woke to the sound of rain on her roof. The bedroom was low ceilinged; the roof was slate, the interior lined with tongue-and-groove boards, with not much in between. She hadn't investigated too closely, but at least it didn't leak on her head. Still, rain falling on slate didn't sound like anything she knew. If she could hear it through the thick slates, it must be heavy.

She'd been surprised over the past few months by how little rain there had been in this part of Cork, compared to what she had expected. Of course pretty tourist pictures of Ireland showed sunshine on gently rolling fields, maybe with a handsome horse standing somewhere, or a few very clean and well-trimmed sheep. Other, more gloomy sources wanted her to believe it rained all the time in Ireland. Maybe they were just depressed. But Maura had to admit that something
was keeping all those fields and hedgerows green, and the reality lay somewhere in between, so it was bound to rain sometime.

This rain came with a fairly strong wind, and she realized with a pang that the weather would make searching for John Tully that much harder. If the searchers hadn't already given up. She had only a vague idea of what happened to a body in water. Television shows told her that the body sank, and then it started breaking down and creating internal gases, which made it rise to the surface again. Unless there was something holding it down—like that old myth about concrete overshoes—as Sean had said, in which case it might never show up. Of course, a body around here could be washed out to sea and never be seen again. Maura had no idea what was most likely.

John Tully, from what she'd heard, wasn't a man who liked or knew boats, unlike a lot of people along the Cork coast. He was a farmer and he knew cows. But his small son had talked about a boat. Why would John have gotten onto a boat, leaving his son behind? Or to look at it from the other side, why would anyone have forced John to get onto a boat, leaving his son alone on the beach? He was a dairy farmer with a wife and four kids and a herd of cows. He didn't sound like a good kidnapping target: no money. Did he have insurance? Maybe his wife had lured him onto the boat and done him in because she was tired of having kids and tending cows, and had made sure he'd bought plenty of life insurance. Or maybe someone else had done it for her. Why? The clerk at the hardware store was madly in love with her? Or she had somehow convinced the manager at the grocer's to do it, with promises of . . . what? Or maybe John had tired
of the wife and kids and cows and just walked into the sea and there was never any boat, no matter what the small child had said. Maybe he'd been thinking about the small boats in his bath. Maura had no other ideas.

Maura realized that her room was cold. She had to find an oil dealer who would deliver, sooner rather than later, before the temperature dipped below freezing. But she could hear Gillian moving around in the kitchen below, so she might as well get up; if Gillian could handle it, she should be able to. Of course Gillian was where the stove was, and the fireplace. As if to discourage Maura from crawling out of bed, a blast of wind hit the house. Luckily it was a stone house with two-foot-thick walls, so only the old and leaky wooden windows rattled and shook. Too bad she couldn't stay in bed, under a lot of blankets, and feel snug, but she had things to do, so she sized up where she had left her clothes, threw off the blankets, and pulled on the basics as quickly as she could. Then she headed downstairs, hoping that Gillian had gotten the stove turned on so there'd be some kind of heat there. Or at least a cup of hot coffee.

“Good morning,” Gillian greeted her with annoying cheerfulness as Maura stumbled down the stairs. “It's a bit of a damp day.”

“Damp? Ha!” Maura replied. She still wasn't used to sly Irish humor. “Is that coffee?”

“It is. Did I wake you?”

“No. I usually wake up early anyway. Did you sleep well?”

“As well as could be expected. That mattress had seen a lot of history—oh, not the racy kind, because Old Mick kept
pretty much to himself, if you're worried about that kind of thing. But it could do with an airing out. Or a decent burial.”

“Sorry,” Maura muttered. “I wasn't expecting company anytime soon.”
Or ever, actually
.

“No matter. It's a bed, and I made out fine.”

Maura took a long drink of coffee, which was both hot and strong. “Better. Hey, I thought pregnant women threw up a lot?”

“I did my share, but that's past now.” Gillian sat in the chair opposite Maura. “The weather's bad for searching, sad to say. The wind's the problem.”

“I was thinking the same thing. You have any ideas about what might have happened to Tully?”

“I do not. He was an ordinary man, not the kind to find himself in a mystery.”

“You think what his kid said has any fact in it? I mean, that there really was a boat?”

“Could be. Of course, I've never seen the child.”

“He's three, I've been told. What do you remember from when you were three?”

“Food, mostly. Well, my mother and father, but they were just big and warm and always there. They were good parents, I think now, looking back. In some ways I remember my brothers and sisters better, since we were a gang of sorts, along with the other children in our townland. You don't have any memories of your own parents?”

Maura shook her head. “Gran was the only family I ever knew. I guess I have some vague memories of my father, before he died—more than of my mother, whatever that means. Gran had only one child, my father, before her own husband died
and she left for Boston. Now that I think about it, she probably would have liked to have had more. She was always taking care of everybody, not just me. But she had to work, which ate up most of her time, and she never met another man she considered marrying.”

“I think she raised you well, Maura. Maybe you didn't have an easy life, but she gave you a good set of values. You work hard and you're fair to people. You don't expect the world to fix things for you, and you make your own way.”

Maura wondered if she was blushing. “Thank you. Sounds kind of like you too. I mean, you picked art as what you really want to do, but you work the rest of the time to support that. You don't expect anybody else to give you a handout. You don't make it sound fancier than it is. You're a good friend to Harry, whether or not he knows it, and it's not just because you want something from him. What's the problem with your parents?”

Gillian looked briefly startled by Maura's sudden shift, then smiled. “You're a sneaky one, you are, Maura Donovan. Soften me up by saying nice things about me and then, wham, hit me with your question. I'm a grown woman and I'm not going to go home and live with my ma and da and have them tell me I've wasted my life. Bad enough they think the whole art thing is a waste of time. Did I mention they're churchgoers? They've hung on to the old rules while the rest of the world has moved on, and they'll expect me to marry. I'd rather not have the same argument with them, over and over again. And they're getting on in years and wouldn't welcome a baby in the house, not now.”

“Okay, I get it,” Maura said. “I don't mean to be dense, but
I don't have a lot of experience with families and how they work. Look, you can tell me if I'm prying. I offered you a place to stay because I thought you needed it, and I have the room, but if it's uncomfortable for you to stay here, you won't hurt my feelings if you go somewhere else. I'm not going to lecture you about the horrors of unwed motherhood—I saw plenty of that back in Boston. The unwed part, not the horror. Most of the girls I knew did fine, with or without a guy on the scene. Some married the guy, others didn't. Your choice. But—”

Gillian held up a hand to stop her. “Don't spoil what was a nice speech, Maura. I know I've got things to sort out, but I've only just arrived. I appreciate your letting me stay, but it won't be for long, I promise you. So let's leave it there for now. When do you have to be at the pub?”

“Around ten, I guess, or a bit later. What are you thinking?”

“I'll tell you, now, I'm always hungry, and I bought only the simple things yesterday. I was thinking we might stop in at the fish shop in Union Hall and see what the boats brought in before this rain started. And it might be that the fishermen know or have heard something about John Tully. Then I can leave you at Sullivan's, or we can take the two cars, and I'll bring the fish back here and see to dinner.”

“Two cars is a good idea. I'll probably be late,” Maura said, both touched and irked by Gillian's effort to take care of her.

“Then I'll keep it warm, waiting for you.”

Maura gave up fighting Gillian's efforts. Maybe this was some kind of training for mothering behavior? “All right. Let me grab a quick shower and we can go.”

“There's a nice coffee shop in Union Hall. If you can spare the time to sit long enough to try their scones. I know the women who manage the place—they let me hang some of my paintings there.”

“Gillian, are you really trying to force me to have fun?” Maura asked, but with a smile. “I'm not sure I know how.”

“It'll come to you,” Gillian replied. “Go shower.”

*   *   *

“I
s this really a one-lane bridge?” Maura asked incredulously. They'd left Maura's car at the pub and now Gillian was driving them in her car across the bridge that spanned Glandore harbor, on the way to Union Hall.

“Save for the center part, where two cars may pass. That's seldom required.”

“I can't even begin to compare this to Boston.”

“Why would you want to try?” Gillian turned left at the end of the bridge, onto the road that led toward the small harbor town. “Do you miss it?”

Maura studied what she assumed were fishing boats clustered along the end of the harbor, and the swans floating slowly nearer to the road, not bothered by the wind. “I miss Gran. I guess I miss
knowing
a place—how to get from here to there, what neighborhoods to stay out of, that kind of thing.”

“I understand. There are far fewer choices to be made here. Now Dublin—that's a city. You should visit it someday.”

“Not Cork?”

“Dublin's more, well, interesting, I suppose. Diverse. Of course, there are quite a number of tourists there.”

“Of course. But I'm one.”

“Are you, now?” Gillian glanced at her briefly before
sliding into a parking space on the main—and only—street in Union Hall. “Breakfast first. The coffee shop's down at the end there. Then we'll come back for the fish. And don't tell me you don't like fish, because I'll pay you no mind.”

“I like fish!” Maura protested. “It's just that I don't know how to cook it.”

“And what do you know how to cook?” Gillian threw back at her.

“I can fry just about anything. And I can boil potatoes.”

Gillian sighed melodramatically. “It's a start. Then let me introduce you to the fish seller and his fish—after we've had our breakfast.”

They walked the half block to the coffee shop at the end of a row of shops, including a small grocery store. When Gillian walked in, she was greeted by a tall, slender woman a couple of years older than Maura. “Gillian! I thought you were off to Dublin fer the winter.”

“I was, but I've got to clear out my studio so my friend can sell it out from under me.”

“Too bad. We've sold a couple of your paintings, but I hadn't time to send you the checks. Remind me to give them to you before you go.”

“That's grand. Can you do us breakfast?”

“Of course. Take yer pick of the tables. Coffee?”

“Tea for me, please. Oh, I've forgotten my manners. Have you met Maura Donovan? She's running Sullivan's in Leap now.”

The woman behind the counter looked Maura over. “I'd heard there was a new owner, but I haven't stopped in fer . . . I don't know how long. Yeh haven't been in here before, have yeh, Maura?”

“No, I've been pretty much chained to the pub, learning how to run the place. Gillian had to drag me here by the hair.”

The woman laughed. “I hear what yer sayin'! Runnin' yer own shop keeps you busy, as I know too well. Sit, and I'll let you look at the menu.”

Maura and Gillian sat at a small table next to one of the big front windows. Maura could catch a glimpse of the harbor down the low hill, although the boats were farther along and out of sight. “Thank you,” she said.

“For what?” Gillian looked up from her menu with surprise.

“For making me come somewhere that isn't the pub or home. Or the bank or the grocery store. That's about all I've seen since I got here, but I didn't realize I'd gotten so—what, ingrown? Obsessed?”

“Ah, Maura, give yourself a break. It's all been new to you. But if you're settled on staying, then you should get out and meet more people, especially the shop owners and such like yourself.”