Hot Property (Irish romantic comedy) (3 page)

Tears welling up, a hard knot in her chest, Megan half ran up the street to the tram station.
Pregnant, she’s pregnant. Having his baby. Just like that. We discussed it for years, and every time he said he wouldn’t, couldn’t agree to start a family just yet. He wasn’t ready. Wanted to think about it. Get his career to take off. Save some more money. Buy a bigger house. Wait for the economy to improve. Then she gets knocked up “by accident” and it’s okay with him. And here I am, thirty-eight, divorced, childless and unemployed.

She caught sight of her own reflection in a shop window and shuddered. Hopeless hair, tired face and bad posture, a shadow of the confident woman of not so long ago.

“Stand up straight,” she heard a voice say behind her. “Blow your nose, and stop feeling sorry for yourself.”

Startled, she looked around and discovered a woman with a girl in her early teens. Mother and daughter. The girl surly, the mother exasperated. Nothing to do with her. Certain it was a sign all the same, Megan pulled herself up both mentally and physically and continued up the street, telling herself she and nobody else was responsible for her life.

Chapter 3

Megan was packing the last few things when the phone rang. She picked up her mobile. “Hello?”

“Guess what?”

“Who’s this?” She only faintly recognised the male voice and felt irritated at this interruption. She was moving out of her flat a few days later to live with her mother in the outer suburbs, a prospect she didn’t relish. She had tried to get a new job but, despite being called to several interviews, received no offers. Her back up against a financial wall, she finally agreed to her mother’s pleas of moving back home ‘temporarily’ and staying in her old room with Barbie wallpaper and the bed with a pink candlewick bedspread. The dream of the house in Kerry slowly faded with every passing week of no news. She resigned herself to the fact that she would either have to wait a year or more before she got possession, or not get it at all.

“Stop playing games and tell me who you are,” she snapped. “I’m very busy.”

“Okay, calm down,” he laughed. “Sorry, I should have told you who I am first. It’s just that I was so excited that…”

Megan now recognised the slight Kerry accent. Her heart skipped a beat. “Dan? Dan Nolan? Is that you? And you have some news? About the house?” Her knees shaking, she sank down on a chair. “Tell me, then.”

He laughed again. “Okay. Are you sitting down? The probate’s gone through. The house is yours.”

Stunned, Megan sat there for a full minute before she could speak. “The house? It’s mine? Really? Are you sure?”

“Of course I’m sure. I have the letter right here on my desk.”

“That was quick.”

“Yup, very quick. Two months. Must be some kind of record. So what are you going to do? Keep it? Sell it? Sell the land and keep the house?”

“I don’t know,” Megan said, her mind whirling. “I really don’t. It’s so sudden. I can’t really take it in.”

“Well, why don’t you come down for the weekend and have a look at it again? Just so you know what kind of state it’s in. The weather’s good now, so you could do a little tour of the area. I can give you the name of a B and B nearby that’s quite cheap.”

“Okay,” Megan mumbled. “I will.”

 
“Great. See you Saturday,” Dan said and hung up.

~ ~ ~

 
“
Born free
,” Megan sang at the top of her voice in duet with Andy Williams on the car radio, “
as free as the wind blows
…” The rush of it made her feel slightly dizzy so she closed the window and concentrated on the road. She was just coming into the cute little village of Adare with its ancient ruins, eleventh-century church and monastery. It was full of thatched cottages with little gardens adorned with roses and peonies, trendy restaurants and shops selling handcrafted pottery, and a long tail of cars and tourist buses. She sighed, stopping behind a German-registered Golf. Everyone and his mother seemed to want to go through Adare today. She opened the window again to let in the mild air. The weather had finally turned warm and sunny, a great relief from the chilly winds and drizzle of the past month—more like January than June.

After the call from Dan, Megan phoned her mother to say she wasn’t moving in right away but was departing to Kerry for a week or two. With the exception of her red sofa and the antique desk her father had bought for her thirtieth birthday, her furniture went to a second-hand shop. The remaining items were stored in her mother’s garage to be claimed once she had found suitable accommodation on her return to Dublin.

All she had was a suitcase with her clothes, a box full of shoes and her laptop.
Talk about minimalist
, she said to herself, realising that having very few possessions was liberating rather than frightening. Megan felt, yet again, a dart of happiness as she thought of the adventure ahead. She had no actual plan and no idea what she was going to do once she got to Kerry except collect the keys and the deeds to the house.

“Next stop, The Blue Door B and B,” she muttered, as the traffic started to move again. Probably your typical Irish guest house with cutesy décor aimed at American tourists. A hostess called
Mairead
or Kathleen, who would be chatting about the weather and ask if she wanted the ‘full Irish’ for breakfast. Well, she could put up with that for a while.

~ ~ ~

The door of The Blue Door was red. Megan rang the bell of the white stucco house, where hanging baskets crammed with geraniums adorned the façade.

No reply. She rang again, then pushed at the door, peering into the deserted wood panelled hall. She tiptoed in and put her suitcase on the floor.

“Hello?” Her voice echoed up the wide staircase. There was a faint smell of fried sausages and smouldering briquettes. A smell she remembered from staying in B and B’s in her childhood. She hadn’t stayed in such a place since then, boutique hotels being her preferred accommodation when on holiday. She thought fleetingly of spa hotels, of sinking into a pool somewhere in the sun but pushed the thought away. She had to live for the moment, not yearn for those halcyon days of a job and an expense account.

A door flung open. A thin woman with light-blonde hair in a ponytail, wearing tight jeans and an orange tee-shirt, rushed into the hall. “Hello. Sorry, I was outside taking in the laundry, so I didn’t hear you.” She spoke with the hard R’s and thick L’s of an East European accent. She studied Megan through pale blue eyes. “Have you booked a room?”

Megan smiled and nodded. “Yes, I just arrived. I booked a single room for the weekend.”

The woman held out her hand. “Hello and welcome. I’m Beata.”

“Hello, I’m Megan O’Farrell. Um, but—”

“Yes?”

“I was going to ask why you call this place The Blue Door when it’s red. The door, I mean.”

Beata shrugged. “They were out of blue at the hardware store, but we had to stick with the name because everyone knows it. Anything else?”

“No.”

“Good. I’ll show you to your room.” Beata raced up the stairs and down the corridor at breakneck speed with Megan at her heels. She flung open a door. “Here’s your room. The keys are in the door. Breakfast between eight and ten tomorrow morning. Have a good stay.”

Megan fought for air. “Okay. Thanks. Could you just tell me where I might get something to eat around here?”

Beata hovered on the threshold. “Mulligans. Out on the Maharees. It’s a pub, but they have great food too. If you have nothing better to do tonight, maybe you’d like to join Boris and me when we go out there later?”

“Boris? Your husband?”

Beata let out a snort. “You think I’d marry a Russian? Nah, he’s okay to ride but marry him? No way.”

Megan blinked. “Uh, I see…”

“So how about it?”

“Why not? Thanks, I’d love to.”

“Good. See you downstairs at seven. You’ll love their food. They do great fish.” Beata rushed out of the room and banged the door shut.

Megan put the suitcase on a chair and looked around the sparsely furnished room. A double bed with a colourful quilt and many cushions. A bedside table. Two easy chairs and a long padded seat by the window overlooking the bay. Everything painted a distressed white, even the floorboards with a Scandinavian look. Stark but peaceful.

No time to linger. She had stopped off at the solicitor’s office when she passed through Tralee. A chirpy receptionist handed her an envelope with ‘keys and deeds, as instructed’.

 
Megan pulled the envelope out of her tote bag and took out the deeds. It gave her a thrill to see her name as the owner of the house at ‘Kilshee, County Kerry’. The keys were old and rusty.
My house
, she thought and stuffed them into the pocket of her shorts. She changed her sandals for running shoes, pulled on a sweatshirt and was ready to take possession of her new home.

~ ~ ~

The house looked exactly the same. Megan got out of the car, banged the door shut and jumped over the broken fence. She squinted at the mountains in the afternoon sun, listened happily to the gurgle of the stream and breathed in sweet, salt-scented air. Not wanting to tackle the inside of the house just yet, she sank down on the back step.

She closed her eyes, enjoying the sun on her face and felt a calm come over her, just like the last time. She exhaled with a contented sigh.

 
Like a knife ripping the canvas of a beautiful painting, a loud rumble broke the silence. Megan shot up from the step. Looking wildly around, she saw the back of a trailer come into view.
What the
—? She rushed around the side of the house and stared at the tractor with a large trailer full of bellowing calves backing in through the gate.

The tractor stopped. A scruffy man jumped out. He froze when he caught sight of Megan. “What are you doing here?” he demanded in a sing-song Kerry accent.

“I’m…” Megan stammered. “This is my…”

“What?” The man said. “I’m loading off these calves, so you’d better get out of the way. In any case, this is private property.”

Megan pulled herself up. “I know this is private property. It’s
my
private property, as a matter of fact. So if anyone’s trespassing, it’s you.”

The man blinked. “Come again?”

She took a deep breath. “I own this house and… and the… land thereof. My Uncle Pat willed it to me when he died. I mean, he put me in his will before he died.”

The man took off his cap and scratched his thatch of black hair. His bright-blue eyes studied her for a long time. “Who are you then? Sean’s daughter?”

Megan nodded. “Yes. I’m Megan O’Farrell.”

“Thought so. You look like him. With his red hair and brown eyes. So Pat gave his house to you?” He started to laugh. “The crafty bastard.”

“What do you mean?”

“Long story.”

Megan studied him. Tall and broad-shouldered, dressed in scruffy jeans and a sweater full of holes, he was an attractive man despite his unshaven, messy appearance. He looked back at her with a glint of approval and something else she couldn’t quite decipher.

“Who are you?” she demanded. “And what are you doing here?”

He wiped his hand on the back of his jeans and held it out. “Sorry. Where are my manners? I’m Paudie O’Shea.”

His big hand was rough and calloused, his grip firm. Their eyes met for an instant, before Megan withdrew her hand and dropped her gaze. “Hello,” was all she managed. She looked at him again. “Uh, I don’t think I want your calves in my garden. And—” Her eyes drifted to the sheep grazing on the other side of the fence. “Are those your sheep?”

“Yup.”

“And the cows on the other side?”

“No.”

She suspected he was laughing at her. “No? Whose are they, then?”

“Mine. But they’re not cows, they’re bullocks.”

“Okay. Whatever.” Megan shifted from one leg to the other. “I don’t care if they’re giraffes, they’re on my land, and you don’t have permission to—”

He glared at her. “Well, I’m sorry to upset your little applecart here, but the land has been let to me as conacre.”

“Who’s Con Acre? Never heard of him.”

“Have you never heard of conacre?”

“I don’t think we’ve been introduced, no.”

 
“It’s not a he. It’s a kind of contract. Hiring land for tillage or grazing. Conacre. Very well-known term.”

“Oh,” Megan said, deflated. “Okay. Right. But that must have been an arrangement you made with my… the previous owner.”

“You bet it was. An arrangement that goes back to my granddad’s time. He and Pat were great pals.”

“So?”

“So I’ve paid in full for this year. Two hundred euros an acre. And the contract is good for another ten years. At least.”

“Oh. Right.” Megan took a step back. “I’ll have to check that with my solicitor.”

Paudie shrugged. “Check away. Now, I have work to do, so if you’ll excuse me ... ” He started to walk around the back of the trailer.

Megan trotted after him. “No, you don’t. You might have the right to the land on the other side of the fence, but I bet you don’t have any right to graze cattle in my garden.”

He stopped dead. “What are you going to do? Call the Guards?”

Megan folded her arms. “Yes. I will if you don’t get out of my garden.”

He sighed. “You’re a stubborn girl, aren’t you? Just like your uncle.”

“You bet I am.” Megan hauled her phone out of her bag. “Get that tractor out of my garden, or I’ll call the Guards.”

“Yeah, right.” He started to open the back of the trailer.

Megan punched 999 into her phone. “I’m calling them right now.”

Paudie looked up. “That’s one helluva smart phone. I mean, you’re able to talk into it without switching it on.”

“What? Oh.” Megan felt her face redden. She looked at her phone. “Shit.” Tears of anger and frustration blurred her vision. She put her phone away.

His eyes softened. “Listen, I’ll just leave the calves here for two days, while I spray my fields up there at the farm. Then I’ll come and take them away and I won’t bother you again. How’s that?”