Scandal in Skibbereen (2 page)

Is maith an scéalaí an aimsir
.
Time is a good storyteller.

N
ow that the high season had arrived, Sullivan’s Pub was busier than Maura Donovan had ever seen it. Of course, she’d only arrived from Boston about three months before, so she didn’t have a lot to compare it to. Still, it was promising—it was the middle of the day, and she already had a nice crowd. It wasn’t until later that the regulars would drift in and settle in their favorite spots, either at the bar or near the small peat fire, which Maura had found useful even in June. Plus, it seemed to please those tourists who wandered in: their eyes lit up at the sight of it.
Ah, a bit of Old Ireland,
she guessed they were thinking, and on a damp day like today they’d be glad of the warmth. There’d been quite a number of damp days lately.

But business was building.
Her
business. Maura still hadn’t gotten used to the idea of owning a pub, though she’d worked in enough of them in her twenty-five years. She’d never owned anything of importance in her life. She and her gran had lived in a small apartment in South Boston as long as she could remember, and with Gran gone now, Maura had found that all their worldly possessions amounted to very little that she wanted to keep, except a few family photos and letters to and from her grandmother. Yet those had led her here to Leap, a tiny village on the south coast of Ireland, close to where her gran had been born, and landed her in the middle of a new and unexpected life.

Maura had to admit she was still worried that someone would find a reason to challenge Old Mick Sullivan’s will, which had left her not only this ramshackle old pub and the building that housed it, but also his home a couple of miles away and the acreage that lay behind it. She’d gone from all but penniless to homeowner and publican practically overnight. It took getting used to. Not exactly what she’d planned for her life, but then, she hadn’t really had a plan. Right now Maura was taking it slowly. She had no major changes mind, at least not yet. She’d cleaned the place up some—but not too much, as she was pretty sure the regulars came in because of the shabby, comfortable, and familiar setting. They didn’t mind cobwebs in corners, the occasional puff of peat smoke when the wind blew down the chimney, or the dozens, if not hundreds, of postcards and newspaper clippings and posters and whatnot that decorated the walls.

“Gathering wool, are yeh, Maura?” Rose, her young employee, not yet seventeen, surprised Maura from her reverie.

“Maybe,” Maura admitted. “I was just thinking—things
are
getting better, aren’t they?”

“Bit by bit, they are. And it’s not even full summer yet,” Rose said. “With fairer weather, it’ll pick up.”

“I hope so.” Maura silently counted the crowd. There was Old Billy Sheahan in his well-worn armchair next to the fire; two or three couples tucked into corners, looking happily settled there; and a few lone men who’d tipped a cap in greeting but seemed to prefer a quiet moment with their pint to conversation. She looked past the small clutch of patrons out the large windows facing the road and saw that it was raining again. Would it
ever
be sunny here? That usually didn’t stop the regulars from dropping by, but it kept the tourists home, or maybe in Dublin where there was something else to do on a wet day, like visit museums, or so she’d heard. She hadn’t seen anything of Dublin past the bus station. Maybe someday. Not so many museums in West Cork, although there was the Heritage Center in Skibbereen, not far away. But there was nothing she could do about the rain, except hope that it ended before she went broke.

Rose’s father, Jimmy Sweeney, bustled in from the back of the building. Maura had more or less inherited him and his daughter as employees along with the pub. She’d quickly found that Rose was a lot more useful than Jimmy. “I’ll be off to Skib for those supplies you wanted, eh, Maura?”

“Fine, Jimmy,” Maura said. She’d worked with him long enough now to know that a journey to the nearest town, Skibbereen, often took him a couple of hours, even though it was less than ten minutes away, and half the time he returned without the supplies he’d promised but with a handful of excuses. Sometimes she wondered if Jimmy was doing it deliberately to punish her for inheriting the pub—she had a feeling that he’d had his hopes set on running it himself, although they’d never talked about it. But when she was feeling more kindly toward him, she just figured he was easily distracted. In this economy she didn’t have the heart to let him go, and she was pretty sure he wouldn’t push her far enough to fire him outright. At least Rose hadn’t inherited her father’s slipshod attitude: she was always eager to please and happy to take on more work.

So business had picked up a bit, on this wet afternoon, but it could still be better. Since she had some time on her hands, Maura was considering going over the pub’s account books, something she had little liking or aptitude for, when the front door burst open and slammed against the wall. A blast of damp air preceded a woman who looked like a wet cat. Maura sized her up quickly: definitely not Irish. English maybe? American? Definitely urban. The thirty-something woman wore all black, including a fancy raincoat that seemed to be doing little to keep her dry. Her delicate shoes were soaked, and there was mud caked on one. “Goddamn lousy weather,” the woman said, oblivious to anyone who might be listening—which was everyone in the place.

Oh, yeah,
Maura thought.
Definitely American.
It wasn’t uncommon to get American tourists in Leap, but they usually arrived wearing jeans and hiking boots, rather than what Maura suspected was a designer suit.

The woman spotted Maura behind the bar and stalked over to her. “Where am I?”

“Leap. In County Cork. Where did you want to be?” Maura said amiably.

“Thank God—you’re American! Maybe I can get a straight answer from you. Everybody else around here has been giving me the most ridiculous directions. Like, ‘Take the roundabout through the village and look for the old church,’ like they can’t tell I’m completely lost and barely know what a roundabout is, and I’m having enough trouble remembering to drive on the wrong side!” It was hard for Maura to tell whether the woman was spitting or just dripping.

“Why don’t you sit down and dry off a bit, and maybe I can help you,” Maura suggested.

“I need a drink,” the woman said. “No, I don’t. It’s bad enough having to deal with that effing rental car, and the last thing I need is to get stopped by a cop now.” Her eyes brightened when she spotted the espresso machine Maura had installed. “Please tell me that thing works.”

“Sure does. What would you like?”

“Can you handle a grande cappuccino?”

“Of course.”

“I’ll do it,” Rose volunteered. She seemed fascinated by the stylishly dressed newcomer.

The woman shrugged off her wet coat and tossed it over a bar stool, then perched on the one next to it. “I must be insane . . .” she muttered, and Maura wasn’t sure whether she was talking to Maura or to herself. “Why did I have to end up in the back of beyond rather than Nice or Venice?”

Rose slid the coffee across the bar and retreated a few steps. The woman grabbed it and swallowed, and a fleeting look of bliss crossed her face. “You may have just saved my life. Thank you. And I apologize for being so rude, but it’s been a lousy few days. I think I’m in the right place, finally, though, so that’s progress. So, tell me about this place. How big is it?”

“Leap?” Maura said. “What you see is about all there is. Population just over two hundred. A couple of paved roads, and a lot more that are sort of paved. You came in on the main highway. Were you on your way somewhere?”

“I really don’t know.” The woman looked around the room. Everybody quickly looked away, but it was obvious that they were interested. “Slow day around here, if I’m the best entertainment you’ve got. You know this area well?”

“I’ve only been here a couple of months myself, so I wouldn’t say I know it well,” Maura told her. “But then, there’s not a lot to know.”

“What about the history of the place?”

Maura shook her head. “I don’t know much, but I’m sure there are other people who’d be happy to help you with it. Are you looking for family history?”

The woman shook her head vehemently. “No way. I mean, more like who’s who around here, who the property owners are or used to be, that kind of thing.”

“Not my thing. Mick Nolan probably knows more. He works here, but he won’t be in until later.” Like Jimmy and Rose, Mick had come with the place, and more or less set his own schedule, although he always made sure to be around for the busiest times.

“Is he the owner?”

“No, I am,” Maura said. She waited to see how the woman would react. Most people were surprised to see a twenty-something American woman running a pub in Ireland, and she was keeping an informal count of responses.

“You own this place?” The woman looked incredulous.

Chalk up one more in the “surprised” column. “I do.” Maura tried not to sound defensive, but she knew how shabby the place must look to an outsider. She’d reacted the same way when she first saw it. Her first response had been along the lines of
What a dump
, but she’d been jet-lagged and sad and kind of lost. The jet-lagged part was long gone, and she was working on the rest.

“Oh. Well, good for you. You seem kind of young to be in charge, though. You’re, what, twenty-five?”

“Yes,” Maura said. “I inherited the place.”

“Ah. Well, don’t mind me—my mouth is running ahead of my brain right now. I’m just tired and frustrated and wet—and apparently caffeine deprived. Can I get another cup?”

“Sure. Rose, you want to do the honors again?”

“I’ll be happy to.” Rose set about making a second cappuccino.

Maura turned back to the woman. “I’m Maura Donovan, born and raised in South Boston, now living in Knockskagh, which is an even smaller townland up the hill a couple of miles from here. What’s your story?”

“I’m really making a lousy first impression, aren’t I?” The woman extended a hand. “I’m Althea Melville. From New York City.”

Of course. Maura should’ve guessed New York, based on the clothes. “I take it you’re not here to admire the scenery.”

Althea shivered. “This is so not my kind of scenery. I hate the country; too . . . muddy. And there are cows.”

Maura waited a moment for Althea to explain what she was doing in a place she clearly disliked, but the woman didn’t add anything. And Maura didn’t want to pry; she was learning that it was better to let people find their own way into saying what they wanted to say.

It wasn’t long before Althea did just that. Her eyes darted around the room, and then her gaze returned to Maura. She leaned forward over the bar. “Can we talk?” she said in a low voice. “Privately? Maybe you can help me.”

Maura glanced at Rose. “Think you can handle things?”

“Not to worry,” Rose responded quickly. “You two go on, then.”

Maura slid out from behind the bar and led Althea toward a table and chairs at the end of the room opposite the fireplace—it might be chilly but would definitely be more private. “This way.”

Althea gathered up her raincoat and bag and followed Maura. She looked at the chair with distaste, then spread her raincoat over the seat before sitting down.

Maura bristled at her rudeness, but she had to admit the chair had seen better days.

“How much do you know about the local gentry?” Althea began.

Maura stifled a laugh. If there was gentry around, she certainly didn’t know them. “You mean rich people? The kind with yachts and stuff?”

Althea shook her head. “No, I mean the old Anglo-Irish families, the ones who owned everything and let the local peasants live on their land.”

“Oh,
those
gentry. Sorry, still don’t know any of ’em. If there are any around these days. Like I told you, I haven’t been here very long. You should talk to Mick, since he grew up here. Or maybe Old Billy,” Maura added.

“Old Billy?” Althea said.

“Yeah, the old guy by the fire.” Maura nodded in his direction.

Althea glanced his way. “Why should I talk to him?”

“Because he’s well past eighty and he’s lived here all his life and he knows everybody.”

“Is he still, uh, all there?”

“Do you mean, is he senile? No way. His mind is sharp, even if he does spend a lot of time thinking about the past, if you know what I mean. But he loves to talk, especially to attractive young women, which in his case is pretty much anyone under seventy.”