The Kinsella Sisters (34 page)

Izzy really resented the idea of her father throwing a party for Río Kinsella. Even though he denied that he was throwing it specially for her, Izzy suspected otherwise. She had heard him talking on the phone to caterers and florists, and he’d booked a bunch of local Lissamore musicians. She knew that Adair was going to stage this event exactly as Río had suggested, right down to the presents. He had ordered coffee-table books from Amazon–Monty Don’s on gardens, and one on wilderness places, and Nigella’s latest–and he’d asked Izzy where was the best place to buy a pashmina. She’d even seen his laptop open at Fleurissima’s website.

‘Why are you going to so much trouble?’ she asked him on the evening before they were due to travel back to Coolnamara. They’d been in Dublin for just over a week, during which her father had spoken of little else but the party he was planning. Izzy had swung by Wagamama to bring him home a treat tonight–gyozo and seafood ramen, with chocolate wasabi fudge cake for pudding. Setting her chopsticks down, she gave him a look of enquiry. ‘It would make a lot more sense to throw a party here, when you think of it. You could invite all your business contacts.’

‘This isn’t about business,’ Adair told her. ‘This is about leaving an impression on Lissamore. I want the locals to look at that
house and remember the fantastic shindig they once had there. They’ve only ever associated the Villa Felicity with nobby parties attended by socialite types from the days when your mother used to entertain. I want people to remember Adair Bolger as someone who could have a good time with the locals too. I want to feel that I might be accepted by them, that I might belong.’

‘It’s a bit late for that, now that you’re selling up,’ Izzy pointed out.

Adair shrugged. ‘Maybe. But I may never have another opportunity to throw a party in that house, and I want to pull out all the stops.’

‘Don’t you think that showering Río Kinsella with gifts is overdoing it a bit?’

‘No, I don’t. She’s had a tough life and she works damn hard. She deserves a treat.’

There was no answer to that that wouldn’t sound spiteful. Izzy would just have to resign herself to the fact that her father was going to look like a prize loser (if that wasn’t a contradiction in terms), fawning over the local sexpot. And if that wasn’t bad enough, the local sexpot (for Izzy had seen the way men eyed Río) was the mother of the hottest guy she had ever met.

Finn Byrne was not only beautiful to behold and built like a god, he was also an expert lovemaker. Izzy had only slept with one guy before–more out of curiosity than anything else–and the sex had been less than mind-blowing. But Finn had made her feel like a goddess–Aphrodite rising from the waves–and he, a worshipper at her shrine. Sex with Finn was buoyant and sleek and streamlined and fluid and fun. With Finn, Izzy was in heaven, soaring weightless, an angel without wings, an Ü
bermensch
, a mermaid, a selkie.

She had a horrible feeling that she was falling in love with him.

The feeling was horrible for three reasons. Reason one: Finn lived on the other side of the country, and long-distance love
affairs were notoriously difficult to manage. (However, Izzy thought that there might be a way around this,
if
they were going to take things a stage further.) Reason two: Izzy despised Finn’s mother, which did not augur well for any future relationship. Reason three: it looked as if her father, on the other hand, was completely infatuated with the ghastly mother.

Since Adair’s divorce from Felicity had finally come through, he was now officially eligible to remarry. There had even been a piece about it in one of the Sunday papers, with a photograph of him leaving a restaurant with a woman on his arm (it had been his PA). People were avid for news of an engagement or an affair or an elopement, and–oh! Izzy thought with a jolt–what if he did the rebound thing? What if he was blithely unaware of the cunning snare that Río Kinsella had set for him? What if he proposed to
hen

Ew! Imagine–if Izzy and Finn
did
become an item–just
imagine
what it would be like to be involved with a guy whose mother was married to your father? Ew,
ew!
There was something so icky and distasteful about it–something almost incestuous. It made Izzy shudder to think that they might have to end up doing family stuff together. Would they have to go on holiday together? Would they have to have Sunday dinners, or celebrate Christmas at each other’s houses? What if there were offspring? Not just her offspring, but the offspring of her father and Río?
Ew!
And what would be the status of said offspring? Would a baby be her sister or brother as well as being Finn’s? Or would she be its second something some-thing removed? No,
no!
It was impossible, completely out of the question, and it wasn’t going to happen. Her lovely, lovely dad didn’t deserve to end up with a blood-sucking gold-digger like Río Kinsella, and Izzy was damn well going to make sure that the bloodsucker backed off.

She got up from the table and picked up their bowls, preparing to scrape the remains of their noodles into the bin.

‘I’ll do that, Izzy,’ said Adair. ‘You take it easy. You sorted the food.’

‘No worries, Daddy. I’m glad to do it.’

‘You’re a good girl, you know that? To look after your old dad the way you do.’

‘My old dad,’ said Izzy, ‘is not so old. And he deserves to be looked after.’

‘I’m lucky to have you.’ Adair leaned back in his chair and smiled at her.

She gave him her best smile back. ‘Dad,’ she said, ‘can I run something by you?’

‘Sure.’

‘How would you feel if I left college?’

‘What?’ Adair looked startled. ‘Why would you want to do that?’

‘Well…you know Finn and I were talking about how cool it would be to set up a dive outfit?’

‘In Lissamore? I thought that was just some kind of daydream.’

‘No, not at all. We did some serious talking about it last week, and I’ve been doing research since I got back to Dublin.’

‘Hang on. You’re telling me that you’re really thinking of going into business with Finn Byrne?’

‘Yes.’

Adair furrowed his brow. ‘Jeez, Izzy, I don’t know. It’d be a pretty risky undertaking.’

‘But it’s an ideal time, Dad, since the joint on Inishclare’s folded.’

‘There must be a good reason why it folded,’ said Adair. ‘Presumably they weren’t doing business.’

‘That’s because the place was ancient. They really needed to upgrade. Equipment, premises–everything needed an overhaul.’ Dishes scraped and stacked in the machine, Izzy sat back down beside her father.

‘So you wouldn’t be able to buy stuff from the Inishclare place secondhand?’

‘No.’ Izzy shook her head emphatically. ‘The whole point of this would be to create a state-of-the art outfit, with brand-new equipment. A rebreather, and camera equipment, and a couple of DPVs.’

‘DPVs?’

‘Diver propulsion vehicles. You whizz around underwater on them, James Bond-style.’

‘Pricey’ Adair looked thoughtful. ‘You’d need a dive boat too.’

‘Just an RIB, to start with. There’s good shore diving to be had in Lissamore.’

‘What else might you need?’

‘Well, premises-wise, we’d need a shop and reception area. Um.’ Izzy started counting on her fingers. ‘We’d also need an air room, and a kit room, and a classroom for academic work. A yard for hosing down the gear and a pool for confined water training.’

‘Hell, Izzy, this is very ambitious.’

‘I know! But you’ve always encouraged me to be ambitious, Daddy.’ She gave him a look of entreaty. ‘And there’s more…’

‘Bring it on,’ said Adair, weakly.

‘We thought we could offer accommodation for people on dedicated Dive Safaris, so we’d need bedrooms and bathrooms and a restaurant and a bar. Of course, we’d have to look into licensing for that. But some outfits operate an honesty bar, and that seems to work. Most divers are people of integrity, Dad. You know that. Look at me!’

‘You’re some piece of work, all right. You’ve clearly thought this through.’

‘Yes, we have. And just think how convenient it would be to offer a package! Weekends, or weeks–or even fortnights–with bed and board and dives included. And hill-walking and stuff, and Guinness and oysters, and trad sessions in O’Toole’s–all that Coolnamara shit.’

‘Sweetheart. I’d need to talk to some people about this.
This isn’t a venture you can rush into, you know. And giving up college is a big decision to make.’

‘I know that, Dad. But Business Studies is boring the arse off me. I’m a bright girl. I already know half the stuff they’re teaching me. And I can learn the rest from you. You’re the savviest business person I know.’

Adair shifted a little in his seat. ‘You and Finn are–um–involved–er–romantically, aren’t you?’

‘Yes.’ It was best to be upfront about this. ‘It’s not official, but I really like him.’

‘And you think it’s a good idea to go into business with someone you’re romantically involved with?’

‘Why not?’

‘There’s no answer to that, I guess,’ Adair said with a sigh. ‘Look. This has all happened very suddenly, darling. We’re going to have to do a lot of hard thinking.’

‘Finn and I have already done loads of hard thinking, Dad. We’re really determined to make this work.’

‘There’s a lot to take on board. You’d have to find the right location, for starters, and look for planning permission.’

Izzy picked up the wine bottle and refilled her father’s glass. ‘We’ve thought of that too.’

‘So where would you think of setting up this dive centre?’

‘In the Villa Felicity,’ said Izzy.

Río reread the letter that had arrived in the post that morning. It still didn’t make sense, partly because it was written in legalese (Río was dyslexic when it came to legalese), and partly because it was quite simply ludicrous. It was from a Royston Brewer, Attorney-at-Law, and it was to do with a bequest from a Patrick Flaherty (deceased) of Big Piney in Wyoming.

Patrick Flaherty. This could only be the Patrick who had adored her mother, the Patrick with whom Rosaleen had had the passionate affair, the Patrick of the letters. This man Patrick Flaherty had to be her father. Río felt aflutter with apprehension. Her father had left her a parcel of land belonging to him in the Lissamore area. Well hallelujah! She had something to call her own at last, something maybe even to build a little house on! She, Río Kinsella, was a landowner at last!

A landowner like her heroine, Scarlett O’Hara in
Gone With the Wind
, a novel she had loved so much as a child that she had read and reread it until the spine had cracked and the pages had started to fall out. Scarlett’s passion for land echoed Río’s own. In these recessionary times people were selling cars and jewellery and yachts, but anyone in possession of land knew how very, very important it was to hang on to it until the recession was over. Just looking at the map that had been enclosed with the
attorney’s letter made Río dizzy with a kind of proprietorial fervour.

There was, however, something odd about the map. The designated parcel of land was very clearly part of the garden of the Villa Felicity. The orchard, to be precise. There was no mistaking it. Río had looked at the map right-ways, sideways, and upside down. According to this map, she owned the best part of the land surrounding Adair Bolger’s house.

She’d always known that there had been a right of way through the orchard, but she–and hundreds of other local people–had presumed that the land belonged to what had once been Coral Cottage. She even remembered how her mother had always asked permission to use the short cut any time they went to fetch eggs from the old lady who lived there, even though it was a public right of way.

She needed clarification. Who was the best person to talk to? Dervla clearly didn’t have a clue, since she had handled the sale of Coral Cottage in the first place. But it wasn’t like Dervla to be remiss. Hadn’t she done a search? Or had she connived with Adair Bolger about the orchard? She’d certainly have known about the right of way, because the Bolgers had been careful to keep it open. They’d caused enough controversy when they’d extended their lawn out onto the foreshore.

But it happened a lot with rights of way, didn’t it? That they became incorporated somehow into other people’s properties? She knew someone in Dublin whose garden had once been part of an unused back laneway, but which had been annexed by a kind of osmosis. And, hey, if it could happen in a capital city, how much easier for it to happen in the country? Especially around the time of the Irish diaspora, when people had been forced to emigrate to obscure and farflung places like–well, like Big Piney.

What had her father done in Wyoming, she wondered. Would this Royston Brewer, Attorney-at-Law, be able to fill her in on
him? Had she perhaps, siblings? Half-sisters or–brothers, aunts, uncles, cousins, that she’d never known anything about? She felt like someone in a Frances Hodgson Burnett novel–except she was too old, of course. What an adventure!

She could start by Googling him. But as she scrolled through all the entries that came up when she typed in ‘Patrick Flaherty Wyoming’, she felt an increasing sense of unease. Did she really want to find out who her father was? Frank, the man she’d assumed to be her father all her life, had been a sad case, but what if her biological father was worse? What if he’d been a murderer, like the Michael Patrick Flaherty she’d just clicked on, who had shot a man in the back of the head after sharing a beer with him? There was something spooky about this, something not quite right.

The letters he’d written to her mother were in a drawer in her bureau. She took them out and regarded the handwriting. Her father’s hand gave nothing away. It wasn’t jagged or dramatic or scrawly. It wasn’t the kind of handwriting that you’d expect from a man besotted. The form belied the content.

And suddenly Río felt shameful. These letters had been written for her mother’s eyes alone; the words they contained were not addressed to her. Looking at them made her feel grubby, as if she were reading someone’s private journal. She didn’t want to go digging around in the past. She didn’t want to unearth secrets that should maybe remain just that–secret.
It’s a wise child that knows its own father.
Who had said that? Shakespeare? What did it matter who her father was? Río was her own woman. She didn’t need to dive into some murky gene pool to find out who she was.

She took the bundle of letters from their hiding place and carried them over to the stove. After burning them, she would visit the headland where the contents of her mother’s urn had been scattered, and cast the ashes of the letters too, out over the ocean. It was, she felt, a way of reuniting the lovers at last.

As Río reached for the matches, the final words she read, in her mother’s distinctive, swirly script, were: ‘I know what it is to be adored…’

And so, she thought with a smile, remembering Shane, did Río.

Dervla had just had a call from Río to do with the orchard adjoining the Villa Felicity. Did she know its provenance? Well, yes, Dervla did, and she knew full well that Adair Bolger had helped himself to it. She had warned him years ago that if it ever came to a dispute he would have to relinquish any claim to the pocket of land, and now it looked as if that was exactly what was going to happen. Imagine Río inheriting a prime piece of real estate! Even though it was unlikely that she could ever afford to build there, Dervla was glad for her sister. However, she hadn’t been able to proffer much advice right now because she was driving in a hurry to Coolnamara Castle where she was going to meet Christian’s family for the first time.

Dervla parked on the avenue that led to the hotel, and checked her appearance in the rear-view mirror. Hair? Check. Make-up? Check. Breath? Check. Oh! There was a tiny mark on her handbag. Wiping it off with a tissue, she unfurled herself from the driver’s seat. Christian’s Saab was parked further along the driveway, and she felt a sudden flash of anxiety as she high-heeled her way across the gravel and through the front door.
Please God, let me make the right impression. Please God, make them like me.

The three of them were in the conservatory, as had been arranged.

‘Darling!’ said Christian, rising to meet her, and kissing her on the cheek. ‘You look wonderful.’

‘Thank you,’ said Dervla, looking not at him, but at the pretty, dark-haired girl and the elderly lady sitting on a rattan sofa next to the French windows.

Christian’s mother was immaculately groomed. She was dressed
in plain black cashmere and she had a string of pearls around her neck that Dervla suspected were the real thing. Her hair had been styled in an elegant bouffant, and her mouth was lipsticked. There was an autocratic set to her head, and she sat very upright on the sofa. She was, Dervla thought, quite formidable-looking. Her granddaughter too was dressed in black, and Dervla had the sudden uncomfortable feeling that she’d been invited to a funeral. The table in front of the pair had been set for tea, with scones and jam and cream.

‘This is Megan, Dervla.’ Christian indicated his daughter, who gave a faux smile.

‘Pleased to meet you, Megan,’ said Dervla.

‘Yeah?’ said Megan.

‘And this is my mother, Daphne.’

‘How do you do?’ Dervla crossed the room and extended a hand, which Daphne took with a pleasant smile.

‘Who are you?’ she asked.

‘I’m Dervla, who’s just been lucky enough to marry Christian,’ said Dervla, taking a seat across the table from them.

‘Yes. You certainly are lucky to have bagged a dish like him. He’s my son, you know.’

‘Yes.’

‘Will you have some tea, Dervla?’ said Christian.

‘Yes. I’d love some tea, thank you. And my goodness, those scones look scrumptious.’

‘They’re from Tesco’s,’ said Daphne.

‘Oh.’ Dervla looked at her uncertainly. She knew that the scones were baked here in the hotel, but she could hardly contradict her new mother-in-law so soon after meeting her for the first time. ‘Tesco’s do excellent baked goods,’ she said diplomatically.

‘Every little helps.’

‘Yes. It does indeed.’

‘Excuse me, sir?’ A man whom Dervla recognised as the hotel
porter had approached Christian. ‘Do you mind if I ask you to move your car? It’s blocking the delivery entrance.’

‘Certainly.’ Christian rose to his feet. ‘Excuse me for a moment, ladies.’

Megan sneered at her father as he left the room, and then came the sound of ‘My Chemical Romance’ from her bag. The girl fished out her phone and, jumping up from the sofa, lurched through the French windows onto the terrace beyond. Here she proceeded to pace up and down, muttering into the handset. Dervla heard snatches of the conversation, which was peppered with such phrases as ‘fucking nightmare’, ‘fucking old bat’, and ‘fucking fruitcake’.

Dervla turned back to Daphne, who had helped herself to a scone.

‘What’s that you’ve got wrapped around your neck?’ the old lady asked.

‘It’s a scarf, Daphne. I got it in Liberty.’

‘Aha! Fancy yourself, do you?’

‘N-no.’

‘You do fancy yourself. I can tell by the way you sit. Have a scone.’

‘Thank you.’

‘They’re Tesco’s Finest.’

Dervla reached for a scone and bit into it. It felt like dust in her mouth. From beyond the French windows, Dervla could hear Megan growling, ‘I had to change her fucking dress and do her fucking hair. It’s like looking after a fucking baby’

‘Who did you say you are again?’ enquired Daphne.

‘My name’s Dervla, Mrs Vaughan.’

‘Dervla?
Dervla?
I’ve heard that name before. Did you marry someone I know?’

‘Yes, Daphne. I married Christian.’

‘You married Christian? My son, Christian?’

‘Yes.’

‘You don’t mean to tell me that you two are married?’

‘We are.’

‘Why did nobody tell me? That’s great news! Well, welcome to our family, my dear.’

Oh God, thought Dervla. What response could she give to that? ‘The weather’s lovely, isn’t it?’ she hazarded. ‘Although it has got a little cooler.’

‘Cooler, cooler, West Coast Cooler,’ said Daphne, struggling to get to her feet. ‘I need to spend a penny. Where’s the bathroom?’

‘I–I’ll take you,’ said Dervla, moving swiftly round the table to give her mother-in-law a hand. She clearly had difficulty keeping her balance, and Dervla could scarcely allow her to go careening off to the loo on her own, in case she did herself an injury. As she linked Daphne’s arm, she saw that the old lady had a dollop of cream on her chin.

They made their way out of the conservatory and through the lobby of the hotel to the corridor that led to the ladies’ room, Daphne singing, ‘When the Red, Red Robin Goes Bob-Bob-Bobbin’ Along’. Dervla could tell that people in the lobby were pretending not to look.

Once in the ladies’ room, Daphne entered a cubicle, and shut the door behind her without bothering to bolt it. Dervla heard fumbling noises coming from behind the door and then came the sound of a fart, followed by a loud sneeze. Daphne finally emerged looking rather less elegant than she’d done before she’d ‘spent her penny’. The cream on her chin had transferred itself to the sleeve of her black cashmere dress, which was rumpled around her hips, revealing a black nylon slip.

‘Allow me to straighten your dress for you, Daphne,’ said Dervla, stooping to tug at the hem. As she did so, she noticed that Daphne’s tights were at half-mast. There was only one thing for it: she’d have to pull them up for her.

‘Oh! Your hands are like stones!’ cried Daphne, as Dervla’s hands made contact with her thighs.

‘Yes. I have rather poor circulation, I’m afraid.’

‘What?’

‘I said I have poor circulation.’

‘You’re an awful mumbler, you know.’

‘Yes! I am!’ shouted Dervla.

‘There’s no need to shout.’

Task completed, Dervla straightened up.

‘Who did you say you are again?’ asked Daphne, peering into her face.

‘My name’s Dervla.’

‘Dervla?
Dervla?
I’ve heard that name before. Did you marry someone I know?’

‘Yes, Daphne. I married Christian.’

‘You married Christian? My son, Christian?’

‘Yes.’

‘You don’t mean to tell me that you two are married?’

‘We are.’

‘Why did nobody tell me? That’s great news! Well, welcome to our family, my dear.’

Oh. My.
God
, thought Dervla.

It got worse. On their return to the conservatory, she could hear that Christian and Megan were having a row on the terrace.

‘How could you have allowed them to go off together?’ Christian was saying.

‘I wasn’t going to stop them,’ came the retort. ‘Anyway, I’m fucking fed up of taking the old bat to the bog. She’s disgusting. She never washes her hands, and she sneezed all over my scone. I need a fucking drink. I deserve one after that fucking fiasco at the airport. Stupid fucking Nemia, forgetting to renew her passport.’

‘Deal with it, Megan. And stop saying “fucking”. It doesn’t suit you.’

Megan heaved a sigh.

‘I had no idea she’d got this bad,’ continued Christian. ‘If I’d
known, I wouldn’t have dreamed of flying her over. Nemia should have warned me.’

‘Nemia thinks she’s had a stroke. The old bat’s, like, totally bananas. She hasn’t a clue who I am. When I told her I was Megan, she said, “But Megan’s only little! You can’t be Megan!’”

Feeling panic rise, Dervla helped Daphne back into her chair. The old lady dropped onto the cushion with an ‘Ooof!’ Then, ‘Who’s that talking out there?’ she demanded, as Christian came in through the French windows, looking sheepish.

‘Hi there, Mum,’ he said. ‘It’s just me and Megan.’