A Change of Heart (The Heartfelt Series) (31 page)

 “A happy accident, like so much of my life,” she said, kicking Ryan playfully on the ankle.

 “Accident or not, there’s still an awful lot to do before we can open this place for business,” Ryan said, marvelling at the broom cupboard filled with water-skis and fishing rods.

 “Miss MacReady is on the final lap with the official stuff. She’ll get everything as near as she can, then if we’ve to go to Dublin for meetings, we’ll go as a team, with roles and responsibilities agreed,” Marianne said. She looked at Sinead. “Do you think you’ll be able to join us, Sinead? It will be full-time, especially in the summer when our guests are here.”

Marianne was acutely aware Sinead had a heap of responsibilities, her part-time job as a midwife on the mainland, her role helping Joan at the kindergarten, and what was going to happen to the pharmacy with Phileas in prison; the chemist’s was particularly busy in the tourist season, with no GP surgery on the island.

 “I’ll sort something out one way or the other. It’s time to do what I want with my life,” Sinead said sharply. They looked at her in surprise, “time marches on, doesn’t it? Now, I’m off to do an inventory of the kitchen.”

 Marianne turned to Padar.

 “She seems troubled lately, only smiles when she’s with the children. I think Phileas let her down very badly and it’s tearing her apart inside, it’s heartbreaking to watch,” she said quietly. “What do you know of it Padar?”

 “I think Phileas is a fucking eejit and Sinead one of the most wonderful women I’ve ever met in my life,” Padar said, and followed the wonderful woman out the door.

Chapter Twenty Nine
New York, New York

Larry watched the doors anxiously. JFK Airport was buzzing as usual: friends and families who could not be together for Thanksgiving, making trips to celebrate ahead of the event; keen Christmas shoppers arriving to take advantage of the city’s many department stores; and lovers, hundreds of lovers making the most of the romance New York oozes out of every crack in every sidewalk.

 Another surge of newly arrived passengers pushed into the arrivals hall. His eyes darted to and fro, seeking her out, his pulse racing, a thin line of perspiration on his upper lip. There she was, a splash of yellow, sunshine breaking through the cloud. She saw him, waved her hand, the hand chained to the case. He raised his in response, smiling back; she lifted his heart whenever he saw her.

A scuffle, a scream, the crowd parted. A man was running, grey hoodie, black trainers. He grabbed her hand, a flash of metal, she shouted, took a swing at him and he was gone, darting through the crowd, scampering like a rat in a sewer. A whistle blew, more shouts, then hammering, the sound of boots running. Larry broke free from behind the barrier. He threw his arms around Kathleen MacReady. She clung to him.

“Larry, the case,” she gasped.

“I know, are you okay? That’s the main thing,” he said.

She looked up at him, eyes bright with fear. “He had a pair of pliers - just clipped through the chain and was gone.”

“You sure you’re okay?” he asked again. She showed him her wrist; what remained of the security chain swung free.

“Fine, he didn’t touch me but the case, the jewels ...” She turned to watch the stream of blue snake through the crowd; the police were trying to pick up the trail, follow the thief. People gathered around, other passengers, checking pockets for wallets, holding handbags and purses closer, tighter. Two police officers appeared beside them.

“Will you come with us ma’am. We’ll need a statement, you can tell us exactly what happened.” A handsome officer smiled at her.

Larry took her arm. “I’ll come too officer. This lady is my guest, it’s her first visit to New York.”

“I’m sorry ma’am. We’ll deal with this as quickly as possible and get you on your way. Where are you travelling on to?” the nice officer asked.

“The nearest bar if I have anything to do with it.” She flashed him a smile. There was something about a man in a uniform.

Later, in Larry’s immaculate nineteenth floor apartment, Miss MacReady was relieved to kick off her heels and remove her hat, letting her hair down. She sat at the large glass and chrome dressing table in Larry’s spotless guest suite, examining her reflection in the mirror.
Not bad,
she thought, after an eight and a half hour flight across the Atlantic, an airport mugging, a police interrogation and a taxi ride downtown. She took off her jacket, undid a couple of buttons on her blouse, sprayed cologne on her throat and wandered into the sitting room where Larry was mixing a stiff gin and tonic at the bar.

 “I heard you on the phone earlier?” she said, arranging herself on a large cream sofa.

 “I called Lena, to tell her what happened. She’s going to let Mr Rossini know the score. The jewellery belongs to him, he’ll have to deal with the insurance company, not our responsibility anymore. The method of transportation - by that I mean you and the airline - was all agreed. We’re in the clear.” He handed her a glass. She took a grateful sip.

 “That’s good to know. They’ll pay out then?” she asked.

 “They’ll have to, eventually.” He came to join her on the sofa. He looked cool and elegant like the room: soft turtleneck sweater, pale grey slacks.

 “And if the jewellery turns up?” Miss MacReady was impressed by how relaxed Larry appeared.

 “It won’t, not in its current form anyway.” He checked his watch. “No, that’s long gone by now and good riddance.”

 Miss MacReady watched his mouth as he drank. She moved a little closer; he gave her a smile.

 “I can’t help feeling I was set up, part of a
sting
. Call me a
romantic
but it was like a bad thing happened for all the right reasons.” She gazed into his eyes.

 “You’re a romantic,” he said, looking back at her.

 “Then kiss me,” she whispered, her lips nearly touching his.

 “With pleasure, ma’am,” he replied and at last she tasted that warm, sweet mouth full-on.

They arrived at the bar between 46
^th
and 45
^th.
 The archetypal Irish pub, a proper New York tradition, with huge semicircle windows, olive green paintwork and gleaming brassware at the entrance. A welcome mat stretched the width of the pavement, emblazoned with a shamrock and the words ‘Maguire’s Bar and Grill’; a massive gold and green striped awning ran the length of the building. Larry stepped out of the cab, taking her lavender-gloved hand and guided her to the building, opening his arms to encompass the impressive frontage.

 “Well, what d’ya think?” he said. “One of my best pals has had this joint forever, inherited from his grandfather. It does well, works damn hard though.”

 Miss MacReady smiled, Larry and his ‘work ethic’, she stood on the sidewalk and took in the building. A feeling passed through her, like a ghost.

 “Have I done the wrong thing? Is this the last place an Irishwoman visiting New York wants to go, an Irish bar?” he looked askance.

 “Not at all, same name as the pub on the island, I’ll feel instantly at home.” Miss MacReady beamed at him, tipping her matching lavender trilby over one eye. She would have preferred a visit to
Tiffany’s
of course, but Larry had been stressing about her visit ever since they had agreed she would take the jewellery back. He had gone to a lot of trouble and she wanted him to enjoy it as much as she did.

 They swung through the doors; every surface gleamed and shone, crisp white table cloths, sparkling glassware, gleaming cutlery. A doorman in green livery raised his hat.

 “This is Malachy, Kathleen, or Sergeant Malachy should I say,” Larry grinned.

 “Long retired,” laughed the big man. “Is this guy bothering you ma’am?” he asked, winking at the glamorous female on Larry’s arm.

 “Ah sure, bother away, I’m delighted to be bothered at all!” She smiled up at the broad, fair-skinned face.

 “No way, you’re Irish, heavens above, you’re the real deal.” The ex-policeman looked down at her. “Where are you from ma’am?” But before she could answer, Larry whisked her away.

 “Pushy, ain’t they, these Irish?” he said nodding back at the doorman, as an elegant maître d’ swivelled into view.

 “Mr Leeson, madam, your table is ready, follow me.” Another Irish accent, this time cultured, with a hint of the north. A young cloakroom attendant appeared to take Miss MacReady’s coat and hat. Larry shrugged out of his sheepskin jacket and they followed the maître d’ through the glistening tables to a window booth, a few steps from a small dance floor and shiny, baby grand piano. Miss MacReady took her seat. A napkin was placed on her lap, water poured, breadsticks and butter served. She squeezed Larry’s hand on the table.

 “This is lovely.” Her gaze swept the room, laughing young couples on weekend breaks, well-heeled middle-aged women on shopping trips, friends, families, lovers.
Sunday brunch in New York
- a glorious, time-honoured tradition.

 The waiter indicated the buffet table: fresh fruit; pancakes; syrup; eggs of every description; hash browns; ham; steaks, the menu inexhaustible.

 “Ma’am if you would like to help yourself, I’ll bring drinks, what’s it to be?” the waiter asked.

 Larry nodded at her, “Well Kathleen, it’s nearly Monday, Sunday anyway, what about one of your favourite cocktails?”

 “Oh yes,” she grinned up at the nice looking young man, “a Bloody Mary please, good and spicy. Will you join me Larry?”

 Larry raised an eyebrow, “Why not, it’s a special occasion after all.”

 They enjoyed a sumptuous meal and two hefty Bloody Mary’s apiece when Miss MacReady decided it was time to help the pianist out with a song.  Larry was about to protest. He knew she could sing, but a singalong in a country pub was a far cry from a classy joint in uptown New York; he did not want Miss MacReady to embarrass him, or herself. He need not have worried. Miss MacReady was nothing if not surprising, she could sing alright. Her rendition of ‘
Wind Beneath My Wings’
brought diners to their feet and, because her public demanded it, Miss MacReady finished her set with a swinging version of ‘
You Make Me Feel So Young’,
one of her mother’s favourites.

 “Do you bring all your young ladies here?” Miss MacReady asked, twirling the stirrer with the bar’s logo in her drink.

 “Every last one!” Larry teased, “Funnily enough it was Ryan who discovered the place. He knew Mac, the owner, who of course has Irish roots. Mac was good to us when we were struggling actors off-Broadway, fed us, gave us free drinks. Now this is my patch, office across the street, apartment a few blocks away. You could say it’s my local.”

 “I can see why you love it, New York, your life here. It’s so, well alive.” Miss MacReady sat back to survey the surroundings yet again: the huge floor to ceiling mirror behind the slick, marble bar, brass lamps standing tall along the length of it, the waiters in their crisp white aprons bustling to and fro, traffic humming outside.

 The door swung open and Larry raised a hand in recognition.

 “Ah, here’s Mac now, I’d like you to meet him,” Larry said.

 The man, tall, broad-shouldered, about Miss MacReady’s age, saluted back, indicating he would be right over. He removed his coat, gave it to the cloakroom attendant, chatted briefly with the maître d’, then nodding at tables, walked through the room towards them. He looked relaxed, in control.

 “Well Larry, haven’t seen you in a while, someone said you were in Ireland,” the man said warmly, a hint of accent only, “and who is your charming companion?”

 Larry stood up to shake his hand.

 “Great to see you Mac. Allow me to introduce Kathleen MacReady, a very good friend of mine, all the way from
the old country.”

 Mac held out his hand. Miss MacReady did not take it; she just looked up into his face.

 “We’ve met,” she said. “Hello, Brian.”

“Kathleen MacReady, I, I can’t believe it,” the man stammered.

 “You know each other?”  Larry was surprised, pleased. Miss MacReady remained seated. She took her napkin from her lap and folded it neatly, placing it on the table.

 “Larry, would you mind if we left now,” she said quietly. “I feel rather tired.”

 “Don’t go!” Mac, or Brian, or whatever his name was, said loudly. People looked over at them. “Please don’t go,” he said more quietly. “I’ll just die if you go.”

She could not bear to look at him. “And I’ll just die if I stay,” she whispered, getting unsteadily to her feet. Larry rushed to take her arm.

“Kathleen?” he was bemused.

The other man reached out towards her, “Please don’t let me spoil your brunch.”

“Spoil my brunch, are you joking? You, who has spoiled my entire life.” She shrugged him away. The man waved a hand. Waiters appeared pulling out chairs. The cloakroom attendant arrived with their outer garments.

“A cab for my friends,” he said to the maître d’. Miss MacReady walked the length of the restaurant head held high. She took her seat in the cab, Larry beside her. Mac or Brian shut the door.

“Is that who I think it is?” Larry asked, holding her hand.

“You mean is that the piece of shit who fathered my child? Yes, Larry it is.”

“Ah,” Larry sat back as the cab pulled away. “I’d better cancel the booking for dinner then, I thought we’d go there on your last night, you were such a hit!”

“It’ll be his last night if I ever see him again,” she said, glaring out of the window at the city streets, pink spots of anger stinging her cheeks.

Now Brian Maguire had Kathleen MacReady back in his life, he was not prepared to let her go easily. By the time the florist had made four deliveries, Larry’s apartment was filled with flowers - white roses, her favourite. Every card the same message.
‘Meet me, we have to talk, Brian’.
She was tearing up yet another into tiny shreds when Larry appeared with tea and toasted bagels. He sat beside her, taking her hands in his. She had not slept a wink. “Won’t you even contemplate seeing him?” Larry tried. She shook her head. “It was all such a long time ago, surely you could at least talk?”

 She turned tear-filled eyes on him.

 “He’s been here all this time, not dead, not lost. Living and working in New York. Never a word, no hint, nothing.” She pulled her negligee around her. She seemed suddenly small, birdlike. “I want to go home now, Larry. I can’t even stay in the same city, I’m sorry.”

Larry sighed, he had never seen such a change in a person; the frivolous flirt he had been escorting around town vanished.

“Sleep on it?” he offered.

“But that’s the whole point Larry. I won’t. I can’t sleep, eat, Christ, I can barely talk.” And she left the room. Later, he heard her crying in the bathroom, the door locked. Larry phoned Mimi and asked her to change Miss MacReady’s flight; she would be going back to Ireland that very day.