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“You’re that Rory Quirke,” I blurted out. “Member of the Irish parliament.”
“Correct. Otherwise known as a TD,” he quipped. “I wondered how long it would take you to recognise me.”
“About four seconds.” I eased my hand out of his grip. “I’d forgotten this was your constituency.”
“Not anymore. I left politics. I didn’t stand in the last election. I thought you might have heard.”
“I left, too. Maybe you might have heard?”
“I thought you were fired.”
“I resigned.”
He lifted an eyebrow. “That’s what they all say.”
“Just like all politicians who are in danger of losing their seat say they’re ‘leaving’?” I said, making quote marks.
“Uh-huh.” A woman laughed. “I feel a little controversy in the air. I thought Finola was here to get away from politics.”
“You can never get away from politics,” I replied. “Or politicians. They’re everywhere.”
“Not too fond of them, are you?” Rory asked.
“Depends what kind.”
“Are there more than one?”
I looked at him for a moment. “There are two. The kind with a conscience and the gobshites.”
“I’m afraid to ask which category you put me in.”
“Good,” I shot back. “Because I wouldn’t tell you. But I’m not here to argue with politicians. Or criticise them.”
“You’re going to reveal all about us, then?” the woman asked. “We’ve all read your column in The Irish Telegraph. Is there going to be something similar here?”
“I’m not going to reveal my plans for the paper. But there are going to be a few surprises.”
“I’m looking forward to seeing what you’re going to do.” the woman said. “Especially if there’s going to be some hot gossip and a little dirt on the county council.”
I winked. “You never know.”
“Time to sit down to dinner,” Miranda called from the door.
There was a contented murmur and a sudden rush through the door into a candlelit dining room. Large windows overlooked a beautiful garden, where the evening mist floated around old apple trees and shrubs.
At the big table, I found myself seated between Rory and a ruddy-faced man called Fergal, who told me he was head vet at the nearby stud farm. As he seemed more interested in his plate of couscous and Moroccan lamb stew, we didn’t talk much until Rory turned to me.
“So, Finola, what are you going to do here in the sticks?” he enquired.
“I’m going to run The Knockmealdown News, as you know.”
“Of course. I heard about it as soon as you got the job. News like that gets around very fast here. Any news does, as a matter of fact. You’ll want to watch your step here. There are spies everywhere.”
I took a swig of wine. “Spies? Really?”
“Well, you know. Twitching net curtains. Squinting windows and all that. I often wonder why we need a newspaper at all.”
I laughed. “I’ve heard that about country towns.”
He moved a little closer. “So, Finola, tell me about yourself.”
“Why? I have a feeling you know everything about me already.”
“Just superficial stuff. But I’d like to know more.”
I tried not be affected by his eyes on me. “Like what?”
“Like why are you single? You’re attractive, intelligent, funny and creative.”
I managed not to blush, and fired him a sassy reply. “I’m overqualified.”
He burst out laughing. “Yeah, I’d say you are. And you scare them off with all that.”
“How about you? Why aren’t you married?”
“Me? Oh, I’m too picky.”
“Maybe it’s the other way around?”
He shook his head and laughed. “Remind me never to cross swords with you.”
“I will.”
He sighed and picked up his wine glass. “But I think you might be right. No woman would like to be the wife of a politician.”
“Must be the living death.”
“Being married to me or the politician side?”
“Both. A deadly combination, I’d say.” I suddenly realised the room had fallen silent. All eyes were on Rory Quirke and me. I had probably overdone the snappy answers, and now they hated me. Shit. My social skills let me down again. I went to snatch my wine glass to take a calming sip, but missed and knocked the wine all over the white lace tablecloth. Somebody gasped. Someone else tittered.
Rory came to my rescue, righting my glass and throwing his napkin over the stain. “Miranda, these lace tablecloths are very knobbly. I nearly did the same just a second ago,” he called across the table.
“I know,” she called back. “I’m sorry, Finola. Don’t worry about it. Easy to throw in the washing machine. I have a ton of these tablecloths in the linen cupboard, anyway. Remnants of the former occupants who were happy to leave them behind.”
Jerry came around the table and filled my glass. “There you go. We can’t leave you without wine.”
“Thanks,” I whispered to Rory. “Sorry about the hostility.”
He smiled and touched my arm. “I enjoyed it. Haven’t had this much fun in years.” He turned to Fergal. “Did I tell you about that mare you said was in season? Well, she wasn’t.”
Fergal bristled beside me. “She was when I tested her. You must have just missed that window.”
“Maybe,” Rory said, sounding doubtful. “But whatever. Better luck next time. Not that I relish another trip with a horse box over the hill on those roads.”
“Over the hill?” I asked, mystified. “What hill?”
Fergal turned to me, looking as if he had only just noticed I was there. “No hill, really, but a mountain pass. Rory was taking his mare to be covered by the stallion at the stud farm on the other side of Lismore.”
“Oh,” I said, mentally trying to locate Lismore on the map. “You mean Lismore with the big castle?”
He nodded. “Nice town. The castle is owned by the Duke of Devonshire. Has been for many generations. Some of the family still stay there during the summer months. I think they also come during the hunting season. You should go there. The gardens are open to visitors. A real Victorian garden. Beautiful.”
“Thank you. I will. It’s not that far, is it? Just over the hill.”
“I’ll take you there if you want. We could go next Sunday. Then we can have lunch in this great little pub. What do you say?”
I blinked. Was this ruddy-faced rugby type asking me out on a date? His eyes were kind, and there was an endearing quality about him. A gentle giant in his yellow sweater. A restful person to spend a Sunday with.
“Why not?” I replied. “That’s very kind of you. Sounds interesting.”
Fergal flushed and cleared his throat. “Great. I’ll pick you up at around eleven. Where do you live?”
“I don’t really live anywhere yet. I’m staying at the B and B near the office. A bit of a dump, but I’m sure I’ll find something to rent soon.”
“That B and B’s run by my cousin,” a woman with flaming red hair and a too-tight, orange, knitted dress cut in.
“Running it very badly,” Rory said in a mocking voice. “She didn’t get tourist board approval this year. Isn’t that what you told me, Veronica?”
“Yes, well...” Veronica squirmed. “I suppose she should smarten it up a bit.”
“That’s putting it mildly,” Rory muttered.
“I just had an idea,” Miranda interrupted. “Why didn’t I think of it before? My sister, Juliet, is letting the cottage on her farm. She was going to let it to tourists in the summer months, but you should go and have a look, Finola. She might be very happy to make a deal with you. I’ll give you her phone number after dinner. It’s very...quaint. ”
I smiled and nodded at her. “That sounds great.”
“Quaint? It’s a wreck in the middle of a farmyard,” Rory muttered in my ear. “Cows and horses and muck. Are you sure you could cope with that?”
I snorted a laugh. “If I can cope with the dregs of Dublin, a farmyard is no problem. Sounds charming anyway.”
“Charm? It’s dripping with it, girl. I bet you’ll be running away screaming after a week.”
“I bet you a hundred euros I won’t.”
He winked, spit into his hand and held it out. “Done.”
After just a moment’s hesitation, I spit into my own hand and shook his. It wouldn’t do to look prissy.
Rory laughed and wiped his hand on his napkin. “I have feeling I’ll be the loser in this one.”
“You will.”
“You’re a gas woman, Finola McGee.”
“Why, thank you.” I leaned a little closer. “So here’s another challenge...what the hell happened to Johnny Keegan?”
Rory stiffened. “I wouldn’t go there if I were you.”
“I always go down unknown paths, even when warned. They’re more fun.”
“You’re a blow-in around here, Finola. That’s a whole different kettle of fish. If you want to get on with the locals, you shouldn’t shove sticks into muddy ponds. You don’t know what might jump out and bite you in the butt.”
“That sounds like a warning.”
“Spot on.”
Rory clammed up after that, and I couldn’t get more than bland conversation out of him. But it didn’t matter. I got what I was after. The confirmation that there was something odd about Johnny Keegan’s hasty departure.
A date, a cottage, a bet, a mystery and a new challenge. Who said country life was boring?