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AFTER FRANTICALLY SEARCHING the Internet for news of the Riviera thief, Janine gave up. Short of contacting the French police and asking them if they had any clues, there was nothing much she could do. Don’t be stupid, she told herself, Jake is dead. Stop trying to find him. But the closure she thought she had reached had gone, and she had a niggling worry at the back of her mind, like a worm eating at her heart. She tried to turn her mind away by getting started in earnest on her painting, which helped to a certain extent. When she was working on a canvas, she forgot time and place. She even forgot to eat when she was really inspired.
She started work on an abstract piece, splashing an array of dramatic colours and shapes onto the canvas, venting all her anguish and fears. She moved her easel down to the small conservatory, where the light streamed in from all directions, urging her to create from her heart, forgetting rules of composition and perspective and anything else she had painstakingly learned in art classes. It was time to bring out her soul.
Late one bright afternoon, she stood, breathless, looking at her work. Swirls of black, red, orange and blue formed a painting that seemed to have been spewed out of her insides.
“Wow,” a voice whispered behind her.
She twirled around. Mick O’Shea was standing in the doorway, dressed in running clothes. She breathed out. “You frightened me.”
“Sorry. I wasn’t even going to call in. Thought you might be annoyed at me for kissing you the last time we met.” He grinned at her sheepishly.
Janine couldn’t help smiling back. “Stealing kisses is not such a big crime.”
“That’s a relief. I wasn’t sure if you were mad at me or not. I was going to leave you alone. But then I saw a glimpse of you through the glass and that mass of colours. Had to come and see what you were doing.” He looked at the canvas. “That’s one hell of a painting. Like a punch right in the gut.”
“Thank you. I mean, I suppose that was a compliment.” She studied him for a moment. “I didn’t know you were interested in art.”
Without taking his eyes off the painting, he stepped inside the glass door and stood behind her. “I like art that says something. And that one certainly does.”
She wiped her brush on a rag. “What does it say? To you, I mean.”
He was silent for a moment. “Pain. Fear. Some kind of sadness. Passion. But...right there at the top—”
“At the top?” She followed his gaze to a spot in the right-hand corner, where there was a splash of bright yellow and a white shape she hadn’t noticed before.
“Hope,” he said.
“Hope?” she asked, bewildered.
“Yes.” He pointed at the painting. “Is that a butterfly? That white thing.” He walked closer, peering up. “Yes it is. A tiny white butterfly, flying into the sun.”
He was so close she could feel the heat of his body, smell his aftershave and his minty breath. She was going to move away but couldn’t. She kept looking at that little white shape and the yellow streaks that met it. He was right. It did look like a butterfly, lit by sunshine. She didn’t remember painting it or the streaks of yellow. She must have been in some kind of trance during the past few hours. But Mick’s sudden arrival had jolted her out of it. His observation gave her a sudden flash of joy—something she hadn’t felt for a long time.
“It’s like the light,” he said. “The light—”
“At the end of the tunnel?”
“No. The light at the end of the pier. In The Great Gatsby. Remember that scene?”
She nodded, her eyes on the dab of white. “I know what you mean. And he wasn’t holding his hand out to Daisy but to something much greater than that.”
“Yes, that’s right. Something unattainable, something lost or...” His voice trailed away.
They were silent, while they both looked at the painting. “Thank you,” she said, turning to him when the silence became too heavy.
A little smile hovered on his lips as their eyes met. “For what?”
“For not just looking at my work, but seeing what’s there.”
“No need to thank me. I never pretend. I just say what I think. Gets me into a lot of trouble sometimes.” He glanced at his watch. “I’d better go for my run. I want to be back when Nelia gets home from school.”
Janine looked at the little clock on the shelf by the door. “Four o’clock,” she exclaimed. “Where did the time go? I started painting just after lunch and was going to touch up a few things but then—”
“You got lost in your turmoil?” he said softly.
“Yes. Something like that.”
He nodded. “I know. That’s what running does for me. Not as creative but it does help.”
She looked at his handsome face, the brilliant green eyes and the ludicrously feminine long lashes, wondering what his turmoil was. Lines etched at the corners of his mouth and around those beautiful eyes hinted at pain and sadness. Maybe even guilt. There was another long silence as their eyes met again. “You’ve been through a lot,” he murmured. “Just a feeling I have.”
She put her hand on his arm. “Yes. I’ll tell you about it one day.”
He stepped away. “Maybe we’ll share our stories. Let them mingle into something dark and deep. But not now. Not yet.” He looked at the painting again. “There’s a lot of stuff you need to get out. This is just the beginning.”
She suddenly yearned to get close to him, to feel his body against hers, to be soothed by his arms. She hadn’t been that close to anyone for a very long time. The tactile, affectionate woman she had been was buried deep inside, under a sheet of ice and fear. She felt a sudden urge to melt the ice and reveal her real persona, that laughing, flirty girl she had once been. “Oh, yes,” she murmured, looking at him seductively. “Only the beginning. I wonder where it will end?”
“That’s an interesting question. One day we’ll have the answer, I’m sure.” He moved to the door. “You’re very good,” he said. “And I’m not talking about painting.” Then he was gone, as swift and supple as a cat, his long strides taking him across the lawn and up the path over the dunes.
-o-
The next day, Janine bumped into Brian from Listowel at the post office in Tralee. She had picked up her big canvas and was waiting for Beata, who had been delayed, but would arrive later. She stood there, wondering how long she would have to wait, when Brian turned away from one of the counters.
His face lit up when he saw her. “Hello there. We meet again.”
She looked up. “Hello. Um, Brian, isn’t it?”
“That’s right.” He took her hand in his big, warm one and shook it. “Nice to see you again, Jeanne.”
She laughed. “Janine. But close enough.”
He shrugged, looking sheepish. “I’m terrible with names. But I remember a face. And yours is far too beautiful to forget.”
“Thank you. You’re very gallant today.”
“Oh, well, I do my best.” He looked at the large canvas. “So, short of taking this apart, how are you going to get it into the car? I saw that little red machine in Listowel the other day. You’ll never get it into that.”
“I know but I’m waiting for a friend who promised to pick me up in her van. I caught the bus here. But my friend has been delayed so I’ll have to wait.”
“Well, if you look through the window, you’ll see a rather ugly van thing. That’s mine. Why don’t I take you and your canvas and drive you home? You can call your friend and tell her you got a lift.” He waggled his eyebrows with a leery grin. “Best excuse ever to stalk a pretty girl.”
She giggled. “Oh la la, you’re a very dangerous man. I don’t know if I should accept this very kind offer. But as I’m desperate and I hate waiting, I’m very tempted.”
“Wonderful.” He picked up the canvas. “Follow me. We’ll have this at your house in no time. And if you’re free, we could do a little tour of the Maharees later on?”
She looked at him blankly. “The Maharees?”
“Yes, the spit of sand that sticks out into the ocean from Castlegregory.”
“Oh. Of course.” She shook her head and laughed. “Sorry. I must seem very dim. I’ve never actually gone out there.”
“About time, then. I’ll show you around and tell you the history of that strange peninsula. Then we’ll go to the pub for something to eat and a glass of wine.”
“Sounds perfect.” Janine followed Brian like a small girl trailing after her big brother.
-o-
“The history of the Maharees is interesting and not widely known,” Brian explained as they drove along the dunes toward the end of the peninsula, where the small harbour, surrounded by fisherman’s cottages and holiday homes, enjoyed spectacular views of the islands and the Atlantic. “These days, surfers and holidaymakers come here to enjoy the beaches. But the history is fascinating and quite tragic.” He pulled the van up at the sweep of the bay to the south, overlooking the majestic mountains at the far side. “We’ll get out here and walk to the harbour.”
Janine was entranced by the feeling of infinity. Her spirits lifted as she looked out at the horizon. “Blue,” she said as she stood there. “So many shades of blue. And the sky seems higher and wider here.” She looked up. “I’d love to be a bird and soar up into that mass of blue and look down on this incredible landscape.” She looked at a solitary windsurfer cradled in the perfect curve of the bay, oblivious to the power and glory of his surroundings as he strained every sinew to keep his fluttering little craft upright against the wind. “Strange how he isn’t aware of the beauty around him.”
Brian came up behind her. “That’s what I meant. Many people see just what’s on the surface and don’t open their eyes to look. True vision is a rare gift.”
“You have it,” she said without taking her eyes off the view.
“And you, with your artist’s eye. We’re both blessed.”
“Yes,” she said. “Oh yes, we are.”
They walked along the beach to the harbour and stood at the seaward end of Scraggane Pier above red and blue little fishing vessels, where Brian told her about the hungry men who built the breakwater back in 1887 for shillings paid out by the Congested Districts Board. Out to sea, the waves broke in spray curtains over the island called the Seven Hogs. They walked further to the ruins of the old church and the graveyard where so many fishermen, who perished at sea, were buried.
Janine walked around, looking at the inscriptions on the tombstones. It hinted at harsh lives, men lost at sea, women left with small children who often died very young. The names were strange to her, Gaelic first names with odd spellings, often the same all through the generations of the same families. There was an eerie feeling there; the ocean was so near. That ocean that killed so many but also sustained life and provided food for the population for centuries. How hard to live like that: to be frightened every time the man you loved went out to sea, not knowing if he would come back alive. Janine could imagine the women standing on the shore, staring out at the horizon, the wind tearing at their clothes, wondering if they would see their husbands, sons or brothers again. She shivered, both from the cold wind and the sad images this place conjured up. She looked around for Brian and found him standing by a grave further up the hill above the church. Sensing his sorrow, she didn’t speak but waited a short distance away. He turned around and beckoned her to come closer, his eyes full of tears.
Janine read the name on the stone. “Fidelma Moriarty. A relative?”
“My wife.” He took out a handkerchief and wiped his eyes. “She passed away five years ago.”
“I’m so sorry.”
“Thank you.” He sighed and put away the handkerchief. “You think you’ll get used to it but you never do. It gets less hard, that’s all. And you learn to live with it until it becomes as much part of you as your own name. Then you carry the sorrow around for the rest of your life.”
She snuck her hand into his. “But you don’t want to let go of the sorrow completely, because then you’ll have lost her. She’ll always be in your heart.”
“He squeezed her hand. Yes. Absolutely. Thank you.”
They stood in silence for a while, until Brian squeezed her hand again and let go. “Let’s continue our walk.”
When they reached the other side of the bay an hour later, Brian declared he was cold and hungry, so they went into Mulligan’s pub for seafood chowder and Guinness in front of the turf fire.
“Thank you,” Janine said, looking at him over the rim of her bowl of chowder. “Thank you for—” She couldn’t go on. It seemed so trite to just say a simple thank you for the gift he had given her that afternoon. He had brought her to a place of unique beauty and made her see the true fabric of the people and its history.
“He nodded. “I know what you’re going to say. I thought I’d show you my Maharees and tell you the story of my people. My great grandfather was a fisherman here and my grandfather too. But my father moved to Listowel when he was very young, as he joined the police force, or the Garda Siochána, as we call it here. Married a girl from the town and stayed there. I grew up there. But I always felt the Maharees is my real home.”
“You’re so part of this place,” Janine said, looking at his solid form in the Aran sweater and jeans. He made her feel like smiling all the time, and she realised she hadn’t thought of Jake or her past the whole afternoon. It was as if she had been on holiday from her troubles.
“Not that many of us are left. You’re looking at a dinosaur.”
Janine laughed. “A very attractive one, too.”
He smiled without replying. Then he got up. “Time to leave. I have to open the pub for the evening.”
Janine rose and gathered up her scarf and jacket. “Thank you for a wonderful day.”
He looked at her. “It was a true pleasure, my dear. But now you have to go and work on that painting I spotted in your conservatory.”
“It’s nearly finished.”
“No,” he said. “It isn’t finished. You have to get a lot more onto that canvas before you can rest. And you have to do another and another until you have reached true closure. It’s your catharsis. You can’t go back to living until you get it all out.”
-o-
Janine knew he was right. As she looked at the canvas, she knew she wasn’t finished with it. To her, the paintings would eventually read like a diary, and this was the first part, the part where she had met Steve and later discovered what he was really like.
Six months into their marriage, the whirlwind courtship came to an abrupt end. Steve changed from the charming older man besotted with his beautiful young wife to someone distant and cold. Someone who was obsessed with money and possessions. And someone who didn’t know how to love. He was a collector and had impressive collections of art, jewellery and antiques, all of which were famous all over the world. Janine began to think she was part of some kind of collection too, being wife number five. She hadn’t really worried about this before, but when it slowly dawned on her that she was being followed everywhere, she realised Steve saw her as his possession. That’s when the beautiful dream turned into an ongoing nightmare. It took her two years to break out of it, and she still remembered the dizzy feeling of freedom that evening when she escaped from her gilded but unbearable existence.
She made a cup of tea and drank it, sitting on a stool in front of the canvas, breathing in the smell of oil paint. The dark black and grey splashes and swirls were her despair as Steve tortured her with intermittent indifference and cruel attacks. The red splash was her hatred of him, and the lighter blue streaks represented her escape and that feeling of freedom as she travelled further and further away. Of course, Mick was right. The accidental little white shape that merged into the yellow lines at the top was the feeling of hope surging through her during her flight. It was a tiny flash of anticipation of a better life, which increased in strength when she met Jake. Yes, Brian was right. She had to tell her story her own way before she could go on living. And she had to get Jake out of her system the only way she knew how: painting him on a big canvas, the one that had just been delivered. But not yet. She had to go through every single moment of their time together first. It was running through her mind like a very long movie.
-o-
The market in the town was smaller than the souk in Tangiers Janine had visited years before. But it still had the same smells, heat and cacophony of many voices. Stalls selling cloth, rugs, jewellery and spices lined the street thronged with shoppers, mostly locals and the odd die-hard tourist, who hadn’t yet managed to get away. Jake and Janine hung on to each other as they pushed through the throng, searching for things that might come in useful on their imminent sea voyage. Janine, after some deliberation, bought a silk hijab at a stall specialising in this female Muslim headscarf. The female assistant showed her the right way to tie it, and the end result was quite pretty.
Janine turned to Jake. “How do I look?”
He took a step back and studied her for a moment. “Awesome, baby. It kind of shows up your eyes and your cheekbones. It changes your whole look, though. But I guess that’s what you’re after.”
“Exactly.” She touched her head. “I like the feel of it. And it will keep my hair hidden until I can change the colour.”
“Good thinking.”
They pressed on through the crowd. Janine next bought aromatic oils and face creams from a stall, haggling furiously in French with the female seller. She then bought an embroidered cotton jacket and a pair of sandals. Having had enough of shopping, Jake pulled her away, but she stopped at a stall where women queued to have their faces decorated with intricate patterns of henna.
“What are you buying here?” Jake asked. “I want to try to get something to eat. I see steam coming from a stall further up. We might get a bowl of couscous.”
“You go ahead,” she urged. “I want to see if I can get something done with my face.”
He let go of her hand. “All right. Let’s meet up in half an hour over there.”
When she joined him at the stall, where he had bought two bowls of couscous and lamb stew that smelled delicious, he stared at her. “What have you done with your face?”
Janine turned to let him admire the thin swirls of henna on each cheek. “I think it’s beautiful. And it makes me look a lot less like some European socialite, don’t you think?”
“Definitely. You look like one of those Berber women.” He pushed the bowl at her. “Here. Eat. And have some of this tea too,” he said, pointing at a cup on the counter.
Janine fell on the food, realising she was starving. “What did you buy?” she asked between mouthfuls.
“Nothing much. Just this.” He took a small packet wrapped in cloth from his pocket. He handed it to Janine. “For you.”
Janine unwrapped the packet and discovered a silver bangle studded with turquoise. “Oh, Jake, it’s beautiful. Thank you.” She slipped it on her wrist.
“Turquoise is the oldest amulet there is. They’re supposed to protect you from harm, give you strength and even connect you with the spirit world, if you believe that nonsense.”
Janine stroked the smooth stones with her finger. “I do. And if given to you by a loving friend, it will protect you from negative energy. It’s the symbol of friendship.”
“I hope it’ll bring you luck.”
“I’m sure it will. What else did you do?”
“I went down this lane and there was this shop doing—” He turned his wrist.
Janine’s eyes popped. “A tattoo! You went and had a tattoo.” She looked closer. “What is it? Oh, I see, two Js wrapped around each other.” Inexplicable tears welled up in her eyes. “Oh, Jake.”
He shrugged. “Yeah. Don’t know what came over me. Guess I felt I wanted to remember you...us if we—”
She put her finger on his lips. “No. Don’t even think it. “We don’t know what’s going to happen. We just have to—”
“Be prepared for the worst but hope for the best,” he filled in. “That has always been my motto.”
“Excellent motto.” She sighed, looking into her tea. “Life’s so short. I want to live it, not fear it’s going to end any minute.”
He looked over her shoulder at something in the distance. “If that’s what you want to do, we’d better get out of here fast. “I see some familiar—”
“Faces?” she said, startled by the sudden alarm in his eyes.
“No. AK47s.”
-o-
The panic, Janine thought as she sat there, looking at the shapes and colours of her painting. The sheer terror we felt as we ran away from the market. How horrible it was. To think I might be found any second, captured and brought back to the misery of my marriage to Steve. But it had been exciting too, she had to admit, despite the fear, despite the heat and dust and discomfort. It had made her feel so alive, so free. To live like that, always on the run with adventure around every corner, that was what made Jake tick. My gypsy lover.
Her thoughts were interrupted by Nelia and Assumpta, arriving up the path from the gate, giggling and pushing each other. They came to a stop at the door, staring in awe at the painting.
“Holy shit,” Assumpta gasped. “That’s...that’s like...nothing I’ve ever seen before. Makes me want to go punch someone or something.”
“It’s scary,” Nelia whispered behind her. “Scary and beautiful.”
The girls looked at Janine with admiration. She smiled at them. “Well, paintings should talk to you.”
Assumpta grinned. “Yeah but do they have to shout?” She drew breath. “You have to show this to Brian, Mum’s friend. He’d love it.”
“He’s already seen it,” Janine said. “This afternoon.”
“Did he like it?” Assumpta asked.
Janine nodded. “Yes. I think he did. He might even put it in his gallery when it’s finished. Now girls, I think you should head home. Nelia, your father—” she stopped.
“Nelia looked at her curiously. “My dad?”
“Is here,” Janine ended.
“You know my dad?” Nelia exclaimed, incredulously. “I never told him about you. How do you know him?”
Janine tried to think of a way to deny it but gave up. “We bumped into each other on the beach when he went for a run a few weeks ago. I told him who I was and we had a chat, that’s all.”
“But why didn’t he tell me?” Nelia demanded. “I’ve been trying my best not to talk about you to anyone, but then you go and meet him and tell him yourself.”
“I’m sorry,” Janine soothed. “It just happened. In fact, I meant to tell you that you don’t have to feel that you can’t talk about me. I just didn’t want a lot of gossip. But nobody here knows anything about me, so I don’t think you need to feel it’s top secret anymore.”
“Oh great. Thank you so much,” Nelia said. She turned around and went out the door. “Come on, Assumpta. Let’s go and meet my dad.”
“Cool,” Assumpta said.
Nelia swished out of the house and through the garden, Assumpta at her heels. Teenagers, Janine thought, how unpredictable and moody they are. She looked at the girls disappearing up the lane, feeling something had changed.
