Chapter Eight

There's neither lowly nor noble, but down a while and up a while.

—Irish Proverb

 

Sheer pleasure.

Dev's phrase lingered in Jenna's thoughts, a seductively whispered promise. The distraction was taking its toll. Tuesday and Wednesday had been marked by a series of kitchen mishaps. None had been dire, but all had been the result of her frayed nerves, already too close to the skin. And even one of her usual comforts—visits by Brendan Mulqueen—had been marked by strangeness. On Tuesday he had called her to his table, asked all she knew about Dev, and then the next night, Brendan hadn't arrived for his standing dinner reservation. One more unsettling event layered over Dev's whispers of pleasure.

It wasn't as though she didn't deal in matters of pleasure. Her restaurant thrived because she brought pleasure to others. The perfectly prepared meal, the warm welcome, the beauty both on the plate and in the surroundings, all of it the product of rigorous standards created to attain pleasure. But sheer pleasure for herself? That was a luxury she couldn't afford, had she even wanted to.

On Thursday when Jenna woke, her first thought was of Dev. He'd be back to Muir House; she couldn't wish him away. Pushing aside his all too vivid spectre, Jenna rose, made her bed, and then made her way to the bathroom. Next to her enormous white porcelain bathtub sat a wicker hamper brimming with bubble baths, salts, scented oils, and loofahs that her mother had sent her the prior Christmas. Instead of ignoring its contents and readying a shower as always, Jenna hesitated. Pleasure and temptation... She looked away from the basket, turned on the taps and ran the shower curtain around the chrome oval ring suspended from the ceiling. She stripped and showered like a good soldier. Business as usual.

By seven she sat in front of her computer catching up on news from her e-mail loops—buddies from the business gossiping about critics and ratings and how Jenna had snagged the upcoming Irish Gourmet photo shoot. Word was also out that Guide Eireann had begun updating their restaurant reviews. For Jenna, it would be another matter conspiring to keep her sleepless. One more star granted by faceless, anonymous critics would gain her notice throughout Europe. Everyone had a theory regarding these mysterious souls. Eoin, who ran a bistro up in Sligo town, said it was a portly middle-aged man, balding and dour, who'd skewered him. James in Dublin claimed it was two women doing the circuit to the east this year, both tall brunettes—sisters, perhaps; royal bitches, for certain.

Refusing to fall victim to stress, Jenna exited her e-mail program and grabbed the black notebook that held her schedule and to-do list. She headed toward the kitchen, where she found Aidan sitting at the oak table in the war room. He wasn't much for displaying either highs or lows on his craggy features, but he appeared tense as he paged through the kitchen's recipe binder.

"You're here early," she said.

"Just wanted to be on time for the meat delivery, that's all," he replied.

Which wasn't due for another hour and a half.

She made coffee, poured herself her morning mug, and offered one to Aidan, who turned her down.

"Think I'll sharpen me knives," he said before leaving for his prep area.

Her man of few words was verging on none. Jenna knew better than to ask why. If he wanted to share with her, Aidan would do it in his own time. Instead she checked her notes for the day.

Thursday was always butchering day. As soon as she'd hired Aidan, Jenna had turned over to him the duties of breaking down cuts of meat to servings, then preparing them for storage in the cold room. It was her least favorite job, and Aidan performed it with the skill of a surgeon—little waste and portions so close in weight that even her digital scale could scarcely discern the variation when she spot-checked.

While he cut and prepped in the back, Jenna finished her coffee, then set up in the front of the kitchen to make the pasta to be used over the weekend. All told, she was much happier up to her elbows in flour. She was well into her task when the telephone rang.

"Damn." Jenna grabbed a white work towel from the stainless shelf in front of her and cleaned her hands the best she could as she hurried to the war room, where the only phone in the kitchen was located.

She looped the towel over the back tie to her apron before picking up. "Muir House."

"Ms. Fahey?"

"Yes?"

"Howard Keene here."

Howard was the Tralee solicitor she'd hired when she'd stumbled on Muir House. He had negotiated a lease clause to give her the option to purchase the property at market value, plus one to reimburse her for any improvements she might have made, should she be unable to meet market value. At the time it had been the best they could do. Honoria Weston-Jones had been hesitant to part with family property, even though she was perfectly willing to let it rot. Jenna had figured that odds were good she'd outlive Honoria, and that Honoria's heirs would be happier with cash than a piece of Irish real estate convenient to nothing. And as for someone bidding against her and driving up value, God knew she couldn't imagine anyone else being interested in the place. It had sat vacant for decades.

Since time was no longer her friend, Jenna had called Mr. Keene late Monday afternoon and asked him to hurry along the sale negotiations with Muir House's absentee owner.

"Do you have some good news for me, Mr. Keene?"

"I'm afraid not. Miss Weston-Jones's solicitor is reporting a certain degree of inattentiveness on his client's part. As he's well paid to cater to her eccentricities, I don't expect he'll be moving the process along."

"So what now?" she asked.

"Perhaps it's time for a more direct approach."

"Meaning?"

"When matters bog down in official channels, one might consider another route," he said.

"Are you telling me to call her?"

"Now, I couldn't be doing that in an official capacity, as we both know she's represented by Mr. Faber. But, perhaps you might have decided to ring her up—without mentioning it to me, of course."

"Of course," Jenna replied.

After some obligatory small-talk about whether it was a soft day in Ballymuir because it was looking none too promising in Tralee, and how he'd seen a fine mention of Muir House in the newspaper the other day, Jenna and her solicitor said their goodbyes. Forehead and palms resting against the wall as though she were waiting to be frisked, Jenna allowed herself one bleak "feck."

"Jenna?"

She stepped back.

Aidan, looking like the mad butcher of Ballymuir in his well-used apron, stood in the doorway. "You'd best be seeing this."

"Don't tell me there's something broken in the kitchen. I was pretty sure that everything that could break had already."

He shook his head and motioned for her to follow him. "You had a delivery."

"More meat?" she asked, then immediately realized he wasn't heading to the back door, but the front.

"No. It's for your sister, but she's not about."

No shock there. Maureen hadn't been out of bed before noon the past two days.

Jenna stepped into the front entryway.

"Out there," Aidan said.

She swung open the door and her eyes widened. A legion of tan luggage emblazoned with the designer's initials seemed to have disgorged itself from a red van, which was now disappearing down the drive. Cases of ranging sizes lined the steps.

She turned back to thank Aidan, but he was already gone. As she counted up the bags—eleven of them—fat drops of rain began to fall from the sky. She closed the door and climbed the stairs to Her Royal Highness's room.

Her sister was sprawled face-down on the bed, out cold. Wadded up tissues and rumpled pieces of clothing were scattered across the bed and on the floor. Jenna worked her way through the mess and nudged her sister on the shoulder.

"Maureen, wake up."

"Don't wanna. Go 'way."

"Your luggage is here."

"So bring it up."

"Like hell." Jenna yanked back the black duvet and the white sheet beneath.

Dressed in an oversized T-shirt and baggy flannel pants, Maureen curled up like a shrimp in the middle of the large bed and dragged a pillow over her head. The muffled comment from beneath the pillow didn't sound promising.

Jenna began pulling open the drapes, bringing gray daylight into the room. "I've made a point of not complaining when you've disappeared each of the past three nights. I've even made a point of not asking you where you've been. But I'm not your servant. Now, go downstairs and get your luggage. You might want to hurry, too. I'm not sure how all that fancy leather is holding up to the rain."

That, at least, got Maureen to move.

Satisfied, Jenna returned to her office and readied to deal with Honoria Weston-Jones.

Miss Weston-Jones wore her spinsterhood with great flair. Her clothes were vintage 1950s, as was her hairstyle. An ill-tempered Cairn terrier named Buttons was her boon companion, and Jenna was convinced that Honoria nipped into the sherry with her morning tea and continued from there. Actually, from what Jenna had seen on her one visit, she had her suspicions about Buttons, too.

Calling Honoria directly was a calculated risk, and not one easily quantified. On a good day the woman was incredibly sharp. If, however, she was in her whimsical state of mind, there was no dealing with her. Jenna closed her office door. After double-checking Honoria's number in her computer's address book, she said a brief prayer to the gods of flighty minds, and then dialed. When Honoria answered, Jenna worked up her most positive voice.

"Miss Weston-Jones, it's Jenna Fahey. How have you been?"

"Fine, now that Markham has finally exterminated the moles in my garden."

Honoria seemed to believe that the world was well-acquainted with the details of her life and followed them avidly.

"Glad to hear it." Whoever Markham was. "And Buttons, is he well?"

"His rheumatism is acting up, but he forges on, the poor dear."

Jenna attempted to forge on, too. "I hate to disturb you, but my solicitor says there's been some holdup in the purchase negotiations."

"Purchase of what?"

"Muir House."

"Someone wants to purchase Muir House? That old ruin?"

"I do, Miss Weston-Jones."

"Are you daft, girl? Why ever would you want to do that?"

"I've been leasing it from you and running a restaurant." Jenna racked her brain for some other hint that might help. "I sent you some clippings a few months back."

"Ah, yes, so you did. So you did. The place slips my mind. Savage land, Ireland. Haven't been there since '72, or was it '73?"

"I was wondering if perhaps we could wrap up the deal soon?"

"I never discuss finances over the telephone. It's an uncouth instrument."

"Well, if you could have your solicitor talk with mine..."

"Come pay me a visit, dear. You could take me to the Grosvenor Hotel for tea, as did that nice Mr. Gilvane yesterday."

It took a moment for Jenna to get past the blow to her solar plexus and ask the obvious question. "Dev Gilvane?"

"Why, yes. Do you know the boy? Charming, isn't he?" she pushed on, not really caring whether Jenna knew Dev. A blessing, since Jenna was still struggling for a response that didn't include the phrase duplicitous bastard.

Devlin Gilvane might have promised sheer pleasure, but he was proving far more adept at delivering sheer aggravation.

 

Maureen wasn't so much hung-over as she was willing herself dead. Sure, two pints of self-medication in the form of stout at O'Connor's Pub last night had been one pint too many, but a throbbing head was the least of her problems. She was wet, ticked off, and not even interested in getting dressed until sometime the next millennium.

She glared at the luggage she'd just dragged up the stairs, piece by heavy piece—only three of which were really hers. It looked as though Afton had packed every single item of Maureen's clothing in the Fahey Paris apartment, down to the last floss-sized thong.

At least now Maureen knew for sure that her mother wasn't in Paris. Even if she hadn't missed Maureen, she would have definitely noticed that her Vuitton bags had disappeared. Of course, she might have just shrugged and picked up the custom Hermes she'd had her eye on. Maureen sighed and flopped in the middle of her bed.

This was one of those times when she longed for a normal family, one in which her parents even noticed that she existed. But no, she wasn't nearly as important as checking out Armani's new line or brokering a deal that got you a German ambassador in your hip pocket. She was just Maureen, good for decoration at cocktail parties and not much else.

She wondered if Sam was still in Paris, and whether he'd had his share of the actress yet.

She wondered why she cared.

And most of all, she wondered how she could be crying again. Out of tissue, she groped around on the mattress for the least-used, but gave up when she remembered that they were knotted in the covers at the foot of the bed.

A knock sounded at the door. It would Jenna, of course.

"Go away," Maureen called.

"Reenie, come on, let me in."

Reenie. Maureen longed for those uncomplicated Reenie days of old.

"I have orange juice," her sister wheedled.

Maureen rolled onto her back. "Is it fresh squeezed?"

"You have to ask?"

"Okay, you can come in."

As Jenna entered, Maureen sat up and cleared a spot on the nightstand. Jenna set down the glass she carried. She looked as though she were about to sit on the edge of the bed, but thought better of it. Good thing. That would have been too big of a jump on the sisterly scale for Maureen to believe.

As Jenna walked to the windows and looked outside, Maureen scooted upright and tried her orange juice. It was perfect, annoyingly so.

Without turning to face her, Jenna asked, "Did you have any plans for today?"

"Why? Do you have some toilets that need scrubbing?"

Her sister swung around. For the first time since she'd arrived, Maureen really looked at Jenna instead of just giving a passing glance meant to avoid an order to dust some furniture or kiss customers' butts.

Funny, but until that moment, she had never thought that Jenna and she looked much alike. Maybe Jenna had been short-changed in the height department and didn't have the Fahey golden hair, but they were definitely related. And Maureen saw some of her own unhappiness mirrored in her sister's eyes, too.

"Okay, here's the deal," Jenna said. "I need something to go right today. Aidan's in the foulest mood I've ever seen, I've got business problems making me crazy, and as usual, I'm attracted to a thoroughly rotten guy. So that leaves it up to you."

"This isn't your lucky day, is it?" Maureen drawled.

"Luck isn't the goal. Just survivability."

Maureen could relate.

Jenna flicked a hand toward the windows. "The rain seems to be wrapping up for the morning. Would you like to come out to the garden with me and dig around?"

Maureen was about to turn her down flat when a years-old memory drifted her way. She and Jenna were kneeling in a dirt patch, marking the row ends of newly planted seeds with sticks. Maureen could even recall the press of soil beneath her bare knees and the sound of the music on Jenna's radio.

"Remember the vegetable garden we planted at the summer house one year?" she heard herself blurting.

Her sister looked startled. "You remember that? You couldn't have been more than five years old."

"Oh, I remember. Mom had a fit because we upset the gardener by digging in his beds, and only the radishes grew."

Jenna smiled. "Yeah, but they were great radishes."

Maureen tried another sip of the juice. "Is your garden here any better?"

"Not by much, and I need to get it fixed up." She frowned before adding, "I've decided that it's time to start renting out rooms—you know, do the county manor thing. For the rates I'd like to charge, this place has to be oozing Irish charm."

Simply because it made her feel a little better, Maureen pointed out the obvious. "You're not exactly the charming hostess type."

"Not without some real effort, but I'm also out of ideas for other ways to increase my cash flow." She ran a hand through her hair. "None of this is your problem, though. And it's not why I'm asking you. I was just hoping we could spend some time together."

Maureen tried to speak, but there seemed to be a huge lump in her throat. Jesus, more tears?

"Or not," Jenna said with a shrug that Maureen was beginning to recognize as part of her sister's armor.

"Give me a few minutes to get dressed," she said. The trick would be finding one outfit in the dozens Afton had sent that wouldn't remind her of being with Sam. Maureen stared at the bed in an effort to hide the moisture rimming her lower lids. "I could use some time outside."

 

Impulse had led Jenna to Maureen's room, and now impulse had her standing in the middle of a garden. Both acts were proof that impulse was to be avoided. She grimaced as she looked around. Except for the corner she'd conquered for her herbs, the nearly one-acre space was distinguished as a garden only by the high stone wall enclosing it.

She wasn't sure that Maureen would show up and was even less certain she wanted her to. All she wanted was out of the house for an hour or two, away from the pressure that had her near to breaking. She couldn't spot a Guide Eireann critic, control Dev Gilvane, or make herself happy, but she could tame nature. Temporarily, at least.

The groan of the rusted garden gate caught Jenna's attention.

"You call this a garden?" Maureen said, standing with her hands on her narrow hips, just inside the entry.

Jenna smiled. "Only in the loosest sense."

Just as Maureen was dressed for gardening in only the most general of ways. Her hot-pink sneakers had an animal print that complimented her short black skirt and plunging black v-neck top. Jenna ignored a twinge of jealousy over the fact that she'd look like a stump in an outfit like that.

"You did some unpacking, I see," she said.

"Yeah, it's great to be a girl," Maureen replied with her trademark sarcasm. "So what are we going to do out here?"

Determined to keep matters light, Jenna retrieved the photo album she'd set on the bench beneath a scabby-looking, nearly dead pear tree. "I brought this for inspiration. Edna McCafferty, one of the older ladies in the village, gave this to me when I opened the restaurant. Her mother was a maid in the house in the early 1900s."

Maureen hovered next to her as she flipped through the old sepia-toned photographs. The album was a visit to an era long gone. Standing just outside the garden gate, serious-faced women in fussy dresses and enormous hats stared into the camera's eye.

Jenna turned the page, pausing to look at a glasshouse that was once located adjacent to this garden. Not even a hint of it remained. There were photos, too, of the interior of the walled garden, which had once been very formal, with neat stone-lined pathways and a small boxwood maze. Like the glasshouse, the maze was now a ghost.

"Wow," Maureen breathed as she looked at a picture of roses so lush that even seeing them in shades of brown didn't detract.

Jenna smiled. "It was something, wasn't it? It would take a fortune to restore the garden to what it was, but I figured at least I could uncover some of the pathways."

"With what, a bulldozer?"

"No, those." With her free hand, she pointed to two worn flat-bladed shovels she'd unearthed from a shed at the back of the house. During renovations, one contractor or another had left them behind, probably figuring they'd outlived their usefulness. "We'll just scrape back the turf."

"Yeah, right."

"I'm serious. This could be a great way to burn off some stress."

She carried the photo album back to the bench and picked up the shovels. Maureen grudgingly accepted hers.

Jenna used one sneaker-clad shoe to show Maureen the edge of the path. "Let's start here."

"The first sign of a blister and I'm out of here," Maureen said.

Stubborn sod had grown inches thick over the slabs of stone shown in the old photos. The digging took more effort than even Jenna, who was accustomed to huge projects, had imagined. Other than Maureen's muttered curses when her shovel slipped, they worked in silence for a time.

"Have you ever been in love?" Maureen eventually asked.

Jenna worked the shovel beneath the earth as she turned the question over in her mind. "Once, I thought I was."

"Claes?" Maureen asked.

Jenna nodded. "Yes."

"When Mom met him, she thought he was a jerk."

"It would have been helpful if she'd shared the information."

"Mom's too distracted to share," Maureen said. "Keeping busy lets her avoid thinking about how messed-up our lives are."

"You've got that right," Jenna replied. "How about you? Have you been in love?"

"Yeah. I wouldn't advise it, though."

Jenna paused long enough to use her forearm to wipe the perspiration beading on her forehead. In the way only Kerry clouds could, they'd drifted off to sea and left a cornflower-blue sky overhead.

"So what happened?" she asked.

"He wanted someone else more."

The tightness in her sister's voice told Jenna that this hadn't been a distant event.

"The curse of the Fahey sisters," she said, thinking of Claes, of Dev Gilvane, and most certainly of their parents. "To always stand in second place."

Maureen sighed as she set aside her shovel. "Do you think maybe if—" Whatever she'd been about to say faded as she cupped her hands above her eyes and looked skyward. "Do you hear that?"

The sound registered simultaneously with Maureen's question. The low thunder of a helicopter was audible long before the beast came into view. Jenna dropped her shovel and shaded her eyes from the sun. The chopper flew along the shoreline, directly toward them. Ballymuir was not a place of casual pilots, let alone sleek black helicopters. And she knew with certainty whom this one held.

"Dev," she said, giving the name the full weight of her anger.

"Dev?" her sister echoed. "He's the guy who had you pinned to the gate the night of the bonfire, right?"

Jenna turned to her sister. "You watched?"

Maureen didn't even bother to feign embarrassment. She laughed. "The way my life's going, I'll take my thrills anyplace I can find them."

Its noise ricocheting off the hard surface of Muir House, the helicopter swung low over the structure. Jenna had never felt so impotent. Without thought, she grabbed a chunk of turf and fired it skyward.

"Bastard," she shouted.

Maureen hooted with laughter, but Jenna was too furious to care how crazed she must look. She didn't have to see what Dev was doing to know that it involved a threat to her home.

The chopper circled before heading over the water.

"I dunno," Maureen said once she'd calmed enough. "There's something kind of sexy about a guy in a helicopter. Are you sure you want to scare him off like that?"

It wasn't working, anyway. He was coming straight at them.

Once he was nearly overhead, Jenna winged yet another piece of sod. Maureen wrapped her arms across her middle and howled again.

Jenna watched her projectile travel no more than twenty feet before it tumbled back to the ground. She should have tried harder back in her high school phys ed classes. The helicopter briefly dipped, as though taunting her, and then headed back along the coastline, north and east.

Maureen wiped at the tears gathered under her eyes. "Jeez, and I thought I was the only crazy Fahey in the bunch."

"I'm not crazy, just..." Just what? Seeking out Maureen, coming to the garden, lobbing dirt at Dev... With luck, impulsive acts were like accidents. She'd had her three and could get on with life. Until the next three arrived.