Chapter Eighteen

Eastward lies my journey, and westward lies my love.

—Irish Proverb

 

May gave way to June, but not without some drama. Dev and Brendan met and talked, but were close-mouthed with both Jenna and Kate about what had happened. According to gossip in town, the two were seen swinging fists down by the harbor one foggy evening. Amazingly, neither of them carried a mark, which the folks at the pub attributed to the sea air's restorative powers. Jenna had to appreciate how hard they would work to keep a tale afloat.

As the days passed, Jenna relaxed into a new rhythm. It wasn't so much that she let things slide at Muir House; she could hardly afford to, with rumors of approaching Guide Eireann critics growing louder every day. Instead, she learned that if she moved with less frantic intent, more seemed to get done. Dev and she were together nearly every free minute. Of course, with his travels around Ireland and back to the London office, those minutes were fewer than she wished.

This lazy Monday morning, Maureen and she sat in the blue salon. Between the breaks in clouds, sunlight streamed into the room. Jenna worked on supply lists while her sister scribbled in a journal, something she seemed to be doing every minute that she wasn't on the phone with Sam.

Jenna picked up her pencil and added to her notes. "Do you want to go set aside your journal long enough to go into town with me?" she asked her sister.

"Nope. Besides, Sam's supposed to call."

"If you're looking for company, I'll come along," said a much loved but unexpected male voice.

Jenna looked toward the doorway. "Dev! You told me that you'd be in Wexford."

"Change of plans," he said as he approached. He leaned down and kissed her to the sound of Maureen's, "Would you mind? Someone in a long distance relationship doesn't need to see that."

"So we're going to the village for what?" Dev asked. He looked tired, but his tone was upbeat.

"To visit with a new organic supplier."

"Looking for an unlimited supply of butter lettuce?"

She laughed. "With you around, it couldn't hurt."

 

After meeting with her supplier, Jenna joined Dev at O'Connor's Pub. It was a quiet place after lunchtime, with Rory behind the bar and the television chatting for companionship. Dev and she chose a small, round table near the front, where some light actually managed to creep in through well-shuttered windows. They savored Rory's famous artery-clogging, Cream-of-Whatever's-Fresh soup and ate brown bread thick with butter. Dev drank a pint while Jenna had her bottled water.

"Come to London with me," Dev said just as Jenna was taking a sip.

She swallowed her surprise at the request and said, "Okay, when? December for Christmas, maybe?"

"How about tomorrow?"

"You're joking, right?"

He shook his head. "No, I have to go tomorrow, for four days at the most. If you came with me, you could see where I live, and maybe meet some of my friends."

"Dev, it's one thing to take a few hours away or even a night, but four days?"

"Three, then," he bargained. "I'll tighten my schedule and have you back Thursday night. It will be fun. I've visited your haunts," he said, waving a hand around, "but you've yet to see mine."

His words startled her. She had come to think of Ballymuir—and Muir House especially—as Dev's world, too. He spent more nights in her bed than in the rooms he kept at Muriel O'Keefe's.

"I really can't," she said. "The Guide Eireann critics are going to visit the restaurant soon and—"

"Would you know them if you saw them?"

"No."

"Is your staff well trained?"

"Now that Evie is no longer on staff, yes."

"Then your presence would change their meals in what way?"

"I just need to be there to cover it." She knew she was sounding mulish. "This winter, I swear anyplace you want to drag me, I'll go."

He was silent, seemingly occupied by shredding the coaster that had been beneath his glass.

"What's wrong?" she asked.

"Nothing at all." He smiled, but seemed distracted. "Don't worry yourself. We'll do it in the winter, then."

She wanted to relax, but it was no easy trick. When Dev traveled, she would welcome him home, never asking about the tense lines that bracketed his mouth or the sudden fierceness with which he made love to her. It seemed she'd developed quite a talent for whistling her way through the unknown.

 

Tuesday lunchtime, Dev met with his boss, Trevor, in a dingy "Ye Olde English" bar of a chain hotel on the edge of London. After becoming accustomed to Rory's sparkling clean establishment, this place was more a pox than a pub. In any case, Dev had to wonder at the bizarrely clandestine nature of the meeting.

"Not quite our usual surroundings, I know," Trevor said with an apologetic smile as Dev came in.

"At least it was convenient to my flight," he conceded as he pulled out a chair and sat.

Trevor was looking a wee bit more smug than usual. "I needed to catch you before you arrived at headquarters," he said. "There's changes coming, and as one of my best men, I wanted you to know. I'd have called you, but it seems that I can say nothing over the phone without word leaking." He shook his head. "And going with paper or e-mail is little better."

Dev managed a neutral nod while thinking of his own Margaret riffling through the trash bin.

"So tell me of these changes," he prompted.

"On July first, I'll be moving to manage the commercial real estate division," Trevor said, his chest puffing, as was his due. After this promotion he had only the executive board left to attain. As a man yet in his forties, Trevor could aspire to the heights. And naturally Dev aspired to fill the slot he'd left.

"Congratulations," Dev said. "You've earned it."

"Thank you. This means, of course, that there will be a transition within the resorts group." Trevor drew on his cigarette, clearly waiting for Dev to ask about his fate.

Dev reined in on his impatience. To appear anxious was to appear weak. He smiled at a passing waitress, and when she stopped, asked for a coffee. Then he raised an expectant brow at Trevor, but said nothing.

"We'll be placing you to manage the Tokyo office," his employer announced. "You'll be there for two years, three at the most."

"Tokyo," Dev repeated, unbelieving. He knew his shock was showing and that Trevor was enjoying this infrequent slip.

"Consider it part of a rise to the top. I passed a stint in Tokyo, myself," Trevor said. "Some of the best years of my first marriage, in fact. Camille wouldn't come along with me."

Dev pulled out the smile he knew was expected.

"This is a perfect time for you, Dev. You've no connections or commitments that can't be severed."

But he did, for he'd be losing his heart.

"If it's your flat that concerns you, relax," Trevor assured. "Your payments will be covered while you're abroad."

His flat. Christ, that was the bloody least of his problems.

"It won't be so dreadful. And when you come back, you'll move to be second in command to me."

"I'd be honored," he said before asking a question for which he already knew the answer. "Who's heading up resorts?"

"Barrett."

Aye, Sid bloody thief Barrett. "I see."

"Obviously, it's not my choice," Trevor said, not quite meeting Dev's eyes.

"What happens to me if I turn down the Tokyo assignment?" Dev asked.

"You'll be Barrett's direct report. Surely that's enough to make the Ginza sound appealing?" Trevor's attempt at a hearty laugh fell on an unreceptive audience.

The waitress arrived with Dev's coffee. After she'd left, he glanced at the lipstick remnants on the cup and absently pushed it aside. The thought of Tokyo, a world away from Jenna, was an abomination, but he had bigger problems yet.

"What's to become of the Ireland project?" he asked.

"We're moving ahead. I'm stepping back to a consulting role, and Barrett will have the final site approval. You've done some fine work, Dev. Two of the sites in particular were charming, in a rural sort of way."

"And the site that's been selected?" Dev asked in as casual a voice as he could summon.

After one last pull on his cigarette, Trevor stubbed it out. "Do try to act as if you don't know when I tell you in our meeting this afternoon, but it's the County Kerry location. Ballymuir, is it?"

There, the worst had happened. Dev had supposed that when this moment finally arrived, he'd know a sense of relief, or at least resignation. He'd been wrong.

"Yes, Ballymuir," he replied.

"Barrett and a site group will be visiting on Friday. If it passes personal inspection, we'll push ahead with negotiations."

And it would pass, for it was the ideal site.

"I've an extra set of plans in my car if you'd like to see them before we meet at the office," Trevor offered.

This was rather like seeing the drawings of the scaffold from which he'd swing.

"Yes. Yes, I would," Dev heard himself replying. If he was to be hanged, he might as well go knowing.

 

Early Wednesday morning Dev did the unthinkable. Instead of heading to the office for the full raft of scheduled meetings, he arranged for a driver and went to the airport. After leaving his half-finished and very empty Knightsbridge flat, he didn't pull his cell phone and call Margaret. This was one matter in which even she could be of no help.

In Gatwick's Departures Hall, while waiting for the short flight that would take him back to Ireland, he considered his fate. Beside him sat a drab, brown cardboard tube carrying plans that were enough to damn him with every last soul in Ballymuir. True, the development would be a boon to the economy, but the personal cost was immeasurable.

On the flight to Shannon Airport, Dev closed his eyes and imagined himself taking another path, one to Tokyo. He pretended that he had never met Jenna, had never loved her. He remained glib, confident...and starved to the bottom of his soul. Vi Kilbride, near witch that she was, had told him not to hurt Jenna when he ran. He would not run; he had grown past the impulse. But he would hurt her all the same.

Once landed, Dev retrieved his car and tossed his bag and the plans on the seat next to him. It was not much past noon when he pulled down Muir House's drive. The assortment of vehicles parked in a lot usually nearly empty this time of day rattled him. He had envisioned the way his talk with Jenna was to go, and no audience was to be included. Still, there was no way but forward and past this disaster.

Dev entered the house and followed the sounds of talk and delighted laughter to the dining room. He wasn't quite sure how to define what he'd walked in on, except that it was the last thing he wanted to see.

A large group sat at the round table beneath the chandelier. His mum, Brendan, Vi, and Maureen he recognized for certain. With them were another couple he recalled from the night of the Beltane fire as Vi's elder brother, Michael, and his wife, Kylie.

Jenna stood at the table, a flute filled with what looked to be water held aloft. "Everyone knows that Vi's the one with the talent for speeches, while I stick to my kitchen. But this toast is from me, and even if it's a little rough, know that it's from my heart. To Michael and Kylie, who will be wonderful parents," she said. "Thank you for bringing your joy to Muir House."

When everyone had honored the couple, Dev—destined to be the outsider in all parts of his life—stepped the rest of the way into the room.

"If it isn't our semi-resident," Vi called, spotting him first. "Welcome home, Dev."

Home. He managed what he was sure was a fair travesty of a smile. "Thank you, Vi."

As Jenna came to him, he exchanged quick greetings with the others at the table. When she was near, he closed her in his arms, needing to feel her love.

"Come to the kitchen with me, where I can welcome you home without an audience," she said after rising on tiptoe and giving him a brief kiss.

"We'll be right back," Jenna called to the others, then took Dev's hand and led him off.

The delicious scents of spices and grilling meats and a sweet something wafting from the convection oven were too much for a system already gorged on guilt. Dev lingered just inside the doorway, only a few steps from the lobster's tank. He knew Jenna expected another kiss, but he couldn't. Simply couldn't.

"I'm glad you're home early," Jenna said while fussing with a family-style platter of salad sprinkled with paper-thin slices of red pepper and what looked to be tiny violets. "I've missed you, and I'm sorry I wasn't nicer when you left, too."

He worked up that same awful smile he'd shown in the dining room. "What have you going on?"

She smiled. "Other than an impromptu celebration since Kylie's just back from the doctor and confirmed pregnant, it's a victims' dinner."

"A what?" He was too distracted to care much, except the name of the dinner gained his attention.

"A victims' dinner," she repeated.

Fitting, indeed. Pity they didn't yet know to what they were falling victim. Jenna needed to know, and now, before he lost the numbness that insulated him. She didn't seem to notice that he was hardly there at all.

"Okay, I know it's only lunchtime, but the theory holds," she said. "You see, I invite over a bunch of friends and experiment on them with my new recipes." She waved a hand at the dishes lined up and ready to be taken out. "These are from my Zen session, by Tennac's ogham."

His bleakness must have left him looking a totally thick eejit, for she slowly repeated, "Tennac's ogham. You know, the stone on the hillside."

"Yes," he said. "Of course."

"There's room for you at the table," she offered.

"Thank you, but I'm not hungry just now," he replied. "How long do you think this will last?"

"Not too much longer or Aidan will have me skewered and turning on a spit. He needs the kitchen ready for dinner."

Dev nodded. He must tell her now. Each minute he delayed would only deepen the hurt.

"Jenna," he began, his voice rough, almost choked.

She looked up, hazel eyes wide as if she'd just seen the shadow of a ghost. "Yes?"

"I—" Jesus, in his life he'd coolly let staff go, cordially ruined the hopes of those competing against him, and competently rejected women with a note and a gift, all without feeling a twinge of remorse. But this would kill him. "I love you," he finished.

Awareness passed between them, the unsaid shouting louder than the said. And then she seemed to push past the moment.

"As you should, since I love you, too," she said. She scooped up a plate. "By the way, I think I left some notes in your car on Monday, when we came back from the village. Have you seen them?"

The forced cheerfulness in her voice sliced through him. Dev moved a step nearer the door. "Yes. I put them in the glove compartment."

"Good," she said, balancing a platter on the inside of her forearm and then filling her free hand with another. "I'd hate to have to redo the work." She came around the counter. "Are you sure you don't want to eat?"

"I'll just wait in the library," he said.

"Okay," she said. "I'll get rid of these guys as fast as I can."

Dev watched as she pushed through the door, leaving him alone. He took his time walking to the library, stopping to look at portraits and mementos on the walls, imprinting in his memory the scent of this place, the spring of the carpet beneath his feet—even the squeak of the library's door. Then he stood and gazed into the empty fireplace, cleaned free of the ashes from fires he'd watched.

"Dev?" called a woman's voice from behind him.

His shoulders slumped. "Why aren't you eating, Mum?"

"And why aren't you?"

"Not hungry," he said as he sat in his favorite chair.

She stood in front of him. "Whatever's the matter? You looked like death when you came into the dining room."

Keeping his gaze somewhere about her feet, he shook his head. "Nothing's the matter."

"Devlin, look at me."

He'd heard that command many times as a child. Any half-truth, any wiggling away from an unpalatable situation, and he'd be told to meet her eyes. And she'd know, damn her, she'd know in whatever mysterious ways a mother did.

"It's my turn to be concerned about you," she said.

Keeping his eyes averted, he shook his head. "I'm just needing some air. Go back and eat, Mum." With that, he stood and left.

Dev took the service hallway to the kitchen. Jenna was tasting a sauce as he passed by. She tossed the spoon into the utility sink by the back door just as he grasped the handle and swung it open.

"I thought you were waiting in the library. Where are you going?" she asked, but he didn't slow.

"Taking a stroll," he replied, forcing a false note of joviality into his voice for Jenna's sake.

Dev walked the tamed pathway to the front of the house, but then left for the rougher land beyond. He walked uphill, over grass and weeds wet from an earlier rain. Only when he'd lost some of his anger did he slow. Instinct had brought him to a place he'd been before. To the ogham stone.

It was timeworn and far from grand, but it still held a strange power, sitting on the crest of the hill. Just as he'd seen Jenna do, Dev bent down and brushed his fingers across the odd, angled lines cut into the ogham's side—an alphabet pagan and evocative.

She'd said this was Tennac's stone, and so it must say. Still, Dev felt its deeper meaning: I am. Long after I am dust washed down to the sea, remember: I am.

Tennac had his stone lording it over a land empty of Tennac for years uncountable. With the arrogance of the living, Dev scoffed at the thought. But then a voice, low and sibilant, curled around him with the grip of the wind.

And what does Dev Gilvane have?

He wouldn't permit himself to be cowed by a goddamn rock, or by thoughts of the spirits that lingered. It was nothing more than the voice of his own distress. He rubbed at his forehead, then frowned at the tremor in his fingers.

Fear? Dev Gilvane had no fear.

He had a flat in Knightsbridge that cost more than the whole bloody town of Ballymuir. He had the wealth to travel.

He had...

He had...

After today, what would he have?

Without regard for the wet or the bite of the earth, Dev sat next to the stone of Tennac.

 

Everyone was fed and generally content, except for Kate, who was looking pale. Jenna would have asked what was wrong, but Kate was busy whispering to Brendan.

Jenna drew Maureen aside. "Would you mind playing hostess? I need to find Dev."

Maureen gave no hesitation, no flip answer, only a plain, "I'd be happy to help."

As Jenna walked out the kitchen door, she thought of the two places at Muir House that seemed to call to a soul: the hillside and the sea. Figuring the odds were even, Jenna opted for the uphill climb.

She saw Dev long before she reached him, while he didn't seem to notice her at all. He sat perfectly still next to the ogham, feet flat on the ground and his wrists propped on bent knees. If the wind hadn't been moving his hair, she'd have thought he was a statue.

"Dev," she called as she neared him.

He looked up, but his gaze seemed blank.

Jenna did her best to sound cheerful, to lighten a moment she didn't understand. "Did you enjoy your stroll?"

He gave a slight nod and then rose.

Did he have any idea he'd be wet from sitting on the ground? It didn't seem so. She pointed to the fog pushing down the mountainside and toward the shore. "The weather's turning. We should go back to the house."

Dev nodded, but seemed in no hurry to beat the fog, which was slithering downhill, swallowing whole everything in its path.

"Let's move," she urged. "I'll build a fire in the library. This is an afternoon to stay warm."

He followed, but was as silent as the blanket of white behind them. They were nearly to the drive when she recalled that she needed her notes.

She stopped. "Is your car open?"

"Yes," he said.

"Then I'm going to grab my notes. I'll meet you at the house."

He said nothing, but she was becoming used to this silent Dev. Jenna angled off toward the car, checking once to see if he continued toward the house. He did, so Jenna opened the passenger door of the little Porsche. In order to open the glove compartment, she had to push aside Dev's fancy travel bag and a cardboard courier's tube that lay atop it. She reached in and retrieved her notes. After she'd closed the compartment, she resettled Dev's things. It was then that she noticed someone had written Muir House in marker on the tube.

She wasn't above snooping, especially when the subject was her home. Jenna brought the tube out of the car and turned it over in her hands. At the far end was a label showing the name and address of a London architectural firm. Centered on it was the phrase, "Revised 4 June."

The fourth of June. Less than two weeks ago.

Jenna tucked her notes into her jeans' pocket. Hands shaking, she dislodged the contents from the tube and unrolled it across the hood of Dev's car. The drawings were pages thick, but the first was enough to tear the breath from her.

"Oh, God."

On a schematic, her house was nothing more than a small block off which grew more shapes—huge, monstrous land-eating buildings, labeled "Conference Centre" and "Sports Complex." The walled garden was consumed by a day spa, the hillside with rental cottages, and Mr. Horrigan's farm was a golf course.

Jenna peeled back a sheet and found the front elevation of Muir House. Nothing, not even the placement of the entry was the same. They would eat it alive. Rain began to fall, one cold, heavy drop after another pelting the drawing. She wished for the ink to run and the ugliness to be washed away, but it stared back at her, firing her fury.

"I planned to tell you as soon as I arrived," Dev said from behind her.

Jenna wondered how long he'd been standing there. She kept her head down, staring at the travesty in front of her. "These were last revised on the fourth of June, Dev. Did we make love that day?"

"I would think we did."

"And didn't you feel a little guilty?"

"No. I love you."

His words were empty, she knew that, but her tears joined the rain anyway. "They never stopped looking at Muir House, did they?"

"No."

"And you knew this."

"Yes."

"How could you?" she asked.

"Damn it, there was nothing I could do about it. Don't you think I've nearly killed myself, combing every mile of road, following every lead, no matter how poor, trying to find some other way for this to end?"

She wanted to turn and free her fury, but she wouldn't give him even that much more of her pride. "You should have told me."

She wasn't alone in her anger. His hand settled on her arm, and he spun her around.

"That's shit and we both know it," he said in a tight voice. "You didn't want me to tell you. Every time I'd come home, I wanted to share with you, to tell you how goddamn awful my trip had been and how worried I was that I'd not fixed this mess. But you, all you wanted to do was talk about your days or Maureen or anything except this. You knew, Jenna. You've always known."

He pointed at the plans with a brutal, stabbing motion. "So here it is. This is what they're doing. Even with your money and mine, it won't be enough. And I know how Harwood works. I wrote the rules of the damn game. If they want this place enough, they'll make it impossible for others to have it."

"No!"

"You made me bear this alone even though we both knew it was happening. And I was willing to do it, to take those dark nights myself, because I love you."

He was a liar. She didn't want to hear this. She turned, thinking to flee, but he caught her and held her tight against him. "It's here—this bloody horrible mess—and now we have to bear it together or bear it alone."

He didn't understand; she couldn't bear it. Jenna pushed away, then shoved her wet hair from her face. "I need you to leave. For good."

Dev watched as Jenna gained the front steps of the house she loved so well and then disappeared inside. He picked up the plans, folded the sodden mass in half and stowed it on the passenger seat of his car. He knew he should go inside and confront her. But just now he was worn and weary, and heartbroken nearly to death. Jenna had her sister and Vi to comfort her. And he deserved no comfort.

Dev climbed into his car and left as Jenna had asked. He had no particular destination in mind when he drove to town and parked. That he was in front of O'Connor's seemed fitting. He went inside, sat down, and ordered himself a whiskey, neat. Rory O'Connor had the good grace not to ask why Dev would be wanting this at not even two in the afternoon, or to argue overmuch when he swallowed the first and immediately demanded a second.

Rory wiped down the bar in front of Dev. "And what made you decide to be my best customer?" he asked.

"Turned my lover against me."

O'Connor extended his palm. "Hand over your keys, then," he said with a pitying shake of his head. "Wouldn't want to hurt that fancy machinery of yours."

Dev complied. Rory pocketed the keys and settled a whiskey bottle in front of Dev. There was maybe a quarter left, but Dev figured it should be enough.

"There's a room at the top of the stairs," the bartender said. "Stop drinking while you can still climb."