Prologue
Pat Fitz had had a wedding dress of ivory-coloured poplin with a fitted bodice, a gored skirt, and a stiff net petticoat. She’d made it on a sewing machine bought with savings from the summer she’d spent in the States the year she left school. There was a lace inset at the neckline, but otherwise the dress was plain, except for the row of pearl buttons down the back. Her veil was sheer nylon, anchored by a band of artificial roses she’d bought in a place called Blanche’s Bridal Bower, and brought home in her hand luggage wrapped in layers of tissue paper. Her shoes, which were ivory satin, were also from the States. She and Ger were both small and she wanted to keep things simple for fear she’d look like a cauliflower when they walked down the aisle.
In the end she’d been delighted with the result. The bell sleeves had made the dress fashionable and more than one person had asked where she’d bought it. There was a photographer from the Inquirer at the wedding breakfast, which was held in the function room at the Royal Victoria Hotel, and the group photo in the following week’s paper was captioned, Finfarran bride designs own stylish gown.
Mary Casey was to have been Pat’s matron of honour but, at the last minute, they’d decided little bridesmaids would be better. In a bit of a rush, Pat had run up a couple of frocks for her cousin’s daughters, who were eight and six respectively and looked sweet. Mary, in her role as the bride’s best friend, sat in the second row in the church in a feather corsage and a yellow coat dress she’d got from a shop in Cork. And Tom, Mary’s new husband, had been Ger’s best man.
Later on, the photographer had taken a shot of the four of them together, all eating a piece of wedding cake from the same plate, and the caption in the paper had been Lissbeg foursome celebrates Pat and Ger’s happy day.
Chapter One
Cassie Fitzgerald shook out a paper tablecloth, thinking that this was going to be one hell of a farewell party. It was mind-blowing that everyone had responded so promptly to a text message, but apparently Resolve’s Irish-American community always looked after visitors from home, and someone of Pat’s generation would be especially fêted: most of the Shamrock Club’s active members were seniors. Delicious smells were wafting from the kitchen and, at the far end of the dining room, a red-haired guy was setting up a microphone while an elderly man lifted instruments out of cases. Cassie threw a second glance at the sound guy. He didn’t look much older than herself. Twenty-five at the most. But perhaps he was a hired electrician, not a member of the club.
As she looked at him for the second time, he gave her a shy, lopsided smile. His crinkly eyes were startlingly blue, and his typically Irish skin was a mass of freckles. Cassie smiled back, assessing his haircut with a professional eye. She decided he’d paid top dollar for it: whatever he was, he was getting a decent wage. As soon as the thought crossed her mind, she felt irritated. Her mom and dad might judge everyone they met according to their income, but she was supposed to have broken free from all that. That was why, as soon as she’d taken her high-school diploma, she’d decided to train as a hairdresser. Her sisters were shackled to a predefined career path, with no goal in life except to get richer. What Cassie wanted was a footloose life, full of risk and excitement, and to be free to take time to do stuff that mattered, like finding her roots in Ireland or making this trip to the US with Pat.
A voice from the kitchen announced that the savoury tartlets were out of the oven, and people went to lend a hand. Everything was being done by volunteers so Cassie had turned up early feeling that, though she was a guest, she ought to help. As the last platter was carried through to the dining room, she was squatting on her heels putting cutlery into the dishwasher when she looked up and saw the red-headed guy filling a kettle at the sink. He was tall and rangy, muscular, but not the type that spent time at the gym. Having switched on the kettle, he reached for a mug.
‘D’you want a quick shot of caffeine before they throw open the doors?’
Cassie stood up and shook her head. ‘I ought to go find Pat. I mean my gran.’
‘There’s plenty of time, don’t worry. The chairman hasn’t arrived yet and the quilting ladies still haven’t hung their banner.’
‘Do they need help?’
‘Trust me, they do not. My grandma’s the chair of the quilting guild. You don’t mess with those ladies when they’re focused on a task.’
So that’s who he was, the grandson of a club member.
He leaned against the sink, waiting for the kettle to boil. ‘Anyway, it’ll take him about an hour to tune up.’
‘Can you actually tune a tin whistle?’
‘Actually you can.’ He shot her an amused glance. ‘Though I’m not sure Rambling Paddy knows that.’
‘And he would be . . . ?’
‘Your ambient music for tonight.’
Cassie giggled and the guy looked a bit guilty. ‘That wasn’t fair. He’s a great entertainer. Probably played the ballroom when your gran was here before.’
‘What – fifty years ago?’
‘Sure. It was accordions back then, and an upright piano. No need for a sound system, my dad says. Just stamina and endless pints of Guinness.’
‘Has your family been here long?’
‘Five generations. Sorry, I should’ve introduced myself. I’m Jack Shanahan.’
‘That’s a good Finfarran name.’
‘Like Fitzgerald.’
‘And have you been to Ireland?’
He shook his head. ‘Nope. Someday.’
‘I used to say that too. I was born in Canada and the family never went home. But a few months ago, I just picked up and took off.’
‘What about your job?’
Cassie explained about hairdressing. ‘I’ve been working on cruise ships. You sign on for a couple of months, or even a few weeks, and plan as you go. Well, obviously it’s not just cruise ships. You can work in salons as well. I love it. I’m a risk-taker. Anyway, I decided to spend Christmas in Finfarran. And then I stayed on.’
‘Cool.’
‘Um. I stayed because my granddad had died. But it is a cool place.’
‘Losing a grandpa is tough. Mine was pretty cool.’
‘I hardly knew mine. But that’s not the point. The thing is, Pat was sort of in shock. So I hung around.’
When she’d seen him earlier, in the dining room, she’d thought Jack was shy. But now he seemed assured. He was lounging back against the sink, with his thumbs hooked into his belt and his weight on his elbows, and the hair on his freckled arms was bleached to gold. Irish-looking redheads weren’t Cassie’s type but somehow she found him intriguing. ‘So what do you do?’
‘I’m a computer geek. Started out working for my dad, now I troubleshoot for firms.’
‘Not an electrician?’
‘No. But if your family are pillars of the club, you’re expected to pitch in.’ Seeing the look on Cassie’s face, he laughed. ‘I enjoy it. It’s not like I’m here all the time.’
‘Only high days and holy days?’
‘That’s about it.’ A blast of feedback from the other room made him wince. ‘Oh, crap! Rambling Paddy must have moved a speaker.’ He made for the door but, halfway there, he turned back. ‘So have you decided?’