‘Decided what?’
‘What you’re going to do next.’
‘I’m going back to Ireland with Pat.’
He nodded, as if considering this carefully. ‘Tomorrow?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Okay.’ He nodded again, and turned away. ‘Well, nice meeting you.’
Cassie took a step towards him and paused awkwardly. To her surprise, she found herself wanting to explain. ‘It’s just . . . my granddad died only a few weeks ago. And it was really sudden. Pat needs me around.’
‘Sure.’ His blue eyes crinkled as he gave her a lopsided smile. ‘Like I said, it was nice meeting you.’
* * *
When Pat entered the building at five thirty-seven she could hear snatches of music from behind the dining-room doors, which had paper napkins over their porthole windows. Outside, women were easing themselves out of cars, balancing plates and Tupperware boxes. It looked as if half the households in town had been baking, and Pat knew that the cakes would be covered with lavish sparkly icing. The women of the sprawling suburbs of Resolve were mad for the sugar and glitter. Though here in the States, she reminded herself, they called icing ‘frosting’. In the last couple of weeks little details like that had been coming back to her, maybe because of the other memories she wanted so hard to block out.
Moving past the dining room, she looked for somewhere to sit. They’d be expecting her to make a big entrance when the farewell party started, and she didn’t want to spoil their fun by hanging about beforehand. So, as two women staggered past, weighed down by a trestle table, she slipped into a room on her right, which had a sign on the door that said ‘Library’.
She’d been in the room only once before, on a whirlwind tour of the clubhouse fourteen days ago, when their guide had talked so fast you could hardly keep up. Now the room was silent, except for the ticking of a clock. The only occupant was a white cat, asleep on a sunny patch of carpet. There was an assortment of armchairs, suggestive of cosy reading, several stern, upright chairs around a square table, suggestive of study, and bookcases surmounted by donors’ names in wreaths of carved shamrocks. And, bizarrely, an old-fashioned range with chipped enamel stood against one wall.
Sitting down, Pat considered a large computer on a side table. You could see it had been state-of-the-art in its time. With the exception of the recently refurbished kitchen, everything in the solid, well-kept building was like that – good quality, made to last, and slightly old-fashioned. And, wherever you looked, you usually found a plaque. The donors of the library furniture, the equipment in the gym, and the Lucky Charm bar had all made sure that their family names were given proper prominence. But, when you thought about it, why not? Each block and brick in the Shamrock Community Club had been paid for by public subscription, and the place had been built in the 1950s by volunteers who’d already put in long days on construction sites.
Pat was glad the window was closed and the room air-conditioned. Her holiday had been intended as a break from the last chilly weeks of an Irish February but, in fact, the heat had been wearing. People kept saying it was lucky they’d had such fine weather, and only that morning her cousin had announced that the lovely sunshine had done her a world of good. Secretly, though, Pat had been longing for a good shower of rain.
There was a rattle of wheels in the corridor as a catering trolley went by. Cassie, who had driven over to the club ahead of her, was probably in the dining room laying tables. Pat’s face softened at the thought of her. Small and feisty, with a snub nose, close-cropped hair, and a peacock-blue streak in her long black fringe, Cassie was one to dive head first into every situation, and usually found herself welcomed with open arms. It was she who’d suggested this holiday, bounding into the flat in Finfarran one evening when Pat had been sitting alone in the dusk, feeling sad. Five minutes after her whirlwind arrival the lights had been on, the range stoked, and a pot of tea made.
Then she’d sat down at the kitchen table fizzing with excitement. ‘Right, I’ve had an idea. And I want you to hear me out before you say a word.’ Linking her fingers around her mug, she’d leaned forward decisively. ‘You’re tired and don’t pretend you aren’t. You hardly slept a wink when Granddad was ill. Then there was the big funeral, and people turning up from all over the place – my lot from Canada, and all the cousins from the States, everyone needing beds and meals and attention.’
Pat had protested weakly that that was what funerals were like.
‘I know. And I know you wanted to give Granddad a proper send-off. Which you did. But you had six people here in the flat, and masses of others staying at Uncle Frankie’s.’
‘Ah, yes, love, but I wouldn’t begrudge them. Hadn’t they flown thousands of miles to pay their respects?’
‘I’m just saying it was a marathon, and that you’re exhausted.’
There had been no point in denying that, or asserting that Frankie had taken care of the influx of relations. He hadn’t. Anyway, before Pat could respond, Cassie was off again. ‘Look, I know you turned down Mom’s offer of a break over in Toronto. And why the hell wouldn’t you after the last time?’
You couldn’t argue with that either. The previous year Pat and Ger had spent a disastrous holiday in Canada. Sonny and Jim, their younger sons, had both gone there after they’d left university, while Frankie, the eldest, had stayed in Finfarran and worked in the family business. And, in the years that had followed, Sonny and Jim had never found time to come home. The flat over the butcher’s shop where Pat had raised her children was poky and inconvenient, but it was where she and Ger had spent their long married life. So Sonny’s large suburban home had felt alien, and the visit had revealed that Pat and Ger had nothing left in common with their middle-aged emigrant sons.
Worse still, Pat had discovered that the carefully chosen cards and gifts, which, for decades, she’d been sending to her granddaughters, hadn’t been wanted. Instead of affirming her presence in their lives, they’d simply produced derision. Devastated, Pat had blamed herself and tried to get involved in their adult lives. But it hadn’t helped. Two of the girls for whom she’d knitted sweaters and chosen birthday cards now had expensive homes of their own, and neither they nor their parents had had any time for their visitors. But Cassie, the youngest of Sonny’s children, had turned out to be a maverick. Cheerful, forthright, and sympathetic, she’d plunged into the vacuum produced by her siblings’ indifference and forged a loving friendship with her grandmother. Then, when the painful visit was over, she’d accompanied Pat and Ger back to Finfarran, saying she planned to explore her Irish roots.
Her energetic presence had been a godsend when Ger was diagnosed with heart failure, and in the days after his funeral she’d displayed a fierce protectiveness that had sometimes brought Pat close to tears. And, when everyone else had left, she’d stayed put, still determined to help. ‘Look, Canada’s out of the question, we both know that. But here’s the thing. I’ve been Snapchatting with Erin since she went back to the States after the funeral. And she says how about you and me take a trip over there?’
‘To Resolve?’
‘Sure. Why not? You enjoyed it before, didn’t you?’