Chapter 29

Eight weeks had passed without contact. This was deliberate on Cathal’s part. He didn’t want to speculate what it was on hers.

He told himself he’d contact her when he’d got himself sorted, when he could tell her he’d booked a trip to LA. Then and only then. Because she wouldn’t tolerate some whiny message from him about not being able to come visit.

Autumn was extra busy at work and on the farm, so he needed help. He went to a temp agency and got it sorted so he could work later in the office. He was deeper in debt but it kept him sane, and Owen was a good guy.

Mother had started moaning about a banshee and refused to use the downstairs toilet, and sometimes pleaded to be assisted upstairs even though there was nothing wrong with her legs. Banshees were a sign of the dead not having come to their final rest, and he couldn’t help wondering if it had something to do with the rucksack lying in Mrs. Nolan’s attic. It was something he couldn’t solve at the moment but the guilt weight heavily on him.

Coming to work was an escape from home life. He had just completed the monthly revenue sheets for September. At least Morrissey & Scanlan were in good financial shape.

His mobile phone rang, something that made his skin crawl every time he heard it, as it was usually Mother with some new disaster. But it was Cormac, his eldest brother, calling from Chicago.

“Yeah, so I was thinking I could send Ellie home for a few weeks during the summer next year,” Cormac announced.

“You’re sending her here?” Cathal asked in open dismay. “On her own?”

“She’s old enough. And it would be good experience for her; easy farm life, good country living, fresh air, animals, all that.”

Cathal suspected the wily sixteen-year-old was just too much trouble for workaholic Cormac to be bothered with during her long school holidays. “How long?” he asked wearily.

“Oh, a month? Listen, what’s this I hear about Mother? Ciara’s making it sound like she’s suicidal. Scared of ghosts or something? What did you do to her?”

“She’s a bit unhappy, but she’s not suicidal. If you came over here, you’d—”

“And you abandoned her for two weeks?”

“I didn’t abandon her,” Cathal said firmly. “Caelan was here.”

“And the place went mad, by all accounts.”

“It’s all cleared up now. Everything’s fine.”

“Father chose you to run the show because he thought you’d be able to cope.”

“I’m doing my best,” he said through gritted teeth.

“Sure you have it grand—house and home just handed to you, while the rest of us have to make our way in the world.”

“Anything else, Cormac?”

“Just take proper care of Mother, would you? We have enough on our plates over here without worrying about Ballybay. Just the other day…” And Cormac went into an explanation of issues in his company, and how hard it was to run his own business with his kids starting school. Cathal gave him three minutes, counting on the wall clock, before interrupting. “Sorry, I have to go. I’m at work.”

“Oh. Yeah, how’s old Morrissey & Scanlan doing anyway? Have they upgraded from typewriters yet?”

“Yeah, just last week. Bye, Cormac.”

Just as he clicked off the call, he sensed a presence behind him and smelled the pungent perfume. Deirdre.

“Hi there,” she chirped, pushing back a strand of dark wavy hair that always managed to drift across her cheek.

“Hi.”

Her forehead puckered, which was the guaranteed precursor to her asking for something. “It’s Excel. Every time I type into a cell, this error comes up and then I can’t type anything in, and then it blocks the whole sheet. Maeve’s going to kill me if I don’t get it done by close of business but it’s all going wrong.”

He closed his eyes but when he re-opened them, she was still there. “I’m sorry, Deirdre, I have to get home now. Can Dermot not help you?”

Her eyes widened. “What? No.” She lowered her voice. “He’ll just make it worse.”

“He’s gone home, hasn’t he?”

“Yes,” she said with a sad pout.

He rubbed his jaw. “Look, I also have to—”

“It won’t take you long, just a tiny peek?” Tears were turning her eyes glassy. “No, you’re right.” She squared her shoulders. “I’ll just tell Maeve it wasn’t possible. I mean, she’s not going to fire me, is she?” She gave him a brave smile.

He let out a long sigh. “Oh, all right, send it to me. I’ll take a look.”

He hated himself for giving in. Especially when, five minutes later, he spied her leaving the building, swinging her handbag jauntily as she made a beeline for her car.

An hour turned into two. He crawled up to the coffee machine at eight. Sean was there. The tall redhead was peering at tractor porn in a trade magazine, waiting for something in the microwave to ping. Cathal was glad to see the one person in his life who never asked for anything.

“Overtime, Sean?”

“Mm-hmm.” Sean glanced up from his tractors. “God, look at the state of you.”

“Long day.” Cathal pressed the coffee machine and enjoyed the angry sound of beans grinding.

“She got to you again, didn’t she?” Sean nodded toward Deirdre’s door—now closed because, of course, Deirdre was gone. “What was it this time?”

“Macros, in the payroll.”

“You mean the whole thing stank to high heaven and you had to re-do it from scratch?”

“Along those lines.” Cathal knocked back his espresso. “She’ll never learn.”

“Why should she? She’s got you.”

“Fair point.”

“Did she turn on the waterworks? Sure anything’d set her off these days.”

“How so?”

“What rock have you been hiding under? She’s pregnant. Can’t be fired. Once the baby comes, she’s leaving. Just so you know, like.” Sean gave him a sympathetic pat on the shoulder. “For next time.”

On the drive home he gave himself a pep talk. Okay, everything about today has told you that you’re a sucker, a complete and utter sucker. Other people did things on a Friday night. Sean was working his way up the hierarchy, so he had a reason to be stuck in the office. But Cathal? He was staying late because he had nothing to come home to. He wasn’t driving home. Not yet.

Fifty miles outside of Monaghan, on a massive detour, he stopped the car and got out to watch a beautiful sunset over the Mourne mountains. It calmed his soul. He pulled out his phone. It had a good signal. It was now, or never. He just had to hear from her.

His chest was held in a vice grip of excitement as he stared at the screen of his phone. He pressed the contact name “Avery” and waited. Then the silence of the countryside was punctuated by a persistent, annoying bleep bleep bleep.

Busy signal.

Getting on with her life. Just like everyone else. What did he expect?

His finger hovered over the little X in the upper right-hand corner of the contact. If he kept her in his phone, he was likely to call her again, any time he felt down, like now—or even worse, drunk—and create a drastic, irreversible impression. He had to remove that temptation and only allow himself to call her when he’d done what he’d promised himself—got his life sorted and a ticket to LA.

He pressed the X and confirmed: Yes, he really wanted to delete.