Buried in a Bog (31 page)

Her face was wet. It had to be rain, right? Because she never cried. She hadn’t cried when she knew Gran was failing; she hadn’t cried at the funeral, attended by people she only half recognized; she hadn’t cried when she walked out of the shabby apartment for the last time. Why would she cry now? Just because she’d been nearly driven into a lake and attacked by a thug, because she’d learned more about her family in a week than she’d learned in all the rest of her life, because some old guy she had never met had just dumped a pub and a house in her lap. Why was she crying?

Because that was what people did when they were sad and hurt and confused and overwhelmed.
Hey, Maura, welcome to the human world—where’ve you been all this time?

Time passed. The rain didn’t let up, and it grew darker. A few lights appeared in houses she could barely even see on the far side of the harbor. All she could hear was rain and wind. Still, she wasn’t surprised when Mick Nolan suddenly dropped down beside her. She swiped at her face.

“You left your jacket behind,” he said, draping it over her shoulders. She realized belatedly that she was not only wet but also cold.

“How’d you know where to find me?” Maura asked.

“I saw you go, and there’s nowhere else this direction.”

“Aren’t you going to ask ‘How are you doing?’”

“You’ll tell me if you want, I’ve no doubt.” He pulled one leg up and wrapped his arms around it, looking at ease in the dark and the rain.

Maura shifted so she could look at him. “Why are you here? Are you worried about your job? Did you know what Old Mick was planning?”

“He never said much about himself or his life, for all that he was a publican for most of it. No, I didn’t know, but Old Billy just filled me in. His hearing’s surprisingly good, and he heard what the solicitor told you.”

“I’m sorry. I had no idea, and now I feel like I’m cheating you and you’ll hate me.”

“You had no hand in it. Do you want me to work for you?”

She looked up at him and fought a laugh. “That’s ridiculous. You want to buy the business from me? I’ll give you a really good deal.”

He didn’t answer immediately. “Don’t be hasty, Maura.
You don’t know this place, and you don’t know us, but your gran wanted you to be here. There’s no rush to decide anything.”

“But…I’ve never owned anything. And now suddenly I’ve got a pub, and, oh God, a house somewhere. What am I supposed to do?”

“Whatever you want. You’re a free woman. You can walk away if you like. You can reject your inheritance or turn it over to all the relatives and let them argue about it.”

“What about Jimmy? He seemed to be counting on at least a piece of the pub. You weren’t?”

Instead of answering her question, he looked out over the dark water and said, “You never knew Old Mick, I know. I won’t tell you he was a grand old man—old, yes, but hardly grand. Set in his ways, he was. Loved the pub, loved talking with the people who came in, friend or stranger. They were his family, the children he never had. And he had a good long time to think about what he wanted to do with it. Sure, he could have left it to me, but he knew full well I’d leave it if a better chance came along, or when my grannie…no longer needs me. If he’d left it to Jimmy, it wouldn’t have lasted the year. Jimmy would have bought a round for all of County Cork, and that would have been the end of it.”

What he was saying made sense to Maura. “That still doesn’t explain why he left it to me. He didn’t know me.”

“He knew your gran, his niece, and she remembered him and wrote him, which is more than most of his other nieces and nephews ever did. Mick told me, in bits and pieces, when there were few patrons in the pub. Maybe he was sounding me out—I don’t know. He knew you stuck by your gran, when surely there were other things you might have done.
He knew you had very little to your name. I’d wager he gave it a lot of thought and decided that you deserved a chance. He’s probably watching you from somewhere, to see what you make of it.”

At least she’d stopped crying. “Look, maybe I know how to pull a pint, but that’s a long way from running a business. And there’s so damn much I don’t know—like how laws and licenses here work.”

“But those are just
things
, and things you can fix or learn or hire someone to figure out.”

“Would Jimmy be willing to work for me? Would you?”

“I’d stay long enough to see you on your feet. After that I can’t say.” He considered her gravely. “Jimmy’ll take the easy course, and that would be to stay, and if he stays, Rose stays.”

“About Rose—I don’t want her to be stuck in a dead-end job just to take care of her useless father. She needs to a chance to make something of her life. Not like me.”

“She can find her own way—maybe faster with you kicking her backside.”

“It’s an uncertain world, isn’t it?” Maura slipped her arms into her jacket and pulled it straight. “So, what now?”

“You’d best start with that solicitor you left sitting at Sullivan’s.”

“Did your grandmother know what Old Mick was planning?”

“I couldn’t say. Did you not know he lived across the lane from her?”

“Up on the hill, in Knockskagh? So that’s where the house is?”

“It is. I can take you through it, although it’s better done by daylight.”

A house.
Her
house. She tried to remember what she had seen up on the hill, but all she could recall were open fields and the sound of distant cows. “Oh, right, there’s the pub to run tonight. Did you leave Rose all alone?”

“Jimmy’s there.”

“Close enough to alone, then.” Maura stood up. “Mick, I need to think about this. I don’t want to do or say anything that’ll give people the wrong idea. I know Old Mick meant well, but I don’t know right now whether I can handle this, or if I want to. Can you understand that?”

“Of course. And I’ll say nothing until you’re ready, if that’s worrying you.”

“Thank you. Although maybe I’ll take you up on that offer to show me the house. Would your gran be up to going with us?”

“I’m sure she wouldn’t miss it.”

M
aura wasn’t sure how she got through the evening, with so much going on in her head. How could a man she’d never even heard of until last week have handed her a livelihood and a place to live, just like that? It was beyond imagining, yet a lawyer had said it was true, and Mick had agreed. In only a few moments, her life had changed—if she wanted it to. She could still say no; she could walk away. But then where would she go, and what would she do?

As Rose had predicted, the pub was well filled, everyone eager to hear the latest news about the arrest of the Skibbereen killer. Maura tried to choose her words carefully, but it appeared that many people already knew much of the story, and she just went along and filled in the blanks, correcting the versions that got it wrong.

As she pulled pints and cleared away empty glasses, though, she also looked at Sullivan’s with a new, more critical eye. She’d seen the inside of plenty of pubs, both good and bad; how did this one stack up? It was cleaner than when she’d first arrived, thanks to her and Rose’s efforts, but there was a long way to go. Some of the chairs and tables looked ready to collapse, and the plumbing fixtures were antique. She really hadn’t explored the rest of the building, although she knew there was a small kitchen behind the bar, and the other rooms in the back that were used only for private functions. And there must be rooms further along the road—like the one Old Billy lived in—and what was above? She had had no business training back in the States, apart from making sure that her tabs added up, and over here there would be a whole new set of rules and regulations to learn. Who were their suppliers? Were there building codes? And of course, the biggest question was: did she
want
to do this? It was hard to find reasons to say no. There was nothing waiting for her in Boston—no place, no job, no boyfriend. And she’d already agreed to stay for a while, since she had no other plans. But making it a more permanent move? What would it mean to be an American living in Ireland, particularly in a very small village? Even if she had an Irish passport and her name
was
Donovan? Mick had been straight with her: he wasn’t prepared to take on Sullivan’s for the long term, and Jimmy wasn’t a businessman and shouldn’t try to run the place even if he wanted to. If she turned down Old Mick’s inheritance, Sullivan’s would probably close forever. Or some chain would sweep in and convert it to a Quaint Ould Irish Pub for tourists. What would that do to the sleepy character of the place? And if that changed for
the worse, she had an uncomfortable feeling that the people here would blame her, even if she wasn’t around anymore. Great—she already felt guilty about the local people talking for years about “that Maura Donovan, who came and killed Sullivan’s Pub.”

She needed time—and space—to think. She needed to see Old Mick’s house, to know what the full package was. She’d never given any thought to where and how she wanted to live, but an Irish cottage wouldn’t have been on her short list before now. A
free
Irish cottage, she reminded herself. A home of her own, that she didn’t have to share with anyone unless she wanted to? That was a luxury she had never expected.

The night wound down slowly, until Mick announced it was closing time, no exceptions—which met with a number of protests, suggesting that he’d been talked into extending the hours plenty of times before. This time he stood firm, and once the last patron had left, he turned to her.

“Maura, you’ve had a hard day. I’ll take care of closing up, and I’ll stop by Ellen’s in the morning to bring you out to Knockskagh, right?”

“Okay, I guess. You’re right—I’m beat. Thanks—for everything.”

She stepped out into the night, pulling the door shut behind her. The rain had stopped, and the Keohane house was dark, so she didn’t have to worry about explaining anything more to Ellen, although she doubted that she would escape so easily at breakfast. Maura went around to the rear and slipped into her room, undressed quickly, and fell into her bed.

Morning came quickly, and Maura flung open the
curtains to find bright sunshine once again. Fluffy clouds raced across the sky, and the resident pair of swans glided by a small islet in the harbor.
Picture-postcard stuff
, Maura thought; the kind of pretty pictures that drew tourists to come over and kiss the Blarney Stone—that was in County Cork, wasn’t it?—and buy some Belleek china and Waterford crystal, and tell the people back home that they’d seen Ireland. They’d go on about the friendly people—who really, really needed their American dollars—and how pretty and green it all was.

Maura heard noises upstairs, so she showered quickly, dressed, and headed for the kitchen.

“Ah, Maura, there you are.” Ellen greeted her, handing Gráinne in her high chair a piece of bread. “No ill effects from yesterday?”

“No, I’m good. And it’s a relief to stop looking over my shoulder all the time.”

“I’m sure Detective Hurley’s glad to have this one cleared up so quick. Gráinne, stop wriggling—we’ll be going in a minute. Maura, will you be needing the room much longer?”

For a moment Maura wondered if Ellen knew about Old Mick’s will, then she decided she was going paranoid. “Do you have another booking?”

“No, nothing like that. I was planning to stop in at the market and wondered how much food I should lay in.”

“I’ve got a few things to work out”
—like the rest of my life
—“but I should be able to tell you later today. Say, a couple of days more?”

“That’s grand. You take your time—I’ve got to get moving. Come on, Gráinne
mo chroí
, we’re on our way!”

Maura munched her way through breakfast, glad of the peace. She was ready when Mick rapped on the front door.

As he led her to his car, he asked, “Have you had any time to think?”

“None. I slept like a log. Did you order up the sunshine, to make things look better this morning?”

“Sorry, but I can’t take the credit. Will it help, though?”

“Can’t hurt.” As Maura watched the now familiar landscape roll by, she had to admit she was in a good mood. Maybe because she knew no one was chasing her. Or maybe because for the first time that she could remember, she had choices. She could stay and make a go of running an Irish pub, or she could go home and figure out something else. Those two paths were probably equally difficult, but definitely different.

When they neared the top of the Knockskagh hill, Mick pulled into the small lane to let her out.

“What about your gran?” Maura asked.

“I’ll go get her now. I’d take you in”—he held up a large, old-fashioned key—“but I thought you might like a bit of time alone with the place before I brought her over.”

Mick handed her the key, and she hefted it in her hand. “That’s the house?” She pointed.

“The very one. I’ll leave you to it.”

She walked past the ruined house on the right. Stone, probably covered with stucco once upon a time—and the new houses were built just the same, from what she’d seen. A tumbledown shed on the left, all but covered with last year’s dead brambles. Then Mick Sullivan’s house, on the right. It was bigger than she had remembered—had she really thought it would be a one-room thatched cottage with
roses blooming?
Get real, Maura
. Instead it was a once-proud stucco-clad stone building with chimneys at both ends, its slate roof now sagging just a bit, like a swaybacked horse. Other than a single empty home beyond it, there was nothing to interrupt the view of endless rolling green fields. There were sheep grazing in the grass behind a wire fence, and Maura watched them scurry away at her approach. So somebody was still using the land. Where did Mick’s—her?—property start and end?