A Change of Heart (The Heartfelt Series) (4 page)

 Joey was grizzling from the high chair, Bridget was under the table eating cornflakes off the floor and Padar was nowhere to be seen. Marianne set to work sorting out the youngsters, while Ryan ran through the bar, calling for the landlord. Padar emerged from the linen press, piles of sheets and pillowcases strewn about him.

“Your man Leeson is on his way, did you hear? I’m sorting out May Cottage,” Padar said.

Ryan started to pick things up.

“Do you know how long he’s staying?” Ryan asked.

“No, but Miss MacReady says it’s serious and you and he have stuff to sort out,” Padar replied.

“Indeed. Need a hand?” Ryan watched as Padar dropped a tangled sheet.

“Please. This was Oonagh’s department, one of my cousins gets the holiday cottages ready these days,” his eyebrows shot up, “jaysus, the kids.” He dumped a pile of towels in Ryan arms and fled.

“It’s okay, Marianne’s with them,” Ryan called after him.

Bearing a basket piled with linen, Ryan let himself into May Cottage. He just closed the door behind him as Pat MacReady’s taxi screeched down Main Street, en route from the ferry. Not five minutes later, he heard heavy footsteps clattering up the stairs and the door to the bedroom swung open. Larry stood there squinting through misted spectacles, as his client pushed a pillow into a crisp, white cover.

“Interesting career move,” the New Yorker quipped, “movie star to maid.”

Ryan dropped the pillow and strode across the room to greet his long-suffering agent. They embraced affectionately. Larry folded his arms by his sides.

“Ryan, we gotta talk. This is serious, this is
real
serious.” He looked Ryan in the eye.

“I know, it must be, you came all this way
again,
” Ryan replied.

“Last time it was good news, this time things are far from good,” Larry said, grimly.

Ryan nodded but he fixed Larry’s bloodshot eyes with a steely look.

“I’m not coming back, Larry. I quit. I’ve things to do here, I’ve made my choice,” he told him.

Larry was remaking the bed, folding sheets crisply, plumping pillows.

“I’ve news for you, Ryan,” he said, finally throwing a scatter cushion with a flourish, “you ain’t got no choice, whatever you think.”

“I think you’ll find my contract has a compassionate break clause. It’s in my terms and conditions, I know that much,” Ryan said, emphatically.

Larry sighed.

“Do you think Franco Rossini gives a damn about your terms and conditions? The movie’s broken box office records all over the world,” Larry made a circle in the air with his hands.

Ryan knew this was true and even though he had an ego, he did not delude himself the film’s success was down to his charismatic charm. He was sure Rossini’s mighty movie machine could easily find someone to take his place. Any amount of younger, better-looking and more talented actors would be queuing up to audition for the part.
What was all the fuss about?

“Whether you like it or not, you’re a huge hit, you’re the
Thomas Bentley
everyone wants, I know there’s all the other stuff in the movie and they know they could get any amount of good-looking guys to play the part - hey they could even get one who can act - but you’re the brand now, you’re the guarantee the next movie will do at least as well as the first. Sorry Ryan, but that’s the bald economical truth.” Larry walked over to his client. “You can’t walk out on this, whatever you think it says in your contract. You have to make the next movie, or there’ll be another kind of contract out on you, you see if I ain’t telling the truth,” Larry hissed.

A loud crack, like gunshot, rang out. Larry lunged at Ryan pulling him to the floor, pushing his face against the carpet. Gasping for air, Ryan wriggled free.

“Jesus, Larry, what’s wrong with you?” Ryan struggled up to the window, to watch Pat MacReady’s ancient taxi lurch out of Maguire’s car park and head back towards the ferry. “That was a car back-firing,” he told the trembling bundle, slumped beside the bed.

Chapter Four
A Hopeless Case

As usual, Miss MacReady was first to break the news in Maguire’s Bar on a blustery October evening. She wriggled out of her full-length wax coat in the lobby, to reveal a tangerine fading to yellow silk dress, beaded with sparkles as she moved. She whisked a frothy feather boa out of her pocket and wound it around her as she sashayed towards the bar. The outfit perfectly matched the tequila sunrise she ordered. Miss MacReady always had cocktails on Mondays, one of her many personal and fervently upheld traditions.

 “Imagine our own lifeboat station at last. I can hardly believe it, it’s a triumph and all down to us not giving up on the fight to have the bridge reinstated, it seems they’ve finally decided we’re worth saving after all,” she declared.

 “How come?” asked Father Gregory, looking up from his
Racing Post
.

 “Well, it seems the team building the bridge has also won the contract for the lifeboat station, meaning they may as well stay here and complete both projects,” Miss MacReady sipped elegantly through a straw.

 “Ah, economies of scale,” the priest said, sagely.

 “Economies of the back-hander more like!” grumbled Sean Grogan, from his usual stool.

 “If it works in our favour for a change, I’m all for it,” Padar said, stomping noisily up from the cellar, bearing a crate of bottles.

 “We’ve always needed a lifeboat. I suppose with the rebuilding along the coast since the storm, it’s the perfect opportunity to at last give us something we’ve been promised for so long,” he said. It was Miss MacReady’s turn to nod.

 “And with the Euro-zone finances no better, let’s hope what little money people are making they’re keeping and spending in
this
country, holidaying here. I’ve seen a small rise in post office savings accounts, right enough,” Miss MacReady confirmed.

 “Anyone have enough money to buy a yacht?” Padar asked plaintively, referring to the forty-foot
Moody
, on the market since the summer.

 “Who knows? With the building lads here and some new people coming to manage the lifeboat station, you may be able to hang on to it, might not have to sell it at all.” Miss MacReady smiled encouragingly.

 “Sure, I could never sail that again,” he said quietly.

 Father Gregory caught his eye. Padar gave his head a little shake.

 “God rest her,” the priest said under his breath.

 The oak door swung open, as the building boys clattered into the bar, freshly showered and shaved from a long day on site.

“What was on today’s agenda lads?” Miss MacReady asked, crossing her legs seductively.

“Erecting the structure for the bridge. The pressure’s on if it’s to be up by next summer,” Shay Shaughnessy told her. “Hiring cranes is an expensive business. We only have a limited window to get the steelwork up.”

The lads worked long hours in difficult conditions. Only the day before, huge halogen lights had been hoisted on metal pikes to bathe the whole site in an eerie glow; visibility being often less than perfect on Innishmahon in mid-October.

 The headman Shay was a stocky Dubliner with bright-blue eyes, a wicked grin and a fruity turn of phrase. He could not get used to the fact that Father Gregory was often in the pub and apologised incessantly to the priest for his language.

 Shay was flirting shamelessly with Miss MacReady.

 “God you look fucking gorgeous tonight Kathleen, you really do. I could eat you, you’re like a candy floss.” Shay raised his glass to her, then noticed Father Gregory reading the paper.

 “Oh Jesus, I’m sorry, Father,” he said, “ah shite, I’m sorry again.”

 “I don’t think God’s that bothered how many times you use the F-word in front of me,” Father Gregory smiled, taking a swig of Budweiser.

 “I don’t want to be disrespectful, Father.” Shay turned puce. Father Gregory smiled at the young man, he seemed genuine enough.

 “Ah, respect is earned, we all know that. Anyway actions speak louder than words.  Tell me Shay, do you think you act in a Christian-like way?” the priest asked, the bar fell silent awaiting the reply.

 “I do me best, Father,” Shay looked into his pint.

 “Sure what more can any man do?” said the priest. “I’m Gregory, by the way, far too young to be your father.” And they all laughed.

Shay spotted Father Gregory’s newspaper. “Do you like the gee-gees, Gregory?” he asked, intrigued.

“With a passion. I come from a long line of horse breeders and trainers. Why the ‘Big Man’ called me to this profession, I sometimes wonder.” Father Gregory’s eyes turned skywards.

“Must have thought you were a good bet!” laughed Shay. “Mind if I join you?”

 They were deep in conversation when Sinead Porter slipped in to the pub, taking a seat in what would have been the ‘snug’. Padar had long since removed the walls, erecting a small half-glazed partition, affording privacy off the main bar.

 Shay looked up from studying the form.

 “Who’s that little cracker?” he asked the priest, grinning over at the young blonde, dressed in navy slacks and a pink cashmere sweater wrapped softly around her neat curves. Father Gregory looked up.

 “Our lovely midwife,” he said.

 “Why have I never seen her before?” asked Shay.

 “Runs the pharmacy with her husband, Phileas, works part-time at the hospital on the mainland,” Father Gregory told him, smiling at Sinead, who was chatting easily with Padar.

 “I dunno, why are all the best ones always taken?” Shay asked dourly.

 “I’d have thought a good-looking lad like yourself would have a wife, a girlfriend at least,” Father Gregory said.

 Shay shrugged.

 “I did once. But with me working away the whole time, I came home from a job in England and she’d run off with a Polish fella - pregnant, the lot,” Shay said flatly. “That’s why I’m here, nothing at home for me.”

 “I’m sorry.” Father Gregory went back to his paper.

 “Where’s her husband? A gorgeous girl like that shouldn’t be out on her own,” Shay could not take his eyes off her.

 “Phileas is not much for the pub. Sometimes Sinead comes in for a quiet glass of wine. Her job is very stressful, I’d imagine,” Father Gregory explained. Shay was still staring at her. “I’ll just go and check she’s okay,” said the priest, tapping the newspaper to avert Shay’s gaze.

Although whatever Larry and Ryan had to discuss would have serious ramifications on her own life, Marianne thought it wise to leave the men to themselves for a couple of hours. Now with the babies settled, not too far from where Padar was doing his paperwork, she decided to make an appearance at May Cottage.

After greeting Larry warmly, she busied herself arranging the vast quantity of chemicals and concoctions, so lovingly packed by Mimi on the other side of the Atlantic, in the pretty blue bathroom. Oonagh had decorated all three cottages in fresh, gypsy-bright colours and although Marianne totally remodelled Weathervane when she bought from the Quinns, she delighted in her friend’s flamboyant legacy. She missed Oonagh every day, and never more than when she unexpectedly came across little flashes of her ebullient personality. Closing the bathroom cabinet with a sigh, she went back into the room.

Larry, in grey trousers and beige turtle-neck, looked like a character in an old movie shot half in black and white, waiting to turn into colour for the fantasy dance routines. Fidgeting with his spectacles and smoothing his hair, he looked like he was on the wrong set completely.

Despite outward bonhomie, Larry was wary of Marianne. He watched her organise groceries in the yellow kitchen, then taking the cafetière from the dresser he started to make coffee, fussily. Ryan was smoking a cigarette in the garden. He allowed himself one a day, after dinner. It was still mid-morning. Marianne waited for Larry to speak, while he waited for her to say something. They spoke together.

“I er ...you ...”

“No, you first.” Marianne watched his hand shake slightly as he put coffee into the pot.

“I’m sorry, Marianne, really I am, but I’m gonna have to take him back. He can’t just quit like this. There’s too much at stake.” Larry avoided her eyes.

She handed him the kettle. As he poured the water, she could see his usually beautifully manicured nails were chewed. She placed a hand on his shoulder. He jumped, splashing the work surface.

“Crikey Larry, relax. You’re wound up like a spring.” Marianne was careful not to give any hint she knew what was on Ryan’s mind. The last thing she wanted was for Ryan to return to America. Now she had him home, they needed to build a life for themselves and their little mismatched family. She had been strong alone for long enough, waiting yet pretending not to wait. Now she had him back, she wanted him to stay.

Larry mopped the work surface with kitchen towel, glancing at her under hooded lids. She was leaning against the sink, arms folded, eyes full of steel. Ryan appeared at the door, still tanned from his sojourn as the world’s most famous super-spy, streaky ebony hair swept back, the aroma of exotic tobacco filled the kitchen briefly. He looked like he was in the wrong film too.

“You guys okay?” he asked, feeling the frost.

“Sure,” Marianne beamed at him.

“Yeah, I’m making Marianne’s day here by telling her you gotta go back and sort this mess out before it goes too far. We still have time to say it was a crazy publicity stunt - you were in Dublin, partying, thought it was funny, a prank,” Larry offered.

Marianne blinked at Larry, then looked at Ryan.

“Do you really want to say that?” she asked. “You’d look a bit of a prat.” She turned to Larry, “It’s not true anyway, he meant it, he has resigned.”

Ryan kept his tone light.

“She’s right, my friend. It’s a decision I had to make, so I’ve made it, end of.”

“
No
!” Larry slammed a mug down, “It’s not end of. Act quickly and we can save the situation, continue with this madness and we’re all done for.”

“Larry, calm down,” Ryan said softly. “My contract’s with the studio, they deal with this sort of thing all the time. They’ll wheel their lawyers out, we’ll wheel our lawyers out, they’ll haggle a bit, go through the small print and come up with a solution, that’s what they’re paid for.” He gave Larry an encouraging smile.

“Any normal contract, with any normal studio, yes. But your contract is with WonderWorld - Franco Rossini’s studio - Rossini, the godfather of the movie industry. No-one says no to Franco, especially when it looks like the franchise you happen to be starring in is going to make him yet another fortune. Get real, Ryan, he ain’t gonna let it go,” Larry told him.

“He’ll have to,” Ryan was adamant.

“Your resignation, live on TV, was more than foolish. It made a fool of him - dangerous territory. We need a picture in the press of you two hugging each other like long-lost brothers, saying your differences are resolved and you’ll be back working on the next movie in six months’ time, as per your contract.” Larry was glaring at Ryan.

Marianne looked from one to the other; these men loved each other. She saw fear in Larry’s eyes. There was something he was not telling them, something he did not want Marianne to hear.

“Hey, hey,” she soothed, “come on, we can work this out, you two just need to talk things through.” She took her jacket off the back of a chair, the men were silent. “I’m going to wrap the babies up and take them for a walk around lunchtime, shall I see you both then, or aren’t you staying that long, Larry?”

Larry continued to stare grim-faced at his client.

“I’m staying as long as it takes,” Larry said.

Marianne pushed the plunger down in the coffee pot.

“Sort it then,” she said, flashing Ryan a look as she left.

Ryan was standing on the shore gazing out to sea the next time she saw him, hands shoved in the pockets of his jeans, leather jacket open, flapping wildly in the wind. The mist had lifted and a watery sun bathed the beach in cool, peachy light. Monty charged across the sand to greet him, not having had their usual rough and tumble since Ryan arrived. Ryan bent down and lifted the little dog into his arms, burying his nose in the coarse white fur between his ears. He smelled of the sea. He turned, and placing Monty on the ground, ran with him to greet Marianne and the children.

 He bent and kissed both babies, then taking Joey out of the buggy, wrapped him in a huge hug. Marianne smiled, as Bridget raised her arms to him. He handed Joey to Marianne and tucked the little girl under his jacket, jumping up and down in the sand making her laugh. She chortled loudly and Joey turned at the sound, his dark eyes sparkling at his new found-friend. With his free arm, Ryan pulled Marianne to him and kissed her, a hard, dry kiss on the mouth.

 “Okay?” he asked.

 “We’ve had a great time. Sinead popped in for a catch-up on the project, promptly fell in love with Joey, so we ended up playing games on the rug, all morning,” she laughed. He loved to hear her laugh. She looked younger than he remembered. The grief of losing Oonagh eased away with the joy of Bridget growing and marvelling at every new thing. Now he was spending more time with Joey, he knew what that felt like. It was a wondrous feeling, alright.