Celtic Sister (28 page)

Chapter Twenty-Nine

At 8:58 a.m., Sam and Amy lingered outside Egan’s, waiting for the jeweler to open. The sky was cloudless and the sun burned off the morning chill. At 9:03, a forty-something man with dark red hair opened the door and held it for Amy to enter. Sam followed.

“Hello, thank you,” Sam said. “We’re looking for Ed Egan. Is he around?”

“He’s my father,” the man said. “I’m Conor. Is there something I can do for you?”

Sam rummaged through his pocket and produced the cross. He passed it to Conor. “I’m Sam Foster. This necklace belonged to my sister. She left it as a clue.”

“A clue?” Conor asked, clearly intrigued. He examined the clasp. “This was definitely made by my father.” He unlocked a case near them and produced a similar cross. “My pieces have a CE on the charm.” He held up the clasp charm on the new piece so they could see his monogram, an elaborate decoration similar to Ed Egan’s E. “But Dad’s been retired for almost ten years. How long ago did your sister give this to you?”

“She would have purchased it fifteen years ago. Then she dumped it in Saint Patrick’s Well.”

Conor’s eyebrows shot up and a hint of a smile formed on his lips.

Sam added, “No offense to your father.”

“No, of course not.” He leaned against the counter. “But this must be a great story.”

Sam fished Emma’s photo out of his pocket, and he began to relay the details. Conor’s amused smile faded into an expression of understanding. He took the picture in his hand and nodded.

“Emma, yes. I remember her.” He handed the photo back to Sam.

“Do you know where she is?”

Connor muttered something under his breath, and before either Sam or Amy could say anything, he disappeared into an office in the back of the store and closed the door.

Amy hugged Sam, but he seemed stiff as a board. She stood back and looked him over. “Are you all right? We’re almost there, Sam.”

He stared at the floor and refused to return her embrace.

“Did I do something wrong?” she asked. Insecurity flooded her body instantly.

“No, no.”

“Then what is it?”

“I’m overwhelmed. Fifteen years ago Emma was here, in this town, maybe right where I am standing. She was seen by this man, Conor. And I…”

“Yeah?”

“And I was falling apart in Denver, slowly letting go of my goals one by one until I was drifting through a fog.”

“Are you mad at her?” Amy asked cautiously.

“Why would I be mad at her?”

“I don’t know. For stealing your life away?”

Sam scoffed. “If anyone stole my life away, it was Brent.”

Amy looked at her feet.
He stole my life away.

“Or the whole Richardson clan,” he clarified.

There was something about the way he said this that left Amy with a terrible, uneasy feeling. She had called herself
a Richardson
for years. Maybe that meant she was a party to all their dirty deeds. That was it. She felt dirty, and she wished she could wash herself clean. Where were those divorce papers? Amy patted her purse subconsciously, comforted by the fact she had managed to leave one bottle of whiskey unopened last night.

Conor reappeared. “I can’t tell you where she is.”

“What?” Sam stepped up to the counter and stood at his full height as if preparing for a standoff.

Conor smiled. “My parents insist on telling you in person.”

“No.” Sam didn’t look happy.

“Relax. They live five minutes from here. On Bandon Road.” Conor began to sketch a map on a scrap of paper. “On down the footpath, and take a left.” He pointed to the northwest and continued describing the best route.

“Thank you.” Amy took the drawing from him.

“One more thing,” Connor said.

“Yes?”

“I’m supposed to check Sam’s ID.”

“Of course.” Sam produced his wallet and fished out his Colorado driver’s license. “The passports are locked up in the hotel.”

“No bother. This is good enough. Nice to meet you, Sam Foster.”

They shook hands and said good-bye.

Ten minutes later, Sam and Amy were standing in front of a row of burnt-red townhomes with white accent walls. Sam marched to the door with a determined look in his eyes.

Mr. Egan answered the door. Wiry white hair curled around his ears; the rest of his head was bald, sporting a few age spots. He graced them with a smile, the essence of which could keep a person warm on the dreariest of days.

“Come in.”

He led Sam and Amy into a sitting room with tattered furniture and overflowing bookshelves. Several tables with lamps and books were arranged in odd places as if dropped there by a mover and never touched again. Mr. Egan settled into a worn, well-loved chair and gestured for his guests to do the same.

“My wife is pulling some brown bread out of the oven. She’ll join us shortly.”

“Oh, please don’t go to any trouble,” Amy protested.

“She’s been up all morning fussing about. Don’t know what got into her. Maybe she sensed you’d be coming.”

“I heard that, Eddie,” Mrs. Egan said as she entered the room and placed a basket of steaming bread on the table nearest Amy. “But you’re right. This lovely weather lifts my spirits and I wanted to bake. Suddenly had an inkling we’d get visitors. I didn’t expect it would be you.” She gazed at Sam affectionately as if he were her son.

Sam shifted slightly, unsure of what to say. Then he reached for a piece of bread. Amy did the same.

“This is really good, Mrs. Egan,” Amy said, trying to break the spell of silence that had befallen them.

“Thank you, dear.”

Mrs. Egan sat on a chair near her husband. They looked at one another tenderly before Mr. Egan returned his attention to Sam.

“Samuel Foster. My, my, my,” he said.

“Yes?” Sam asked meekly, as if afraid that if he spoke too loudly, the house of cards would blow away and they’d be back at the start.

“I never thought we’d actually meet.”

“Sorry it took me so long—”

“Almost thought she’d made you up.”

Mrs. Egan laughed. “I knew you’d come.” She held out a tattered envelope.
Sam Foster
was written across the front.

“Eventually even she stopped asking after you,” Ed Egan continued as Sam turned the envelope over in his hand. “Finally married Fergus O’Brien’s boy a few years back.”

“Don’t think there’re any babies yet. Are there, Eddie?”

“No babies?” Sam asked, concerned.

Mrs. Egan smiled. “No O’Brien babies. But Emma’s girl is fine. Beautiful. Just saw her last year at the Summer Show. Her goat won second prize in something. She was carrying a blue ribbon, grinning from ear to ear.”

“Emma has a girl,” Sam said. “Fourteen, I guess?”

Mrs. Egan looked at the ceiling and did the math. “Yes, that would be right. My sister and I were in New York City to celebrate my sixtieth birthday.” She smiled wistfully. “That was a fun trip. Then, of course, I met Emma on the plane.”

“In New York?”

“It was a flight from New York to Dublin, yes. She was a curious thing. Told me her name was Charlotte. Then she took off her black wig and introduced herself as Emma.”

“Charlotte?”

Mrs. Egan shrugged. “Part of a disguise, I suppose. She didn’t feel comfortable lying about it.”

“So you met her on the plane,” Sam repeated. “She had a disguise that she ditched because she wanted to be honest with you.”

“Would be my guess.”

“Did she have a plan?”

Mrs. Egan leaned forward. “The only plan she had was to leave a clue for her brother at Saint Patrick’s Well. She thought the holy site would have a visitor’s center, that she could bring a pillbox with a handwritten message inside, leave it with someone who worked there.”

“But there’s no visitor center.”

“That’s what I told her. She seemed crushed, unsure of what to do next.”

“Was it your idea to hide a cross in the pillbox?”

“At first I suggested carving something on the pillbox, but she was paranoid that this lad she was running from would find the message and hunt her down.”

Sam ran a hand through his hair. “So she needed a clue within a clue.”

“Yes. As you can imagine, I became quite attached after just a few hours in her company. She didn’t open up right away, mind you. She had me talking about myself for the first hour and a half. But when she did tell me her story… how could I not get involved? In the end, I gave her the cross Ed made me for my birthday.”

“Did you really think we’d find you through a cross with a monogram on it?”

“You did, didn’t you now?”

“Yes, but—”

“She insisted that the secret of her location could not be written down. It had to be entrusted to another human being, someone who could determine if it was her brother or her tormentor who’d come calling—”

“We need to verify his identification,” Mr. Egan said. He appeared agitated. “You know he looks nothing like her.”

Sam fished for his wallet again.

Mrs. Egan put her hand up to stop him. “Conor checked.”

Sam put his wallet away. “Where is Emma?”

“She’s Aiden O’Brien’s wife now,” Mr. Egan said. “Living in Keely Cottage on the O’Brien farm. It’s just south of Lislevane.”

Mrs. Egan continued with the earlier story. “But when she first came to Ireland, I set her up with the Murphys. They have a dairy farm near Lislevane. We were practically neighbors when I was growing up. They were more than happy to take her in. Emma helped with chores, and the Murphys kept her condition quiet.”

Mr. Egan snorted. “Quiet.”

“Well you can’t quite keep a thing like that quiet now, can you? So we led people to believe that Emma was a distant cousin of a cousin from America who had clearly made a mistake and needed to disappear for a while.”

Amy nodded triumphantly at Sam.
Cousin of a cousin from America. Not so farfetched now, is it?

Mrs. Egan continued. “But
a while
became years, and folks just pretended she had been with the Murphys forever. No need for immigration officials to mess around in other people’s affairs. So she’s ours now. Sammy’s enrolled in school under the name of Murphy—”

“Sammy Murphy?”

“She couldn’t really use the name Foster, now could she? At least that’s how Emma felt, so she made sure Samantha’s birth certificate said Murphy.”

Amy grinned. “Emma’s daughter is named Samantha?”

Mrs. Egan gave her a curious glance, as if Amy were a few bricks short of a schoolhouse. “Yes. Isn’t that what I said?”

“Samantha,” Sam whispered. His eyes danced with joy.

“That’s adorable,” Amy said.

“It is now, isn’t it?” Mrs. Egan agreed.

“I want to go see them,” Sam announced. He stood up, dropping a half-eaten piece of brown bread in the process. Amy hastily bent over to pick it up.

“All right,” Mrs. Egan said. “You best get going. It took a long time for you to find her.”

“How do I get there?”

“As I said before,” Mr. Egan explained, “she’s living in Keely Cottage just south of Lislevane.”

“Wait.” Amy rummaged through her purse discreetly and pulled out the map that included Kinsale. The rest of the maps were back at the bed-and-breakfast, but she had stuffed this one in her purse at the last minute.

“Is there anything you don’t have in that purse?” Sam asked.

“Next to nothing,” Amy replied.
I even have a bottle of whiskey
.

She unfolded the map, and Mr. and Mrs. Egan showed them where they thought the farm should be.

“This is the road with the red house, right Eddie?” Mrs. Egan said. He shrugged and Mrs. Egan continued. “So you take a right at the bottom of the hill with the red house. Go another few dozen yards. There’s a triangular patch of grass. Go left.” Her fingers traveled over the map as if she were approximately aware of the location of the landmarks to which she was referring. By this point, Amy had retrieved a notepad and pen from her purse and was taking notes.

“Red house. Triangular patch of grass. Left.”

“You pass three farms and take another left.”

“Left after three farms.”

“Then you drive along the coast here.” Mrs. Egan’s finger pointed to an exact spot on the map now. “Dunworley Bay.”

“Dunworley.”

“There are two houses and a pub. After about one hundred yards, you take a left. That’s the O’Briens’ farm.”

Sam turned to Amy, his eyes glazed over in confusion. “You got it?”

“I think so.”

Sam shook hands with Mr. Egan. Mrs. Egan pulled him in for a hug. “I knew you’d find her eventually. She sure didn’t make it easy on you, did she?”

“No, she did not. But I’m happy to finally be here. I can’t wait to see her.” Sam’s voice quavered, and Amy took him by the arm.

When they returned to the bed-and-breakfast, Amy began to hastily throw stuff in bags. She had accumulated several loose shopping bags during the trip, so her suitcase was only two-thirds full, but that meant they had to carry more things to the car.

Sam sat on the bed, holding Emma’s envelope.

“Why aren’t you packing?” Amy asked.

“I want to read the letter.”

“So read it. Do you want me to go downstairs and give you some privacy?”

“No.” He flipped the letter around in his hands, but would not open it.

“Would you like me to read it to you?”

“No. That wouldn’t be right.”

“Okay.”

“Yes.” He changed his mind. “Would you do that?”

“Sure.”

She sat next to Sam on the bed, unfolded the letter, and smoothed it on her leg. She looked at the date.

“Looks like this was written a couple of years after she got here.”

“That’s probably when she realized this whole treasure-hunt thing wasn’t working.”

“Right. She needed to settle into her new life. Raising a baby. Living with the Murphys.”

“The trail led to the Egans, so she entrusted them to point me in the right direction if I ever got here.” He looked away. “Please read.”

Amy cleared her throat.

“
Dearest Sam. Welcome to Ireland. I’m so sorry about all the endless clues. Please forgive me. But it will make sense when I explain in person. I can’t wait to see you. I’ve thought about calling or writing, but I’m so afraid for my baby and for father’s business. The Richardsons are sociopaths.
”