The Hollow Heart (The Heartfelt Series) (32 page)

“The eighth of December, Feast of the Immaculate Conception.
What do you think?”

“Highly appropriate.” They both laughed.

While Oonagh recovered
from her traumatic, yet triumphant, pregnancy, Marianne set to work splitting
her time between helping Padar run the pub, and editing and rewriting Ryan’s
script. Not six weeks after the ‘Bridge Too Far’ weekend, some semblance of
normality had returned to Innishmahon. EU funds were allocated, and work on the
bridge was scheduled to recommence in the New Year, with everything on track
for the beginning of the next tourist season.

Miss MacReady, taking a brief respite in her role as the
island’s communications mogul, was thrilled to be asked to make Bridget’s
christening gown, and was working on a concoction of cream satin and antique
lace, with hand sewn crystals from a wedding tiara she never had occasion to
wear. Legend had it; the treasure belonged to one of the Romanov princesses,
who had escaped slaughter at the hands of Russian revolutionaries in 1918. How
Miss MacReady had come by it was another story altogether. And oddly for her,
one that she would only hint at, as the three women sat sipping Prosecco,
making plans for the christening in the room Oonagh had turned into a boudoir
suite for herself and the baby.

“Oh, I might have needed it for a wedding myself once, but
it wasn’t to be.” She was puffing on a plastic cigarette, an aid to giving up,
she had been struggling with ever since Bridget had been born.

“Not like Miss Haversham, Miss MacReady, you weren’t left at
the altar, were you?” Oonagh was teasing, but Marianne saw Miss MacReady draw
her lips into a crimson slash. She had hit a nerve.

“I’m sure that would never be the case,” Marianne offered
quickly, “sure women like Miss MacReady lead armies and build empires. You’re
way ahead of your time, Miss MacReady, an independent, educated, career woman.
What man could keep up with you?”

Miss MacReady blinked and was smiling again.

“You’re very earnest, aren’t you, Marianne?” Oonagh slurred,
not able to drink half as much as she could before Bridget arrived.

“Am I?” asked Marianne, and then realising this was not
quite the compliment she assumed, “I think I’m sincere.”

“Odd trait for a journalist,” Oonagh observed.

Marianne nudged her. “Oi, cheeky!”

“You strike me as all those things,” concurred Miss
MacReady, nibbling a cheese thin. “Ever tried living a bit dangerously?”

“In my own way, at times,” laughed Marianne. “Why have you,
Miss MacReady, ever?”

Miss MacReady gazed over their heads.

“Ah sure, what would I know about dangerous living, a
meek-mannered spinster like myself. No never!” she said, as she tugged her
sparkly
vest down to reveal an exquisite tattoo on her left breast. It
read,
“My Baby”
in a love heart of roses and barbed wire.

The other two stared first at Miss MacReady, and then at
each other, speechless, and then all three of them roared with laughter,
rocking the bed with their mirth.

The Quinns invited over
eighty guests to celebrate their daughter’s arrival into the world. Father
Gregory was officiating at the service, which was to encompass Bridget
Marianne’s formal baptism; a renewal of Oonagh and Padar’s marriage vows; a
Mass in thanksgiving for the survival of the devastation wrought by the storm,
and a general blessing of all souls gathered regardless of race, religion,
creed or sexual orientation. As the priest put it, “Sure while I have a captive
audience, I may as well throw the whole lot at them.”

A feast in honour of the occasion was being prepared in the
now highly-organised kitchen at the pub. Marianne and Padar worked well
together, despite Oonagh’s fierce criticism and disparaging tastings. Padar had
become an excellent cook, styling himself on a number of celebrity chefs but
with less bad language. Marianne, who had basked in George’s encyclopaedic
knowledge of food and wine, had never been particularly interested in cooking
and only started taking an interest in the kitchen when it was necessary,
helping Oonagh and her ‘storm troopers’ during the typhoon. But as her culinary
interest awakened, she too, was having a beneficial effect, choosing a
selection of new and old world wines to complement Padar’s developing menu.
They had even enjoyed a highly favourable review in one of the Sunday
supplements, now framed and hung in pride of place above the bar.

Oonagh was, on the one hand, delighted, and on the other,
slightly put out that her husband and best friend made such an excellent team,
but for the most part, she was happy to leave them to it. Still not in the best
of health, she was far too busy with christening plans. She was under no
illusion though, Marianne’s tireless dedication to duty and interminable
workload, was a dogged attempt to wipe Ryan from her consciousness and, if
circumstances were different, and Marianne had her own commitments, the Quinns
would be the poorer for her lack of devotion.

Despite Marianne’s evasion of the subject, Oonagh was
determined to find the elusive film star and made numerous attempts to contact
him, requesting he confirm his attendance at her daughter’s christening, as he
had promised. Ever hopeful, she checked her emails but there was no response or
even acknowledgement from Ryan. As time passed, Oonagh increasingly considered
his treatment of her friend and the Innishmahon community, tawdry to say the
least, but for once she kept her own counsel.

Meanwhile, on the other
side of the Atlantic, an emotionally-battered man was kissing his baby son
goodbye, and grabbing a hastily packed bag to board yet another flight. Ryan
was very aware he would miss the little boy desperately whilst on this
particular ‘low profile’ trip. He was, however, totally unaware the child’s
Nanny had started to telephone her paparazzi contact before his taxi had even
swung out of the gates of the rented Los Angeles mansion.

The Virgin’s feast day was
a great excuse to commence pre-Christmas festivities, and the fact the whole
village was invited to a party, meant everyone had a reason to dress up, buck
up and perk up. Padar had roped in an army of cousins to assist with the
preparations. Oonagh had ordered matching faux fur capes and hats for herself
and Bridget, while Miss MacReady was simultaneously putting finishing touches
to a formal sari and christening cake.

Marianne, clearing out Weathervane’s neglected attic, had
unearthed a large, grubby Holy Grail affair, which, after a tin of polish,
revealed a glorious Georgian punch bowl, complete with stags-head handles and
horseshoe feet. Miss MacReady suggested it was part of a haul stolen from the
‘big house’ at the time of the troubles in 1916, and she and Marianne vowed to
attack the attic in earnest once the demands of the festivities were over.

Marianne decided to put the punch bowl to work at the party,
delving into one of George’s tomes for a suitable concoction for a celebratory
tipple.

“I shall leave the punch bowl to Bridget in my Will,” she
told the postmistress.

“She’s a lucky girl.”

“We’re lucky to have her,” Marianne replied. Miss MacReady
agreed. The bonny child was a delight to all she encountered, being the
embodiment of both parents and yet, day by day, very definitely more herself,
Miss MacReady confirmed, every time she saw her.

“Oh, she’s a lovely child, alright. I always think baby
girls are just the best thing in world, don’t you, Marie?” Miss MacReady was
polishing the punch bowl.

“You never wanted your own?” Marianne asked gently.

Miss MacReady was on her guard.

“I could ask the same of you?”

“I can’t have children, so not an issue for me. I just
accepted a family is not mapped out for me. Don’t have brothers or sisters,
either. Just the way it was; it is.”

“There’s still time for you.”

“No, no way, not now.” Marianne pushed her hair back from
her face. “Perhaps that’s why we’re so wrapped up in Bridget; she’s making up
for something neither of us had,” she said with forced lightness.

“Not having children isn’t the issue,” Miss MacReady said,
“it’s not having a family that’s the sad thing. And families can be made up of
anyone, anything. You just have to believe love will find a way, whatever
happens, whatever life throws at you. And when you find it, bind your loved one
to you with bonds of love, keep it together, that’s the way.” She was polishing
feverishly now.

The evocative aroma of
incense filled the air. The Innishmahon combined Junior and Senior choirs, all
ten of them, set the scene with an impressive descant rendition of
Bone Jesu
,
and the Finnigan twins concluded the procession of the extended Quinn family, with
a couple of bars of
Riverdance.

Stillness descended as Father Gregory clattered onto the
altar, his shooting boots protruding beneath his cassock. He stood in silence
for a moment, taking in the church adorned with wreaths of poinsettia, cyclamen
and glossy holly, and filled with bodies clad in tweed, satin and fur. The
Quinn family glowed in the candlelight.

Wedding vows re-taken to sniffs and watery eyes, were
swiftly followed with nods and smiles, as the priest, child and parents swished
towards the fount. A door swung closed. A murmur started at the back of the
church and fluttered along the pews. A shadow passed beneath the Stations of
the Cross, a figure in a dark coat. Father Gregory’s voice boomed, bouncing off
the marble.

“Do you, Bridget Marianne Quinn, renounce the Devil and all
his works?”

Ryan slipped his hand into Marianne’s. They clasped their
fingers together, firmly.

“I do,” they said, together.

Oonagh caught her breath. Bridget burped, and the whole
place erupted in laughter.

It was a fantastic party
in the grand tradition of Maguire’s; singing, dancing, hearty food and generous
drinks, hilarity, shenanigans and general unabated craic. The blessing of a new
baby is a glorious occasion and, of one so hoped and longed for, a rare and wondrous
event. That special night, everyone was everything to everybody. It was a time
for a celebration of new life; a thanksgiving for so many gifts and favours; a
time to forgive and forget; a time to love and be loved.

They were sitting in Weathervane’s cosy sitting room.
Marianne had decorated it in the colours of the island, teal, turquoise and
emerald with splashes of ochre; pale lamplight cast a soft glow in pools around
the room. She watched him as he sipped his tea. He look jaded; tiredness far beyond
any jet lag. Monty sat at his feet, his chin on Ryan’s knees, the huge brown
eyes staring at him unblinkingly.

“Angelique’s in the clinic again,” he said to his cup, “I
don’t know for how long this time. I went to see her to talk about our son, but
she wasn’t making any sense. There was a young man with her, a musician or some
such, he told me they’re going away as soon as she’s well enough to travel.
They’re in love, apparently. She said she’s taking our son with her, she said
after all I’ve put her through, I’ll never see him again.”

Marianne moved quietly from her chair to sit beside him on
the sofa. She took the cup away and put it on the floor. She took his hands in
hers, his head was bowed, shoulders hunched.

“It was over Marianne, long over, but we did that stupid
thing people do, we slept together one last time, thinking it might work out
but knowing it never would. And that one time she fell pregnant. Now the woman
I don’t want, could never live with, has the one thing I’ve wanted all my adult
life. A child, a beautiful baby son, to love and care for, and oh I don’t know,
maybe make up for the son I was too young and foolish to appreciate all those
years ago.” His voice trailed off. She caught his pain and squeezed his fingers
in hers. Two huge tears splashed onto her hand.

“Let’s go to bed and sleep awhile and see what tomorrow
brings.” She took his face in her hands. “Things always look better in the
morning, particularly here, you know that.” She kissed the top of his head and
he followed her slowly upstairs.

The sun was shining through the gap in the curtains as she
lay in his arms beneath the faded patchwork quilt which had adorned the bedroom
in Weathervane for as long as anyone could remember. He absentmindedly spun the
arrow on the trinket she wore at her throat, the gift before his last parting.

He had fallen asleep immediately his head hit the pillow,
but not before they had kissed gently and he had told her how proud he was of
her, and how pleased he was that they were now baby Bridget’s official
godparents. And how just knowing that, seemed to make them more of a couple. As
the sun continued to rise, they held each other tightly for as long as Monty
could keep his legs crossed, until finally he whined to be let out, and
Marianne wriggled free of Ryan’s arms.

After a breakfast of scrambled eggs and toasted soda bread
slathered with yellow butter, they sat at the kitchen table drinking coffee, as
he showed her pictures of his baby son Joey; a dark-eyed, olive-skinned boy
with a shock of blue-black curls. A child the same age as Bridget, who despite
his darkness, appeared more fragile when compared with the robust little girl,
for all her translucent auburn-ness. Ryan explained that Angelique had been
re-admitted to the clinic she regularly attended to help her deal with her
‘habits’. He, trying to balance his work, and keep his promise to attend
Bridget’s christening, had left the child in the care of a professional Nanny.

The Nanny had called her media contacts as soon as he left.
He started going over the story again, trying to fill in the gaps, hoping
Marianne would understand how it had come to this. This tangled mess.

“When we first got together, I was as wild as she was. But
I’m older than Angelique, and someone had to keep their feet on the ground.
Although she was hugely successful, we lived way beyond our means and she was
spending so much money on ‘relaxation’ as she called it, we were in serious
debt. I didn’t know the half of it until we started getting threats from all
sorts of unsavoury characters for money she owed them.”