The Brooding Stranger. Maggie CoxЧитать онлайн книгу.
‘Indeed you can. You’ll be as welcome as the flowers in May, and that’s the truth—though I can’t help thinking it must be awful lonely, living up there in Paddy O’Connell’s old cottage all on your own. You’ve been here for quite a while now, haven’t you? What about your family? Sure, your poor mother must be missing you something awful.’
Smiling uneasily, Karen said nothing. Who was she to disenchant this lovely old lady of the idea that her mother must be missing her? The truth was that Elizabeth Morton was probably glad that her tragic daughter had moved to Ireland for the foreseeable future. That way, she wouldn’t have to deal with all the messy, ‘inconvenient’ emotions she so clearly detested and that Karen’s presence would inevitably bring up. With Karen settled in Ireland for a while, Elizabeth could fool herself that all was still well in the world. A world where she’d become a master at keeping up appearances and disguising her feelings—a realm where she could continue socialising and lunching with her friends as though tragedy had not hit her only child like a tidal wave and all but dragged her under.
Eileen Kennedy was too astute a woman not to see that the reference to her mother had unsettled Karen. Her reluctance in commenting easily conveyed that something had gone on there. Not that Karen blamed the shopkeeper for being curious. She’d often sensed that the locals she bumped into in the small but buzzing Irish town were curious about the ‘aloof’ English girl who had rented ‘Paddy O’Connell’s old place’, as it was regularly referred to—not least of all the local lads who whistled and tried to engage her whenever she passed by. All Karen wanted was some peace and quiet, but people wouldn’t know why unless she told them. And she wasn’t ready to do that. Not by a long chalk.
‘Now, love …’ Carefully arranging the groceries in Karen’s large wicker basket, Mrs Kennedy rang up the amount on the old-fashioned till—another charming relic from long ago. The cosy corner shop set-up was much more appealing to Karen than a soulless supermarket. As the elderly lady counted out her change, her watery blue eyes seemed to consider her unsmiling expression sympathetically. ‘Please forgive me if you think I’m being too forward, but I get the distinct feeling that you could use some cheering up—and I have a suggestion. There’s music and dancing down at Malloy’s Bar just off the high street on Saturday night, and you’d be made as welcome as if you were one of our own. Why don’t you come and join us? I’ll be there about eight or so, with my husband, Jack, and we’d love you to come and sit with us. Sure, a bit of music and dancing would do you the world of good. Put the bloom back into those lovely cheeks of yours.’
Music … Inwardly, Karen sighed with longing. How she had missed it. But how could she return to it with any enjoyment after what had happened to Ryan? It had been eighteen months—eighteen long months since she’d even picked up her guitar. What if she couldn’t sing again? What if the tragedy had robbed her of her voice for good? What was the point anyway? Karen’s singing career had been her and Ryan’s joint dream. Now that her husband was no longer living, she didn’t have the heart to pursue it on her own. ‘Tragic Princess of Pop’ the local papers had dubbed her. Maybe that would always be the case. That was one of the reasons why she had eventually fled to Ireland—Ryan’s homeland—selecting the most westerly and rural location she could find, where no one would have heard of the singer who had been starting to make a name for herself back home in Britain.
Now she sighed out loud, wishing with all her heart that she didn’t feel so emotionally ambushed by a simple kind invitation to an evening out. If only she could be normal again—if only she could reply easily and with pleasure at the thought of being amongst people having a good time again. Her gaze focusing on the neat row of canned baked beans and tinned tomatoes behind Eileen Kennedy, she willed herself to say something. Anything. Before the kindly shopkeeper concluded she had lost her manners. But the lady behind the counter didn’t seem in a hurry for a reply. All the shopkeepers Karen had met here had easily transmitted to her that there was nothing they liked better than passing the time of day with a customer.
Finally, sighing again deeply, she found the words she was searching for. ‘I don’t think so, Mrs Kennedy. It’s very nice of you to ask me, but I’m—I’m not very good around people just now.’
‘And sure, no one will expect anything different, sweetheart. They understand you’ve come here for your own private reasons. My guess is to get over something … or someone, maybe? No one expects you to be the life and soul of the party. If there’s any nonsense from anyone my Jack will give them short shrift and no mistake! Come on, now—what could it hurt?’
That was the six-million-dollar question as far as Karen was concerned, and one she still hadn’t figured out the answer to. What was certain was that she definitely wasn’t ready to socialise yet—the way she was feeling she’d sooner jump out of a plane without a parachute. ‘I can’t. I appreciate you asking me, I really do, but right now I.I just couldn’t.’
‘Fair enough, dear. You come and join us when you’re ready. We’re always at Malloy’s on a Saturday night, me and Jack, so we are.’ Eileen rubbed her hands down her wraparound apron, its worn cotton fabric quaintly adorned with sprigs of red berries on a faded pink background, and smiled.
‘Mrs Kennedy?’
‘Yes, my dear?’ The old lady leaned across the counter at the unexpected lowering of the younger woman’s voice, resting her well-covered forearm on the scratched wooden surface.
Karen cleared her throat to give her courage. She respected everybody’s right to privacy, she really did—she hated hers being invaded—but she suddenly had an imperative need to know about the man in the woods. The ‘big bad wolf’, as he’d sardonically dubbed himself.
‘Is there a man in the area who owns a huge fawn-coloured dog? A Great Dane, he said it was.’
‘Gray O’Connell,’ Eileen replied without hesitation. ‘His father lived in the very cottage you’re staying in.’
‘His father? You mean his father is Paddy O’Connell?’ Karen frowned as a wave of shock shuddered through her.
‘Was, you mean … Yes, Paddy was a fine man until the drink did for him—God rest his soul.’ The old lady crossed herself, then leaned conspiratorially towards Karen. ‘His son owns practically everything of any worth around here—including your cottage, of course. Not much pleasure it brings him, either. ‘Tis a wonder he hasn’t gone the way of his father himself, with all that’s happened. But there, I expect he finds solace in his own way, with his painting and such.’
‘He’s an artist?’
‘Yes, dear … a good one, too, by all accounts. My friend Bridie Hanrahan works up at the big house, cleaning and cooking for him. If it wasn’t for Bridie we wouldn’t hear anything about the man at all. Turning into a real recluse, he is. ‘Tis true that money doesn’t buy happiness. More than true in Gray O’Connell’s case, I would say.’
Karen said nothing. It wasn’t her business to pry, or to try and tease more information out of the effusive Mrs Kennedy. She’d heard enough to know that the man had good reason to keep himself to himself, and she of all people could respect that.
‘Well, I’d better be going now. Thanks for everything, Mrs Kennedy.’
‘Do you mind if I ask why you wanted to know about Gray O’Connell?’
Colouring hotly at the question, Karen let her glance settle momentarily on the fat barrel of rosy-red apples by the door, their overripe scent filling the shop.
‘I take an early-morning walk in the woods sometimes. I bumped into him and his dog, that’s all.’ She wouldn’t tell the other woman that she had been scared out of her wits at the sight of the pair of them.
‘He’s an early riser, too, so I hear.’ Eileen shrugged one plump shoulder. ‘I daresay he managed to keep a civil tongue in his head?’
‘Just about.’ Karen’s expression was pained for a moment. ‘I don’t think he was feeling very sociable, either.’
‘That