I didn’t want to be the one who
broke the news that all that work went out the window.
Mike frowned. “Why did the village want the dig?”
Maggie took a slow tip of tea. “A site would boost the local
economy. There would be more tourists spending money at the shops and
restaurants, more jobs—Ms. Sullivan said she would probably hire a good dozen
people to help her excavate this summer.”
Mike turned his frown to me.
I shrugged. “It’s easier to hire and train locals than bring
workers over, especially for Phase 1 excavations where not a lot of detailed
digging happens.”
“Mrs. O’Connor.” Mike leaned forward, hands clasped between his
knees. I wondered if it tasted strange, his mother’s name applied to a woman
he’d never met before. “Why was Patrick was okay with the excavation? I wouldn’t
have thought he’d want strangers all over his property.”
“Wouldn’t you?” Her sharp eyes peered over the brim of her cup.
Beside me, Mike tensed. I couldn’t pick out the thickest tension between
them—accusation, unease, challenge.
“Patrick was a big proponent of rediscovering Ireland’s early
history,” I said quickly and a little too loudly, trying to dispel whatever
strange sentiment the O’Connors had stirred up.
It worked. Both of them scoffed. “The money had a large part to
do with it,” Maggie said. “And if you’d ever met Patrick, you would have known
that once he’d made up his mind, nothing would change it.”
Mike nodded slowly. “I’ve heard stories.”
“’Course you have.” Maggie stirred her small silver spoon
through her tea.
Mike cleared his throat. “Is there a bus out to the farm? I
wanted to look around.”
His aunt shook her head. “It’s only accessible by car. I’m busy
this afternoon, but could give you a lift tomorrow. Or my nephew Paul’s in town.
I’m sure he can bring you over.”
Mike and I exchanged a glance, and then Mike nodded.
Maggie lifted her tea. “You can find him at the pub over on
Blue Street. Just ask for Paul Connelly.”
Chapter Eight
We broke for lunch first. We picked up pre-made
sandwiches at the local Spar, a tiny chain convenience store, and ate them
sitting on a bench looking over the tiny harbor. Boats bobbed in the water, and
people occasionally stared. We were stopped three times for introductions before
we were finally able to unwrap our food.
I liked it here, with the warm summer breeze and the scent of
the sea and the warm bread in our hands. I turned to say as much to Mike, but
switched topics when I saw the furrows in his brow. “So what’s up with this
estrangement? What happened?”
The furrows melted away when he looked at me, replaced by a
grin. “You’re pretty nosy.”
“Who, me?” I widened my eyes. “I just have an active interest
in understanding the world. Also, that was a little weird, wasn’t it? Shouldn’t
we have talked about Patrick and your dad and your lives, considering that you’d
never met before?”
He finished off a bite of his sandwich. “My dad and Patrick
grew up on Kilkarten, but by the time Dad was ten, they’d moved to the
village—actually, probably to the house Maggie’s in now.” He threw a glance over
his shoulder, like he’d only just realized his father might have spent years in
that same house. I had to touch his knee before he shook himself and went
on.
“Right. Anyway, after my grandparents died—and this was when my
dad and Patrick were in their late teens, early twenties—Dad wanted to sell the
farm. Patrick didn’t. They had some huge fight and then Dad moved to Boston.”
“What was the fight about?”
He shrugged.
Right. “Personal reasons.”
He gave me that crooked smile.
We finished off our sandwiches. I looked out over the water,
dark blue and endless. Mike’s dad had wanted to get rid of the land, and now
Mike refused to. What had that fight been about? Did Maggie know? Did Mike’s
family? “So I’m guessing you haven’t met
broke the news that all that work went out the window.
Mike frowned. “Why did the village want the dig?”
Maggie took a slow tip of tea. “A site would boost the local
economy. There would be more tourists spending money at the shops and
restaurants, more jobs—Ms. Sullivan said she would probably hire a good dozen
people to help her excavate this summer.”
Mike turned his frown to me.
I shrugged. “It’s easier to hire and train locals than bring
workers over, especially for Phase 1 excavations where not a lot of detailed
digging happens.”
“Mrs. O’Connor.” Mike leaned forward, hands clasped between his
knees. I wondered if it tasted strange, his mother’s name applied to a woman
he’d never met before. “Why was Patrick was okay with the excavation? I wouldn’t
have thought he’d want strangers all over his property.”
“Wouldn’t you?” Her sharp eyes peered over the brim of her cup.
Beside me, Mike tensed. I couldn’t pick out the thickest tension between
them—accusation, unease, challenge.
“Patrick was a big proponent of rediscovering Ireland’s early
history,” I said quickly and a little too loudly, trying to dispel whatever
strange sentiment the O’Connors had stirred up.
It worked. Both of them scoffed. “The money had a large part to
do with it,” Maggie said. “And if you’d ever met Patrick, you would have known
that once he’d made up his mind, nothing would change it.”
Mike nodded slowly. “I’ve heard stories.”
“’Course you have.” Maggie stirred her small silver spoon
through her tea.
Mike cleared his throat. “Is there a bus out to the farm? I
wanted to look around.”
His aunt shook her head. “It’s only accessible by car. I’m busy
this afternoon, but could give you a lift tomorrow. Or my nephew Paul’s in town.
I’m sure he can bring you over.”
Mike and I exchanged a glance, and then Mike nodded.
Maggie lifted her tea. “You can find him at the pub over on
Blue Street. Just ask for Paul Connelly.”
Chapter Eight
We broke for lunch first. We picked up pre-made
sandwiches at the local Spar, a tiny chain convenience store, and ate them
sitting on a bench looking over the tiny harbor. Boats bobbed in the water, and
people occasionally stared. We were stopped three times for introductions before
we were finally able to unwrap our food.
I liked it here, with the warm summer breeze and the scent of
the sea and the warm bread in our hands. I turned to say as much to Mike, but
switched topics when I saw the furrows in his brow. “So what’s up with this
estrangement? What happened?”
The furrows melted away when he looked at me, replaced by a
grin. “You’re pretty nosy.”
“Who, me?” I widened my eyes. “I just have an active interest
in understanding the world. Also, that was a little weird, wasn’t it? Shouldn’t
we have talked about Patrick and your dad and your lives, considering that you’d
never met before?”
He finished off a bite of his sandwich. “My dad and Patrick
grew up on Kilkarten, but by the time Dad was ten, they’d moved to the
village—actually, probably to the house Maggie’s in now.” He threw a glance over
his shoulder, like he’d only just realized his father might have spent years in
that same house. I had to touch his knee before he shook himself and went
on.
“Right. Anyway, after my grandparents died—and this was when my
dad and Patrick were in their late teens, early twenties—Dad wanted to sell the
farm. Patrick didn’t. They had some huge fight and then Dad moved to Boston.”
“What was the fight about?”
He shrugged.
Right. “Personal reasons.”
He gave me that crooked smile.
We finished off our sandwiches. I looked out over the water,
dark blue and endless. Mike’s dad had wanted to get rid of the land, and now
Mike refused to. What had that fight been about? Did Maggie know? Did Mike’s
family? “So I’m guessing you haven’t met
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