In the Unlikely Event Page 2

  As I said before, it’s not Mal. And, okay, fine. Let’s humor the craziest part of my brain and say that it is him—so what? He didn’t see me. And I’m not going to approach him, either. He’s probably in town for a few days. Mal’s extremely devoted to his family, his farm, his country. I knew that when I met him. That man wouldn’t move to America. Not even for a girl.

  Especially not for a girl.

  Definitely not this girl.

  As for money? He doesn’t care for it. Never did.

  I nibble on a breadstick, down two glasses of wine, and find myself engrossed in a heated conversation, which has taken a turn from beach houses to the best public restrooms in Manhattan (Crate and Barrel on the corner of Houston and Broadway is in the lead), when Whitney, Ryner’s bitch-from-hell assistant, sashays over to our table, her hips swinging like a pendulum. Her short, platinum bob is cut with a precision that implies her hairdresser uses a ruler. She is wearing some sort of BDSM gown made of leather stripes that cover her nipples and midriff, and not much more. She cocks her head, pouting her scarlet lips.

  Everyone stops talking, because Whitney knows how to keep a secret like I know how to stay away from carbs. Exhibit: breadsticks and wine.

  “Aurora,” she purrs, parking a manicured hand on her waist.

  Everyone calls me Rory, but Whitney calls me Aurora. I made the mistake of expressing my dislike for my name once during a pop star’s photo shoot she attended with Ryner. Since then, I’ve been Aurora to her. If I told her I was allergic to money, she’d immediately wire the company’s entire budget into my bank account.

  There’s an idea.

  “Whit.” I pop the last piece of breadstick into my mouth, not bothering to meet her eyes.

  “Mr. Ryner would like to have a word with you on the balcony.” She glances at me under pinched eyebrows. I swear Whitney takes orgasmic pleasure in clearing her throat and adding suggestively, “Alone.”

  Squeezing my shoulder blades together and tilting my chin up, I head toward the VIP area’s terrace, knocking back my third glass of wine for liquid courage. Ryner is always two hundred pounds of sexual harassment, but especially when he is high and drunk. Which he definitely is right now. I tuck the napkin with the hotel logo into the pocket of my dress. Glancing back, I see Whitney sliding into my seat and casing her red-nailed claws on Callum’s shoulder, shooting him a sugary smile. Whitney would love nothing more than to prove she’s better than me. And she certainly is, if the criteria is best Desperate Housewives imposter from a plastic suburban neighborhood.

  The last thing I catch is her whispering something intimate to Callum. He frowns and shakes his head, no. Whatever she told him, he seems upset by the suggestion.

  Walking through the double doors, I find the balcony completely empty. It’s colder than my mother’s heart in here. I rub my arms, cursing myself for leaving my coat inside, and gait to the railing, admiring the view.

  Not only is it freezing, but I’m always cold. Ever since I was born, ever since I can remember, I wear sweaters and fluffy jackets everywhere. It’s like there’s an invisible layer of ice coating my skin at all times.

  I look up, blinking back at the stars, admiring their beauty even in this weather.

  Approaching footsteps clack on the floor behind me. Something heavy falls on my shoulders. A rich wool coat, still warm from body heat. It smells masculine and expensive: clean earth, pine, smoke, and the type of cologne that’s too pricey for mass retail. A shadow looms by my side. He puts a glass of whiskey on the wide marble bannister, his elbow next to mine, almost touching, but not quite.

  I twist my head, expecting to see Ryner, and come face to face with…Mal.

  My Mal. It is him after all.

  Malachy Doherty, with the lilac eyes. With the hypnotic smile. With the contract I signed on the napkin.

  With the piece of my heart he never gave back.

  Only he is not smiling anymore. It doesn’t look like he’s happy to see me.

  He said if we ever met again, he’d marry me, no matter what. But that was almost a decade ago—under the influence of alcohol and lust and youth. Of possibility.

  Mal opens his mouth. “Hello, darlin’.”

  At his rough Irish accent, my knees buckle, and I find myself grasping the bannister.

  The first flakes of snow fall around us. On my nose. Eyelashes. Shoulders. A storm is brewing inside my snow globe.

  Eight years ago

  Rory

  I prop my back against my father’s headstone and pluck a few blades of grass, throwing them in the air and watching as they float down onto my dirty Toms. The church bells chime, the sun slinking under green mountains.

  “You could’ve waited, you know. Laid off the alcohol for a month or two so I could meet you,” I mumble, yanking out my earbuds. “One” by U2 still plays distortedly until I kill the music app on my phone and throw it beside me. “Sorry. That was rude. I’m cranky when I’m tired, which…you probably would have known, had you decided to actually meet me. Jesus, Dad, you suck.”

  But even as I say those words, I don’t believe them. He didn’t suck. He was probably the best.

  I bang my head against his tombstone and close my eyes.

  I’m freezing in the middle of summer, as per usual, and exhausted from the long flight from Newark to Dublin. And from arguing with the hostel’s receptionist for forty-five minutes because my reservation got lost in cyberspace and they ran out of rooms. After I unloaded my small suitcase at a hotel off Temple Bar Square, I took a shower, ate half a bag of stale mini-bar chips, and freaked out over the bill I was going to pay for my unforeseen accommodations, which no doubt is going to kill my dream of purchasing a new camera before I leave for college.

  Then my mom called, informing me that I was dead to her for traveling to Ireland, in her highly diplomatic way.

  “What is the meaning of all this?” she demanded. “First of all, he’s dead. Second, you were better off without him. Trust me on that one, sweetie.”

  “So you say, Mom. You never gave me a chance to find out myself.”

  “He was a lazy drunk and a terrible flirt.”

  “He was also talented and funny and sent me gifts every Christmas and birthday. Things that were much more interesting than your Sephora gift cards and eyebrow-enhancing creams,” I mumbled.

  “I’m sorry I wanted you to get yourself some nice things. You could’ve used it to buy better makeup to cover your birthmark. It’s easy to be the cool parent when you don’t do the actual parenting,” she huffed. “Are you looking for your half-sister? Bet she lives in a fancy-schmancy house. All that money ought to have gone somewhere.”

  What she meant by somewhere was probably not to you.

  I want to look for my half-sister, but I don’t know where to start. To be honest, I haven’t really planned this trip. I just wanted to see the place where my dad was buried. Expecting…what? Some magical connection with the cold stone beneath me? Probably. Not that I would ever admit that aloud.

  “Anything else, Mom?”

  “Don’t you give me this attitude, young lady. Not when I did my best to raise you and all he did was drink your inheritance.”

  I grunted.

  Money, money, money. It’s always about the money.

  “I can’t believe they buried him near a church,” she mused. “Hopefully the grass won’t grow black, like his heart.”

  She hung up after a string of complaints about her too-prominent new highlights and milking a promise from me that I’d buy her a carton of duty-free Parliament cigarettes on my return trip.

  Now here I am, in a cemetery in central Dublin, staring at a gray squirrel who is eyeing the bag of chips peeking from my backpack. I envy its coat of fur. I’d legitimately consider walking around with a sheet of fur all over my body to protect myself from the constant chill.

  “They’re not even that good. Who puts vinegar on chips? It’s barbaric.” I yank the bag out of my backpack, pull a c
hip out, and throw it its way. The squirrel jumps back in fear, but then gingerly makes its way to the snack. It sniffs the chip, grabs it with its tiny paws, and makes a run up a nearby tree.

  “Where I come from, you get jailed for assisting a murderer,” a voice cracks behind me.

  I look around with a jerk. A priest is standing a few paces behind my father’s grave—black robe, big cross, all-ye-sinners-are-doomed expression, the entire shebang. I jump to my feet, grabbing my bag and phone, and swivel to face him.

  Okay, so he doesn’t look super dangerous, but being all alone in a foreign land makes me hyperaware of my vulnerability.

  “Now, now.”

  The man takes slow steps down the rolling green hill on which my father is buried, his hands knotted behind his back. He looks like he lived through both World Wars, the Renaissance…and Hannibal’s invasion of Italy.

  “No need to be scared. I reckon you’re highly uninformed regarding the gray squirrels and their hidden agenda.”

  He stops behind my father’s tombstone, gazing at the prominent birthmark on my temple. I hate when people do that—stare so openly. Especially because it looks like a scar. A crescent-shaped thing, it is somehow even paler than my normal shade of dead. Mom always encourages me to do something about it. Cover it with makeup. Remove it with a laser treatment.

  Something flickers in his eyes when he sees my birthmark. He has fluffy white hair and a face stained with age. His eyes are so small under heaps of wrinkly skin, I can’t even make out their color.

  “The gray squirrels endanger the red squirrels, driving them out of their own territory. The reds were here first. But the grays are better at problem solving. Street smart. The grays also carry a disease that only affects the red squirrels.” He removes his reading glasses, cleaning them with the hem of his robe.

  I swallow, shifting my weight from foot to foot. He slides his glasses back on.

  “’Course, the grays also eat the reds’ food and are better at reproducing. Red squirrels don’t reproduce under pressure.”

  I stare at him, not sure if he is an avid environmentalist, an awkward conversationalist, or simply batshit crazy. Why is he talking to me about squirrels?

  More importantly—why am I listening?

  “I, um, thanks for the info.” I play with the hoop in my nose.

  Leave, Rory. Start walking in the opposite direction before he gives you a lecture about ants.

  “Just an interesting anecdote about squirrels. And maybe about how unwelcome guests sometimes take over territory simply because they’re better than the locals.” He smiles, tilting his head. “And you are?”

  Confused and excessively emotional. “Rory.” I clear my throat. “Rory Jenkins.”

  “You’re not from here, Rory.”

  “America.” I kick a little stone at my feet, somehow feeling like a punished kid, though I’ve no good reason to. “I’m from New Jersey.”

  “That’s why you fed it.” He nods. “Should I take a guess why you’re here, or are you in a sharing mood?”

  I’m too embarrassed to tell him I came here to find closure before I go to college, practically flushing all the money I’ve saved the past two years working at Applebee’s down the crap-stained toilet.

  “Neither.” I fling my backpack over my shoulder. It’s time to go back to the hotel. Nothing is going to come out of this stupid trip. “Thanks for the fun facts about squirrels, though.”

  It was totally worth the trip across the ocean.

  I’d taken my first steps toward the cemetery’s gate when I hear his voice behind me.

  “You’re Glen O’Connell’s daughter.”

  I stop, feeling my shoulders tense. My whole body turns to stone. Slowly, I swivel on my heel, muscles frozen.

  “How do you know?”

  “You’re the third offspring to visit his grave. I’d heard the last one was supposed to be American. We’ve been waiting for you.”

  “We?”

  “Well, I.”

  “Where are the other two?” I look around, as if they’re hiding behind tombstones.

  “One lives just a short drive from here. Known her since she was a wee baby. Still attends this church with her mammy every Sunday. Glen was in her life as much as he could be, considering his…er, limitations.”

  Translation: Alcoholism. Strangely, I still envy her.

  “And the other one?”

  “Lived up north. County Antrim.”

  “Why the past tense?”

  “He passed away a few weeks ago. Leukemia, would you believe? Such a young lad. He met his da a couple times, but never got to know him quite well.”

  My heart sinks like an anchor, clawing at the bottom of my stomach. I had a brother who died, and now I’ll never get to meet him or know him at all. I have a potential family here. This guy…I could have hugged him, comforted him in his last days.

  I know next to nothing about my father. Only that he died at age fifty of a heart attack that wasn’t unwarranted, considering his affection for fast cars, fast women, smoking, drinking, and artery-clogging food. He was born in Tolka, the son of a butcher and a teacher, and shot to fame writing “Belle’s Bells,” a Christmas song that exploded all over the charts in Ireland, the UK, and the US, giving Mariah Carey and George Michael a run for their money. The Christmas song was his first and last brush with labor, or anything similar to a career, but it was enough to secure him a house in Dublin and an annual budget for food and booze.

  He was a womanizer. The kind to bed everything that moved. He met Mom at a bar in Paris while she was backpacking with friends and he was trying to find his muse again. They had a one-night stand, and he gave her his address so she could write to him if she ever happened to be in Ireland looking for a good time. When she did write to him, informing him I was in the oven, he invited her to come live with him, but Mom never did. Instead, he sent child support money every month. Sent me gifts, letters…but everything was always carefully monitored by my mother. I hated that she controlled our relationship.

  So I rebelled. From a young age.

  I’d tried to get in touch with him on my own over the years.

  I wrote him letters my mom wasn’t aware of—sent him pictures, emails, poems I’d ripped from books at the library. I begged Mom for crumbs of information about my mysterious sperm donor. I never heard from him, and I thought I knew why. He knew how much of a bossy bitch Mom was, and he was afraid if she found out we were talking behind her back, she’d cut off his communication with me completely.

  Dad agreed to only talk to me through Mom, and never on the phone, out of respect for her. He once wrote to me that he was ashamed of his voice, of what had become of him. He’d said he slurred now even when he wasn’t drunk, and his voice shook all the time.

  I didn’t care what he sounded like. I just needed his voice in my ears.

  I wanted a dad.

  Not even a particularly good one.

  Seriously, any sort of dad would do.

  My father died two months before I graduated high school. I was walking into the kitchen to get a glass of water when Mom got the phone call. I plastered my back to the hallway wall so she couldn’t see me.

  She wasn’t sad. Or angry. Or broken. She just grabbed the vintage, corded phone, lit a cigarette, and sat down at the dining table, flipping her hair behind her shoulder.

  “So he finally kicked the bucket, huh?” She coughed. “Only sad thing about it is I’ll have to tell Rory. She doesn’t deserve this heartache.”

  I didn’t know who she was talking to, but I wanted to throw up. He was my father, and he was a part of me—presumably a part of me she wasn’t too crazy about.

  If Glen had waited just a little longer, I could have met him face to face. Now, I’m meeting him grave to face, hearing about his legacy of out-of-wedlock offspring from a priest.

  Class act, Dad.

  “Father…?” I eye the giant cross on his chest.

  “Dohe
rty,” he provides.

  “Father Doherty, did he ever say anything about me?”

  In that space of time, between my question and his answer, I feel the entire weight of the world pressing against my shoulders, ready to bury me.

  “Yes. Of course. He spoke of you all the time. You were the apple of his eye. He bragged about your photography. Whenever he got out of the house, he made a point of shoving pictures of you in people’s faces and saying, ‘This, right here, is my daughter.’”

  Whenever he got out of the house.

  His situation was so awful. Mom never once tried to help him. Why?

  “How come he never wanted to see me?”

  I don’t know why I decide to unload all these questions on this stranger. He couldn’t have known my dad too well. It’s not like Glen used to attend church regularly…at least I don’t think.

  “He sent you money every month and loved you from afar, knowing you were better off not knowing him.” Father Doherty evades the painful question. “Some people are weak, but not necessarily bad. He’d been battling depression and alcoholism, and wasn’t in a state to take care of a child.”

  Maybe Dad did save me from himself. The important thing is that he talked about me, right? That he took care of me in his own, roundabout way? Yeah, I can work with that. But I can’t shake the nagging feeling that Mom had a hand in the fact that we never met.

  A trickle of warmth sneaks into my chest. “Can I meet my sister? Do you know where she lives?”

  I’m grasping at straws at this point. I can hear the desperation in my voice, and it makes me actively dislike myself. Get it together. He didn’t even leave you a letter before he died.

  “Ah, poor thing’s in a state. I’m afraid she doesn’t want to be reached. However…” He strokes his chin, mulling an idea. “I know someone who could help you. Follow me.”

  I shadow Father Doherty into the church, all the way to the dim back office, where he sits at a heavy oak desk and scribbles an address on a piece of paper. He talks as he writes.