The Man On The Cliff

Kate thanked him and dropped a handful of coins on the table. As she started toward the door, he called out to her.

“Listen, love, are you married?”

Kate stared at him. God, he had to be sixty. Was he trying to pick her up?

“Oh, not for me.” He laughed, obviously seeing the shock on her face. “My wife.”

“Your wife?”

“My wife. Look, do yourself a favor. When you get to the house and she asks you, tell her you are, otherwise she’ll have you engaged to a pig farmer faster than you can say Lisdoonvarna.”

“Lisdoonwhat?”

“Exactly. Married with two kiddies, tell her. Better yet, say you’ve a bun in the oven.”

Kate smiled and stepped out into the night. After the warm smokiness of the pub, the air hit her like a cold blast. She darted down the narrow alley behind Dooley’s to the muddy patch of grass where she’d parked. Vapor streaming from her mouth, she put the purse on the roof of the car while she unlocked the door. Inside, she buckled her seat belt then remembered the purse and got out to retrieve it. The car’s sudden movement sent the purse sliding from the roof and into a puddle of water. Naturally, she’d neglected to fasten it.

A tube of lipstick glinted up at her from the murky water; the apple that she’d saved from the flight bobbed and sank. As she bent down to retrieve her floating passport and airline ticket, the day seemed to cave in on her and she felt herself on the edge of hysteria—not knowing whether to laugh or cry.

She picked everything up and got back in the car again. As she started the ignition, a combination of fatigue and jet lag and—why not admit it?—loneliness left her suddenly so desolate and empty that her chest hurt. Married. No, she wasn’t married. If falling in love with the right guy was a college course, she would have flunked half a dozen times. A Love 101 dropout, auditing courses on Intro to Celibacy and Elements of Spinsterhood.

For a moment she just sat there with the windshield fogging, the car shuddering beneath her. Here she was in a rental car in some dark alley in a remote village thousands of miles from home and no one was waiting back in Santa Monica for her to call and say she’d arrived safely. No one was counting the days until she was home again. No one gave a damn and that was the truth of it. Sure, she could do her conjuring tricks. Divert the eye. Look over here, look over there. See how busy and full my life is. When she faced it right on, though, there was nothing. No center. Nothing but black emptiness.

“Get over it.” She put the car in gear, adjusted the rearview mirror and peered into it for a minute. “Quit feeling sorry for yourself,” she told the face with the under-eye circles that stared back at her, “or you’ll blow the assignment. Tom will replace you with some twenty-something and you’ll end up jobless, homeless, wandering around Santa Monica with all your stuff packed in a shopping cart and sleeping on benches on Ocean Boulevard. Is that what you want?”

It wasn’t and by the time she parked outside the Pot o’ Gold some fifteen minutes later, she’d pulled herself out of the funk. Imagine the worst and whatever happens probably won’t be quite as bad. One of the tools in her coping kit. That and the breezy, confident mask that only slipped when she was too tired to maintain it. By the time she rang the bell, it was firmly back in place.

The woman who answered the door wore a red wool dress that hugged her slim figure and set off her black hair and blue eyes. Recalling the sixtyish bartender at Dooley’s who looked a good ten years older, Kate wondered if she’d misunderstood what he’d said about his wife running the place. If she’d got it right, the two seemed an unlikely pair.

“Kate Neeson.” She stuck out her hand. “I’m really sorry I’m late.”

“It’s all right, darlin’. Patrick called to say you were on your way.” Smiling, the woman shook Kate’s hand. “Annie Ryan. Sure, I did get a bit worried, it’s the way I am. My houseguest isn’t home yet and I’m running to the window every five minutes.” She peered at Kate’s face. “You’re all right, are you? Your eyes are a bit red.”

“I’m fine,” she said, but Annie looked so doubtful, Kate felt the need to offer more reassurance. “It’s allergies.” She improvised. “Probably the damp air.”

Annie patted her arm, as if to say she wasn’t convinced but she’d go along with it, and ushered her along the hallway and into a brightly lit room that smelled of wood smoke, furniture polish and flowers. Kate glanced around. Flower-patterned couches and armchairs grouped cozily around the flickering fire. The glow of amber lamps on the teacups set out on a low table by the hearth.

“This is really nice.” She smiled at Annie, her spirits revived. “It’s so warm and inviting. I was…well, ever since I arrived, I’ve been getting lost and everything’s kind of strange, but I think it’s all going to work out.” She stopped, embarrassed. Why was she blabbering like this to a complete stranger? It wasn’t even like her. But Annie, who was bustling around the room, poking at the fire, seemed to find nothing amiss.

“Make yourself at home now. I’ll have someone bring in your suitcases.” She helped Kate off with her coat, disappeared with it, and returned moments later. “While you’re here, you’re part of the family. Now, will you have a cup of tea and a bit of supper? I’ve a lamb stew in the oven, but if that’s not what you fancy, there’s a chicken pie. By the way, love,” she said as Kate started up the stairs, “there’s a phone in the hall, should you want to ring your husband. You are married, aren’t you?”

NIALL LOOKED across the vast stretch of Buncarroch Castle’s great hall to the mantelpiece where his business partner, Sharon Garroty, stood, hands on her hips, her expression one of severely strained patience. She had on narrow black trousers and a black silk blouse, her pale blond hair pulled into a tight bun at the back of her head.

“What I really can’t understand,” she was saying, “is exactly how you could just forget about signing papers on a fifty-thousand-pound loan because you were too busy snapping shots with a little twit of a coed who obviously has designs on you.”

“Put that way,” he said, pulling off a boot, “I’m sure it must be hard to understand.”

“And how would you put it then?”

“I’ve explained already that I forgot we were to meet at the bank. I’ve also apologized for forgetting. Either accept it, or don’t. I won’t spend the night justifying myself to you.”

He removed the other boot and stood dangling it by the laces as he looked at her. If he’d told her that anger enhanced her beauty, she’d no doubt throttle him, but it was true. The faint pink of anger that tinged her creamy skin was as flattering as the most artfully applied cosmetic. Often his assignments involved photographing beautiful women, but few of them had her classic sort of beauty. Clearly, though, it wasn’t the moment to mention it.

He averted his eyes from Sharon and from the eagle on the chimney wall immediately above her head. It had been there for as long as he could remember, but the sight of it, wings outstretched in frozen flight, had always depressed him and they’d talked of taking it down. Or he had. Sharon thought it should stay. They’d talked of turning the castle into a small and exclusive hotel, and Sharon had argued that the eagle—along with the various hunting trophies and stuffed animal heads that adorned the walls—were what tourists would expect to see.

He had dropped the subject. Although he didn’t like the thought that the trophies might suggest his endorsement of blood sports, he disliked a fight even more. Whatever gene the Irish had for volatility had bypassed him completely. Tonight unfortunately, the likelihood of avoiding confrontation was as remote as a month without rain.

Bits of mud had flaked off his boots, and Niall scooped them up and threw them into the grate. While he was the castle’s owner, Sharon made no secret of the fact that she rather fancied herself as lady of the manor, graciously opening her stately home to wealthy tourists. Where he fit into that picture, he wasn’t quite sure. He was hardly the lordly type. More the groundskeeper, he reflected, his thoughts drifting to the cromlech that dotted the grounds and an idea he’d had for a series of pictures of Celtic stones.

“Who is this Elizabeth girl?” Sharon demanded. “Is she the one who’s always ringing the studio?”

He ignored the question, carried his boots across the great hall, down a stone-flagged corridor and into the kitchen. Behind him he heard the tap of Sharon’s heels. He opened the pantry door and did an inventory of the nearly empty shelves. Two tins of mulligatawny soup, some pilchards and a bit of moldy cheese. He thought of the savory smells in Annie Ryan’s house and wondered whether the American woman might be staying there.

Again he regretted not making sure she’d found her way safely. Tomorrow, perhaps, he’d ring Annie Ryan just to check whether the American was there. He peeled waxed paper from the Stilton. After tonight’s inquiry about Elizabeth, a call would almost certainly convince Annie that he had an obsession with stray women. Sharon’s voice again interrupted his thoughts.

“You didn’t answer me. The girl you were supposed to meet? She’s the one who’s always ringing you, isn’t she?”

“She is.” In the bread bin, he found half a loaf of brown bread. It had gone stale, but he didn’t care. Aware of Sharon behind him, he hacked off a piece, sandwiched it around the cheese. After he’d finished eating, he brushed the crumbs into the sink, put the bread back in the bin and went to the back door. Through the windowpane, he looked out into the dark night and after a moment heard a flurry of movement outside, followed by a frantic scratching at the woodwork.

“Rufus.” He pulled the door open, and a large gray dog burst into the kitchen on a blast of cold air. “You’ve awful-smelling breath, d’you know that?” He scratched the dog’s wiry head. “And you’re a bit of a scruff bag, too. If you ever hope to interest that little Pekingese down the road, you’ll have to do something about yourself.”

“Oh, I see.” Sharon spoke at his shoulder. “You’re just going to ignore me, is that it? Sure, the bloody dog gets more attention than I do. Maybe I should get down on all fours and bark at you. Would that do it?”

Over the dog’s head, he met Sharon’s ice-blue stare.

“It’s a character flaw, you have,” she said. “You know that, don’t you? Your head’s always up in the bloody clouds. You’re not grounded in reality.”

He pushed the dog down. The charge wasn’t exactly new. Three years ago when they’d first become partners in the small art gallery, she’d teased him about mentally disappearing. For a while, it had been a joke between them. Sharon would knock on his head, inquire if anyone was home. Gradually, the teasing started to get a bit of an edge. It wasn’t until they’d started sleeping together that she’d taken to calling it a character flaw.

On the dresser, there was an unopened bottle of whiskey that he’d bought to take up to Sligo. The converted lighthouse he’d bought a few years back was his favorite place in the world, remote and beautiful—with a constant crash of the ocean all around. He could do with a little of that solitude right now, he thought, with a glance at Sharon. He poured a little whiskey into a couple of glasses and handed one to her. She downed it in one gulp, carried her empty glass to the sink, then returned to where he stood.

“She’s a bit young, isn’t she, Niall? Have you thought of what people will think?” She put one hand up as though to ward off an outburst. “All right, you say she’s just a student in your class and it’s all perfectly innocent. Maybe that’s true, but people talk.” She gave him a meaningful look. “As you well know. I didn’t say it to the bank manager, of course, but can you imagine if I’d told him you weren’t there because it was more important to be with this…this little tart?” A faint flush of pink stained her face. “Can you?”

“I can.”

“But you don’t care, do you? It really doesn’t matter to you what people think. You lock yourself away in your own little world, and nothing else exists.” She stopped, left the room and returned a few moments later with a large white envelope. “Maybe this will bring you back to earth. It came today.” She handed it to him. “From that boyfriend of Moruadh’s in Paris. It was addressed to you, so I opened it, but the letters inside were for her.”

He took them from her. Half a dozen gray envelopes.

He riffled through them. All had been opened. Letters from him sent during the year before Moruadh died, forwarded by one of the many men who had drifted through her life at that time. He looked up and met Sharon’s eyes.

“Did you open these?”

“They were already open.”

He looked up at her. “Did you read them?”

“One of them, I glanced at. It said something about her needing to get help and—”