The Mighty Quinns: Rourke

“I have one more lead to check on your brother Diarmuid,” Ian said, leafing through his notes. “But I’m sad to say that we’ve found nothing on Lochlan. I have researchers on four continents looking for him, but he just disappeared. Off the grid, they call it.”

Aileen had hired Ian Stephens months ago to help her research the parents she’d never known for a chapter in her autobiography. She had grown up in an orphanage, believing that she’d been the only daughter of a destitute Irish widow who’d died of consumption—after her husband had been killed in the Easter Uprising. But Ian had discovered four older brothers—siblings she hadn’t remembered—whose fates had been scattered to the winds when their mother couldn’t care for them.

“I’m another year older,” Aileen said. She forced a bright smile. “I never intended to live to see my ninety-seventh birthday. Good Lord, I’ve lived far too long.”

“You’re the youngest ninety-seven-year-old I’ve ever met,” Ian said with a smile. “Look at you. You’re still writing, still active.”

“That’s lovely of you to say, but it doesn’t make this old body of mine feel any younger.” Aileen laughed softly. “In my mind, I’m still a young woman. When I look in the mirror these days, I barely recognize myself. I wish I could have some of those years back.”

“You’ve led a full life, Miss Quinn. An important life. Your books have meant a lot to so many people. You’re one of Ireland’s most beloved novelists.”

“And yet, I’m searching the ends of the earth for a family, desperate to give myself a legacy beyond my books. I could have had my own family if I hadn’t put my work first.”

Ian had found the descendants of two of her brothers—Tomas’s family near Brisbane, Australia, and Conal’s family in Chicago in the U.S. But it had been five months since he’d brought good news about the other two. She’d planned a festive family reunion for the holidays at Ballyseede Castle, leasing out the entire castle and its twenty-two bedrooms. She wanted the rooms full.

“What do you know of Diarmuid so far?” Aileen asked.

“We’ve come across a clue in a 1945 Canadian census. The age seems to be right and the individual lists his birthplace as Ireland. His name is registered as Dermot, but that is the anglicized version of the Gaelic name. Sometimes the census takers didn’t always get a spelling correct.”

Aileen leaned forward in her chair. “That does sound hopeful.”

“If this Dermot is the one, he settled on Cape Breton, worked as a fisherman and had three sons. The eldest, Alistair, died in the Second World War. The next son, Brian, or Buddy, as he was known, died about five months ago, a bachelor. And the youngest, Paul, died about eight years ago. His son, Rourke, is the only heir.”

“Rourke?”

“From our research, that’s his mother’s maiden name. She was quite a bit younger than her husband and has since remarried.”

“When will we know for sure if Dermot is Diarmuid?” Aileen asked.

“It’s difficult to say. But we’re getting closer. I have a genealogist in Halifax who will be traveling to Cape Breton this week to check the records and ask some questions. Hopefully someone will remember something about Dermot.”

A soft knock sounded on the door and Sally stepped inside Aileen’s office. “I have lunch laid out in the breakfast room whenever you’re ready, ma’am.”

“Thank you, Sally,” Aileen replied. “We’ll be along in a bit.” She turned to Ian. “I hope you’ll stay. I wanted to tell you about my plans for a grand family reunion over the Christmas holidays. I’ve rented a castle.”

Ian blinked in surprise. “A castle? Well, in that case, I’m not sure I should pause for lunch. I have a lot to accomplish over the next few months.”

“Of course, I want you to be there,” Aileen said. “I want you to put together a book on the family history. The reunion will be the final chapter in my autobiography.”

“It would make a perfect ending.”

“Much better than a funeral, don’t you think?” Aileen teased. She pushed up from her chair, wincing at the ache in her hip. “Come,” she said. “Let’s see what Sally has for us. I smelled bread baking this morning.”

Ian circled her desk and held out his arm. Aileen took it, clutching her cane in her other hand. “Did I tell you someone at the RTE network contacted me when they learned about our search?” he asked. “They have an American production company that wants to make a documentary about your life.”

“Imagine that,” Aileen said. “I can’t think it would be a very interesting documentary.”

“I beg to differ,” Ian said. “I think it would be wonderful. And that’s what I told the producer when she called me.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Aileen said. “I’ve managed for so long to keep a private life. You don’t think a documentary might be...unseemly, do you?”

“I think your readers would love to know more about the woman behind the books.”

“I’ll have to think about that,” Aileen said. “Perhaps you can convince me over lunch.” They walked out into the foyer. “And we can discuss hiring more investigators to search out Lochlan. One just doesn’t go missing in the modern world. There’s always something left behind, some piece of paper that will give us a clue. Perhaps if we find Diarmuid, that branch of the family will know about Lochlan.”

“We’ll fill those twenty-two bedrooms in Ballyseede Castle,” Ian said. “Mark my words.”

“Yes. I believe we will,” Aileen replied.

1

THE PEARSON BAY hardware store was bustling with activity as Rourke Quinn walked through the battered front door. The locals, worried about the approaching storm, were buying last-minute supplies before the wind and rain drove them indoors.

“Hey, Rourke! You hanging around for this? It’s supposed to be the storm of the decade. At least that’s what forecasters are callin’ it.”

Rourke turned to smile at Betty Gillies, the store owner. “Nope. I’m heading out. I want to get to the mainland before it hits. I just needed some batteries for my camera. Thought I’d take a few last pictures of the coastline before I left the island.”

“We’re going to miss you around here,” she said. “Heck, I’m gonna miss you. You were good for the bottom line.”

Rourke chuckled. “I’m sure I was.”

He’d arrived on the eastern shore of Cape Breton Island almost three months ago, coming to the Maritimes to settle his uncle’s estate. His father’s family had lived on the island for almost a hundred years, plying the waters of the Atlantic as fishermen. But Uncle Buddy was the last of the Quinns to make his home on Cape Breton and now that he was gone, his cottage would be sold.

Born in America of an American mother and a Canadian father, Rourke had always felt torn between the Cape Breton culture of his Canadian family and the big-city life of his hometown. His uncle had known this and Rourke suspected that was why the cottage had been left to him—so that he might find his way “home” again.

Rourke had spent summer vacations working on his uncle’s fishing boat, making the long trip up from New York City, where his parents lived. His father, Paul, had wanted Rourke to experience a working-class job, hoping that it would make him more interested in college and a business career. As he got older, Rourke found himself drawn to the business Paul had founded with two friends. During high school, he spent his summer vacations with his father, learning the ins and outs of civil engineering. Uncle Buddy was relegated to a couple weeks at the end of August.

Rourke felt a familiar twinge of guilt assail him, but he brushed it aside. He’d spent the past three months renovating Buddy’s place, making it habitable for a modern family. Now it was ready. He’d talked to a few real estate agents and made plans to list it, but he hadn’t made a final decision. Perhaps it might be better to rent it out.

“A single decision can change the course of your life,” he murmured to himself. Buddy had always offered sage advice with pithy sayings or old proverbs. That was one of his favorites.

When Rourke was young he used to tease his uncle. Yeah, I’ll make sure to embroider that on a pillow, he’d say. But now that he was older, he’d begun to realize the impact of that advice—and the truth of it as it applied to his own life.

After high school, he’d decided to join the firm. He worked nights and weekends as a draftsman at Paul’s office and took engineering classes during the day. Though it was never said out loud, he knew that the company was in trouble and that his father needed his help. And with every year that passed, the stress took more of a toll on Paul’s health.

He’d continued to work at the company, even after his father’s sudden death of a heart attack, hoping to save his dad’s legacy by getting the firm back on track. But without the support of the other two partners, Rourke knew it was a lost cause. He quit the day after he heard of Buddy’s death.

Rourke stared at the selection of batteries. He wished he’d had one last chance to talk to Buddy, to ask him the questions that had been plaguing him for the past few years. Where is my life going? What do I really want? Am I ever going to be truly satisfied?

“So you’re putting the place up for sale, are you?” Betty asked.

“I haven’t decided yet,” Rourke replied as he pulled a package of batteries off the rack and dropped it on the counter. “I don’t want to make any hasty decisions.”

“Is this it?” she said, pointing to the batteries.

Rourke nodded, then reached into his pocket for his wallet. But as he was pulling out the money to pay for the purchase, the patrons around him suddenly went silent. Betty’s gaze fixed on a spot over his shoulder and Rourke slowly turned.

Annie Macintosh was a familiar figure to everyone in town. Her family had lived on the eastern shore as long as the Quinns had. Her great-grandfather had built and kept the lighthouse on Freer’s Point.