Dierdre O’Meara Kennedy had seen them through their teenage years, then sent them off to university—Dex to film school at UCLA and Claire to read history at Trinity in Dublin. Nana Dee had provided the only stable home they’d ever really had, and her little cottage on the Iveragh Peninsula was the place they’d always called home. Nana had passed away three years ago, and had left them her cottage filled with memories of her life.
“There is something you could do for me,” Claire said.
“I’m not going to help you mark your history exams,” he said. “Or untangle the mess you’ve made of your laptop. Or fix that banger of a car you drive.”
“We still have to clean out Nana’s house,” she said. “I know you considered staying there while you were home, but you’ve spent every night here. So I thought we could lease the cottage out. But to do that we have to go through everything and decide what we want to keep and what we’d like to donate to the parish for their tag sale.”
“She lived in that house for over fifty years,” Dex said.
“I know. But I trust you to go through it. It will occupy your mind,” she said. “And we could really use the extra money. My pittance as a history teacher won’t support your taste for beer and whiskey much longer.” Claire grabbed the bottle and took a long swig before handing it back to him. “Don’t misunderstand, I’m glad you’re here. But you’re starting to look a little pale and paunchy. You need to go outside. Get some sun and exercise.”
Dex chuckled. “All right. I suppose I can do that. What do we want to keep?”
“We’ll leave the furniture so we can let it out as a furnished cottage. And the clothes, I’ll go through. There’s probably some vintage stuff that I could wear. Sort out the mementos, the old photos and things, and we’ll go through those together.”
The idea appealed to Dex. He needed to focus his mind on something other than his lack of a plan for the future. Maybe if he exhausted himself with cleaning out his nana’s house, he’d finally get some sleep—and some perspective.
“Actually, I have someone who wants to look at the place tomorrow,” Claire said. “She’s going to be an exchange teacher at our school next term. Just show her around the cottage and tell her it will be all tidied up before she moves in in January.”
“I suppose I can do that, too,” he said.
Claire rested her head on his shoulder. “Good. Would you like me to make some popcorn? I’ve got the next series of Dr. Who ready to go. We could stay up and watch it.”
“It’s half past two,” Dex said.
“And it’s a Friday night. I don’t have to work tomorrow. We can stay up all night if you want to.”
“All right,” Dex said. “But I’ll make the popcorn. You never put enough butter on it.”
Claire laughed, then wrapped her arms around him and gave him a fierce hug. “Things will get better, baby brother. I promise they will.”
He smiled. He’d been born only six minutes after her, but she’d always called him her baby brother. “Yeah. I know they will,” Dex said.
Yet even as the words passed his lips, he didn’t believe there was any truth to them. His life, as he once knew it, was over. And now he was adrift in a dark sea of indecision. Things would never be the same. How could they be?
* * *
MARLENA JENNER STARED down at the road map and then looked at the signpost in front of her. Maybe she ought to just give up and ask for directions. It was nearly dark and she’d never find her way once she couldn’t see the road signs. There was no shame in admitting that she couldn’t navigate her way out of a paper bag. And it seemed as if she’d been driving around in circles for hours.
Crumpling the map up and tossing it aside, Marlie shook her head. “Just let it go,” she said. “Ireland is an island. And I’m on a peninsula. Sooner or later, I’ll find the place or I’ll run into water.
“Knockaunnaglashy,” she muttered, reading the road sign. “Where do they find the names for these towns?” She put the Fiat into gear and started down the narrow road. After leaving numerous messages with Dex Kennedy’s agent and receiving an equal number of promises that he’d get back to her, she’d almost given up and moved to the next guy on her list. But then, to her surprise, she’d received a call from Dex Kennedy’s sister, Claire, who had told her exactly where to find Dex.
When it came to Irish documentary filmmakers, Dex Kennedy was the best. Word was that he was between jobs, recovering from the loss of his friend and partner, Matt Crenshaw, and looking for just the right project. And Marlie had the perfect project for him.
Sure, it wasn’t the kind of high-stakes, action-packed story that he usually did, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t important. And she’d found a wonderful angle to the story that she hoped might intrigue him.
“What’s the worst he can say?” she murmured to herself. “No?” She’d heard that word plenty of times. And she’d learned that when someone said no, you simply had to find a good enough reason for them to say yes. This reason was definitely good enough.
Thanks to her grandmother, she’d finally put together the funding to do a documentary on her all-time favorite author, Aileen Quinn. And Aileen had agreed to participate. They were scheduled to start filming in five days. A filmmaker of Dex Kennedy’s caliber and reputation would legitimize the project to the industry.
With the help of Quinn’s researcher, Ian Stephens, and with Dex Kennedy as her coproducer, they’d create something that celebrated Miss Quinn’s long and colorful career and make a film that would be shown all over the world—maybe even at Cannes or Sundance. She would have proved herself as a producer. No one would be able to doubt her then.
But first she had to find Dex Kennedy. The road wound down a long hill and suddenly the directions made sense. “Turn right at the blue cottage with the thatched roof,” she repeated, “and drive until the bushes come over the car.” She bumped along on a rutted road for what seemed like forever, and just as she was ready to turn back, she saw a long line of bushes arched over the lane. “Make another right at the stone wall next to the old abbey.” And again, the wall and a ruined abbey appeared.
Marlie smiled. Maybe she’d been a little harsh on herself. Claire Kennedy’s directions had been spot-on, once she’d actually figured out where she was.
The landscape offered a beautiful view of rolling hills crisscrossed by dry stone walls and the sea beyond. Like every spot in Ireland, the green of the hills here was so vivid that it nearly hurt her eyes to look at it. Perhaps it was the sun, which seemed to hang lower in the sky, always shining from behind fluffy white clouds. Marlie wondered if the landscape would look as beautiful onscreen as it did to her eyes.
She saw the sign for the village before she saw the small gathering of cottages and outbuildings. Though she was only a half hour outside Killarney, this seemed like a place out of another time.
There were no numbers on the cottages, but Claire’s description of the place was enough to locate it. She pulled up in front of an overgrown privet hedge and got out of the Fiat. The front garden was unkempt, the summer perennials now faded in the early-November chill.
Marlie drew a deep breath and started up the stone walk, running over her sales pitch in her head. She hoped to appeal to his sense of national pride. Who better to film this documentary about a great Irish writer than a great Irish filmmaker? He was the best person to tell this story. And it would be a nice change of pace for him, give him a chance to sleep in his own bed.
Marlie