Loe raamatut: «Rock Point»

Chapter 1

In all his travels, Finian Bracken had never been to America. London, Paris, Rome, Prague, Amsterdam, Vienna, Berlin, Budapest, even Moscow...but never New York City, San Francisco or Dallas. Certainly not Rock Point, Maine, where portly, thoughtful Father Joseph Callaghan served a struggling parish. Finian was a priest himself. His days of rushing from airport to airport, hotel to hotel, seemed distant, as if it had been a different man and not him at all. He didn’t know if he’d ever leave Ireland again. He wasn’t sure he wanted to.

He and his friend Sean Murphy, a preoccupied detective garda if ever there’d been one, had happened upon the American priest in the bar lounge of the lovely O’Byrne House Hotel in Declan’s Cross, a tiny village on the south Irish coast.

Father Callaghan had explained he was winding down a month-long visit to Ireland and didn’t want to go home. He said he was captivated by the land of his ancestors. Father Joseph, he called himself. Finian doubted he’d ever be a Father Finian. Even Father Bracken still sounded strange to him. He noticed his priestly black suit and collar were newer, crisper, than Father Callaghan’s rumpled attire.

“Rock Point isn’t one of those charming Maine villages you see in the tourist ads,” the American priest said, halfway through his pint of Guinness, clearly not his first of the blustery March evening. “What do they call them in England? Chocolate-box villages? If you want that, you go to Heron’s Cove a few miles away. Rock Point’s a real fishing village.”

“When do you return?” Finian asked.

“Monday.” Father Callaghan counted on his stubby fingers. “Just three more days on the old sod.”

Next to Finian, Sean took a big gulp of his Guinness and didn’t say a word. Sean could be a conversationalist, but not so far tonight. Finian smiled at his fellow priest. “Is this your first trip to Ireland?”

“Yes, it is. I’d been wanting to go for ages. I buried a man last fall who for years said he wanted to see Ireland, but he never did. He died suddenly, still thinking he’d get here. He was seventy-six. I just turned sixty-two. Jack Maroney was his name, God rest his soul.” Father Callaghan picked up his pint glass. “I booked my flight the day after his funeral.”

“Good for you,” Sean said, raising his pint. “To the old sod.”

Finian, unsure if Sean was sincere or trying to be ironic, raised his whiskey glass. “To Ireland.”

“To Ireland.” Father Callaghan polished off the last of his Guinness. “I was feeling sorry for old Jack Maroney, and for myself, truth be told. Then I thought—do I want to die with no dreams left to pursue? Or do I want to die with a dream or two still in my pocket?”

Sean jumped in before Finian could come up with an answer. “Depends on the dream. Some dreams you know are unattainable.”

“I’m not talking about playing center for the Boston Celtics.”

Sean pointed his glass at the priest. “Yes, you’re right, Father Joseph, that’s different. Romantic love. Now, there’s an unattainable dream. For me, anyway. I’m not a priest.” He winced and took a sharp breath as he looked at Finian. “Ah, blast it, Fin, I wasn’t thinking. Forgive me.”

“No worries,” Finian said quietly, then turned again to Father Callaghan. “Will you come back to Ireland one day? Perhaps when it’s warmer?”

“I’d love to spend a year here. Maybe take a sabbatical.” The American priest sat up straight on his barstool as if to emphasize this idea wasn’t a whim but something he was determined to do. “As soon as I can swing it, I’ll be back, even if it’s just for a couple weeks. I want to see more ruins and stone circles and such, and walk the ground of the Irish saints. I was in Ardmore today. We’re in the heart of Saint Declan country.”

Finian had visited Ardmore’s monastic ruins and twelfth-century round tower, and also a particularly good hotel with an excellent whiskey selection. “Ardmore is quite beautiful.”

“Sea cliffs, a sand beach, fascinating ruins. It’s a wonderful place even if you don’t give a fig about an early-medieval Irish saint.”

“But you chose to stay here in Declan’s Cross,” Sean said.

“Another intriguing place.” Father Callaghan glanced around the bar lounge, its half-dozen tables and upholstered chairs and sofas empty as yet on the quiet evening. “I wanted to indulge myself and spend a couple nights here. I’m in the smallest guest room, but the O’Byrne is still the most luxurious accommodation on my itinerary. It’s been perfect. It only opened as a hotel last fall. It used to be a private home. Quite a history. I assume you know it?”

Sean buried his face in his Guinness, leaving Finian to answer. “We do, of course, sure. It was the country home of the current owner’s uncle, John O’Byrne, who died a few years ago.”

“A thief broke in here ten years ago, before it was a hotel, obviously, and made off with a fortune in art,” Father Callaghan said. “The case has never been solved. A tiny, picturesque Irish village, a crumbling Irish mansion on the sea, an old widower with a taste for art—it’d make a great Hollywood movie.”

He eyed Finian and Sean as if to see how they’d react. Sean set down his pint and made no comment. He was a strong, fit man, dark-haired and blue-eyed, dedicated to his work as a member of an elite detective unit in Dublin but still a child of Declan’s Cross. Finian was more angular, his dark hair straighter, his eyes a darker blue, his roots in southwest Ireland—he wasn’t as intimate with the details of the theft at the O’Byrne house as Sean would be.

With an almost imperceptible shrug, Father Callaghan continued. “The thief made off with three Irish landscape paintings and an old Celtic cross. Sneaked in through that door there.” He pointed to French doors that led out to the terrace and gardens. “I gather it happened on one of your dark and stormy Irish nights.”

Finian smiled, liking the American. Sean remained quiet, whether because he was from Declan’s Cross or because he was a detective, Finian didn’t know. He said, “November, in fact.”

Finian’s answer seemed to satisfy Father Callaghan. The American priest’s two nights at the O’Byrne House Hotel, he further explained, were an indulgence he’d saved for the end of his trip. The hotel had opened to rave reviews, its restaurant, spa, rooms, gardens and service all meeting the test of even the most exacting and discerning guests. Finian had to admit he still had an affinity for fine hotels. He couldn’t call it a weakness when he thought about the many good people he knew who worked so hard and invested so much to provide their guests with a pleasant respite.

Kitty O’Byrne Doyle, John O’Byrne’s niece and the proprietor of the O’Byrne House Hotel, had made herself scarce when Finian had arrived with Sean. No surprise there, although Finian had more suspicions than facts about the history between handsome Detective Garda Murphy and blue-eyed, black-haired, no-nonsense Kitty.

“How do you like being a priest so far?” Father Callaghan asked.

Finian welcomed the change in subject. “Is it something I’m to like or dislike?”

“Ah. You really are new. If you can remember this one thing in parish work, it’ll save you a lot of trouble.” The American eyed his empty glass on the polished wood bar. “Sometimes you’re the first one to know something. Sometimes you’re the last one to know. Sometimes you’re the only one to know. Do your best to recognize which it is, and then forgive yourself when you get it wrong—because even if most times you get it right, there will be times when you will get it wrong.”

It seemed like sound advice to Finian.

Kitty swept into the lounge and went behind the bar. She wore a simple black dress that made her look at once professional and elegant. She was always, Finian thought, lovely. She smiled at him and ignored Sean. “How are you, Fin? Will you be staying with us tonight?”

“I’m doing well, Kitty. It’s good to see you. I’m staying up at the Murphy farm.”

She still didn’t look at Sean. “The spring lambs are starting to arrive, I’m sure.”

“We lost one this morning,” Sean said, casual. “A coyote got it. Bit its little head—”

Kitty stopped him midsentence with a stony glare, then turned back to Finian. “I love to see the lambs prancing in the fields in the spring.” She looked at Father Callaghan. “Anything else I can get you, Father?”

“Not right now. I might have a look at your whiskey cabinet a little later.”

“I recommend the Bracken 15 year old,” Kitty said with a quick smile at Finian.

“Sean and I will be on our way,” Finian said.

“All right, then. Good night, Fin. Sean.” She spun into a small backroom behind the bar.

Father Callaghan raised his eyebrows at Sean. “There’s a story between you two, isn’t there?”

“It’d take the full bottle of Bracken 15 to tell that tale,” Sean said.

“I’ve no doubt.” The older priest’s eyes—a pale green—shifted to Finian. “Bracken 15? Father Bracken? A connection?”

“My brother and I started Bracken Distillers in our early twenties,” Finian said.

Father Callaghan’s surprise was obvious. “Then you decided to become a priest?”

Sean spared Finian from having to answer. “Another long story,” he said, easing off his barstool. “Good to meet you, Father Joseph. Enjoy your last few days in Ireland. I hope you get that sabbatical.”

“Thanks. I enjoyed meeting you both, too. Finian, if you’d like to spend a year in southern Maine, maybe we can work something out with your bishop. You know where to find me.”

Finian stood, smiling at the American. “Saint Patrick’s Church in Rock Point, Maine.”

* * *

“You’re going to see about taking this parish in Maine?” Sean asked as he and Finian turned onto the quiet lane that wound onto Shepherd Head, the village lights twinkling beneath them in the darkness. It was a good walk—much of it uphill—to Murphy farm, but also a decent night for it, windy and chilly but dry.

Finian continued a few steps before he answered. “I’d be doing the old fellow a favor.”

“And yourself.”

“Maybe, maybe not. It would only be a year, while Joseph Callaghan got his fill of Guinness, Irish saints and Irish genealogy.”

“You don’t think he’ll get his fill of Irish scenery?”

Finian could hear the Celtic Sea crashing onto the cliffs, and he could see stars and a half-moon in the sky above the black horizon. “One can never get one’s fill of Irish scenery.”

“You’re only saying that because you’re thinking about being away from it for a year.”

“You’re a cynical man, Sean Murphy.”

“You know what ecclesiastic strings to pull to get this parish?”

“That’s one way of putting it.”

The village lights disappeared, and the hill became more steep, the cliffs closer—a sharp plummet across a narrow strip of grass and a low stone wall. Sean had grown up here on Shepherd Head. Finian had grown up on a farm in the Kerry hills, if not one as prosperous as the Murphy farm. He and his twin brother Declan were eldest of five. Declan was married with three small children. Two of their three younger sisters were married, also with small children.

Finian braked his thinking and returned himself to this moment, this quiet walk along the edge of sea cliffs. He could hear sheep now in the dark, distant fields. When he’d arrived late that afternoon, Sean and his uncle, who worked the farm, had just brought several vulnerable pregnant ewes down to the barn and an adjoining field.

“I suppose I should have been nicer to Kitty,” Sean said.

“I wouldn’t have mentioned the coyote killing the newborn lamb, I have to say.”

“As if she’s never heard of such a thing. She’s been coming to Declan’s Cross since she was a baby, and she’s lived here for two years, fixing up that blasted house of hers.”

“You wish it’d been torn down.”

“Leveled,” Sean concurred with a hand motion to go with the image.

Finian didn’t know if his friend meant what he said. “Is that why you asked me here? You want to talk to me about Kitty—”

“Kitty? Why would I want to talk to you about her?”

“The art theft, then?” Finian asked.

“I didn’t ask you here about Kitty O’Byrne or an old art theft.”

Finian would have been surprised if he had. In their friendship of almost seven years, anytime Finian had brought them up, Sean had changed the subject. Sean came down to Declan’s Cross as often as he could, given his demanding work in Dublin. He’d always wanted to be in the guards. An Garda Síochána, in Irish. The Guardians of the Peace. He’d never discussed with Finian the sacrifices his position required. He preferred, he’d said many times, to leave the job in Dublin when he was home in Declan’s Cross.

Finian had sold his house in the southwest of Ireland years ago, but he still owned a traditional stone cottage in the Kerry hills. The home of his heart. His wife, Sally, had seen its possibilities, and they’d set to restoring it, doing much of the work themselves. He couldn’t bring himself to stay there but loaned it to friends. He’d cleaned out all the personal items and put in a new bed, but it was still decorated with Sally’s taste.

He hadn’t slept there since the first anniversary of the tragedy that had taken her life, and the lives of their two small daughters. He’d been in and out of a drunken haze for months. Friends, family and even perfect strangers had tried to help, but he hadn’t wanted help. He’d wanted oblivion.

He’d drunk bad whiskey that night. Why waste good whiskey on a man such as himself?

He’d been half asleep on the cottage floor when Sean Murphy had burst in, dragged his friend’s drunken carcass to the bay and shoved him into the ice-cold water, swearing next time he’d let him drown.

Freezing, furious, Finian had crawled out of the cold water, staggered to his feet and taken a swing at Detective Garda Murphy. Sean easily could have sidestepped the blow but he took it square in the chest. Finian had been too weak—too pathetic—to hurt him.

He’d vomited on the pebbled beach until he collapsed onto his knees with dry heaves and then sprawled face down on the hard, cold ground.

He’d wanted to die. For the past year, he’d wanted nothing else.

Sean had fetched a blanket and a bottle of water and set them next to Finian on the beach.

“Live or die, Fin. It’s your choice.”

Then he’d left.

Finian remembered mist, rain, wind, wails—a banshee, he’d thought at first, then realized it was himself. Keening, cursing, sobbing. He’d flung stones, clawed the cold, wet sand and attempted to dig his own grave with his hands, and he’d cried.