Now You See Her

TWENTY-ONE


MARCY HAD TO WALK up and down both sides of Corn Market Street twice before she spotted the sign for Mulcahy’s. No wonder she’d missed it, she thought, staring at the ragged piece of scrap metal with mulcahy’s hand-painted in black across it, accompanied by a wobbly arrow pointing toward a narrow flight of stairs at the side of an ancient dry-cleaning shop. “This can’t be right,” she muttered, glancing over her shoulder. But the normally busy street was relatively quiet. Only a few people were out walking, most having run for cover when the skies had opened in a sudden violent cloudburst half an hour earlier. Marcy had taken temporary refuge under the green-and-white-striped awning of a nearby butcher shop, listening to the thunder’s furious roar as she watched impressive streaks of lightning catapult across the dark sky.

Her sneakers and socks were soaked right through to her skin, and the odor of damp denim and wet wool mingled with the fragrance of leftover lilac from her shower. I’ll be lucky if I don’t catch pneumonia, she thought, thinking again that Liam was right. She should have stayed at the hotel, ordered up a nice meal and a glass of red wine, and gone to bed early. What was she doing standing alone on the corner of a deserted street, shivering with the cold and damp, and staring at a square piece of crumpled metal with the word MULCAHY’S hand-painted in black across it, next to an arrow pointing down?

Straight into hell, she thought dramatically, and might have laughed had she not been so altogether miserable. This is crazy, she thought as she descended the concrete steps, stopping at the closed basement door. She tried the handle. It didn’t budge. She knocked. Nobody answered. “Hello,” she called out stubbornly, already knowing the place was deserted. “Is anybody there?”

Of course nobody’s here, she told herself, continuing to knock regardless. The place, such as it was, whatever it was, was obviously closed. Sealed up tighter than a drum, she thought, wondering what night it was and realizing she’d lost all track of time. Since she’d come to Cork, one day had pretty much blended into the next. “Hello,” she called again, refusing to give up.

“Excuse me,” she heard someone call from somewhere above her head.

Marcy backed away from the door, looked up toward the street. She saw an enormous pair of legs, stretching for the sky. The legs were attached to a man whose head seemed disproportionately small for the rest of him, probably due to the angle from which she was viewing him. Drops of rain clung to his handlebar mustache, glistening under the glow of a nearby streetlamp. Marcy wondered for an instant whether she might be hallucinating.

“Can I help you with somethin’?” he asked.

“I’m looking for Mulcahy’s,” Marcy said.

“It would appear you’ve found it.” The man nodded toward the sign.

“It seems to be closed.”

“Don’t think it opens ’til after ten,” the man said.

“Ten?” Marcy repeated, glancing at her watch but unable to read the time in the dim light. Still, how late could it be? Seven o’clock at most, she calculated, listening as the bells of St. Anne’s Shandon Church confirmed her estimate with seven loud peals. What was she supposed to do for the next three hours? “Are you sure?” she asked the man, but there was no answer, and Marcy realized he’d already left. Guess I could head over to Grogan’s, she thought, then quickly dismissed the idea. Mr. Grogan wouldn’t be too happy to see her again, and she didn’t want to get Liam in trouble. He’d already put himself out for her more than enough. Besides, he’d only try to talk her into returning to her hotel and catching the first available flight to Toronto. Did he really believe she was in actual danger? She dismissed the uncomfortable thought as she returned to street level and turned north toward Kyrl’s Quay, a smattering of raindrops falling on her already wet shoulders.

The water in the North Channel of the river Lee was dark and moving swiftly. Marcy hurried along beside it until she found a pleasant-enough-looking pub, the sound of traditional Irish music escaping its walls to beckon her inside. She pushed open the door and immediately found herself in a bright and crowded room. There was a raised podium at the front where three young men were finishing up their last song. “We’ll just take a wee break and be back with you in a quarter hour,” the leader of the band said into the microphone, this announcement followed by a smattering of applause and a few good-natured boos.

“Sing ‘Danny Boy,’ ” someone shouted.

“Sing it yerself,” one of the band members shouted back.

“Oh, Danny Boy,” half the pub immediately responded, miraculously in tune, as Marcy’s eyes searched the room for an empty table.

“Lookin’ for me?” a man asked, pushing an empty chair toward her with the heel of his brown leather boot.

Marcy smiled at the man, who was probably in his early forties, and balding, although his eyebrows were dark and bushy. A cursory glance around the room revealed there were no other free seats. “Thank you, but I wouldn’t want to put you out.”

The man motioned for her to sit down. “What are you drinkin’?” he asked.

What the hell, Marcy decided, sitting down at the small table. He looked pleasant enough, and she had three hours to kill. “A beer, maybe?”

“Two Beamishes,” the man shouted at the waitress. “Name’s Kieran.” He extended his hand across the table.

“Marcy.” She shook his hand, noting his firm grip, which lingered perhaps a beat too long.

“Where you from, Marcy?” he asked. “You’re not from around here, I know that much.”

“I’m from Toronto.”

“Canada, is it, then?”

“It is.” She laughed, although she wasn’t sure why.

“You have a nice laugh,” Kieran remarked.

“Thank you. You’re from Cork, I take it.”

“Lived here all my life. Best city in the world.”

“It’s lovely.”

“All the lovelier since you got here.” Brown eyes twinkled mischievously.

Marcy laughed again. “Someone’s been kissing the Blarney Stone.”

“Every chance I get. You hungry?” he asked when the waitress appeared with their beers.

“I’d love a sandwich.”

“Ham and cheese?”

“Perfect.”

“Two ham and cheese sandwiches,” Kieran told the waitress.

“Thank you,” Marcy said. “That’s really very kind of you.”

“I see you got caught in the rain.”

Marcy’s hand flew self-consciously to her hair. “I must look like a drowned rat.”

“The most glorious drowned rat I’ve ever seen.” Kieran smiled, revealing a substantial overbite.

His mother should be shot for not getting that fixed when he was a child, she heard Peter say.

“A euro for your thoughts,” Kieran said playfully.

“Do you know a place called Mulcahy’s?” Marcy asked.

“Over on Corn Market?”

“Yes.”

“It’s not your kind of place, that’s for sure.”

“Why not?”

“Well, it’s a wee bit raunchy. Loud music, drugs, loose women. Or so I’m told.” He laughed. “What makes you ask about Mulcahy’s?”

“Someone suggested it was a place young people liked to gather,” she explained. Then, “I’m looking for my daughter.” She quickly reached inside her purse and withdrew her daughter’s photograph. “Do you know her, by any chance?” What was she doing? There was no way he’d recognize Devon’s picture.

Kieran took the photo from her hand, studied it for several seconds, his thick eyebrows meeting at the bridge of his strong nose, his brown eyes growing dark. He looked back at her, his eyes burrowing deep into hers, as if he were trying to see inside her head. “I might,” he said, dropping the picture to the table as Marcy felt her heartbeat quicken. “Mind my askin’ why you’re lookin’ for her?”

“It’s a long story. Please … you know her?”

“I love long stories,” he said stubbornly.

The waitress approached with their beers. “Your sandwiches’ll be out in a few minutes.”

“Drink up,” Kieran said, clinking his beer mug against Marcy’s. “You were sayin’.…”

Marcy did as she was told, chugging back a mouthful of beer and feeling her eyes sting as the liquid reached the back of her throat. She swallowed. “My daughter and I haven’t spoken in several years,” she told him, deciding to stick to the most salient points. “I heard she was in Cork. That’s why I’m here. Please, if you know anything … I need to see her.”

“What’d you say her name was?”

“I didn’t. Devon,” she added quickly, not wanting to antagonize him. “But she might be calling herself Audrey.”

“Audrey, yes.” He tapped the photograph with the index finger of his right hand. “That’s her all right. Lovely girl, she is. Quiet, respectful, always a smile and a kind word.”

“You’ve talked to her?”

“Just ‘Hello,’ ‘Good-bye,’ ‘Nice day.’ That sort of thing.”

Marcy’s eyes welled up with tears. “And you’re sure this is her?”

“Well, now, that depends. What are you gonna do when you find her?” He took another sip of his beer.

“Nothing. I just want to talk to her.”

“She’s not in any trouble, is she?”

“No.”

“I wouldn’t want to get her in trouble.”

“You wouldn’t be. Please. How do you know her?”

“She works for the old lady who lives across the street from me mum. I’ve seen her a few times when I go to visit.”

Was it possible that after all her frantic efforts, a chance run-in with a stranger in a pub was going to lead her to her daughter? “What sort of work does she do?”

“She’s like a companion, I guess you’d say. Does Mrs. Crocker’s grocery shoppin’, her laundry, tends the garden, takes her for walks, stuff like that. In exchange, she gets a place to stay, rent-free.”

“Where does Mrs. Crocker live?”

“Over in Montenotte, up in the Cork hills,” Kieran said.

“Is that far from here?”

“It’s a bit of a drive.”

Marcy reached into her purse for her cell phone.

“What are you doin’?” Kieran asked.

“If you’d give me Mrs. Crocker’s exact address, I’ll call a cab.…”

“You’re gonna go there right now?”

“Please. I’ve already wasted so much time.”

Kieran quickly downed the last of his beer. “No need for that,” he said, pushing himself away from the table. “Come on. I’ll take you there.”


“I DON’T KNOW this part of the city,” Marcy said, staring out the car window through the light rain that continued to fall at the commercial thoroughfare that was MacCurtain Street. It felt as if they’d been driving for hours, although less than twenty minutes had passed since they’d left the pub.

“What about yer sandwiches?” the waitress had called after them.

“Give ’em to Stanley,” Kieran had called back, waving at a man watching them from the bar.

“Who’s Stanley?” Marcy had asked.

“A friend of mine. You took his seat.”

“What?”

“Happens all the time,” Kieran had said with a laugh. “Almost there,” he said now as he turned the car onto Summerhill Road and continued up into the Cork hills.

Marcy tried to control her growing excitement. It was so amazing, the way things worked out, she thought again. If she hadn’t ignored Liam’s advice, if she hadn’t gone out, if Mulcahy’s hadn’t been closed, if it hadn’t been raining, if she hadn’t ducked into that particular pub on that particular street at that particular time, if Stanley had been sitting in his seat, if she hadn’t met Kieran, then none of this would be happening. She wouldn’t be on her way to see Devon. After all her careful planning, it all boiled down to a simple coincidence, to being in the right place at the right time. Was it really possible?

She glanced at Kieran, marveling at his willingness to put himself out this way for her. The kindness of strangers, she heard Liam say. And he was right. In barely a week, she’d lucked into an amazing trio of men, Vic, Liam, and now Kieran, all willing and even eager to aid in her search for her daughter. After the last two loveless years of her marriage to Peter—longer, if she was being really honest—she’d pretty much given up on men. And then she’d met Vic, who had made her feel beautiful and worth loving again, and Liam, who had made her feel young and desirable. And now Kieran was driving miles in the rain when he could have been enjoying another pint of beer with his friend Stanley in a nice dry pub.

Why? Marcy wondered, brushing aside a sudden unpleasant twinge of doubt.

Was it the kindness of strangers or something else entirely?

They drove through the residential district of St. Luke’s, continuing on toward Montenotte. “Almost there,” Kieran said again.

What had possessed her to get in a car with a total stranger and drive miles into the Cork hills on a dark and rainy night? I should have taken a cab, Marcy thought, admonishing herself. Except if she’d refused Kieran’s offer, he might have been insulted enough not to tell her where she could find Audrey. And that was a chance she couldn’t take. She would risk everything to find her daughter.

Minutes later, they pulled into the driveway of a small, two-story, semidetached house. “That’s Mrs. Crocker’s place over there.” He pointed to a similar house directly across the street.

“It looks awfully dark.”

“Probably at the movies. Mrs. Crocker loves movies. Audrey takes her at least twice a week. Let’s have a look, shall we?” He jumped out of the car, sprinting through the rain to Marcy’s side and opening her door. Grabbing her elbow, he guided her quickly across the street toward Mrs. Crocker’s house.

Please let her be home, Marcy prayed, taking shelter under the front awning as Kieran knocked on the door. Please let her be glad to see me.

But after several seconds, it became obvious that her prayers would go unanswered. Marcy tried to peer inside the front window, but its old lace curtains were closed and the flower box on the outside of the window prevented her from getting too close.

“Should be back soon,” Kieran said with assurance. “Come on. You’re gettin’ soaked. We can wait over at me mum’s.”

“Your mother won’t mind?” Marcy asked as they recrossed the street.

Kieran removed a key from his pocket and opened the front door. “Not at all,” he said, flipping on the overhead light and shaking the rainwater from his hair like a dog. “Mum?” he called as he led Marcy into the living room. “You home?” No answer. “Probably gone to the movies with Mrs. Crocker and Audrey. You fancy another beer?”

Marcy looked around the room, which was comfortably furnished with an overstuffed gold-and-brown-striped sofa and matching chair. A large-screen TV on a low table took up most of the opposite wall. “I don’t think so, no.”

“Oh, come on,” he said, walking into the tiny kitchen off the living room and returning with a beer in each hand. “It’ll take the chill off.”

Before she could refuse, he popped the caps off the bottles and handed her one. Then he plopped down on the sofa, patting the pillow beside him. “Sit down, luv. Take a load off.”

“I’m too anxious,” she told him honestly, recognizing that her unease had little to do with seeing Devon again and everything to do with her growing apprehension at the fact that she was in the middle of nowhere, in a strange house with a man she barely knew. “And wet,” she added, afraid of offending him. “I wouldn’t want to ruin your mother’s nice things.”

“I wouldn’t worry about that,” he said, taking a swig of his beer directly from the bottle. “Come on, luv. Relax a little.” Again, he patted the cushion beside him.

Marcy ignored his invitation, walking to the window beside the TV, setting her beer on the low table on which it sat, and pulling back the brown-and-mustard printed curtains to stare at the house across the street. It looks as deserted as Mulcahy’s, she thought, concentrating on the pattern of the curtains in an effort to control the growing panic spreading through her veins. What had she done? How stupid could she be? “This isn’t your mother’s house, is it?” she said when she could find her voice, carefully measuring out each word.

He laughed. “Guess you got me there.”

“Whose house is it?”

“It’s mine,” he admitted sheepishly, as if he were a small boy who’d been caught with his hand in the cookie jar.

It was then that Marcy noticed a silver-framed photograph beside her untouched bottle of beer. It was of an attractive, middle-aged woman with a square jaw and short brown hair, her arms wrapped around two young boys, both wearing Kieran’s vaguely guilty grin. “I take it this is your wife and sons.”

“Charles and Walter,” he said easily. If he was embarrassed, he gave no sign of it.

“You have a very handsome family.”

Kieran acknowledged her compliment with an almost imperceptible nod of his head. “Sit down, luv,” he urged.

“Where are they?”

“In Kilkenny for the week, havin’ a bit of a holiday.”

Marcy released a deep breath of air. “Is there really a Mrs. Crocker who lives across the street?”

Kieran rose to his feet, crossing toward her in two giant steps. “Of course there’s a Mrs. Crocker. And a lovely, understandin’ woman she is, too. Married to me friend Stanley, so she’d kind of have to be. She’s in Kilkenny with me wife. Stanley and me’ll be joinin’ up with them in a couple of days.”

“Stanley was the man at the bar,” Marcy stated.

Kieran laughed. “Some nights he gets lucky; some nights it’s me.”

“And Audrey?” Marcy asked, already knowing the answer but needing to hear the words out loud.

“Can’t say I’ve had the pleasure.” Kieran’s hands reached out to stroke her arms.

“You said you knew her. Why would you say that?”

“It was what you wanted me to say, wasn’t it, luv? And a man should always tell a woman the things she wants to hear.”

“So this whole thing was a ruse to get me up here.”

His response was to lean forward, kiss the side of Marcy’s neck.

“You didn’t recognize my daughter’s picture.”

His lips moved to the side of her mouth, his hands to her breasts.

“This is all a big game to you.”

“Ah, come on, darlin’. You looked like you could use a little fun.” One hand crawled underneath her sweater; the other slid toward her buttocks.

In the next second, Marcy brought the bottle of beer crashing against the side of his skull.

Kieran staggered back, blood dripping from the gash at the side of his head. “What the …?”

Marcy stared at the now broken bottle in her hand, no clear memory of how it got there. Beer was dripping down Kieran’s face, mingling with the blood inside his hairline. “If you touch me again, I swear I’ll kill you,” Marcy heard someone say, then recoiled, recognizing the voice as hers.

“Are you crazy? What—you think I’m gonna force you? Need I remind you that you came here of your own accord? Shit, I’m bleedin’ all over the bloomin’ carpet.”

“I want to go home.”

“There’s the door, you crazy bitch.”

“How am I supposed to get back to the city?”

“Try flyin’ there on your broomstick, why don’t you? Shit, my wife’s gonna have a right fit when she sees this mess.”

Marcy bolted toward the front door, opening it and quickly fleeing into the night, outraged cries of “Crazy bitch” pursuing her down the twisting curves of the rain-soaked streets. More than an hour later, the sharp slope of St. Patrick’s Hill mercifully popping into view, she heard a car pull up beside her. A door opened, blocking her path, forcing her to a stop. A man got out, his firm hand on her arm preventing her from continuing.

“Excuse me, ma’am,” the uniformed garda said. “I think you need to come with me.”