Now You See Her

FOUR


I THINK I’LL TRY THE shepherd’s pie.” Marcy handed her big, unwieldy menu back to the waiter, who was tall, bald, and wearing a large white apron over skinny black pants.

“Sounds good,” Vic said. “I’ll have the same. And a glass of Irish whiskey to start.” He smiled at Marcy expectantly.

“What the hell? Why not?” Marcy said, although she’d never been much of a drinker. But why not celebrate? She’d seen Devon. The daughter she’d feared dead was very much alive. Improbable as it might seem—impossible as it did seem to Peter and Judith—Devon was living less than a three-hour drive away. Tomorrow morning, Marcy would rent a car and drive back to Cork. It was a relatively small city. Once she was settled, it shouldn’t take her too long to find her daughter. Not that it mattered. She’d stay as long as necessary. Marcy had no intention of leaving Cork without her.

“What is it they call it? The water of life?” Vic asked, answering his own question.

“What?”

“The Irish call their whiskey the water of life.”

“The Irish have a nice way of looking at things.”

“And speaking of nice ways of looking,” Vic said, “have I told you how lovely you look?”

“Yes, I believe you did. Thank you. Again.” Marcy fingered the collar of her cotton shirt self-consciously, wondering if she should have done up the top button. She’d had to unpack her suitcase to get at her white blouse and gray pants, not to mention her heels and some fresh underwear, but the change had made her feel better. Even her hair seemed calmer.

The waiter approached with their drinks.

“To a holiday that gets better every day,” Vic said, lifting his glass and clinking it against hers.

“I’ll drink to that.” Marcy took a sip, feeling the liquid burn the back of her throat. “Wow. That’s pretty strong stuff.”

“Good, though.”

“Getting better every sip.” She looked around the noisy, brightly lit restaurant, slightly more formal than the pubs they’d visited earlier in the day, although not much. A large bar in the very center of the room was its dominant feature. Approximately thirty people were sitting or standing around it, all of whom seemed to be talking at the same time, their hands punching at the air, punctuating whatever point they were trying to make. Around the bar were small oak tables, all of them occupied. There wasn’t an empty seat in the place. They’d been lucky to get in.

“So what did you think of ‘the Stiletto in the Ghetto’?” Vic was asking.

Had she heard him correctly? She didn’t want a repeat of the widget/midget fiasco. “The what?”

“The Millennium Spire,” he said, then, when that didn’t seem to register, “The monument we passed on the way over? The tall, stainless steel needle in the middle of the road?” he said, clarifying further. “The one that replaced the statue of Admiral Nelson erected by the British and blown up by the IRA. It’s pretty hard to miss. You missed it,” he said.

“I guess I was pretty focused on finding this place.”

“You seem to have a habit of doing that. Focusing on finding things,” he said by way of explanation, although there’d been no need. Marcy understood he was referring to the events of earlier in the day.

“You called it ‘the Stiletto in the Ghetto’?” she asked, returning to safer ground.

“Also known simply as ‘the Spike.’ The Irish seem to get a kick out of giving rather colorful nicknames to their public monuments. You remember Molly Malone?”

“The one who wheeled her wheelbarrow through streets broad and narrow?”

“That’s the one. Apparently the statue of her on the corner of Grafton and Nassau is rather well endowed, and so the natives have taken to calling her ‘the Tart with the Cart.’ ”

“Cute.” For sure she should have done up her top button, Marcy was thinking.

“There was also ‘the Floozy in the Jacuzzi’ right on this very street, across from the post office, but apparently she was extremely ugly, aesthetically speaking, and everybody hated her, so she got torn down.”

“The Irish like their tarts but they’re not big on floozies.”

Vic laughed. “And then there’s my favorite, the statue of one of Ireland’s greatest patriots, Wolfe Tone.”

Marcy’s eyes narrowed. She’d never even heard of Wolfe Tone. So much she didn’t know, she thought.

“Have you been to St. Stephen’s Green yet?” Vic was asking.

Marcy shook her head, downing the remaining contents of her glass in one extended gulp. Truthfully, she didn’t know whether or not she’d been to St. Stephen’s Green. Since arriving in Dublin five days ago, she’d done little but walk around the city in a daze. Today had been her first real outing.

“Well, on the park’s north side,” Vic said, “you’ll find a semicircle of very rough-looking columns in Tone’s honor. The locals call it ‘Tonehenge.’ ”

It was Marcy’s turn to laugh.

“I’d be happy to show it to you. If you’re free tomorrow …”

“I’m not.”

A flash of disappointment registered in his eyes, although his quick smile disguised it. “You’ve booked another tour?”

“No. I think that’s it for me and tour groups.”

“I’m with you. Or not, as it turns out.”

“It’s just that I’ve already made other plans for tomorrow.” Marcy felt the need to explain.

“Well, if you should find yourself with some extra time on your hands, feel free to give me a call.” Vic reached into his pocket, pulled out a business card, and handed it across the small wood table. “Sold the business, kept the cell phone number.”

Marcy slipped the card into her purse without looking at it. “Actually I’m leaving Dublin tomorrow.”

“Oh. I’m sorry to hear that. Where are you off to?”

“I’m meeting my sister in Paris for a few days,” she lied. Hell, it was just easier that way.

“Paris is a beautiful city.”

“Yes, it is.”

“I started my trip there a few weeks ago. Paris, then London,” he said without prompting. “Then Scotland. Now here. Next stop, Italy.”

“That’s quite the trip.”

“Well, I want to see the village where my great-grandfather was born, and I figured if I wait too long, I might not make it.” He paused, as if waiting for her to ask the logical follow-up, then continued when she didn’t. “My father died of a heart attack when he was fifty-nine. My mother died of cancer at sixty-two, my first wife at fifty-three, also cancer. I just turned fifty-seven. I figure I might not have a whole lot of time left.”

Marcy nodded, held up her empty glass. “In that case, do you think we could have another one of these?”

“I think that could be arranged.” He signaled the waiter for another round. “And thank you.”

“For what?”

“Most people tell me I’m being foolish when I tell them my philosophy of life. Or death, as the case may be.”

“Sounds quite logical to me.”

“Sounds to me as if you also lost a loved one at too young an age.”

“Actually my father was almost eighty when he died.”

“And your mother?”

Marcy extended her hand toward the approaching waiter, smiled when she felt the weight of the glass in her hand. “Forty-six.” She took a swallow. “You said your first wife. How many have there been?”

Vic smiled. “Just two.”

“What happened to the second?”

“We divorced a year ago.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. It was a disaster from the word go.”

Marcy took another sip of her drink and waited for him to continue.

“I was married to my first wife for almost thirty-three years,” he said, obliging her. “She was my high school sweetheart. We got married right out of college. We were the quintessential all-American couple. And then we were the quintessential all-American family, with three sons, a house in Lake Forest with a four-car garage, and everything you could possibly ask for. And then one day Kathy said she was feeling kind of funny—those were her exact words, she was feeling ‘kind of funny’—and we went to the doctor, and he said she had pancreatic cancer, and three months later she was dead.”

Marcy lowered her glass, stared at the table.

“And I was just reeling. Worse than reeling. I was off the wall. I mean, Kathy was it for me, you know? I’d never even been with another woman. And suddenly there I was, all alone. Well, I had my sons, of course, but they had their own lives to deal with. David and Mark are married, with small children, and Tony is twenty-three and finishing up his master’s degree in music. They had enough on their plate. And I’m acting like a total lunatic. One minute I’m holed up in the house, refusing to go anywhere, and the next minute I’m out on the town, staying out all night, bedding anything that moves. I mean I’m suddenly the new guy in town, right? And I don’t have any unsightly warts and rashes, so I’ve got all these women basically throwing themselves at me.”

“Floozies in Jacuzzis,” Marcy said, looking up, relieved when she saw Vic smile.

“Tony called them ‘the Brisket Brigade.’ ”

Marcy laughed.

“Anyway, one day I decided it was time to sell the house. I mean, Kathy and I had been talking about it for years. The kids were pretty much on their own, what did we need such a big house for, the usual discussions, right? And now that Kathy was dead, it was just me and seven empty bedrooms. It was time to move on.”

“Don’t the experts usually advise not making any big moves for at least a year after the death of a spouse?”

“If they don’t, they should. But it’s hard to listen to reason when you’re not being rational. And real estate agents aren’t exactly big on periods of reflection.”

“So you sold your house?”

“No. I married my realtor.”

“What?”

“Yup, you heard correctly. Good old reliable, once-sane Victor Sorvino up and marries a woman twenty-five years his junior, a woman he’s known for less than three months, barely six months after his beloved first wife passed away, and he flies off to Las Vegas and marries her without telling anyone, without even a prenup, and the marriage is a total fiasco from the moment he says ‘I do,’ and she basically says, ‘I don’t, at least not with you,’ and six months later, we agree to a divorce, and among other things, she gets the house, which, incidentally, she now has up for sale.”

“What some agents won’t do to secure a listing.” Everybody has a story, Marcy was thinking, marveling at what he’d just told her.

“Grief makes us do funny things,” he said.

Marcy agreed silently. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be glib. Are you all right?”

“Let’s say I’m recovering. Like an alcoholic, I guess. I don’t think we ever fully get over the death of someone we love. We just learn to live with their absence.”

“Do we?”

“Do we have a choice?”

Marcy turned her head, grateful to see the waiter approaching with their food.

“Careful, it’s hot,” the waiter warned as he lowered their dishes to the table.

“Looks good,” Vic said, inhaling the steam rising from his plate.

Marcy immediately tore into her shepherd’s pie. “It’s delicious,” she said.

“I think I should apologize,” Vic said.

“For what?”

“For monopolizing the conversation all night.”

“It’s been fascinating.”

Vic shrugged. “Tell me more about you.”

“Not much to tell. My husband left me for one of the golf pros at our country club. Her handicap was lower than mine,” she added, feeling the smile she tried to muster wobble precariously on her mouth.

“How long were you married?” Vic asked.

“Going on twenty-five years. This trip was supposed to be a second honeymoon to celebrate our anniversary. Didn’t quite work out that way.”

“So you came by yourself. That’s very …”

“Stupid?”

“I was going to say brave.”

“I don’t think that’s a word too many people would use to describe me.”

“Then it’s amazing how wrong people can be.”

“Yes.” Marcy agreed. It was amazing how wrong people could be.

“Do you have any children?” he asked.

“Yes. Two.”

“Boys? Girls?”

“One of each. Darren’s nineteen, very tall and handsome, thinking of going into dentistry, like his dad. He’s working as a camp counselor for the summer.”

“Sounds like fun. And your daughter? What’s she up to?”

“Devon is twenty-one, or no, actually, she’d be almost twenty-three now,” Marcy said, correcting herself immediately.

Vic cocked his head to one side, smiling to mask his obvious confusion. “Devon is the girl you thought you saw this afternoon?”

“I did see her.”

“Your daughter is here in Ireland?” This time there was no attempt to hide his confusion.

“She’s traveling through Europe for the summer,” Marcy said. “I didn’t realize we’d both be here at the same time, not until I saw her this afternoon. I guess she must have changed her plans at the last minute. That’s a lie,” she added in the next breath.

“I kind of figured.”

“I’m sorry.”

“That’s all right. You don’t owe me any explanations.”

“My daughter supposedly drowned in a canoeing accident about two years ago,” Marcy said, watching Vic’s brow furrow and his eyes narrow. “Twenty-one months ago, to be precise. Except they never found her body. And I know, I know, she’s still alive, that for whatever reason, she faked her death.”

“Why would she do that?” Vic asked, as Peter had asked earlier.

“To get away. To start a new life. Start over.”

“Why would she want to start over?”

“Because she was so unhappy. Because she’d gotten herself into some trouble … I’m sorry. Can we not talk about this anymore?”

“We can not talk about whatever you’d like.”

Marcy continued, unable to stop herself. “Everybody else is so positive she’s dead. But I know what I saw. I saw my daughter. You think I’m crazy, don’t you?”

“I think a mother knows her own child.”

Relief washed across Marcy’s face like a cool breeze. “God, you’re a nice man,” she said.

“And you’ve had a very eventful day. Come on. Finish up. I’ll take you back to your hotel.”

Marcy reached across the table, took Vic’s hand in hers. “I have a better idea,” she said.