Total pages in book: 120
Estimated words: 115885 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 579(@200wpm)___ 464(@250wpm)___ 386(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 115885 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 579(@200wpm)___ 464(@250wpm)___ 386(@300wpm)
Maybe they’re friends of Kathleen’s. Perhaps they know me through Mal, who told people about my birthmark, even though he knows how self-conscious I am about it. Either way, it’s in poor taste, and at least one of them—the leggy blonde with the familiar English accent—is in no position to judge me, seeing as she sleeps with a married man.
I grab a napkin from the register, stuff it into my pocket, turn around, and flash them a smile.
“Let me give you a direct answer: yes, I am her. What did you hear? That I stole Mal from Kathleen? That my mom is a bitch? That my late dad is a no-show drunk? Been there, heard that, so let me add another rumor into the mix. This one is also true, so listen carefully—I’m living with Malachy for the next two months. Under the same roof. But I won’t be screwing around with your friend’s husband. I want nothing to do with either of them, so feel free to pass your message to Kathleen.”
And by the look of it, anyone else in this village. It’s official, I’m the pariah of this godforsaken town, thanks to my lovely host.
Astonishment drips from their faces, their mouths limp, their eyes comically wide. The blonde is wearing tight, white jeans and a huge pink faux-fur coat. Her friend is a petite, curvy brunette, with farmer’s boots and a neon green bomber jacket. They’re both nursing steaming cups of coffee.
“How dare you talk about Kathleen like that!” The blonde gasps theatrically, snapping out of her shock.
Never mind the fact that she’s sleeping with Kathleen’s husband.
“Let me guess, you’re here for your inheritance from your father?”
What? Why would I come here eight years after he died?
“I’m not interested in my late father’s money,” I clip out.
I wish he’d been broke, so people would stop accusing me of going after his fortune. No wonder Mal hates money so much. It’s everything people think about.
“Right,” the blonde snorts. The brunette shakes her head, elbowing her friend.
“Stop it, Maeve. I think she really doesn’t know. I’m Heather, and this is Maeve.”
Reluctantly, I shake both their hands. Maeve still looks upset by my existence, and I’m trying really hard not to out her sordid doings yesterday in front of her friend.
“I’m Rory.”
“We know,” they say in unison.
“I didn’t think she’d be that pretty. Kath said she was just okay,” Maeve grumbles, then bites her lip, realizing she said that aloud.
“Do you live around here?” I look between them, trying to break the ice.
Heather nods. “Just down the street. On Christchurch Grove. Ours are the blue and red houses facing each other. We’re married to the O’Leary twins, you see. She’s married to Sean, and I’m married to Daniel.”
This is way more information than I asked for. I smile and step away, toward the street.
“What are you doing living with Mal if you two aren’t a thing?” Maeve narrows her eyes at me.
Everything in her face is squeezed in concentration, like her life depends on my next words.
“We work together. I thought he married Kath.”
“He did.” Heather sighs, as if everyone knows how that turned out.
Well, I don’t. I’d kill for an answer. Well, maybe not kill, but seriously injure someone. Preferably Mal himself.
“Did they get a divorce?” I’m starting to think I’ve gone mad. Either Mal and Kathleen have a super-open relationship or I’m missing something crucial here.
“Mal would never.” Maeve’s bitter tone does not escape me. “He’s loyal to a fault.”
Yeah. Loyal. So, so loyal.
“Kath left him, then?”
Their eyes grow so big, I’m afraid they’re going to roll out of their sockets. Realizing this is a dead-end conversation, I mutter a goodbye and start backing away, turning around and taking off.
I need to talk to someone, all right. Father Doherty. Yeah, he’ll be able to tell me what the hell this entire inheritance obsession is about, and maybe shed light on the Mal-and-Kathleen situation. God knows Mal is not helpful in this regard.
I know Father Doherty lives in this village. It’s just a matter of finding him. I’ll go door to door if I must.
I tromp my way back toward Mal’s cottage and take the long way up, the one between fields of barley and wheat. The air is fresh, and the wheat is brown and beaten by the cold, whooshing back and forth in the wind like silk. By the time I see the cottage, my heart rate is back to normal.
I push the door open and find Mal sitting in the backyard, which has been fully furnished with loungers, a dining table, two fire tables, and a fancy grill. The entire house looks different. Uncluttered, yet full of new, shiny things. I watch Mal sit back at one of the tables outside through the living room window. He’s flirting with two American girls from Richards’ staff. He is nice, Old Mal again. The one I fell for. I shake my head, roll my eyes, and head to my room, stepping over the threshold.