The Hollow Heart Part 23

"Good enough." Miss MacReady left, bursting with the news for Oonagh to blog.

Marianne sat down, winded. Monty, always the opportunist, jumped onto her lap. She put her arms around him and let the tears drip slowly into his fur, till he shook his ears free of the wetness. Sometimes, maintaining this stiff upper lip was b.l.o.o.d.y hard work.

Chapter Twenty Three -.

A Double Blessing

Marianne spoke into the receiver. "Love? Are you drunk? Stoned?"

"No way. I only said ..."

"I know what you said. How much is asked of that little word? I mean, really? How can I possibly know if what it means for you is what it means for me?"

"Ah ..."

"Is it a sweet fondness that makes you smile when you hear my voice or see me enter a room, I wonder? Or an all-consuming pa.s.sion that means you can't think of anything else, food is abandoned, and the night is endless?"

"Er...I think you're the one who's been drinking."

She ignored him. "I mean, I love baked beans, sunshine, Christmas, clean hair, airports. How can that tiny word apply to so much?"

"Well..."

"So no, I don't know you love me and I certainly don't know how much. There's your answer."

"And they say romance is dead." He was laughing, the line crackling.

"I just thanked you for your generous donation to the campaign, I did not expect the response to be 'but you know how much I love you.'" She twisted the frayed cord in her free hand.

"Well I do, and whatever the word means to you, it means an awful lot to me."

"Really, how's your new wife?" She bit her lip.

"Impossible. But that's another story. A story I want to tell you face to face."

"Not sure if I want to listen."

"For fifty grand, you'll listen."

"Don't make me feel cheap."

"Fifty grand is not cheap. Anyway, I genuinely want to help. Innishmahon means a lot to me too, it feels like roots."

"I know what you mean." She softened.

"I know you do, sure we're the same soul."

"Wuthering Heights has been done."

"That's the other thing; I'll bring the latest draft of the script with me."

"You're coming, then?"

"Try and stop me."

"I'll tell Oonagh, and she..."

"No. No publicity till after I've been. I'll be incognito."

"I've told you before, Ryan, this super-spy thing is just a role. Might you be taking the method acting too far?"

The line went dead. He had called on the landline from a public telephone in New Mexico. She was thrilled to hear his voice. She dared not admit, even to herself, how much she longed to see him. She shook her head sadly, she probably had drunk a little too much wine with her solitary dinner, but she had been working all hours helping to co-ordinate what was going to be a mammoth weekend. She stood looking at herself in the mirror in the hallway of the cottage, holding the heavy Bakelite hand piece aloft. How did she feel now? Exasperated, exhilarated and excited. She replaced the receiver, missing the almost imperceptible click of someone else listening on the line.

'The 'Bridge Too Far' Festival was planned for the Bank Holiday weekend at the end of October. Preparations were in full swing. All the holiday cottages had been let; a special caravan and camping village erected with a huge stage, seating, toilets, showers and canteen facilities all in place.

People were arriving by the boatload. Oonagh had emptied Maguire's storerooms to turn them into makeshift guest suites; Father Gregory had given over the Priest's house to invading celebrities and their entourages, and even the abandoned Georgian mansion, positioned on the highest cliff facing seaward, had been made ready for visitors.

It was rumoured some young Royals were staying there, bringing friends from the world of sport, stage and screen. Miss MacReady was rather proud of that particular rumour.

A starting gun would sound the commencement of building works at eight o'clock on Friday morning and a siren would cease production at dusk on Monday evening. For entertainment, an open mic session was scheduled for Friday night at Maguire's, a full blown rock concert on Sat.u.r.day, and a ceilidh on Sunday. The island was to play host to three and a half thousand revellers, most of whom would work for at least a couple of hours on the foundations of the bridge. Some of Ireland's biggest building firms were supplying materials free of charge, and by Friday evening, the concrete for the foundations had been poured into the footings.

Everyone was invited to sign their name in the still-wet cement, quickly followed by the laying of blocks bearing the names of the one hundred euro benefactors. Even though only an eighth of the project would be completed by the end of the festival, it was an eighth that could not be torn down, destroyed or blown away. It was a great start.

As the weekend drew to a close, Father Gregory announced word from Brussels was positive. There was every indication, due to the community's dogged determination to help itself, that the match funding would be granted. The news was greeted with rapture. Miss MacReady, resplendent in a red satin c.o.c.ktail gown, pirouetted into Maguire's, clasping a print of an email.

"We've done it! We've done it! It only needs rubber stamping but we're there. This is confirmation from Nuala, good girl she is." Nuala O'Shaugnessy was the MEP for the area.

"Well done, Miss MacReady. I'm proud of you, proud of all of you," rejoined a distinctive accent from the shadows. Miss MacReady flurried bird-like towards the voice.

"You made it! Fair play to you. What are you doing hiding here in the corner?"

"Waiting for the fuss to die down a bit. You know the press."

"Sure there's plenty bigger names than you here. You'll hardly be noticed in that crowd," she tried to rea.s.sure him, indicating the hordes drifting by the window, heading for the extra ferries laid on to see the revellers home in time for work, college or school.

Miss MacReady gratefully sipped the drink he handed her.

"I've a fierce dry throat with all the talking. G.o.d, I've been interviewed by everyone, even that lovely fella off the telly. I'd have him on my dance card any Sat.u.r.day night."

"Sure that would leave anyone thirsty," laughed Ryan.

There was a struggle at the door. Father Gregory appeared with Marianne, supporting Oonagh. Marianne stumbled under the weight of her friend. Ryan was there instantly, taking Oonagh from her. Marianne was so consumed with anxiety, she did not even notice him.

"She's exhausted, taken on far too much," Father Gregory indicated the stairs. The colour was draining away from Oonagh's usually russet complexion.

"Let me." Ryan took over from Marianne. Miss MacReady put her pint down.

"I'm going for Sinead. The baby's coming." She indicated Oonagh's b.u.mp, and flew out the door.

Less than an hour later, Padar announced the premature arrival of his baby daughter, Bridget Marianne, to a subdued gathering of regulars at the bar.

"All's well, all's well," he repeated, not quite convincingly, but as Sinead was not allowing any visitors for at least twenty-four hours, they would have to take his word for it.

"We'll wet the baby's head tomorrow then," Father Gregory confirmed as the crowd started to disperse. The fact he had been asked to stay to conduct the Baptism had not gone unnoticed.

"Can I walk you home?" It was the first time Ryan had addressed Marianne directly. She nodded and, taking her coat off the hook, he placed it around her shoulders. She could feel the imprint of his touch long after he had taken his hand away. Monty padded out behind them. They walked in silence. He took her arm and they strolled down towards the beach and the opening in the cliff leading down to the cove.

The last of the festival-goers were leaving, the lights of their cars disappearing as the ferry set sail. Marianne and Ryan stood on the beach and watched, as it left the pontoon, Monty sniffing along the water's edge. Ryan put his arms around her. She returned his embrace. They held each other tightly.

"It will be alright," he said into her hair.

"Are you staying?"

"If I may?"

"Still married?"

"At the moment? Yes."

"You'll have to sleep on the sofa then. I won't be a mistress."

"I know." The reflection of the sea made his eyes glitter, but his mouth turned down at the edges.

"Let's go home," she said. The three turned into the wind and walked briskly back to Weathervane.

The next day dawned bright and bl.u.s.tery. The sea had whipped itself into a swirl of sparkling grey. Cloud streaked across a pale blue sky as the soft sun tried in vain to warm the land. Marianne stumbled down to the kitchen to find Ryan and Monty both missing. By the time she had made coffee, they reappeared sandy, damp and smiling.

"We saw the baby. They're fine, she's beautiful. They had a good night. Padar says the doctor will be here this morning just to check them over, but they're okay. It's looking good."

Marianne sank into a chair.

"Thank G.o.d." The word G.o.d turned into a sob. Ryan was holding her in an instant. She tried to pull away.

"Hey, hey, you've been awake half the night. You're worn out. Let me take care of you, just for a little while."

She wiped her nose on his shoulder.

"Is that all I have you for, a little while?"

"This time. Can that be enough for now?"

"I suppose it will have to be." She searched his face, it was full of love and disappointment. She thought of George and felt his loss. She took Ryan's face in her hands and kissed him. Love is love, take it when you find it, she told herself.

"This is awful, Ryan. I can hardly bear it."

"I know, but it's not forever. I will sort it, please believe me. I truly do love you and I want to be with you."

"Well, you've some explaining to do, that's for sure."

"I know I have." He handed her a tissue. "Please don't cry, my love, all is not as it appears, but what I'm about to tell you is so screwed, you couldn't make it up." And so Ryan told the woman he loved, why he had just married a woman he did not. Right from the beginning of his and Angelique's wild and wonderful romance, through their turbulent break up, Angelique's addiction, pregnancy and the forthcoming birth of their child.

He told her how Larry turned up on set to tell him he had thought it all through, and that the only way he would have the right to custody of his baby, was to marry Angelique, and despite this being the last thing he wanted to do, he saw it was the only thing he could do.

Monty had a long wait for breakfast and, after more tears, recriminations and reconciliation. Ryan wrapped Marianne in a blanket, lit the fire, and held her till she fell asleep, never taking his eyes off her for a minute.

Stateside, Larry Leeson was about to have a coronary, albeit self-induced. Suspecting her estranged husband of infidelity, Angelique de Marcos had booked herself into the Beverley Hills Maternity Clinic for a pre-arranged Caesarean section. The hospital had just telephoned, she had been successfully delivered of a baby boy. Mother and baby were doing well. Father was away without leave, as Larry put it.

"What's the point of having a cell phone if it's never switched on!" the exasperated agent told Ryan's voicemail. Lena was on the other line.

"You know where he is Larry, you always do," she said, "now find him and get him to contact his wife urgently, then at least I can put out some sort of press statement. The uncaring, self-obsessed b.a.s.t.a.r.d!"

"Hey, he didn't know she was doing this. The baby is barely due."

"He knows Angelique well enough to figure she is not going to sit around and wait for a natural birth, especially with him disappearing again. C'mon Larry, get real."

"He's due back the day after tomorrow."

"Not good enough, he should be here now."

"I'm doing my best."

"I repeat. Not good enough." The line went dead.

Larry trawled his contacts book to find the selection of numbers he had collected during his visit to Ireland. He was aware the 'Bridge Too Far' Festival had taken place that weekend. He knew of Ryan's donation to the campaign. He had made a not-ungenerous donation himself, but when he pleaded with his client not to attend the event, being so close to the birth of his own child, even if he was estranged from his new wife, Ryan's refusal to even acknowledge the plea gave Larry his answer. He knew where Ryan was, alright, he also knew if Lena had an inkling of how much he did know, she would eat him alive.

He dialled the postmistress. Miss MacReady recognised his voice immediately. She had developed a huge crush on the immaculately groomed New Yorker when he had visited the island.

"Is he supposed to be here?" she asked cautiously, after an ebullient greeting.

"Reckon so."

"And where do you think he might be?"

"Working on that G.o.dd.a.m.n script with Marianne, I suppose." He laughed at the euphemism. Miss MacReady ignored the inference.