The Celtic Riddle

Chapter Nineteen. WISE AM I

LYING, I can tell you, is not what it's cut out to be. I can personally attest that all that stuff about bright lights, long tunnels, and a transcendent feeling of peace is a crock, a figment of someone's imagination. I felt completely lucid but irritatingly cold, my fingers and toes blocks of ice.

I could hear everything, understood everything. I just couldn't move or speak, although I followed everything with a kind of detached interest as if it really had nothing to do with me. I had it in my mind, however, that I had something very important to say.

Gradually, I began to realize that some of the voices I could hear belonged to people I knew. I recognized Rob, Alex, and then Moira and Clive. Moira and Clive! Either I was having an otherworldly experience, or I'd been out for a bit, long enough for Moira and Clive to get themselves across the Atlantic to Ireland. And if the latter possibility was the correct one, then I must have been in pretty bad shape.

I heard a door swing open, and new footsteps in the room.

"Hello Breeta, dear," Alex said.

"How is she?" Breeta said. She sounded almost her old self. That was something, anyway. And I'd certainly be interested in the answer to her question.

"She's come through the operation all right," someone said, a doctor presumably.

How reassuring, I thought.

"But now it's a matter of seeing how she does over the next few hours."

What did that mean? I wondered.

"Can she hear us?" Breeta demanded.

"Possibly," the doctor said. "It's good to keep talking to her."

I heard footsteps come up right beside me and breath very near my ear. "I know you've had a very bad time, frightened for your life out there on the hill with that lunatic; shot and lying there in the mud and the rain," Breeta said. "And I'll grant you that Rob and the gardai cut it a little fine getting to you. And no doubt being operated on for hours and hours must have been very difficult whether you were conscious or not. But you've had long enough. From now on you're just wallowing. So pull yourself together, and wake up!"

People who hurl your own words back at you when you are in a weakened condition are a blight on the landscape, I decided. Not quite as bad as people who shoot you, perhaps, but a blight, nonetheless. I ignored her.

"This is all my fault," Jennifer sobbed. "She went after that awful man because she was worried about me.

"No, it's not," Rob said. "It's mine. I lied about where I was going when I left the station. I didn't want anybody to know I'd gone to Maeve's place to discuss things. If I'd told someone, or gone back to my room sooner, we'd have figured it out and got there before she did."

Oh dear, I thought, I really will have to rouse myself and say something. I wouldn't want them to go through life thinking it was their fault. I was the one who'd persisted in this whole thing. Heaven knows, I should have known better. Deirdre had warned me after all. But I couldn't wake up, try as I might. Instead, I found myself drifting away. Soon, I was sitting in an empty theater, empty, that is, except for me. A single spotlight made a bright circle on the stage.

After a few minutes of silence, I heard loud echoing footsteps, and a man in bowler hat, black suit, and umbrella, his face painted completely white, stepped into the circle of light. I kept staring at him, thinking I should know who he was, but I couldn't figure it out, and in the end I gave up trying.

"And now, for your viewing enjoyment," the man said. "For one last time on the silver screen, sailor, world traveller, scholar, antiquarian, successful entrepreneur, and family man, from County Kerry, Ireland, please welcome, ladies and gentlemen, Missssster Ea-monnnnnn Byrrrne!"

The screen behind the man lit up, as his footsteps died away, and there, larger, much larger, than life, was, as announced, Eamon Byrne. "I suppose you're wondering why I called you all together," the giant face said. "Particularly," and here he coughed, "particularly seeing as how I'm dead."

"I've seen this one," I said to the empty theater. "This must be summer reruns."

But it wasn't.

"I wish," Eamon Byrne said looking right at me. "I wish more than anything, that I'd told them, all of them, my sister Rose, my friends, my business partners, my staff, Kitty, John, Michael, even Deirdre, my wife Margaret, but most especially my darling daughters, my little Eriu, Fotla, and Banba-I wish that instead of saying those horrible things I did, that I'd told them that I love them."

And with that the screen went blank and I was back in my hospital room.

This, it seemed to me, called for decisive action. With all the strength I could muster, I opened my eyes. I must have been gone awhile, because Breeta was no longer there. All the rest of them were, though, and they were the ones I wanted to talk to.

"She's awake," Alex exclaimed.

"About time," Moira said, smiling at me.

I tried to move my lips. It was a slow and painstaking process. "I," I said, slowly and as distinctly as I could. They all leaned forward.

"Love," I said. Their eyes widened.

"Ou," I concluded, trying to take all of them in one glance. There was something about the Y sound I couldn't manage.

"Even ou, dive," I said slowly. He hugged Moira and planted a sloppy kiss on my cheek.

"Brilliant!" Rob said, smiling down at me.

My next trip to Ireland was some months later, to testify at Charles McCafferty's trial. I was not there long, the trip cut short by an incident that still plays across the back of my eyelids from time to time, or drags me from my sleep, gasping and tearing at the bedclothes. On the first day of the trial Charles had looked relaxed and confident, as if certain his charm would carry the day. And you know, it might have. On the second, as he was being lead to the courtroom from the paddy wagon, his arms shackled behind him, Conail O'Connor stepped from behind a van, raised a rifle, and shot him dead. The trial was a big one, covered by media from all over the country, and the scene was played over and over on television, Charles dying in slow motion time and time again.

In my mind, he saw his killer, although I can't be sure he did. I think he probably viewed his own death with the same detached equanimity he had his life. On the other hand, I'm not sure how I feel about all this. While I consider him more sinning than sinned against, particularly where Michael Davis is concerned, I feel the occasional small tug of compassion when I think of Charles. I can only hope the Byrne/Mac Roth blood feud died with him.

On a happier note, Byrne Enterprises is making its way back, led by a triumvirate: the three Byrne sisters. The family is planning to donate the silver reliquary to a museum, as soon as they have enough income to qualify for the tax receipt, and will use the savings this allows them over the next few years to expand the business. It's going to be a long road back, but somehow I know they're going to do it. I like the idea of Byrne Enterprises being run by the triple goddess of the Tua-tha de Danaan-Eriu, Fotla, and Banba. How can they fail with all that magic on their side?

Sean McHugh is running one of the businesses again, as vice president of something or other, reporting to his wife and sisters-in-law, but Fionuala and Conail have permanently called it quits. Conail apparently thought that if he revenged the family on Charles, his wife would stand by her man. He was wrong. Last I heard, Fionuala, not one to be wasting time visiting her ex-husband in prison, had set her sights on Ryan McGlynn. One can only hope, for her sake, that the resemblance between Tweedledum and Tweedledee goes only skin deep.

Second Chance has been sold. Margaret has made her way back to Connemara, and, much to my surprise, has actually written me to inquire about my health. The others have stayed in the Dingle: Eithne and Sean have a small house in town and Breeta is living quite happily in Rose Cottage with Paddy Gilhooly and their lovely baby girl. They've named her Rose. I found an absolutely wonderful antique bed for the little darling, and shipped it over. Alex has refused to charge them any rent, so Breeta and Paddy are gradually fixing the place up for him, including putting in electricity and a new lane from the main road. Alex says that someday, a long time from now, he plans to retire there. Vigs, I gather, stays with the cottage.

Jennifer Luczka is off to university. She's doing well at her classes. She also has a new boyfriend. She's bringing him home to meet us at Thanksgiving. Rob is steeling himself for the ordeal.

It is taking me considerably longer than I thought it should to get well again after the operation, the perils of being in your forties, I suppose. As Rob keeps telling me, middle age isn't for wimps. The doctors have told me to take it one day at a time, which I've tried to do, impatient though I usually am. I do feel reasonably well, at last, and am grateful to be alive.

Moira has decided that my life would be much better if there was a man in it, a view I'm not sure I share, and she has set her sights on Rob as my next partner. All I can say about this is that if Rob and I continue our current glacial progress toward a more intimate relationship, by the time we actually get there, we'll only be capable of chaste kisses before we pass each other the glue for our dentures. In the meantime, however, I'm not much interested in anybody else.

Moira has also decided, in an indirect way, some other things about my future. Greenhalgh McClin-toch is gone, but McClintoch Swain is back in business. Sarah Greenhalgh, who didn't find retail nearly as exciting as she thought it would be most of the time, and way too exciting the rest of the time, asked me if I'd care to buy her out. The decision for Clive and me to reunite, in a business sense only, came at a three-way conference at my kitchen counter.

"I have a proposal for you," Clive said carefully, clearing his throat and glancing over at Moira as he spoke. "With Sarah intent on leaving, and your having been a little under the weather for so long, we've been thinking you might like some help with the store. What do you say to our getting together again? You have a much better sense of the kinds of furniture and furnishings people like than I do, and you really do your research on antiques. I like to think I'm good at the design stuff, pulling it all together. What do you think?"

I looked at the two of them, Clive his usual rakish self, although somehow apprehensive, Moira looking quite uncharacteristically diffident. I looked down at my coffee cup, watching as a small pool of frothed milk expanded across my saucer from the spoon, and for a moment or two my life with Clive, the good times and the bad, flashed before my eyes. For some reason, I also thought of Charles, and a long, sad tale of inappropriate love, and I could feel myself getting angry all over again, whether at them or myself I didn't know.

Then I thought of all the laughs I'd shared with Moira, the late night conversations, the support we'd given each other through the tough times in retail and in life. I remembered when we'd had our impacted wisdom teeth out at the same time, then taken a limo back to my place, where, curled up in blankets and flannel nightgowns purchased for the occasion, we sat up most of the night by a roaring fire, sharing a very fine bottle of scotch through clenched teeth, as our faces swelled. And I remembered being told that Moira, when she heard I'd been shot, had grabbed her handbag and passport, called Clive, then driven directly to the airport without so much as a toothbrush, calling her travel agent from the car and demanding to be put on the first flight headed in the general direction of Ireland. When I looked up, Moira had a expression on her face that was part hope, part pleading.

"You could think about it for a while," Clive said.

"No, I don't have to. It's a good idea," I said.

Clive was angling to call our new shop Swain McClintoch rather than its original name, which predates our divorce. His second ex-wife Celeste was not too inclined to advance him any cash, however, and my dear friend Moira wisely stayed out of it. Under the circumstances, the bank was keener on my signature than his, so McClintoch Swain it is. We opened with a very splashy party to which we invited everyone we could think of, and where champagne-real champagne-flowed copiously. I would not normally throw such an extravagant party: I mean, we're still paying for it months later. But who cares? Under the circumstances, I felt I was celebrating my new life, not just the new store. I've learned many things in the last few months, not the least of which is that life is a precious, and fragile, gift.

As unconventional as it may be to work in partnership with your ex-spouse, it's going okay. Irish Georgian is doing reasonably well for us. Just as I hoped he would, Clive mixes the paint and does a sketch of the room, complete with color swatches; I, with Eithne Byrne as our part-time agent and picker in Ireland, get the furniture. Whatever we need, Eithne finds. She's working out really well, and having a good time of it, I believe. I expect she'll open her own shop in Ireland soon enough, once Byrne Enterprises is on more solid footing, but I think, I hope, our relationship will continue.

And if Irish Georgian doesn't work for you, name your place. We'll see you get the complete look, furniture, furnishings, plants, lighting, window and wall treatments, whatever it takes. So far, we've done the Mediterranean, Tuscany, Mexico, Bali, and beyond. There's a whole world out there, and before I waft off again into that great silver screen in the sky, I plan to see it all.