Each day, at this very hour of morning, Maeve gave thanks for the blessings of her life. She did not do so on her knees but with hands under her chin and elbows resting on the parapet skirting the patio.
Whatever the weather this had become a joy for her since life had taken so welcome a turn for the better. Since, indeed, Maeve had found herself installed here in the sort of house only conjured up in dreams.
This particular morning, the shrill yap of scavenging seagulls almost drowned out the beat of the surf and the sun relaxed in its blue satin cushion. The little aeroplanes from Waterford scurried across the sky leaving their trails etched for all to see.
Maeve's son , Liam, had landed there, yesterday, via Dublin from his Los Angeles base these days over for the welcoming party later that evening. A house-warming of a sort.
Liam had come through the french windows and stood reflectively behind his mother; stifling a yawn.
'Maeve', he said. Since Liam was three years old he had always called her Maeve. To his tiny ears then it must have sounded like Mama or Ma. 'A grand day to start off. Shame Aileen can't make it!'
'Shame indeed', thought Maeve. Aileen was Liam's twin and she recalled that two years ago almost to the day they had both leaned shoulder-to-shoulder on this same parapet gazing out toward the sea. That, of course, was a little while before the bombshell dropped.
'Good to have you though, Liam. A long way to come for the odd crate of bubbly in the old country. Those two lads of yours in fine fettle?'
Liam, in his still jet-befuddled mind, conjured up the vision of tousled-haired boys, obviously forever Celts but masquerading as all-American heroes.
'Fair guess - in the pool. Or racing down to the beach shack. Either ways I'm running into town to give joining instructions to the caterers for tonight. If Ralph phones tell him to appear about 7. The first cork will pop around then.'
Here, off the coast road out of Dunmore East toward the Wexford ferry, Maeve included amongst the blessings she gave thanks for this wonderful house with its rock-strewn setting and coupled in the name of Ralph.
Watching now, fishing trawlers steaming toward the harbour in their wake rocking the early morning yachts, it was impossible to have foreseen this prospect a couple of decades earlier. Then the Tracy family were down to weaving fantasies to escape the rigours of virtual penury living in a decrepit North of Dublin tenement. Or more accurately , what was left of the Tracy family. Maeve herself, Liam and Aileen. Her husband, had simply one evening gone out to the Pub, as was his regular habit. That was the last they saw of him. An instinctive search by Maeve of those secret corners she had evolved to stash away the rent money brought it home that there was not a punt in sight either.
She recalled in her memory the good times such as they were with the father of her children. Holiday rambles around St Stephen's Green, throwing pennies way out into the lake to terrify the ducks; fragrant now fish and chips down Howth way. Tender whispers about vague aspirations when Liam and Aileen were safely tucked up. That was all before he took to the drink as a way of life. Where was the next one coming from and who would be paying, apart from his own constitution?
Maeve had herself a good Convent education at the start but, in the event, it fitted her for nothing. Sturdy as a child, she blossomed early into something approaching an Irish beauty, with in repose a calm, sensuous face, eyes as green as emeralds and lips like petals, the bloom of cosseted wildflowers. She had excelled at Irish dancing and had tireless legs of graceful shape that alone marked her out in company.
No small wonder then that from Maeve's mid-teens, men had flocked in her trail. Choice if she had but realised it, was abundantly in her favour but judgement in such temporal matters was not one of those talents with which nature or the nuns' syllabus had endowed her.
Inevitably, she married too young and made the wrong choice by a material margin. However, one thing Maeve's upbringing had instilled in her was an impassive acceptance of the cards that life from time-to-time had dealt. Never one to despair at her lot or to rejoice beyond bounds at occasional blessings. Either way her mouth, well described as generous, would merely turn from the normally, poised purse into a winsome smile.
Maeve had cause for many forced smiles in the period immediately after her husband had left her in the wilderness. The children were both of them at National Schools at that point in time, and they were no radical drain on immodest resources. Rent, and the general process of living were incremental nightmares. Maeve for herself snatched employment where she could without basic skills for virtually anything. Casual waitressing in cafes, hotels, the odd receptionist role where her easy-going personality and still quite visible physical attributes were far from a source of handicap.
Problems only began at least to ease when Liam found himself a girlfriend from Wexford with parents part of the County, farming gentry. No end of fertile land and, seemingly, for farmers, fluid with liquidity. Unusually, in Maeve's background, this girl, Alice, picked up all the tabs for meals out in the county's myriad of restaurants, and indeed, for drinks at the much frequented bars. Her husband would have thought he was in heaven had he been included in a round!
Apart from savouring the taste of seductive high life, this enabled Liam, then a trainee surveyor, to spare the odd shekel at the month's end to stretch out his mother's purse.
In due time the pair married and quickly answered an emigrant Uncle's prayer for them to tackle the land of opportunity. A huge property boom around Los Angeles County provided Liam with the perfect chance quickly to flex his business muscles. Frequently, he travelled across the Atlantic to see clients, leaving Alice to tend to their two sons in the luxury of a pad near Monterey.
Standing there now, still, in what was now the garden of her own house on this sweet sweep of a coastline, Maeve recalled that Aileen was a far different kettle.
A little like herself, Aileen was born an innocent and thereafter was taught lessons of sparse use to an innocent. She lacked the direction of either example or ambition. Pretty in her way but without the all-round attributes of her mother, Aileen owed much to Maeve but had inherited fatherly traits. Again, like Maeve she had married young and in Maeve's view, equally unwisely.
That day, two years ago, on this very spot, Maeve was conscious that her daughter had lost any semblance of spirit and animation. Hard to admit for a proud mother but she looked unkempt in almost a studied way, hair dank and un-brushed and with no verve whatsoever.
'Well now, Aileen. Where's your David taking you this year for a break?' Maeve asked this question knowing full well that they never took a break together anywhere; apart from odd weekends when David was on the road like this one when Aileen would look in on her own.
'Maeve'. Like her brother she always called her mother, Maeve. 'David is the incurable rolling stone of the family. If it's not work he never wants to go anywhere'. Rolling stone, Maeve thought to herself. Feckless would be a more apt description. Aileen was no doubt like she appeared now, wretched in mind, and frankly, dirty-looking under his influence. The two of them made a pair.
As if sensing what was in Maeve's mind, she went on: 'Perhaps there's hope for him yet. This latest job he's picked up in Dublin is regular and he has to wear a collar and tie for a change. These days I'm always finding new deodorants and aftershave in the bathroom. Even my moisturising cream is not safe.'
'That's a change with a vengeance. Do you think there's a fancy woman on the scene?' That possibility had been weighed by Aileen in counting off on her fingers, reasons for this near overnight personality switch. However, their conversation veered in less taxing arenas and with the deckchairs out, they both lay back to enjoy the breeze in their faces, carrying with it aromas of sun-baked seaweed.
Maeve, these days, since indeed she became friendly with Ralph found that time had a leisurely aspect to it. After that testing spell, collecting random waitressing roles where she could find them around the metropolis of Dublin; leavened by occasional bouts behind reception desks in hotels or surgeries, she struck a seam of good fortune.
It all started when Liam phoned his mother from Los Angeles. This he did regularly every Saturday evening, his Dublin burr less and less in evidence. At the time the call came through Maeve was on a late shift in the Shelbourne.
'You'll get me murdered next', she scolded him.
'Don't worry your little head so much, Maeve! Does this number strike any happy chords with you? Over here, we're trying to organise a series of Conferences over the next five years. Our London agents have recommended an outfit based in Waterford. Talked with them but they, currently, are short charming talent au fait with the Celtic Tiger and all that. How about Maeve Tracy?'
Maeve, at that point, was on reception sorting out early morning calls. This wildly founded proposal had a strange allure. She knew that the energy quotient was in-built, the creative instinct cried out for expression and, most of all, she was a free agent.
Liam passed on a phone number and his earnest blessings. On the Monday, Maeve contacted the firm, trading over the whole face of Ireland and they offered an interview. Not only an interview but an air ticket down to Waterford and overnight accommodation in their suite of staff flatlets.
Maeve, mildly terrified in spite of herself, beguiled the interviewers with her competent ease and grasp of a business where at best she had merely been on the outer rim. Back in her flatlet, she was convinced that one of the directors had cast approving eyes along the length of her tasteful, dancer's legs and that was the key to the successful out-turn. Maybe she did the right thing that morning in donning her black, Riverdance stockings.
The switch from Dublin to Waterford was a painless joy. The very air and ambience of the place filled Maeve with an invigorating determination to prove her worth from the first day. The training role passed without effort; always at least two, instinctive steps ahead of her tutors. Magically, coming entirely new to it, she found a huge aptitude for this brave, technological world of laptops, E-mails, graphics, the internet and video-conferencing. They were all well within the ken and quickly became responsive tools of her trade.
Shortly after Maeve, to her eternal surprise, was appointed General Manager for the fragrant South-East corner of Ireland and had been installed in her very own apartment in Waterford, she endured an especially late night at a function in a country hotel on the rim of Wexford town.
As her own boss in effect, nothing stopped her indulging with the barman in a final luxuriant Napoleon. The first streaks of summer dawn were filtering through the bay windows as the impact of the first sip excited the taste buds. They blanched, in an eerie way, the threads of tobacco smoke accumulated as the evening had progressed.
'Great', she said, 'To get that mob off to bed this early for a change. It must be the thought of tramping around in the mist of the golf course!'
It had been a furious session all the previous day, property people mingling with lawyers, accountants and politicians; all the usual panoply of interested parties. No shortage either of expatriates re-awakening to the land of their fathers with the smell again of burning turf fires pervading their nostrils.
Maeve, in her own judgement, had handled events well; encouraging the thoughtful and curbing with maturity, threatened excesses early in the bud.
The voice came from the direction of a leather sofa, almost too near the still smouldering turf fire in the drawing room hearth. It had the barest trace of the transatlantic to it, smooth, with vague tones of Kerry to her seasoned ear.
'Would there be but the simplest pint of Guinness left in the barrel? It's been a thirsty day.'
Maeve, relaxing under the pungent brandy rasping at her throat, reckoned this was the last thing she wanted at 2.30 in the morning, more sessions up until lunchtime for those not bothering with the links.
Nevertheless, with patience she herself pulled the pint and at the same time topped up her own balloon. Why not? The sponsor was paying and contented customers are the essence of repeat business.
To establish her own credentials, Maeve explained,
'It's not often you'll get a pint out of me this hour of night! My name is Maeve Tracy . I'm trying to make a success out of running this particular show.'
In the mirror at the back of the bar, she could see that he was not one of the average run of attendees of Conferences, fleeing from the close confines of City offices, personal relationships including married life. So many of them, she found were seeking prospects of happy confrontations with more senior managerial streams, conceivable, new found liaisons and certainly unrestrained times with the boys.
'I know precisely who you are, Maeve Tracy! Very impressed with your style this week. So far that is! For the record, and to be sociable at this hour, my name is Ralph. Hi!'
Before lunch the next day, Maeve had done her scouting with typical efficiency. This was Ralph Morton. His grandparents had fled the land from deepest Kerry via Cobh for the U.S.A; in its day the classic route. An extension of the classic route then took them out West where eventually their grandson, Ralph, girded with wealth, graduated from Berkeley and became in his own unaffected way, an apprentice property baron.
What marked Ralph out at an early stage was that he was more insatiably Irish than the Irish. The blood and inheritance of his forbears coursed every fibre of his being; involvement with Gaelic sporting activities, all forms of music, ceilhis and dance, the cuisine, even remotely linked with the homeland beat.
On the West Coast, the Morton family developed near-icon status. Ralph had not far off Crown Prince regard locally but personal preferences and pursuit of European targets saw him constantly in London and Dublin.
On the vibrant Los Angeles social scene Ralph's natural affinities eased him in contact with more recent winners of accolades of Irish leaning.
Across his path wafted Liam, at a fortuitous moment, over late night cocktails on the roof at the Mark Hopkins. Together, they surveyed the grasping tendrils of damp mist as it embraced Nob Hill and they yarned; sharing aspirations, insights into aborted deals and the general process of high-pressured living.
It was in the early morning then that Liam phoned his mother at the Shelbourne. For Maeve, a new, undefined beginning.
Her first thought was to ask Aileen, living not that far away in Dublin with her unambitious, disenchanted husband. Aileen, never an enthusiastic advocate for change on any count, instinctively viewed the prospect of an always supportive mother swanning off to Waterford with mild alarm. Assuming it all went sweetly for Maeve.
It did, of course, all go sweetly and as part of the ultimate deal, Maeve negotiated occupancy of a small flat for Aileen and her husband, not two miles away from her own apartment in Waterford. A cosy embellishment to the set-up.
Standing now, late afternoon, on the terrace of her home waiting for the first throb of the party, Maeve thought through the sequence of events thus far.
After that drinking session with Ralph Morton at the Wexford hotel, neither made the golf tournament nor indeed the morning seminar with any indulgent aplomb.
However, Maeve did establish that Ralph had been a prime mover, along with Liam in selecting Waterford as a centre of potential excellence for emigrant Irish seeking a blessed return home in one shape or form.
As part of his personal contribution he had bought a country estate out on the coast road close by Dunmore East and already had poured serious $s into the locality
Ralph said next day after dazed presentations at the end of the seminar,
'Maeve, A great week to remember. But too early for goodbyes. Why not take dinner with me by way of a thank you? There's this quaint little restaurant in Dunmore East called the Ship. Many other Irish opportunities to mull over!'
'Nice to be appreciated but can't we talk in the Waterford offices?'
'You may know the Ship but you haven't savoured the joys of my house along the coast. Made in heaven for angels the likes of you!'
All very cajoling, mused Maeve in one of her more recently acquired brittle modes.
Ralph continued a pattern of almost weekly commutes across the Atlantic. He and Maeve saw a great deal of each other both socially and in the rigours of business.
Never ever did Maeve even countenance that this mutually easy relationship could blossom in any conceivable romantic direction. Sure; both being tactile, extrovert characters there were the odd kisses and squeezes but no spark of passion. It was flirtation out of politeness. Besides, Maeve recalled when she first met Ralph and tippled at the bar, the dappled mirror ahead of them reflected an age difference. She carried her forty-five years with grace and style yet Ralph's patrician elegance did not disguise his relative youth. Maybe only a ten-year gap but a meaningful one. He deserved someone nearer their first bloom.
In that respect, although Maeve and Ralph became regular items at the Ship, she was very aware that he paid far from exclusive attention to her. What started as a duty calls blandishment, Maeve felt, he spent increasing time around at the flat where Aileen and David lived. Full of advice about their decorations, their garden, the terms of their lease. Ralph explained that it was all part of making them feel at home in this alien Waterford community and easing any sense of guilt Maeve might experience.
Unlike her, Maeve did begin to harbour hopes that Ralph might have designs on Aileen, a younger model of herself. The sort of distraction, despite the messiness of affairs of that ilk, at least might give David an emotional jolt. Ralph went so far as to inveigle the couple over to his Los Angeles pad for a summer holiday.
Not quite, assessed Maeve, David's natural preference but it might give Ralph opportunities to toy with the seduction of Aileen if that was in his mind. Months later, over dinner inevitably at the Ship, Ralph said with no softening preamble,
'Maeve, I have a serious business proposition to put to you. Not here but up at the house. No subterfuge; I'm not trying to manipulate you into bed. Honest!'
Maeve knew that no danger lurked in that particular pasture but nerve-endings did tingle the length of her spine. Whatever was in the mind of this shrewd, gallant operator, as was her wont with most people, there was implicit trust of motives. She sensed from Ralph's demeanour that the nature of the surprise would not be unpleasant or in any way unpalatable. Why else indeed would he be smiling so archly at her over their raised glasses?
The drive to the house she knew from previous trips took less that a few minutes. Ralph had a switch in his car that not only opened the garage door but by electronic magic flooded the whole house, back and front, in cool, diffused light.
Maeve had been there often enough socially and on business to know the normal order. She selected the brandy bottle, the crystal balloons and brought them out on to the patio.
The sky was freckled with diamonds and the softest, warm breeze arrived with it the smell of wet, shifting sand.
When doubles had been poured, Ralph issued his opening gambit.
'Maeve, over the past months clearly you've found your niche. Grand job. Super apartment with at least some of the family nearby. Nice friends; if I may say.'
He was watching her face, the steady untroubled stare in her eyes.
'I'm going to suggest that you stand aside from all that. How can I string the right words together? What I want is a sort of female alter ego I can trust to keep this house up to scratch with the right staff. Acting as my confidante and friend and to deal with business colleagues staying overnight. Let's say, in the absence of a wife, like a perfect hostess.'
Maeve diverted her gaze from Ralph and could see lights from the fishing boats shunting in the early dawn across the bay and the beam of the Hook Head lighthouse darting over the swell. Ralph she recalled had at one point alluded to an angel on heaven's doorstep.
He carried on,
'You'll worry about security for the future. Don't! Let's talk more about the concept over the next glass but I'll give you a long lease at a peppercorn. And pay you what you currently earn. Plus, the odd performance-based bonus!' he added with a chuckle.
Such was her faith in human nature, Maeve was beguiled by this unexpected proposal. 'And', continued Ralph, 'You will be my personal secretary with projects to develop on your own. Just to keep your creative skills with life left in them!'
After the second glass was drained, they went back into the drawing room. Maeve was already formulating ideas about décor, drapes, furnishings.
They sat together on the sofa facing the french windows, listening to the sounds of reviving dawn, absorbed in their own thoughts.
'Hostessing', said Maeve with one of her winning smiles, 'Sounds very forward for a mature woman like me.'
When Ralph reached out and put his arm around her shoulders, Maeve without thinking kissed him on the cheek as a mother would her son and added,
'When do I start acting out this hostess fantasy?'
'Sooner rather than later. Like now!' he replied.
11
The next morning, Ralph, having showered and prepared a full Irish breakfast, drove Maeve into the Waterford office.
Late that afternoon, at Maeve's resolute insistence, they visited a Solicitor she had befriended at the Ship to put legal shape to all that Ralph had discussed the previous evening.
It was not innate suspicion on Maeve's part but her Conference number was fulfilment in itself and what would be the point of swapping it for idle revelries even after a succulent breakfast and, what ,by some miracle, had preceded it the night before?
She wanted to ensure security of tenure without onerous conditions, liberty within reason to do what she wanted with the property in terms of its occupancy, to avoid any impediment of her estranged husband, her children or their spouses having rights.
Maeve also wanted, without prompting, a firm employment contract on a five-year rolling basis. She wondered to herself where had the old Maeve from those Dublin tenement days gone.
Somehow, not surprising to her, Ralph was enthusiastically compliant and wholly co-operative in producing a legally robust formula. Dinner at the Ship, the lawyer as their unobtrusive guest, effectively sealed the deal.
Over the next few months, Ralph set up an Irish domiciled company to run his property investments. He nominated Maeve as Managing Director and for a paltry sum she became a 50% equity holder.
Thanks to the massive real estate escalation in Dublin and its environs the business prospered and via acquisitions it became a well-regarded quoted entity. Maeve obviously was feted by the media but nevertheless she still rated care of the house in Dunmore as the prime motivator. On letter-headings, it now bore the name of Peacehaven, for to her that was what it was.
Of every month despite other pressures, she maintained the discipline of spending a whole week in residence at Peacehaven irrespective of whether Ralph was even in Ireland.
Maeve made a point of keeping Aileen very much part of the Tracy clan. There was little or no sign of David, never one for anything reeking of family socialising. His name was mentioned less and less by either of them. Aileen herself gave the impression of complete emancipation. As if she was clothed in a different personality, her appearance even began to resemble Maeve's. They, the both of them, always looked svelte in the latest Brown Thomas fashions and featured in the Waterford society columns at one or another function.
Liam, of course, was also involved from the U.S end. He kept up religiously his habit of phoning Maeve at least once every weekend.
In one of those calls just two months before the housewarming party, Maeve would not easily forget, Liam dropped the bombshell.
'Mum', he said, as opposed to Maeve, 'I've got sister Aileen out here.'
Strange, considered Maeve, Aileen and David had been in Los Angeles only a few weeks earlier and Aileen whom she had seen many times since certainly had not mentioned going back so quickly.
'Nothing wrong! Is she well?'
'On the top of her form! Looking like a starlet! But her nerve failed her and she's asked me to ring you. Don't fall off your chair. David has finally left her!'
'Oh God!' said Maeve.
Only vaguely was she anxious to hear the details yet asked with contained passion,
'Has Aileen made any reference to the woman? Is she an Irish bitch?'
'There is no she, Maeve', reverting to his normal mode of addressing his mother, 'It is a he. Here is the rub. It's Ralph!'
Oddly this disclosure, whilst immediately stirring a few pain thresholds, did not cause Maeve any radical trauma. The reserves somewhere lurking in her being, as ever, cooled rushes of blood. She sighed soulfully, a characteristic pursing of lips and an imperceptible shrug of her shoulders in dismissal.
As the days wore on, Maeve's imagination weaved away and unconnected fragments troubled her for a while. The recollection of Ralph emerging from the shower that morning may have been a sight shared elsewhere by her weak-minded son-in-law, David. At that particular time, had the now common knowledge liaison been in tow already? Had her own cosy, discreet relationship with Ralph been a family butt for private ribaldry? Was there any thread linking the relative ease with which Maeve had achieved a more sustained partnership than had she actually married Ralph?
Maeve did not have answers to these dilemnas and did not dwell on them. Probably the most profound concern she had was the possible impact of the development on the impending house-warming party at Peacehaven. She determined that at all costs it was certainly going ahead. For some, it might even be an element in the rehabilitation process.
As the date loomed, Maeve had a sense of genuine regret that Aileen would not be putting in an appearance. Hardly heart-broken but she claimed emotional embarrassment from her eyrie in Monterey with sister-in-law, Alice, and the two nephews.
Maeve felt it had more to do with misguided loss of face amongst recently acquired acquaintances in the Waterford elite. She was disappointed but, curiously, took immense consolation from the fact that Ralph's note of acceptance was the very first she opened.
111
Now bedecked in her sleek, green Armani party dress, Maeve directed operations from her patio vantage point.
The caterers from the Ship had events well in control for the pending festivities.
The barbecue's hickory haze was casting wispy shadows up into a sky showing signs of furrowed storm clouds before even a single cork had been popped.
Down at the Dunmore East harbour that morning Liam and the Ship's landlord had bartered with Spanish wagon drivers for at least part of their consignment of crabs and lobsters destined originally for tables in the best Madrid restaurants.
Liam had been a revelation throughout the crisis, concluded Maeve. As soon as he had arrived in from the States, Liam had up-dated her on interpretations of the Ralph saga.
A significant factor was that David had fled the stage completely. Evidently, in the course of the holiday with Aileen in Los Angeles he had become secretly besotted with some bizarre religious cult with a focus still further south in California. Real music for a lapsed Irish Catholic!
More importantly, Ralph had emphasised with vigour to Liam his resolve to attend the house-warming at Peacehaven partly because the property had been his inspiration at the outset and partly because of the respect he reserved for Maeve and all she had done for him.
As Liam had surmised, the party seriously began to erupt at around the seven o'clock mark. The guests descended, driving themselves or by taxi, in steady, relaxed droves. Amongst the first were Liam's in-laws from Wexford farmlands virtually a stone's throw away.
There were old colleagues from the Waterford company, new colleagues from the Morton empire, stock market commentators, clients and professional advisers. Liam was up there helping with the bottles, the corkscrews, the canapes, the charcoal and the rising swell of conversation. It was beginning so soon to drown out the fiddles, the thump of bodhrans and the accordions thrill.
Ralph's arrival was unannounced and unnoticed by most. He flitted around the fringe with small talk for those he knew, making occasional forays on politicians and investment people he wanted to cultivate.
Maeve was in deep discussion with Alice's parents when she first spied him wending his way with difficulty in her direction. He looked as bronzed as ever, with the hair over his ears perhaps somewhat prematurely tinged with grey. Like an athlete , he rolled on the balls of his feet. Even without her high heels, Maeve placed him as being roughly her own height; surprisingly a feature she had not previously noticed. Hitherto, there had always been some fair distance between them or they had been very close.
'Welcome to Peacehaven, Mr Morton', she said. 'Have you a kiss for your hostess tonight?'
Ralph smiled and kissed her gently. She tasted the delicate bouquet of quality champagne and smelt the sea on his skin.
'What a superb touch you've brought to this place. It needed a real woman's hand. Are you enjoying it to the full?' he said.
'No complaints at all, at all. Shall we circulate separately or together?'
'Together, unless you think people might draw conclusions and talk!'
As the evening moved on, the constant buzz of conversation thickened in intensity, fuelled by alcohol and the sheer vivacity of a party atmosphere in delectable surroundings. People wandered from room to room around the house downstairs, upstairs without the constraint of shepherding. Rarely out of hearing was the frothing sound of the ceilhi band gaily blending sweet, familiar melodies.
The only restriction Maeve had imposed was that whilst drinks could be served or consumed everywhere, food had to be kept to the barbecue area off the patio, well-protected from the elements by luxurious tree foliage, or in a series of small, cosy marquees.
Inside the house, in the library built in dark mahogany and smelling of polished leather, Ralph remarked,
'You've made a perfect dream of this place, Maeve! With your attention to detail I expected you to have a deft designer touch. What changes have you wrought upstairs?'
'All in the fullness of time!' she parried; adding then in a sly, coquettish mode,
'Sad that neither Aileen nor David saw fit to join us!'
'At this stage, the least said,' he countered, 'the better.'
'What indeed,' Maeve replied, 'is there to say?'
Most of the guests stayed on the wine. Relatively few resorted to the hard stuff and the behaviour level remained commendable given the liberal hospitality. Hardly uniformly sober and sedate, but Maeve had been to more raucous parties in her time.
Liam's in-laws having been first to arrive were first to leave and gradually numbers dwindled. At some point, Liam had pulled Ralph away from Maeve's side suggesting a quick run into town to favourite haunts and several good night Guinnesses with friends outside the party circle.
As Maeve heard their car grate over the gravelled drive she heard also rolling barks of thunder. Out there on the patio flashes of sheet lightning paled the floodlights of Peacehaven into insignificance. The storm earlier threatened had arrived with a fierceness common to that coastline in the wake of a spell of warm sunshine. The rain came in such a relentless downpour that the catering staff had to stop dismantling the barbecue and their outdoor equipment.
A violent, wild night, predicted Maeve, as she sipped her brandy and checked her Emails when the front door had been shut on the final, somewhat unsteady guest. There was one there from Aileen with her good wishes for a great housewarming and a stirring party with love and thanks to Ralph.
Later, in bed, she wished now, feeling mildly dehydrated, that she had gone with Liam and Ralph for a long, cool drink in an anonymous hotel lounge somewhere until this periodic summer eruption had subsided.
Maeve woke with a start. No remote sign of the storm now and the sun sent gold shafts through the curtains into the bedroom. She checked out the time through sleep-laden eyes. It was 7.15 am and the phone was still ringing.
It was Liam.
'Sorry if I'm waking you, too early, Maeve.'
'Sure don't you always give me a ring on Sunday mornings! Where are you?'
'Bad news, Mum. At the hospital. I'm fine, apart from the odd scratch. But last night on the way back we came to the bend on the hill by the Catholic Church. We were blinded by a car moving the opposite direction, maybe from the party at Peacehaven. Braked and skidded off the road and into a tree. I was thrown clear. Ralph got a bit mingled up with the steering wheel.'
'Oh God! What do you mean a bit mingled up?'
'Very mingled up! He's on the life support. The doctors won't tell me anything. The gardai are on the way for you.'
Maeve waited for the patrol car from her usual morning vantage point on the patio for that hour of day, leaning her elbows on the parapet and staring out across the bay. Already, she noticed, the little yachts were skimming across the water now placid with barely any swell.
'What', she asked herself, 'will I find when I get to the hospital? Will he die and never see the design miracles she had created upstairs; recalling one of their most recent conversations? Will he survive in some maimed state, committing her then to an era of selfless nursing? Will he recover completely and resume, with his insouciant charm, occasional quests for wayward souls such as David'
Maeve reviewed all these possible profiles dispassionately. At least, she thought, Liam is safe. Aileen is safe across in Monterey with Liam's family. And she herself had the Peacehaven roof over her head, ample resources and a vibrant job role.
Considering the circumstances, for her, a weird, mercenary line of thought entered her consciousness. As the media spread the news of Ralph's accident how would it impact on the public's perception of the business, more so on the share price?
When Maeve at last heard the gardai car siren herald its approach up the drive she made a mental note that before leaving the hospital later in the day, whatever the profile, she needed to phone her stockbroker and solicitor to firm up a grasp on the next appropriate move.
Rob Farley
Sylvan Lodge,
Leycester Road, Knutsford,
Cheshire; WA16 8QR