The rest of them all sat there for a moment staring at their hands, not looking at Alex, nor anyone else for that matter. Then they got up, every last one of them, and clutching their envelopes, unopened, hastened from the room.
Chapter Two. THE FURIOUS WAVE
"NlCE," I sighed. "Very nice," I added. "Lovely people. I think I've had about enough of this place for now. How about you?" I said, turning to Alex, who like me was watching the family beat their hasty, and nasty, retreat. "Why don't I buy you a drink back at the Inn?" I went on. "Rob and Jennifer are probably back from sight-seeing by now, and we can hear about their adventures. There isn't anything you need to do here right now, is there?"
"I don't think so, although I suppose I should ask," he replied, tucking the envelope and its obscure contents into his jacket pocket. We looked about us, but Tweedledum and Tweedledee were nowhere to be found. "I can always telephone later," he said. "A drink sounds like a very good idea."
We were well along the driveway and almost to where I'd parked our little rented car, when we heard footsteps hurrying across the gravel, and turned to see Michael Davis approaching us. "Mr. Stewart, Ms. McClintoch." He waved. "Wait for a minute."
He smiled as he caught up to us. "Don't you want to see Rose Cottage, Mr. Stewart?" he said. "I could show you where it is."
I looked at Alex and shrugged. "Why not? Is it far?"
"Not far," he replied, "but," he said looking rather dubiously at my feet, "it's a bit of a climb, Ms. McClintoch."
"Call me Lara, and I'm sure I'll be fine," I said tartly. I had eschewed my normal comfortable flat shoes and squashed my feet into something a little more fitting for such a formal occasion as the reading of a Will at Second Chance, a decision I'd been regretting long before this.
"Okay, Ms. McClintoch," he said, ignoring my attempt at familiarity, and making me feel rather old. "This way."
We went around to the back of the house, and down toward the water, then followed a path that led beside a hill on the right. The path started to climb, affording us a magnificent view of both the sea and the grounds of the Byrne estate. To one side of the house was a very large kitchen garden, four square beds of vegetables and herbs surrounded by a low hedge of what looked to be rosemary, and bisected by a stone path. An arch, almost obscured by white climbing roses, led to a cutting garden, I supposed, filled with a profusion of flowers. An almost perfect lawn divided that from the rose garden on one side, and a tropical setting of palms and flowers. I thought of the rather patchy swath of grass I called a lawn at home and felt more than a tinge of envy.
"Do you like them?" Michael asked. "The grounds, I mean?"
The gardens were exceptionally beautiful, and I said so.
"I'm really quite proud of them myself." He grinned.
"Are you… ?" I paused. Should I say gardener? I wondered.
"The groundskeeper," he said. Of course, I thought. People like me might have a gardener. Should have a gardener, I corrected myself, thinking of my pathetic attempts at making something of the backyard. The Ea-mon Byrnes of this world, however, have grounds-keepers.
"You've done a wonderful job," I said, and Alex agreed.
"Mr. Byrne says I have the touch," he went on. "Said," he added. "He always said I had the touch." He looked out to sea for a moment. "He could be a mean old bugger, I know, but I'll miss him."
"Are those orchids?" I asked, pointing toward the palm grove, and trying to change the subject.
"They are," he replied, turning back to me. "This is a tiny ecosystem," he said. "A little tropical paradise where you might not expect it. This part of Ireland is warmed by the Atlantic currents, and some rather unusual plants and animals are the result." He went on to talk knowledgeably about various aspects of horticulture as we continued our climb up and around the side of the hill. I could see why Eamon Byrne thought Michael Davis worth supporting and sending back to school.
The path continued to curve around to the right and away from the house, until we reached a headland, high above the water. Here, the wind was in our faces, waves dashed the rocks below us, and a mass of yellow gorse and purple heather stretched as far as we could see, a feast for the eyes of a different kind from the carefully tended gardens around the house. This was the wild side of the hill. I looked back, but the house was now obscured from our view. Ahead of us was a small cluster of houses, derelict, roofs gone, and abandoned.
"It's not far now," Michael said. We continued along the path, which followed the edge of the cliff, occasionally veering too close to the edge for someone as uncomfortable with heights as I. The water lay rather far below us. It was spectacularly beautiful. Though it was still clear, as it had been all day, dark clouds were forming close to the horizon, and the sky on this side was a very dark gray, almost black. From time to time, the sun would pierce through the cloud, almost like a spotlight, and a bright circle of light would appear on the water below. As I watched a heron swooped low, skimming the water below us, "Next stop is America," Michael said, pointing out to sea. It was true, when I thought about it. There really was nothing but water between this point and North America. "I'd like to go there some day," he said wistfully, then more practically, "Rain coming. Weather comes up very fast here. We won't stay long."
Stay where, I wondered, but then I saw it. It was not quite as I'd imagined it: Rose Cottage. In every way, in fact, it was quite inappropriately named. Heather House, perhaps, or even Gorse Cottage, but not a rose to be seen. Instead, there was a wind-weathered house a hundred yards inland, its face to the sea, and its back to a mountain. It was not large, not compared to Second Chance, that is, and in many ways rather plain. Instead of the thatched roof of my reverie, the roof was slate. The walls were whitewashed and two rather tired-looking wooden chairs sat out front.
I turned to Alex. He stood almost transfixed by the sight of it, as if he could not believe his good fortune. He loved the place, I could tell, and even though I knew this might mean I'd lose his company back home, I felt a rush of happiness on his behalf.
"Take a pew, why don't you?" Michael said, gesturing to the chairs, "while I get the key." Alex sat on the sturdier-looking chair of the two and gazed about him. I looked around as well, out to sea, and then beyond the cottage to a patch of trees. When I looked back, Alex had a small smile on his face and was nodding his head.
"It's great, isn't it?" I said, feeling just so pleased for him.
"Quite wonderful," he replied, having found his voice at last.
Michael continued his search, lifting a couple of old pails on the porch and feeling up into the rafters. "What's the problem?" I asked him.
"The key," he replied. "It's usually around here somewhere. I thought Mr. Stewart would like to see inside."
I tried the door, and it opened. Michael shrugged. "Last one here forgot to lock up, I guess. No harm really. There's never anyone about, and there's nothing in here worth much."
We stepped inside into the main room. It may not have been the little jewel I'd imagined, but I immediately fell in love with it. On our left was a stone fireplace, cold stubs of candles stuck in wine bottles on the mantel, melted wax making little sculptured beehives at their base. Facing it was an old couch, not the perfect chintz I'd pictured, but satisfyingly comfy, and it right angles to it, two large chairs, the kind you yearn to flop down in. Another chair had been placed beside Dne of the two windows facing the sea, turned slightly as to best capture the view. And what a view it was, across the heather to the cliffs and then as far as you could see over the water. I turned my gaze out to sea. It was one of those times when the light is extraordinary, when the sun is shining, but the sky and the water are almost black, the circling gulls slashes of white against the approaching dark. The wind dropped suddenly, the shriek of gulls as well, and the world fell silent, a kind of morbid stillness, as if breathless, waiting for something terrible to happen.