Page 102 of Road Trip
“Maevey. You won’t believe what I found out!” Therese announced as soon as she opened the door to their room at the inn.
Maeve was sitting at the tiny table that served as a desk, typing on her laptop.
“I can’t wait to hear,” Maeve said. “Was Esme actually willing to talk to you?”
“Not at first,” Therese said. “But after I told her we knew she was somehow involved in the IRA heist—and after I got some gin in her, wow! That old bird has some stories to tell.”
She pointed at the laptop. “What’s that you’re writing?”
Maeve quickly saved the document she’d been working on and closed the lid of the laptop. “Nothing really,” she said, but Therese recognized her guilty expression.
“Come on,” Therese said impatiently. “Can’t you for once just honestly express what you’re thinking about? It’s me, Maeve. Your sister. Not your department head, or one of your snobby professor colleagues. You don’t have to try to impress me.”
“Okay,” Maeve said. “I was working on my résumé. I need to start applying to jobs as soon as we get home. But my heart’s not in it. You know I’ve been making notes, every night since we got here, about what we’ve learned, and the people we’ve met. I hate to say it, and I really hate to admit you’re right, but I think you’re onto something. There really is a story here.”
“Like a true crime novel,” Therese agreed. “Maybe I’ll play myself when you sell the movie rights. Just make sure the deal you sign makes you executive producer. That way you’ll have a say in the casting decisions.”
“Whoa! You’re getting a little ahead of yourself there, sis. Actually, I think it’s a novel. Historic fiction, with a dual timeline. I want to tell Kathleen’s story.” She pointed at the stack of correspondence between Kathleen and her brother.
“She had such an astounding life—from the time she finds out she’s the lord’s illegitimate daughter, running away and emigrating to the States, working in the shirt factory, and then meeting her first husband on the train. And then being widowed and remarrying. Running the tavern after PJ dies of the flu… But I want to make her life bigger, more colorful. Mostly, I want, somehow, to give Kathleen the happy ending she deserves.”
Therese sat down on the bed opposite the desk. “That’s a great idea. You know I’ve never been a big reader, but damn, that’s a book I would definitely pick up.”
Maeve pushed a strand of hair out of her eyes. “It’s a pipe dream, but somehow, I feel different about this story, in a way I never felt about that novel I’ve been working on for years and years. I’m actually excited to sit down and write, because I can’t wait to find out what happens next.”
Therese stood and flung her arms around her sister. “That’s my girl. Just go for it, you know?”
Maeve wriggled out of her sister’s embrace. “It’s not as easy as it sounds. I’ll have to figure out a way to write, and keep writing, once I land a new teaching job.”
“Screw the new job! We’re gonna sell Lady G—as soon as we get back to Savannah—and split the money. You should have more than enough to live on while you write that bestseller.”
“And you? What are you gonna do? We still have to figure out the house stuff.”
“I don’t know,” Therese admitted. “I’ve never had the luxury of stopping to catch my breath and plan my next move. I’ve always justlatched onto the next audition, the next gig…” She made a face. “The next man.”
“Now you can do that,” Maeve said. She hesitated for a moment. “Hey, you know what would be cool? If you hung around Savannah for a little while. Not, like, forever, because I know you’re always so restless, but maybe ’til we get the house sold? If that’s even possible.”
“We’ll see.” Therese flopped down on her own bed. “Let’s go get some dinner, and not, please, the lounge here or the Willow Tree. I don’t want to run into that stinky Reggie character again. Esme told me she ran him off, by the way.”
Maeve frowned. “Our funds are getting kinda low. I don’t want to put anything on my credit card, because it’s already close to being maxed out.”
She grabbed her billfold and counted her cash. “I’ve only got like eighty euros. What about you?”
“Looks like about thirty euros,” Therese said, after she’d dumped out the contents of her purse onto the bed. “Look. We get free breakfast in the morning, all you can eat, right? So we sneak some scones and sausage back to the room, and that’s lunch taken care of. I say we give ourselves a nice farewell dinner here in Tarrymore, and then we’ll go cheapskate when we get to Dublin.”
“Deal.” Maeve eyed her sister’s outfit. “But if we’re going somewhere nice, maybe leave the Pussy Riot shirt here and go with something a little less in-your-face?”
“Spoilsport,” Therese groused. But she pulled the T-shirt over her head and pawed through her suitcase for another top, finally settling on a cream-colored long-sleeved sweater, and a pair of fairly intact black jeans.
“How’s this?” She did a little twirl to model the outfit.
“That sweater looks oddly familiar,” Maeve said.
“Okay, yeah, it was Mary Helen’s. I dug it out of that box you were getting ready to send to the St. Vincent DePaul store. It’s real cashmere, for crying out loud. I can’t believe Mom ever owned—or wore—anything so nice.”
“She probably bought it at St. Vinnie’s to begin with,” Maeve said.
The Stag andthe Hare came highly recommended by the inn’s desk clerk, who termed it “only a brisk walk away.”
