Page 141 of Road Trip
Sinead stirred, sat up, and gave Maeve a quizzical look.
“What happens if we say no thank you?” she asked. “If Therese and I decide we don’t want to upend our lives in the States and move to Ireland? What if we don’t choose to let a perfect stranger determine what our futures hold?”
McCracken looked stunned. “I’ve never had beneficiaries of an inheritance decline it before, in all my years of practice. My guess is that eventually, Esme’s estate would be deemed property of the state. Or, there’s the distinct possibility Geoffrey would pursue a claim to his sister’s estate. But that could take years.” He looked over at Sinead, who was busily snacking on the remnants of Maeve’s sandwich. “And in the meantime the dog would be surrendered to an animal shelter until such time as someone else adopts her.”
“You wouldn’t really do that, would you?” Maeve asked, horrified by the prospect that Esme’s dog could end up in a cage somewhere.
“I’m bound by Esme’s wishes,” he said calmly.
Maeve stood abruptly, leaving Sinead to scramble onto the floor.
“I don’t mean to be ungrateful, but I need to think about this,” she said forcefully. “I’ve got to talk to Therese and see what she says.” She grabbed her pocketbook from the back of her chair and started for the door with the dog trotting along in her wake.
“Where are you going?” Liam rushed to her side.
“I’m not sure. But I guess, for now, Sinead is going wherever I go. I suppose I’ll call the inn and beg them to find me a room. At least for tonight.”
McCracken had followed them to the exit. “That shouldn’t be a problem. I’ll have a word with Shawn, the manager at the inn. She’s next on my list to call anyway.”
“Why would you call the inn about Esme?” Liam asked.
“Because Esme owned the inn. Or rather, Ms. Dunagin and her sister own it now. In trust for Sinead.”
“I thought Shawn Davis owned the inn,” Liam said.
“When Lord Rossington donated the manor house over to the National Trust, following the robbery, he conveyed the gardener’s cottage to Esme, and the inn to Geoffrey, who had no interest in becoming a hotelier, and very nearly ran it into the ground. Two years later, Esme bought out her brother, a fact which she deliberately kept secret from the community. Ms. Davis, the manager, is very competent, and has run the place brilliantly these last few years.”
Maeve could barely process this last bit of news. “Theoretically, we now own the inn, and the gardener’s cottage?”
“In trust for Sinead,” McCracken said. “I’ll call Shawn and ask her to book you into the owner’s suite, shall I?”
“Yes, fine, whatever.” Maeve felt as though her head would explode with all the information that had just been dumped on her. She had to get out of the pub, get some fresh air, and think.
CHAPTER 61
“Hey,” Liam said, hurrying after her as she speed-walked to the parking lot. “Wait up.”
She slowed and turned to face him.
“Are you sure you’re okay?”
“I’m fine,” she assured him. “You’ve been really kind. Too kind. I just need some time, and some space to process all of this.”
“Oh-kayyy,” he said slowly. “You’ve been through a lot in the past twenty-four hours. Will you call me, then, and let me know what you decide? I care about you, Maeve, and I’ll do whatever I can to make this easier for you.”
Maeve leaned over and kissed his cheek. “Thank you.”
She left therental car in the Willow Tree’s parking lot and set off walking at a brisk pace. Sinead seemed deliriously happy to be along for the outing, and matched her energetic stride, trotting along beside Maeve, pausing to sniff shrubbery or to bark at the occasional menacing-looking rabbit flushed out of the tall grass.
Tarrymore’s business district was small and compact, and within fifteen minutes, Maeve was walking along a road that led into the countryside. She inhaled air that smelled of clover and fresh-mown fields. Half a mile down the road she saw a small stone church building with a steeple topped with a cross. Drawing closer, she saw abronze plaque. St. Bonaventure Catholic Church. Est. 1842. Behind the church in a sloping field, she saw rows of marble headstones.
Why did the name of this church sound familiar, she wondered. Of course, the cemetery back in Savannah where her parents and paternal grandparents were buried was Bonaventure too. Then she remembered, the genealogist she and Therese had consulted in Cobh told them that Kathleen’s family, including her mother, baby sisters, and the man she considered her father, John Connor, had been buried in the churchyard at St. Bonaventure.
She walked up to the church and tried the heavy wooden door. It was padlocked, and from the amount of cobwebs and drifts of dust and weeds accumulated around the doorframe, she concluded that St. Bonaventure was no longer an active church. There were arched openings on either side of the door where stained-glass windows had probably once stood, but these were boarded up.
“Let’s take a walk among the dead, shall we, Sinead?”
The dog didn’t object, so she made her way around to the graveyard. Weed-choked gravel paths wound among the rows of modest marble headstones, their carvings worn smooth over the years. Rosebushes were planted alongside some of the burial plots, and shattered pale-pink blossoms were strewn on the grass. Granite outcroppings poked through the earth at irregular intervals.
