Page 93 of Road Trip
“They might, but I don’t have Triple A.” Maeve opened the passenger-side door and fished the car rental agreement out of the glove box, studying the fine print. “Looks like I call the agency and report it.”
She took out her phone and dialed the number on the rental agreement. She paced in circles around the parking lot while waiting to report their dilemma. Ten minutes and three transferred calls later, she disconnected.
“What’s the story?”
“They’ll send a van to replace the tires ‘as soon as possible.’ In themeantime, I’m to photograph the tires and send a photo, and they also want me to file a report with the Gardai.”
Thirty minutes later a portly, uniformed Gardai officer was squatting down examining the tires of the rental car. He groaned as he straightened up. “Deliberately slashed, I’d say. All four of ’em. You ladies have any thoughts about who’d be wanting to do this?”
“No,” Therese said. “We haven’t been here long enough to make enemies. As far as we know.”
“Teens, probably,” the officer said. “Little wankers get bored and get into mischief. I’ll write up a report, shall I, and you can give that to your rental agency?”
“Yes, please,” Maeve said. “Have you had any other reports of vandalism to cars in the village?”
He shook his head. “But it’s early yet. Give me your contact information, and I’ll email the report. Look for it this afternoon.” He tipped his cap as a gesture of departure.
“Guess we’re walking to the library,” Therese said.
“Just like old times in Savannah,” Maeve agreed.
The librarian onduty was young, thirtyish, dressed in jeans and a kelly-green sweater. She had a name badge and photo ID on a lanyard around her neck. “Hello,” she said, looking at the sisters with open curiosity. “Looking for a summer read, are we?”
Therese leaned in to read the name badge. “Actually, Anita, we were hoping to do some research in the historical society room. We’re from the States, trying to track down our Irish roots.”
“Oh… I don’t think, I mean, the volunteer who oversees that doesn’t come in ’til noon. Afraid it’ll have to wait. But you’re welcome to browse our stacks, if you like.”
“Please?” Therese was laying it on thick. “We’re only here for another day or so. Our great-grandmother grew up here, and it would mean so much to our aunts and cousins if we could just scoot into that room.”
“We understand there’s a self-published book—about Tarrymore—that we’re especially interested in,” Maeve added.
“Our mother just passed away a couple weeks ago, and it was her dying wish that we come over to Ireland, to see the places her grandmother talked about when she was a young child,” Therese said. “The auld sod was a very special place to her.”
Anita glanced around the library. The only other person present was a teenaged boy, who was bent over a computer on a long table near the stacks.
“I guess it wouldn’t hurt for you just to look at that book,” Anita said. “One moment.”
She scurried behind the checkout desk and returned with two plastic bags. She handed one to each of the sisters. “We ask that you wear protective gloves, so there’s no oil transfer to those pages. We’ve just the one copy, you see, and it’s quite precious. A gift from the Rossingtons.”
“Auld sod?” Maevewhispered, once they were in the research room. “Don’t you think that was laying it on a little thick? I kept expecting you to break into ‘O Danny Boy’ or ‘Too-Ra-Loo-Ra-Loo-Ral.’”
“It worked, didn’t it?” Therese had donned the white cotton gloves and was leafing through the Tarrymore history book.
“Some of these photos are great,” she said, pausing to look at a photo of a young girl in riding clothes, atop a spotted pony. The pony’s bridle sported a rosette ribbon, and the child was clutching a large silver trophy.
“It’s Esme,” Maeve said excitedly, pointing to the tiny print on the photo caption. “And her prize pony Dandy.” She ran a finger under the print. “This must have been taken in the early ’50s. Keep going.”
Therese flipped forward, past photos of the family picnicking in the apple orchard, and snapshots taken of polo matches, pheasant shoots, and formal dinner parties.
“Here we go,” she said, a few pages later. There were three photos in the double-page layout. One was of a slender, unsmiling girlstanding stiffly in a fluffy white dress, her blond locks teased into a torturous updo of heavily hair-sprayed curls, holding a bouquet of roses in one arm, with the other linked in the arm of an equally stiff-looking escort who was dressed in tails, white tie, and top hat.
“‘The Honorable Esme Diane Rossington, escorted by Mr. Sheffield Hotchkiss III, on the occasion of her debut, December 1967.’”
Therese bent closer to study the photo. “She was actually sort of pretty, in a way, except for that heinous hairdo, but oh my God, does she ever look miserable. And the escort looks like a total dweeb.”
The opposite page held two more photos. The larger was a grainy group shot of twenty debutantes, all dressed in white, standing in two rows under a bower of ivy and roses, their arms linked together.
“Here’s a thought,” Therese said. “Starr’s son told you his mom’s family was rich and fancy, right?”
