Finding Billie Romano

Book 5: The Tour Series

by Jean Grainger

Genres: Jewish Fiction; Sagas

Synopsis

Twenty-five year old Billie Romano is struggling. She is grieving the death of her beloved dad and nothing in her life is going right. Her mother has remarried with indecent haste, so when her grandfather presents everyone in the family with a DNA testing kit for fun, Billie couldn’t be less interested in playing happy families. The test results are shocking, and Billie finds herself caught in a turmoil of emotions as she is faced with a reality she could never have imagined. Her journey of discovery takes her to Ireland, and to the stunningly beautiful Castle Dysert on the Wild Atlantic Coast, when Conor O’Shea once more steps into the role of fixer of problems and soother of troubled souls. Can Billie make a whole new start or are some cans of worms best left closed?

Release date: July 21, 2019

Publisher: Independently published

Print pages: 268

Sample

Chapter 1 

 

Billie Romano gazed out the tiny window as the 737 touched down at Logan. Raindrops were sucked along the glass by the velocity, and she gripped the armrests as the landing bump jolted her. There. She was down. 

She stood but decided to wait until almost everyone had disembarked. 

‘No point in rushing is there?’ said a short man a few years older than her, with thinning hair, glasses and a straggly effort at a beard. 

‘No, I guess not,’ she agreed, and chose to ignore the look in his eye that suggested he’d like the conversation to continue. 

He reached up to take her carry-on from the bin overhead though she was perfectly capable. She sighed. No need to get ratty. He’s just trying to help. 

‘So home for Thanksgiving?’ he asked. 

‘Yes, just for a few days,’ she replied. Her voice sounded flat even to her own ears. 

‘You get back much?’ he persisted. 

‘I come back to visit my grandfather a few times a year, but I haven’t lived on the East Coast for a while.’ Every fibre of her being wanted him to back off, but it wasn’t the guy’s fault – he was just being nice. And they were stuck in this aisle with people pulling on coats and dragging bags out of the overhead bins, so to say anything to stop the conversation would just make it more awkward. 

But she did not need this now, not on top of everything else. Even if she didn’t have so many other things on her mind, he was not her type. She guessed he thought the heavy-framed glasses made him look hipster, when in fact they just made him look geeky. And not in the cool way like the new guy at work. Rob managed to pull off geeky-cute; this guy just looked like he was trying too hard. His accent was pure Boston, Southie probably. 

‘Where you based now?’  

He was determined, she’d give him that. 

‘California.’ She said, hoping he’d just move on. 

‘Nice. I was there once. My sister married a guy from Santa Barbara. They got divorced though, so…’ He shrugged and gave an apologetic shrug as if the failed marriage of the sister of a guy she’d just met would be sad news for her. 

‘Santa Barbara’s nice – lovely beaches,’ she said as she took her bag. 

‘You been out there long?’ 

They shuffled slowly along the aisle. 

‘Three years.’ She could see the air stewards bidding everyone goodbye. 

‘And what do you do out there?’ 

‘I’m an animator. I work for Visionboard.’ Although she did not feel like being hit on, she was proud to tell him who her employer was. 

‘Visionboard, huh? Wow, you must be good. I took my nephews to see that new one, the martial arts one, a few weeks ago. They loved it.’ 

She smiled. ‘Ninja Dragon?’ 

‘Yeah, that’s the one.’ He beamed, delighted to have found a point of connection. 

‘I worked on that. It was a lot of fun.’ 

‘Well, my sister’s boys spent the rest of the night trying to put each other in the ER after it, doing the moves, you know? So she wasn’t happy, but they loved it. It was funny for adults too.’ 

‘Yeah, it was,’ she agreed. 

Finally, they reached the door, and she nodded in response to the cheery ‘Happy holidays’ from the steward who’d spilt water on her as he served the mysterious substance they called lunch. 

As she strode through the air bridge towards the glass doors of the terminal, the bearded guy kept up with her. 

‘I’m going home too. Well, actually, I live here, in Boston, but I was in Pittsburgh on business, a corporate thing, and I just went there for a few days. How come you came through Pittsburgh?’ 

She wasn’t raised to be rude, it wasn’t in her, but she needed to gather herself for what was ahead and this guy wasn’t helping. ‘I guess the flight was routed through Pittsburgh, I don’t know why.’ As she approached the terminal, she felt the lump of anxiety she’d been suppressing all day. ‘So…er…nice talking to you.’ 

Mercifully, there was a ladies’ room coming up. She peeled away from the surging crowd and joined the line for the bathroom. 

‘OK…bye…and happy Thanksgiving.’ He sounded defeated. 

She felt bad. He was just a nice guy making conversation. 

Eventually, her turn came and she went into a stall and locked the door. Tears stung her eyes. 

‘Stop,’ she reprimanded herself, taking a steadying breath. Getting all upset isn’t going to solve anything. It was four days. She could do four days. Pops would be there; she tried to visualise her grandfather’s smiling face, happy to see her as always.  

She emerged from the stall, examining her face in the mirror as she washed her hands. She looked like she felt: tired, worried, sad. Her red hair was pulled back in a ponytail and her pale complexion was drawn looking, making the freckles on her nose even more obvious. She was dressed in her usual outfit, Converse sneakers, jeans and a vintage Disney t-shirt, and knew she looked much younger than her twenty five years.  

Logan did that to her. It held so many memories. Going off to college, her parents so proud of her, even if they had no idea what she was actually studying. Her mom was a real estate agent, and her dad had worked construction all his life. The arts and movies were way outside their experience, but that didn’t matter, they were so proud of her. 

 Since she was a child, she’d loved cartoons. Creating them was all she wanted to do, so she’d moved to Providence immediately after high school to study animation at the Rhode Island School of Design. Her final-year project had earned her an internship at Visionboard, the winner of the Oscar for Best Animated Feature Film that year. Visionboard was the dream for anyone in the animation business. She’d been selected – one of only two people from her graduating year – and the opportunity to go to California and work for the company that had dominated animated movies at the box office for the last ten years or so was a dream come true. She remembered her dad’s face when she told him. A sharp stab of pain almost winded her. Don’t go there, she admonished herself. It won’t bring him back. It’s too painful, Dad is dead.  

But still the memories came flooding like a movie through her mind. When she got the email about the internship, she was so excited she could hardly speak, and she remembered her dad’s voice on the phone. He knew then he had cancer, but he wouldn’t rain on her parade by telling her, so he cheered her victory like he always did and held his pain inside. The internship turned into a contract, and now after three years, she was a permanent member of the staff. 

She tried to wipe the images of all the times that her dad had come to the airport to collect her out of her mind. Big Matt Romano would never be there to meet her again. Never again would she rush into his arms and have him lift her off the ground in a bear hug. He was dead. And her mother didn’t even have the decency to wait a year to remarry. Billie suspected Marko might have been waiting in the wings. Donna surely didn’t meet and marry him within four months of her father’s death. The thought of her mother flirting with another man while her dad battled the cancer ravaging him made Billie furious and so sad. She hoped her dad never knew. 

She found the carousel with the luggage from her flight. She took her small case from the belt, slung her carry-on over her shoulder and headed for the exit. 

She saw them through the glass. What was going on? She thought her grandfather was collecting her. Pops had said he’d be there.  

She’d agreed to do Thanksgiving dinner with her mother, but Donna picking her up was not part of the plan. That guy beside her must be Marko. She’d managed to avoid meeting him up to this point, but it seemed now an introduction was going to happen.  

Tears stung her eyes. She could not do this. She didn’t go to their wedding. She knew her Mom was hurt but she just couldn’t make herself go and sit there and watch it. She’d made an excuse about work. She always stayed with Pops when she came back, and she only met her mother once each time. A short meeting over a quick cup of coffee, enough to placate Pops but not enough for anything but the most superficial of conversation. She knew her mother tried, but she just couldn’t come to terms with how quickly her mother had moved on, it hurt too much.  

For Billie, meeting her mother these days was a box-ticking exercise, just like the occasional text, the cards on birthdays… Nothing you could pinpoint as totally dysfunctional in a mother-daughter relationship, but dysfunctional was exactly what their relationship was. 

What were Donna and Marko doing there? Had something happened to Pops? Cold dread started in her throat and worked its way through her shoulders, settling in her stomach. She thought she might vomit. Was Pops dead? Someone bumped into her as they enthusiastically walked through the glass doors to a joyful reunion. She watched it all unfold – people embracing each other, tears, screams of delight. And yet she was rooted; she could not make herself walk. 

Don’t be ridiculous, she told herself. He had texted as she boarded to say have a safe flight. Pops was fine. She was just panicking. 

Her gaze rested on her mother, who looked tense in a navy trouser suit. Donna hadn’t seen her yet.  

The woman who waited outside bore very little resemblance to the woman who raised her. She remembered her mom – before their lives imploded – in their small untidy house, baking cookies and watching Dynasty, the TV show from 100 years ago that she loved. It was constantly on repeat, and her mother could not get enough of Alexis Carrington and the rest of them with their diamantes and shoulder pads. It was like that woman disappeared and had been replaced by this totally different person. 

Marko. She recognised him from the photo in Pops’s living room. Apparently, he was Ukrainian, and he’d emigrated to the US a decade or so ago. 

She recalled the horror she’d felt when her mother called to say she was getting married. Daddy had been barely in the ground. She couldn’t believe her mother was so callous. 

Someone else bumped into her. She began walking again; they were getting closer now. 

Donna and Marko were the oddest match, and Billie could not understand the attraction. He looked nothing like her father, but then she realised sadly that was probably exactly why her mother married him. 

Billie forced her small suitcase out ahead of her through the doors, and then there she was, her mother. 

‘Billie! You came!’ Her mother hugged her awkwardly, and Billie returned the gesture, wishing she was anywhere but here.  

Marko took her case. She caught his dark eyes and held his gaze for a moment. He smiled and introduced himself.  

‘Hello Billie.’ He said extending his hand for her to shake, ‘I’m glad to meet you.’ She expected him to have a strong Rusiian accent but he didn’t, he sounded kind of neutral, like you couldn’t say where he was from.  Tall and stocky, she noticed he wore a gold bracelet that glinted on his hairy wrist. He had on a charcoal-grey suit with a cream shirt and an emerald-green tie. His dark hair was slicked back off his smooth-skinned face, not one wrinkle despite being almost sixty years old. He was different in every possible way from her dad. 

‘Hi.’ she managed, shaking his hand. 

Her mom glowed with happiness, her highlighted blonde hair cut in a glossy bob, and her large brown eyes made up perfectly. As they walked out, Billie caught a whiff of her mother’s signature scent these days – Joy by Jean Patou. She’d asked the last time they met what it was, more for something to say rather than any real interest, and afterwards, Billie looked it up on the internet. It was hideously expensive, and it took twenty-eight dozen roses and 11,000 jasmine flowers to make one bottle apparently. 

Donna chatted nervously as they walked to the car. 

‘Is Pops OK?’ was the first question Billie asked. 

Donna had sold their family home in South Dorchester, Marko sold his apartment near Boston Common, and they bought a place out by the Head Island Causeway really close to Donna’s father’s place. Billie had been dismayed when Pops told her, as it suited her much better to have Donna on the other side of town, but her grandfather said he was happy to have Donna nearer. He was sixty-nine years old and very fit apart from needing knee surgery, but he liked the idea that his favourite daughter lived close by now. Billie’s aunt, her mother’s sister Diana, was married to a military guy, and they moved around a lot. 

‘Yes, he’s fine and so excited to see you. He wanted to come to the airport, but he’s been having trouble with his knee again, so he went to see the doctor this morning.’ 

‘On his own? But I thought he couldn’t drive until he had the surgery?’ Billie was worried. 

‘Not on his own.’ Donna kept her voice light. ‘Dad’s got a lady friend, would you believe? He met her at an active retirement meeting. Her name’s Marilyn, and she’s such a nice lady. They go dancing!’ Donna beamed. 

Billie wondered why Pops never told her anything about this Marilyn. Her grandfather called every week, and they talked for an hour or so. She pushed down the feelings of hurt that he didn’t trust her enough to confide in her.  

Donna’s mother died when she was a girl, so Pops raised her and Diana on his own. As far as Billie knew, he’d never had another woman in his life, so this really was big news. 

As they emerged from the oversized elevator in the parking garage, Marko took a fob out of his pocket, and a large, sleek, silver Mercedes beeped in response. Her Dad had always come to collect her in his filthy pick-up truck, the front seat full of invoices and Dunkin’ Donut bags.  

The trunk door popped automatically, and Marko lifted Billie’s luggage in, then held the back door open for her. 

She slid into the sumptuous interior and tried not to gasp. This was not a normal back seat; instead, there were two cream leather reclining seats with a console between them for drinks, snacks and entertainment. The windows were tinted, ensuring privacy, and the aroma of leather pervaded her nostrils. She’d never been in a car like it. 

Her mother sat in front beside Marko, and the car purred as he manoeuvred it out of the high-rise parking lot. 

‘So Marko and I boxed up all your stuff. It’s in the garage, so you can go through it and decide what you want to keep, or take back with you, or leave with us – whatever you like. I didn’t throw anything away when we packed up the house, just in case.’ Donna caught her eye in the rear-view mirror. 

 ‘OK, thanks.’ Billie managed. Swallowing down the lump in her throat. 

Her therapist tried to get her to focus on flashes of memory of good times. She knew logically that her mother’s marriage was a separate thing to her father’s death but it was all so hard. She wanted her Mom to be happy, of course she did, but seeing her so happy, when Billie  still missed her dad so much, it was excruciating. She longed to turn the clock back. The years when it was her and Gio and Mom and Dad. But those days were long gone. It was hard to remember who her mother was before Gio. After that…well, nothing was ever the same again. 

Gio would have been so psyched by this car. She’d had so much therapy to try to come to terms with the fact that her only sibling died when he was twelve years old. 

 Gio drowned as Donna lay on the beach reading a book, her mom felt guilty, she couldn’t get past it, though nobody blamed her. It was just an accident. But Donna was absent from her family from that day on. Billie had worked through the sadness at the loss of Gio, then the loss of her mother to an impenetrable fog of grief and the feelings that her mother must have loved Gio more. Billie often wondered if it had been her that had drowned, would Donna have cut her brother off the way she excluded her? Gio, or Giovanni, named after her dad’s beloved Italian grandfather, was a fun-loving boy. He had been fooling around with his friends, when one of them paddled out too far and panicked, so he went to help. The friend managed to cling to his boogie board, but Gio got tangled up in something – that’s what the coroner said – and drowned. Right there, on a sunny day at the beach on Castle Island, where they’d gone a hundred times. 

Her dad was devastated too, but his grief had included Billie. He cried with her, they took long walks, they sponsored a bench on the headland near where Gio died, which now had a little plaque with his name on it. He comforted her and held her as she sobbed for her brother. He tried to do the same for his wife, but it was impossible. Billie remembered her dad telling Donna over and over again it wasn’t her fault, nobody blamed her, but it was like she couldn’t process it. She rejected her daughter and husband and shut herself away.  

Her mother was talkative again now. Billie wasn’t sure when that had happened. Maybe when Marko showed up?  

She gazed out at the familiar sights of the city. Boston meant opening old wounds. First Gio, then her dad. 

As her mother’s husband expertly manoeuvred the Mercedes through the traffic on Massport Haul Road, navigating effortlessly towards the causeway, he said something she didn’t catch to Donna and Donna reached over and put her hand on his leg. He turned his face to her and smiled. 

Billie fixed her gaze out the window; she could not watch that. Every time her dad tried to touch her mother in the years after Gio’s death – put a hand on her shoulder, help her out of a car – it was like she’d been given an electric shock. Billie knew that they had separate bedrooms, though they pretended it was because of her dad’s snoring, and it just made her so sad.  

He had been just a regular working guy; she’d trusted him completely, and his family was his world. He spoke about his grandpa, who’d come over to the States from Italy before the war; he’d died when Matt was a teenager. And her dad’s parents were nice; Billie remembered them vaguely. They’d lived in New York so they didn’t see them much, and they both died over twenty years ago in a house fire. There was an aunt, but she married some Italian guy and went to live in Sorrento. Her dad always said he’d like to visit them, but that never happened. His family was Donna, Billie and Gio, and that was all he’d cared about. 

Most of the time she managed to keep going, but back here in Boston, seeing her mother and Marko, how everything she loved and trusted had simply vanished, the pain of loss took her breath away.

 

Chapter 2 

 

Conor O’Shea tried his best to find something to ask the young woman in front of him that would not embarrass her. The interview was going from bad to worse – she had no experience and had never worked in the hospitality industry. She had a first-class honours degree in business and Japanese, which is what made the agency think she might be suitable, but they were wrong. 

This was the second attempt at finding someone to be a deputy manager to fill in for Carlos Manner. Conor’s South African assistant manager had broken his ankle, wrist and tibia in a hillwalking fall. 

He’d interviewed a month ago as well, but nobody suitable applied. The agency assured them that in the new year, the prospects would be better. But the busy Christmas period was coming up, and he needed someone now, though where these miraculous candidates were going to suddenly spring from was a mystery. Another case of the agency overselling and underdelivering by the looks of things. 

He’d hardly seen Ana and the boys for weeks, as he was so busy and rarely got home before midnight. It was exhausting and he missed them, but since Katherine O’Brien, the head receptionist, was on her honeymoon and Carlos was out sick, he was left managing everything himself. 

He glanced at the clock. The interview was less than ten minutes in; he would have to stretch it out another bit. 

‘So what do you like to do in your spare time?’ he asked, not giving a flying fadoodle what she did to entertain herself. 

‘I do taekwondo,’ was the short response. This young woman clearly had no interview skills either. 

‘Oh, I see. My sons do that too. They love it.’ He said, hoping she might elaborate a little to run down the clock. 

No response. That obviously wasn’t a statement worth answering. 

‘And are you good with computers?’ he asked helplessly. 

‘Well, all people of my generation are better than the old folks, so I suppose I am. I think it’s because we were born with them, whereas your generation had to learn?’ She shrugged sympathetically, and Conor tried not to wince.  

Her eyebrows looked unnaturally dark and a weird shape, and her teeth were ridiculously white. He suspected there was a lot of cosmetic investment in that face, but it had the effect of making her look odd. She also had that annoying upward inflection at the end of every sentence, popular among young people in America and increasingly with young Irish people too. 

Right, he thought. He’d had enough. He was too busy for this rubbish. 

He stood, offering his hand. ‘Thanks very much for coming today. We’ll be in touch.’ He smiled, and she stood and took his hand in a vice-like grip. 

‘When?’ she asked. 

‘When what?’ Conor gave her a quizzical look . 

 

‘When will you contact me?’ She fixed him with a confident stare. 

‘Um… Well, we have some more people to see, so once we’ve made a decision…’ He needed this full-of-herself young one out of his office. 

‘And when will that be?’ she asked again as he opened the door, pointedly glancing at the empty row of three seats outside his office. 

‘In due course. Now, I’m sure you can see yourself out?’ He turned back towards his office where his phone was ringing. Relieved, he shut the door, leaning for a moment against it. Some days, he wished he were still driving tours; life was much simpler then. Being a forty percent owner of the amazing Castle Dysert resort on Ireland’s west coast looked impressive, he knew, but it was such hard work. He thought of letting the phone ring out, but guilt got the better of him. He strode over to his desk. 

‘Conor speaking.’ 

It was Sheila Dillon, head of housekeeping. ‘Conor? I know you’re interviewing, but we have a situation here.’ 

‘Go on,’ he said wearily. 

‘One of the young lads we hired last week to do the laundry has been staying in the castle with his girlfriend, along with several more young people, in the bedrooms in the annex that we closed off for the winter. Artur went to check that the heating was coming on intermittently and found the place like a squat.’ 

Conor closed his eyes and rested his head on the back of his high leather office chair. 

‘What should I do?’ Sheila, like everyone, was harassed and short-staffed. 

‘Have you him there now?’ 

‘Yes.’ 

Conor sighed. ‘For the boy’s own safety, tell him I am not coming down now. Tell him I said if he wants to avoid a criminal prosecution for theft and malicious damage, he and his mates better get that annex in the way they found it and before tonight. When that’s done, tell him I want to see him.’ 

‘Right, will do.’ Sheila hung up. 

The rest of the interviews were a disaster. Not one of the candidates could be left minding a cat let alone a beautiful old castle and five-star resort. 

‘Conor.’ Deirdre, the new receptionist, stuck her head around the door. ‘Sorry now, but the printer is jammed again, and I can’t print a guest’s receipt, and he needs it…’ 

He took a deep breath. He needed Katherine and Carlos so badly, but this girl was doing her best, so he’d better help her. 

‘No problem.’ He passed her and went over to the printer, used the implement his father-in-law and maintenance manager, Artur, had made specifically for the purpose, and extracted the concertina of paper that had got jammed. 

‘Can you phone the company and get someone out to sort this properly, please? They were here last week, but obviously the problem is ongoing,’ he said as he returned to his office. 

‘Of course, and who are they?’ Deirdre asked. 

He had no idea – Katherine dealt with all of that. She probably had a note in her diary. 

‘They’re in Katherine’s… Never mind, I’ll do it myself.’ He sighed and closed the office door. He was at a snapping point, but it wasn’t poor Deirdre’s fault. 

Corlene was on the missing list – again. She wasn’t much use when she was there anyway, as she just annoyed everyone. When she’d convinced him to invest his legacy from an old American friend in the project of renovating the dilapidated castle and its tangled grounds into Ireland’s premier resort, she’d made out like they would be partners. And at the start they were, but Corlene had her own business in Dublin, and anyway, she was all about the scene in the capital. He only saw her on the society pages of the Sunday papers these days. 

Katherine was not due back from her round-the-world cruise with her new husband for another five weeks, and Carlos was totally incapacitated. 

There was no way that stupid kid would have moved himself and all his mates into the hotel if Carlos Manner had been prowling around. Carlos kept a very close eye on everyone and everything, and while he was not loved – or even liked – by the staff, and he had to be kept away from guests as much as possible, he ran a very tight ship and was as loyal as a dog. He was a stickler for detail and noticed every single thing. He and Katherine combined were a force to be reckoned with. 

Conor was about to call the agency again and tell them that none of the people they had sent were suitable. The trouble was it was winter, and many of the seasonal workers only came for the summer. Not everyone wanted to relocate to the Irish wild Atlantic coast in November. 

He pulled up the reservation screen for the coming month. Christmas was set to be mad – he’d be working day and night at this rate. They were full to capacity every night. Because of lack of staff, they’d closed the new annex they had added for extra rooms. It was a real problem. 

Their remuneration package was excellent. They paid all of their staff above the going rate and offered extra holidays and membership to the state-of-the-art gym and pool complex in the castle. They would even accommodate them if needs be, there were staff apartments on the grounds, but the people of the calibre he required were just not there. 

As he scrolled for the agency’s number, an incoming call caused the phone to buzz. Carlos. 

‘Hi, Carlos. How are you feeling?’ 

‘Bad, but one mustn’t complain. How did the interviews go?’ 

As usual with Carlos, there was no small talk, just straight into business. 

‘A disaster. Not one I could even consider,’ Conor replied. ‘I was just about to call the agency again when you rang.’ 

‘They won’t have anyone today they didn’t have yesterday,’ Carlos said unhelpfully. 

‘I know, but I have to try. I can’t just advertise on the newspaper or whatever. Remember what happened when we tried that? Swamped with applications from every clown in the country, thinking they could run this place when they couldn’t run a tap…’ 

‘That’s it. I’m coming back to work. I’ve one good arm, and while I’m in a wheelchair, at least if I am there, I can direct the existing staff. Because, with respect, Conor, you do not know the day-to-day running and you need me, at least until Ms O’Brien gets back.’ 

‘Mrs Burns, you mean.’ Conor grinned, still getting used to the idea of Katherine as a married woman himself. Katherine was a lady of a certain age, as the phrase went, and she was prickly at best, but she had a heart of gold and was one of Conor’s dearest friends. She’d given up on the idea of ever meeting anyone, when an American came to stay at the hotel and they just hit it off. He made her laugh – no mean feat with the dour Katherine – and they were perfectly suited. It cheered Conor up to no end to see his old friend happy at last. 

‘Indeed. So I will return to my duties, inasmuch as I am capable, in the morning.’ 

‘But, Carlos, don’t be mad. You’ve a broken leg and a broken arm and wrist. You can’t come back to work, especially as Christmas is around the corner.’ Conor could think of nothing he wanted more than for Carlos to appear, but he would have to be some kind of a slave driver to get the man out of his sickbed. 

‘I can and I shall. Tomorrow at eight.’ 

‘Well…if you’re sure…and nothing except supervising…’ Conor felt awful for not protesting more, but Carlos seemed determined. 

‘I am. Goodbye.’ 

Carlos hung up, and Conor knew by now not to be offended. It was just his way. When he first met the small, neat South African, Carlos was assistant manager at the Dunshane – the hotel he spent most time in when he was a tour driver and where he’d met his wife Ana – and Carlos was tormenting the staff there, Ana in particular, so the two men had locked horns. Conor remembered the horror he felt when Corlene hired Carlos for Castle Dysert without consulting him, but in hindsight, it was a stroke of genius. Carlos was a tremendous asset to the hotel. 

True, he wasn’t a warm person, and to many – well, in truth, to everyone – he was snippy, but he was determined that Castle Dysert be seen as Ireland’s best hotel. Guests never found a leaky tap or a cobweb in their rooms, and the suppliers all went through Carlos, so he ensured top quality at best prices. He oversaw staffing in every department and made it his business to know every single one of the employees, and in his own way, he was a decent man of principle. 

A thought struck Conor, and he picked up the phone – he could solve one problem immediately. The internal phone down in housekeeping rang several times before Sheila got to it. She was flat out as well. The laundry of sheets, tablecloths and towels took up the entire day. 

‘Housekeeping. Sheila speaking.’ 

‘Sheila, it’s Conor. On second thought, send that young fella up to me now, will you, please?’ 

‘Right. He’s on the way.’ He heard her sigh. ‘Any luck getting us more people down here? We’re way behind.’ 

‘I’m working on it, I swear. Can we send more out?’ 

Though Carlos claimed the standard was not maintained when they outsourced anything, it might have to do for now. 

Moments later, a very sheepish-looking lad appeared at the door of his office. 

‘Er…Mr O’Shea…I’m really sorry…’ He was beetroot red, which clashed with his auburn hair. 

‘Are your friends still here in the hotel?’ Conor asked coldly. He felt sorry for the kid, but he would never let on. 

‘Yes, they’re tidying up now and –’ 

‘Good. Mr Manner is back to work tomorrow.’ Conor watched the colour drain from the boy’s face. However worried he might have been facing Conor, the prospect of Carlos was a whole other story. 

‘He will want to press charges – I’m just giving you fair warning – and this is his area, not mine, so I’ll let him handle it. I thought it only fair to let you know.’ 

Conor knew the lad was only working the Christmas and New Year season to make enough money to go to Florida to his brother’s wedding next April, so a criminal conviction would put an end to any visa application for the United States. He had no intention of doing anything of the kind, but it would do the kid no harm to rattle him a bit, teach him a lesson. 

‘I swear, Mr O’Shea, we’ll have the place perfect, seriously, if we have to stay up all night! We’ve stripped all the beds and are washing everything, and they are hoovering and dusting and the whole lot. You’ll be able to eat your dinner off the floor in there by the time we’re finished, I swear.’ 

Conor knew he could not crack too soon. ‘Well, whether or not it is up to our standards, that will be for Mrs Dillon to decide. She’ll inspect the rooms when you’ve finished, but as I said, it’s not up to me.’ He started writing in his diary. ‘So I think you’d better get on with it, don’t you?’ 

‘Yes, Mr O’Shea, and I’m sorry again…’ 

‘Shut the door on your way out,’ Conor responded. 

He checked his watch; it was half past seven. If he left now, he’d see Joe and Artie, his nine-year-old twins, before they went to bed. He grabbed his jacket and made for the door. As he was about to pop out the back, he overheard Deirdre trying to reason with someone. 

A guest was being difficult, complaining that the Wi-Fi signal was too weak in the gym for him to watch Netflix on his tablet. Conor thought he should probably step in, explain that the guest needed to connect to the gym Wi-Fi rather than the main building’s, but he just wanted to get home so guiltily he snuck out the back door. 

His sons were watching The Simpsons in their pyjamas when he got in, and Ana was loading the dishwasher, dinner over. 

‘Oh, Conor!’ she exclaimed. ‘I thought you will be late! We would have waited for you to eat dinner if I did know you were coming home…’ 

He wrapped his arms around her and kissed her. ‘I ate in the bar earlier so I’m fine. I wanted to get home to put the lads to bed for a change.’ 

‘Dad!’ Joe flung himself at Conor, almost toppling him. He was constantly astounded at the speed at which his boys were growing up. They seemed to stretch over the course of even a day. They were tall and long-limbed, with shocks of white-blonde hair. Both Artie and Joe were athletic, though undoubtedly Joe was the better sportsman and Artie found schoolwork easier than his twin. They were identical, but their personalities were very different. Joe was rough and tumble, couldn’t give two hoots about maths or Irish and was always up to some mischief, but Artie was quieter, more contemplative. He was a studious boy and hated to get anything less than full marks in a test. They both loved hurling, the Irish national sport, and they both easily made the team, but Joe edged ahead of Artie ever so slightly. It was because Joe was fearless; he’d launch into any tackle with total disregard for his own safety, sometimes making his parents wince on the sidelines. 

‘Hi, Joe!’ Conor ruffled his son’s hair and, despite his weight, managed to lift him up in one arm. Joe hugged him. ‘How did the game go?’ 

‘Two points down at half-time, but Fiachra scored a goal and I got two points, so we won easy.’ 

‘Good man,’ Conor said, then asked more cautiously, ‘And did you play, Artie?’ He sat on the sofa between the boys. 

‘No, I came home,’ Artie said, not taking his eyes off Smithers and Mr Burns. 

Conor and Ana shared a glance. Artie was like this these days, distracted, answering only what he was asked. 

‘How come?’ Conor nudged him gently. ‘You love hurling, and you’re a brilliant corner back. Billy Cantillon was only saying it a few weeks ago, how you and Joe are an impenetrable backline.’ 

Conor never let on that he knew Joe was the better hurler, just as he never made Joe feel that he was less able than Artie academically. 

‘I just didn’t feel like it.’ He never took his eyes off the screen. Conor was tempted to switch it off and demand that his son talk to him, but he knew that wouldn’t help the situation at all. Artie was sensitive. When they met with the teacher, Mr Bredin, and explained they were two very different personalities despite being identical, the instructor didn’t seem to take much notice. Conor wondered if Mr Bredin was the problem. They’d always had female teachers up to this point, and they’d loved them, but this guy was very old school. He was close to retirement, and every one of the local children dreaded his class. He could have said something to Artie to upset him, but there was no way of knowing until the boy opened up, which he flat out refused to do. 

Artur and Danika, Ana’s parents who had moved from the Ukraine and were very close to the boys, tried to reach him, but no luck. 

He’d even asked his own father, Jamsie, who’d only turned up last year after an absence of almost five decades, to try, but he drew a blank as well. Conor was disappointed, as he thought Jamsie might be able to get Artie to open up. Though he was a new arrival in the boys’ lives, they loved him and really looked forward to his visits from Dublin. 

‘So will we read Harry Potter? We are just about to discover who Scabbers the rat really is.’ Conor chose to ignore his son’s recalcitrance. 

‘Great! Here or upstairs?’ Joe asked. 

Conor felt so sorry for poor Joe. He was bereft without Artie as his shadow. Conor wished he could be home more. They really needed him, but so did the hotel. 

‘Upstairs. Now, teeth first, and I’ll see you up there in five minutes. Three, two, one – go!’ 

Joe scrambled up the stairs. His competitive streak meant he loved to beat Artie in a race, but his twin gazed at the TV. 

‘Earth to Artie… Teeth, mister.’ Conor spoke gently, but he did flick off the TV. Artie didn’t object but slowly dragged himself from the couch and made for the stairs. 

Conor waited until he heard them both in the bathroom. ‘Ana, what are we going to do? He looks miserable.’ 

‘I know. It is the same in school. He don’t play with the other boys, he don’t play with Joe, and we all try to talk to him but nothing, just like what you see there.’ Ana blinked back tears. Her Ukrainian accent became more pronounced when she was upset. Her darling boys had been through so much already. Last year, her breast cancer diagnosis had thrown their lives into a spin, and though she was in remission, she knew they both worried it would come back. 

‘Do you think it’s the teacher? Because if it is, I’m going to go down there and have it out with him.’ Conor let out an exasperated sigh. He was a problem-solver, and yet here was his own child clearly unhappy and he had no ideas. Bredin had irritated Conor the only time he’d met him; the man had a terrible attitude and seemed to make no allowance for the fact that the kids in front of him were only nine years old. 

‘I don’t know. I ask Joe if he say anything to Artie, but he just says Mr Bredin is very cross and very strict but he is not more worse for Artie than the other boys and girls. Maybe we can talk to him again? Not like blaming him, but just talk, say we are worried?’ 

‘We tried that before, and it was a disaster. That man should not be around children in this day and age. He’s like one of the auld fellas that taught me, all sticks and terror. Those days are gone, or they should be at least. No, I think we need to go to the principal, and failing that, maybe we need to get him some counselling or something… I don’t know. We’ve all tried, but he’s so closed off, and it’s getting worse.’ 

‘Dad! Come on… We did our teeth!’ Joe yelled down the stairs. 

‘Right, I’ll read to them for a bit… see you soon.’ He kissed Ana and went upstairs with a heavy heart.