Safe at the Edge of the World

Book 2: The Tour Series

by Jean Grainger

Genres: Holiday books; International Crime & Mystery

Synopsis

USA TODAY BEST SELLING AUTHOR TAKES YOU TO IRELAND. 

A tranquil Irish vacation, music, scenery, food... but someone on this tour has a secret he's desperate to keep concealed.

Sequel to the #1 Bestseller, The Tour.

When a shadowy couple turn up on Conor O’Shea’s grand tour of Ireland, the tranquility of Ireland’s landscape acts as a shelter against the stormy reality of the life they left behind. 
On the run from a notorious mob boss, this mysterious couple flees the U.S. in search of sanctuary on the shores of the Emerald Isle, hoping to blend in with the tourists. In their wake lies a mafia family’s secrets and a scarred priest torn between his duty to the cloth and to the truth. 
Intriguing and uniquely consuming, Father Declan Sullivan’s tale of destiny and duty lies at the feet of those he has betrayed. Can distance and deliverance save the innocent in their desperate pursuit for peace, or will evil catch up to them all?

In Safe at the Edge of the World, author Jean Grainger captures the soothing beauty of Ireland in the lives of those fleeing a criminal bent on revenge.

Release date: June 30, 2017

Publisher: CreateSpace Independent Publishing Platform

Print pages: 270

Sample

The Stolen Child 

Where the wave of moonlight glosses 

The dim grey sands with light, 

Far off by furthest Rosses 

We foot it all the night, 

Weaving olden dances 

Mingling hands and mingling glances 

Till the moon has taken flight; 

To and fro we leap 

And chase the frothy bubbles, 

While the world is full of troubles 

And anxious in its sleep. 

Come away, O human child! 

To the waters and the wild 

With a faery, hand in hand, 

For the world’s more full of weeping than you can understand. 

W.B. Yeats 

 

 

Chapter 1 

 

Ireland 

Declan and Lucia held hands as the luxury tour bus trundled and bounced along the narrow, winding Irish roads. Declan glanced around as she laid her head on his shoulder, still a little uncomfortable with this type of public display of affection. Beside him, seemingly lost in her own world, Lucia gazed out the window. She was such a sweet girl, not at all the spoiled princess she could have been given her background. He felt such a strong surge of love and sense of needing to protect her. Sitting here, the sun shining in the window of the bus as the green fields sped by beside them, he almost found it hard to believe that they were in danger, but they were, and to forget it, even for a second, would be a very grave mistake. 

The past forty-eight hours kept running around in his head. It was inconceivable to him how much his life had changed, and yet here he was, on a bus tour of Ireland, sitting beside Lucia, thousands of miles away from home and, well, everything. He wondered if they looked like a normal couple on vacation. He hoped so. This was difficult enough without anyone on the tour asking awkward questions. It felt right, the two of them together, but in so many ways and for a myriad of reasons, it was wrong. His head hurt from trying to analyse the whole situation. 

The tour guide and bus driver, Conor, was a highly entertaining guy, and if Declan weren’t so caught up in his own thoughts, he knew he’d enjoy the commentary. The atmosphere on the bus was jovial, and everyone seemed to be having a good time. He laughed when they did, though he’d missed the joke, and even took pictures when told to, but the land of his ancestors was passing him by in a blur. 

As he’d told Lucia several times since they left the States, worrying solved nothing, so he tried to focus on the endless emerald fields and stony farms of the Irish countryside. 

His reflection in the glass showed the face of a man who had aged so much in just a few short months. His black hair was grey at the temples and his face had become thinner. He was six foot two and couldn’t really afford to lose weight, but the stress of recent weeks meant he just couldn’t eat. Despite his best efforts to blend in as a happy-go-lucky tourist, his piercing green eyes seemed to him to betray him; he thought he looked hunted. He wondered if people noticed. One or two of the ladies on the coach had been friendly, maybe a little too friendly for an initial meeting, but he was used to that. Lucia often teased him about the admiring glances he received from the ladies of the parish every Sunday, but he explained it was because they didn’t see him as a man as such; that’s why they confided in him and sought him out. She wasn’t convinced, though, pointing out that old Father Orstello, who was in his eighties and had very bad rheumatoid arthritis, didn’t get the same treatment. 

He smiled. All these feelings were so new – to have a woman love him as Lucia did and to find him attractive, for him to reciprocate. It was all so amazing, and under any other circumstances but these, it would be wonderful. 

If times were normal, and this were a normal vacation, it would have been just fantastic, though possibly they would book into a little hotel somewhere and explore on their own. But a bus tour was safer. Someone had confessed to him a few years ago that he was having an affair and that he had taken his mistress on a bus tour simply because there was no paper trail. You didn’t need to rent a car or check into a hotel using your details. You just booked the tour and the tour company made all the reservations for you, so it was much more difficult to be caught out. At the time, Declan had been appalled at such duplicitous behaviour, but the information had proved useful. They’d had to get out immediately and with a minimum of fuss, and a bus tour was the first thing he thought of. Ironically, this one was called Irish Escape. That’s precisely what he and Lucia needed, so he made the reservation in New York at 10 p.m. and flew to Ireland at 7 a.m. the next morning. Thank goodness for lastminute.com. 

He’d always wanted to visit Ireland; he knew he’d love it. He planned to one day visit the places his great-grandparents came from, maybe even find a cousin or two. But they certainly weren’t there to relax and take in the gorgeous scenery. 

He had been surprised to notice how Irish he looked, now that he was here. He’d expected there to be lots of red-haired people, but Conor had explained that the more typical Irish look was exactly Declan’s combination of colouring: pale skin, dark hair and blue or green eyes. Lucia looked so Italian by comparison. Declan’s skin never tanned, while she was olive-skinned, with dark-brown hair that fell over her shoulders and eyes the colour of melted chocolate. He felt his stomach lurch as he thought of her beauty. No woman had ever had the effect on him that she did. She didn’t dress provocatively, quite the opposite, and unlike the other female members of her family, she wasn’t one for tons of make-up. She had a natural beauty that was breathtaking. He was unsure about so many things, but his feelings for her were never in doubt. He loved her, heart and soul, and no matter what happened next, he would be by her side, protecting her. 

Lucia had told him that she was sure their fellow passengers thought she was a little unhinged, as she was so jumpy and nervous, but Declan assured her that nobody on the tour thought anything about them. They were just folks on vacation who wanted to see Ireland, drink a pint of Guinness and take some pictures. He told her she was being paranoid. She had sighed, replying that maybe he was right, but she questioned how on earth they were supposed to just act normal. He asked himself the same question, but he had to make Lucia feel like he was in control, that she was safe, so he kept his concerns to himself. 

‘Fake it till you make it,’ Declan repeated to himself several times a day, so he stood in for pictures and acted like the enthusiastic tourist as best he could. It was torture initially, but as the hours went by, he began to let the sense of tranquillity on the island seep into his bones and take in the splendour and peacefulness of the land. He felt curiously at home, even though it was his first trip to Ireland. It felt like nothing bad could happen there. It didn’t stop him scanning every newspaper headline and checking the news channels the moment they got back to the room, but as the sun shone through the glass of the bus window, warming his face, he took a deep breath. Maybe it was all going to work out OK. He just had to keep it together for a bit longer; he could do that. 

He thought about his ancestors who came from Ireland, who left their home and everything they knew and understood for the excitement and uncertainty of life in the United States. If they could show such resilience, then so could he. He had Sullivan blood in his veins, and Sullivans were made of tough stuff. 

A cousin of Declan’s, Patti, was into genealogy, and she had presented each branch of the clan with a beautiful family tree a few Christmases ago, showing how Daniel and Hannah O’Sullivan, both aged seventeen, got married in the church at Cobh, County Cork, a mere two hours before sailing from the dock there for Ellis Island. They came into the United States through the new immigrant inspection station in 1938. Declan recalled his grandmother telling him about the trauma of getting to the States. They sailed by the Statue of Liberty and saw the Manhattan skyline, tantalizingly close, but the immigration station had to be endured first. The inspection officers boarded the ships and processed first- and second-class passengers there and then, allowing them off the boats almost immediately. But Dan and Annie, as they were known, were in third class and had to wait on the ship for two days because so many immigrants were awaiting processing. Declan would hang on his granny’s every word as she told him about the buttonhook, which the doctors used to check under eyelids for some awful disease; he couldn’t quite remember now what it was. But his grandma was determined that both she and Dan would be found in perfect health. They exercised on the ship every day and only drank rainwater, and they brought their own food and doled it out daily. They were determined from the start to pass any inspection, get into the United States and make a new life. 

When Declan was a student, he’d visited the museum on Ellis Island and was moved to tears as he thought about brave young Dan and Annie standing in separate lines in that huge hall, every language of the world ringing in their ears, their hearts filled with trepidation and hope. Annie had some dollars sewn into her skirt, sent by her older brother – Declan was named after him – who was killed on the railroad two weeks before Dan and Annie landed. Annie loved him and often talked of her first days in New York when a neighbour and friend from home had to break the news to her. She was tough, though, and with Dan forged ahead. She said she considered for one minute the possibility of going back home, so heartbroken was she, but she realised that the fare and the few dollars were Declan’s legacy to her; to return would be to dishonour him, so they stayed. They settled first in Hell’s Kitchen, where they had some contacts, but they were quick learners and hard workers. Dan soon got his foot on the ladder of a building firm and worked his way up, eventually setting up his own firm in Brooklyn. 

They lived to see Declan grow up, and he had lots of memories of them surrounded by the extended family. Dan and Annie went home to God within months of each other, both well into their eighties, and their send-offs were fitting tributes to two brave, hardworking, kind people who took on the world and won. They died surrounded by their children, grandchildren, and even a few great-grandchildren. 

The extended Sullivan family were deeply proud of their Irish heritage. They took all the things about Ireland they liked, admired and could identify with and celebrated their culture with gusto. Declan smiled at the memory of his dad, Dan and Annie’s youngest son, singing ‘Mother Mo Chroi’ every St. Patrick’s Day, and his rendition of ‘Danny Boy’ at the funerals of their many friends and relations left few eyes dry. His mother, Bridget, a good Irish Catholic girl herself, played her part when the family kept the tradition first started by Annie, entertaining the neighbourhood each March 17 with music, songs and enough corned beef and cabbage to feed a nation. 

Declan thought about his parents. How they’d have loved it here. It was hard to believe they were gone too, killed instantly together in a car accident five years ago. They had planned to visit Ireland for the first time the summer after they were killed. His dad had been so excited at the prospect of visiting Ireland; he’d been researching the trip for months, working out where they could visit to establish the link between his generation and those that went before. 

Declan fought back the stinging tears as he gazed out the window. He missed his parents desperately, but at least their untimely death meant they didn’t have to endure the last few months. He couldn’t begin to imagine how they would have felt at seeing everything they worked so hard for destroyed. It had embarrassed him as a young man how proud they were of him. 

For fourteen years it looked like they would be childless, when out of the blue Bridget and Tom Sullivan found out they were going to have a baby. His mom was delighted, if a little embarrassed she later confided to him; it wasn’t seemly to be pregnant so late in life. But he was born fit and healthy and the whole family was thrilled. Tom wanted to name his son after his mother’s brother, the reason they were all in the States. Declan remembered vividly his mother recounting the first time he, as a baby, was placed in Annie’s arms; she said the connection between them was instant and so strong it was palpable. She and Dan were proud of all their grandchildren, but Declan had a special place in Annie’s heart. He used to love visiting his granny and granda (though all the other kids in his class had different names for their grandparents, his were called what grandparents were called back in Ireland). They loved his visits as well and always had treats for him. He was an only child but never lonely, as he had many cousins and aunts and uncles around. It was all one big happy family, and his childhood was punctuated by birthdays, communions, confirmations and weddings. Those carefree days seemed like a lifetime ago now. 

His parents worked hard so that he could be well educated, sending him off to the Jesuits when he was seven. Looking back, he probably seemed like a deeply thoughtful child, and he was always very devout. All his life, God was not just a notion, someone to be kept in a church, but more a real living presence in his life. He remembered the day he told his parents he was going to the seminary. They were so happy he had a vocation. He’d always known, since he was a little boy, that he wanted to be a priest, and they couldn’t have been more pleased. Annie and Dan sat in the front pew of the cathedral beside Tom and Bridget, and even though his grandparents were elderly and very frail, Declan remembered thinking the four of them might burst with pride. They were good Catholics who went to Mass every Sunday without fail and observed feast days, Lent and Advent. To have a priest in the family was a dream many Irish Catholic families harboured but few realised. They weren’t the kind of family to be boastful – they worked hard for everything they had – but that day, well, it was a high point and he knew it. 

Once ordained, he baptised the babies, married the couples and buried the dead of the Sullivan family. He loved New York and New Jersey and felt he was at his best there. Bishop Rameros and he were good friends, and Declan always made a great case for staying. He visited his parents in Brooklyn often; it was only a short drive from where he lived in Hoboken, New Jersey. 

So many of his fellow priests had to deal with the care of elderly or infirm parents, but he was lucky – Tom and Bridget were fit and healthy and really enjoying their retirement. They loved to travel all over the East Coast in their RV. Declan used to joke that he needed to make an appointment to see his parents. After the accident, he fell apart for a while. He just missed them so much, and not having any siblings, he found it hard to explain just how huge their loss was for him. 

One of the first real conversations he’d ever had with Lucia was about them. He didn’t usually let his parishioners into his personal life, but she was different, in every way imaginable. The only time he’d ever cried for his mother and father with another person was with her. He’d spoken about it at the time to Father Orstello, with whom he ran the parish, and the other priest was kind and understanding, although it was clear he felt bad that his illness prevented him from being much help to young Father Sullivan, especially when he was grieving. Father Orstello had a large extended family, lots of nieces and nephews, and was very close to them, so he rarely needed to confide in Declan. Though the two men were fond of each other, they weren’t that close. 

Declan was very raw for a long time, frequently picking up the phone to call his mother, only to realise she was gone. He didn’t need mothering, but his childhood home was gone, and with it a large part of him. Slowly, he came to terms with the loss and life resumed. 

 

 

Lucia watched the Irish landscape go by. She knew she should be enjoying the scenery, but all she could do was concentrate on not vomiting. Declan’s idea to go on a bus tour – something about being less detectable – seemed like a good idea at the time, when her whole world was crashing around her, but now, as the little coach lurched over the impossibly bumpy roads, she just tried to focus on the horizon and control the nausea. She was a bad traveller at the best of times, but this was torture. She’d hardly eaten a thing – she’d barely even drank any water – but still she swallowed constantly, praying she didn’t get sick. 

Declan had been amazing, and it was entirely her fault that they were in this mess. She squeezed his hand and gave him a gentle smile. She could be in a much worse position now if he hadn’t acted so decisively, so bravely. He squeezed hers back as she tried to focus on what the driver was saying. 

Conor was telling a very interesting story from Irish mythology about a woman whose husband was always drinking too much and then bragging about her abilities, which were of course, supernatural.  She was happy to perform amazing feats for him but in return she asked that he keep quiet about her abilities. But he wasn’t capable of keeping his mouth shut, and insisted at a party one night, that she could run faster than the chieftain’s horse. She had to make good on his assertion as to make a public declaration in that culture and not be able to back it up was a grievous offence, so the woman ran the race, pregnant. She easily beat the horse in the race, but the effort brought on labour and she had to give birth there and then at the finish line. The men stood around, useless and appalled and she was so annoyed at them all for their bravado and stupidity she placed a curse on them, that each month for a day or two they would be laid low with cramps in their stomachs. This curse was to last for the rest of their lives. She defended this action when her husband complained bitterly by saying that women endured it, why shouldn’t they? 

 Lucia and Declan managed a smile. Everyone on the bus was giggling as they got off to take a photo of the breathtaking vistas of green patchwork fields bordered by tiny stone walls. 

They were in County Clare on the west coast of Ireland, and the expanse of the crashing Atlantic was laid out before them, a glittering azure blue. Huge seabirds circled and cawed overhead as they went back and forth to their nests on the high cliffs, the pounding surf relentless below. 

This was the second day of the tour, and though Lucia was still jumpy, the gentle Irish landscape soothed her troubled mind. Last night she’d slept in Declan’s arms for the entire night for the very first time. They’d been together before, but never for a whole night, and to wake up to him beside her was such a lovely feeling. At least until the nausea set in, that was. He’d never seen it before and had no idea what to do as she retched and retched and eventually crawled back into bed. She had to explain to him that it was normal, that in fact it was the sign of a perfectly healthy pregnancy and that he needn’t worry. 

Today was Saturday. If she’d not run away, if she had stayed and done what was expected of her, she’d be married now. She thought about Antonio and wondered how he was. She felt awful, such crushing guilt, at humiliating him and breaking his heart. He wasn’t at fault at all, but she couldn’t lie any more. Declan was the one for her, he always had been, and to marry Antonio would have been a terrible lie. She knew that if she’d gone ahead with it, she would have ended up hurting everyone in the end, but still it felt so horribly cruel. Her father’s face replaced Antonio’s in her mind. Where was he now? What was he thinking? 

 

 

Chapter 2 

Declan squeezed Lucia’s hand. ‘You’re thinking about it again,’ he murmured gently. ‘I always know. It’s done now. Let’s just try to look like we’re enjoying our vacation and put it out of our minds, OK? You’re doing great.’ 

The bus went over a particularly bad bump. Lucia bolted to the front of the bus and gestured to Conor that he should stop. He pulled in at the side of the road, and Lucia stumbled off and retched violently into the bushes. 

Declan followed her and stood by helplessly as she threw up the few sips of water she’d managed to swallow. 

‘I’m sorry,’ he said to Conor, who appeared with wet wipes and a bottle of water. 

‘Don’t be one bit sorry, Declan. If anyone should be sorry, it’s those fat-cat politicians of ours who don’t give a hoot about the condition of the roads!’ He handed Lucia some wipes and offered her the water. 

Declan had never seen anyone look so ill; Lucia’s complexion was pale and almost green, and her hair hung limply around her face. 

‘I am so sorry. I’m so embarrassed…’ Lucia refused to look up at all the people on the coach watching her sympathetically. She was trying not to cry, but it was clear she felt horrible and her sweater was covered in vomit. 

‘It’s these roads, I’m telling you –’ Conor was reassuring. 

‘Well, actually, I’m pregnant,’ she interrupted. 

‘Oh, I see. My wife was exactly the same when she was expecting our twins – it was awful. I used to feel so guilty, knowing that only for me, she wouldn’t be in that position.’ He smiled and patted her on the back. 

Declan felt useless. He’d only ever taken care of people in a pastoral way, never as a man in a relationship, and certainly never as a father. He took off his sweatshirt and handed it to her. ‘Here, wear this. At least it’s warm and…’ 

‘Not covered in vomit,’ she finished for him. 

Conor handed her a small plastic bag and helped her place her soiled sweater inside. Gratefully she drew on Declan’s warm hoodie, which was miles too big but comforting. 

‘I’m so mortified, Declan.’ She turned to him and he wrapped his arms around her, soothing her and kissing the top of her head. 

‘Don’t be silly, no harm done. Everyone will understand once they know – they’re nice people. It’s fine. Try to take a little water – I’m afraid you’ll get dehydrated.’ As he opened the bottle and offered it to her, the rain began to fall softly. 

‘I’m not sure dehydration is something they’ve ever heard of here,’ she managed to joke. 

Debbie, a young red-haired woman travelling alone, came out of the bus with some hard candy. ‘I didn’t know if you needed one of these to suck on?’ 

‘Thanks, that would be great,’ said Declan, taking the sweets from her. 

‘Are you OK? Can we do anything?’ Debbie asked. 

‘I think we’re OK now. Thank you, though, for the candy.’ He knew Lucia would hate all the fuss, but their fellow passengers were just being kind. ‘Do you think you can get back on the bus?’ he asked Lucia gently, wiping her tears with his thumbs. 

She nodded. ‘I think so.’ 

‘It’s not far to our next stop, five or ten minutes,’ Conor said. ‘And you could get some fresh air then or maybe even an herbal tea or something.’ He took the bag with the soiled sweater and placed it in the luggage compartment below the bus. 

‘That would be great, thanks,’ she said as she climbed the steps once more. 

He was such a lovely man, and Lucia knew he was trying to make it seem as though passengers throwing up in the hedgerows was a normal occurrence just to make her feel at ease. 

Conor didn’t look Irish at all, and on the first day she wondered where he came from, but as soon as he spoke, there was no mistaking that Irish lilt. He was in his late forties, maybe fifty at the most, tall and muscular, with tanned skin, piercing blue eyes and silver hair. He dressed impeccably in crisp shirts and tailored dark trousers, and Lucia noticed she wasn’t the only woman on the tour to cast an admiring glance in his direction. One or two had tried flirting, but no dice. A gold band on his left hand told them he was taken and not going to succumb to anyone’s advances. Despite his obvious good looks, though, he seemed totally unaware of his attractiveness. He chatted with everyone and seemed to be having as good a time as his passengers. He told them fascinating stories of Ireland, and his knowledge of the country was encyclopaedic; it seemed no matter what he was asked, he knew the answer. 

He’d told them he used to do this job full time until he met his wife and now did more management and arranging of tours. However, on this occasion, as it was the height of the season and they were stuck for a driver guide, he stepped in. The group had discussed over breakfast that morning how they’d lucked out to get him. Declan and Lucia were quiet during these conversations, but they smiled and added a word here and there. Conor was the glue that bound the disparate group together, and within twenty-four hours of landing, he had everyone eating out of his hand. 

The night before, Declan and Lucia talked about the many interesting people who had joined the tour. One woman, Valentina, was very glamorous, dripping in gold and designer clothes, on vacation with her husband, Tony, a loud, bombastic bore. She seemed to take everything in but barely spoke. There was a cute elderly couple, Irene and Ken, who had no house at all it seemed and spent their entire life on vacation, either on tours or on cruises. They fascinated the group with tales of their extravagant lifestyle, but over dinner last night they’d explained how they’d sold their house in Miami and were determined to spend every bit of the money before they died. One of the other people, Elke, a slightly earthy lady with a faint German accent who was travelling with her daughter, asked them directly what they’d do if they ran out of money before they died and were left homeless. 

They’d looked at each other for a moment, then Ken said quite calmly, ‘Irene here has cancer, and we’ve opted not to treat it. We just want to enjoy what time we have left, and then, well, I won’t be hanging around without her, so we won’t run out.’ He patted his wife’s hand and smiled. 

Then Irene spoke. ‘We’ve had forty-nine years together, almost fifty, so we’re some of the lucky ones. Whatever time is left, we’re going to enjoy. It’s all good, as they say.’ 

Their revelation bonded the little group, and even though they were all strangers, they felt somehow connected. There were others on the tour as well, but they seemed to be happy to be left to themselves. Conor took extra-special care of Irene and Ken, and nobody minded that they always sat in the front or that he got them into their rooms in hotels first. Conor just had that way of making everything look effortless. 

 

He spoke about his wife and boys sometimes, telling the tourists cute stories about them to fill the hours as he drove fearlessly along tiny roads above the crashing ocean. The bumpy roads were so narrow, and Lucia was nervous sitting at the window, fearful the bus would go careering off the side into the pounding Atlantic below. Declan enjoyed it, though, and happily snapped away on his Nikon every chance he got. He loved taking photos, and even in this most stressful and peculiar of situations, he was able to immerse himself in the moment when he was shooting. Also, it made them look more like tourists and less like fugitives, which was what they were.