One Night Only by Catherine Walsh

8

I stare at the stucco ceiling of my hotel room as it fades from black to a dull, cold gray. After a few blue-sky days, the infamous Irish rain looks set to make another appearance.

I get up long before I need to and unearth the raincoat still rolled up in my suitcase. Other than that, I’m not sure what to wear and settle on jeans and a light sweater, trying not to overthink it. I didn’t sleep well. I kept waking from bright, spinning dreams that I couldn’t make sense of. Despite them I’m feeling oddly awake, if not a little nervous about the morning ahead.

Because it’s still early, I’m the only person in the breakfast hall, the party having continued on long after I went to bed. I finish my cornflakes in record time and am contemplating changing my outfit again when I spy Declan in the lobby.

He’s sitting in one of the straight-back armchairs, reading a serious-looking newspaper. “Morning,” he says without looking up.

“Good morning.” Great start, Sarah. Very polite. “What’s happening in the world today?”

“No clue,” he says, tossing it aside. “I’m doing the crossword.” He smiles at me. “You look nice.”

Uh-oh. Too nice? Maybe I should have gone for sweatpants. Declan also looks very nice, although I’m not about to tell him that. He’s in dark jeans and a navy jacket, zipped right up to his chin. At least I got the dress code right.

“Where are we going anyway?”

“It’s not far,” he says. “About fifteen minutes.”

I glance at the dark sky outside. “Walk?”

“Drive. Shall we? The sooner we go the sooner we get back.”

Now, what’s that supposed to mean? That he doesn’t want to spend time with me? That he’s only doing this because he feels he has to? Not that I should care. I consider the possibilities as I follow him to a small red car in the parking lot. It’s too scratched to be a rental. Inside, it’s not exactly dirty but there are crumbs in the grooves of the seats, an old coffee cup in the holder. Signs of life. It smells overwhelmingly of the cheap pine air freshener hanging from the rearview mirror.

“Expecting something fancier?” he asks as if reading my mind.

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“This is Connor’s car. He’s kindly letting me borrow it while I’m here. Though I bet he’s regretting that now.”

“Oh, come on.”

“I’m just saying it as I see it,” he says innocently. “He’s very smitten with you.”

“No one is smitten.”

“Keeps asking me what my intentions are.”

I laugh once, despite my best efforts to contain it. Declan smiles as he pulls out of the hotel grounds.

“Nah, he’s a good lad,” he says. “Annie told him to keep you company, so that’s what he’s doing.”

I glance at him, surprised. “She told him that?”

“Of course,” he says. “You’re here alone among all these strangers. Rowdy strangers at that. She wants to make sure you’re looked after.”

I turn back to the window, touched she would think of me during one of the biggest weeks of her life.

We’re silent for the next few minutes, the radio doing the talking for us. I try to focus on our surroundings, at the countryside that had fascinated me only a few days before but I’m supremely aware of Declan beside me. Supremely annoyed by how relaxed he is. There’s no hint of tenseness in his shoulders, no gripping the steering wheel, no further glances to me. He even points out the odd thing as we pass. Casual, banal life points such as the school he went to, the field his uncle owns. As if he’s taking his sister-in-law’s friend out for a nice drive.

Perfectly polite. Just like I hoped.

It irritates the hell out of me.

“And if you go that way,” he says, nodding to the trail opposite as we take a fork in the road, “you will eventually come to my parents’ house. I keep asking if they’re going to leave it to us in their will, but I doubt we’ll get much for it now.”

“You casually discuss your parents’ death with them?”

“We have a very comfortable relationship with death in this country. A good funeral is the only entertainment a lot of people get in these parts.”

“Sounds morbid,” I mutter.

Declan only shrugs.

“Would you sell it if they did? The house, I mean.”

“Maybe.”

“But you wouldn’t move back.” It’s not a question.

He glances at me. “Why not?”

“Because you haven’t lived here in years.”

“Says who?”

“You live in New York.”

“You can live in two places.”

“On two continents?”

“Lots of people do it.”

“Rich people do it.”

“You think I’m secretly rich?” He grins.

“I don’t know what I think,” I say. “What do you do exactly?”

“I’m an entrepreneur,” he says, offering no further detail. “Ah, here we are.” He slows along a nondescript road. It might be pretty on a sunny day but now it’s just gloomy. The hedges are overgrown, the ground dotted with muddy puddles. I pull the zip of my coat up with a scowl.

“Not enjoying the Irish summer?” he asks.

“We’re here?” We’re where exactly? I can’t see anything on either side of the road. Unless he’s brought me to a field in the middle of nowhere to murder me. I’ve listened to enough true crime podcasts to recognize the signs.

“It’s over there.” He nods across the road to a rusty gate. “We’ve got to walk.” He takes out a thick metal flashlight from the glove compartment and gives it a whack to turn it on. Totally about to be murdered.

I look down at my leather boots.

“I’d carry you,” he says, following my gaze. “But my back has been killing me lately and—”

I don’t hear any more as I get out of the car, sidestepping a pile of manure.

Without waiting for him, I march across the road to the gate, which is padlocked shut. I can’t see anything beyond it. The overgrowth is too thick, the path ahead muddy and stopping only a few feet from me before it disappears into the trees. I hear the car door shut and the click of the locks before Declan walks past me and grabs hold of the gate.

“What are you doing?” I exclaim as he climbs over it. “I thought you owned the cottage?”

“I do.”

“Then why don’t you have a key?”

“I don’t own the fence, Sarah.” He looks at me as if I’m being the unreasonable one. “Are you coming?”

I stiffen at the challenge in his voice and bat away his offering hand, climbing as best as I can over the gate. He doesn’t wait to see me safely over before he continues on.

“It’s not far,” he calls.

He’s telling the truth about that at least. Barely twenty seconds through the bushes I see the cottage.

It’s old. Made up of large, gray stones and a thatched roof, exactly like the kind on my postcards. Except those houses are bathed in sunshine, their doors painted brilliant reds and blues, their roofs a warm yellow.

This place is falling apart. You don’t need to work in construction to see that. Half the ceiling is caved in and there’s no glass on the windows. The only door is a boarded-up piece of wood, damp from the rain.

And yet, despite all of that, I can see instantly why he’s chosen this place. It has character. Even if it is hidden under several decades’ worth of grime.

“What do you think?”

I turn to see Declan watching me carefully.

“It sure is a cottage.”

He gives me a look and approaches the door. “You don’t mind spiders, do you?”

“No.”

“Great, because I hate them. You can get rid of any that come too close to me.”

“No lock?” I ask, watching him shove the wooden board aside.

“With that great big gate scaring people away? No one’s breaking in here.” He stands next to the entranceway and gives a short bow. “After you.”

It’s dark and gloomy inside, despite the windows, and I see why Declan brought a flashlight. I take out my phone to use the light, but he steps inside after me, illuminating the space.

It’s one large room but not as empty as I expected, nor is it as filthy. He must have done some cleaning already. To my right is the hearth, a large stone fireplace, blackened from decades of use. There’s chalk marked out on the floor, measurements for furniture perhaps, zones for the room.

“Another window,” I say, looking at further marks on the wall.

“Yeah. And maybe another there,” he adds pointing to the far end of the room. “The goal of these houses back then was to keep the heat in and not let it out, but it’s nothing a little double glazing can’t handle.”

I nod and he takes it as permission to go on.

“The biggest problem is damp,” he says. “A thatched roof like this you need a fire in the hearth almost constantly. I’m torn between getting a fake one put in or going for authenticity and getting someone from the village to mend it.”

“An extra cost.”

“Or a volunteer program for some eager young conservationists. Sofa bed over there,” he adds, pointing to the other side of the wall.

“Bathroom?”

“Outside. A shed probably.”

“Delightful.”

“You’d be surprised at what people want.”

“So it’s not for personal use.”

“No,” Declan laughs. “No, I’m fine living in the twenty-first century, thanks.”

I do another sweep of the space, rotating slowly on the spot. There’s not much to see and I’d need a surveyor and an engineer to do a proper report, but I can already feel my mind start to whir. You could do a lot with the place. All the original features. I try to imagine it with light and paint and heat. It wouldn’t be so bad to put a little bathroom in. Even a narrow loft if you want a separate bedroom for some privacy. I can’t hear any other sounds but the gentle drip of the water outside, the shallow breaths we’re making. There’s no noise at all from the road. It would be peaceful. It would be an escape.

“How much did you pay for it?”

“Nothing. Did I not tell you? It’s my family’s.”

“It is?”

“Locals through and through,” he says. “It’s not our land anymore but the guy who owns it is a decent sort.” He holds the flashlight a little higher to show off more of the room. “This place belonged to my great-great-great-grandmother. A woman by the name of Maggie Devlin.” He glances at me and, seeing he’s caught my interest, points to a corner of the room. “She was born right over there,” he says. “Just like all her children.”

I stare wide-eyed at the small space next to the hearth. “That’s crazy.”

“Is it?”

“Not that it happened but the fact that you know that. I’d love to be able to trace my family back that far.”

“I could help with that, you know.”

“Is that some kind of pickup line?”

He grins. “Even better. It’s my business plan.”

“You’re a historian?”

“I’m a travel agent. Or I will be. I’m starting my own business. A boutique agency for the ancestry market.”

“And what’s this place, a stop on the tour?”

“An experience,” he says. “A chance to stay in a real Irish cottage. And all the history that comes with it. The good and the bad.”

He tilts his head to examine the ceiling and I realize I’m staring at him. Gazing at him.

I swallow and refocus on the room, looking at it with different eyes now. Imagining it not with light and paint and modernity, but as it was meant to be. A place of shelter, if not poverty. Dark and warm and a protector against the outside. “How many children did Maggie have?”

“Twelve.”

“Twelve?”

“Good Catholics.” He winks.

“Jesus.”

“Most of them died young. We’re not too sure when or what happened but they didn’t have the best records back then. We know her husband disappeared when the youngest was born. Went in search of work during the famine and never returned.” His expression grows solemn as he follows the beam of his flashlight. A hushed kind of reverence falls over him and I look away, feeling like I’m intruding on some private space.

“She raised the kids on her own?”

“She would have had the village. But otherwise…” he trails off meaningfully. “Sometimes it hits me. To think of her living her entire life in a place like this. Right in the shadow of that great hotel.”

I hesitate as something tugs at the back of my mind. “What do you mean?”

“You know,” he says softly. “To watch people live so close and yet lead such a different life to hers. The rich and the poor. A place like that seems decadent even today. I can only imagine what it must have looked like to people back then.”

I watch with growing suspicion as he gazes at the hearth and think back to the little historical booklet in my hotel room.

“She was a strong woman,” he says. “But it must have been hard for her.”

“I don’t think it would have been hard for her at all,” I say slowly. “Seeing as the hotel would have been built around seventy years after she was born.”

Declan turns to me, almost misty-eyed. “What’s that?”

“You said her husband disappeared during the potato famine,” I say flatly. “Which occurred in the 1840s. The estate was built in 1895.”

“Did I say he went missing during the famine?” he asks after a second.

Any softening feeling I had toward him vanishes as I do the math in my head. “You also said she was your great-great-great-grandmother, which now that I think about it, also puts her nowhere near the time of the house.”

“She may have been my great-great-grandmother.”

“Or you made the whole thing up.”

“I would never— Ow!”

I hit him in the arm. “You’re such a liar! You said this was a family home.”

“It is,” he insists. “Just not my family’s.”

“You’re unbelievable.” Maggie Devlin and her twelve children. I can’t believe I fell for it. “You tell that story to all the girls you bring here?”

“Just the tourists. Hey, I’m kidding! Come on!” He follows me as I stomp out of the cottage and back through the long grass. “I wanted to show you that it’s not just a building,” he says. “It’s not just stone and hay and mud. When most people think about tracing their family tree they think of scrawled names on a census. A place like this can bring their history to life. Make it mean something and… Sarah?”

“What?”

“Car’s that way.”

I turn in the opposite direction and march past him.

“I wasn’t trying to trick you or anything,” he continues.

“I know.”

“Then why are you upset?”

“I’m not,” I lie. Or at least not for the reasons he thinks I am. I should never have agreed to this. This is the exact opposite of not spending time with someone. And I don’t like him like this. All heartfelt and sincere and… I let out a breath. “You’re going to have to knock it down,” I say as we emerge through the trees.

Declan bats a low-hanging branch out of the way. “What?”

“You brought me here for my professional opinion,” I remind him, climbing awkwardly over the gate. “You’ll need to completely rebuild it to make it any way habitable.”

He grimaces, looking back the way we came. “How about a lick of paint?”

I land with a soft thud on the other side.

“Some bright cushions?” he calls as I make my way back to the car. “A complimentary welcome basket?”

I turn to see him still standing in the field, looking almost disappointed. It’s a look I’ve seen on my clients’ faces many times. Usually when it hits them that realizing their dream isn’t going to come cheap.

“It’s got a lot of promise,” I say finally. “But you’ll need to do it right if you’re serious about it.”

“I’m serious.”

“Then check the building regulations before you even begin planning. Then start with the foundations. Get a carpenter to help with the roof. Water in the walls is going to be a problem. You also have no room to insulate inside and if you don’t want to change the appearance outside, you’ll have to rely on heat from the fireplace. And you’ll need to extend it. Once you start adding in furniture it’s going to get very cramped very quick and you… What?”

He’s smiling at me now, twirling the flashlight in his hand. “Nothing. Do you have a business card?”

“I’m on vacation. Can we go now?” I add, glancing pointedly at the clouds. I’m suddenly eager to get back to the hotel. To other people. To somewhere where it’s not just him and me.

“Anyone would think you wanted to be rid of me.”

“My best friend is getting married tomorrow. I have things to do.”

“Then who I am to keep you?”

He plants a hand on the gate before I can respond and launches himself neatly over it.

I turn back to the car before he can catch me staring, shivering as a light rain falls from the sky.