Maeve backs out of the room, bumping straight into Aoife, who is hovering right outside her door, listening in.
“Go away,” Maeve says under her breath, unable to muster any feeling in it.
Aoife grimaces and pats her sister’s shoulder and, to her surprise, Maeve feels tears well up again.
51
Susan
Tuesday
To my relief, Bella’s already in bed when Jon finally gets home from work on Tuesday evening, so I don’t have to explain the redness. I feel sick every time I think about it—there aren’t many hallmarks of negligent parenting worse than a sunburnt baby. I stayed indoors all afternoon, watching and waiting for the redness to fade, googling solutions. Cold compresses, the internet advised, and pain relief if she’s in pain. She didn’t seem to be in pain, she was in reassuringly good form, but I need air after a long afternoon fretting indoors, so as soon as Jon arrives into the hall I leave for a walk. Alongwalk.Don’t wait up, I tell him, putting my earbuds in and pulling the door after me.
• • •
It’s a beautiful sunny evening and Dún Laoghaire pier is full of walkers enjoying the weather, but nothing can lift my mood; not the sea view, not the Oreo-dipped ice cream, not the promise of a glorious orange sunset. My eventual walk home takes me past Bar Four, its beer garden full ofTuesday-night drinkers enjoying the unusually warm weather. People without a care in the world. I slow, looking in, envying them in their carefree lives.
“Thinking of going inside?” says a familiar voice from behind me.
I turn to find Felipe, Venetia’s husband. Tonight he’s in a bright tropical-print shirt, the kind you can only get away with if you’re under thirty-five and good-looking (he is both). I wonder what age he is. Thirty-one or -two, I reckon. Venetia is slightly older, closer to my age, I’d say. It would be interesting to know what brought them together—this soft-at-the-edges guy and his sharp-angled partner.
“Oh, no, I wasn’t going to the pub. I’m just on my way home from a walk on the pier.”
“I’m going in for a quick glass of wine. Will you join me?”
I should say no. But something—the open look on his face, the knowledge that Jon probably wasn’t really “working late” all those nights in recent weeks—makes me say yes.
We grab a small wrought-iron table near the main door to the pub, and Felipe is back from the bar two minutes later with a bottle of Pinot Grigio in an ice bucket and two glasses. I’m not convinced this will be the “quick” drink Felipe suggested, and I’ll be later home than Jon expects, but actually, I don’t care.
“So, I was wondering,” Felipe says as he pours a glass for me, “have you seen Venetia?”
He doesn’t look at me as he asks and there’s a forced casualness about his tone, his entire demeanor.
“Gosh, no, of course not. I said I won’t call again, and I won’t.”
“Good…good. Well,salud. Cheers.” He clinks my glass with his, looking a little less than cheerful.
“It must be hard at home right now,” I say gently, wondering if that’s why he’s here.
“Yes.” A heavy sigh. “Venetia doesn’t want to talk, and I respect that. Personally, I think it would help to open up, to talk about Aimee, but—” He lifts his hands, his deep brown eyes huge and sad.
He’s clearly desperate for someone to talk to; it’s emanating from every pore.
“Well,” I say, “why don’t you tell me about Aimee?”
That does the trick. He tells me about meeting her for the first time, how vivacious she was, how close the sisters were. How in love Aimee was. Her perfect wedding. Her busy career. Her energy. Her love of life. His voice cracks with emotion once or twice, though he doesn’t seem self-conscious. He pours more wine, and I drink more wine, wondering if this is a terrible idea. But my heart goes out to this almost-stranger and his bottled-up grief.
“You obviously knew her very well,” I say.
He shakes his head. “That’s the problem. I realize now I didn’t.”
“What do you mean?”
“This thing with Warren Geary. It’s not like her. And—” He shakes his head.
“Go on?”
“Nothing, it’s nothing.” He takes a deep swallow of wine, and we sit in silence for a bit.
