Chapter Five

      ‘We’ll need to have a long talk.’

      ‘Oh God, will we?’ Río turned towards Dervla, who was standing in the doorway of their father’s study, looking business-like in a black suit with a little boxy jacket. Río didn’t own anything black to wear to Frank’s funeral. She had rifled through her wardrobe that morning and selected a chiffon and velvet skirt in saffron yellow, which she’d teamed with a woolly sweater and a pair of Doc Martens. She didn’t care if it was inappropriate garb for a funeral. Frank had turned up drunk at their mother’s funeral, and how appropriate was that?.

      ‘I’ve asked Mr Morrissey to stay on after the wake—’

      ‘Who’s Mr Morrissey?’ asked Río, taking a sip from her wineglass.

      ‘Our father’s–Frank’s solicitor. He’s in next door with Mrs Murphy now.’

      ‘Delivering the glad tidings about the garden, presumably?’

      ‘Yes.’

      ‘It’ll be all round the village soon.’

      It was inevitable that word of Frank’s will would get out. All of Lissamore had showed up at the church today, to listen to the priest’s eulogy. Río had wondered idly what class of a sin Father Miley was committing, standing up there spouting platitudes about what a wonderful human being Frank had been. Ha! How had he fooled them all so consummately?

      Once the lie-fest was over, she and Dervla had had to smile stoically as the parishioners stood in line to tell the sisters over and over how sorry they were for their trouble, before trooping down to the graveyard on the headland where they’d said prayers for the repose of Frank’s soul under a blaze of blue sky crisscrossed with the wispy white lines of vapour trails heading west across the Atlantic. The day of the funeral had turned out to be one of those miracle days that you get in Coolnamara in midwinter, the kind of day that Rosaleen had used to describe as ‘pet’ days. And Río had put on her best downcast expression as she’d tossed a shovelful of earth onto Frank’s grave and muttered, ‘Bastard bastard wretched fucking bastard.’

      Now the wake was underway, and Frank’s spring-cleaned house was host to a throng of guests who had come bearing gifts for the girls, much as they had come bearing gifts for Frank when he was alive. The table in the kitchen was groaning under the weight of the food and drink that had been contributed, and W.B. was looking distinctly tubbier. He was patrolling the house proprietorially, clearly perplexed to see so many people invading his territory.

      The doorbell went again.

      ‘I’ll get it,’ said Dervla. ‘And then I think I’ll just leave the damn door open to all-comers.’

      Dervla high-heeled off, leaving Río smiling wanly at yet another person who’d rolled up, glass in hand, to tell her how sorry he was for her trouble and what a character Frank had been.

      She’d had enough. Muttering an excuse, she grabbed a bottle from the hall table, and hotfooted it upstairs. Plonking herself down on the bottom step of the staircase that led to the attic, she swilled wine into her glass and wondered if she was becoming an alcoholic. It was hereditary, she’d read somewhere. How ironic that the only thing she might have inherited from her father was his alcoholism. And then she reminded herself that Frank wasn’t her real father, and the whole situation became more ironic still.

      From downstairs, voices floated up to her, and she remembered how she and Dervla had sat hunkered here as children, eavesdropping on their parents’ rows and clutching each other’s hand.

      There was Dervla’s voice now, raised in greeting to some new arrival. ‘So glad you could make it,’ she was saying. ‘And Isabella too. How are you, Adair?’

      Adair? It could only be Adair Bolger, the man who owned Coral Mansion. Río hadn’t seen him for yonks. The last time she’d had an encounter with him had been while swimming in the Lissamore estuary. Adair had sped by in his pleasure craft, cutting a swathe through the water and creating a wake that might have drowned a less able swimmer. Río had shaken her fist and yelled at him, but he had given no indication that he had either seen or heard her.

      Curious, Río crept along the landing and peered down through the banisters. Dervla was air-kissing Adair warmly. He’d changed a lot since the day she’d first met him, when he’d reminded her of Sunday Supplement Man. He’d lost weight, and some hair too, having opted for a close-cut crop. Much savvier for a balding man than a comb-over, Río thought: it lent an edge, somehow.

      ‘I’m good, Dervla,’ said Adair, on finishing the air-kissing ritual. ‘But I’m sorry for your trouble. Your father was a real character, by all accounts.’

      Río scowled.

      ‘I suppose one might describe him as a bon vivant,’ said Dervla, diplomatically. ‘Talking of bon vivants, thank you so much, Adair, for introducing me to Matt Flanagan at the awards ceremony. We had a most pleasant business lunch last week, and we’ve agreed to meet up for a round of golf when he’s next in Galway.’

      Awards ceremonies! Business lunches! Golf! What very different lives she and Dervla led.

      ‘You’re welcome,’ responded Adair smoothly. ‘I suspected you’d find him helpful. Matt and I go back a long way. When it comes to investment portfolios—Oh! Ha-ha. What a friendly little cat!’

      Río craned her neck further to see WB. winding himself around Adair Bolger’s shins, and rubbing his muzzle against the expensive fabric of his trousers. How dare the cat welcome him, of all people, into the house?

      ‘What are you doing, Ma?’

      Finn had emerged from the bathroom, and was standing on the landing, watching his mother curiously.

      ‘Ssh!’ said Río. ‘I’m spying.’

      ‘On who?’ asked Finn, taking a step towards the banister and looking down at the occupants of the hall. ‘Holy moly!’ he added in a stage whisper. ‘Who’s that?’

      ‘It’s Adair Bolger, the millionaire who owns Coral Mansion.’

      ‘No, I mean, who’s the hottie?’

      ‘Hottie? You mean his daughter?’

      ‘That’s never Isabella? The little girl I took donkey riding? My, oh my, but she’s some fox!’

      Río allowed her eyes to roam in the direction of Adair Bolger’s daughter. Uh-oh. Isabella Bolger was a fox–the kind of little vixen that would have the dogs of the village panting in hot pursuit if they ever plucked up the courage. Isabella was golden of skin and hair–that expensive shade of gold that comes courtesy of a team of colourists and beauty therapists–and she was dressed in something that could have stepped from the pages of Vogue. She had about her that air of composure that only the very rich wear–a kind of serene confidence that nothing can go wrong in their world.

      ‘Hands