enough to worry about that. She switched off the light and left the room and plodded upstairs.
“It’s Leah Bradshaw.” Geraldine’s voice floated in from the hall as she hung her coat.
Stephen didn’t turn from the computer. “What is?” he called back.
Geraldine walked into the sitting room, rubbing her hands together. “God, it’s chilly out tonight. Leah Bradshaw is the girl
Patrick left Hannah for.”
Stephen looked across the room at his wife. “Who is she? Do we know her?”
Geraldine poked the fire before tipping in coal from the scuttle. “I wish you’d keep this going when I’m out. She’s Fiona
Bradshaw’s daughter.” She waited for a reaction and getting none, she added impatiently, “Fiona Bradshaw, who I play bridge
with. You know her—she has some environment job with the town council. You met her at Aoife’s cocktail party in November.
Tall, dyed red hair. Too thin. And she came here when I did the Alzheimer’s tea thing—she brought those orchids that died.
I remember you asking her about them.”
“Oh, yes,” Stephen said, knowing that it didn’t matter in the least that he had absolutely no memory of Fiona Bradshaw. “So
it’s her daughter.”
“And to think,” Geraldine said angrily, pushing the poker through the fresh coals, “that I supported that girl when she opened
her salon. I paid good money for a manicure, and I wasn’t well out the door when one of my nails smudged; they weren’t dry
at all. I should have gone back, only I didn’t want to embarrass her.”
Stephen felt the conversation slipping away from him. “How are you so sure it’s her? Did her mother tell you?”
Geraldine snorted. “Of course she didn’t tell me—she hasn’t come near me since it happened. Too ashamed of what her brazen
daughter has done, no doubt. Maureen Hardiman told me, delighted to have a bit of scandal to report, as usual. Naturally,
I let on I knew already.”
“Good for you.” Stephen’s fingers crept back toward the keyboard, reluctant to abandon the first Scrabble game in ages that
he was showing any signs of winning.
“Small slip of a thing,” Geraldine said, settling onto the couch and picking up the remote control. “Don’t know what he sees
in her. Dyed hair, of course, like her mother. Can you see Hannah ever having to dye her hair?” She pressed a button on the
remote, and the television flicked on. “Oh, not that fellow again—he’s always on the Late Late . Must have written a book.”
“Mm-hmm.” Stephen typed in “cousin” as quietly as he could, and his score jumped to 176.
“I’ll have to tell her,” Geraldine said, still watching the television.
Stephen swung toward her again. “Tell who? Hannah?”
“Of course, Hannah. She’ll have to hear it from me.”
“Why? Won’t that only upset her?”
Geraldine looked at him, incredulous. “Stephen, do you really think she wouldn’t find out? In a place the size of Clongarvin,
it’ll be all over town in no time. I’d prefer she heard it from me than from some gossip like Maureen Hardiman.”
Hannah’s father returned to his Scrabble game. He’d long since given up trying to understand the workings of his wife’s mind.
Far easier to figure out what to do with a q , a b , three e ’s, and a couple of p ’s.
Vintage was Clongarvin’s first wine bar. It was all dark wood, subdued lighting, and low couches arranged around candlelit
tables. Not exactly what Adam was used to when he went out for a drink.
He sat alone on a barstool by the counter—at least they had a few barstools—having failed to persuade Hannah to accompany
him. He hadn’t pressed her too hard: maybe a night of doing nothing more strenuous than lying in warm, sudsy water was what
she needed this weekend. And going out on his own had never bothered him. Clongarvin being the size it was, and this being
Saturday night, he was reasonably sure of bumping into someone he
“It’s Leah Bradshaw.” Geraldine’s voice floated in from the hall as she hung her coat.
Stephen didn’t turn from the computer. “What is?” he called back.
Geraldine walked into the sitting room, rubbing her hands together. “God, it’s chilly out tonight. Leah Bradshaw is the girl
Patrick left Hannah for.”
Stephen looked across the room at his wife. “Who is she? Do we know her?”
Geraldine poked the fire before tipping in coal from the scuttle. “I wish you’d keep this going when I’m out. She’s Fiona
Bradshaw’s daughter.” She waited for a reaction and getting none, she added impatiently, “Fiona Bradshaw, who I play bridge
with. You know her—she has some environment job with the town council. You met her at Aoife’s cocktail party in November.
Tall, dyed red hair. Too thin. And she came here when I did the Alzheimer’s tea thing—she brought those orchids that died.
I remember you asking her about them.”
“Oh, yes,” Stephen said, knowing that it didn’t matter in the least that he had absolutely no memory of Fiona Bradshaw. “So
it’s her daughter.”
“And to think,” Geraldine said angrily, pushing the poker through the fresh coals, “that I supported that girl when she opened
her salon. I paid good money for a manicure, and I wasn’t well out the door when one of my nails smudged; they weren’t dry
at all. I should have gone back, only I didn’t want to embarrass her.”
Stephen felt the conversation slipping away from him. “How are you so sure it’s her? Did her mother tell you?”
Geraldine snorted. “Of course she didn’t tell me—she hasn’t come near me since it happened. Too ashamed of what her brazen
daughter has done, no doubt. Maureen Hardiman told me, delighted to have a bit of scandal to report, as usual. Naturally,
I let on I knew already.”
“Good for you.” Stephen’s fingers crept back toward the keyboard, reluctant to abandon the first Scrabble game in ages that
he was showing any signs of winning.
“Small slip of a thing,” Geraldine said, settling onto the couch and picking up the remote control. “Don’t know what he sees
in her. Dyed hair, of course, like her mother. Can you see Hannah ever having to dye her hair?” She pressed a button on the
remote, and the television flicked on. “Oh, not that fellow again—he’s always on the Late Late . Must have written a book.”
“Mm-hmm.” Stephen typed in “cousin” as quietly as he could, and his score jumped to 176.
“I’ll have to tell her,” Geraldine said, still watching the television.
Stephen swung toward her again. “Tell who? Hannah?”
“Of course, Hannah. She’ll have to hear it from me.”
“Why? Won’t that only upset her?”
Geraldine looked at him, incredulous. “Stephen, do you really think she wouldn’t find out? In a place the size of Clongarvin,
it’ll be all over town in no time. I’d prefer she heard it from me than from some gossip like Maureen Hardiman.”
Hannah’s father returned to his Scrabble game. He’d long since given up trying to understand the workings of his wife’s mind.
Far easier to figure out what to do with a q , a b , three e ’s, and a couple of p ’s.
Vintage was Clongarvin’s first wine bar. It was all dark wood, subdued lighting, and low couches arranged around candlelit
tables. Not exactly what Adam was used to when he went out for a drink.
He sat alone on a barstool by the counter—at least they had a few barstools—having failed to persuade Hannah to accompany
him. He hadn’t pressed her too hard: maybe a night of doing nothing more strenuous than lying in warm, sudsy water was what
she needed this weekend. And going out on his own had never bothered him. Clongarvin being the size it was, and this being
Saturday night, he was reasonably sure of bumping into someone he
Similar Books
