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  Then she saw Dublin, shimmering just beyond the countryside. Something passed through her, a strange jolt of fear and excitement, and a single, absurd thought.

  "Home," she breathed. "I'm coming home."

  Later, after she'd checked into her hotel, she remembered how she had felt as the plane landed. It had been a silly thought, the product of an overwrought mind in need of a good night's sleep. After all, how could someone come home to a place they'd never been before?

  There was a message waiting for her at the front desk of the Mont Clare Hotel. Charles MacGuire would call at the hotel for afternoon tea, and he hoped she had a pleasant journey from America.

  Her first urge was to rush out and find her new home, but she forced herself to wait. She had been warned that the place was "rather tatty," and she needed to rest before facing the grim reality.

  As she began to unpack before settling in for a nap, she realized there were no drawers in her room. She had two suitcases and one hanging bag full of clothes and nowhere to put them. With resignation she telephoned the front desk.

  "Excuse me," she sighed. "Sorry to bother you, but I have no drawers in my room."

  The young man on the other end of the line issued a sharp intake of breath. "Just a moment, ma'am," he said in a rush, as if in a hurry to hand the phone to someone else.

  A woman answered. "Hello," she said in a professional tone. "How may we help you?"

  Maura stated her name and room number, and mentioned her lack of drawers. The woman at the desk seemed taken aback.

  "No drawers?" the clerk whispered. "My goodness."

  The distinct sounds of giggling could be heard on the other end. "Brian, be still." The clerk's voice was muffled, as if she had been holding a hand over the mouthpiece. "Forgive us, ma'am. We have a new boy

  down here and he's rather cheeky. So, you would like us to send you up some drawers?"

  "Yes, please."

  "And how many would you like?"

  "Oh, I don't know. Whatever is standard, I guess."

  There was a silence from the desk. She seemed at a loss for words. "How about ten for starters," she suggested. "If you need more, we'll be happy to oblige."

  "Great. Thank you," Maura began to hang up, but the clerk was still talking.

  "And when shall we deliver them?"

  Maura looked at the clock. It was ten in the morning, and Charles MacGuire would come at four that afternoon. "I'm going to sleep for a few hours, but I'll be down in the lobby for tea at four. How about then?"

  "Of course, Miss Finnegan."

  Even as she drifted off the sleep, Maura wondered at the strained tone of the clerk's voice. It was really rather odd.

  Charles MacGuire, Maura decided, was what her father would have called a character.

  He was tall, about fifty years old, with round spectacles and a thatch of graying chestnut-colored hair over his forehead. There was something youthful about him, a happiness that was infectious.

  "So wonderful to meet you," he exclaimed, bounding through the polished brass front doors. Maura was delighted he had finally arrived—it was almost four-thirty, and the desk staff had been giving her peculiar looks. "Please forgive me," he begged, pumping her hand in greeting. "I forget how punctual Americans are. In Ireland meeting at four usually means thinking about that meeting at four, pulling on your jacket twenty minutes later, and not arriving until just before five."

  Although she'd felt uncomfortable alone in the lobby, all those feelings evaporated in the company of Charles MacGuire. He motioned for tea and pulled up a chair next to the one she'd been sitting in.

  "My, Miss Finnegan, you certainly are young. And, if I might add, lovely as well." He gave her a quizzical look. "Indeed . . ."

  Maura folded her hands in her lap, waiting for the inevitable "map of Ireland on your face" comment.

  "Indeed, Miss Finnegan," MacGuire said, tapping an index finger against his chin in thought. "You have such a fresh, American look."

  Maura grinned. She was about to say something else, when a prim-looking clerk approached carrying a large bundle wrapped in brown paper. "As you requested, ma'am," she bobbed, her eyes not meeting Maura's.

  "Huh?" Maura questioned and began to untie the parcel.

  "Goodness, gifts already." Charles MacGuire smiled.

  She unwrapped the package just as the tea tray and small crustless sandwiches arrived.

  "What on earth?" Maura mumbled, pulling out a very large pair of ladies' underwear. She pulled bad the paper, and there were several more pairs of massive white briefs.

  Charles MacGuire choked on a cucumber and cress sandwich. "You asked for those drawers?"

  Maura glanced at him, her eyes wide with confusion. Then it dawned on her. She began to laugh, tears filling her eyes.

  "I asked for drawers, you know—a piece of furniture." Her hand rattled the brown paper, drawing even more attention to the contents of the package.

  "You mean a press? You meant to ask for a press?"

  She nodded, and he, too, began to laugh, his own eyes becoming moist with hilarity. Other people in the lobby paused and stared at the two of them, the well-dressed gentleman and the young woman holding up an enormous pair of ladies' briefs, both doubled over with laughter.

  "Miss Finnegan, if I may be so bold—let's go for more appropriate refreshments. My favorite spot, the bar at the Shelbourne Hotel, is just around the corner. Shall we leave?"

  She could only nod, and not knowing what to do with the underwear, took it up to the desk. The young boy Brian was alone there, and his ears flushed red.

  "I'll pick these up later," she managed to say. Brian quickly pulled them under the desk. Together, Charles MacGuire and the heir to Delbert's Disgrace walked to the Shelbourne.

  "And when she opened the parcel, there were no less than ten dozen pair of tremendous knickers! At least ten dozen..."

  Maura stifled a yawn and smiled as the tale was retold for the seventh time by a man named Ray who had joined them three rounds ago. She was surrounded by nodding faces, indistinct to her exhausted eyes.

  Charles MacGuire had produced the papers she needed to sign, documents verifying her identity and that she fully understood the stipulations of the will. The swift shuffle of papers seemed to be the last event of the evening in Maura's control.

  The bar at the Shelbourne Hotel was bright and airy, with a more casual, friendly feel than the lavishly decorated lobby. Floor-to-ceiling windows allowed sunlight to flood the room, and the patrons seemed to be drinking pints of ale and stout rather than the martinis and whiskey next door.

  The walnut bar was a long and amiable place. Everyone glanced up—although not at once—when she had entered with Charles.

  "She's younger than I imagined, isn't she, Bart?"

  "Aye, she is at that, Seamus. What would you guess, twenty-one or two?"

  "Nah. She must be at least twenty-six. She's already graduated from university and worked at her family company these past seven years."

  Maura spun to face the conversing men, who seemed slightly put out by her intrusion. They were leaning on the bar with comfortable familiarity, the way you'd prop stocking feet on an old coffee table.

  "Gentlemen"—she smiled—"I'll be twenty-eight next September."

  "I don't believe it!" The one named Bart gestured to the bartender for a drink, pointing to his own empty pint of stout and his friends. "Miss Finnegan, Charlie, what will you be having?"

  Maura was momentarily puzzled. "Um, a white

  wine, I suppose." She had just made a rather bold point of letting them know she had overheard them discussing her, and they seemed pleased.

  "Seamus, check her teeth." Bart motioned to Maura. "Don't be alarmed, my girl. Seamus is a doctor of veterinary medicine. I believe you may have been misled as to the date of your birth, and Seamus can tell by looking at your teeth how old you really are."

  Seamus smirked, set down his drink, and began to approach Maura with a set of
appallingly filthy fingers, swiping them once across the front of his worn tweed jacket. "I'm more accurate when it comes to horses, Miss Finnegan, but I can assure you of your correct age within eighteen months."

  "No?" She ducked under his arm. Charles laughed and introduced three more people who had just entered the bar.

  Now it was approaching eleven o'clock and Maura leaned with her elbow on the bar. Before her were five untouched white wines, all gifts from the crowd surrounding her. They had not allowed her to buy drinks in return, and instead made her promise to invite them all to her new home once she was settled.

  It was still light outside, the streetlamps had just switched on. Charles mentioned that in the summer, dusk lingered until just before midnight.

  "Unfortunately, we must pay the price in the winter, when the sun sets at four in the afternoon," he said sadly, and his animated face crumpled at the thought.

  "Charles," Maura mumbled. "When can I see my new home? You have the keys, and I've been here for over six hours."

  "Ah! Why didn't you say so!"

  It was difficult to convince everyone at the bar to remain there, not to follow Charles and his client to the town house. There was much protesting and wailing until Charles offered to buy them all a round of drinks if they would simply stay put and allow him to do his job as a solicitor. He was beginning to slur his words, and Maura wondered if he knew exactly where they were going.

  A thought crossed her mind: She was in a foreign country, with a drunken lawyer and no idea of their destination.

  Yet as soon as they waved good-bye, he seen sober as, if not a judge, at least a juror.

  "Are you sure you know where we're going?"

  He laughed. "I reckon everyone in Dublin knows where we're going. Should I forget or be mowed down by a passing lorry, just ask the next passerby, and the] will be more than happy to escort you there."

  The earlier numbness and exhaustion seemed lift. She no longer felt as if she were in a dream,: body detached from her thoughts. Everything clear now, the traffic noises that were more shrill than at home, the cars buzzing fearlessly on the wrong side of the street, large green double-decker buses tilting a they rounded the corners.

  She was really there in Dublin about to face new home.

  chapter 3

  Maura's first impression of her town house was that it held an excess of masking tape. The windows were covered with tape tracing the cracks in the glass. Brown tape was all over the front door and seemed to be holding the center doorknob in place. There was tape on the broken bootscrape, tape on the wood pillars bracing the front door. Even the house's identity, eighty-nine and a half, was proclaimed on the fan window over the door with discolored, inexpertly placed masking tape.

  "The glass broke ages ago," Charles explained. "Over the door, where the numbers are, there used to be a grand design, grandest on the square. Now it's just plain glass and tape."

  She swallowed.

  The structure was the shabbiest on the block, perhaps in all of Dublin. Although the basic design of the house was the same as the others, its appearance was vastly different. It was sad, mournful, stripped of all pride. Had the building been a person, someone would be in jail for unspecified crimes of abuse and neglect.

  Gone were all of the architectural details that made the rest of the square so elegant. Instead of a small garden or carefully trimmed hedges, there were two square plots of dirt and weeds and trash. There were no richly painted doors with shiny brass knockers and knobs, no cared-for iron fence, no lovingly restored brickwork. It was a four-story building that would have been equally unattractive in Brooklyn or Indianapolis as it was in Dublin.

  "Well," said Maura when she had at last found her voice. "It sure looks solid."

  "That it is!" Charles vaulted up the two front steps, careful to miss the top step which seemed to be crumbling into a gravelly mound. He tapped at one of the columns bordering the door, proving how sturdy the building was.

  A chunk of the column fell to the ground.

  "Ah, well." He cleared his throat. "This is just cosmetic, you see. Not a weight-bearing, urn, thing."

  Maura moved closer, where she could see an iron rod placed across the two columns just below the masking tape numbers. The pole ran the entire length of the entrance. "What's that for?"

  "Oh, just a little bit of propping to keep the door in place."

  "I see."

  She hadn't expected much, never dreamed of owning one of the magnificent homes on the square. But from the outside, this house seemed uninhabitable.

  "Shall we go inside?"

  Maura blinked as if in a daze. "Sure. Why not?"

  Already she was wondering how she could explain her swift return to Wisconsin. As Charles struggled with the key, a long piece of pierced metal that looked more ceremonial than functional, Maura had an unwelcome vision of Roger. If not for him, she could be enjoying this adventure, free of the panic that had threatened to choke her. Try as she might, it was impossible for her to completely forget her mission.

  Her thoughts returned to her town house. The exterior may not be attractive, but perhaps the interior was in better shape. Some people actually cultivated a tumbledown appearance to their homes to better protect the riches within. Number eighty-nine and a half could very well be one of those unassuming homes that conceal their beauty from the outside world, saving their lavish splendor for the owners.

  Maura stepped forward at the thought.

  "Now the inside is a little less polished than the outside," Charles warned as he pushed with his left shoulder to open the door. It didn't budge. He took a step back and threw his full weight against the door. With a shuddering creak it opened.

  There was a moldering scent that immediately prickled her nostrils and caused her eyes to water. Charles sneezed. He held the door open with one hand and fumbled for the light switch with the other.

  The entrance was at once bathed in a gentle yellow light. A single bulb hung from what should have been a magnificent chandelier. The wire holding the bulb was black and naked except for a few splices of masking tape. On the ceiling were the faint tracings of circular molding, where plaster once ornamented the

  chandelier.

  She was standing on an old black-and-white marble floor, and before her was a gentle arch that echoed the doorway, all plaster and fragments of ornate design. Just beyond the archway was a grand staircase sweeping upward to the next floor. Without waiting for Charles, she began to climb the steps.

  "Just a moment, Maura," she heard him mumble. "Let me latch the door. Hold on. Don't you want to see the rooms down here? Wait, Maura. The steps may not be entirely safe."

  She didn't listen. Instead she felt herself gliding up the steps, unaware of any other sensation than a need to reach the next floor. Dust and plaster swirled about her legs, and where her hand touched the banister, puffs of dirt became unsettled. Maura paid no attention to the filth.

  She knew exactly where to go. Her eyes were focused not on the hazardous stairs but on where she

  wanted to be. She stumbled on one of the broken steps but kept

  climbing. "Maura!" Charles seemed very far away now, a tiny

  voice in the distance.

  At the top of the stairs she walked past the first door and went directly to the second, toward the front of the house. The light was indistinct, a streetlamp outside threw flickering shadows through a hall window.

  Dark patches spotted the wall where tape and flecks of dirt speckled the old glass. Glancing at the doorknob, she grasped it firmly and

  pushed the door open.

  "I'm coming with a torch. It was right at the foot of the steps." Charles said behind her. Maura ignored him and stepped into the room. At once she felt the sensation of air rushing from her lungs. She stumbled backward against a wall, as if tossed by some unseen force, her heart pounding wildly in her ears. Charles was speaking, but she heard another voice, deeper and richer.

  "Be quiet," she cr
ied, wanting Charles to hush so she could hear the other voice. But nothing seemed to come from her mouth, no sound other than a gasp.

  "It must be the fumes." Charles was prattling on as he swung the flashlight. "This place has been closed for so long. Isn't there a switch? Let me see here . . ." Alone. She wanted Charles to leave so that she could be alone, by herself in her own house.

  She closed her eyes and tried to catch her breath. There was too much noise. Charles should be quiet. Her own heart beat unsteadily in her ears, almost drowning out the other voice. It was soft, the other voice. A beautiful masculine

  voice.

  "Ah, here we go," she heard Charles say from across the room. And with that, he turned on the

  light. The room was unfurnished, bare but for the yellow

  wallpaper that was hanging in shreds. Where was he? The man with the voice. He was in the room just a moment ago. She had felt his presence as powerfully

  as her own. He was gone now. She could feel it, the sudden

  emptiness of the place.

  Charles was speaking, pacing around the room, pointing to the boarded-up fireplace and the carvings on the mantel. Nothing he said seemed to make any sense to her jumbled mind.

  "And the paper alone is quite valuable," he droned, touching a wall. Some of the paper crumbled off like burned ash, floating gently to the dusty bare floor. "It's the original Georgian paper. Think of it—handprinted by some artist over two and a half centuries

  ago."

  Charles straightened, holding the red flashlight in both hands. "Do you want it, Maura?"

  For a moment she was confused. "The wallpaper?"

  He gave a brief, uncertain smile. "The wallpaper and the house it's attached to. Tomorrow afternoon I'll take you to the factory. It's just a few miles down the Wicklow road. Will you give it a try?"

  There was no other answer she could give. "Of course, I will." The answer was so emphatic she surprised herself.

  "Grand! That is simply grand!" Charles seemed to bounce across the room. "I'll walk you back to the hotel, then."

  "Can't I stay here?" She meant it. The thought of leaving now was almost painful, like leaving a sick