 |
| Buy "The Troubles" Today! |
The Troubles is a high-concept suspense novel that views the conflict in Northern
Ireland through the prism of American involvement. This sweeping,
multi-generational tale gives witness to the delicate and dangerous layers
inside an ever-unfolding world.
(Scene: Jessica Wyeth was forced to flee the States after being falsely accused of murder of a suspected Irish Republican Army operative. She accepts a training job in the northwest of Ireland, close to the border of Northern Ireland, with hopes to distance herself from paparazzi and to learn more about her past.)
Jessica Wyeth needed to
cool and blanket her horse before he chilled. A heavy mist fell, coating her
hands and face in beads of moisture. She ran her hands down the big gray’s legs
checking for soreness that would tell if their ride along in the dips and dells of
the countryside was too taxing. The wisps of steam rose from Planxty’s back and
chest.
As they walked in small
circles, she took in the details of her temporary home. A barn and cottage sat
on top of a gentle rise. They overlooked fields that held a training ring and
jump course. Thickets of trees broke the expanse of hills in the distance. The
buildings’ windows, framed in weathered wood, dotted their whitewashed sides. A
stone-enclosed courtyard hugged the cottage, and a wooden fence separated it
from the barn. The barn was rustic but suited her needs. Eight stalls lined a
cobbled corridor, and an annex held a tack room, office, and ladder to the
hayloft.
Sensing she wasn’t
alone, she peered into the shadows and sifted through the sounds gripped by the
ever-present wind. Only a church bell and the bleating of sheep were carried by
it. The birdsong sounded more ragged than melodic, and the earth smelled more
of decay than spring. Her surroundings were so different she wondered if it was
worth the investment of time to become familiar with them.
Jessica patted
Planxty’s neck and shook her head free of longings. A chorus of throaty nickers
and hooves kicking stall doors greeted her—all welcomed sounds of horses
impatient for attention. She was relieved to see a swept corridor and fresh
shavings in each of the eight stalls. A full hay bin and feed bucket waited in
the empty one. She jotted her observations of the day’s ride in the folder for
the local trainer hired to help her. Cryptic notes back and forth did not
provide enough insight for effective training. She wrote yet another request to
speak with him directly.
Walls made from
thousands of dark gray stones no larger than footballs and overgrown with wild
roses flanked the paddocks. She gingerly picked a fistful of soft pink blooms
and headed back to the cottage. Inside a single bedroom off the living room
provided enough living area to be comfortable. A wooden bench and a hand-hewn
pegboard holding an oiled canvas barn coat and anorak graced the spare stucco
hall. Tall black leather field boots and a pair of drab green rubber Wellies
sat on a woven rug. She slipped off her wet fleece and boots and headed to the
kitchen to hunt for a vase.
A stout, middle-aged woman didn’t startle when
Jessica burst in to the rustic kitchen. Jessica gave a bemused smile at the
man-tailored pants, tattered sweater, and crisply starched white apron. As much
as Jessica wanted to have a friend in Ireland, Nan O’Reilly would not be the
one. The cottage belonged to Nan, housekeeper and main conduit to the outside
world.
“Oh, hi Nan,” Jessica
said as she picked a thorn out of her thumb. “Do you have anything I can put
these in?”
“I do at that.” Nan produced a Mason jar from
one of the cabinets and set it on a long, rough-hewn wooden table beside a
basket made of black, thorny wood. “Beautiful blooms, these roses. Makes the
whole place glow in pink.”
“I could pick armloads
of them.” Jessica watched Nan fuss with the flowers with efficient motions. “I
wasn’t expecting to see you today.”
“Fair enough, but you
should hear that folks are talkin’ about someone riding crazy over the hills.”
She wiped her hands on her apron. “The county is filled with tales of one form
of spirit or another makin’ an appearance. I don’t listen to such talk, but you
should be aware of it.”
“Thanks, but that was
hardly worth you making a special trip out here to tell me that.”
Nan lifted her chin.
“We don’t get many visitors in these parts, and there’s nothing like a new face
to get people talkin’. You must take better care not to be seen. The last thing
you need is for people to start thinking they’ve got the “Murdering Heiress” in
their backyards.”
Leaving that nickname
behind and all that came with it were the reasons she agreed to Michael’s idea
of a training job in Ireland. Hearing it again bothered her. “How?” she
stumbled, searching for words. “My rides have been away from any homes. You’re
the only person I’ve spoken with.”
“I’m just being
cautious. You got your share of attention in the papers here as well. You’ve
only been resurrected for a few months and we have those here who question how
innocent you really are.” Nan’s voice betrayed neither empathy nor disgust.
Jessica flushed. Resurrection
was a fitting term, but the cloud around her innocence hurt. Nan’s concerns
drove home the point that it will take more than dropping out of sight for a
few months to be reborn and live freely. Michael had taken great care to make
sure she remained safe, and he trusted Nan to be discrete. She could stop and
catch her breath. Michael gave her that hope, and she wasn’t about to let it go
easily.
“I don’t think you
respect the amount of work that’s gone on to protect you.” Nan’s brows formed a
straight bar across her forehead. Her expression mixed resentment and
stubbornness.
“Of course I do. I
answer your questions and follow every rule you give me.”
“That’s not good
enough. Havin’ this handy means you might be thinkin’ about touring the
sights.” She fanned herself with a blue book with gold lettering.
Seeing her passport
stunned her. She thought she had tucked it away. Snapping it out of Nan’s
hands, she said, “I don’t see how my past trips are your concern. Besides, how anyone
could blame me for wanting to travel after what I’ve been through.”
Nan scoffed. “You
became my responsibility before you left Gibraltar. You didn’t bother to stay
away from public beaches so anyone could have recognized you then and followed
you. The only full-witted act you did was keep to yourself after Michael left.
Rumors stirring make me fret I’ve overlooked something.” She reached into her
bag and flopped a file on the table. “Michael wasn’t sure I should give you
this, but you need to appreciate what I’m up against.”
Jessica leafed through
pages enough to realize the folder bulging with clippings from The Boston Globe, The New York Times, The Washington
Post, Los Angeles Times, Chicago Tribune. All carried feature articles and
photos of her. The Sun and Guardian of the United Kingdom, The Irish Times out of Dublin and Le Monde of France could not resist the
story of an heiress who faked her death to avoid a murder charge.
For twenty-eight years,
Jessica knew herself as Jessica Bridget Wyeth, daughter of Margaret and Jim
Wyeth of Hamilton, Massachusetts. For seven of those, the rest of the world
knew her by a number of names, “Murdering Heiress” being the most well known.
She paid the price of her freedom by enduring the startled reactions of people
who recognized her and the ever-present threat of being chased down by a
reporter looking for a follow-up story. Michael knew she hated the papers and
the people who read them thinking every lie was true. She hated the way
strangers looked at her, either shrinking away in fear or challenging her with
questions they had no business asking. For someone who had spent the better
part of her adult years hiding, the glare of attention withered. The other
reasons he wanted her at the cottage remained unspoken.
Jessica didn’t fight
for freedom only to be locked away in a thatched-roof prison. “Okay. I get it.
I’m famous, and you have a harder job because of it. That’s no reason to search
through my belongings or lurk about in shadows.” She wasn’t just irritated with
Nan, she was irritated with knowing her life had evolved to needing dossiers
and bodyguards. The confines Nan wanted to impose chaffed. “How about a
telephone?”
“No.” Nan kept her
voice upbeat as she resumed putting food away. “Strict orders from Michael
‘imself. He said you agreed to that.”
“I didn’t realize how
isolated I would be.”
“Maybe he doesn’t trust
you enough. You’ve known each other, what now? Barely a year? Moreover, how
many names have you had? It’s hopes and promises that keep many a girl thinking
she’s in love only to find out her man is gallivanting about. Think of it.
You’re here waiting. He’s off tending to better things.” Nan’s eyes glittered
with unkind thoughts.
Any hope she had of
having a warm relationship with Nan faded in that moment. “I didn’t ask your
opinion.” When Michael suggested living in a rocky corner of Ireland with a
barn filled with horses, surrounded by fields and in a cottage staffed by his
personally chosen people, the idea sounded idyllic. Doubt began to creep around
her decision.
“I’ve done nothing but
train these past weeks. Is that all I’m allowed to do every day?”
“You’ve a job to do,
and I’m surprised to hear you complain about it. Those horses need more than a
bit of schooling. They’re some of Ireland’s best. Michael and that woman in
Kentucky did a good amount of cajoling before the owners here would let some
green trainer like you get a hold of them.”
“I know, and I’m not
complaining,” she quipped. Jessica determined to bend the rules in her favor.
“I only have the notes on each horse, and I’d really like to talk to someone
about them. There’s more to the behaviors I’m seeing than simply poor
conditioning or past injuries.”
“Are you sayin’ the
animals are second rate?” Nan needled.
“No. Not at all.”
Jessica kept her voice even, covering her desire to snarl. “In fact, they are
some of the best horses I’ve ever worked with. Who helped him choose them?”
Nan ignored Jessica’s
conciliatory manner and returned her focus to rearranging the roses in the jar.
“Aye. They need a special hand, and Michael’s word is you have it. He said he
only wanted the animals that could win.”
Jessica was in no mood
to be played with. “That doesn’t answer my question.”
“One of his men picked
them.”
“The one I’ve seen
here?”
Nan screwed up her face
and nodded.
“Then I have to meet
him. It’s maddening that I haven’t spoken with him.”
“His job is to work
with the horses. Not to talk to you.”
“That’s ridiculous!”
She drummed her fingers on the table, rankled that Nan turned resisting a
simple request to meet someone into sport. “He picked them for a reason, and I
have to speak with him. I’m tired of him avoiding me.”
Nan began to wipe down
the already spotless counters, adjusting the canisters of sugar and tea to
perfect angles. “How important is it? You’ve got your notes.”
“Look. I have to get these horses ready for a
major event in a few weeks. The timing is tight, and the pressure on. I need to
be efficient. This guy is good. Really good. But we only have one chance to get
the training right, and I need to talk with him.” She stood and positioned her
body directly in front of Nan, ensuring the housekeeper’s full attention. She
bent her neck slightly to look directly into Nan’s face. “What did you say the
man’s name was?”
“I didn’t.”
She took the cloth from
Nan’s hand and waited.
Finally, Nan responded.
“Tim.”
“Tim . . .?”
She let her voice trail off, asking for more. Getting nothing, her mouth firmed
to a straight line. “He chose all of the horses, right? There’s no one else I’d
need to speak with, right?”
The older woman’s eyes
narrowed slightly. “Yes.”
Jessica considered how
to phrase her next question. “How long has Tim worked for Michael?”
“For as long as I can
remember.”
“But Michael’s only
been in Ireland a few weeks.”
Nan stared at Jessica then
shrugged. Without speaking, she gathered up her bags and left.
Jessica was holed up in
a safe house, enveloped in an artificial world created for her privacy, with
her main contact feeling more like an adversary than an ally. Nan’s hint of
Michael having a past in Ireland or friends for years only served as a painful
reminder of how brutally separated from the world she remained. Isolation is
perfect if you wanted to be alone. It becomes a problem when you feel
alone.
She realized her hands
were shaking from wounds reopened and raw. Ruefully, Jessica acknowledged that
she didn’t restore her name or her freedom. In some kind of cruel joke, just as
she began to reclaim her life, she found out it wasn’t hers to begin with.
