Now You See Her Page 0,1
from those nearby. “That’s our famous peal of eight bells,” the guide said proudly. “As you’ve probably already noticed, you can hear them all over the city all day long. And if you choose to climb the belfry, you can even play the bells yourself. Any tune you want, although most people seem to pick either ‘Danny Boy’ or ‘Ave Maria.’ ” He took a deep breath. “Okay, you have thirty minutes to visit the inside of the church, then we’ll head over to Patrick’s Hill, so you can get a feel for its steepness. Americans say it rivals the notorious streets of San Francisco.”
“What if we’re not up to the climb?” an elderly woman asked from the back of the crowd.
“I think I’m all churched out,” the man beside her muttered. “I don’t know about the rest of you, but I could use a pint of Guinness.”
“For those of you who have seen enough and would prefer to enjoy a bit of rest and relaxation before heading back to the bus, there’s no shortage of pubs in the area. Although you’re more likely to find the locals drinking Murphy’s or Beamish, two stouts that are brewed right here in Cork.”
“Sounds good to me,” someone said.
“We’ll meet back at Parnell Place Bus Station in one hour,” the guide announced. “Please be prompt or we might not have enough time to visit the famous Blarney Castle on our way back to Dublin. And you don’t want to miss out on kissing the legendary Blarney Stone, do you?”
No, we certainly wouldn’t want to miss out on that, Marcy thought, recalling Peter’s revulsion at the idea of being held by his feet and suspended backward and upside down like a bat in order to kiss “some dirty piece of bacteria-soaked gray rock coated with other people’s saliva,” as he’d so memorably phrased it when she’d first shown him the brochures. “Who in their right mind would want to do such a thing?” he’d asked accusingly.
Marcy had smiled and said nothing. Peter had ceased believing she was in her right mind some time ago.
Wasn’t that why she’d agreed to go on this trip in the first place? Hadn’t everyone been telling her that it was important—some said crucial—for both her mental health and her marriage that she and Peter spend more time together, time in which they could come to terms with what had happened, as a unit? Wasn’t that the term her psychiatrist had used?
So when her sister had first floated the idea of a second honeymoon in honor of their twenty-fifth wedding anniversary, Marcy had thrown herself into its planning with every fiber of her being. It had been Peter’s suggestion to go to Ireland, his mother having been born in Limerick. He’d been talking for years of making a pilgrimage to the land of his ancestors. Marcy initially argued in favor of somewhere more exotic, like Tahiti or Bali, someplace where the average July temperature was substantially more than sixty-six degrees, where she could sip mai tais on the beach and wear flowers in her hair instead of a place where Guinness was the order of the day and the humidity would pretty much guarantee she’d always look as if a clump of unruly moss had just landed on her head. But what difference did it make where they went, she’d reasoned, as long as they went there as a unit?
So Peter’s choice it was.
And ultimately, Peter had chosen someone else.
Did one person still qualify as a unit? Marcy wondered now, recognizing that as much as she loved the often-spectacular scenery and the much-vaunted forty shades of green of the Irish countryside, she hated its dull, rain-filled skies and the pervasive dampness that clung to her like a second skin.
He couldn’t take any more drama, he’d said when he told her he was leaving. It’s better this way. We’ll both be better off. You’ll see, you’ll be much happier. Hopefully, eventually, we can be friends. The cowardly clichés of the deserter.
“We still have a son together,” he’d told her, as if she needed reminding.
No mention of their daughter.
Marcy shivered, gathering the sides of her trench coat together, and decided to join the ranks of those opting for a brief respite and a pint of beer. They’d been on the go since their bus had pulled out of Dublin at eight thirty that morning. A quick lunch at a traditional Irish pub when they’d first arrived in Cork had been followed by