The Transatlantic Book Club (Finfarran Peninsula #5) - Felicity Hayes-McCoy
Prologue
Pat Fitz had had a wedding dress of ivory-coloured poplin with a fitted bodice, a gored skirt, and a stiff net petticoat. She’d made it on a sewing machine bought with savings from the summer she’d spent in the States the year she left school. There was a lace inset at the neckline, but otherwise the dress was plain, except for the row of pearl buttons down the back. Her veil was sheer nylon, anchored by a band of artificial roses she’d bought in a place called Blanche’s Bridal Bower, and brought home in her hand luggage wrapped in layers of tissue paper. Her shoes, which were ivory satin, were also from the States. She and Ger were both small and she wanted to keep things simple for fear she’d look like a cauliflower when they walked down the aisle.
In the end she’d been delighted with the result. The bell sleeves had made the dress fashionable and more than one person had asked where she’d bought it. There was a photographer from the Inquirer at the wedding breakfast, which was held in the function room at the Royal Victoria Hotel, and the group photo in the following week’s paper was captioned, Finfarran bride designs own stylish gown.
Mary Casey was to have been Pat’s matron of honour but, at the last minute, they’d decided little bridesmaids would be better. In a bit of a rush, Pat had run up a couple of frocks for her cousin’s daughters, who were eight and six respectively and looked sweet. Mary, in her role as the bride’s best friend, sat in the second row in the church in a feather corsage and a yellow coat dress she’d got from a shop in Cork. And Tom, Mary’s new husband, had been Ger’s best man.
Later on, the photographer had taken a shot of the four of them together, all eating a piece of wedding cake from the same plate, and the caption in the paper had been Lissbeg foursome celebrates Pat and Ger’s happy day.
Chapter One
Cassie Fitzgerald shook out a paper tablecloth, thinking that this was going to be one hell of a farewell party. It was mind-blowing that everyone had responded so promptly to a text message, but apparently Resolve’s Irish-American community always looked after visitors from home, and someone of Pat’s generation would be especially fêted: most of the Shamrock Club’s active members were seniors. Delicious smells were wafting from the kitchen and, at the far end of the dining room, a red-haired guy was setting up a microphone while an elderly man lifted instruments out of cases. Cassie threw a second glance at the sound guy. He didn’t look much older than herself. Twenty-five at the most. But perhaps he was a hired electrician, not a member of the club.
As she looked at him for the second time, he gave her a shy, lopsided smile. His crinkly eyes were startlingly blue, and his typically Irish skin was a mass of freckles. Cassie smiled back, assessing his haircut with a professional eye. She decided he’d paid top dollar for it: whatever he was, he was getting a decent wage. As soon as the thought crossed her mind, she felt irritated. Her mom and dad might judge everyone they met according to their income, but she was supposed to have broken free from all that. That was why, as soon as she’d taken her high-school diploma, she’d decided to train as a hairdresser. Her sisters were shackled to a predefined career path, with no goal in life except to get richer. What Cassie wanted was a footloose life, full of risk and excitement, and to be free to take time to do stuff that mattered, like finding her roots in Ireland or making this trip to the US with Pat.
A voice from the kitchen announced that the savoury tartlets were out of the oven, and people went to lend a hand. Everything was being done by volunteers so Cassie had turned up early feeling that, though she was a guest, she ought to help. As the last platter was carried through to the dining room, she was squatting on her heels putting cutlery into the dishwasher when she looked up and saw the red-headed guy filling a kettle at the sink. He was tall and rangy, muscular, but not the type that spent time at the gym. Having switched on the kettle, he reached for a mug.
‘D’you want a quick shot of caffeine before they throw open