The Transatlantic Book Club (Finfarran Peninsula #5) - Felicity Hayes-McCoy Page 0,2

weighed down by a trestle table, she slipped into a room on her right, which had a sign on the door that said ‘Library’.

She’d been in the room only once before, on a whirlwind tour of the clubhouse fourteen days ago, when their guide had talked so fast you could hardly keep up. Now the room was silent, except for the ticking of a clock. The only occupant was a white cat, asleep on a sunny patch of carpet. There was an assortment of armchairs, suggestive of cosy reading, several stern, upright chairs around a square table, suggestive of study, and bookcases surmounted by donors’ names in wreaths of carved shamrocks. And, bizarrely, an old-fashioned range with chipped enamel stood against one wall.

Sitting down, Pat considered a large computer on a side table. You could see it had been state-of-the-art in its time. With the exception of the recently refurbished kitchen, everything in the solid, well-kept building was like that – good quality, made to last, and slightly old-fashioned. And, wherever you looked, you usually found a plaque. The donors of the library furniture, the equipment in the gym, and the Lucky Charm bar had all made sure that their family names were given proper prominence. But, when you thought about it, why not? Each block and brick in the Shamrock Community Club had been paid for by public subscription, and the place had been built in the 1950s by volunteers who’d already put in long days on construction sites.

Pat was glad the window was closed and the room air-conditioned. Her holiday had been intended as a break from the last chilly weeks of an Irish February but, in fact, the heat had been wearing. People kept saying it was lucky they’d had such fine weather, and only that morning her cousin had announced that the lovely sunshine had done her a world of good. Secretly, though, Pat had been longing for a good shower of rain.

There was a rattle of wheels in the corridor as a catering trolley went by. Cassie, who had driven over to the club ahead of her, was probably in the dining room laying tables. Pat’s face softened at the thought of her. Small and feisty, with a snub nose, close-cropped hair, and a peacock-blue streak in her long black fringe, Cassie was one to dive head first into every situation, and usually found herself welcomed with open arms. It was she who’d suggested this holiday, bounding into the flat in Finfarran one evening when Pat had been sitting alone in the dusk, feeling sad. Five minutes after her whirlwind arrival the lights had been on, the range stoked, and a pot of tea made.

Then she’d sat down at the kitchen table fizzing with excitement. ‘Right, I’ve had an idea. And I want you to hear me out before you say a word.’ Linking her fingers around her mug, she’d leaned forward decisively. ‘You’re tired and don’t pretend you aren’t. You hardly slept a wink when Granddad was ill. Then there was the big funeral, and people turning up from all over the place – my lot from Canada, and all the cousins from the States, everyone needing beds and meals and attention.’

Pat had protested weakly that that was what funerals were like.

‘I know. And I know you wanted to give Granddad a proper send-off. Which you did. But you had six people here in the flat, and masses of others staying at Uncle Frankie’s.’

‘Ah, yes, love, but I wouldn’t begrudge them. Hadn’t they flown thousands of miles to pay their respects?’

‘I’m just saying it was a marathon, and that you’re exhausted.’

There had been no point in denying that, or asserting that Frankie had taken care of the influx of relations. He hadn’t. Anyway, before Pat could respond, Cassie was off again. ‘Look, I know you turned down Mom’s offer of a break over in Toronto. And why the hell wouldn’t you after the last time?’

You couldn’t argue with that either. The previous year Pat and Ger had spent a disastrous holiday in Canada. Sonny and Jim, their younger sons, had both gone there after they’d left university, while Frankie, the eldest, had stayed in Finfarran and worked in the family business. And, in the years that had followed, Sonny and Jim had never found time to come home. The flat over the butcher’s shop where Pat had raised her children was poky and inconvenient, but it was where she and Ger had spent their