The Transatlantic Book Club Read online

  Dedication

  For the members of the real transatlantic book club

  in Clonmel, Tipperary, Ireland, and Peoria, Illinois, USA.

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Author’s Note

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Acknowledgements

  P.S. Insights, Interviews & More . . .*

  About the Author

  About the Book

  Read On

  Also by Felicity Hayes-McCoy

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Author’s Note

  Visitors to the west coast of Ireland or

  upstate New York won’t find Finfarran or Resolve.

  The peninsula and its inhabitants,

  and the Shamrock Club and its members,

  exist only in the author’s imagination.

  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 the doors?’

  Cassie stood up and shook her head. ‘I ought to go find Pat. I mean my gran.’

  ‘There’s plenty of time, don’t worry. The chairman hasn’t arrived yet and the quilting ladies still haven’t hung their banner.’

  ‘Do they need help?’

  ‘Trust me, they do not. My grandma’s the chair of the quilting guild. You don’t mess with those ladies when they’re focused on a task.’

  So that’s who he was, the grandson of a club member.

  He leaned against the sink, waiting for the kettle to boil. ‘Anyway, it’ll take him about an hour to tune up.’

  ‘Can you actually tune a tin whistle?’

  ‘Actually you can.’ He shot her an amused glance. ‘Though I’m not sure Rambling Paddy knows that.’

  ‘And he would be . . . ?’

  ‘Your ambient music for tonight.’

  Cassie giggled and the guy looked a bit guilty. ‘That wasn’t fair. He’s a great entertainer. Probably played the ballroom when your gran was here before.’

  ‘What – fifty years ago?’

  ‘Sure. It was accordions back then, and an upright piano. No need for a sound system, my dad says. Just stamina and endless pints of Guinness.’

  ‘Has your family been here long?’

  ‘Five generations. Sorry, I should’ve introduced myself. I’m Jack Shanahan.’

  ‘That’s a good Finfarran name.’

  ‘Like Fitzgerald.’

  ‘And have you been to Ireland?’

  He sh
ook his head. ‘Nope. Someday.’

  ‘I used to say that too. I was born in Canada and the family never went home. But a few months ago, I just picked up and took off.’

  ‘What about your job?’

  Cassie explained about hairdressing. ‘I’ve been working on cruise ships. You sign on for a couple of months, or even a few weeks, and plan as you go. Well, obviously it’s not just cruise ships. You can work in salons as well. I love it. I’m a risk-taker. Anyway, I decided to spend Christmas in Finfarran. And then I stayed on.’

  ‘Cool.’

  ‘Um. I stayed because my granddad had died. But it is a cool place.’

  ‘Losing a grandpa is tough. Mine was pretty cool.’

  ‘I hardly knew mine. But that’s not the point. The thing is, Pat was sort of in shock. So I hung around.’

  When she’d seen him earlier, in the dining room, she’d thought Jack was shy. But now he seemed assured. He was lounging back against the sink, with his thumbs hooked into his belt and his weight on his elbows, and the hair on his freckled arms was bleached to gold. Irish-looking redheads weren’t Cassie’s type but somehow she found him intriguing. ‘So what do you do?’

  ‘I’m a computer geek. Started out working for my dad, now I troubleshoot for firms.’

  ‘Not an electrician?’

  ‘No. But if your family are pillars of the club, you’re expected to pitch in.’ Seeing the look on Cassie’s face, he laughed. ‘I enjoy it. It’s not like I’m here all the time.’

  ‘Only high days and holy days?’

  ‘That’s about it.’ A blast of feedback from the other room made him wince. ‘Oh, crap! Rambling Paddy must have moved a speaker.’ He made for the door but, halfway there, he turned back. ‘So have you decided?’

  ‘Decided what?’

  ‘What you’re going to do next.’

  ‘I’m going back to Ireland with Pat.’

  He nodded, as if considering this carefully. ‘Tomorrow?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Okay.’ He nodded again, and turned away. ‘Well, nice meeting you.’

  Cassie took a step towards him and paused awkwardly. To her surprise, she found herself wanting to explain. ‘It’s just . . . my granddad died only a few weeks ago. And it was really sudden. Pat needs me around.’

  ‘Sure.’ His blue eyes crinkled as he gave her a lopsided smile. ‘Like I said, it was nice meeting you.’

  * * *

  When Pat entered the building at five thirty-seven she could hear snatches of music from behind the dining-room doors, which had paper napkins over their porthole windows. Outside, women were easing themselves out of cars, balancing plates and Tupperware boxes. It looked as if half the households in town had been baking, and Pat knew that the cakes would be covered with lavish sparkly icing. The women of the sprawling suburbs of Resolve were mad for the sugar and glitter. Though here in the States, she reminded herself, they called icing ‘frosting’. In the last couple of weeks little details like that had been coming back to her, maybe because of the other memories she wanted so hard to block out.

  Moving past the dining room, she looked for somewhere to sit. They’d be expecting her to make a big entrance when the farewell party started, and she didn’t want to spoil their fun by hanging about beforehand. So, as two women staggered past, 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 long married life. So Sonny’s large suburban home had felt alien, and the visit had revealed that Pat and Ger had nothing left in common with their middle-aged emigrant sons.

  Worse still, Pat had discovered that the carefully chosen cards and gifts, which, for decades, she’d been sending to her granddaughters, hadn’t been wanted. Instead of affirming her presence in their lives, they’d simply produced derision. Devastated, Pat had blamed herself and tried to get involved in their adult lives. But it hadn’t helped. Two of the girls for whom she’d knitted sweaters and chosen birthday cards now had expensive homes of their own, and neither they nor their parents ha
d had any time for their visitors. But Cassie, the youngest of Sonny’s children, had turned out to be a maverick. Cheerful, forthright, and sympathetic, she’d plunged into the vacuum produced by her siblings’ indifference and forged a loving friendship with her grandmother. Then, when the painful visit was over, she’d accompanied Pat and Ger back to Finfarran, saying she planned to explore her Irish roots.

  Her energetic presence had been a godsend when Ger was diagnosed with heart failure, and in the days after his funeral she’d displayed a fierce protectiveness that had sometimes brought Pat close to tears. And, when everyone else had left, she’d stayed put, still determined to help. ‘Look, Canada’s out of the question, we both know that. But here’s the thing. I’ve been Snapchatting with Erin since she went back to the States after the funeral. And she says how about you and me take a trip over there?’

  ‘To Resolve?’

  ‘Sure. Why not? You enjoyed it before, didn’t you?’

  ‘But that was years ago.’

  You could almost call it a lifetime. In the year of her engagement, Pat had spent the summer working in Resolve. Her passage had been booked before Ger proposed to her, and everyone had urged her not to waste the ticket. Besides, they’d said, a few months in the States would pay for a fancy trousseau.

  Gently, Pat had tried to change the subject but Cassie had been unstoppable. ‘Oh, come on, Pat, why don’t we scoot over and see how Resolve has changed? Didn’t you say you worked with Erin’s gran in a clothing factory?’

  ‘Well, yes, love. I did.’

  ‘There’s a whole garment district now. Great stores. Places to go. And since Erin’s gran couldn’t get to the funeral, she’d love us to stay with them.’ Sensing reluctance, Cassie had hurried on: ‘There’ll be lots of people you know. Well, families, anyway. I mean, Lord knows why my lot chose Canada when practically every Finfarran emigrant takes off for Resolve.’

  ‘I was only there three months, Cassie. Nobody would remember me.’

  ‘That is so not true! Erin says you and her gran were best buddies over there. And think of all the people who sent their condolences. Oh, Pat, let’s do this. I want to meet my US relations properly. We’ll have a ball. Say you’ll come.’