“Your smug tone suggests you don’t think I’ll pass.”
“Mmm,” was her reply.
“I never put failure on the table as an option. Hand me your phone.” She unlocked it with a curious but amused look and handed it over. He unlocked his phone and handed it to her.
He went to her contacts and added his name and number, and because he was thorough, he added his email and birthday. He was pleased she was entering her information too.
“I’ll take one hour tonight before I go to sleep to recite everything you told me. It’s all I’ll need.”
“You think I won’t call?”
She had already lain on her side facing the fire, taking up an extra small portion of pillow. He lay down too, taking up more than half the space.
“If you’re even half so diligent as your late father and brothers, I would bet that you already know the day and time you’ll be placing the call.” He grinned when he heard her snort of amusement.
“We’ll see,” was all she gave.
“The snow has almost stopped. We can make an early start of it. I know the trails well. With the snowfall, it should take between eight and ten hours to reach Conwy. I had a service take my car to Conwy. I’ve been summoned to Carmarthenshire. My father has managed to piss off one of the new park’s biggest donors, and he needs me to smooth things over.”
She sighed deeply before answering. “Dads can be the worst,” she said wistfully.
“And the best.”
“That too.”
“You mentioned you have a lift from Conwy to transport you to your jeep, but you still must drive to the ferry. Let me radio my friend’s son and have them take your jeep to Conwy. It’s less than an hour to Holyhead ferry from there. Did you leave your keys at the ranger office?”
“I did, but for crying out loud, you don’t need to go to the trouble,” she insisted.
He picked up his sat phone, dialed Joey, and set it up before Bébhinn could protest further. “Done.”
“You’re bossy.”
“Something tells me you like bossy.” Her silence was answer enough, so he pushed his luck further. “Read the letter. Tonight was the night, and you aren’t a coward. Read it.”
twenty-three
BÉBHINN
Read it.Read it. Read it.
Perhaps it would be easier to have Dagr to take some of the loneliness from her while she read whatever her dad chose to write down for her.
Bébhinn wasn’t afraid, not really. More reluctant than anything. Once she read it, she couldn’t look forward to receiving more.
It would be over. Really over. Dad would be gone.
She didn’t speak, letting the crackle of the fire and the whistling wind outside settle her reticence. Ten minutes passed before she slowly slid the letter out from the bag at her back, tracing her name scrawled in her dad’s bold, slanting strokes.
Bébhinn Clarissa O’Faolain
Hugh Darcy O’Faolain
posthumous letter
My dearest Bébhinn,
I must have died, my sweet B. I hope it happened later than sooner, but that’s the thing about death, the one doing the dying hasn’t a clue.
