Page 49 of Inheriting an Irish Groom
Dearest Maeve,
I’ve been called home, but I promise I’ll return. When I do, we’ll marry. This ring belongs on your hand, not as proof of ownership, but as a symbol of every truth we whispered under the starlight. You’ve made me a better man, a better writer, a better soul.
Two weeks. I’ll be back.
All my love,
Patrick
Her knees gave out, and Ronan helped her outside. She sank onto the steps, letter trembling in her hands. It was true.
“No need to send the others,” she whispered. “Patrick Wright is my father.”
CHAPTER17
The ring sat on the dining room table like it knew too much. A secret hidden behind a wall for how many years?
Aisling stared at it, the tin box still dusted with fragments of plaster and time. The note beside it curled slightly at the corners, as if it, too, had been holding its breath all these years. The ink hadn’t faded. The words were painfully clear.
I’ll be back in two weeks.
He never came. Had her mother gone to New York to try to find him?
She didn’t know how long she sat there, reading and rereading the letter until the words burned into her brain. Part of her wanted to scream, part of her wanted to crawl into bed and sleep for a hundred years, and the other part—the dangerous one—wanted to write him.
She didn’t owe him that. But she needed to think she’d at least tried.
Aisling brushed her hair out of her eyes, took a deep breath, and reached for her laptop. Paper and pen suddenly felt too slow for the flood about to break loose.
She opened a blank document. The cursor blinked at her like it was daring her to begin.
Subject: You Might Want to Sit Down Before Reading This
Dear Professor Wright,
My name is Aisling Maeve O’Byrne. You may remember me as the publishing rep who sent you entirely too many emails in hopes of signing you to Blackwood House Publishing. We met in New York. You were kind, professional, and deeply intimidating. I was about an hour away from quitting. You may also remember that I did, in fact, quit—spectacularly.
I’m writing today for a reason that has absolutely nothing to do with publishing. I’ve just learned something shocking.
I recently inherited my grandmother’s estate in Mountshannon, County Clare. Her name was Noreen O’Byrne.
My mother’s name was Maeve.
In a box hidden in the walls of the house, I found a letter addressed to her from a man named Patrick, along with an engagement ring. It was dated the summer of 1994.
That summer, you were one of five visiting professors at University College Dublin. My mother was a student there.
I believe you are my father.
I don’t write that sentence lightly. I’m not looking for anything from you, no favors, no money, no retroactive parenting. I’ve lived thirty years without a father, and while it shaped me, I’m not broken.
What I do want is the truth. Did you know about me? Did something happen that kept you from coming back? From marrying her? From being part of her life?
If you didn’t know I existed, well, now you do.
I don’t expect a perfect answer, or even a fast one. But I hope, if you are who I think you are, you’ll write back.
With respect,
