Claddagh Hall: A Nest of Writers

By Judith Read

A dashing crime author gives his writer guests a weekend retreat they'll truly want to forget.

 

Aspiring writers Mac and Livvy stand before the great oak door of Claddagh Hall primed for a weekend of work, wonder, and play.

 

Little do they know, their handsome host, celebrated crime author Terrance Mayville, plotted his own agenda and it has absolutely nothing to do with writing.

 

If you like The Guest List and The Writing Retreat, you'll want to dive into Claddagh Hall: A Nest of Writers to explore a truly diobolical mind. Pick up a copy today.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Judith Read
• Release date: Jul 17, 2023
• ISBN: 9781999040550

Book preview

PROLOGUE

Twenty-Five Years Ago

He had to be selective.

His eye caught sight of a pretty thing he hadn’t noticed before. The view from his bar stool gave him an excellent vantage to observe her. So far, the pub was only half full with the mumbled drone of villagers, mostly farmers. They filled the low-beamed room with plumes of rank smoke while hailing the tavern keeper for another round.

She sat alone in a dismal corner, eyes riveted to a small, red-bound book. So intent was her face that he considered for the briefest of seconds that she could tell him to knaff off if he interrupted. Willing to go for it anyway, he slid off the barstool, warm pint in hand.

Hello there. I hope you don’t mind my interruption. He offered his hand and his name. She looked up, surprised, then shook his hand with a smile.

Elizabeth here. I don’t mind. She held up the book. I can’t seem to find any inspiration to write anyway.

He grinned. You’re a writer?

A poet who’s feeling muddled lately. She laid the book down and crossed small hands over it.

He nodded. Maybe a drink then? What can I get you?

She cupped her pink cheek in hand to think. A wine spritzer, please.

He eyed her with undisguised interest. She was close to his age, maybe early twenties. A slip of a thing with thick, russet hair that curled past her shoulders. When she brushed it back from her forehead, a thin, gold wedding band glimmered. A woman’s vows had never stopped him before.

Away from the bar hubbub, he placed her drink down. He settled himself in a wooden spindle chair opposite her, and flashed a winning smile, but feigned concern when her unusual blue/green eyes grew troubled. He was intrigued but wary.

Are you okay? He asked, as she wiped a tear away, then gave him a sad smile.

I’m trying to be, but it’s hard.

In a low tone, like a penitent to a priest, she went on to speak of her recent heartbreak in birthing a stillborn infant. Her husband was an older, professional man, too occupied with the demands of his city job. He didn’t understand her confused feelings.

Playing the concerned listener to the hilt gave him a satisfying thrill. The lonely ones were no match for him. When her eyes remained on his while she took a small sip of her drink, he knew he had her.

Little did she know that the striking, sympathetic man across from her mentally undressed her as she spoke. It was her scent, soft, musky, sexual. Her tousled hair fed his fantasy. He took a deep swallow of ale, wrestling with indecision. What kind of woman told such private matters to a complete stranger? He wasn’t looking for a relationship, especially with a depressed woman, enticing or not.

Are you an American? she asked, now thankfully changing the subject.

No, a tourist from Canada traveling around your incredible countryside. I think that the best way to explore is backpacking. Perhaps you could give me a little walkabout before I go back to my hostel?

With a shy blush, she suggested they walk over to a nearby park. She preferred fresh air to the smell of the pub anyway. He accepted her invitation with a light laugh, pleased to see her mood improve. Reaching to take her jacket off the closest peg behind her, he held it open and she wiggled her arms into it.

He had the perfect place in mind. I would like to check out the cliff area, if you don’t mind.

They took a brick path leading through the trees. On this cool spring evening, they had the area to themselves. She turned to give him a wary look.

We can go up to the river, she allowed, but the cliff’s closed off. Too dangerous for hikers.

He pouted in disappointment. Come now, it’ll be an adventure. Something I can always remember from my trip to England. I promise to hold your hand tight. It’s sure to be a magnificent view. Inspiring even.

She stopped, her pretty mouth twisted in concentration.

All right, but if I chicken out, you’ll be on your own up there. She slipped cold fingers into his waiting hand.

After a steep climb of a few metres, the choppy, gurgling of river water signaled a break in the path ahead. Breathless, they emerged to a cliffside outcropping of land roped off with no trespassing signs. Large flat boulders shouldered the barricade. He mounted the closest one, hauling her up next to his side.

This is close enough! she shouted over the wind. Her hair flew around her face as she took in how high they had climbed.

Don’t be afraid, he scoffed. I’m a lot bigger than you. I’ll hold you close so you won’t fall.

It was like something from a thriller. His body revved from the sheer height and magnitude of nature. Crashing, angry breakers pummeled the shingle below. High winds slashed at their clothing.

I want back down! she cried out. He held her tighter, relishing the feel of her fighting his strength. He stole a moment to look into her eyes. They were beautifully alarmed, much like a cornered animal.

An upward sweep of frigid wind fanned her wild tresses, giving her the look of Medusa.

No! Let me go back down! You’re hurting me! she gasped.

Like a crazed shrew from some medieval tale, she wailed and fought him with frantic hands, striking his cheek hard enough to shock him.

His return was immediate. A vicious slap to her horrified face. The girl reeled over the lip of the precipice. In a blur of wild curls and flailing arms, she tumbled.

He was rooted to the spot. Not in fear, but a simple curiosity. He darted a look about for any witnesses, but no one lingered in the evening gloom. Her abandoned red silk book lay on the grassy verge, a sad testament to her gullibility. He plucked it up, pocketed it, then walked back to the boulder where they stood minutes before. In the cold twilight he peered down to the turbulent waters, eager for the ghastly spectre of her mangled body.

Only foaming black spume dashed the rocks.

ONE

It had all the makings of an interminable afternoon, courtesy of Fleming’s Word Warriors. Mac Dalliwell played with his black gel pen, sketching bizarre caricatures on a yellow legal pad. The wooden library chair stiffened his back while he eyed the chatting women before him.

If only they could write as much as they talk, he thought, not for the first time. The stale air in the windowless room warmed under his shirt collar. It was all he could do to keep his falling eyelids open. While the women droned on about some tabloid celebrity’s secret baby bump, his thoughts drifted momentarily to his personal reason for joining the group. It had nothing to do with writing.

Without warning, the door to the room silently opened. All eyes turned to the newcomer.

For Mac, on this ordinary day, she was a sight to behold. With an increase in vigor rather than torpor, he straightened and perked up. A song he recalled from his youth, Venus In Blue Jeans, came to mind.

She glided to the empty neighbouring chair. Waves of corn silk hair created a fashionable messy updo. Her loose black sweater fell to her slim, jean-clad knees, while a plethora of silver bangles shimmered on her bony wrists. While the Word Warriors sat agog, the young woman’s elfin face broke into a luminous smile.

I hope I’m in the right place. Writers, right? She lifted a hand to her lips and giggled at her unintentional play on words.

Oh, a new face, our leader said, quick to comment. You are?

Olivia Larsen. People call me Livvy.

A gentle murmur accompanied pleasant nods from the others.

Welcome to our little group, Livvy. I’m Celeste. She made a jot on her page then turned to the woman on her right. This is Dottie, Annie next to her, Jeezra across the table, and our lone male, Mac, beside you.

He smiled as the young woman’s bejewelled fingers played with the spiral on her notebook.

Hi. First off I wanted to say how much I like the name of your group. It’s catchy. My sister, Cath, suggested this group to me after she saw something about it on Facebook. I used to write feature articles for a high school newspaper, but that was six years ago. I don’t know if I could ever publish anything, but I’d like to learn what my interest might lead to. She shot a quick glance at Mac.

Celeste nodded politely. Fine, thank you Livvy. The short, business-like woman cleared her throat and went on to outline the scheduled proceedings. Our plan this afternoon is to have Annie read her current work in progress, with a short go around for feedback. Before we get started with that, I would like to remind you all about the writers’ retreat hosted by GTA crime author, Terrance Mayville. There are only two spaces remaining and only two weeks until it starts, June 15th.

Celeste looked at Livvy, then pushed her glasses up on her narrow nose. I know this is your first meeting, but you are welcome to come if you like. It’s an invitation-only event, exclusive to three writing groups in the GTA. If you like crime fiction, you may have heard of Terrance. He presents a three-day long weekend for writing inspiration at his lakefront estate in St. Bartholomew’s, about an hour from here. At Claddagh Hall there are many beautiful rooms to write in, dinners are gourmet catered, a Friday morning workshop is available, and individual consultations are all included. Let me know if you would like to go and I’ll send you the registration details. I have confirmed my attendance as well as Mac’s, so I’ll need to hear from anyone else by next Sunday.

Mac glanced at his new neighbour while she processed all this information, wondering if it overwhelmed her. Celeste could be rather detailed at times. It certainly was pricey for a weekend. Then again, after only a few months, he joined the ranks of newcomer himself.

Maybe you could stand for your reading. Celeste addressed Annie.

Mac refocused on the meeting.

Did you bring enough copies to share? She raised her eyebrows.

Annie nodded, then dutifully handed her story around to the others. This is a short story I’m working on about a couple who meet at a funeral visitation and end up falling in love. It’s only fifteen hundred words so far, maybe three thousand would be enough. You guys can be the judge of that. I like alliteration, so my title is Desiree’s Desire.

Mac thoughtfully assessed the Word Warriors’ take on the new girl as he stepped from the cool of the library into the sun-drenched heat. It felt over thirty degrees. He swiveled at a light touch on his elbow. It was Livvy.

I’m sorry for butting into your thoughts, but I just wondered something. Do you think I was too forward back there? It’s just that I felt sorry for Annie. They were sort of ganging up a bit on her, you know? She clutched her colour-riotous notebook to her chest and waited for his answer.

Mac grinned, amused. No, I don't think so. There’s little that’s original in storylines, and every good writer’s originality comes through in how they present their own story, tame or otherwise. I got the sense that Annie was pleased by your intervention. She tends to be timid. He was in no hurry to go back to an empty apartment. Do you have time for a refreshment?

The girl shrugged her shoulders and grinned. I guess so. Why not?

They walked to The Flying Mug, a favourite hangout of the college crowd. Situated next to the library, it was formerly a cadet training centre from the Fifties. Mac liked the attention to period detail evident in the framed black and white photos of various wartime aircraft. The Sikorski helicopter pleased him to no end; an impressive piece of aeronautical history. The staff wore grey cadet caps to add to the nostalgia. The place bustled this Sunday afternoon, which surprised him until he recalled the temperature outside.

While they waited by the cash register, a couple of coeds juggling book bags and other student paraphernalia vacated a table. Mac went to the order counter to get Livvy’s choice of coffee and his Earl Grey tea. Beverages in hand, he slid behind the table and took a sip.

The girl eyed him for a moment. Please don’t take this the wrong way, she hedged, but you don’t seem the type to be drawn to this little bunch of lady writers. What I mean to say is you’re an accomplished author and...

Whoa! He laughed, holding up both hands as if to fend her off. Is that what the ladies told you? Well, consider this. I had two novels published years ago when I was young and carefree. As for accomplishment? It seemed a big deal at the time, but it wasn’t as satisfying as I’d hoped. It was great fun and took over much of my spare time. I was thrilled to be accepted by a publishing house for my first effort. My second one didn’t fare so well. Finally, I chucked it all and immersed myself in a real job selling stocks. He gave her a quick wink over his mug as he raised it to his lips again.

She frowned, then tucked a small hand under her chin. "I would think you could help the ladies more