Free Scandal in Skibbereen by Sheila Connolly Page B

space had been cleared of whatever milk-processing equipment had been there, leaving a single open space with a patchy concrete floor. At the back a bank of large windows opened onto the lough. The light that flooded the space was clean and bright, with a bit of a sparkle from the reflections off the water.
    Gillian was watching her with a smile. “Grand, isn’t it? As you’ll see, no one could live here in winter—it’s impossible to heat. But I like to spend summers here. Mostly I camp out. I’ve an old mattress in the corner there, behind a screen, and an electric kettle for tea. I don’t do much cooking, and if I want a real meal I go to Skibbereen.”
    “Do you own this place?”
    “The owner’s a friend who has no use for it, but he keeps the power and water on and I pay for it when I’m here. It works just fine for me. Let me see to that tea.”
    While Gillian filled the kettle then rinsed out some cups, Maura wandered around the room. At one windowless end, Gillian had hung a variety of unframed canvases as well as some watercolors. The latter were clearly more commercial, with views of hillsides and sheep, or what she recognized as the harbor at Leap, but painted with a quick, sure hand—Maura could easily see tourists wanting one. The oils were more intense in color and more abstract, but still compelling. Together they made the echoing space come alive.
    “Here you go,” Gillian said, handing her a hot mug. “Milk? Sugar?”
    “This is fine, thanks. These paintings are great, all of them.”
    “As I told you before, the pretty watercolors are mostly for the tourist trade. People like to take home a nice souvenir of the Old Country, and I’m happy to oblige. I sell them through a couple of shops in Skib, and a gallery in Schull, which gets lots of summer people. I’m trying to sweet-talk my way into something at Glandore, or even Rosscarbery, for the corporate types who visit. The oils are more personal. I use some acrylics too.”
    “I’d be happy to hang a couple in Sullivan’s, if you want,” Maura said before wondering if Jimmy and Mick would see that as “fancying up” the place, something they had argued against.
    “That’d be grand,” Gillian said. “Sit.” She motioned at Maura. “Talk to me. Sometimes when I get to working, I lose track of time. I can go days without even exchanging a word with a living soul. So, tell me about yourself. How on earth did an American girl like you arrive at the ends of the earth here?”
    Maura smiled. “It’s a complicated story. My father was born up the hill there, but he and my grandmother went to Boston when he was a child. He died when I was very young—I barely remember him.”
    “Sorry,” Gillian said. “We’ve lots of stories of people who went away. Nowadays some of them or their kids come back to visit, looking for their history, but there’s not much to be found. Do you see yourself staying?”
    “I never planned on it, but then, I never had much of a plan back in Boston either. I’m still getting to know the place, but I like it. I think. It takes getting used to. What about you? Did you say you spend part of the year in Dublin?”
    “I do, when it’s too cold to stay here. I’ve done a show or two there—you can guess there are more places for that kind of thing in the city—but the competition is wicked. I know my limitations as an artist, and I guess you’d say I’m not terribly ambitious. I like it here. I come here to clear my head.” Gillian stared out at the view. “Truth be told, this is home. I can come and go as I please. Paint all night, if I want, or not at all. I don’t have to answer to anyone. Things are easy.”
    “I’m beginning to see what you mean. I grew up in a part of Boston where there were always people around, and they weren’t exactly quiet. And then there were cars and trains, and planes overhead. I don’t think I knew what real quiet was like until I got here. But it’s not scary,