Page 9 of Irish Vice

Miracle of miracles, Birte is still sitting in her chair. Keeping an eye on her, I jam my finger, placing a call on my phone.

“Mr. Braiden,” Grace answers on the fourth ring. She slurs my name. It’s not yet noon, and she’s drunk.

“Who do you think was standing in my fucking dining room this morning?”

She figures it out faster than I thought she would. “Not Miss Birte!”

“One and the same.”

Her excuses pile up, half in English, half in Irish, all soaked in the stolen whiskey she keeps hidden in a hip flask.

“The last time Birte got out, she set my office door on fire. You’re lucky she didn’t burn the house down today.”

“Mr. Braiden,” Grace starts again. “I’m so sorry. It won’t happen again. You know I love that girl like she’s my own. I prom?—”

I cut her off mid-word. “Come up to the house. Bring Aiofe with you. One more slip, and I send you back to Dublin.”

“But Miss Birte?—”

“She’ll learn to live without you if you so much as drop a saucer.”

Fairfax is next. It’s his day off, but I’ve called him back to the house on plenty of Sundays before. As I expect, he answers on the first ring. “Sir?”

“Going forward, the door to the third floor will remain unlocked.”

“Sir,” he says, and I can’t tell if he approves or not.

“And Birte will join us for meals.”

“Sir,” he says again, and if he thinks Birte can’t handle the stress, he’s smart enough not to voice his concerns out loud.

“Also,” I say. “As of this morning, Samantha has decided to move into the pool house.”

“Th— the pool house, sir?” In any other man, that stammer would be a fierce outcry, accompanied by enough curse words to singe the sky. I’m certain I’ve never before knocked Fairfax so far off-balance.

“I want her belongings moved from my bedroom by three,” I say. “She’ll need a bed out there. By tonight.”

“Very good, sir,” he says, as if I haven’t demanded theimpossible. “Do you want appliances installed as well? At present, there’s a mini-fridge and a microwave.”

“No.”

I’ll give her the distance she demands. She can take some time to come around. But my house rules aren’t as easy to get around as she thinks. She’ll eat breakfast beside me here in the dining room and dinner too—every feckin’ day.

Still, I’m not a total monster—multiple marriages to the contrary. “Have a coffee maker installed. And lay in a supply of the Jamaica Blue she likes.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And one more thing. We have a new houseguest arriving today—Fiona Ingram. I suspect she’ll stay for several weeks.”

The long pause is the most eloquent protest I’ve ever heard Fairfax make. He’s worked for me, and for my father before me, long enough to know the Ingram name. He’s heard all the rumors, and I’m sure he has his own share of facts.

But he finally says, “And where will Miss Fiona be staying?” Another pause, but he maintains his professionalism by adding, “Sir.”

“In one of the guest rooms.” And then, as if it’s an afterthought, I add, “Not the one Samantha used.” Before she moved into my room. Before she became mine.

“Very good, sir.”

I thank him and end the call.