Paris Is Always a Good Idea

by Jenn McKinlay

  “Yes, well.” Dad coughed. “Nice to know you’re prepared.”

  “For anything,” Sheri agreed.

  They didn’t look at each other when they spoke, as if they were afraid they would laugh if they did. Mortified, I couldn’t make eye contact with either of them.

  Annabelle caught me in a hug that knocked the breath out of me.

  “Don’t come home until they’re all gone,” she said.

  My eyes went round. If my quick glance was correct, the box held thirty-six condoms. Given the current dormant state of my love life, if I followed Annabelle’s directive, I might never come home. I didn’t admit this, however.

  Instead, I grabbed the handle on my suitcase and headed toward the sliding glass doors. I paused to wave before I disappeared inside, yelling, “Bye! I love you!”

  “I love you, too,” Annabelle cried, jumping up and down, her long dark hair bouncing around her shoulders.

  “Love you, peanut,” Dad said. He slipped his arm around Sheri as if it was the most natural thing in the world. My entire system rejected the picture they made as they waved goodbye, looking for all the world like a pair of doting parents.

  I forced a smile, pretending that everything was great, when deep inside it felt as if everything was so very wrong and nothing could fix it—not even a giant box of condoms.

  * * *

  • • • •

  FROM THE DUBLIN airport, I had to catch an Airlink bus to Heuston train station. It took an hour to wind our way through the city, allowing me a power nap as I tried to combat the jet lag, which was making me droop. Then it was a three-hour train ride, which ended in the famously colorful town of Killarney late in the morning.

  At the Killarney station, I checked my phone to see whether my dad had gotten my text telling him I’d arrived in Ireland. He had, and his response was full of happy emojis blowing kisses, which was so not my buttoned-down dad. Glen Martin in love was taking some getting used to. There was also a text from a number I didn’t recognize. It was a Boston area code, so I opened it. I felt my mood plummet as soon as I read the message.

  Martin, call me.

  There was only one person on the entire blue marble that we all inhabit who called me by my last name, and that was Knightley. How he’d gotten my number and why he’d be texting me, I couldn’t fathom, but I had zero interest in finding out. Call me. So bossy! Who did he think I was, his personal assistant? If there was something happening at the ACC, Julia would reach out.

  I shoved my phone into my bag, leaving the message status as read, which I knew he’d see. Let him chew on that. I then trudged from the station to the hotel where the car-rental place was located, keeping one eye on the sky, as it looked as if it was about to rain at any moment.

  I’d been afraid that after so many years away, driving on the left side of the road would be weird and possibly dangerous, but because I was sitting on the right side of the car, something clicked in my brain that made the adjustment easier than I would have thought.

  Although I ground the gears once—okay, twice—using the stick shift in the Opel Corsa on my way out of the rental place and swiped the curb with my back tire, I still felt confident enough to take on the narrow roads and rolling hills ahead of me. I purposefully didn’t look back to see if the car-rental guy had clutched his chest and keeled over when I left. Best not to know.

  The start of my route took me through Killarney National Park. The sun popped out of the clouds, which I took as a good sign. I switched the radio dial to Radio Kerry, which was broadcast out of Tralee and served the surrounding counties. There was some lively fiddle music happening, and I tapped my fingers on the steering wheel as I cruised over the narrow stretch of road.

  I gingerly passed a tour bus that was pulled over to the side, and then a second, then I had to brake hard for a goat, who seemed in no hurry to move out of the road at all. In fact, when I honked, she definitely moved even slower. Lovely, a goat with oppositional defiant disorder. I hoped it wasn’t an omen for my trip. Finally, I was off the tourist route and onto a narrower and rougher patch of road that cut through the middle of the Ring of Kerry, the tourist loop that took visitors all around County Kerry, and well on my way to the village of Finn’s Hollow.

  The rugged path wound up through the craggy hills. Sweeps of velvet green were studded with gray granite rocks jutting up through the earth like fists punching up to reach the sky. Despite the cold, I rolled down my window a few inches to bring in the fresh air while the car’s heater kicked out a steady stream of warmth, keeping my feet toasty. The sweet cool air from outside was thick and lush and scented with the smell of fresh grass and damp earth. I felt something inside of me shift as my memories of this place filled me up with a sense of joy. I hadn’t realized how much I’d missed Ireland until this very moment. It felt like coming home.

  It was early afternoon before I reached the turnoff onto an even smaller and narrower road that would take me to my ultimate destination—a bed. The midday coffee was wearing off, and I was feeling a little shaky as I turned down the steep hill, took a long curve, climbed up another hill, and came to a stop at a four-way intersection where there was not a single soul in sight. I paused to take in the vista of the village below.

  A cluster of stone buildings were nestled in the valley as if they’d been planted there. It was exactly as I remembered it, and I was surprised at how little Finn’s Hollow had changed in seven years. But then I realized my impression was from a distance. The town, like me, might appear the same on the outside, but significant changes had likely happened within, possibly not noticeable until I was in the heart of it. I stepped on the gas.

  Finn’s Hollow was small, even for a village, with one church, a post office, a modest grocery, three bed-and-breakfasts, and a pub called the Top of the Hill, which seemed to be a bit of a misnomer, since it actually sat at the very bottom of the hill at the end of the road.

  Michael Stewart, who’d owned the pub when I’d last been here, liked to tell the tale of how the pub had started at the top of the hill but one year a horrible rainy season had come upon Finn’s Hollow. It rained and rained and rained some more. It rained so much that the townspeople had to use boats to get around instead of cars, the sheep began to grow gills and fins, and then one night, during the heaviest rain of them all, the pub slipped down from its foundation at the top of the hill and landed at the bottom. The townspeople were happy because they hadn’t been able to get up the hill for their usual nip, and the bar owner was as well, and he announced to one and all that he wasn’t going to change the name, because anyone who went looking for the pub on the top of the hill would surely be able to find it at the bottom.

  I smiled when I thought of the many hours I’d spent at the pub with Colin and the other summer workers. We’d been a motley crew, with Colin, being local, taking the role of our leader. He’d kept us out of trouble for the most part, but he’d also gotten us into some ridiculous scrapes as well. In addition to his natural ability to lead, Colin Donovan had been quite a mischief maker.

  I’d spent as much time online as I could trying to find Colin, but I hadn’t found a presence for him on any social media. I hoped that someone at the farm still remembered him and knew how I could locate him.

  I felt a flutter of nerves in my belly. It had been seven years since I’d seen Colin. Would he remember me? Would he mind that I was popping up in his life after so much radio silence? I felt as if I were living out an Adele song and the potential for pain and humiliation was spectacularly high.

  Colin Finley Donovan. I tried to picture what he’d look like now. Would he still have his thick thatch of red hair with the crazy cowlick and the smattering of freckles across his nose? Were his eyes still the pretty blue of the common field speedwell that bloomed all over the farm between craggy rocks and along the roadsides? When we’d last been together, he’d begged me not t
o go on to my next post but to stay with him in Ireland. He’d tried to convince me that Finn’s Hollow was where I belonged—with him. It had been tempting, so tempting.

  But I had made commitments for different jobs all over Europe that I felt honor bound to keep. Plus, I’d wanted to see as much as I could during my year abroad, and staying in the first place I landed wasn’t a part of the plan. When I kissed Colin goodbye, I promised to stay in touch, but, of course, I hadn’t. I wondered how he’d felt about that, if he’d felt anything at all.

  I hadn’t kept up with Jean Claude either, which made me question whether my plan to visit Paris was wise. Eh, who was I kidding? Paris was always a good idea!

  My itinerary was vague at best. I didn’t know if I’d be retracing my footsteps from my year abroad for a week, a month, or a year. That’s why I’d taken a leave of absence. I simply had no idea what was going to happen, which was both exhilarating and terrifying and reminded me so much of how I’d felt during my year abroad.

  Life was an adventure! For now, I’d deal with Ireland and worry about Paris when I got there. No matter what happened here or there, I had heard from Marcellino in Italy, via email, and he was looking forward to seeing me when I arrived. The thought made me smile.

  Right now, my mission was to find Colin. For the first time since I’d conceived this trip, I wondered what exactly I was going to say to him if and when I found him. I decided to practice just like I did for my important meetings.

  “Hi, Colin, do you remember me?” I said it out loud, trying it on. No, it was too desperate. It didn’t fit, like a pair of jeans that were too tight in the crotch. I tried again.

  “Hey, aren’t you Colin Donovan?” I shook my head. Nope. I was a lousy fibber and would never be able to pretend I just happened to be in Finn’s Hollow, the backside of nowhere, without a purpose, like stalking my ex-boyfriend.

  I lowered my voice as I shifted into a higher gear, picking up speed down the hill toward town. In my sultriest tone, I said, “Well, hello, Colin.”

  Yeah, no, that was awful. I sounded like I had a horrible head cold and was likely contagious. I sighed. What was I going to say? How was I supposed to approach a man I hadn’t seen in seven years?

  The panic began to thrum in my chest. What if he didn’t remember me? What if he rejected me? That would be levels of embarrassing I wasn’t sure I could handle. I shook it off, thinking of the sparkly pink flower girl dress waiting for me back in Boston. Right, so it could always be worse.

  I turned my car onto the main road through town. There were a few people out and about, and I caught myself looking for a thick head of red hair with an unruly cowlick. Of course none of the men were him. That would make things entirely too easy. Although, if I actually did spot him, I didn’t suppose it would be good form to stop my car and run him to the ground right then and there, so perhaps it was for the best.

  Since I hadn’t been able to find any information about Colin online, I knew he might have moved on to greener pastures, as it were, but I found that hard to believe. Colin had loved the outdoor life Finn’s Hollow offered. Hiking the Kerry Way and angling in Lough Caragh and the Caragh River had been his favorite ways to spend his days off. I couldn’t picture him anywhere outside the Iveragh Peninsula, but then again, I was here, and I’d never expected to be back, so there was that.

  The Finn’s Hollow Cottages were conveniently located on a side street just past the Top of the Hill. I passed the pub, took a sharp turn, and arrived at a large, cheery yellow house with white trim with several smaller versions of the same off to the side, forming a short row. If I remembered my reservation right, my cottage was number five, the last one in the line.

  I parked in the small lot, beside several other vehicles, and switched off the car. I grabbed my shoulder bag and stepped outside, taking a deep breath while admiring the view of the countryside. Despite the gray sky overhead, the landscape was beautiful, rolling hills divided by thick hedgerows with big brown mountains looming in the distance.

  Mrs. Darby O’Shea, the woman who owned the cottages, had seemed very friendly in her email. It wasn’t peak tourist season, so she had a cabin available. She’d told me to come knock on her door no matter the time to collect the key to my cottage. I pictured Mrs. O’Shea in my mind’s eye as a sort of grandmotherly type who enjoyed baking and knitting and had one too many cats, basically the sort of person I was destined to become if I didn’t get back out there and find myself. Not that there was anything wrong with the quiet cat-lady life. I just wasn’t ready to embrace it fully quite yet.

  My phone chimed again, and I pulled it out of my purse. I glanced at the display. It was a text. Again, from Knightley.

  Martin, I know you’re getting my messages. Call me.

  Hmm. I considered my options as I stared at my phone. It chimed again.

  Please.

  Ooh, manners! Well, that was a game changer. I started to text back when the first fat plop of a raindrop splashed the side of my face, and I glanced up, assessing the likelihood of more rain. This was a bad move, as the droplet had been a warning shot, and in the next instant the sky opened up as if someone had ripped through the bottom of a cloud with a knife blade. The deluge hit so fast, it soaked me through before I even had a chance to grab my umbrella from the back seat. With a yelp, I shoved my phone in my bag and ran for the main house at top speed.

  I yanked open the door and stepped into the glassed-in porch, which also appeared to serve as an office, as there was a small wooden desk at the far end. Unfortunately, no one was there. Brown wicker furniture with plump blue-and-white-striped cushions filled the other side of the porch, but those were vacant, too. Hmm.

  A bass beat sounded over the steady pounding of the rain on the roof. I stood on the doormat, dripping a big puddle onto the floor, while I tried to identify the noise. It was definitely music—I could hear a guitar and singing coming from inside the house. Should I knock? Was Mrs. O’Shea having a party? I glanced at the door, the empty desk, and then my car.

  Well, standing here was doing a whole lot of nothing. I shook off as much of the rain as I could and strode to the front door of the house. I knocked. No one answered. Undoubtedly, they couldn’t hear me over the music. I sighed. I was wet and tired and becoming rapidly cranky. I tried the doorknob. It turned, so I opened the door and went inside.

  The music was infinitely louder in the foyer. I recognized the song “Bellyache” by Billie Eilish. Maybe Mrs. O’Shea had some teenage grandchildren who were visiting. I listened, trying to determine if the music was coming from upstairs. It wasn’t. I walked down a short hall, poked my head into the front room, and came face to rump with, not kidding, a glittery pink bottom.

  “Ah!” I cried and fell backward with my hand over my heart.

  The front room was bare of furniture except for three stripper poles placed in a line in the center of the room. All three of the poles had women draped on them in various poses, and all three of the women were spinning to the music.

  “Well, hello, dear,” the owner of the pink tush yelled over the music as she twirled with her head down and her posterior high, the pole clasped by one hand and one leg. “You must be Chelsea Martin.”

  I nodded. I stood frozen, unblinking, as the woman uncoiled herself from the pole and landed in a split on the ground. Her long gray hair and gently lined face put her in her sixties at least. I wondered if she’d hurt herself. Should I give her a hand? I glanced at the other two women, still on their poles, who did not seem concerned in the least.

  The woman in front of me popped up to her feet, reached over to a small Bluetooth speaker, and turned down the music. She had on a black sports bra with the bedazzled pink boy shorts, and that was it. I glanced at her arms, legs, and abs—they were all muscle. Wow.

  “I’m Darby,” the woman said. She used a hair band from around her wrist to tie her hair into a high po
nytail. “Welcome to the cottages.”

  My mouth opened and then closed. So much for a knitting cat lover. I tried to shake off my shock and said, “Thanks.”

  Darby’s brown eyes sparkled as she took in my expression. “Fancy a go?” she asked and jerked her thumb at a pole.

  “Uh, no.” I shook my head. “But thank you.”

  “You change your mind, you let me know. I teach pole dancing. I can show you how.” She turned to the other two women and said, “Keep practicing.”

  The women continued twirling. They were considerably younger than Darby, and I noted that one of them had an orangey glow to her skin, the sort that looked like it came from a can of spray-on tan.

  “Follow me,” Darby said. She grabbed a blue towel and draped it around her neck. I fell in behind her, completely entranced by the way her muscles bunched and released beneath her skin as she walked to the porch.

  “Sorry to interrupt your class,” I said. “I knocked but no one answered.”

  Darby waved her hand at me. “It’s no trouble. I teach classes all day long, so most people know where to find me.”

  So many questions. I felt as if I were going to bust if I didn’t say something. “So, pole dancing, huh?”

  Darby moved behind the small desk and smiled at me. Her entire face lit up, and she said, “Isn’t it wonderful?”

  “Amazing, for sure,” I said. “How did you happen to take it up?”

  “Oh, that’s a story,” Darby said. “The short version is that I found my lying, cheating, no-good husband in bed with another woman, so I kicked him out.”

  I nodded.

  “He had the bloody nerve to tell me it was my fault that he’d cheated, because I’d gone soft.” Darby patted her ripped abs. “This after I’d borne him two sons.”