by Allison Parr
I had meant to be deliberate, a change from our desperateness on the hill. But he groaned my name and pressed his lips to mine, and then there was nothing in me but the frantic desire to be close to him, to touch him, to see the want in his eyes and know I’d inspired it. His mouth blazed hot down my neck while his thumb spiraled closer and closer to my nipple. Then his mouth replaced his hand and I groaned, arching beneath him as my whole body shuddered with desire.
I pulled at him until the full weight of his body lay against me, wonderful and strong and mine. My hands ran across his back, learning the contours of his muscles. He pressed hard against me, moving with aching, teasing slowness as I craved more.
“Get the goddamn condom,” I gasped, and he laughed, low and husky. For a moment there was cool air that didn’t belong between us, and then he drove into me, whispering my name as I cried his. I clung to him and met his rhythm, hot and wild and beautiful. And then golden sensation swept through me, and I wrapped my arms around Mike and hoped I’d never have to let him go.
* * *
I woke completely intertwined with Mike. I tried to pull away, but he towed me back. He pulled me on top of him, his eyes still closed as his mouth found mine. He kissed me deeply, possessively, and I responded, my fingers tangled in his hair, inebriated by his mouth and his body. This time we were slow and gentle as we traced each other’s contours and learned our rhythms. Afterward, I lay with my head on his chest, thinking that I was pretty hungry but that I didn’t want to move. Conundrum.
“I was thinking.”
I turned my head a little but only succeeded in seeing his jaw. It was a very nice jaw, though, so I kissed it. “About what?”
“Why do you always act so nice and cheerful to people you don’t know?”
I rolled over to face him better. “Didn’t you say you do the same, once? That you smile because it makes life easier.”
“But I’m curious about how you arrived there. Why do you to do that?”
I thought about it. “I guess it developed naturally. I smiled all the time growing up, to be polite. And then I went to college and decided I wanted to be someone else, and—I don’t know, I just found it easier to be happy, and interested, and pleasant. Because then everyone likes you.”
“Or they like who you’re presenting.”
“It didn’t make a difference to me. I didn’t really have a personality—just—obedience.”
“So you manipulated people because then everyone thought it was their idea and they still liked you. Easier than confrontations.”
I drew my knees up to my chest. “I wouldn’t have put it like that.”
He let out a breath. “I was going to go to UMass. Then I picked Notre Dame instead, because it was further away. My dad had been dead six months, and no one there knew, and I just smiled and played ball and they liked me.” He half laughed. “I didn’t have to talk for months. I just smiled.”
I traced a pattern on the comforter. “I can tell the difference in your smiles.”
He raised a brow. “You cannot.”
“Yes, I can.”
He smiled a slow, seductive smile, his eyes heavy. “Okay. So what does this one mean?”
It meant we were late down to breakfast.
* * *
We drove out to Blarney Castle with Mike’s family for the afternoon. MacCarthys built the fortress six-hundred years ago, and today tourists flocked to see the stronghold and to receive the gift of gab by kissing the bluestone block.
Which I wouldn’t do, because any stone worth kissing had usually been peed on.
We crossed grounds filled with gardens and a meandering brook before reaching the tall, rectangular keep, and then we climbed a narrow, spiraling staircase to the battlements. When we emerged, we looked over the lichen spotted, weathered stones to a view of apple green lawns and trees. To one side we could see the 19th century Blarney House, while to another we saw the brook we’d crossed and a picturesque round tower. Anna commandeered another tourist as a photographer, and positioned us all before the fields and then the Blarney Stone, which looked much like every other stone. And she kissed it of course, and then Lauren and Mike and I caved as well and hung backward over the steep drop. A gentle looking employee held me securely, his tip jar crammed with euros and pounds and dollars. The blood rushed to my head as I pressed my lips against the cool rock.
Mike raised a brow when I came back up. “Like you need more reasons to talk.”
“But now I will babble eloquently.”
Anna even managed to bully Kate into kissing it. She actually acquiesced easily enough. “I’ve already spent most of my life bending over backward for my children. Why should today be any different?”
We walked through the gardens and the rock close, where everything was named Witches Stone or Fairy Glade or Wishing Steps, and then we stopped by the stable before heading for the house tour. I leaned against the low stone wall and stared at the water and fields while Anna took pictures.
After less than a minute, footsteps padded behind me, and an easterly breeze washed his scent over me and lifted my hair. He braced his arms just as mine were and didn’t look my way. “So. Tamara Bocharov.”
When had he even—Kate had mentioned I’d looked like her yesterday. I’d completely forgotten. Had he looked it up before or after last night?
I forced a soft laugh. “If you call her a MILF, I’m going to throw up.”
He turned his head. “Why did you just do that?”
I’d thought I’d handled his discovery fairly well. “Do what?”
“Turn the source of one of your issues into bad comedy material.”
I stiffened. “I think I’m allowed to react however the hell I want to about my family.”
“Yeah, but that wasn’t your reaction, you just slapped it on so I wouldn’t see how you really felt. You know, it’s okay to talk about your family issues. I find it kind of helps.”
I turned so my back pressed against the wall and my elbows rested on it. “Really?”
He gave me the crooked grin I loved. “Don’t let it go to your head.”
I smiled apologetically. “Sorry I snapped. But I’m fine with my mom. Really.”
“Then how come you never once mentioned she spent ten years modeling all over the world?”
So, he’d done his research. Or at least read her Wikipedia page. “I’m not going to run around inserting her into conversations. That’d be awkward.”
“No, but you shouldn’t hide from it. It’s not a badge of shame.”
“Are you kidding?” I was hot and embarrassed and angry. “Of course it is.”
We stared at each other and I felt even sicker. “Don’t tell anyone I said that.”
“I won’t.”
I took a deep breath and collapsed on the swing. “How’d you know it was one of my buttons?”
His arm brushed mine. “The first time I complimented your eyes you freaked out.”
What? No. When had that happened? “No way.”
He tilted his head.
I sighed. “It’s just weird, you know? Like, she thinks what I’m doing is so weird, and she doesn’t even realize how messed up her own career and life was.”
He didn’t say anything, so I let my thoughts verbally roll out. I didn’t talk about my mother often—with my brothers, I always felt like I had to defend her, and the same with Cam, though I knew my best friend only meant to be supportive. “She grew up in this small town in Eastern Russia, where the talent scout from Paris found her when she was only fourteen. It just seems so wrong—these scouts pluck these kids, who didn’t speak any French or English, and move them to model homes in France.”
“Did she like it?”
I flipped my hand over indecisively. “If you talk to her about it, she makes it sound like the best thing in the world. But she’s the least happy person I know. I can’t imagine she was ever that happy.”
“And she wanted you to model.”
; Startled, I glanced up at him. “Did I say that already?”
“You said you were a bad doll.”
“Right.” My jaw worked and then I let out a breath of old, stale anger. “I did a couple times when I was a kid.”
For a brief instant, he looked uncomfortable. “I know. I saw them.”
No way.
He ducked his head. “I have powerful Google-fu.”
I shook my head. So he’d seen me as a twelve-year-old in pastel dresses and round curls. Fine. “Did you see the ones of my mom? The Goddess series?”
He shook his head.
I pulled out my phone. It didn’t take me long to find my favorite. “Most of them were fashion shoots, but this was the one that really made her famous. Happened right after she arrived in Paris, and she just went around seeing everything.” The series was my favorite, because for the only time in her career, Tamara Bocharov looked like an actual person—overwhelmed, lost and childishly excited.
“This one’s called The Gray-Eyed Goddess.” My mother wore a white, Greek-inspired dress, her blond hair bound back to intensify her gaze. From other photos, I knew my mother was posed around the Louvre, but this one focused on her face. “They used to call her that. But what’s funny—well, kind of stupid—is that they mixed their names. No one ever called her Athena, which is what gray-eyed meant. When they gave her a name it was always Aphrodite, Goddess of Love. Which was appropriate.
“I always thought that if I had to pick a Greek goddess to share attributes, I would be Athena. Wisdom and war. I understand that much more than love or Artemis and her hunting, or Hera, devoted to marriage and children.”
“Wisdom and war...” he repeated. “What about your dad?”
I’d laughed before, the few times I’d told this story, but it struck me now that I didn’t really find it funny. Just sad. “He was her lawyer. Turned out a contact lens company had been using her image illegally for years, so she sued.”
He studied me. “I’m guessing they didn’t just fall madly in love.”
I shrugged and examined the silver around Mom’s pupil, which faded into dark, crushed charcoal. “She was young and beautiful. He was older and successful. Tale as old as time.”
“Real beast?”
I snorted real laughter. “Married one too.”
“That sucks.”
“Ah, well.” I looked down at the picture for a long moment.
Mike didn’t move. Behind us, bursts of laughter spilled from tourists and cameras flashed brightly.
“I’m always so angry whenever I’m with them,” I finally said. “But the rest of the time, I worry. Isn’t that ridiculous? I think my father thinks my mother is silly and petty, and Mom thinks he’s abrasive and uncaring, and I kind of think they’re both right. And I shouldn’t worry, because it’s none of my business, and if they get divorced, wouldn’t that be a good thing if it’s what they want?
“My mother just emailed and said one of those reality shows offered her a judging position. But not all those shows are nice, so I worry she’s being exploited and they’ll make fun of her. And if Dad found out he’d be furious.”
“Would it make her happy?”
I turned around again, back to the serene water and gentle waving trees. “Is that what we’re supposed to base our decisions off of? What makes us happy?”
Mike caught my arm and turned me slightly, and then he smiled the crooked smile, my smile, and it said, you would make me happy.
And so I kissed him, and he kissed me, and I was happy.
“Natalie! Mike!”
We broke apart and found Anna waving at us. “Come on, we’re headed to the house!”
“Oh my God,” I muttered as she ran after the others. “I can’t believe she saw that.” Then I scowled. “I can’t believe she’d didn’t look the least bit surprised.”
Chapter Fourteen
After touring the house, we walked down to the lake, and later stopped in Cork at a Mexican restaurant Lauren had found online. We still returned to Dundoran by eight, since Anna had plans with a cohort of names the rest of us couldn’t remember.
The next week was an endless stretch of happiness. In the mornings and afternoons, I talked to locals about the surrounding land, visited nearby libraries and town halls and read newspapers and local publications. In the evenings, the O’Connor family took me in, and we’d either hang out at the inn or meet up with acquaintances or thrice removed relations in Dundoran.
And the nights, I spent with Mike.
That Friday, I met with Mrs. Harrington from three towns over when she was visiting her sister in Dundoran. She told me an incredibly exciting story about artifacts from fifteen hundred years ago that she’d found on their land. I was still bouncing when I went to meet Mike and Lauren, despite the sudden summer thunderstorm. I ran through the village to the pub, clutching my precious notebook close so no ink would be smeared or paper ruined by the rain. I shook myself off when I went inside.
People packed the pub. A band had set up shop in one corner and played traditional Irish music, and a handful of tables had been pushed aside to make room for dancing. I made my way over to Mike, and he handed me a Guinness.
What a coincidence. I had just been in a mood for more Guinness.
We ended up squished at a table with Lauren and Paul. Mike scowled at his cousin. “Don’t you have any other friends?”
Paul took a swig of his pint. “You think I want to be hanging about with a bunch of culchies?”
We didn’t need an Irish-to-American dictionary to know that Paul was being derisive; he alternated insulting adjectives with great fluidity. I actually considered it a form of language immersion.
Mike leaned forward. “So why are you still here?”
Paul’s eyes slid in Lauren’s direction for the briefest second, and he shrugged. “Someone’s got to see Aunt Maggie sorted. Knew you weren’t up to it.”
A muscle in Mike’s jaw ticked. “Look, Connelly—”
“So!” I said brightly. “Who wants to hear what I learned today!”
They all reluctantly turned to face me.
I launched into my story about Mrs. Harrington’s discovery. It had taken place ten years ago when they were making the basement for their new house, but still.
Mike frowned thoughtfully. “So what about all the other layers? If you’re going straight to Iron Age, what happens to the rest of time?”
It made me happy that he’d asked that, like he was an intelligent undergrad in my Intro to Archaeology class. “Well, that’s the big question, isn’t it?”
“Huh?”
I smiled and switched into lecture-lite mode. “The thing about archaeology is its destructiveness. You can’t repeat an excavation and see if you get the same results. You can’t go back and check the positioning of the bricks and stones you’ve already pulled up. We map and take pictures of every single layer—God, how we map—but you’re right. Here, I want to get to the first century, and that means I might be tearing up footprints from medieval manors or twentieth century farmhouses.”
I paused. “I don’t think there’s going to be a ton of really important artifacts. I mean, sure, if we come across a cist burial, that’s going to be an issue. But I’m betting this land has been farmland since the beginning, and the things we do dig through aren’t going to be unlike what you’d find if you excavated anywhere else in the area around us.”
Lauren frowned. “How do you even know where to dig?”
I nodded. “It’s impossible to actually pinpoint the harbor, since there’s so many possible points. Luckily, a coastal survey took core samples of the area three years ago, so we do know there was saline water here two thousand years ago. There’s also, interestingly, a dolmen—that’s a portal tomb, you know, the giant rocks marking burial sites—that is oddly far away from water, which supports water being here, which is why I believe the harbor city is so far inland. I think there was a tributary that silted up.
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��But since the area’s so large, I’m bringing in a specialist to do an electrical resistivity survey first, which should tell us if there’s any large structures buried. Hopefully I’ll find quays, or—this is what I really want—a sunken ship. If there’s nothing found that way, we’re going to open units using a systematic sampling, and I’m sure that will find something. It has to.”
Mike regarded me with an unhappy expression. Shoot, I’d gone too far into grad mode. Time to rein it in and act like a normal human.
“Natalie.”
“Yeah?”
“But you’re not going to dig there.”
“Oh, right.” I flushed. “I know that. I just got a little carried away.”
Paul’s eyes narrowed at Mike. “Do you derive some twisted pleasure in parading around as the prodigal son, even as you cut off the village’s chance of bringing in major money?”
Mike looked outraged. “It’s none of your business what I do with my land.”
Paul leaned forward. “Of course it’s not. Of course it should be left up to a bunch of Yanks to decide what to do with a place they’d never seen and they’ll never see again.”
“This is my family—”
“But not your country, mate—”
Lauren slammed her hands on the table. “Will both of you just shut up?”
The mellow tenor and bass of the singers swung out into our small corner of silence. “No, nay never, no more...”
I took a deep breath in the long, tense stillness. “I just love this song!”
Paul flashed a blazing smile at me that was clearly really intended for the other two members of our party to notice. “Want to dance?”
I stole a glance at Mike as I whirled my finger at my chest. “Me?”
Paul smiled. “Won’t be the same as salsa in Ecuador or dancing at one of the super-clubs, but we have better music here.”
I laughed. “Yeah, well, I’m awful at salsa and can’t stand house music, so this sounds like a great alternative.”
Mike stood up abruptly. “I’ll dance with you.”