by Tessa Bailey
My cowardice floods me with self-disgust. Why am I avoiding the inn at all? Taking a deep breath, I think of how Ginger would handle this situation. She would saunter in there, Southern attitude in every single step, and wink at the guy giving her trouble. Then she’d continue on right up the stairs without a backward glance, secure in the knowledge that he’d be staring after her.
I store my camera inside my messenger bag and walk back toward the bus stop, with twice as much determination as when I’d disembarked in Howth.
…
When I walk in the Claymore, it’s eerily silent. Shane isn’t standing behind the bar, where he would typically be at this hour. Orla is tapping a pen against a pint glass, staring nervously at the back hallway door. The few customers scattered around the bar appear subdued, watching the televisions but not really seeing them. My first thought is, oh no, something happened to Kitty. It feels like someone is stepping on my throat at the possibility, but I manage to walk to the bar and casually ask Orla what’s going on. I’ve never actually spoken to the perpetually late redhead, apart from an odd hello once in a while, but she answers me now without hesitation.
“Shane is in the office, talking to a man who walked straight in off the bleedin’ street. Brought his solicitor and everything.” She lowers her voice to a whisper. “They come to talk about buying the inn. They didn’t even have an appointment. It’s cheeky, if you ask me.”
“Cheeky,” I repeat softly. When I first walked into the Claymore with my suitcase, the thought of selling it was repellant. Now, it feels like a sacrilege. This is a home. A place to be proud of. It has character and memories. Good and bad, yes, but their memories. How could you walk away from something like this? On top of these rapid-fire thoughts, I’m keenly aware that this puts Shane one step closer to leaving Dublin. Back to racing and traveling around the world.
This is good. Knowing his time here has a specific deadline is good. It’ll make it easier to get on the plane, knowing he’s not standing behind the bar in the same place I left him, while I move farther and farther away.
Jesus, I’m turning into a really good liar.
“From New York, the bloke is. Not even Irish.” She lays a hand on my arm. “Nothing against your lot, it’s just that an American will ruin it straightaway. Put up a bunch of flat-screens on the walls and show American football on them. They’ll definitely want someone behind the bar with decent tits.” She pokes the side of her right boob. “These sad, old danglers won’t stand a chance.”
“You…they’re fine,” I stammer. Honestly, this is our first conversation and we’re already discussing her rack. “My bra is padded enough to double as a flotation device.”
Orla’s face clears of worry as she laughs. “Ah, I get it now. Why our Shane has the wee eye for ya.”
“The wee what?”
“He’s been jumpier than a bag of cats since you arrived. I doubt it’s a coincidence.”
“Maybe I give him indigestion?”
Orla leans forward on the bar, as if imparting a great secret. “Irish men are a complicated sort. That one more than most. Don’t judge by what you see on the surface, or they’ll knock you on your arse when you’re not looking.”
I stow that insight away for later examination. “Can I ask you a question?”
“Shoot.”
“Why doesn’t he fire you? You’re never on time.” When she bursts out laughing, I can’t contain my own smile. “I know from experience he doesn’t take anyone’s shit, so why—”
“Does he continue to employ me?” Orla sighs. “My husband lost the use of his legs in a factory accident last year. It’s been a difficult adjustment. When I’m late to work, it’s normally because I’m hauling him to physical therapy and back.” She shrugs. “Or we’ve simply had a bad morning.”
I’m staggered by this. Not only Shane’s generosity toward Orla, which he’s never uttered a word about, but it proves he cares about this pub and the people who work in it. He’s not as indifferent about the Claymore Inn as he presents to the world.
Orla is watching me process this, I realize. A customer walks into the bar, drawing Orla away, but before she goes to serve him, she taps a finger to her temple. “Irish men.”
Her words ringing in my head, I turn to leave, intending to take a hot shower and attempt sleep. Before I reach the door, Shane walks out with two men in suits. His blue eyes lock on me immediately, the somberness in them tugging at my heart. He opens his mouth to say something, to me, I think, when the kitchen door bursts open and Faith walks out. She’s holding a giant, silver ladle in her hand, her hair pulled back in a messy bun.
“Have you sold it, then?”
Behind me, the pub goes silent. It even sounds like the volume of the music has been turned down. Several chairs scrape back and without turning around, I know the regulars at the bar are watching with avid interest. Shane nods to a young, blond man holding a suitcase. “Faith, this is Joseph DeMatteo and his—”
“An Italian,” Orla shouts from the bar. “Running an Irish pub? Has the entire world gone mad?”
Shane pinches the bridge of his nose. “We’ve a week to decide if we want to accept the offer, Faith. We’ll discuss it later.”
“What’s to discuss? We all know what your decision is going to be.” She throws the ladle down on the ground with a clatter, remnants of soup splattering her shoes. “You hate it here. You always have. We might as well start packing, Ma and I.”
“Faith, this isn’t the place.”
“What is the place, if not here?” She swipes a hand over her eyes. “This is the only place I know.”
Both suited men shift in their loafers, clearly uncomfortable with the family drama playing out around them, although I sense a hint of satisfaction over Faith’s words. They obviously hadn’t been sure up until this point of Shane’s decision, something I find odd. I’d been so sure that the second an offer was made on the inn, he would be laughing his way out the front door.
Shane makes eye contact with me, and I know what he’s asking. He doesn’t even have to say it out loud. I give him a subtle nod, then walk over to Faith, putting an arm around her shoulders. “Why don’t we go upstairs? I’ll show you the pictures I took today.”
“Oh, that’s grand. You two are working together now.” She yanks herself away from me. “I’m not Kitty. I don’t need a babysitter. Piss off.”
Okay, after talking to her like a petulant child, I guess I deserve that. It was a move worthy of an inept boyfriend, the equivalent of telling a woman to, “Calm down.” Since I have only a passing knowledge of how to comfort someone, though, I cut myself a tiny bit of slack. I change tactics, hoping to appeal to the pride she takes in good service, the running of the pub. All the while, I’m battling the painful squeeze in my stomach over the tears brimming in her eyes. “You making a scene isn’t going to change anything, Faith,” I whisper. “It’s only going to give people something to talk about.”
She seems to snap back to herself, then, attention landing on what I suspect are rapt customers, observing the scene with interest. With a frustrated sob, she pushes off me and runs through the hallway door. Shane starts to follow her, but I put a hand on his arm.
“I’ll go.”
His eyes are on Faith’s retreating back. “Thank you.”
I’ve never been inside Faith’s room, nor do I know which one it is, but I see a door slam just beyond the base of the stairs. I pause outside for a moment, take a deep breath, then push inside. Faith is lying facedown on the bed, face buried in a pillow. Surprisingly, she’s not crying. Her body is completely still. From a tightening in her shoulders, though, I know she’s aware that I’ve entered. It takes her a moment to sit up and face me.
“I hate him.”
My first inclination is to say, “No, you don’t,” but I stay silent. Faith doesn’t have the capacity to hate anyone, especially her brother. I know that, but telling a female how she feels, right on the heels of asking he
r to calm down, might get me stabbed with the letter opener I see on her bedside table.
“This place, it represents our da to him. That’s why he can’t stand it here. Can’t stand to remember what it was like.” She swipes a hand under her nose. “They couldn’t even be in the same room, the two of them. Then what happened six months ago—”
Quickly, I cut her off. “What was it like? With the two of them here?” It’s not that I don’t want to know what happened six months ago. I do. It’s that I sense it’s the piece of the puzzle I’ve been missing and I want Shane to be the one to tell me. What sense does that make?
Faith yanks the rubber band from her hair, letting her dark mane fall around her shoulders, a kink in the middle where the rubber band held it together all afternoon in the kitchen. I notice the slump of her shoulders, the dark circles around her eyes and I’m slammed with guilt. All day I’ve been feeling sorry for myself when Faith is about to lose everything she has ever known. I’m a horrible friend. I don’t even know how to be a friend.
“We couldn’t do anything right. None of us.” She blows out a breath. “But Shane got it worst of all, being the son. If I ever did something right, it came as a shock to my father. Shane’s mistakes were unacceptable. When he was younger, he tried harder. Wanted to do better. He worked himself to the bone. It was never good enough. Nothing was ever good enough.” A sob works its way free of her mouth. “I take it back. I don’t hate my brother.”
The image of a young man, eager to impress his father and failing, prevents a smile from forming on my face over Faith’s confession. Instead of making me sad, it makes me livid. It makes me wonder where some parents, mine included, get off on being so shitty.
“Shane got older and the fighting started. He started driving to Kildare on his day off, working with a racing trainer. Took every bit of his pay to afford it.” Faith shrugs. “My father demanded he quit. He threatened to kick Shane out so many times…one morning we woke up and he was just…gone.”
“I’m sorry.” I don’t know what else to say. Part of me understands Shane’s actions completely. He broke up with his family before they could break up with him. It’s something I might do in the same situation. To save myself the pain from the final blow of being kicked out.
“God, part of me envies Shane,” Faith continues. “He wanted to race. Always did. So he went out and bloody did it. I never had the guts to stand up to him. When I leave the inn, I still hear my da in the back of my head telling me to get back to work.”
“But you do it anyway.” My voice feels rusty, so I clear my throat. “You’re the girl who conned me into going to O’Kelly’s. You brought me to see the street performers in the park. Those are the two best days I’ve ever had. You did that for me. I never would have done it on my own.” As I say the words, I realize they’re true.
She stares, wide-eyed. “Really?”
I suddenly feel the need to convince her how irrepressible her spirit is, even if she can’t see it for herself. It’s important to me that when I leave this room, she looks less defeated than when I arrived. It’s a lofty goal since my usual advice would be to rub some dirt on it. “Yeah, Faith. Really.” I fidget with the drawstring of my hoodie. “You’re the bravest of all. You’re the one who stuck. The one who busts her ass making this place run. And you do it with a smile on your face. I could never do that. I would have ran.”
Her lower lip starts to tremble and I check the urge to back through the door. “Thank you, Willa.” She stands and in two steps, she’s thrown her arms around me. Slowly, I put my arms around her, too. “You’re wrong, though. You like to think you’d run, but you wouldn’t. You’re a sticker, same as me.”
I look at the ceiling to prevent the damnable moisture in my eyes from leaking out. I need to get out of here, so I can find something to take my mind off what she’s telling me. With one final, awkward pat of her back, I pull away. “All right, well…”
She laughs, and I feel a flash of triumph. I’ve managed to repair some of the damage and its way more rewarding than I would have expected. “Go on, Willa. You’re off the hook for tonight.”
“Good night, Faith.”
I turn and walk out of her bedroom into the darkness. Right into Shane.
Chapter Fifteen
Shane and I are standing toe to toe at the bottom of the staircase. For the life of me, I can’t read his expression. It’s like a mixture of grief and gratitude, so palpable I’m momentarily frozen. It clues me in that he overheard most of what his sister and I talked about, but I don’t want to take the time to analyze that just yet. After the scene with Faith, I’ve reached my emotional quota for the night. I give myself an internal shake and bypass him, heading up the stairs. I need to get to my room. Just need to breathe a little.
Of course, he follows me, our boots stomping on the hollow-sounding staircase. I don’t know what’s going to happen when we reach my room, but I know it’s probably not a good idea having him there when I’m in such desperate need for an outlet. My nerve endings snap with each punctuated step behind me, everything I’ve been feeling all day bubbling to the surface, ready to spill over.
I flip the light switch and walk inside, not bothering to close the door. Shane walks in and does it for me. I drag my messenger bag over my head and drop it on the bed. My jacket comes next. I’m actually surprised when I don’t feel Shane come up behind me right away. In fact, when I don’t feel him, I realize how badly I need him to touch me. A moment ago, he looked as lost as me and I thought he’d been following me, hoping to block everything else out for a while.
Instead, I turn around and find him staring at the walls of my room, a stunned look on his face. With a frown, I follow his line of vision. Photographs everywhere. I forgot that I’d hung them last night, when I couldn’t sleep. It’s a habit of mine, hanging my pictures and falling asleep with strangers surrounding me, their expressive faces reminding me what’s possible in the world. It’s a comfort I’d been missing since arriving in Dublin, so I’d gone yesterday afternoon and gotten a few rolls of film developed. I’d been so anxious to leave this morning, I hadn’t bothered taking them down.
As Shane circles the room, pausing to look at each shot, I struggle not to ask what he thinks. It’s something I never have to ask. I’m usually secure in the knowledge that I take good photographs, but he’s been silent so long I’m beginning to worry. He lingers at one picture longer than the others, featuring a young girl with a unicorn painted on her cheek, laughing in delight at the buskers she’d been watching perform on stage. It’s one of my favorites, too. There’s no reservation or self-awareness on her face, just pure joy. She’s laughing like no one is watching, a feat I seriously envy.
I bury the panic when he comes across the picture of him. The one I took the first afternoon we met, when he was leaning up against the inn as my cab arrived, looking like a thundercloud ready to storm. Somehow I know it will be among the shots I submit to Shutterclick Magazine to define my trip to Dublin. He has defined it, no matter how hard I fought against him. He’s reshaped the whole experience from what it might have been.
Shane stares at the shot of himself a moment, then looks back at me. Since I don’t think he’s asking about the use of light and shadow, I only return his look. I took that photograph because I couldn’t help it, the same way I can’t help what’s going on between us. In no way am I capable of voicing either thought.
“You photograph people,” Shane finally says. I choose to ignore the hint of disappointment in his voice, the one telling me he wanted an explanation as to why his picture is hanging in front of my bed. “I don’t know what I expected. Flowers…landscapes and the like, I suppose. Why people?”
No one has ever asked me that, so I take a moment to think about it. “Because of their expressions. When you find a subject that projects every emotion onto their face, not bothering to hide it… I don’t know, it’s like an honest moment. People tend to be so aware of themselves and others’
perceptions that they control their face at all times. Paste on a bored expression kind of like a shield. But sometimes you find someone that doesn’t. Children and old folks are the best subjects. And, as I’ve found out since arriving in Dublin, drunk people.”
He glances at me over his shoulder. “Drunk people?”
“They wear their personal tragedies on their faces, just begging someone to ask them about it.” I shrug. “I’m not comfortable asking, so I take pictures. Or mental ones, anyway, since I doubt your customers would appreciate flash photography when they’re trying to tie one on.”
“My customers?” He moves on to the next picture. “They would probably strike a pose for you. Not a shy one in the bunch.”
It’s on the tip of my tongue to remind him they won’t be his customers much longer, to drive a wedge between us before I lose any chance of doing so, but I hold back. Having him in my room, taking his mind off the scene with his sister, feels right. There is a part of me that wants to soothe that expression I’d seen at the bottom of the stairs and it’s much stronger than the knee-jerk reaction to push him away. Infinitely stronger.
“When I was helping you that night behind the bar,” I start, watching his shoulders bunch, obviously remembering where that night had led. “I overheard one death threat, two breakups, and three marriage proposals. All from the same couple.”
Shane’s shoulders relax as laughter rolls through him. I shift on the bed when it reaches me. “You can’t accuse the Irish of being boring.”
“Orla said something similar earlier tonight.” When he turns with one eyebrow raised, I hasten to continue. “Did I ever tell you my sister Ginger was a bartender?”
“No.” He makes a sound in his throat. “That must be why you were halfway decent.”