While Olivia had a life of comfort and privilege, in many ways it had also been a hard one, lacking somehow. As a teenager, she had rolled her eyes whenever someone had told her that money couldn’t buy happiness. Lately, however, she had begun to feel that even though she had the means to buy herself practically anything that she might want, money wasn’t enough to fill the void. She could not buy her way out of misery, and she was starting to worry that she’d never truly find complete happiness. She worried that the best she’d ever be able to achieve for herself was a wary sort of contentment. But contentment could be good too, right?
Olivia told herself that her trip to Ireland would give her the time and space she needed to not only get her book written, but also to grieve and adapt to this new life as an adult orphan. Maybe by some twist of fate, she thought, the supposedly magical Irish landscape would be a soothing balm for her poor, weary soul.
As she sat in the pressurized cabin of Flight 716, Olivia admitted to herself that she really and truly wanted to make a new go of it. She wanted nothing more than to let go of her fear and moroseness. She knew that a person couldn’t live like she had been and expect to live much longer. Absorbed in these thoughts, she jumped with a start as the plane skidded to a halt on a dreary, cold, and gray Dublin morning.
CHAPTER 2
Since the start of the New Year, Olivia’s notion of “home” – and all the trappings that came with it – had felt less and less settled. And for the past couple of months, thoughts of love and romance – or her lack thereof – had weighed so heavily on her mind that she’d done nothing but think about the relationships around her and what made them successful. She’d pestered her best friend Heather – who rather conveniently for both women was also Olivia’s editor – so much about her relationship with her husband that she had finally told Olivia the subject was off limits for discussion or dissection until she had something of her own to contribute to the exercise.
Of course she had had nothing to contribute. She had been alone, and quite lonely during those last few isolated months in San Francisco. And she had been depressed, verging on miserable. But now, stepping out of the terminal at Dublin Airport, a new emotion washed over her – she felt if not quite happy then at least hopeful. It was peculiar for Olivia to switch moods so suddenly, to have such an immediate change wash over her, and so wholeheartedly.
She’d gone so long without hope that this complete sense of optimism made her chuckle aloud. She happily chalked it up to being an omen of good things to come. She wondered, not for the first time, how her life would change in the months to come in this new home away from home.
Home.
Could she call Ireland her home, she wondered? Or would she consider herself a visitor for the entirety of her stay? The truth was that Olivia didn’t really have a physical home anymore, having sold all of her furniture before leaving the city. She’d also given away all of her art and other valuables to people who she knew would appreciate their beauty. The final step in severing her ties with San Francisco had been renting her apartment to a couple that had just moved to the west coast from Pittsburgh.
With her childhood home in Pac Heights and her mom’s cottage in Mendocino both sold, as well as her cottage in Hanalei rented out for the season, Olivia suddenly realized that she didn’t really have a location that she could retreat to should her time in Ireland not work out as she hoped.
What does home really mean, she wondered.
For the entirety of her adult life, regardless of where in the world Olivia ventured, she had always thought of “home” as being wherever her mother was. She hadn’t had a typical childhood with a mother who baked cookies or did crafts with her; in fact, Marie had always treated her more like a small adult than a child. She’d never used baby talk with her, nor had she let Olivia get her way when she didn’t deserve it simply because she was a child, and she had never let her throw needless temper tantrums. Despite this rather unconventional childhood, Olivia had never wished for any other type of mother. She had shared a very special bond with Marie; her mother had been the person Olivia had spent the most time with during the most formative years of her life. Long hours together each day before she had been old enough to go off to school; the post-school day shopping trips to Union Square, and later the multi-day shopping trips to New York City when she had been a teenager; and then the long phone conversations they had had after some of Olivia’s worst breakups. Olivia would venture to say that every monumental decision that she had ever made had been done only after she had consulted her mother.
When most young girls were trying desperately to spend as little time with their mothers as possible, Olivia had tried to carve out even more time together. During her sophomore year of high school Olivia had asked her mother to home school her. It wasn’t that she hadn’t enjoyed the school that she was attending; she just wanted to spend more time at her mother’s side.
In Olivia’s mind, wherever Marie had hung her hat, she had gladly followed.
Technically speaking, Olivia had grown up in a mansion on Jackson Street but that cold, show piece of a house – her father’s own childhood abode – had never really felt like a home, even when the three of them were all there together, pretending to be one little happy family. No, it had always been her mother’s cottage in Mendocino that had most felt like home to Olivia throughout her life.
And then more recently, after she had stopped traveling so much and began to want a place of her own, she had bought the bungalow in Hanalei. Marie had encouraged Olivia to buy the rundown beach shack that needed extensive cosmetic work instead of the five-star condo on the bluff because she had known that it wasn’t more high-end luxury that Olivia needed in her life, but rather a place that was comfortable, a place she could put her personal stamp on, a place that would welcome Olivia home each day even if there was no one to actually say hello to. Whenever Olivia visited Hanalei now, all the rooms in her house reminded her of the time she’d spent with her mother tearing down walls, refinishing hardwood floors, painting, and then decorating.
It isn’t a building, Olivia thought then, that is home. No, my mother had always been my home.
And since Marie’s death the year before – Olivia was sad to acknowledge – she had felt truly homeless.
Olivia recognized for the first time, however, that there was freedom in that. Now, home could be just about anywhere she chose to make it. There was nothing – no one – tying her to any one location.
The revelation was both intoxicating and terrifying to her at the same time.
Ultimately, wasn’t that the reason that she had sold everything, removed all traces of her life in San Francisco, and moved to Ireland to work on her next book? Here she had no responsibility to anyone but herself; she would be just another anonymous face in the crowd with no history or baggage to weigh her down.
Standing on the curb waiting for her driver, Olivia decided that the six months she’d originally allotted for her stay wouldn’t be sufficient. Instead, she decided to remain in Ireland for as long as it took to get her book written, edited, and in bookstores. Only once it came time to go on her author’s tour would she decide if she would stay in the country, move to Hanalei permanently, or find somewhere else to stake her claim.
Before she could make any major decisions, however, she’d actually have to write the damn book, wouldn’t she?
A romance novel from a novelist whose life lacks any significant romance? Ironic much Olivia?
She wanted her this novel to be unlike anything she’d ever written before. Having resolved to approach this period of her life with an open mind and hopeful heart, the experience of putting together the book would be much different than her last, written at a time when she had been most bereft of inspiration. Could she write a happy tale this time, Olivia wondered? Or would it be dark and brooding like her last?
The only promise she had made to Heather about the book was that there’d be no familial deaths for any of t
he characters to work through; after all, Olivia was having a rough enough time of it on her own without also having to figure it all out for an imaginary character. This of course left Heather in a bit of a bind when it came to putting together a marketing plan, but Olivia knew that could always come later.
Heather had been ecstatic once Olivia had finally broached the subject of this next book several months back. Heather had been hinting for quite some time that it was time for Olivia to start writing again. When Olivia had told her that she wanted to write a novel that blended contemporary and historical romance, Heather had been fully on board.
Olivia thought perhaps Heather had pushed her take the trip to Ireland so vociferously because she knew that Olivia hadn’t yet come to terms with her position as the last of her family. Despite Olivia’s best efforts to the contrary, she knew that Heather could sense the overwhelming melancholy that hung about her like a misty shroud. Looking back objectively at those early conversations, Olivia had surmised that Heather knew better than even she did that her emotional burdens wouldn’t be lessened by more time spent in Hawaii, fueled by mai-tais and or a short-but-intense fling with a handsome, carefree surfer.
Maybe, in fact, Heather had known that Olivia needed a complete break from life as she’d known it, and that the chance to immerse herself in a new culture for an extended period of time would be just the thing to shake her from her funk.
Perhaps Heather knew, where Olivia herself had not, that if something didn’t change soon, she would find herself falling into an abyss that she wouldn’t be able to get out of.
Sometimes it takes the coaxing of a friend that knows you better than you know yourself to push you in the direction you need most, when you most needed it.
In more ways than one, Heather had been a lifeline for Olivia and she owed it to her – both personally and professionally – to see this new chapter of her life through to the end, while also delivering a book they could both be proud of.
Standing on the curb as the driver approached, Olivia was overcome with a sense of wonder, and an even stronger sense of being on the verge of something major in her life, all the while having absolutely no clue what any of these feelings actually meant.
She’d never been superstitious, but there was something electric in the air that she couldn’t put a name or description to. Her body hummed, and the misty air caressed her in a welcoming embrace.
Olivia had the overwhelming feeling of standing on a precipice – if she stepped forward and grabbed ahold of it tightly – she could have life-altering experiences that would challenge her beyond anything she had ever known, while also being rewarded in ways that she could never have anticipated.
If I let life simply happen to me – if I go where I should go, do what I should do – I will continue to live in the haze that I’ve occupied for months now, comfortable knowing what each day will – and won’t – bring. I’ll remain unchallenged, but I’ll also remain so incredibly unfulfilled.
Mentally, she welcomed this new challenge, knowing that she’d already faced the worst of what a person could endure. She was terrified of what these monumental changes would mean for her, and what direction her life would take from this point on, but she also knew that more than ever before she needed to jump in feet first and not look back before doubt and paranoia could take over.
* * * *
Most people had pre-conceived notions about what people from certain countries look like, and act like, and in all her years of travel, Olivia had found those stereotypes a mix of both hyperbole and reality. People from New York weren’t unfriendly; rather, they were just always on the go and tended not to waste time with beating around the bush. And Parisian women, in general, were more stylish and put together than their counterparts in other major metropolitan cities.
So it was that Olivia had arrived in Ireland with a specific image in her mind of what a quintessential aging Irish gentleman would look like – heavy white wool sweater, tweed pants stuffed down into Wellington boots, wool cap pulled down tight over his head, almost, but not quite able to obscure bright white bushy eyebrows that give way to flashing green eyes sitting atop red, ruddy cheeks. In her mind’s eye, the man smoked his pipe while sitting before a peat fire, faithful furry mongrel at his feet, and he’d sing along heartily when songs from his youth were played in the pub, a dram of whiskey never further than arm’s length away.
Olivia don’t know where she had found him, but when the driver Heather’s assistant had lined up for her arrived at the curb with a sign bearing her name, he was the perfect realization of that image, exactly how she’d pictured someone’s doting Irish grandfather. And since Olivia had never had a grandfather of her own, she secretly hoped he’d call her “dearie” and “lass” and fuss over her the way old men routinely fussed over all young women.
Her secret desires were made real.
Paul, being a paternal sort of man nearing sixty, would hear nothing of Olivia loading her own luggage into the trunk of the car. When she attempted to haul the largest of the bunch to the edge of the curb, he grabbed the bag from her hands and admonished her good-naturedly.
“Now you look here, missy. You won’t be lifting your own luggage, you hear me,” he scolded, laughter shining in his eyes. “That’s man’s work there, and no pretty young gal around me is going to be caught dead lifting and stooping.”
He finished hefting the heavy luggage into the car, and turned to smile at her.
“Now in the car with you.”
Olivia giggled – actually giggled! – as she climbed into the back seat. He was perfection.
Paul, as she found out immediately upon entering the car, was born and raised in Dublin. He was more than happy to tell her that he knew the roads better than any of the young men driving cabs these days, including, he said, “those damn foreigners.” The foreigners, he explained, being the many Polish and Czech who had immigrated to Ireland over the course of the last fifteen years or so, having been drawn to Ireland by the boom economy of the Celtic Tiger of the nineties. Today, he explained, these groups had taken – and held on to – all of the service industry jobs that young, Irish middle-class kids had previously thought beneath them but which were desperately needed.
He explained that the Dublin economy was once on the upswing, fueled once again by technology dollars from overseas, and the money spent by incoming American, British, and Australian ex-pats who staffed the companies. Unfortunately, Paul told her, when the upswing had created new jobs in the service industry, many young Irish had once again turned their noses up at the opportunity. As before, it was the immigrants who had benefited.
“But you really shouldn’t think badly of the Poles, no matter what other people might say,” he went on. “Because those Poles, they are good people. They work hard, keep to themselves, and enjoy a pint – that’s Irish.”
Olivia was dumbfounded by their conversation! She had once taken a cab in New Orleans with a driver who spouted a ton of racist drivel the entire ride to the airport, but she had thought that diatribe was the exception to the rule. Olivia was forced to re-think her stance. Maybe all cab drivers were just a little bit racist.
At his insistence, Olivia promised Paul that she’d keep his lesson in mind should anyone ever try to bad mouth the Polish population in front of her. Olivia found this bigotry and hypocrisy off-putting but she didn’t want to question her aging driver too much lest the conversation go in an even more uncomfortable direction while she had no means of escape.
As was always the case when she found herself in conversation with someone over the age of sixty, the topic turned to her marital state. Depending on her audience, Olivia sometimes laid it on a bit thick when describing all the ways in which she regularly scared off eligible bachelors. Since Paul had shown himself entirely comfortable with sharing his personal philosophy on race and ethnicity, Olivia knew that they had passed the point of what was typically considered “polite conversation” and that he’d undoubtedly
be one of those well-meaning senior citizens who thought nothing of prying into her private life.
“Are you meeting someone here in Ireland?” he asked, hopefully. “Maybe a couple of your girlfriends? Or better yet, a nice young man?
He looked into his rearview mirror, sizing her up.
“Not a doctor,” he mused, taking in her chaotic red curls and dark, smoky makeup. “Maybe a film or rock star? Bono – you know him? – he’s got himself a wife, and he’s probably too old for you anyhow, but there’s a great chap named Glen that’s famous ‘round these parts that I’m sure would take a liking to you. If he’s in town, I could find out where he’s hanging out.”
Olivia laughed heartily. She’d once met the man in question when his band had played a show at The Fillmore, and while she had found him smart and charming, there hadn’t been a connection between them.
The truth of it was she had dated doctors, actors, and rock stars and none had been the right fit for her – they all had terrible schedules and most had severe God complexes. She just couldn’t deal with the egos.
“I’m sorry to say, Paul, that I’ve dated doctors, actors, and musicians too, and none have proved good enough for me.”
He chuckled, a man clearly used to dealing with headstrong women who knew – or at least pretended to know – what they wanted from a mate.
“Of course they’re not, lass. Of course not.” He shook his head, Olivia thought, in admonishment of all the men who weren’t good enough for the women in their lives. “I bet you’re a woman who is used to doing what you want, when you want, and no man is going to tell you right from wrong.”
A Time Apart: Book One of The Macauley Series Page 2