The Long Walk

by Jill Cox

  Pathetic.

  I walked over to my jewelry box. Hidden inside, I kept the key Pete had given me on the bridge that day when we’d thrown the padlock into the Seine. I never looked at it now. I sort of wondered why I’d brought it with me to Ireland in the first place. It certainly didn’t bring me joy anymore, so why hadn’t I left it behind with the rest of my past?

  For the millionth time since he died, I wished Ian were here to make me snap out of it. Reaching inside the jewelry box again, I picked up the bracelet he’d given me, running my thumb along every single charm. He would be so furious if he could see me right now.

  I squinted up at the rafters of my tiny room. “You want to help a sister out, Sullivan? I could use a little guidance here.”

  No response.

  But then I opened the curtains on each of my gabled windows to find snow pirouetting down from the dark gray midwinter sky.

  Snow. On my birthday. And even though my little story had miles and miles to go, I already knew two parental types who would love to read it, no matter how clunky the prose.

  I pulled on my coat, my gloves, my favorite hat, and my Wellies. Then I walked downstairs to start year twenty-three.

  NINETEEN

  Between my crazy work schedule at the pub and the pre-holiday rush at the B&B, I had yet to organize my parents’ Christmas gift: a bound copy of Untitled Draft 5.0. And even though I knew better, my American mindset somehow made me forget that in Ireland, you can’t just show up to the local print shop on the eve of a religious holiday and expect it to be open. On Christmas Eve morning, as I frantically researched every copy shop within reasonable distance, I could only find three places open until noon: two in Shannon, and one in Galway. Shannon would be closer, but when I saw the name and address of the one in Galway, my decision was made: McIntosh’s Print Shop, on The Long Walk near the Spanish Arch.

  If my novel’s main character was Allie McIntosh, I figured it was fitting to print off her story at a shop bearing her name. And bonus, the Spanish Arch was one of the most famous landmarks in town, right across the water from the Claddagh village. It would be easy enough to find. So, I hopped in my parents’ car and headed north instead of south.

  Despite the number of tourists spilling out from the open-air Christmas market, I scored a primo parking spot at Eyre Square and scurried down the pedestrian streets to the Latin Quarter. Shop owners had placed festive garlands with red bows over their doorways, and millions of twinkle lights hung crisscrossed above the cobblestone walkway, like waves of holiday cheer. By the time I turned onto The Long Walk past the Spanish Arch, jolly Galway had convinced me I chose the right town.

  At least twenty people milled about the tiny interior of McIntosh’s. Who were these people? Why did so many Galwegians have printing needs on Christmas Eve? I was so engrossed in my own questions that I ignored the salesperson at first.

  “Can I help you, miss?” He cocked his head to the side. “Yes, you, miss. What can I do for you today?”

  The hipster speaking to me from behind the counter was tall and slender – closer to Drew’s build than to Pete’s – with spiky black hair and bright blue eyes that twinkled.

  Oh, grand. Not that eye twinkle business again.

  “Excuse me, miss?” His words held a County Clare accent. “You do speak English, yeah?”

  “Uh, yeah,” I retorted, regretting my earlier decision to wear a ponytail as my ears burned bright red. It was my own fault, really; on my birthday, I’d chopped my hair off to shoulder length. New year, new address, Pete plus Brooks – time for a new look. Only I was useless with a flat iron, and my hair was too short for a decent topknot. So here I was – The Ponytail Queen.

  Maybe this stranger would chalk up my red ears to the cold.

  A grin spread all the way across his face, like he’d just discovered I was a magical creature who had the ability to grant wishes. “Are you from America, then?”

  “How could you possibly know that? I’ve said, like, three words.”

  “Well, no. You’ve only said two, but it’s not anything you said, really. Americans just stand out. I’m not sure any of you can help it.”

  I was so taken aback that I just stood there, blinking at him like a simpleton. I was never surprised by the strange reactions my American accent caused in Doolin. But Galway was huge by Irish standards – a multicultural metropolis. If an American were to be found outside of Dublin, surely Galway was the place?

  “Are you on holiday?” The dark-haired stranger continued, his voice lilting with every other syllable. “Because, you know, most tourists visit Ireland in the summer. The weather’s a wee bit nicer. Well, not by much, and not for very long, but nicer all the same.”

  Friendly questions that masked insults to my intelligence, my nationality, and my language skills? Who was this guy, and why was he so intent on provoking me? It was Christmas Eve, for goodness’ sake. I wasn’t going to let him ruin my holiday by disparaging my other homeland directly to my face. “Look, mister,” I scowled. “I’m no tourist. I live here.”

  “Really?” The way he said it was like a song with six notes, up and down the scale. “Are you here for university?”

  “What? No way. I already finished school. And who said I live in Galway?”

  “Right, sorry,” he nodded, rubbing the back of his neck. “Where, then? Dublin?”

  “Doolin,” I answered smugly. “You’ve probably never heard of it. It’s a tiny place just an hour or so down the road.”

  “Oh, believe me, I know how to get there. That’s where I grew up.”

  “Sure it is. Look, I’m sure you think it’s hilarious to trick the foreigners, but just because I didn’t grow up in Ireland doesn’t mean I’m an eejit.”

  A little line appeared just above his nose when I pronounced idiot the Irish way, and he leaned both elbows on the counter. “I’m quite serious, miss. My parents still live there, just off Roadford.”

  “Is that a fact?” Huh. No one knew that street was called Roadford but the locals. “Okay, I’ll bite. Who are your parents?”

  “Dermot and Tara Kelly of Ballybrock Farm. I’m Jack, by the way. And you?”

  I blinked again. “I’m Meredith. Meredith Sullivan.”

  His face lit all the way up. “Brilliant! How’s business at Juniper House? My mum says you lot have really transformed the place.”

  This Jack fellow had just knocked the snark right out of me. From the second I sized him up, those hipster vibes had put me on my guard, primed for battle against his quick Irish wit. But it turns out he wasn’t mocking me. He was just engaging me, like any normal person might do.

  You’d think I would be used to these cultural differences by now, but no. I was a spaz in two countries. Three if you counted France.

  Thank goodness Jack was clearheaded and redirected our conversation to the task at hand: my printing needs. Maybe it was the thoughtful way he peered at the screen as the document uploaded from the flash drive, or the patience with which he discussed binding options, but I’d never in my life been so fascinated while discussing a document.

  “So will you be in Doolin for Christmas, Meredith Sullivan from America?” He leaned casually toward me while his fellow employee bound two copies of my manuscript at a side table. “Maybe we could meet up for a drink one night. If you’re free, of course.”

  “Oh.” The crimson in my ears spread forward to my face. “Well, I work at O’Connor’s. I’m there most nights. You could come by if you’d like.”

  “I’ll see you there.” He took the two manuscripts from the other employee’s hands, placed them in a bag and handed them to me across the counter. “Here you go. Today’s your lucky day. You picked the one print shop in Galway with a Christmas Eve special: every aspiring author who comes into the shop today receives free copying and binding on their first two manuscripts.”

  “What? No, Jack. I couldn’t –”

  “Of course you can,” he beamed. “It’s Christmas.
Too bad you didn’t have a sequel ready to print. We throw in a package of highlighters with sequels.”

  TWENTY

  The British call December 26th Boxing Day, but in Ireland it’s known as St. Stephen’s Day. I still didn’t know exactly what that meant – something about little kids dressing up in old clothes and straw hats, carrying a fake bird from house to house in search of cookies? At least that’s what Molly and Jamie believed, because we’d spent most of Christmas night baking sugar cookies and listening to Ella Fitzgerald.

  Just as the sky shifted to the pinkish gray of late afternoon, the doorbell rang at the Juniper House. I answered it, because on St. Stephen’s Day, it’s tradition: you invite strangers in.

  On our doorstep stood two young women a few years older than I – sisters, from the look of it – plus a pair of dark-haired twins wearing matching red coats and sparkling tiaras, holding a birdcage made from Popsicle sticks with a paper bird inside.

  Okay, so not raggedy clothes and straw hats. Maybe Doolin was fancy.

  “Don’t you two look lovely today?” I crouched down to their eye level. “Can I help you, your highnesses?”

  “Good evening, miss,” one princess said in the tiniest voice ever. “Are you Meredith?”

  “Yes, I am! And you are…?”

  “I’m Siobhan, and she’s called Sydney,” said the other princess, in an even tinier voice. “We have a surprise, just for you.”

  “Really?” I smiled up at their chaperones. “All four of you?”

  My dad joined me in the doorway. “Oh, hello, your majesties. You’ll have to excuse my daughter. She knows nothing about St. Stephen’s Day traditions. She grew up in America.”

  “We know,” Sydney beamed. “But Auntie Emma helped us make this cage for our parrot and said you would give us sweets if we sing very loudly.”

  “She’s not a parrot, she’s a wren,” the Emma lady clarified, shaking her blond head. “Actually, the tradition demands that boys dress up like wrens. But why shouldn’t the girls get to join in on the fun? Besides, we had to do something creative for our collective sanity.”

  “Yes, you’ll have to forgive us.” The dark-haired sister, who must be the twins’ mum, smiled so brightly that I felt my own cheek muscles moving upward in kind.

  I felt a hand close around my left elbow; my mom had joined us. “Well, hello,” she cooed. “Would you young ladies like some cookies?”

  The twins turned to their mum. “You said we’d have to perform our routine first,” Sydney whispered. Or rather, faux-whispered.

  So much for those tiny voices. They probably heard her inside the pubs across the river.

  “You do have to perform your routine first,” their Aunt Emma answered, shoving them gently toward the deck. “But let’s do it outside, shall we?”

  “Yes, we don’t want to break anyone’s china,” their mum agreed, grimacing. “I’m Maeve, by the way. Sorry in advance for this.”

  The deck of the Juniper House was as wide and deep as the house itself, and though we’d had several small seating areas set up during the summer, we’d moved all that furniture to the basement storage once the weather had gone blustery. Now all that remained was the built-in bench that lined the outside banister.

  Voilà. A perfect stage for the tiny princess brigade.

  Once we were settled on the long bench – Mum, Dad, Maeve, Emma, and me – the twins marched out together to the center of the empty deck. They turned to one another, bowed deeply. And then, tossing the fake birdcage to their aunt, they chucked their coats to the far side of the deck. The tiaras, however, stayed planted firmly on their heads.

  Except these girls weren’t princesses. They were tae kwon do ninjas in disguise.

  The twins’ doboks were in such perfect condition – crisp black cotton, minus any signs of wear and tear – that I wondered if they were a Christmas present, and this was their world premiere. But when they began their combination, my jaw dropped.

  Watch out, County Clare. The twin ninjas were fierce.

  Jamie Sullivan began to laugh so hard beside me that I started to worry he’d burst a blood vessel. Which started me laughing, and when I turned to look at Molly on my left, her face was lit all the way up in a way I hadn’t seen in a very long time.

  Emma and Maeve bellowed commands at the twins.

  “Mind your belt, love – it’s quite loose!”

  “Arms straight, please!”

  “First position – that’s right. Now third!”

  The twins punched the air with precision and kicked so high they put my inner dancer to shame. But they weren’t fighting one another. They moved in time to some unheard beat, like a ninja drill team of two. And when they finished, they bowed at exactly perfect ninety-degree angles, first to each other, and then to their audience.

  With all the whooping and hollering on the deck, it’s a wonder I heard the fall of footsteps up the side stairs. But then a very tall figure with a shock of black hair and hipster glasses emerged into view. “Hi there,” Print Shop Jack grinned awkwardly. “Emma, I thought you said you were taking the girls to meet the new neighbors?”

  “I did,” Emma said from behind me. “These are the new neighbors.”

  “Yes,” my dad stood and reached out his hand toward Jack. “Jamie Sullivan,” he grinned. “And this is my wife, Molly, and my daughter, Meredith.”

  Mum and I stood as well, though I had to bite my cheek to keep from laughing as Jack shook my hand. “Actually,” he said, with a pointed look at his sisters, “Meredith and I have met.”

  “Have you?” My dad’s words sounded less like a question, and more like a triumph. “Well, isn’t that grand. In the pub?”

  “No,” I said, feeling the color rise to my cheeks. “Jack’s the person who helped me print your copy of my manuscript up in Galway.”

  “A Galway man!” Jamie exclaimed. “How fascinating.”

  “Not a Galway man, love,” Molly said primly. “I think these young people belong to Dermot and Tara Kelly.”

  “From Ballybrock Farm? Over on Roadford?”

  Jack lifted a triumphant eyebrow at me, then smiled at my dad. “The very one, sir. And these four nutters are my sisters and my nieces. Sorry if they’ve invaded your privacy.”

  “What privacy?” My dad beamed, turning to face Jack’s sisters as they helped the twins pick up their coats at the other end of the deck. “Molly and Meredith have made enough cookies for the whole town these past two days. Care to join us in the parlor for tea?”

  The twins whooped and ran after my dad. Molly scooted in behind them. Then Jack’s sisters appeared beside me, each of them clutching one of the twins’ coats, with the makeshift wren’s cage dangling from Emma’s free hand.

  “Cookies!” Maeve repeated, her eyes sheepish as she glanced at her brother. “See, Jack? What is St. Stephen’s Day for except making new friends?”

  “Yes, Jack.” Emma’s smile was angelic, but her eyes had gone wicked. “Why don’t you take your new friend Meredith to the pub?”

  “Absolutely,” Maeve agreed. “We’ll entertain the other Sullivans while you two catch up.”

  Jack’s face went bright red as he gave me a lopsided smile. “Are you free?”

  “Um… sure,” I said, zipping up my coat. “Just let me grab my wallet inside.”

  “Oh, no need for that,” Emma smirked. “We raised Jack the right way.”

  “Yeah, no halfsies with the cute American, Jack,” Maeve said, clapping him on the bicep. “And don’t worry, Meredith. You can have your boss throw my brother out if he offends you. Our dad and Kieran’s dad are best mates.”

  “That they are,” Emma said, shoving her sister forward. “Plus Kieran’s still half in love with Maeve. Less than a decade ago, you could find the two of them snogging in the back room most nights of the week.”

  Wow. This town was small.

  TWENTY-ONE

  A date. Hey, this was the way normal people decided if they like
d each other. Two people met, one asked the other out, and that was that. Sure, swing dancing under the fairy lights at the Tuileries was romantic, but did it last? No. Bring on the small talk in the pub, I say.

  “Sorry about my sisters,” Jack said as we ducked into the front door of Gus O’Connor’s Pub. “I may have mentioned that I’d met the daughter of the Juniper House’s new owners, and I guess they got curious about you.”

  I smiled to myself. Jack’s sisters were my kind of girls.

  Jack guided me over to a corner of the pub that was both out of Boss Man Kieran’s view and completely inaccessible from the front door in case his sisters had secret plans to spy. My co-worker Brigid took our orders and left with an approving wink I assumed was meant for me. But then Jack sighed. “Brigid and Emma have been thick as thieves since they were children. You can see why I moved to Galway, right?”

  “Are you sure Galway was far enough?”

  “Probably not, especially since both my sisters live there as well,” Jack chuckled. “So, I’m sure this is going to sound mad, but were you by chance in McGann’s Pub summer before last?”

  My heart actually stopped in my chest. “Why would you ask that?”

  “Because Emma and I ate lunch at McGann’s today with Maeve and her husband Adam, and I had this weird tickling in the back of my brain the whole time we were there. On my way to the Juniper House this afternoon, I realized why you look familiar to me. You’re the Gangnam Style girl, aren’t you?”

  I felt my eyes go wide. “How do you know about that?”

  Jack laughed again. “I think the whole town was at McGann’s that night. After your performance, I asked my date why she never did anything that romantic for me.”

  No way – was Jack the black-haired dude making out in the corner with his girl that night? Surely she’d been more than a date. They looked pretty well-acquainted to me.

  “That was me,” I admitted. “It was my boyfriend’s birthday that night, and he’d never seen me dance before. Well, not like that anyway.”