by Jill Cox
“You used to date Starlord?”
“What?”
“Peter Quill? The character played by Chris Pratt in Guardians of the Galaxy?” He clarified, as though I didn’t catch the Starlord reference. “The lad who stood ten feet taller than everyone else in the room, like one of those heirs to the American dream?”
My heart ached at the accurate description. “Yes. That’s him.”
“Huh. Lucky bloke.” Jack crossed his arm over his chest as he leaned back against the stone wall behind him. “So what’s it like, adjusting to village life after twenty-something years in the bright, flashing lights of America?”
“Flashing lights?” I laughed. “Listen, Jack, I grew up in a sleepy little town on the coast. The only difference between my life here and the one back home is that people speak with a different accent and use different currency. Well, that, and I have fewer friends, I guess.”
“So why are you here, then? Did you come to help your parents set up the B&B?”
“Officially, yes. But the side benefit to having no friends is that I’ve had time to write that novel I brought to your store the other day.”
“Well, I can’t say I’m surprised. Writers and poets have been coming to Doolin for a long time in search of inspiration. They say Tolkien found his muse for The Lord of the Rings here.”
I rolled my eyes. “Come on. You’re making that up.”
“Haven’t you read our tourism brochures? It’s quite magical, this village. Verdant hills, rotting castles… this place has the Shire written all over it.”
“Great. Now I’m going to imagine Gollum clambering after me and hissing about the precious every time I cross the bridge.”
“Well, that’s rectified easily enough. Just offer him your charm bracelet.”
A tiny bit of tea splashed out of its cup as my hand jerked to a stop mid-ascent. “How do you know about that?”
Even in the weak lighting, I could see Jack’s face flush. “I only printed the first ten pages.”
“But that’s…” Ice rushed into my veins. “Doesn’t that violate some sort of copyright law?”
“Of course it does.” His expression faltered. “But your first page hooked me. Tell me, have you always been so obsessed with the number three?”
Bile rose up in my throat. “I can’t believe you read my work.”
“Ten pages,” he protested. “I read ten pages. So far, so good, even though that kale chip bloke seems a bit dodgy. Tell me you made him up.”
Now I was the one blushing. “I can’t tell you that, Jack. It would break the fourth wall. So let’s just say it’s fiction-esque.”
“That’s not even a word, young lady. I know your fellow countrymen feel at liberty to manipulate the English language however they please, but no self-respecting writer ever would.”
“Of course not. Especially not Shakespeare. Or Lewis Carroll. Or, you know, James Joyce. Hey wait, I don’t think any of those guys are American.”
“Fair enough.” Jack clinked his pint glass against my teacup. “In the name of full disclosure, you should add Jack Kelly to your little list, because I’ve been known to create a word or two myself.”
“What, among your friends?”
“No. I published a novel last year.”
My stomach dropped to the floor. “Shut up.”
“Don’t let the toner stains fool you, Miss Sullivan. I’m only working at the print shop to pay the bills. Well, for now at least. Not every book becomes a successful Hollywood franchise, you know. Hey, Pythagoras, explain this phenomenon to me: why do they convert all American trilogies into four films? Is it because the third book is usually longer? Or do the studios believe the audience will be more invested in the characters by that last book and they’ll want to prolong the inevitable?”
“Hold on, rewind a minute. You’ve published a novel? Have I heard of it?”
“Doubtful.” Jack lifted the flap of his messenger bag and pulled out a paperback called Time To Go. Author: Jack Kelly. I turned it over to read the back cover. Ireland’s answer to Nick Hornby, Jack Kelly’s debut is a winsome tale of lost love found again.
The Powers That Be compared Jack to Nick Hornby? Who was this guy?
When I looked up, Jack’s eyes locked with mine. “Tell me the truth, Meredith,” he said quietly. “You didn’t write a three-hundred page novel just to amuse your parents, did you?”
“No. I lived in Paris for a year and it was… special. I wanted those memories to live on forever. I know that sounds corny, but it’s true.”
Jack’s lips shifted into a wistful smile as he pressed his knee against mine. “Doesn’t sound corny to me.”
Had it been anyone else sitting across from me, touching my leg with his, I might have bristled at such a gesture. But something about the way Jack was looking at me made me believe he wasn’t hitting on me. He was just letting me know he understood.
Hey, if Jack was a writer, maybe he did understand.
I smiled, clutching my teacup in my hands. “You know how it goes when you leave a place. Things change. Memories shift. And maybe I wanted them to shift, because every time I’ve revised this story, it has morphed into its own thing. The fictional version is way more colorful than real life. I’m not sure how that happened. Maybe you’re right, Jack. Maybe Doolin is enchanted.”
“Of course it is. The Irish government wouldn’t allow lies in its travel brochures. Lying is a sin.” The smirk on Jack’s face softened, and he shifted his weight forward, leaning on the table. “The real question is, what are you going to do next?”
“What, with my draft?” My face blazed red. “To be honest, I haven’t even thought that far ahead. Everyone knows how impossible it is to get a book published. Where would I even begin?”
“Yes, hmm. Where would you possibly begin?” Jack tapped his chin. “If only you knew someone who’d already navigated that gauntlet.”
“What? No, Jack. You’re on holiday.”
“Oh, believe me. It would be cathartic. Someone should benefit from all the mistakes I made my first time around. Besides, this is less of a work holiday and more of a self-imposed confinement. My agent has been hounding me for new material, and the last time we spoke, he all but threatened to drop me from his client roster if he doesn’t see progress soon. So I’ll be sticking around Doolin for at least a month. And since I’m still at the stage where all my ideas are crap, it’ll be good to help someone else for a bit. Pay it forward, yeah?”
“But what if I distract you?”
“Meredith Sullivan, you drove to the one print shop in Galway that has a published author working behind the counter. That same author happens to be spending a month in the tiny town where you live. Do you always spit Fate in the eye like this?”
Oh, if he only knew.
“Okay,” I conceded. “I’ll give you the other three hundred pages, but only if you promise me brutal honesty. I don’t want to find out someday you thought my book was total rubbish.”
“Don’t be daft. What better way to get to know each other? And here.” He slid his book across the table toward me again. “To be fair, why don’t you read my book as well? I’d love to know how it translates to an American mind.”
I ran my fingers down the blurb on the back. Some bloke named Finn falls for some girl called Claire. Something splits them apart, blah-dee-blah-blah.
But the blurb called Jack’s book a romantic comedy. So what happened in real life? Was it “Claire” with Jack that night at McGann’s? And if so, how weird was it that Jack and I were sitting here together, eighteen months later with neither his “Claire” nor my “Luke” in sight?
“Don’t think I’m not on to you, young lady.” Jack crossed his arms over his chest. “You’re one of those nutters who reads the ending first, aren’t you?”
I pretended to gasp. “What kind of a monster would do that?”
“A person who’s written her own love story and somehow made it into the future with
out All-American Luke by her side. Or will it be Monsieur Kale?” Jack’s smile slipped. “No one ever tells you what happens after the happily ever after, do they?”
No, indeed, Jack Kelly. They do not.
TWENTY-TWO
Jack waited on the bridge over the river Aille while I ran up the hill to my apartment behind the Juniper House. Once I returned, notebook in hand, we said goodbye with the promise to meet at O’Connor’s Pub on Thursday two hours before my shift. Two and a half days was plenty of time to read a novel, right?
Except I couldn’t wait. I stayed up most of the night reading his book. And with every chapter, I panicked a little more about my own story, because whoa. Jack had skills.
But real life doesn’t stop for fiction, and neither did my job at O’Connor’s. And for whatever reason, a bus full of Brits appeared at dinnertime the following evening, intent on drinking our Guinness reserves dry. Combine that nonsense with my total lack of sleep, and you can imagine how charming and patient I was not that Tuesday during my first shift back after Christmas.
Just after nine p.m., I walked out of the pub with four goals: traverse the two hundred-ish steps from the pub to my apartment, remove my favorite boots that were now covered in a night’s worth of black-and-tans, place said boots in rubbish bin, and fall into bed.
Preferably in that order.
“So this is where all the clouds have gathered,” said someone behind me as I turned left onto Fisherstreet. “Right over that gorgeous auburn head. What a tragedy.”
“Jack? What are you doing here?”
Jack grinned as he stepped into the light above the pub door. “Look up in the sky, Meredith. What do you see?”
“Um… the moon?”
“Yes! And the stars. No clouds. Only a hint of a breeze. In December. In Ireland. This, Miss America, is a bona fide miracle. The last time I saw the stars here in December, I could still sing soprano.”
“You’re making that up.”
“Well, maybe so. All the same, we aren’t likely to see a night this fine again until June. And it’s my tradition that if the sky is clear on a midwinter’s night, adventure must be found. So follow me, please.”
“But Jack, it’s –”
“Ten degrees, I know! It’s practically a heat wave! Now, come along. We don’t have all night. Well, we do, but dawdling might make the clouds reappear, and that would be tragic.”
I did the mental conversion to Fahrenheit. Ten degrees Celsius was, what, fifty degrees? That was not a heat wave. But Jack had already zoomed past me, sprightly as a seven-year-old who’d just slept fifteen hours straight. By the time I reached the driveway between the Juniper House and my apartment, Jack was already digging around in the trunk of his car.
“It’s a good thing I grew up with two sisters,” he said, handing me a pair of Wellies. “Here, see if these fit.”
“Jack,” I yawned. “I’ve been working all day.”
“And?” He tugged a hat playfully onto my head. “Yank on those boots, you stubborn girl. You can sleep later, after the periwinkles have disappeared.”
“I’m sorry, did you say we’re driving somewhere to look at flowers? In the middle of the night? In winter?”
Jack’s brow furrowed. “Flowers? What are you on about?”
“Aren’t periwinkles little blue flowers?”
As we stood there gaping at each other, I finally noticed just how cute Jack looked. His hair was sticking out haphazardly from under a hat that matched the one he’d just given me, and his cheeks were bright and rosy from waiting out in the cold.
Yes, he looked completely adorable. Right up until the second his face fell.
Removing his hands from his coat pockets, Jack reached toward the boots I was still clutching. “Yeah, sorry. I can see you’re knackered. I just thought… oh, who knows what I thought. I’ll see you later this week.”
What in the world was wrong with me? An adorkable Irishman had taken the time to plan a surprise date for me, and I’d responded by yawning in his face. What was I, a full-time resident in the geriatric ward?
“Wait a minute, wait a minute.” I grabbed back the Wellies, placed them on the ground, and began to unzip my repulsive boots. “How could you even think of leaving on such a cliffhanger? I am an American in need of an education. Take me to the mysterious periwinkles, please.”
Jack’s face brightened. “You’re sure?”
“One hundred percent. Never heard of them. I insist that you enlighten me.”
Jack placed my grubby boots into his trunk and smiled while I yanked on the Wellies. “All this time in Doolin, and you’ve never been introduced to the grand Irish winkle tradition? This is outrageous. I may have to request an audience with the Minister of Culture on your behalf.”
Jack closed the trunk and jogged around to open the passenger door for me. I squeezed myself into the cab of his vintage Mini Cooper, my knees close to my chest. Once upon a time, I might have laughed at someone as tall as Jack owning such a tiny vehicle, but in my new life, it wasn’t so strange. Parking space came at a premium on this island.
As Jack sprinted back around to his side of the car, I glanced up at my parents’ bedroom window, where Molly Sullivan was trying to be all stealth behind the curtains. When she realized I’d caught her, she smiled and gave me two thumbs up. And to be honest, she looked a bit too pleased when she tugged those curtains shut. Molly and Jamie were the most hopeless romantics in Ireland, if not the entire world. I’d fielded more nosy questions about Jack in the past twenty-four hours than a politician in a presidential debate.
After a short drive south, we slowed down at the town sign for Lahinch. I glanced sidelong at Jack. “Is a ‘periwinkle’ Irish slang for ‘golf ball’ or something?”
“Of course not. What gave you that idea?”
“Because the only two things I know about Lahinch are the surfing and the golf. Are we sneaking onto the course or something? Because my brother and I did that a few years ago. It’s not nearly as exciting as it sounds. There’s not even a fence to climb. You just walk right onto the green.”
Jack laughed so hard that even my side of the car was shaking, but he didn’t say another word. So I just sat back and observed as we wound along the narrow streets down to the Promenade, the famous stretch along the sea. After he set the car in park, Jack jumped out and began to transfer random items from the trunk to the ground: a Thermos, two buckets, two flashlights, a couple of blankets, a box of matches, and a camping stove.
I joined him outside, surveying the town. A few lights twinkled along the Prom, but I didn’t see a soul out and about. “You know, Jack, there’s a perfectly decent beach back in Doolin.”
“I know that.” He handed me a knee-length version of the puffy coat he was wearing. “But this beach is known as a prime spot for winkle hunting.”
“Hunting? Periwinkles are animals?”
“No need to be frightened. They don’t bite. Here, take this.” Jack handed me a bucket and a flashlight, shut the trunk quietly, and took my free hand.
It startled me a bit, having someone I barely knew touch my fingers. But then the warmth of Jack’s skin against mine felt right, so I let him guide me down to the steps to the half-moon beach below.
As we strolled toward the rocks on the north end of the beach, I thought of all the times my family and I had come to Ireland over the years. How was it possible that Jack and I had never met before now? Yes, he was a couple of years older than I, but his sisters were around Ian’s age. You would think at some point, one of us Sullivans would’ve made the acquaintance of one of the Kelly kids in a town as tiny as Doolin. How strange that we’d been leading parallel lives this whole time.
Jack switched on his flashlight as a cloud crossed between us and the moon. “Did you ever eat escargots in France?”
“What, snails?” My nose wrinkled involuntarily. “I guess so, yeah. But only once. You know the character Françoise in my story? Her real name is Marie-Franc
e, and she fixed them one night for dinner when her friends came over. My friend Anne and I were so intimidated by the tiny forks you have to use that we giggled the whole evening.”
“So tiny forks intimidate you, but not dashing young Irishmen?” He shook his head. “You’re a real question mark, Meredith Sullivan.”
We reached an area of flat rocks just below the northern wall of the Promenade. In the summer, this area was entirely overrun with people. Throngs of visitors lined the Prom wall, legs dangling over the edge, couples with their limbs tangled in a big mess as they snogged drunkenly. But it was winter now, and apart from a few teenagers sitting around a bonfire at the opposite end of the beach, Jack and I were alone.
He knelt down to investigate one of the flat, round rocks beneath our feet. “There you are, little ones.”
As his flashlight skimmed the stones, I peered over his shoulder, and finally understood the escargot question. “Hey, those are snails.”
“Not exactly.” He shifted his weight a bit closer to the stones. “Periwinkles are their slimy, gooey sea cousin. You see, you weren’t entirely correct earlier. Everyone comes to Lahinch for three things: surfing, golf, and winkles on the Prom.”
I squatted next to Jack and skimmed my fingers over the shells of the tiny creatures. Ew.
“You’re not afraid, are you?” Jack said, curving his fingers over mine around a single shell and tugging it from the rock. “No need to be. I left the intimidating forks at home.”
I smiled, willing myself not to blush at his fingers lingering on mine. “Are we collecting them?”
“Sort of.” Jack slid his fingers away and plucked a winkle from the stones, lifting it toward me. “See, they seal themselves to the rocks with mucus on their feet, so you have to remove them carefully. Once we’ve caught enough, we’ll boil and eat them. But in Ireland, we don’t bother with forks. We just pull out the meat with safety pins. Watch out for that one there. It looks a bit dodgy.”