The Long Walk

by Jill Cox

  I thought back to that night in McGann’s when I’d seen Jack and Hannah wearing those matching vintage Peace Love Pogues t-shirts, staring into each other’s eyes like they were the only two heart-eyed emojis in the world.

  “Oh, believe me. I know it,” I said, a smile tugging at my lips. “When I was ten, my brother went through a Music of the Motherland phase right after he got his license. Which meant he forced me to listen to that song on repeat on our drive to and from school after his girlfriend du jour dumped him. It was the worst week of my life.”

  Emma narrowed her eyes. “Americans never know the Pogues.”

  “Well, this American does. I even know the name of the album.” I googled the image on my phone. “Peace Love Pogues, right? The boxer dude always freaked me out with his six fingers.”

  “That’s exactly what Maeve said.” She eyed me warily. “But that doesn’t prove you know the song. Anyone could find the album cover if they searched for Lorelei.”

  I jumped to my feet, grabbed the TV remote like a microphone, and crooned the song’s first verse in my deepest, most dramatic eighties Irish punk voice.

  Emma nearly spit her coffee across the room. “Oh, please stop,” she begged, spluttering with laughter. “Jack played that song on repeat for days, staring pitifully out of his window toward the sea. One morning at breakfast, Maeve and I tried to tease the melancholy away, but when he finally looked up, his eyes were so swollen from crying that they were nothing more than slits.”

  “Are you kidding me?” I dropped back into my chair as my heart clenched in my chest. “I can’t even imagine that. Jack’s so steady.”

  “I know. That’s the longest I’ve ever hugged my brother, and he let me, because I suppose he felt wretched, too.”

  “Okay, now you’ve done it, Emma. Hand over this girl’s address so I can pluck out her eyebrows, one by one.”

  “Ooh, yes.” Emma tapped her fingers together. “Can I come as well? I’ll yank out her eyelashes with my own fingers. We’ll leave her chestnut curls to Maeve and the twins.”

  I crossed my left leg over my right as I rubbed my fingers over the goosebumps on my arms. “Do you think that’s why he wrote Time To Go? To win Hannah back?”

  “Of course it is. He spent most of the next year whittling away, draft after draft. By the time Jack had a decent manuscript, Little Miss Fancy Pants had cozied up to some Italian exchange student called… oh, I can’t remember. Raffles? Ravioli?”

  “Raphaele?”

  “Yes, that’s it.”

  I frowned. “Isn’t that a little exotic for a Donegal girl?”

  “Exotic, and all the proof I need that she lied to my brother when she dumped him.” Emma tapped her foot against the coffee table. “They were together forever, Hannah and the Florentine prince. Until they weren’t – conveniently following Time To Go’s debut on the bestseller’s list.”

  I paused my coffee cup halfway to my mouth. “When was that?”

  “Summer before last, I think?”

  Summer before last. The summer we’d been here fixing up Nana’s house. The summer I’d seen Jack and Hannah snogging in a side booth at McGann’s.

  I’m not sure what Emma saw on my face, but her eyes widened. “Oh, no. Please don’t worry, Meredith. That second time only lasted two weeks longer than the first. Hannah’s company sent her to their London headquarters that September. Between that and Jack’s publicity tours for the book, the two of them never had a shot. By Christmas that year, Jack left Dublin for Galway. And a year later, he met you.”

  I smiled to myself, remembering that day in the copy shop. “Life is crazy sometimes, don’t you think? You never know what’s coming around the bend.”

  “Indeed.” She sipped her coffee for a moment. “I have to say, I’ve never been one to believe in miracles, but you and Jack may change my mind.”

  “Oh, Emma. We’ve only just passed the two-month mark.”

  “I know that. But when Hannah called our house the day after you and Jack drove down to Lahinch in the middle of the night, I thought we’d never see you again. But here you are.”

  “Hold on… are you serious? They’ve spoken that recently?”

  “He didn’t tell you?” She frowned, fiddling with the waist of her robe. “Well, it’s true. That little monster asked my brother if she could pop down to Doolin for a visit. And this isn’t the first time she’s reappeared out of the blue like that. I swear, that girl has some sort of radar, like she can tell when Jack’s heart shifts away from her, even the tiniest little bit.”

  I thought back to those few days before New Year’s Eve. Jack had blamed his silence on his buddies, but Emma’s explanation made more sense. I put myself in his place for a moment and decided that no, he shouldn’t have told me about it. Not then, not now. After all, I hadn’t told him about the Addison girls’ call or how their news about Pete had temporarily addled my brain.

  Jack and I had learned everything we needed to know about each other’s past in our books. Everything else was just noise. I knew that. I just needed to keep reminding myself.

  “Are you okay, love?” Deep lines furrowed above Emma’s brow. “You look a little pale.”

  I plastered on my best smile. “I told you, Emma. Everyone has a first love. Sometimes they pop back into our lives at inconvenient times. I understand that, believe me.”

  “Yes, but in his defense, Jack only talked to her for a few minutes. Five minutes tops. And okay, maybe he was a bit broody the next couple of days, but that was it. After everything I’ve told you, surely you understand how significant you must be. When Jack told me you’d agreed to move to Galway, I actually wept, Meredith. Huge, salty tears, I tell you.”

  “Emma…”

  Her smile went wide. “You’re the best thing that’s happened to my baby brother in a long time, and I love you for it. But I’ll love you even more if you’ll fetch me the tin of biscuits I hid from myself in the back of the cupboard. Don’t look at me like that, young lady. Adults are allowed to eat biscuits for breakfast. At least we are in this house.”

  TWENTY-NINE

  Emma Kelly had a small office on the High Street only a five-minute walk from our flat on Kirwan’s Lane, directly across from the Cloak and Dagger Pub. The hike to the top floor was irksome, but the space itself was pure Emma: creaky hardwood floors, gray walls, velvet armchairs in a gorgeous shade of lavender, a mahogany desk, and a table full of succulents that could have had their own Instagram following. Even in late winter, the space was bright, cheerful, and cozy.

  If you asked Emma what she does for a living, she’d tell you she’s a consultant. But in truth, she’s a very specific type of corporate spy. When CEOs of multinational companies decide to check in on their Irish operations, who do they call? Emma Kelly, of course. Within a month, she’s “hired” into a support staff position – receptionist, document auditor, operations assistant – whatever is available.

  For six pseudonymous weeks, Emma makes rookie errors, conveniently spreading them among every department. Once she’s gathered enough intel, she commits an offense so egregious that security marches her out the door. One week later, she e-mails a full-scale report back to the powers that be – written in elegant prose with photo and video evidence to boot.

  The best part? From time to time, in a pub or a restaurant, Emma would find herself one table away from a former coworker. I guess unkempt hair plus bottle-rimmed glasses made the perfect disguise, because our Jane Bond had yet to be recognized in real life. Her entire life was like Mission: Impossible. Minus the self-destructing messages.

  But despite all that corporate savvy and a six-figure income, Emma Kelly possessed the administrative skills of a toddler. She kept fifty rolls of toilet paper neatly stacked in the bathroom cabinet but zero coffee filters in the kitchen cupboard. Her client files were stacked in random piles all over the floor, which was more than I could say for the files on her laptop. Apparently, to Emma, My Documents was a magical p
asture where her words went to die.

  For the next few weeks, while Emma went undercover at a bank, I spent my mornings in her office drafting a brand new, nothing-to-do-with-Paris novel. “Something about faeries,” Michael had suggested. “Just to cleanse your creative palate.” Every afternoon, I’d scan reports, contracts, and invoices until Emma’s document file was so perfectly organized that even she couldn’t mess it up. Once I finished organizing her digital world, I figured it wouldn’t hurt to scrub the floorboards and spruce up the paint as well. And when I’d conquered that, I Feng Shui’ed the furniture and work-flowed her desk so that Emma would never get lost in the shuffle again.

  On the first day of April, I came back from my lunchtime run to find Emma and Michael Brady sitting side-by-side in the velvet armchairs. Neither of them spoke when I walked through the door. In fact, their upright posture and sullen expressions had me wondering if I’d just walked in on an audition for Our Town.

  “Hey!” I chirped. “Sorry, I didn’t know you guys were waiting for me. It’s my lunch break. I always go running from twelve to one.”

  “You’re not sweating,” Michael said.

  “Don’t be daft, Michael. Everyone sweats.” The hard line of Emma’s mouth sent a chill up my spine. “Sit down, Meredith. We need to talk.”

  I glanced around the room, only to realize that Emma and Michael were seated in the only two chairs available. So I grabbed the stepladder I’d used that morning to dust the crown molding, turned it to face Emma and Michael, and perched on the top step.

  Emma’s eyes narrowed as her face contorted into a grotesque mask. “I’m afraid our little arrangement must come to an end. Effective immediately, I no longer require your services.”

  My eyes darted around the space. Apart from a random stack of CDs in the far corner of the room, every single inch was ordered and perfect. “Fair enough,” I said primly. “I guess I’ve finished what you needed. But I’ll miss this little office. Do you think I could borrow it on the weekends if you don’t need it? I’d be happy to pay rent.”

  Emma’s scowl softened a bit, and a half a second later, she covered her mouth. “Oh, I can’t go through with it, Michael.” A tiny snort escaped through her nose. “Look at that face. I don’t want to make her cry.”

  Michael sighed. “I should have known better than to play an April Fool’s joke with you as my sidekick.”

  “April Fool’s joke?” I looked back and forth between them, butterflies banging against my intestines. “What’s going on here?”

  Michael cleared his throat. “Do you remember when I told you about Isabelle?”

  “Yes. Your co-agent in New York?”

  “Precisely.” He opened his briefcase and pulled out a manila envelope. “I asked her to do a little recon for one of my client’s projects. She contacted several editors, the book went to auction, and the house with the winning bid is hoping for an autumn release next year.”

  When he handed me the envelope, I read the label in the upper left-hand corner. “Reardon Books?”

  “They’re a boutique publisher out of New York. Go ahead and open it, Meredith.”

  Careful not to bend the flap, I freed the pages from the envelope and began to read the cover letter inside. Dear Ms. Sullivan, the editorial committee at Reardon Books is thrilled to offer your novel the following contract for…

  My hands began to tremble as teardrops the size of quarters splashed all over the page. “Is this your April Fool’s joke?”

  “It’s no joke, love.” Laughter tumbled from Emma’s lips, her own eyes lined with tears. “You can’t work for me anymore. Once you sign that contract, you’re officially on deadline.”

  Michael tugged a handkerchief from the front pocket of his suit coat and placed it in my palm. “You’ve got yourself a book deal, Meredith. Congratulations.”

  The handkerchief trembled in my hand. “But you said it could take six months before we heard a word back from anybody. That was only a few weeks ago.”

  “I did say that, yes.”

  “But this is… Michael, this is three times the advance you told me I should expect.”

  “I know,” Michael beamed. “I can’t quite believe it myself.”

  Jack suddenly burst through the door, his eyes wild, flicking from me to Michael and then to Emma. “What happened?” He sucked in a deep breath. “You both texted me to meet you here then ignored every text I sent you back.”

  I handed Jack my letter and watched his face shift from anger to confusion to radiant joy. He pulled me to my feet, scooping me into his arms. And as he twirled me around, he began to laugh – slowly at first, then so deeply that Emma and Michael joined in.

  And despite his usual curmudgeonly demeanor, Michael beamed like a proud papa.

  “Meredith,” he said once our laughter subsided. “I don’t mean to rush you, but you should make a decision by Monday morning. You don’t have to take Reardon’s offer. Isabelle and I can negotiate anything you like, but let me be frank: you won’t get a better deal than this one. Reardon does a lot of publicity for their authors. They’ll work hard to ensure that your book sells.”

  The second that last word crossed his lips, the room suddenly felt like it was tilting. In all the time since I’d written my story, I’d never believed it would ever see the light of day, and now that it was possible, I suddenly wanted to make it all disappear forever.

  Ian, who had loved every story I’d ever shown him, would never read this one.

  Pete, whose memory had fueled every word, had no idea this story existed. And now that it was possible he would read it…

  I stepped backwards, pressing my back against Jack as breath after breath hitched in my throat. Emma took another step toward me, but Jack raised his hand to stop her.

  “Could you brew us some tea, Emma?” he asked, his voice as calm as a rippling brook. “And Michael – a bit of fresh air would be grand, yeah?”

  Michael hopped to it, throwing back the curtains and opening the nearest window while Emma zoomed over to the kitchenette, banging around for the tea kettle. Jack turned me toward him, one hand around my waist, the other curved around my neck. “Are you okay, Meredith?” He said tenderly so that only I could hear. “Have you had a bit of a shock?”

  “Yes, but… what in the world is wrong with me?” I choked. “This is happy news.”

  Jack cocked his head to the side, a sad smile tugging at his lips. “It is happy news. But it’s not the sort of news one would expect in the middle of a random Tuesday. Especially not surrounded by this band of outliers.”

  “You’re not…”

  “You know what I mean.” He slipped his fingers into my shoulder-length hair. “Fancy a ride down to the Juniper House tonight? This seems like the sort of announcement the Sullivans should hear first-hand. Maybe you’ll feel differently once you see your mum and dad’s faces.”

  My breathing calmed as I watched Jack watching me. “I’d like that.”

  He handed back the contract and turned around, flipping through his wallet. “Here, Michael,” he said, handing over his credit card. “Why don’t you take my sister out to that fancy dinner you’re always promising her? It’s on me.”

  Emma jerked her head over her shoulder from the kitchenette, her eyes bulging. “Just the two of us? Shouldn’t all four of us celebrate together?”

  “Not this time,” he said, reaching for my hand. “I’m taking Meredith home.”

  THIRTY

  I signed the contract.

  I signed the contract, and a month later, I found myself on a whirlwind five-night trip to New York, hitching my wagon to Reardon’s bright, young editorial star: the angel-haired Angie Nelson from Eagan, Minnesota. By the time I flew back to Ireland Friday night, my book had a clear editorial direction, a publicity schedule, and – maybe most important of all – a title.

  Night and Day.

  It was my brother’s favorite song of all time.

  Jack had taken another
brief leave from McIntosh’s to polish up his latest work. A few days after my offer from Reardon, County Down Press had offered Jack quadruple the advance he’d received for Time To Go without a single glance at his manuscript. So there we toiled, tapping away on our laptops across from one another in Emma’s tiny office space, both of our heads caught up in the clouds and this new life we were building. Together.

  On the last Friday in May, Jack and I left the office to find a bright blue sky and a thousand spectators lining Quay Street as a giant spider lumbered past, followed by a cavalcade of drummers in Dickensian garb. Moments later, a dragon roared past, flanked by ten men in top hats riding unicycles. Every few feet, the cyclists would lift their hands to the sky and flames would burst forth, all while pedaling to the rhythm of multiple drum corps spaced on either side of the other-worldly performers.

  Ba-dum-dum. Tick-tick-tick. Ba-dum-dum.

  A tiny space opened up among the spectators, and Jack tugged me gently forward. Then he stepped behind me and wrapped one arm around my waist just as a witch drove by on a two-story-tall tricycle, shouting curses at the naughty children who laughed at her from the sidelines.

  “What is this?” I shouted over the drums.

  “Who knows? We’ve no shortage of festivals in this town. Look.”

  I followed Jack’s finger down the cobblestoned street to the next convoy of performers, and all the air from my lungs disappeared into oblivion. Because there, a stone’s throw from where we stood, pranced thirteen emerald green fairies.

  They pirouetted from one side of the street to the other in their matching emerald green toe shoes. Most skittered over to toddlers perched on their parents’ shoulders or to wee lassies hiding behind their mums’ legs. But the tiniest of them all – a young girl with bright blue eyes and jet black curls – glided right over to Jack and me. She bowed deeply, stretching herself nearly to the ground. When she stood upright on her toe shoes, she mimed a gigantic heart with her graceful hands, coquettishly flitting her fake eyelashes our way.