The Long Walk

by Jill Cox

  A green fairy. Of all the characters in the parade, a green fairy had found us. Just like Ian’s glass float.

  Jack laughed into my shoulder as she pas-de-bourré-d her way back to the fairy horde disappearing down the road. “Come on,” he whispered into my ear. “I’ve had enough of this crowd for tonight.”

  He took my hand, and the two of us meandered away from the crowds, cutting through the side streets and down the cobblestone lanes of the Latin Quarter to Claddagh Quay, where the River Corrib spilled into the mouth of Galway Bay. For once, the tiny harbor was full of ships – everything from traditional dinghies to the elegant, red-sailed Galway hookers once used to transport peat across the bay, plus three Viking longboats with their curly bows and striped sails.

  Jack led me up the promontory across from The Long Walk. It was well past nine, but the sky was still bright enough that it felt like early evening. The River Corrib roiled toward Galway Bay in the distance, a salty tang filling the air as the boats bobbed up and down on their way in from the harbor.

  As we reached the round point of the promontory, Jack squeezed my left hand, trailing his thumb over mine. “I don’t remember the summer ever creeping up on me this quickly.”

  “We’ve been busy.” I looked across the water to The Long Walk, where the bright red paint on McIntosh’s Print Shop gleamed even brighter in the late evening sun. “I can’t believe we’ve never walked out here before. You must come here all the time.”

  “Not really. I’m not sure why.” Jack was silent for a moment, staring across the water. “Ever wonder how different things might be if you’d gone to a different shop on Christmas Eve?”

  I shifted my gaze back to him. “What do you mean?”

  “Don’t you think it’s strange we met now? All those times you and your family have spent your holidays in Doolin, and we never met until last Christmas.”

  “True.” I wrapped my free hand around his arm. “But we saw each other that night I danced to Gangnam Style in McGann’s.”

  “Yes, we did. Didn’t we?” He laughed a little, shaking his head. For a moment, he stared back across the water, his heart pounding so hard that I could see the vein at his temple pulsing. “Tell me the truth,” he said softly. “Haven’t you ever wondered how our lives might look if you grew up here? What if your parents had never left Doolin for America? We would have known each other our entire lives. Your brother and Emma would have been classmates.”

  “Of course I think about that, Jack. All the time.” I leaned my cheek against his arm. “I wish Ian had known your sister. Emma would have set his heart on fire.”

  Jack breathed in deeply, squeezing my hand. “And what about us?”

  It was a terrible, beautiful idea, this alternate reality he was painting. Because if my parents had never left Ireland, Ian might still be alive. And so would Liz and Jim Russell, because Pete’s family would never have stopped at Sullivan’s. Because it would never have existed.

  Pete would have gone to Stanford. Or maybe Highgate. But either way, we never would have met. We wouldn’t have Paris. And I would never have written Night and Day.

  And if Jack hadn’t met Hannah, he never could’ve written Time To Go.

  Ever since my trip to New York, the life I’d once lived felt like an untouchable dream. With each day that passed, Pete Russell felt more and more like a figment of my imagination, like the ghost of a person I now called Luke Jameson. Maybe that had been his purpose – just a dot on my timeline. A muse that had lindy-hopped into my life to set me back on my original path just in time to drop back out.

  I lifted my hand to Jack’s cheek and pulled his face toward mine. “It doesn’t matter,” I whispered, brushing my lips against his. “We could drive ourselves crazy with all these what ifs, Jack. We can’t change the life behind us. All we can do is live the life we have now.”

  Jack turned to me and stared for a moment, his eyes wide. Then they softened again. “You’re right,” he smiled. “You’re always right.”

  He took a step back, reaching inside his leather jacket. He dug around the chest pocket of his shirt for a moment, and produced a small silver ring. “Surely you’ll know what this is,” he said, lifting his eyes to mine. “Every jeweler within a quarter mile of your apartment sells these.”

  “Claddagh, like Prada,” I smiled, remembering my brother’s joke. “I know what it is.”

  Jack placed the ring in the middle of his palm. “Two hands for friendship, a heart for love, and a crown for loyalty. Some people find these rings naff. But I think they’re a lovely tradition.”

  I’d never told Jack about that day on Dún Aonghasa – never told him how Kate had run away when Ian botched his grand gesture with our Nana’s ring. I’d never dared tell anyone how I saw Ian slip that same ring on Kate’s right hand mere hours before they died. Not even Pete.

  Jack reached for my right hand, slipping the ring on my finger, the tip of the heart pointing upward toward my own. “This is my dad’s mother’s ring,” he said gently, brushing his finger over the silver. “Maeve wears Adam’s, so Emma will inherit our mum’s.”

  I watched Jack’s lips moving as he explained the rest, but I already knew the story about the once-upon-a-time village five hundred meters behind me where the rings got their start. Instead, my mind fluttered back to Dún Aonghasa two summers ago, and for the first time ever, I finally understood why Kate had run away.

  What Kate had wanted – what everyone wants – was for my brother to understand why the ring mattered to her. She wanted to feel how I’d felt when Pete gave me that Pont des Arts charm for my birthday junior year. Or the photo album he’d cobbled together on my laptop while I wasn’t looking. Or the key from the padlock we’d thrown into the Seine together.

  What Kate wanted more than anything was a sign that Ian loved her because she was the only Kate Maher in the world. That he loved her specifically for her Kate-ness.

  And he did. Despite all logic and reason.

  My eyes filled with tears, and Jack, who knew nothing of Kate-plus-Ian, must have mistaken my tears for joy. “I love you, Meredith,” he said, a smile lighting up his open face as he brushed the tears from my cheeks. “I know this is a little over the top, giving you this ring in full view of both the Claddagh village and the print shop where we met, but I don’t care. I never knew I could be this happy again. That day you walked into the shop, you gave me hope.”

  He leaned his forehead against mine, and in that moment, I remembered the green fairy at the parade. Was she another sign? What if everything that had happened the past two years was nothing more than my life course-correcting to Jack’s? This was our chance to right all the wrongs in our power – just the two of us against the world.

  “Say it again,” I murmured, wrapping my arms around his neck as I pulled him into a hug.

  He curved himself into me, and whispered, “I love you.”

  “I love you too,” I said, my lips brushing against his neck. “Hey, Jack?”

  “Yes?”

  “Will you come to Paris with me?”

  THIRTY-ONE

  Galway in the summer felt like a carnival in the sky. The colors that had felt so bright in winter shined as brightly as Oz, especially cast in relief against the constant flurry of buskers and street performers on every corner.

  In mid-June, a glitch in the Gulf Stream ushered in the warmest temperatures western Ireland had seen in four decades. Shops sold out of hats and sunscreen, happy voices floated from every open window, and locals blended in among the tourists relishing the extra-long days. Dads carried children high on their shoulders, ignoring their toddlers’ cherry red Popsicles dribbling down their shirts. And all the while, I walked through life, my hand in Jack’s, attempting to wrap my brain around the fact that six months ago, none of these moments were even a blip on my radar.

  On Midsummer’s Eve, the night before Jack and I were meant to leave for Paris, Emma convinced us to put off packing long enough to hear l
ive music at the Cloak and Dagger. Emma Kelly is nothing if not persuasive, so there we were, on the outdoor terrace, listening to Finn McCool & The Gang, the absolute worst trad band I had ever heard on either side of the Atlantic. They were so disastrous, so completely off-beat and off-key that a full twenty seconds passed before any of the three of us realized a fourth person had suddenly joined our table.

  “Michael!” I jumped when I finally noticed him standing behind Jack. “What in the world are you doing here?”

  Michael went temporarily googly-eyed at Emma before recomposing himself. “Evening, ladies. Jack, could I have a word?”

  “Hold on a second,” Jack frowned. “How on earth did you know where to find us?”

  “Because Meredith is better at social media than you are, mate.” He tapped at his phone, then turned his screen around to show us my Instagram post from twenty minutes before.

  Spending Midsummer’s Eve with my two favorite people.

  #TheBoy #HisSisterTheRoommate #GalwayGirl

  Oh, good grief. I was becoming a hashtagger.

  Jack looked like he wanted to laugh, but he stood from his seat. “Okay, Michael, let’s talk. But next time, you don’t have to drive three hours to do it in person. Anything we have to discuss you can say to me over the phone.”

  “I could have done.” Michael took a handkerchief from the interior pocket of his well-tailored suit and wiped his brow. “But you haven’t answered a single time I’ve called today.”

  “What?” Jack dug his phone out of his back pocket, clicking repeatedly at the home key. “Oh. Sorry, mate. I guess my battery’s dead.”

  Michael set his jaw and motioned for Jack to follow him inside the pub. Emma watched them retreating far longer than necessary, which made me smile.

  “See something you like?” I said mostly to myself as I finished the last of my cider.

  “What are you on about?” Emma tutted, twisting a blond curl around her finger. “Is it a sin to wonder which bronzer Mr. Michael Brady uses to give himself such a healthy glow?”

  I nearly snorted. “That’s no bronzer, my friend. That’s Michael’s commission glow.”

  “His what?”

  I crossed my arms and leaned back in my chair, ignoring the caterwauling onstage. “You do the math. Jack’s deal plus mine equals a well-earned vacation to the Maldives.”

  Emma’s eyes went wide. “The place with the fancy huts built above the ocean itself?”

  “The very one.”

  A tiny flush rose in Emma’s cheeks. “I suppose that explains why he looks so fit.”

  I peered inside the darkened pub. The only visible part of Jack was the back of his head, but Emma was right about Michael. Now that his tie was undone and he’d rolled up his sleeves, he resembled his actual age (thirty-two) instead of forty-five.

  When the guys hadn’t returned fifteen minutes later, Emma and I decided to give up our table on the terrace in search of answers. But the second we entered the pub, my gut clenched. Michael and Jack sat across from each other in a booth, and even from across the room, I could hear them shouting over one another. One second later, Jack dropped his head into his hands.

  Well, that was never a good sign.

  Emma sashayed across the room like she was on the hunt, and for the first time since I’d known her, she cozied up to my agent. “All right, you two.” She slid into the booth next to Michael 2.0 and flashed him her sexiest smile. “You’ve had ample time alone. Now let us in on the secret.”

  For a long moment, Michael smiled moonily at Emma while I settled in beside Jack, whose face was still buried in his hands. “A studio would like to adapt Time To Go for the small screen,” Michael explained. “All we need now is for Jack to sign on the dotted line.”

  I gasped. “A network?”

  “No,” Jack muttered into his hands. “An independent studio. They pitch shows to streaming services.”

  “Are you serious?” I laid my hand on his knee. “That’s fantastic, Jack!”

  He lifted his eyes to mine, and once again my gut clenched. Across the table, Michael prattled on to Emma about the million and one possibilities for the project, but without a word, I suddenly understood Jack’s terror. This was his life story. A book was one thing, but a TV series? Everyone knows authors maintain very little creative control once they’ve sold creative rights to a studio. I tried to imagine another human being playing my alter ego, Allie.

  No way. Nope. No thank you. Time to make good on my threat to live in Antarctica.

  “There’s more.” Jack winced as he grabbed my hand under the table. “I can’t go to Paris now, love.”

  Gut clench number three. “Why not?”

  “There’s no need to look so indignant, Meredith.” Michael’s gaze flicked back and forth between us. “The Temple Bar Theater has sold out this Saturday night for a special Q&A session with Nick Hornby, but their original host has succumbed to exhaustion –”

  “Original host?” Emma interrupted. “Who?”

  “Aisling McKee.”

  “Who’s that?” I asked.

  Emma rolled her eyes. “You’d know her if you saw her – child actress turned pop star. ‘Fess up, Michael – exhaustion is code for rehab, isn’t it? Or wait! Has Aisling gone to a Swiss spa to drop that extra two stone she gained when her album tanked?”

  “Both, actually,” Michael sniffed. “In any case, Nick’s people called me today to see if Jack’s available this weekend to host the event. They assured me that Jack was always Nick’s first choice, but the theater’s insipid young publicist hired Aisling thinking she’d draw a bigger crowd.”

  “This is huge,” I said, squeezing Jack’s hand. “Why aren’t you excited?”

  He shot me a stricken look. “Because I don’t want to miss out on Paris. When else will I have a chance to meet your American friends?”

  “But this is your career, Jack. Your dream.”

  “That’s what I keep telling him.” Michael gave me a conspiratorial look. “It’s like I always say, Jack: these days, you have to create your own buzz. Your social life can wait.”

  Something about the way Jack was looking at me frayed my last nerve, but I smiled all the same. “Michael’s right. Our flights weren’t very expensive. We can cancel –”

  “No,” Jack retorted. “Absolutely not, Meredith. Michael can boss me around all he likes, but he can’t stop you from seeing your mates.”

  “But –”

  “No arguments, love.” Jack lifted his hand to my cheek. “You go to Paris. I’ll drive you to Shannon myself in the morning.”

  “I can take her,” Emma replied. “My contract is up at the software company. This will give my boss a plausible reason to sack me once and for all.”

  “You’re still working there?” Jack gaped. “You and Meredith disappeared for three hours yesterday to the shops. That wasn’t enough to sack you?”

  “What can I say, Jackie? Your sister is a technological wizard.” Emma wagged her eyebrows at me. “Either that, or the lead software engineer fancies me. I can’t decide which.”

  Michael’s hyper-bronzed face blanched. “Well, then,” he said, clearing his throat. “My work here is done. I’ll just head back to Dublin tonight and you can meet me tomorrow for lunch to discuss the studio deal. Mark off your calendar for Sunday, Jack. The studio is sending their top people to meet us for brunch at some fancy place in Temple Bar.”

  “Michael, I don’t think –”

  But Emma had already shimmied out of the booth, and with a quick peck to her cheek and a perfunctory goodbye to me, Michael was gone, and I was left alone with the Kelly siblings wondering why that worrisome gnawing in my gut always showed up at the most inconvenient of times.

  THIRTY-TWO

  The silvery summer sun was high in the sky as I touched down at Charles de Gaulle airport on Friday morning, and the familiar odor of smoggy pollution warmed my heart as no carcinogens ever should. I was back in the city that I loved, a lit
tle over two years since I’d left.

  After I dropped off my bag with the concierge at the hotel near Notre Dame, I took the 4 line down to Saint-Sulpice. I’d barely breached the station exit before Marie-France tackled me, hugging me for so long that her fellow Parisians began to gape. Then she grabbed my bag and we took off across the parvis toward her apartment building. Before I knew it, the two of us were standing in her kitchen making coffee.

  “I’m so thrilled that you’re here,” she said in French, grabbing two cups from the cupboard. “I might not have recognized you if you hadn’t warned me that you cut your hair.” She glanced down at the thin leather watch on her wrist. “What time will you meet the girls?”

  “Four o’clock,” I replied, the French words wobbly on my out-of-practice, Anglophone tongue. “Their train arrives from Avignon soon, but Harper said they like to give their students an hour to settle in once they get to a new location. It’s hard on kids to switch hotels every couple of days. They’ve already traveled to Florence, the south of France, and Provence since Sunday.”

  “Americans pack too many places into these tours,” she tutted. “Why didn’t they just spend the whole week in Paris?”

  “Now, Marie-France, don’t judge. You know it’s a hassle to get here from the other side of the Atlantic.”

  “And from Ireland as well, apparently,” she smirked, plucking the French press from the counter. “Bring those cups and let’s sit for a while.”

  Sitting in Marie-France’s kitchen again felt like a hug. She entertained her acquaintances in the living room, but her friends always hung out here. It was her favorite room in the apartment, and I could see why; between the warm glow of the afternoon sun and the charming pink-and-white décor, the kitchen felt like a country cottage.

  She filled both cups, and as I took a sip of her favorite coffee blend, a deep sigh escaped me. It tasted exactly as I remembered. “Do you want to come with me this afternoon? The Addison girls would love to see you.”