“Mor,” he said, letting his backpack slip to the ground. “Look at you. Look at you!” He put his arms around me so completely I thought he might pick me up and spin me around, but he didn’t. He just stood there, holding me, and I made a wish that clocks in every time zone would stop and let this moment last forever.
“Colin,” I said softly. “Hey. Welcome to, you know. America. Connecticut, whatever.”
“It’s the New World, so they say,” he whispered in my ear. Then he let go of me and stood up straight. The nearby trash can overflowed with garbage, with a greasy pizza box balanced precariously on top. “Could use a bit of a tidy-up,” he added. “But it’s not brand new anymore, of course. Ye have to expect a few dings and scratches.”
“It’s a bus depot.” My dad was making his presence known, in his snide fashion. “The Grand Canyon is considerably nicer.”
“Mount Rushmore too, so I hear.” Colin grinned and extended a hand to my father. “Mr. Rawlinson. I’m much obliged for the lift and the hospitality. ’Tis my sincere pleasure to meet you.”
“No problemo,” my dad mumbled, suddenly shy. He wasn’t used to my friends being so polite, or so grown-up, or so male, or so good looking, I guess. “Let’s get outta here.”
even With all the extra hours she Was Working, mЧ mom had insisted on cooking an elaborate dinner in Colin’s honor. I’d begged her not to try to wow him with her attempts at traditional Irish specialties. “Make him something he might not get at home,” I’d said. “You know, our native cuisine?”
“In Connecticut, that would be root vegetables and pemmican,” Dad had suggested dryly.
“We don’t eat pelicans!” Tammy screeched.
“The Native Americans did,” my dad lied. “Cooked ’em in a stew and served them in their own capacious beaks. Kidding! Just kidding, Tam!” No matter how many times he made Tammy freak out, Dad never learned his lesson. It took a chocolate cupcake and half a screening of Beauty and the Beast to make her forget about the poor pelicans.
After hours leafing through glossy cookbooks featuring Connecticut’s other native cuisine (meaning Martha Stewart), Mom decided to make a photogenic and highly labor-intensive vegetable lasagna drenched in béchamel sauce. You cooked the noodles, you cooked the vegetables, you cooked the sauce, then you put it together and cooked the whole thing all over again. To my way of thinking that was like making dinner four times, but Mom was pretty stoked about it. Not to mention the accompanying salad of arugula, mandarin orange slices and lightly toasted pine nuts. Colin gobbled it all up like a starving man and didn’t ask for ketchup once.
“Mmm—fantastic—after six months in the dorms I can’t tell ye how good it is to have a home-cooked meal. Mmm . . .”
“We’re so fortunate to be able to get wonderful produce year-round.” Mom gestured with an orange slice. “We’ll have to take you to Lucky Lou’s. Have you ever heard of that store? Such incredibly fresh food! A wide selection of organic vegetables too.”
She was making me want to die, basically. “They have vegetables in Ireland, Mom,” I said, hiding my face in my hands.
“But not so ye’d notice,” Colin added, with a wink at Tammy.
The phone rang. “Let the voice mail pick up, we’re having dinner,” my mom said elegantly. She had a whole different way of talking when there was a guest at the table; it was kind of hilarious to observe.
“But, Mommy, you always talk on the phone during dinner,” Tammy piped up. The point was moot, though, because my dad had already grabbed the receiver.
“Morgan, it’s Sarah,” he said, handing me the phone.
“Hey, Sarah.” I glanced at my mom’s tense expression. “We’re in the middle of dinner. Can I call you back?”
“Sure! Just tell me: Is he there?”
“Yes.”
“Oh my God! Can I meet him? Do you guys wanna come out tonight? Dylan’s band is playing at a house party. You’re totally invited.”
Introducing Colin to my friends would be an entertaining evening for sure, but if I didn’t have a few minutes alone with him soon I thought I would lose my mind. “I think tonight would be a bad idea,” I said. “He’s kind of jet-lagged.”
“A wee nap and I’ll be ready for action.” Colin yawned hugely, like a cat. “Or—pardon me! Another time might be better, come to think of it.”
“This week definitely, okay? I can’t wait!” I hoped the hyperexcited buzz of Sarah’s voice wasn’t audible to Colin. “Clem and Deirdre want to meet him. And Dylan does too, of course! They’re playing again Friday; you should definitely come then.”
“Morgan.” My mother’s voice was a warning. “Dinner? Remember?”
“Gotta go. I’ll call you tomorrow, okay?”
“Tell him I said hi!” She giggled. “Top o’ the, whatever.”
“Will do.”
“Morgan told all her friends you were coming,” Tammy confided to Colin. “Morgan doesn’t have a boyfriend, you know!”
“Thanks for the update, young lady.” Colin rubbed his eyes and grinned. “But I’d much rather talk about you. Are ye single, or married, or playing the field, or what?”
“Colin!” Tammy squealed. She was crazy about him already, I could tell. “I am in the second grade!”
“No!” He pretended to be shocked. “A bonnie lass like yerself? Ye must be the princess of the second grade, then!”
Mom’s face got tense all over again, but I could swear Dad was holding back a laugh.
“Let me ask ye something, your highness,” Colin went on. “Do ye happen to play football—soccer, I mean? I hear it’s become quite a popular thing in the States.”
Tammy nodded vigorously. “Everybody plays soccer after school. I’m not very good, though.”
Colin sat back and patted his stomach in contentment. “Fear not, young lady. By the time I’m done coachin’ ye, ye’ll be ready for the World Cup.”
Mom looked much happier at that.
after dinner, mЧ mom couldn’t Wait to give all twenty of her BFFs the full report on her béchamel sauce, not to mention the family’s newly acquired status symbol: Imagine! Our own private Irish soccer coach! Finally, a possession that trumped every conceivable Lexus, Prada bag or Ivy League admission her friends could potentially brag about.
“They call it ‘football’ over there, of course,” she prattled into the phone, as Dad cleared the table. “He’s here to do a program at UConn. I doubt he’d have time to coach the whole team. . . . No, he’s just here for tonight; tomorrow we’re bringing him to the dorm. . . . Well, we could always ask, I suppose. . . .
To get Colin away from this embarrassing display, I gave him a tour of the house and showed him where to find towels and stuff. All attempts at a private moment were ruined because Tammy kept scampering after him like a puppy. When it was time for her to go to bed she wanted Colin to tell her a bedtime story; no one else would do.
“Something with magic in it,” she declared, looking tiny inside her too-big Tinker Bell pajamas.
“Colin’s not a big fan of make-believe stuff,” I warned. I knew Colin was as antimagic as only a person who’d been raised in a country full of fantastical lore could be.
“But it’s not make-believe! Did you know faeries are real?” Tammy turned to Colin. “Morgan told me. Did you know she met the real tooth fairy? Did you know—”
“If ye don’t mind there, Tammy,” Colin interrupted, “we’ll skip all that faery claptrap for now.” He stifled another yawn. “I’ve got a cartload of stories to tell ye about me grandpap’s farm, though. The farm’s long gone; they turned it into a bunch of suburban houses with a supermarket and a cinema and a bowling alley. Now Grandpap’s an old codger and lives in a flat in Dublin, watching the telly all day. But he grew up on the farm, and a lively place it was too. Do ye like chickens?”
“I love chickens!” Tammy cried, as if someone had read her innermost thoughts. “Buk buk buk buk!”
The two of them spent the
next ten minutes perfecting the chicken head-bob move and comparing their clucking noises. Tammy’s was good, but Colin’s was positively lifelike.
I excused myself in the middle of a tale about Sadie, the one-eyed champion egg-layer, and did one last check of the guest room. It was neat as a pin, and superhostess Mom had put fresh flowers in a vase on the nightstand. I couldn’t resist pulling one long-stemmed lily out of the vase and laying it across the pillow (I dried it off first, of course). Because, who knew? Maybe a good-night kiss would be coming my way momentarily. A touch of romance couldn’t hurt.
Colin is in my house, I thought, nudging the flower into the perfect, wouldn’t-it-be-grand-to-smooch-Morgan-now position. Tonight he’ll sleep down the hall from me, and in the morning I’ll wake up and he’ll still be here. If that wasn’t proof of magic in the world, nothing was.
When I went back to Tammy’s room, Colin was out cold, sprawled across the foot of Tammy’s bed, snoring. Tammy was curled up under the covers and only a tiny bit awake herself.
“Good story,” she mumbled. “Made us both sleepy.”
It took some pretty vigorous shakes to get Colin to the point where I could lead him down the hall to the guest room. Only half-awake, he didn’t resist as I pulled off his battered Nikes.
“Sorry I’m so wiped. Must be the time change. . . .” he mumbled. “Haven’t been sleeping well, lately . . . Right now I swear I could sleep for a week, though. . . .”
“Want me to tuck you in?” I joked, but of course it wasn’t totally a joke.
“I’ll manage,” he said, letting his head sink back into the pillow. I had to snatch the flower away so it didn’t get crushed.
Before I could even say good night, he was asleep.
bЧ ten-thirtЧ sundaЧ morning tammЧ Was starving and whining for breakfast, but Colin hadn’t come down yet. Dad insisted we start without him.
“Ten-thirty and still asleep! It’d be even later in Ireland,” my dad commented, as he stirred his coffee. “Half the day’s wasted.”
“Don’t be inhospitable,” Mom said, ladling out the fruit salad she’d been chopping all morning, which was carefully garnished with perfect circles of kiwi and sprigs of fresh mint. “He’s exhausted from traveling.”
“He knows about chickens,” Tammy said, her mouth full of waffle.
“Need to brush up on my roosters, though. It’s well past sunup!” Colin practically jogged down the stairs. “Good morning, everyone! I can’t thank ye enough for lettin’ me lie in. That was quite possibly the best night’s sleep I’ve had in me whole entire life.” He smiled charmingly at my mother. “I hope I didn’t cause ye to miss church.”
Ha. My mom’s idea of Sunday worship was hitting a sale at Lord and Taylor’s.
“Morning,” my dad said, sounding embarrassed. “Coffee?”
“Hardly feel like I need any, but sure.” Dad poured him a cup, and within seconds my mom produced a warmed plate laden with perfectly arranged fruit, homemade waffles and a festive drizzle of raspberry syrup.
“We were planning on doing some shopping today,” she said, as we watched Colin shovel the food down. “Would you like to see the mall? It’s quite something!” Mom said “the mall” with a special glow, like, “Would you like to see the Taj Mahal? Would you like to see the dead come back to life?”
Say no, I prayed. Anything but the mall.
“If ye don’t mind,” Colin said, glancing at me, “I’d be more than happy to just enjoy your beautiful home, and relax here for a bit.”
“I’ll stay home too,” I said quickly.
Mom got it right away, but Dad slammed his coffee mug down and pushed back his chair. “Me too. I’ve been meaning to organize the garage.”
At my house, we spelled clueless D-A-D.
“Daniel,” Mom intoned, in the low pitch she only used when she was about to boss him around. “I really think you should come shopping with me and Tammy. Let Morgan and Colin have a chance to catch up.”
“But the garage is a mess—”
“It’s been like that for eight years,” said my mom, the professional closet organizer and most passionately anticlutter person on the East Coast. “It can wait.”
My mom could be kind of a goddess herself, sometimes.
Colin and morgan ... alone at last ...
As the sound of the Subaru whisking my parents and Tammy to the mall faded into the distance, my heart started to pound. What to do first? Throw myself at Colin and plant a juicy wet one right on his lips? Tell him how much I’d missed him and beg him to move to Connecticut? Offer him more coffee and wait for him to make the first move?
Colin seemed unsure too. “Ye didn’t tell me ye lived in a mansion,” he said, wandering through the “great room,” as my mom called it, with its vaulted ceiling and total lack of privacy. “It’s a bloody big house yer folks’ve got here.”
I tried to match his casual tone. “It’s medium sized by local standards, believe it or not. People love big houses in Connecticut.”
“Three bathrooms!” He turned to me. “And that’s medium sized, eh?” He was standing in front of the sofa. How easy it would be for us to sink down on it together and start making out like ravenous beasts. How easy it is, I thought, to remember exactly what his lips feel like on mine. . . . Considering that I was a person who’d once traveled thousands of years back in time to the days of Irish lore, why couldn’t I just skip ahead a few years and be old enough for Colin? Why why why . . .
“Will ye listen to me,” he said, catching my gaze. “We haven’t seen each other since the summer—”
My arms were around him, and his were around me. “I missed you so much,” I murmured.
“And here I am, talking about the—”
“Colin—”
“—plumbing . . .”
I turned my face up to his, eyes closed, ready for a kiss. And it came, tenderly, on my right cheek, where it lingered until Colin gently pulled away.
“There’s some stuff I ought to tell ye, I think,” he said.
I did not like the sound of that one bit.
“i don’t Understand.” the adrenaline rush of fear was clouding my brain. “Are you saying you’re sick?” We were sitting on the sofa, but we weren’t making out. Instead Colin was busy scaring the crap out of me.
Colin looked away from me and shrugged. “It’d be simpler if I were. They can’t find anything wrong with me. I’ve been to the infirmary at school and a private doctor as well.” He tried to joke, but it was forced. “They all say the same thing: I’m fit as a fiddle, if a bit on the ugly side.”
Ugly, ha. Sparkling blue eyes, reddish-blond hair, a faery-dusting of freckles across his face and that naturally graceful, athletic bod. Colin was a hunk. Like mine, his hair had grown longer since the summer. It was softer now and tousled into silky curls. He was thinner, a little paler—he looked beautiful; that was the only word for how he looked.
“Colin, please,” I begged. “If you’re not sick, tell me what’s wrong.”
He exhaled and took my hand. “All right. Ye know me, luv, I’m a fairly energetic chap by nature. But soon after I started university, something changed.” He shook his head. “I was tired all the time and kind of foggy-headed. It got so bad I even tried cutting out the Guinness.”
I smiled at that.
“Ye’ll think I’m daft, Mor,” he went on, in a quiet voice. “I feel like I almost never get a proper night’s sleep—except for last night, here in this house, that was quite the exception—but I have these mad dreams.”
My head started to ache. “What kind of dreams?”
He opened his mouth, then stopped. “It’s completely nutters. Never mind.”
Now the room was spinning and I had to hold on. I put my hands on his strong arms and felt the muscles moving beneath his skin, like there was a lean, wild creature that lived inside him.
“Colin—tell me about the dreams.” I wouldn’t let him go. “I promise I won’t think you’
re ‘nutters.’ ”
I could see the need to tell someone gathering behind his eyes, like the clouds of a distant, fast-approaching storm. I know that feeling, I wanted to say. When you know that no one will believe you, but you’re desperate to tell the truth anyway. If I didn’t have Tammy to tell all my faery stories to, I’d probably have gone nutters myself by now.
“At first I couldn’t remember any of it,” he began. “The dreams would fade as soon as I woke up. But now I’m starting to hold on to bits of ’em, not that they make any sense.” He looked at me helplessly. “In the dream I’m at a party. There’s dancing, lots of dancing. Everyone’s dressed to the nines.”
“Like—a prom?” Lame, I know, but it was the best image I could come up with.
“Yeah, I suppose. But it goes on and on. Every night, all night. A never-ending prom.” His voice sank lower. “Here’s the truly daft part. Now and then, I find things in me pockets. Mostly pieces of paper—notes, lists. They’re in me own handwriting, but I don’t remember writing them.”
“Wait.” I had to ask, though part of me already knew the answer. “You dream that you find things in your pockets?”
Colin swallowed hard. “I told ye, ye’d think I was daft. No, Morgan,” he said. “The party with the dancing is a dream—I think it is, anyhow—but the stuff in me pockets is real.” He reached into the back pocket of his jeans, took out a slip of paper, and handed it to me. “They’re all different, but this one’s typical.”
It was a receipt, from a company called Wee Folk Custom Tailors & Alterations. In a curling script, in emerald green ink, it read:
One flowy princess dress,
fit for a half-goddess.
Payment due upon pick up.
Satisfaction guaranteed!
“Now, how this got in me pocket’s one thing,” said Colin, sounding exasperated. “But what on earth would I need with a flowy princess dress?”
How I Found the Perfect Dress Page 4