Loving Irish

by Katy Regnery

  “Thought I’d start by getting those critters out of the upstairs rooms, and get the windows covered with tarps. I’ll take some measurements and then head down to the hardware store in Moultonborough to order replacements. Sound good to you?”

  Jenny nodded her head vigorously. “Can I help you?”

  “N-no, baby. Mr. Haven needs to—”

  “Jenny,” said Ian, pivoting to grab a metal trap from the bed of his truck and holding it up. “I tell you what…I’m going to go upstairs to catch the raccoons right now. If you’ll get dressed and put on some sneakers, you can help me release them back into the woods.”

  “Yes!” said Jenny, turning to run past Hallie and go get dressed.

  “Oh, but wait!” said Ian, his voice stopping her. “You’ll have to ask your mom’s permission first. Can’t help me with anything unless your mom says it’s okay. That’s a rule whenever I’m here working, okay? Mom’s permission comes first.”

  Jenny froze in place, and Hallie could feel her daughter’s dilemma: her desperate desire to spend time with Ian would come at the price of voluntarily speaking to her mother. She bunched up her little shoulders, looked up at Hallie slowly and blinked.

  Hallie raised her eyebrows, staring down at her daughter, determined not to be the one to break the silence.

  “Mommy?”

  “Yes, Jenny?”

  “Can I?”

  “Can you what, baby?”

  “Can I help Mr. Haven with the raccoons?”

  Hallie raised her chin and tapped it twice. “Hmm. I’m pretty sure that question was missing something important.”

  Jenny’s brows knitted together in consternation for a moment before a triumphant look replaced it. “Can I please help Mr. Haven with the raccoons?”

  “Yes,” said Hallie, grinning at her. “You can. Go choose an outfit.”

  “Thank you!” cried Jenny, racing past her mother to get dressed…and leaving Hallie and Ian alone.

  He stood beside the broken gate, the metal cage in his hand, staring at her. And she leaned against the battered cottage doorway, staring back. Between them were tangled rose vines barbed with sharp thorns, unruly and angry.

  Hallie took a deep breath and held it, her eyes still locked on his.

  What in the world do you say to the man who was once your whole world, your first love; the boy to whom you were going to joyfully surrender your virginity? What do you say to him ten years after he betrayed you, flaying your soul, pulverizing your heart? What do you say when he has clearly noted the friction between you and your daughter and offered—of his own free will—some small gesture to help? Do you start to trust him? Do you soften toward him, even though you desperately want to stay hard?

  “Don’t overthink it, Halcyon,” he said softly, his baritone rich and familiar in her ears and, though she didn’t want to admit it…welcome.

  “I’m not.”

  “Yes,” he said, with a very small smile, still stationed by the broken gate. “You are.”

  “I don’t like you being here.”

  “I know.”

  “I really don’t want you near me…or her.”

  “I know that too.”

  “But she’s been through so much, and she seems to—I don’t know…like you.”

  “I’m likable,” said Ian, his eyes bright as emeralds in the sun.

  “Yes,” she said sadly. “You always were.”

  “We don’t have to be friends,” said Ian. “We could just—”

  Her stomach tightened. Her heart raced.

  “We can’t be friends,” she blurted out. “We can’t be anything.”

  He stared at her hard, then nodded once, his eyes losing most of their sparkle. “Fair enough.”

  Hallie cleared her throat, wishing they could go back in time, wishing they could make different choices and choose each other.

  “Your room’s okay?” asked Ian.

  She nodded. “It’s livable.”

  “Then I guess I’ll tackle what’s not.” Ian sighed, then gestured to the outdoor stairs with his chin. “I’m going to go catch the ’coons. I’m thinking there’s two or three—maybe a mother and two kits—and they should be asleep now that it’s daytime. Did you hear them last night?”

  She nodded. “They were scrambling around up there.”

  “Probably using the tree branches poking through the roof to get out at night to eat. You gotta take down some of these trees. They’re too close to the house.”

  Hallie nodded. She didn’t know what else to say and wanted to go back inside the house. It was awkward standing here, a riot of confusing, conflicting emotions as she and Ian talked about—of all things—raccoons and trees.

  “Anyway, um, I guess I’ll get to it,” he said, giving her a grim half smile before heading around the house to the outside stairs and leaving Hallie alone.

  She put her hands on her hips and huffed in frustration, tears burning her eyes as she watched him walk away. Where her tears came from, she had no idea. Their exchange had been civil enough—no raised voices, no old recriminations. And yet, everything about it made her feel so empty, so hollow and hopeless, so incredibly sad.

  Turning away from the door, she closed it behind her with a resounding click and went to go help Jenny get dressed.

  THE PLAN

  (Part 3)

  After building the campfire for “Sing-Along and S’mores,” a Friday night tradition at Summerhaven, Ian went home to get ready for his date with Hallie.

  Showering off a day’s worth of sweat, he also shaved extra close so he wouldn’t scratch her sensitive skin. He borrowed a little of his father’s aftershave and clapped it on his cheeks, hoping Hallie would like the smell.

  Ian dressed casually, but with care, in a pair of khaki shorts and a blue button-down shirt, rolled at the cuffs. His navy-blue belt had the Summerhaven logo embroidered on it. On his right wrist, he wore the watch his parents had given him for high school graduation, and on his left, he wore a white braided rope bracelet, the type favored by sailors. Hallie liked it; she often touched it while they talked, her fingers tracing the braids and occasionally slipping to his skin, the fleeting touch sending good shivers down Ian’s spine.

  He’d already pre-hidden the picnic basket in the loft of the barn, and now he checked his watch. With flowers to pick and candles to light, he needed to get moving.

  Leaving a note for his parents that he was going to a party in nearby Weirs Beach and might stay overnight at a friend’s house, he headed out into the evening, butterflies filling his stomach as he imagined spending a night with Hallie for the first time.

  He’d been with other girls, sure, but Ian had never been in love. Everything was different where Hallie was concerned, and more than anything, he wanted tonight to be special—no, perfect—for her. So he went over some ground rules for himself on his quiet walk to the barn:

  Go slow.

  Be gentle.

  Put her needs first.

  Make sure you ask.

  Make sure that she says yes to everything.

  Stop if she says “stop.”

  It’s not about you; it’s all about her.

  It’s your responsibility to make this the best night of her life.

  He stopped on the way and picked some yellow and blue irises, her favorite, bunching them in his sweating hand before continuing.

  By the time he arrived at the barn, the butterflies in his abdomen had turned into some sort of large bird—eagles, maybe—and he rubbed a hand over his queasy stomach. He took a deep breath, which filled his lungs but didn’t mitigate the uncomfortable feeling.

  “Man up,” he muttered to himself, opening the door to the dark barn. He turned on a light, grabbed the broom just inside the door and headed up the stairs to the loft.

  Why was he so…so…nervous?

  It was partially emotional—he loved her and wanted tonight to be the best night of her life, which placed an enormous amount of pressure on
his young, broad shoulders. Compounding his nerves was that—despite all his good intentions—Ian was uncertain about his talent as a lover.

  Yes, he’d slept with four girls before Hallie—a girl from his high school whom he’d dated for most of his junior year, a girl who came to camp two summers ago, and two more girls from last summer—but the truth was that Ian was only seventeen, and while he had more experience than Hallie, with the exception of Mina, his high school girlfriend, the others had been one-night stands.

  And frankly, things between him and Mina had been, well, pretty lackluster. They’d get together, barely talk, fuck for five minutes, she’d moan “Oh” once or twice, he’d come, they’d watch TV for an hour, then say good-bye. Not that he hadn’t enjoyed it—he had, but he hadn’t gained some amazing insight about the wants and needs of women either. And the girl last summer? The girl he’d slept with once? She’d actually stopped things before they really got going, wincing in pain and calling him “way too big.”

  What if that happened with Hallie?

  What if he was “way too big” and hurt her?

  Fuck!

  He didn’t want to mess up tonight. He really, really didn’t. He didn’t want to let Hallie down.

  Using the broom, he swept the floor carefully, leaving all the debris in one corner since he didn’t have a dustpan. Then he pulled the basket from underneath the garbage bag where he’d hidden it and withdrew a fleecy blanket. He spread it on the wooden planks, straightening it carefully.

  Next came the candles, scented like vanilla and fir trees—a little of him and a little of her—and he placed them carefully around the blanket with the irises. He’d used ice packs to keep the wine cold, and even though they were mostly melted now, the bottles were still cool.

  Ian wasn’t a drinker, really. He’d had a sip of champagne on New Year’s Eve with his brother and sister, but his maternal grandfather had waged a lifelong battle against the bottle back in Ireland, and Ian’s mother was a conservative drinker as a result. She had made it clear to her boys and girl that if she caught them coming home drunk, she’d take the spoon to their arses and redden them right.

  Still, it was Hallie’s birthday tonight, and it felt celebratory—and mature—to offer her wine. He’d brought two bottles because one was called Riesling and one was called Chardonnay and he didn’t know which one she’d like. He figured it was best that she have a choice.

  He set up the two bottles and glasses in one corner of the blanket, then checked his watch.

  8:50 p.m.

  She’ll be here any minute.

  He tossed the other blanket loosely to the side of the one on the floor in case she wanted it—for modesty or warmth—then tucked two condoms under the blanket. He placed her favorite cookies, Scottish shortbread, beside the glasses on a small flowered plate he’d stolen from his mother, then reached into his back pocket for a lighter.

  As he lit the candles, he thought of the final object sitting in the bottom of the picnic basket: in a small, white ring box was a promise ring.

  Made of sterling silver, it held a small ruby, Hallie’s birthstone, and a small emerald for Ian. He’d ordered it two weeks ago from the Kay Jewelers up in North Conway, and he’d chuckled softly when he picked it up. It looked like a Christmas ring rather than a promise ring, but maybe that was okay too. He was hoping that when Hallie returned to Boston at Christmastime, they’d still be together and make plans to see each other again. Maybe Christmas colors would help remind her of his love during the long months apart.

  Ian’s reality was that everything stopped with Halcyon Gilbert.

  No woman had ever come close to her spot in his heart, and he was certain that no woman ever could. And while he knew they were too young to become engaged, tonight—especially tonight when she was giving him something so precious—he wanted to be certain that she knew what she meant to him. The ring was a symbol of his promise to her and for them: that no matter what, he wanted to be with her forever, even if they’d need to wait a few years for forever to formally begin.

  When the candles were lit and the ring box was open, he turned off the light downstairs, sat down on the wooden planks of the old barn loft and waited.

  She’ll be here any minute.

  Any minute.

  Any second.

  Except…she wasn’t.

  By nine fifteen, she still hadn’t arrived, and Ian’s nerves, which had been growing steadily all day, were hitting a pretty high pitch.

  Maybe she got held up.

  Maybe my dad saw her leaving her cabin and ushered her to the campfire instead. In that case, she won’t arrive until a little after ten.

  Or maybe she’s not—

  No. She’s coming. She’s definitely coming.

  His hands were sweating, and he wiped them on his shorts, leaving two handprints. Great. So much for being the cool, calm, and collected one of the two.

  He walked down the barn stairs, peeking out the window but careful not to call attention to himself. If his mother or one of the other camp employees saw him, his plans would be busted wide open, leading to embarrassment and punishment. And worse still, possible separation.

  She’s just a little late. You need to calm down.

  Heading back upstairs, Ian nodded at the setup he’d so lovingly created, his glance lingering on the unopened bottle of Riesling.

  Everyone knew that alcohol “took the edge off,” right?

  And right here, right now, Ian needed a little help with his own, personal edge. Untwisting the cap, he poured himself a glass and lifted it to his lips, letting the sweet, delicious wine fill his mouth and sluice down his throat. Unaware of how thirsty he was, he immediately poured himself another full glass and drank that one too.

  It was like ginger ale or Sprite—but with a little kick and an aftertaste of honey. As he finished the second glass, he looked at his watch again.

  Nine twenty-five.

  Did she decide not to come, after all?

  No. No. The campfire. My father probably made her go to the campfire.

  But she was going to say she had her period. My dad wouldn’t have made her go.

  So why isn’t she here yet?

  Maybe she isn’t coming.

  The butterflies immediately returned with a vengeance, and Ian’s eyes slipped to the bottle again. He poured himself a third glass, trying to sip it this time, but more and more agitated by his thoughts.

  Did I miss something today at the dining hall?

  She seemed fine, smiling at me and nodding about coming tonight.

  But should I go check and see if she left a note canceling? No. No. Someone could see me. How would I explain why I’m not in Weirs Beach?

  Does she have her period? Maybe that’s why she isn’t coming?

  No. Fuck. You’re getting confused, Ian. She doesdn’t have her period. She was just going to say that if the need arose.

  Without realizing it, he’d finished the third glass of wine, and he checked his watch again.

  Nine forty-five.

  Fuck.

  He poured the rest of the bottle into his waiting glass and, standing up from the floor, was surprised when the room suddenly spun around him and he lost his balance, staggering into a low ceiling beam.

  The weird thing?

  Even though touching his forehead proved he’d received a little lump, and his fingertips were smeared with blood, it didn’t hurt.

  Not at all.

  In fact, it was a little silly that he was bleeding from something that didn’t hurt, so he started laughing, his wine sloshing over the rim of his glass and extinguishing a couple of the flickering candles with a soft hiss.

  Hiss.

  Hiss.

  Fucking wine.

  “Fucking wine,” he said with another chuckle, throwing back the half-full glass in his hand and downing the contents. “Hisssssss. Hisssssss.”

  He belched loudly, the sound bouncing off the rafters, and he laughed again, turning
around to look at the blanket and few remaining candles.

  “Not ccoming?” he asked into the quiet candlelit room, hiccupping softly. “Well, tha’s ok-kay. Your l-losssss, Hal-ceeeeeee-on. Your…l-loss.”

  He didn’t feel any pain in his forehead, and it occurred to him that he’d been able to numb the pain in his heart too, for the most part. Except now, in saying her name, it came back.

  Falling to his knees and knocking over two more candles, which were doused by their own wax, he reached for the other bottle of wine.

  “W-Why…aren’t you…ccoming?” he murmured, blinking his eyes. They were burning. Probably because of the goddamned candles, which he sort of hated now. A lot. He rubbed his eyes hard, willing the burning away. Hating it. Hating the candles and the flowers and the stupid promise ring. Hating the way it was all making him feel.

  As he drew his hands away from his face, he caught a glimpse of the time: Ten fifteen.

  “She’s n-not…ccoming,” he whispered through hiccups, turning the cap on the second bottle and sloppily filling his glass to the brim.

  “Hello?”

  A girl’s voice sounded from somewhere far away. He squinted, looking around the room, but seeing no one.

  Halcyon? asked some semi-alert part of his brain.

  “Um…hello?”

  No, he thought with bitter disappointment. It wasn’t her.

  “There’s…n-no one…here,” he told himself, taking a gulp of wine.

  But the girl’s voice without a body spoke again.

  “Um…Ian? Hello?”

  “Hello, Ian,” he answered, finishing his fifth glass of wine and lying back, half on the fleecy blanket and half on the broom-swept floor.

  The ceiling was mostly dark except for a circle of light that seemed to get bigger and closer with each step.

  Step?

  Whose step?

  Oh, no. Staring up at the light made the room spin like crazy. His stomach had horses in it now—colts and mares and thoroughbreds, their hammering hoofs making it hard to hear anything but the whooshing and whirling.

  He groaned softly, closing his eyes and relieved to find that it made the spinning stop just a little, just enough to breathe.