Aisling Gayle

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Aisling Gayle Page 33

by Geraldine O'Neill


  “Everything else can wait, Aisling,” he said gently. “There’s lots of things I don’t know about your life. You haven’t described your own home or your parents’ home back in Ireland. And I don’t know too much about your brother and sister . . . but I know that eventually we’ll have the time for all of these things.”

  Aisling looked at him from lowered eyelids and then, despite herself, a little smile started on her lips. “A very ordinary old farmhouse does not take a lot of describing, Jameson.”

  “Well,” he said, laughing with relief, “there you are. That’s another really important detail that I know about you now. I might just have changed my mind about you, if you said you lived in a very modern farmhouse.”

  “You are unbelievable!” Aisling said, laughing along with him now, all her tension lifted. And as they drove along the last leg of their journey, she made a decision to put Verity’s poisonous words out of her mind, and concentrate on enjoying their last few days together.

  Jameson had pulled off the main highway, and headed on down a smaller, quieter road. The further he drove, the bigger the houses became and the larger the grounds surrounding them. He slowed down as they reached a corner and then, straight in front of them, Aisling could see two high gates with a large wall on either side of them. It was like something from the American movies that Aisling saw back in the cinema in Tullamore.

  She held her breath as the car drove in through the gates and on up the winding driveway. Tall trees flanked either side of the drive like soldiers on guard, and the flower-beds were square and uniform. Where the garden back at Lake Savannah was a riot of random colour from trees, shrubs and flowers – there was nothing left to chance in the grounds of this house.

  When they pulled up in front of the imposing stone house, Aisling glimpsed the tennis courts at the side of the building, and behind them, a large wooden summerhouse. If possible, the house was actually bigger and grander than she had imagined it. Aisling could feel her throat and chest tighten with nerves as she got out of the car.

  Then, before the feelings of inadequacy completely enveloped her, she heard a voice calling from the front of the house.

  “Welcome! Welcome!” Sam Carroll was coming down the front steps, as quickly as his no-longer sprightly legs and his breathing would allow. He came across to kiss Aisling on the cheek, and then insisted on carrying her bag into the house.

  “I’ll do that, Dad,” Jameson said, making to take the bag from him.

  “Like hell you will,” his father said, his eyes twinkling. “There’s life in this old dog yet – and a light bag ain’t gonna kill me.”

  Jameson’s mother was waiting at the door to greet them, and her welcome was as warm as her husband’s. “I see you’ve brought the sunshine with you on your first visit, Aisling,” she said, smiling warmly and hugging her. She hugged her son, then asked: “And how was dear Thomas this afternoon?”

  “Much, much better,” Jameson said, “and eating everything in sight. He was even planning what he would have to eat later this evening.”

  Sam put the bag down in the hallway, and threw his arms up in the air. “Thank God!” he said. “Our prayers have been answered.” He looked at Aisling. “I never prayed so hard for anything in my life as I prayed for that boy’s recovery.”

  Jameson put a hand on each of his parents’ shoulders. “Well, I guess your prayers were answered, and we can all stop worrying. Thomas is well on the road to getting back to his old self again.”

  “Good, good, good,” Frances Carroll said, her voice quivery with emotion. She clapped her hands together. “Now, I’ll show Aisling up to her room.” She turned to Jameson. “You come, too . . . I’ve given you adjoining rooms with a bathroom in between, so you don’t have to come out into the corridor if you want to talk.”

  Aisling lowered her head and avoided meeting Jameson’s eyes. It was obvious that the situation was not causing embarrassment to anyone else, so that was at least one thing she could stop worrying about.

  As she followed the older woman upstairs, Aisling took in the ornate hallway with the Persian rug, the huge Chinese vases full of fresh flowers, and the countless paintings and sculptures that adorned the perfectly painted walls.

  “When you’ve freshened up,” Frances said, throwing open the door of a huge, airy bedroom, filled with creamy-coloured, very feminine furniture, “we’ll all have a drink and then we’ll eat.” She opened the bathroom door, and showed Aisling where the towels and toiletries were. “I’ll leave you both now to get settled, and then we’ll see you downstairs when you’re ready.”

  “My mom would make a great diplomat,” Jameson said, when the door closed after her. “She’s given us complete privacy without actually asking if we wanted to share a bedroom or not.”

  “She’s a lovely person,” Aisling said, “and this house is just out of this world . . . I can’t find the words to describe how beautiful it is.” She paused. “Verity said that . . .”

  But before she could utter another word, Jameson swept her in his arms and covered her mouth with his. When they came up for air, he looked into Aisling’s eyes. “I don’t want to hear that damned woman’s name mentioned for the rest of your stay in America.”

  “She knows I’m married, Jameson,” Aisling whispered. “Do you think your parents might know, too?”

  “They already know the situation,” Jameson said firmly, “and they won’t ask you anything.” He stroked her hair. “I’m a fully grown man, Aisling, and what I decide to do with my life is my own business. Mom and Dad accepted that a long time ago. We respect each other’s choices in life. It’s as simple as that.”

  Aisling looked up at him. “Have you – have you brought other women back to this house?”

  “No.” His reply was instant. “Apart from Verity, I haven’t brought any other women here.” He shrugged. “For God knows how many years it’s been just me and Thomas. So,” he said, touching a finger under her chin, “Mom and Dad will know how important you are to me. OK?”

  Aisling looked into his eyes. “OK.”

  When they went back downstairs, Aisling was surprised to see lots of lacework on the walls of the sitting room – similar to the type that Jameson had framed in the house back at Lake Savannah. “This is beautiful,” she said, gesturing to an intricate creamy piece in a black frame.

  “That lacework is real old,” Jameson told her. “My grandmother and my great-grandmother did a mountain of it. They used to make collars and cuffs for some of the big shops in New York.”

  “Your grandmother?” Aisling said, suddenly smiling. “I thought it was Verity . . .”

  Jameson rolled his eyes to the ceiling. “Are you kidding? Verity hasn’t a creative bone in her body. She spends any talent she has matching up her lipsticks to her outfits.” He looked at Aisling, raising an eyebrow and nodding like he did when Thomas was in trouble. “I thought we weren’t gonna mention her name again?”

  “Sorry,” Aisling said, covering her mouth like a scolded child.

  “When we moved upstate,” Jameson explained now, “I had my mom come up and sort out drapes and that kind of thing.” He shrugged. “I wasn’t too sure about some things apart from the paintings and stuff like that, but I knew that I didn’t want it looking like the place I lived in with . . .” he laughed, “you-know-who.” He touched one of the picture frames. “I think all this lace stuff is beautiful, and I like having it around. It reminds me of my grandmother and when I was growing up.”

  Frances came into the room now, and came over to rest her arm on Jameson’s shoulder. “Your grandmother would have loved to have seen her hard work decorating two beautiful homes.” She smiled at Aisling. “Sam’s mother and grandmother made their living from the lace and the tatting.” She pointed to the frames that held the smaller, circular pieces. “When Sam’s grandfather died, his grandmother brought up the family on her own, and she supported them all on the little bit of money she got from the lacework. She taught
all of them – even the boys – how to do this work.”

  Aisling moved around the walls, studying each piece carefully. “They are lovely,” she said, “and worked in such intricate patterns. My mother would love them – she crochets and knits, but I don’t think she’s ever tackled lace.”

  “I think it’s one of these things that you have to learn early,” Frances said. “My own family never learned any kind of handcrafts – but all I know is, Sam treasures those little old bits of lace more than anything else in this house.” She moved across the room to a beautifully carved cabinet and opened the doors to reveal an array of drinks. “What are you having?”

  Aisling flushed, not quite sure what would be the right thing to ask for. “I really don’t mind . . .”

  “Dry Martinis?” Frances suggested. “Gin? Champagne?”

  “How about some champagne?” Jameson said, smiling at Aisling.

  “Wonderful!” Frances said. “And perfect for celebrating Thomas’s quick recovery!” Even as she spoke, tears started to glisten in the corner of her eyes. She cleared her throat, and gave an embarrassed little smile. “I’ll go get a chilled bottle from the fridge.”

  “This is good,” Jameson said, squeezing Aisling’s hand. “We can relax now . . . things are getting better.”

  Frances came back with the bottle of champagne, and Sam followed behind with four crystal champagne flutes. They all toasted Thomas’s health and then Frances touched Jameson’s hand. “Sam and I want to go back and spend the evening with Thomas, so that you two can have an evening on your own.”

  Jameson looked at Aisling.

  “Please, honey,” Frances said in a gentle but firm tone. “We really want to go back in. I have a new game and two new books that my friend Alice bought for him, and I’d like to take them in to him.”

  “Besides,” Sam chipped in, “when Thomas goes back home we won’t see him for some time.” He smiled. “You have him all to yourself the rest of the time – it’ll give us a little while with him. Like we’d planned.”

  Jameson looked at Aisling and smiled. “Hell, we’re only thirty minutes drive away . . . we’ll ring the hospital and speak to Thomas after dinner. If he’s OK, then maybe Aisling and I will go out and catch a movie – or maybe just watch TV here.”

  Frances looked serious for a few moments, her brow creased in thought. “When do you fly back to Ireland, Aisling?”

  Aisling had to think hard – the days all seemed to have run in together. “Friday,” she said, “this coming Friday.”

  “And have you anything planned – back up at your aunt’s house?”

  “Not really,” Aisling replied, “but all my clothes and presents and everything are there.”

  “I’ve just had a thought,” Frances said brightly. “Why don’t we get your parents to bring all your things down here? They could stay overnight on Thursday – we have plenty of room – and then you could all fly out on Friday from New York.”

  Aisling’s heart skipped a beat. She could just imagine her mother’s face on the other end of the phone if she suggested them coming to stay in the Carrolls’ house. And not just because of the size and style of the house. Regardless of what her aunt Jean had said, the fact that she was a married woman acting like a single one, would be more than enough to send her mother’s blood pressure soaring through the ceiling.

  “I’ll have to think about that,” Aisling said quietly, not looking anywhere near Jameson, “but thank you so much for offering. It’s really kind of you.”

  “You decide, honey,” Frances said, “and the phone is out in the hallway if you want to call them.”

  * * *

  Dinner was perfect. Well-done steaks served with dishes of roast potatoes and mashed potatoes and some colourful vegetables that Aisling had never heard of, followed by apple and blackberry pie and thick cream.

  “That was one of the most beautiful meals I’ve ever had,” Aisling said, helping Jameson’s mother carry things back into the kitchen.

  “I’m so glad you enjoyed it, honey,” Frances laughed, “but I have to confess that although the pie was home-made, it wasn’t home-made by me. I have a nice lady, Mrs Scott, who helps me out a couple of days a week, and she’s famous for her baking.” She beckoned Aisling to close the kitchen door so that they wouldn’t be overheard. “Mrs Scott’s husband helps Sam with the garden and the grounds, and if Sam’s having one of his off-days, then Bill Scott drives us around too.”

  As she and Frances tidied things away Aisling’s mind was only half on the chirpy conversation she was having with the older woman. She found herself wondering what her mother would find to say about everything. About the house, the couple who looked after them – the different kind of food they ate . . . everything. And then a cold shiver ran down her spine, as she wondered what her mother’s reaction would be if she dared say she was not coming back up to Lake Savannah.

  Aisling turned towards the kitchen door, and then she suddenly caught sight of Jameson crossing the hallway. She took in his tall, well-defined frame in his casual jeans and shirt, his long hair swinging in a way that made her want to run out and bury her face in it. But it was the slight frown on his face that caught at her heart, as he passed on by into the large sitting-room to rejoin his father. The frown that she knew was caused by all the uncertainty that had suddenly exploded into his life. Meeting Aisling, falling in love with her, Thomas’s accident – and now losing Aisling.

  In that instant she knew that she would face anything to stay a few days longer with him. If she went back, there would only be polite conversations in Jean’s kitchen while she and Jameson pretended that they were just friends – platonic friends.

  She would tell her mother and father that she was staying on in New York. That she was staying there until it was time to go back to Ireland – and back to Oliver.

  * * *

  Jean answered the phone. “Oh, Aisling,” she said in a rush, “it’s so good to hear from you. How is little Thomas?”

  Aisling told Jean all about Thomas’s improvement, and how their plans had taken them out to Jameson’s parents’ house. Then, after checking that Maggie was not within earshot, she explained the situation to Jean.

  There was a silence for a few moments, then Jean said: “I’ve already prepared your mom for this happening . . .”

  Aisling held her breath. “And what did she say?”

  “Her biggest worry is that you might refuse to come home with them at all.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “She sat up talking to me for hours last night – telling me about Oliver and all the worries she’s had with Pauline and little Bernadette. And then she broke down, saying that she was afraid you wouldn’t come back home with them.”

  “I’d never do that,” Aisling said, “and Jameson understands that.”

  “I think she’s come round to you staying in New York until you fly out,” Jean said, “and I’ve a pretty packed schedule for them until then.” Jean’s voice suddenly lifted to a bubblier note. “We’re going on a trip to Cooperstown tomorrow, the place famous for baseball – and where James Fenimore Cooper came from.” She paused as though checking with someone. “Bruce says it’s the guy who wrote The Last of the Mohicans or something like that.”

  “Oh, Jean,” Aisling said, a little sob coming into her voice, “how can I thank you? You’ve been so good to me . . . so understanding.” She swallowed hard. “The only thing is . . .”

  “What’s that, honey?” Jean asked.

  Aisling hesitated. “It’s just that . . . I won’t be able to spend any more time with you and Bruce. And despite what’s happened . . . I really did enjoy being with you in your lovely house. I feel awful – everything has happened so quickly.”

  “Don’t worry about a thing,” Jean told her. “We had some really nice times together. And anyway, Bruce and I will be down in New York with your parents, to see you all off.”

  A huge wave of relief washed over Aisling. “Oh, that’s good,”
she said, “that’s really good.”

  There was a pause. “Well, Aisling,” her mother’s low voice came on the line, “I hear everything has gone well with the poor lad.”

  “He’s coming on,” Aisling said. “He should be out of hospital in a few days.”

  There was a long pause. “And I suppose it’s too much to ask of his father to bring you back up here?”

  “It’s not just that,” Aisling said. “It’s leaving Thomas. He’s still not well enough to travel.” This wasn’t going the way Jean had described.

  “Oh, well,” Maggie said in a hollow voice, “I suppose you’ve made all your own plans? You’ve no intentions of making your way back up to the house you should be staying in?”

  “It’s not that,” Aisling argued. “It just makes more sense for me to stay here until it’s time to go back to Ireland.” There was a long, long silence. “Oh, Mammy,” she suddenly remembered, “there’s an ornament – a Christmas figure – and a little picture in the room I was in. Would you bring them down to the airport for me?”

  “We’ll have all your stuff with us,” Maggie said stiffly. “Your father and I know the right thing to do . . . and it’s very, very hard to take that none of our children do.”

  “Mammy,” Aisling said, “that’s not fair.” She found herself struggling now, trying to find words that would ease the situation. “Sometimes the thing that’s right for one person isn’t right for another.”

  “Well,” her mother sighed, “it’s lucky we have the Church and the priests to guide us. That’s why they have rules and sacraments that aren’t meant to be broken.”

  “I’ll see you on Friday,” Aisling said.

  “Aisling,” her mother said, quickly now, “you will be there, won’t you?”

  Aisling took a deep breath. “Whatever you might think of me,” she said, “I’d never do that to you and Daddy.”

  “I’m glad to hear it,” her mother said. Another strained little pause. “We’ll see you in the airport at the check-in desk on Friday so.”

 

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