“Care for something to drink? Sparkling water, beer, wine, a cocktail?”
“Orange juice for me, please,” Brian said. “Car’s parked at the airport. I don’t live far, only on the north side of Dublin, but I never risk it.”
I almost ordered a vodka and soda with lemon, just out of habit, but I really didn’t want a drink. I liked chatting with Brian, and I was feeling sharp. I felt better than I had in weeks. “Orange juice for me, too, please.”
“Full of vitamin C,” Brian declared. “Won’t do you a bit of harm.” I liked the way he said ‘vitamin,’ rhyming ‘vit’ with ‘bit’. We ate our meals companionably.
“I understand your man Tom gave up the high life in London to go home and help out the old Lord.”
“He’s not my man!” I corrected, shocked. “I’ve never even met him.”
“Turn of phrase,” Brian explained. “Anthony Stone, Earl of Wexford’s the name. I read something in one of my girls’ tabloids about the place falling to ruin, the family not being able to keep up with the taxes or what have you. You see that kind of thing more and more these days. The titled losing vast tracts of land that’s been with them for centuries.”
“So what does that have to do with Tom? Tom O’Grady, I mean.”
“That part I can’t tell you. The magazine was one of them girly jobs. Only paper I had with me on the train one day, so I read it cover to cover. It talked more about him splitting with that girl he had the television show with. Something about her demanding a yellow diamond for an engagement ring, and him leaving London heartbroken, barely able to lift his head. Said he took to the drink. To tell the truth, I’m embarrassed to know all this. Those papers are pure gossip and lies, all. I shouldn’t be repeating what they say.”
I finished every scrap of my dinner, including the little Bakewell tart in a cup, topped with custard. Brian and I chatted comfortably while the meal was cleared. We took turns excusing ourselves to go to the lavatory, and stretched our legs by standing in the galley with Moira for a while. He showed me pictures of his wife and daughters and I told him what it was like to grow up with a famous father. “But don’t tell anyone, please,” I entreated.
“Your secret’s safe with me, pet.” When I thought about it, it kind of was. Brian though my name was Sheila. He hunkered down in his seat, and in that way old men have, dropped off to sleep almost immediately, snoring softly. This time I didn’t mind his arm on my armrest.
Careful not to awaken him, I took out my journal and cracked the stiff spine open to the first creamy blank page.
Dear Mags, I watched my hand write. Strange. I’d kept journals over the years, but I’d never written “to” anyone. I’d never even used the salutation “Dear Diary.” Oh well, I was writing in ink, so I decided to go with it. “I owe you an apology. I’ve been thinking vile thoughts about you all day, and I’m so sorry. All during the ride to the airport, I convinced myself that you’d cooked up this scheme to get rid of me. In my head, you’d jettison me to another country, go into HPC and laugh about me over cocktails at my desk with Matty, and move in a new roommate who is more fun and who actually has a job, like maybe Carly the Intern. I’m so bad! If you hated me, would you have stayed up all night straightening my hair so I could look like a modern, urban writer? All you did was try to dig me out of a hole, lend me money, and throw in the most perfect gift I’ve ever received in to boot. On second thought, you really are trying to show me up, aren’t you? Kidding! Thanks for wishing me sex, too, though that prospect is highly unlikely. If what I hear about Ireland’s climate is true, even Colin Farrell would have to cut me out of my long underwear using scissors! Anyway, my parts must be frozen from lack of use. Whatevs! Totally unimportant because I’m going to be in and out of there like a cat burglar. I plan to find O’Grady, get him to tell me a few colorful stories about leprechauns or shillelaghs or potato famines, or whatever, and get this book written. I will not be long in the land of flat caps and frizzy hair. Boom! Brenda will kvetch and kvell, I’ll be her hero, and there will still be plenty of time to call Ray Diablo on his personal number before he hires another writer. Uh oh! They’re calling for seatbacks and tray tables. I’ll call T O’G (how do they do initials with apostrophes??!) in the morning from your aunt’s house. Today’s the 20th and you have me coming home on the 24th. I know your aunt offered to keep me the whole time, but I think after I nail this, I might treat myself to a hostel in Dublin and do a little sightseeing. I’d tell you to wish me luck, but you already have. Love, Shay.”
I patted myself on the back for not having checked luggage. In reality, I had Maggie to thank for that. She’d edited a book about packing and organization, and she’d internalized all the flight attendant’s tips. Besides, I’d only be here a few days. She brutally cut out all but the essentials, but tucked every manner of jewel and accessory one could imagine into the toes of shoes, the inner circle of rolled up belts, and between layers of flat, folded clothing.
When Brian and I parted at customs, I felt sadder than I expected to.
“You look after yourself, Sheila,” he said. “I don’t like the thought of you being on your own. If you need anything, anything at all, you ring me.” He gave me his card. “Brian Lynch, GlobeCo, Director of Sales and Distribution, Ireland-UK-US.”
“Anything at all, hear? I couldn’t bear the thought of one of my own daughters wanting for anything in a strange country. I’m as near as the telephone.”
I gave him a hug, not the sort of thing I usually do, but I really didn’t want to let him go. His kindness had shone a spotlight on my loneliness. He patted my back in a fatherly way.
“Thank you,” was all I could manage. I smiled and walked away quickly. I didn’t like goodbyes in general and this one hurt more than it should. I waved without turning around, and heard him call, “Keep outta trouble, Sheila!”
As I stood in line, waiting to go through customs, I realized I’d left my winter coat in the overhead compartment. Shit. Should I try to reboard? There was nothing in the pocket except my gloves; I’d either get it back or I wouldn’t.
With only my carry on, and my small rolling suitcase I felt small and underprepared. The longer I stood waiting, the more dread I felt. On the plane, where I was being fed and watched over, everything seemed fine. Now dread poked me in the ribcage. Closer to the front, I could just make out the conversations of some other travelers, reminding me that the more you reveal at customs, the more questions they ask you. I’d keep it simple.
“Welcome to Ireland,” the kind-faced agent said. “Are you here for business or pleasure?”
“Pleasure,” I declared firmly, looking her straight in the eye.
Chapter Seven
Need teaches a plan.
As I exited the building and breathed in my first fresh air in nearly a day, I was surprised at how warm it was. As promised, Maggie’s cousin Des met me right on time outside the terminal. I must have looked lost, because he spotted me right away, and jumped out of the car.
“Shayla?” I nodded. He swooped in and loaded my suitcase into the back. “Hiya! I’m Des.” He was tall and had a sexy, sporty look to him. “Ready for an almost two-hour trip? Lovely night for it.” It was a lovely night. Ireland was downright balmy compared with New York. The air was moist and fresh.
Two hours. Now I’d owe him big-time. Running people from midtown to LaGuardia was a pain, but this was above and beyond. He didn’t even know me.
“I didn’t realize it was so far. I should have taken a bus or something,” I said, opening the car door and sliding in. “You have to let me pay you,” I offered, my stomach squeezing because I had no idea what a fair price might be. Probably more than I had.
“Not at all,” he brushed off my concern.
“Well, I want to give you something.”
“It all works out in the end, doesn’t it?” He stood looking at me. “Are you driving?”
Startled, I looked around and saw that I was sitting in front of
the steering wheel. “Oh!” I scrambled out, and got in the other side. I’d travelled to Italy, Spain, Mexico, and The Netherlands, but I had found traveling to London by far the hardest transition. In the other, very foreign, places, I expected up to be down, and black to be white. In England, however, everyone spoke English, and we shared a lot of common culture — the United States having been a colony of theirs and all — so I got a false sense of security. Then, I’d get in a phone booth and be all thumbs or I’d have to take a freezing shower because I couldn’t figure out the buttons and knobs. It unsettled me. I suspected I’d feel similarly off-balance in Ireland.
“Buckle up,” he commanded. “Safety first. I drive a hotel limo, that’s why I work nights. I could do this drive in my sleep. It’s not often I have such a pretty passenger, though.”
I remembered Maggie’s warnings about her cousin being a ladies’ man, but he didn’t seem so bad to me. As he chattered on about his job, and how he liked to play football (the kind where you use your feet, I was schooled), I stole a sideways glance at him. Red hair, high cheekbones, full lips. He reminded me a bit of the ginger one from the Harry Potter films, all grown up. Not bad at all. My mind wandered to what he’d look like with his shirt off. And maybe his jeans. He looked to be the long and lean type, with a torso like a runner. And working down from there…Wow! I hadn’t had those thoughts in a while. Maybe it was the saltiness in the air, blowing in from the sea.
Shut it down, I told myself. His mother graciously offered you a bed to sleep in, she didn’t offer to fill it. There was no doubt that he was a piece of eye-candy, but one-night stands weren’t me, typically. I wasn’t above them, far from it. It’s just that it had been so long since I’d been with a man, you could call me a reborn virgin. There was a part of me that wanted my next time to be special. Or at least a great story.
“Would you mind if I just closed my eyes?” I asked. If I took a little nap, there’d be nothing to worry about. No point stirring the pot, I wouldn’t even be here long enough to start trouble.
“Not at all,” he replied amiably. “You must be knackered from the journey.”
I closed my eyes, and before I knew it, the car pulled into a short, paved drive alongside a neat little modern suburban house. Maggie’s Auntie Fiona immediately appeared at the front door. She must have been listening for the car.
“Get her bags inside, Des, and show her where to wash her hands. I’ve a smoked cod pie warm in the oven for your tea.”
“You didn’t have to cook for me,” I protested. I realized, too late, that I hadn’t packed a hostess gift. Maggie had shoved me out of the country with practically only the clothes on my back. I was utterly unprepared.
“Nonsense! It’s not a bit of trouble. Come through, Shayla, you’re very welcome.”
I could smell the sea. We had to be close. The high-pitched, plaintive, womanly cries of the gulls confirmed it. The salt air and the light chill snapped me awake, and my appetite along with me. I was ravenous. I’d never had smoked cod pie, but I was willing to give it a try.
With clean hands and brushed hair, I stood by the table. Normally, I would have touched up my makeup and changed into something unrumpled, but it didn’t seem called for. “There she is! Fresh as a daisy,” Des waved me toward a chair next to him at a tidy little kitchen table. “Doesn’t she look gorgeous, Mam?”
“Sure Des is a keen one for the ladies, Shayla,” Auntie Fiona (as she instructed me to call her) said, pulling a box of tea down from the pantry. “’Course she’s gorgeous, but don’t embarrass the poor girl. She’s only just arrived, she can do without your charms, I’d say. Go on, darlin’, sit down and make yourself comfortable.”
“Seat’s open here,” Des said. He checked to see that his mother’s back was turned and patted his lap. I sat on the chair next to him, surprised to feel a smile creeping onto my lips. I didn’t dare look him in the face. I could feel him smiling at me. That made me smile harder.
“Tuck in,” Maggie’s aunt said setting a plate bearing a giant slab of savory pie in front of me, then scooped a steaming, crispy pile of thick-cut French fries alongside it.
“I never have pie without chips,” she said.
From that moment on, I hoped I never would, either. The potatoes were golden-brown and crispy on the outside, and steaming and fluffy on the inside. Des pushed a bottle of malt vinegar toward me. Why not? I thought. The combination of the saltiness and the tang made my taste buds sing. I took my first tentative bite of the pie. I’d had some sketchy smoked mackerel in the past, and the fishy, oily memory was lodged in my brain. This pie was the farthest thing from it. The flaky chunks of white fish had just enough smokiness to make it interesting, but the wholesome flavor of the ocean was the star taste. The truth is, I’ll eat about anything you put in a flaky piecrust and surround with creamy white sauce, onions, and peas, but the fish was a standout.
Maggie’s aunt excused herself to go hang the laundry. On a clothesline? I wondered. I made a mental note to take a look at that later. Even Grandma had used a giant tumble dryer, and in Manhattan the closest thing we had to clotheslines were the metal fire escapes on tenement buildings.
Des and I chatted about this and that, but the real conversation took place beneath our words. A glance from beneath the lashes here, a lick of the lips there. This was more like a date than my date with Jordan in 54 Below had been. I wondered if my chances of scoring would be higher. Realizing this line of thinking was reckless, I willed myself to sit up straight and to stop speaking from below my waist.
Des told me about ten times that he’d have to eat quickly and rush off. He said this between charged stares and brushed of his knee against my thigh. I encouraged him to go, pointing out the time. The longer he stayed, the more I wanted him to. I couldn’t believe myself. I usually went for the nerdy intellectuals, the ones whose flaws you had to overlook to get to the good stuff. The ones you had to fix and coax. No subtlety slowed down the slam of my attraction to Des. Sex sat right on the surface of our every interaction.
“I wish I hadn’t promised the fellas I’d meet up, so,” Des told me over his second cup of tea. “I’d rather pass the night here.” Late-shift work turned his sleep schedule upside-down, he explained, and he’d made a plan ages ago to meet his mates in an after-hours club tonight. He’d never live it down if he bagged on them. It was just as well because I didn’t trust myself. I’d think of him lying awake down the hall while I was trying to sleep.
I couldn’t remember the last time I’d just had sex for sex’s sake. Probably the break-up sex with my last boyfriend Noah. By the time we broke up, I hated him so much that he was like a stranger. It had been like role-playing; me taking all of my anger and aggression on him in bed. Too bad the only hot sex happened the last time I ever saw him. And before that, it was Josh. Sweet, reliable Josh. Our sex together had all the heat of a firm handshake. I’m not sure which of us liked it less, but neither of us ever mentioned the embarrassing fact that zero sex was had the last three months of our time together.
I thought of Maggie constantly telling me that I just needed to get laid. For the first time, it dawned on me that she was right. And I wasn’t even drunk! Out of my comfort zone, away from my New York structure, I was seeing everything in a new light. Even a stranger like Jordan told me I needed to break my own rules.
I stole a sneaky look at Des’s long, jean-clad thighs. His legs splayed open in a deep triangle as he reclined on his kitchen chair, luring my eye up to the bulge under his zipper. Bad girl, Shayla. Even though Maggie told me to get laid, she’d strictly forbidden doing it with her cousin because of his reputation. The thought made it even hotter.
Des finally peeled himself away from the table. From the door to the kitchen, he said, “I’m going for a bath.” I could swear the next words he whispered were, “Come along if you’re dirty” but it was hard to hear with Auntie Fiona bellowing “On the Rocky Road to Dublin”, as she carried her wicker basket through the hall.
Sitting down with her own cup of tea, Fiona asked me about where I was born and where I grew up, and how I passed my time. I complimented her house and was told it was technically a bungalow and less than a kilometer from the water. It had been passed down, she explained, and they were lucky to have it. Property prices had skyrocketed in recent years, she explained. She asked about my family, and did I follow sports or politics or pop stars. Not once did she ask me where I went to university, or what I did for a living. When I mentioned I was a writer she said that was grand, and asked if I didn’t come to interview that young chef from Castle Stone and left it at that.
Bringing a fresh pot to the table, Auntie Fiona asked, “Is the tea all right with ya, or would you care for something stronger?”
The scalding hot, milky tea was exactly what the doctor ordered. And something stronger might impair my judgment in the Des department. No, tea aired with the simple, filling pie and potatoes was fine. It left me with the effect of being wrapped in a soft quilt. “The tea is good. Everything is good.” With Des out of the picture, I relaxed in the unhurried atmosphere. Everything was nice and simple. Until my brain shot out signal flares. Tom O’Grady. I remembered why I was here in the first place. I had to get a win. If I didn’t, what else did I have?
“How far away is Castle Stone from here? Does the train or bus go there directly? Do you have wifi? Would you mind if I jumped on it?”
“Easy now. Tomorrow’s another day. Have yourself a bath, why don’t you?”
Was Des gone? I wondered. A flash of my lowering my naked self onto his body in the tub sizzled through my brain.
“Help yourself to anything you fancy in there,” she said.
Summer at Castle Stone Page 8