Oh dear God.
“We’ve all sorts of lotions and potions,” she continued. I let out my breath. “Now that our eldest has moved out, we let that room here and there during the high season. Make yourself at home. Sure, you’ve flown over the Atlantic, for heaven’s sake! You deserve a long lie-down.”
I hesitated.
“Work’ll keep,” she insisted.
I pushed past my normal tendencies and took her advice. I gathered my pajamas and toothbrush from my case. The house sat quiet. Des must have left. I felt a twinge of regret in my nether parts, but told myself that it was for the best. One less thing to think about.
Upstairs in the bathroom I filled the tub with steaming water and threw in a liberal handful of seaweed bath salts. I lay all the way back, submerging my head so that only my mouth and nose protruded from the water. It sounded the way a large conch shell does when you press your ear to its side. We used to call it, “listening to the ocean.” It sounded like a woman’s voice, and as if I just listened that little bit harder, I might be able to make out what she was saying. The tone was beckoning, I just couldn’t make out the message. I lay there trying until the water went cold, then pulled myself back out into the world. Back in my room, I was asleep before my head hit the pillow.
I awakened at 5:30 a.m. and the house was still. There was no danger of Des getting up soon, and surely Auntie Fiona slept past dawn. I padded quietly into the kitchen and looked for a coffee maker. No luck. I couldn’t remember a day since I was fifteen that I hadn’t started my morning with a cup of coffee. There was, however, an electric tea kettle. I’d always considered these a waste of space. Funny how everyone in Ireland has one and no one in America does. Who couldn’t heat water on the stove? Why bother with a kettle? When the water boiled before I could even put a teabag in a mug, I had my answer. I went for the milk in the fridge, even though I never drank milk in tea at home. It was like I was on autopilot, being called by the song of the lost souls of the Irish people who’d always put milk in their tea. It felt weird, but I had to admit that the tiny pint-sized plastic jug, and the unapologetic way it called whole milk “full fat” charmed me.
Not only did I not start my day with my usual cup of coffee, I couldn’t check my phone or email because I wasn’t set up for that yet. It dawned on me that I had no idea what to do about phone service. If I just tried to use my phone, each call might cost a mint, and I couldn’t afford to throw money around. I’d left so fast and without a thought about practical matters. Worse yet, my brilliant brain couldn’t figure things out because it wasn’t my playing field. I was not the master of my universe. But then, had I ever been?
It wasn’t quite six o’clock and I had nothing to do. I was itching to call Tom O’Grady, but I didn’t know how to use the phone. I felt vulnerable; like if there was a disaster, I wouldn’t know the drill. “No, Shayla!” I told myself, nipping it in the bud. Go out and get some fresh air and this idea will seem better when the sun comes up. I crept up the stairs, still in my pajamas, and quietly brushed my teeth. I heard the front door open and some jingling keys being put on a hook. I heard Des clear his throat and I slipped through the bathroom door, intending to race back to my room before he saw me. Which would have been the best possible thing. Obviously. Instead, what happened was this: With Des’s high energy and long stride, he was up the staircase, and standing in front of me before I could think. His blue eyes lit up the dark like a couple of headlights and I was frozen. I couldn’t look away.
Before I could take a breath, his mouth was on mine, and my arms were wrapped around his neck, me standing on tippy-toe, gasping for air. His lips were firm and insistent. I tried to whisper “no,” but the thought of waking Auntie Fiona quieted my voice. I signaled with my body that we should stop, that it was too risky, we’d get caught. He met every bend of my neck and every jolt of my hips like a tango master. Every touch, every push and grind made me forget why I wanted to stop.
He tasted like fresh beer and spearmint gum; it was the taste of being wild with a boy at a club. I was only wearing a thin t-shirt and no bra. His hand kneaded my breast and I leaned into it. He picked me up at the waist, me straddling his long frame sloppily, and he dragged me into his room, the closest one to the bathroom.
“Oh,” he moaned, “Shayla, I am going to give it to you like you have never had it before.” Just like that. No discussion. No request for permission. My mind was sizzling and my body melted. No man had ever talked to me like that before. All my other lovers had gone out of their way to be chivalrous, real 21st-century men, determined to prove how sensitive they were. It was clear that Des planned to take what he wanted. His attitude electrified me and I was right behind him. I couldn’t stop now if I wanted to. I wasn’t leaving this tangle till my tension got relieved.
He lay me back on the bed and peeled my shirt up. He scraped the stubble of his beard up my belly and covered my nipple with his mouth, circling his tongue and humming with pleasure. It lit me on fire. Then, pulling his head up and panting into his mouth, I reached down to undo the snap on his jeans. I popped it open and tugged at the zipper, all the while wrapping my legs around his pelvis, trying to grind into his hardness.
He untangled my greedy fingers from his hair and pulled my shirt up over my head, only stopping our hungry kiss long enough to pull the collar past our mouths. With the skill of a magician, he used one of his hands and his knee to strip off my jogging pants and panties while keeping me drunk with kisses and teasing my aching breasts. I didn’t recognize myself, I was so out of control. When he shifted to wriggle his jeans past his slim hips, I actually pouted and humphed. A second was too long to wait for contact. I was long past having manners. What we had here was a matter of need, not want. Slowing down would be like trying to turn a cruise ship around.
The feeling of his hot skin pressed against me from my ankles to my cheek set off something primal. I grabbed the length of him with my whole hand and stroked it to the tip. Uncircumsized. The newness of it drove me wild.
“Now,” I demanded, forgetting to whisper.
“Oh, God, Shayla, yes, yes,” he chanted again and again as he ripped open a condom packet with his teeth and reached down to roll it on. I swung up on top of him, balancing myself by digging the heels of my hands into his pubic bone like it was the horn of a saddle. I loved that part of a man. Especially a tall, skinny one like Des.
I lowered myself down, taking him in all at once, not bothering to tease. By the way he used his fingers, I could tell Des had been around the block a time or two, and with women, not just girls. I slid up and down, taking full advantage of the fact that I’d claimed the top position, and ground into that bone, taking him deeper and deeper. “Oh dear fuck, Shayla,” he whispered. “That is delicious.”
At that point, I closed my eyes, and went into a kind of trance, nearly forgetting that Des was there. Up to this point in my life, I had never, never taken what I wanted so aggressively. I was Super Woman, capable of anything. From that point forward, it was all hands, and mouth, and pounding. I worked hard and got what I came for. I changed my movement to near stillness, and was rewarded by electric pulsing from where I was sitting.
“Shayla,” he moaned.
“Shh!” I warned him. “Ah-ah-ah-ah!” I cried out, forgetting utterly about keeping this secret from Auntie Fiona. I couldn’t have stayed quiet if I’d tried.
Oh. My. God. I felt so loose, so calm. I flopped over onto his chest, and listened to my own heartbeat for a few seconds. He didn’t say a thing. Like I said, he was good at this. Way better at it than I would have given him credit for. I rewarded him with a firm kiss on the mouth. He was still inside me, “Lie back,” I told him, “here comes yours.”
I left Des sleeping, washed up, and quietly pulled on some clothes. There was no hairdryer to be found, let alone a curling iron or a pair of straightening tongs. God, I hated dealing with all this hair. What happened to the days of wash-and-wear? Deep down, I knew Maggie was righ
t about how a 20-something’s coiffure was supposed to look in the city, but I didn’t have the time nor the patience to maintain an amazing style that was meant to look effortless. I ran a comb through it, but it was not interested in being tamed. The clock said 7 a.m. I threw my wallet and new journal and pen into a tote. There were keys on the hooks by the door. I had to lock the door behind myself. I found the right one on the third try and set out walking in the pre-dawn glow, hoping that this was a safe neighborhood. I could smell salt water, so I tried to use my lizard brain to find the seafront. Auntie Fiona had said it was about a kilometer away. “About a mile,” I thought. Then I questioned myself. The half-assed attempts to teach us the metric system in school hadn’t really stuck. I walked blindly on, hoping I’d get where I wanted to go sooner or later.
I sat down on a flat rock and gazed out at the horizon. Breathtaking was the only fitting word for it. I pulled out my journal and wrote:
Dear Mags, It’s hard to believe I’m in Ireland sitting on a seawall, watching the sun rise. The blazing orange and pink of the sun is illuminating everything, but leaving the edges soft. I wish I could show it to you. Sunrises, like dreams and falling in love, mean so much to the person they’re happening to, and always pale in the description. There are plumes of smoke rising from the chimneys of the clean-lined houses, scenting the air. It doesn’t smell like the smoke from houses upstate. It’s earthier than woodsmoke, and mixed with the sea breeze, it calls to mind both dried blood and babies being born. It’s not unpleasant, though. The only word I can think of to describe it is organic.
I think the air here is giving me superpowers. With each breath I take, I feel like I’m connecting. To the rock I’m sitting on, to the calling birds, to the tall grasses waving in the breeze. It all looks so foreign and unfamiliar. The rugged landscape, the quirky rusted red and brown tug moving along next to the wooden fishing boats. I wonder if this actually is the prettiest view I’ve ever experienced, or if it’s simply the post-coital buzz talking. Oh, right. I suppose I have to tell you: I had sex with Des. I know, I know! It just happened. I’m glad, though. I wouldn’t have wanted to break my dry spell with someone real, if you know what I mean. I got it out of my system. There. Done. Weeeeeelll, maybe it’s not quite out of my system. Don’t get me wrong. I’m not in love with him or anything, but you know that expression, “A taste of honey’s worse than none at all?” I have to admit, it was pretty good for a desperate quickie. And look, I know Des didn’t go to college or write a book, or cure polio, but that’s OK. Am I a snob for saying he’s not husband material? On the other hand, maybe marriage could be pretty sweet if you got a dose of that every night. Whatever, he’s pretty cute and it was super-fun for what it was. I’d die of embarrassment if your aunt found out, but if I had the chance to do it again, I feel like I might. The truth is, I don’t feel like myself. But in a good way. Have you ever sat quietly, and said your name over and over, and asked yourself, who am I, really? What does it mean to be me? Well, you probably haven’t. You’re so much more grounded than I am. When I was a little girl, I felt ethereal and unformed, like I hadn’t landed in my body yet. I thought that when I grew up, it would click into place and I’d feel whole. I’m still waiting, I guess. But today, I don’t know…I feel more like I’m in here, you know? I think I’m getting a glimpse of what it would be like to land in…well…me
All right, the sun’s completely up now, and I see what looks to be a touristy coffee shop by the waterfront. I don’t even have any Irish currency yet. Cross your fingers that they take plastic, because I think a cappuccino is in order before I pick up the phone to call Tom O’Grady. I’ll let you know how it goes! Love, Shay.
Walking back to Auntie Fiona’s with my large takeaway latte, I unzipped my fleece a few inches so I could soak up the maximum amount of sun. After the early morning sex and the caffeine boost, the only thing that could make me feel better would be sealing the deal with Tom O’Grady. I walked up the drive and turned the key in the lock as quietly as I could. As I was fiddling with it, the door swung open and I stood face-to-face with a girl with shiny dark hair, pulled into a high ponytail. She had on a full face of evening makeup.
“Hiya,” she said. “Come through.”
I peered behind her to make sure I was in the right house. I saw the back of Auntie Fiona’s head at the kitchen table, where she was sipping tea. I combed back through the stories Maggie had told me. Her uncle had passed away at a young age, and I thought Fiona only had the two boys, Des, and Michael, who was married and out of the house.
“Is that Shayla?” Auntie Fiona called. “C’mere till I tell ya! Ashleigh here has a friend, Mary, who works in the stables over by your man Tom O’Grady at Castle Stone.”
“She only started in the stables doing work experience, but that can turn into a position if you prove yourself. Mary’s done just about every job on the grounds, there. In less than five years, she’s worked her way up to the position of ‘Director of Volunteer Learning’ and she oversees the whole program. Not a day goes by that she doesn’t swear she owes her whole career to my brother Timmy, who arranged to wipe her juvenile arrest records clean, and get a few business owners to claim she’d worked for them.” Ashleigh positively beamed with pride. I was speechless.
She poured herself another cup of tea and looked at me. “Why are you faffing about? Sit down, will ya?” She fetched another mug, and poured me a cup of tea, to which she added milk without asking. Maybe I had the story of Maggie’s family wrong. Was this Des’s sister? Was there a brother named Timmy?
“Does work experience mean an internship?” I asked blandly, hoping that how this girl fit into the puzzle would be revealed through conversation
“Internship? What’s that when it’s at home?” Ashleigh cackled. “You know, work experience, like when they hire you for no wage. Sometimes they feed you and keep you. I did that after cosmetology school and the spa kept me on. I can’t strictly say I passed the written exam,” she said, winking, “but Timmy found a way around it. Who asks you what your scores are when you’re slathering their face with Dead Sea Mud, anyway? Now, I’m a fully licensed aesthetician,” she said, puffed up with pride again. “In fact,” she said, examining my hair critically, “If you’re stopping here for a while, I could do something about your color. No offense, but you’ve got roots to Jaysus and that shade of blonde is washing you out like a ghost.”
“I’m sorry, I’m Shayla,” I said, reaching to shake her hand. “I’m Fiona’s niece Maggie’s best friend.”
“Sure I knew that. Des told me you came last night.
“He told you what?” I said, panic rising.
“He told me he gave you a ride.”
“Well, he, um,” I couldn’t think of what to say. “Who are you, exactly?”
I’m Ashleigh, Des’s fiancée.”
“Wow,” was all I could manage to say. “That’s…wow. I did not know that.”
Des came skidding down the hall like Tom Cruise in Risky Business, all socks and underpants. He looked panicked. “Shayla! Ashleigh! I thought you wouldn’t be here until lunchtime.”
“Finally, the dead arose and appeared to many,” Auntie Fiona quipped into her cup of tea. “Have you forgotten the two of you are due in at Father Flanagan’s at 11 a.m.?
“And put your trousers on, for feck’s sake! There’s a lady at the table. I apologize for him, Shayla. He behaves like a savage.”
“Tell me something I don’t know,” I thought, slowly adding spoonful of sugar to my tea like I was performing brain surgery. Maybe if I didn’t talk, they’d all go away.
“He acts like an eejit. Feel free to give him a right schkelp, if you like.”
I looked at Des for guidance. Had I, already?
“I’m having a bath. Could someone bring me a cuppa tea in there?” and he disappeared off down the hall.
“Not me!” I called, involuntarily. “Of course not, because…it’s not my house, is it?”
All the
tension I’d shaken off down by the water was back, mixed in with a healthy dose of panic. Well, that’ll teach me to be impulsive. Maybe having a rigid set of rules wasn’t such a bad idea.
Ashleigh laughed heartily. “Shayla, you’re gas! Are you married?”
“Nooo. Not married. At all.” I glanced involuntarily down the hall toward the bathroom where Des was, presumably, naked. Snapping my eyes back to Ashleigh’s face, I picked up my cup of tea and finished it in one glug. Auntie Fiona immediately poured me another cup. At this rate, I could just float to Castle Stone.
“I also don’t have a boyfriend, or any dates, or a lover.” Eeuuww. Lover. Why would I say that? Nervous, I ladled sugar into my tea. “In fact, I’m a lesbian.”
Whaaat? Why would I say that? Ireland isn’t Manhattan. Probably even lesbians didn’t go around blurting out that they were lesbians. Good thing I wouldn’t be here long. Auntie Fiona stirred her tea. “Well, to each their own, as they say. Erm, you and Maggie aren’t…?”
“No, God no, Maggie’s with Eric.” I turned to Ashleigh and said, “Eric is a man.”
“Ha!” she barked. “I should hope so! Imagine the sight of a girl called Eric. Brutal! Anyway, your secret’s safe with me.
“It’s not a secret,” I said, defensively. I didn’t think gay people should hide in the shadows. But then again, I wasn’t gay. I was just digging myself in deeper every time I opened my mouth. “I mean, if I were in a relationship, it wouldn’t be a secret.”
“Well, we won’t tell Father Flanagan, at least,” she said, with a big wink. “Des and I are going for pre-marriage classes. It’s where the priest tells you what it means to be a married Catholic, and you swear to obey the commandments and raise your kids right, and what have you.”
“Again, wow. Just, many happy returns to the both of you. And now, Auntie Fiona, if you wouldn’t mind helping, I have to get my phone and computer set up so I can call Castle Stone.”
Ashleigh carried on, blind to my discomfort and attempts to get out of the massive grave I’d dug myself.
Summer at Castle Stone Page 9