Summer at Castle Stone

by Lynn Marie Hulsman

  “Mary’s told me a few things about Tom O’Grady, the first being that he’s dead sexy. She said there’s not a girl who works there that hasn’t made a fool of herself trying to turn his head, especially the one at the front desk. Can’t think of her name, Catherine? I can’t remember. But you’ll spot her. She’s a right wagon. ‘Course, you’ll be immune to his charms, you liking the girls and all.

  Recalling the photo of Tom in his workshirt, I doubted it.

  “Next, she told me he’s mean as a snake. She was there well before he came back to fancy the place up. In the end she was glad he did, mind you, because it was falling to ruin. She thought she’d be made redundant if it was run into the ground. Now, there are more guests than they have rooms for most times of the year, and the wedding trade is booming even with the top-shelf prices they charge. No chance we could afford it. It’s kegs of beer in the church basement for us, but it’ll be a laugh, won’t it Fiona?”

  Auntie Fiona replied, “We’ll make sure it’s a grand wedding, don’t you worry.”

  My mind was still back on Tom O’Grady. “That chef, at the castle…did Mary say in what way he’s mean? Does he, like, throw things at his employees?”

  “No,” she laughed, “nothing of the sort. It’s more that he’s short with his answers, and quiet-like. She said he’s not one to joke, and you never know where you stand with him. Every time she’s asked him for a pay rise, he’s given it, but she has to work up her nerve for days to walk into his office because he’s so cold.

  There’s a certain type of girl that’s drawn to that type, though. The dark ones they can’t get their hands on. Waste of time, to my mind. Grab a thick one like, Des, and you know where you stand. Some say it’s to do with that girl from his TV show…what’s her name? Ah, doesn’t matter. She treated him badly or some such, and blackened his heart. To my mind, though, how scary can the fecker be? He’s a chef, for cryin’ out loud, not a boxer or a bouncer at a club.” I suspected Ashleigh and I had different definitions of what constituted scary. Still, her story made me want to call him even less than before.

  I rose reluctantly from my chair. “If you’ll excuse me, I need to figure out how to get my computer online so maybe I can Skype him.”

  “Ring him from here, pet! Won’t cost us a thing extra with our phone plan. No point worrying about connecting all your gadgets and doo dahs when we have a perfectly good telephone just waiting to be used. There’s an extension in your room.

  “Thank you,” I said, setting my mug in the sink. “I’m hoping I won’t be on long. Hopefully I’ll be heading to Castle Stone to interview him today.”

  “Stay as long as you like,” Auntie Fiona said. “The company will do Des good. Now Ashleigh, where are those wedding magazines you promised?”

  On my way to my room, I heard Des sigh in the bath. Unfortunately, it was now a sound my muscles remembered, and they yearned for him without the permission of my brain. I vowed to stop thinking of him, and went into my room away from home, to look at the folder with Tom O’Grady’s details.

  I sat cross-legged on the bed and took a deep breath, and punched in the number.

  “The Grange Hall. Can I help?”

  “May I speak to Tom O’Grady? I’m calling from Brenda Sackler’s office, in New York.”

  ““Would you mind holding for a just a moment, please?” The same traditional Irish music as last time trilled on in the background while I held.

  “I’m very sorry but Chef O’Grady is busy at the moment. Can I take your details and let him know you rang?”

  “Is he there?”

  The girl hesitated, so I pounced.

  “It’s urgent. Will you please help me? I’ll hold for an hour if I need to.”

  “Chef asked me to tell you…”

  “So he is there!”

  I could feel her caving. I went in for the kill. “Listen, if I don’t speak to him, I’ll lose my job. You can understand that, can’t you?”

  “Ah, sure. We all know what that’s like.”

  “So you understand. I promise I won’t get you into trouble. In five minutes, will you try again? Don’t tell him my name. Just say it’s his agent from New York. Please?”

  “I’ll leave you on hold, then. No telling how long it’ll take, or if he’ll come to the phone.”

  “Thank you! I’ll hold forever!”

  Her voice was again replaced by the jaunty tune. I leafed through the photos and fact sheets again, even though I’d done it a dozen times. The door to my room opened and Des slipped inside, wearing only a towel.

  “What are you doing?” I whispered, panicked. “Your girlfriend, no, your fiancée, is out there with your mother. You cannot be naked in my room.”

  “I just popped in to say thanks.” The nerve of him!

  “Thanks? Really?”

  “Yeah, really. It was incredible. I enjoyed that, I did.”

  “Get out of here! Now!”

  “Who’s that fella, then?” Des asked, looking upside down at the photos of Tom O’Grady. He walked over and picked up a headshot.

  The hold music stopped abruptly. “Hello, this is Tom O’Grady.”

  “Is that your boyfriend?” Des asked.

  I covered the mouthpiece with my hand. “Get out!” I whispered.

  “What was that?” Tom asked.

  “Yes, hello. Mr. O’Grady,” I began. “Get out!” I hissed at Des. I frantically waved my arms toward the door.

  “Dessie?” I heard Ashleigh call from the kitchen.

  “Hello? Who’s ringing?” Tom O’Grady asked.

  “Good morning, Mr. O’Grady, it’s me, Shayla Sheridan from Brenda Sackler’s office in New York.” Des sat down and rooted through the stack of photos. I shoved him by the hip, pushing him away from the bed. “I’d like to talk to you about your book.” The clasp of my bracelet snagged on Des’s towel, leaving him naked.

  “We’ve been over this, Miss Sheridan, there is no ‘my’ book.” Des bent over and nibbled my neck.

  “Get dressed,” I hissed, slapping him away.

  “What’s that?” Tom O’Grady asked. I was distracted by the growing evidence of Des’s affections toward me, and had trouble focusing. He had moved on to massaging my shoulders.

  “I was just saying, Mr. O’Grady, get off, that I have a list of reasons why seeing this book to completion will be to your benefit.” This time I was actually prepared. I’d jotted notes on a sheet of paper during the flight, but where were they?

  “Just one second, please.” I scattered some papers around haphazardly, looking. I knew it was to do with appealing to high-end cuisine magazines, or something, but my brain wouldn’t work with Des sucking on my neck. I saw the list stuck to Des’s thigh, which was still damp from the bath.

  “Des?” Ashleigh called. I could hear footsteps coming down the hallway.

  “Point One,” I read off the damp page with the now-bleeding ink, “Since the last time we spoke, I’ve researched the most elaborate menu offerings of every restaurant for which you’ve ever worked.” I stood up and used my shoulder to body-check Des off the bed. I heard a hand on the doorknob.

  “And?” Tom O’Grady prompted.

  Des just managed to scoop up his towel, wrap it around his waist, and cover his lap with a pillow in order to mask his now full erection. “Des? Ashleigh asked, eyebrows raised.

  “And, um, Point Two,” I said into the phone. I couldn’t read what I’d written since the ink was dripping. Again, I was left to winging it.

  “Shh! She’s on the line.” Des crossed his legs and pointed at me, in case Ashleigh was confused about whom he was speaking.

  “Point Two: Emphasize your skills in presentation, to interest magazines in doing features on you, thus furthering your brand.”

  “We have to meet the priest. What are you playing at?” Ashleigh asked in full voice.

  “Shh! I begged. “I’m so sorry, Mr. O’Grady. Just one second.”

  “It’s not wha
t you think,” Des said to Ashleigh, whispering. He must have felt sufficiently chastened at this point, because he managed to stand up. “Nothing happened.”

  “Mr. O’Grady? Are you still there?” I asked.

  “Yeah, I’m here. I’m thinking.”

  “Course nothing happened,” Ashleigh bellowed. “Shayla’s a lesbian, you could waggle it in her gob and she wouldn’t give it the time of day. Now get on with ya. We’ll be late. Ashleigh pushed Des into the hall and followed, closing the door.

  “Mr. O’Grady?” I couldn’t tell if he’d hung up.

  “It just isn’t going to work. You sound bright enough, but this whole thing just isn’t me.”

  “Please, Tom!” Oops. I waited for him to bristle at the familiarity, but he didn’t. “Just give me a chance.”

  “My answer is no. I don’t want to elaborate. If I ever reconsider, I’ll try to remember your name.” With that he put down the phone. I fell onto the bed in a heap, defeated. I didn’t have the book. I didn’t have a job. I was in a foreign country. I’d just had sex with a guy who’s engaged. Everything was so overwhelming, I just switched off. I shut down my brain and drifted into a tortured sleep in which I never got comfortable because I was rolling around on top of my folder of headshots and press clips. My unsettling dreams featured disparate scenes woven together from the Book Expo’s Bo Peep outfit, the screams of the gulls at the waterfront, and being caught rolling naked with Des by a looming, faceless Tom O’Grady.

  Auntie Fiona woke me at half past six, saying she was worried about me. I’d been asleep all day. I was still as tired as if I’d never closed my eyes. She told me to sit in the bath awhile, then join her in the kitchen for a bite. I listened hard, but couldn’t hear any sign of Des. I figured it was safe to take off my clothes. I filled the bath to the rim with warm water and simply allowed myself to float. I tried to empty my head, but Tom O’Grady’s voice kept echoing through it.

  After pulling on some yoga pants and a hoodie, I took out my journal.

  “Dear Maggie, I’ve just made the most expensive phone call in history. If you factor in the last-minute plane ticket, and the change fee for coming home early, my curt rejection from Tom O’Grady cost me thousands. When will I learn? Wild luck and Hollywood endings are for girls who can walk for miles in pointy-heeled boots and whose lip gloss stays inside the lines. He told me no via phone when I was safely on U.S. soil. What made me fly here to get the same answer on a different phone? I know I’ve been jealous of you, Mags, for getting good things. But I’m still happy for you and I know you work so hard for them. Maybe Carly the intern and Padma the Exotic and that crafty waitress from 54 Below also work hard and I just don’t see it. There’s my answer: I just have to work harder. But Mags, I’m tired. It seems I work and work and I’m still standing at the starting line. Oh, well, it is what it is. In a few days, I’ll be back in New York, writing another Dumbass Guide, if Brenda doesn’t drop me. If I reframe it, I see that I’m lucky to have a job writing. So many would switch places with me. I should feel proud that it’s writing work I got on my own, without Hank’s name or his help. And I’ll write another book, and another, and another, and keep on going until I hit “the one”. Meanwhile, without my HPC income, I’ll be looking for a job at Crate and Barrel or Restoration Hardware. On the bright side, I’ve never worn a name badge to work. That could be fun. And they give employee discounts, probably. OK, better eat. As per my new usual, I’m starving. Don’t be surprised if you hear on the news that Ireland’s missing. If so, please know I ate it. Love, Shay

  When I showed up at the kitchen table, Auntie Fiona put a cup of tea in front of me. I was dying for a java hit. I considered walking down to the coffee place on the water, but I doubted I had the energy. I still hadn’t connected my phone or my computer. The apocalypse could have come and I wouldn’t have known it.

  “Ah, you poor lamb. Everything will seem brighter after you’ve had your tea. It’s not much to speak of. I’ve cooked bacon and cabbage, and a bit of white sauce. There’s onion and some carrot and mashed turnip to go with it. Ah, I’ve forgotten to toss a few potatoes into the pot. Could you face chips again?”

  “Yes, I really could. That sounds delicious.” How many nights had I hunkered over the coffee table, editing manuscripts for Lizbeth while eating Doritos and salsa for dinner? I only knew how to cook a few things and my whole adult life I’d been too busy to learn more. “I just realized, I haven’t eaten today.”

  “Bless! That won’t do at all. I’ll give you some cheese and a bite or two of bread to go with that cuppa. Des and Ashleigh should be back soon enough, but no use in your suffering.” Before long, she set a plate before me with two large slabs of cheese, a few slices of apple and some slices of soda bread. I spread a bit of the blue cheese on a corner of the bread and took a bite. It was fragrant and had a wonderful granular texture. It managed to be sharp and creamy at the same time. Washed down with the hot, milky tea Auntie Fiona had just topped up, it was like a meal unto itself. Next I tried the blander looking of the two and found out looks could be deceiving. It had the weight of cheddar in my mouth, but in addition to cheddar’s sharpness, it featured the bite of a good Parmesan, along with a nutty, Swiss-like flavor. With my mouth still full, I asked, “What are these?”

  “That one’s Dubliner, and that one there’s Cashel blue.”

  “Are you a fine cheese aficionado?”

  “Not a bit. That’s just what I pick up down in the market.”

  “Your everyday cheeses live on a different planet from ours.” I didn’t even want to admit that I had plastic-wrapped cheese food singles in my fridge.

  Just then, Des and Ashleigh came through the front door fighting. “Ah, sure, it’s not worth a shite,” Ashleigh said, hanging her jacket on a peg. “‘lo, Shayla,” she said. “Did you get everything sorted with goin’ up to Ballykelty to see your chef?”

  “Not gonna happen.” I popped another slice of Dubliner into my mouth to soothe myself.

  “Say it isn’t so! Tell us everything.” She took an apron off its hook and tied it on. “Fiona, you sit, I’ll finish the tea.” Auntie Fiona and Des took chairs. I couldn’t even be bothered to notice how close Des’s body was to mine. I told the short, sweet story of how I got shot down.

  “There must be a way around this,” Auntie Fiona said. “Shayla, when is your flight back booked for?”

  I honestly didn’t know. I hadn’t paid attention to my flight details, since Maggie had taken everything in hand. At some point over wine at the kitchen table, we’d discussed my staying four days. So, maybe March 23rd? 24th? “I have to check my ticket,” I told her, getting up from the table.

  “I’ve a naughty idea,” Ashleigh said, cutting potatoes into strips.

  “Not in front of my mam,” Des mumbled into his teacup.

  “Shut your cakehole! I mean about that one needing to be at Castle Stone.” Ashleigh had a chef’s knife in her hand, and so far, to me, she seemed like the kind of girl who knew how to use it. If I were Des, I’d watch my step.

  I rooted out the printouts from my plane ticket and my boarding passes, but they only reflected the date of my outgoing trip. I scrolled through the emails on my phone, even though I didn’t have service. Something might have come through before I’d taken off. There! An email from Maggie spelling out my itinerary and an alert from Aer Lingus. From Mags:

  Hey Shay, the cheapest last-minute round-trip I could find has you coming back Saturday the 24th. It would cost a mint to change the ticket, so if you get everything taken care of before then, I know a cheap hotel in Dublin called The Harcourt where you can kill time until your return flight. The airport coach is easy to catch from there…

  She went on to suggest places to visit, and to spell out directions for trains and coaches. Little did she know, I was going to have days and days to kill. It was only Wednesday morning and my flight wasn’t until late Saturday night. Maggie and I thought that Tom O’Grady might arrange for
me to stay free at Castle Stone’s cottages or in the hotel. We’d even had a giddy conversation about my being put in one of the Castle Heritage or Master Bedrooms, the ones with the period furnishings. One thing was for sure, I couldn’t stay here another night, given the fact that I’d taken Auntie Fiona up on her invitation to “help myself to anything I fancied” in the form of her engaged son. Phone in hand, I took off down the hall, scrolling as I walked. From Aer Lingus:

  Dear Ms. Sheridan,

  We know you have the choice of many carriers, and we’d like to thank you for choosing Aer Lingus…blah, blah, etc.

  I scrolled down.

  …departing flight 24 August…

  I stopped walking. Rereading the entire email carefully,

  “Oh my God and fuck!” I swore.

  “Did you need me, Shayla?” Des called into the hallway, half rising from his seat.

  I walked in and plonked myself down in a kitchen chair. “I need something,” I said, staring into the middle distance. I felt my current need reach out and grab hands with my last unmet need, then the one before that, and so on. A ticket back, an interview, a cover credit, a job, a boyfriend, notoriety, love, a dad. The feeling of emptiness was primal.

  Without my consent, two hot fat tears pooled in my eyes until they were giant, then plopped on the cheery yellow tablecloth when I blinked. I willed myself not to give in to more. I didn’t speak, knowing if I did, a sloppy sob would escape. Auntie Fiona put her hand over mine; an act of kindness that lured the sob up toward the surface.

  Ashleigh set a glass before me. All business, she said, “We’ve no whiskey, but get that down you, and fast.” I took a long pull from the glass of warming Rioja. My first breath came out as a staccato gasp for air, but at least I wasn’t crying.

  “Good girl,” she said. Like a dealer at a blackjack table, she shuffled plates out before us, and one for herself. Taking her place at the table, she gave me a straight look and said, “I’ve a plan. Fill your belly while I tell you what you’re going to do.”