Chapter Eight
The truth is rarely pure, and never simple.
For the first chunk of the car trip, Des chatted mindlessly about football scores and what bands would be doing concerts in Ireland during the coming summer. I was so nervous about what would happen once we reached Castle Stone, I kept ignoring the elephant in the car, as it were. If he wasn’t going to bring it up, neither was I. We drove along the quay on the way out of town. I was charmed that the road signs were in both English and Irish. I turned off my mind and let the beauty of the landscape wash over me.
“Oh look!” I cried, breaking my silence. “Seals!” I couldn’t believe I was seeing sleek, dog-like creatures thumping along on the rocks and diving into the sea outside of a zoo.
“We’ve got loads of them ‘round here. If you wait long enough, sometimes you’ll see a whale. Pretty amazing, if you ask me.” He looked at me sideways, keeping one eye on the road. “You’re pretty amazing yourself.”
The lower part of my belly turned to warm liquid as memories of our time in bed flashed through my brain. A hand here, lips there, his breath on my cheek. “Look Des, I didn’t know you had a fiancée.”
“And I didn’t know you were a lesbian,” he countered.
“I’m not!” I protested.
He laughed softly. “I gathered that. I’m only taking the mickey. It was smart thinking, though. You’ve fixed it so we can meet up and no one will think twice.”
“That’s not why I said it.” I thought back. “I’m not a liar, in general. Maybe it was the jet lag or the panic.”
“Maybe you weren’t a liar up to this point, but you’d better get used to the idea, Sheila Doyle,” he teased, chuckling and shaking his head. “You’ve got to hand it to my Ashleigh and her brother Timmy. If they can’t go through a thing, they always find a way to go around it.”
My stomach fell. I couldn’t believe I’d agreed to this plan. Like a meteor hurtling toward the surface of the earth, I had momentum. There was no way to stop now, and I’d soon crash and burn.
I gripped the car door handle, tense. “I don’t think I can do this.”
“Ah, you seem a brave one to me. You got on a plane at the drop of a hat. I’d call that downright impulsive. And then, you seduced me. I’d say that was reckless.”
“You’re the one who grabbed when I was in my pajamas, still wet.”
“Mmm…say ‘wet’ again.” He put his hand on my knee.
“Stop it, stop it, stop it,” I said pushing his hand away several times in a row. “Stop.” I waited, guard up. When I was satisfied that he had his mind back on driving, I explained.
“Fair enough,” he said, feigning aloofness. “I was hoping to get you out of them black clothes. For self-preservation purposes. It’s depressing to look at in the middle of the day.”
“What’s wrong with my clothes?” I had on a long-sleeved, scoop-necked black tee, a pair of black wool Anne Taylor sailor trousers, a black silk cardigan, and a pair of black patent boots. One of my work outfits. “I think I look fine.”
“For a Portuguese widow. You looked prettier in your pajamas. Better still in your birthday suit.”
“OK, time to get this straight. It’s not like me to jump into bed with guys I don’t know. I never would have done it if I knew you were engaged.”
“Engaged isn’t married.”
“I’ll bet Ashleigh would have a different view.”
“There’s no call to involve Ashleigh in our affairs. When I’m married, I’ll behave.”
“I doubt that.” I thought back to the year my parents had separated. Mom and I had moved upstate with Grandma and Poppy. I’d gone to school there for 5th grade. When my parents reconciled, I asked if I could just stay in Rhinebeck. I was so angry. Even though no one spelled it out, I got the sense that Hank had cheated on her. I just knew. Looking back, I’m glad Mom said no. It would have meant losing precious time with her. “Anyway, I have a rule: I don’t sleep with married men.”
“I’m not married yet. We have until the autumn if you fancy another go.”
“No thanks.” The truth was, I did fancy it. Apart from the fact that it was just wrong, Ashleigh had gone to a lot of trouble to help me. It could never happen again.
“Suit yourself, but the door’s open until I’m legally wed.”
“Oh, look! There’s a Costa,” I said, changing the subject. “I’ll buy you a cup of coffee if you’ll stop.”
“Can’t have you getting the shakes now, can we? Tea’s more my speed, but I’m happy to oblige if it’ll bring you pleasure.”
We didn’t speak of what happened between us again. He turned up the radio, and bopped happily along to classic rock as we sped around the sharp turns and roundabouts that dotted our drive. My mind drifted off to Maggie. The very second I got to Castle Stone, I had to call her, even if I did it collect from a pay phone. This scheme Ashleigh had cooked up may have sounded practical around Auntie Fiona’s table when we were all sipping Rioja and possibly even early this morning among complete strangers while I was filling my face with sausages and fried potatoes, but now I saw it for what it was: insane. I couldn’t stay here till September. I had bills to pay, rent on an apartment. I’d talk to this Tom O’Grady, and if he said no, I’d just head to Dublin and call the whole thing off. I pushed all thoughts of how I was going to come up with two grand for a flight out of my head. With my lingering jet lag and only half a cup of coffee in me, I could only tackle one problem at a time.
Before I knew it, we were off the highway and driving through the main road of a picturesque village. There were stone walls along one side, covered in ivy and flanked by an impossibly narrow sidewalk. The houses and shops were humble and squat, none more than three stories tall, and some were topped with sloping triangular roofs and even spires.
“It’s gorgeous,” I breathed. There were flower boxes lined up on the other side of the road, with tender daffodils and crocuses poking through the soil, and the shuttered windows featured window boxes filled with the same, plus green shoots, yet to reveal their natures. “Flowers!”
“Mam says the early blooms signal a hot summer ahead. I don’t mind the heat, but the sun doesn’t agree with me. I went to Ibiza with some mates last year and came home looking like a boiled lobster.
There she is. If you look ahead, you can see the castle just there, at the top of the hill.”
And there it was, to me like something from a film. All stone walls, pointed rooftops and chimneys, one side covered in lush green moss. There simply are no buildings in America that look like this. It was, in a word, ancient.
“This is going to sound stupid, but I thought castles were supposed to be bigger.”
“Maybe so, but it’s still quite a pile.”
“Totally! I didn’t mean that it’s not spectacular. I guess I was picturing Cinderella’s castle from Disney World, or the one from Rob Roy.
“Some might call Castle Stone a manor house. We were taught in school that the old castles were on the smaller side in order for the inhabitants to be able to see enemies approaching from all sides, so they could defend themselves. When we get to the top of the hill, you’ll see the other buildings on the estate. The place is huge. Something like 1000 acres if I remember right. Can you fathom it? That huge tract of land and everything on it is owned by one man! The Earl of Wexford himself. Born to it. Luck of the draw, and you’re the man! He’s a bit of a crank, the old Earl. I heard he went to a wedding in the village wearing only his pajamas and a top hat.”
“You can’t be serious.”
“Ah, who knows what the truth is? When you’re rich, you can do what you like, can’t you?”
We turned off the town road and onto the private drive leading to the castle and I drank in the view. A thrill went through my body. There were green lawns as far as the eye could see, really green lawns. The manor house was at the center, and extending from one side there was a long, roofed walkway made from the same stone, with
arched window after arched window. At the end was a taller structure with a glass roof.
We drove through heavy, wrought-iron gates, surrounded by a tall, irregular stone wall. As we continued along the main drive, I could see myriad paved service roads leading to other, smaller houses, a circular cul-de-sac of cottages, and even a chapel. There were no fewer than five or six horses in my sightline, some trotting along dirt paths, one galloping at top speed right across the green grass toward a lake.
Des drove slowly, as the signs warned guests not to spook the horses. There were gardeners clipping at shrubbery and digging in the peaty dirt. We passed a group of ladies, all of a certain age, walking leisurely alongside the drive. I assumed they were guests of the hotel. A golf cart with four men of mixed ages, all dressed for the game came into view in the near distance. “There’s a golf course?”
“Sure, there is. You can golf, fish, row in the boats, ride a horse, whatever you fancy. The guests can, I should say. You, Sheila Doyle, are here for work experience.”
I felt sick. “Stop calling me that.”
“You’d better get used to it. I’ll make you a bargain, though. If you’d care to join me in my bed again, I’ll happily call out your real name. But here at Castle Stone, you’re Sheila now.”
Chapter Nine
A closed mouth, a wise head.
My hand refused to pull the door handle. I sat in the hot car, watching guests and workers enter and exit the main doors to the huge, old building. It would be so easy to have Des start the car again and drop me off where the airport bus could pick me up to take me back to Dublin. In less than a day, I could be curled up in my own bed back in New York. I turned to Des and said, “I’ve been thinking it over. There’s something else I need from you.”
He unbuckled his seat belt and straddled me before I could see it coming. His open mouth covered mine and his hand was on the bare skin of my belly, inching upwards.
I wrenched my head sideways and screamed, “Des, get off of me.” As I pushed him back with both arms, I caught a silver-haired matron in sturdy walking shoes out of the corner of my eye. She looked directly at me and tsk-tsked. Yanking my shirt down, I elbowed Des in the jaw. “Everyone and his mother can see us! These windows are made of glass, you know.”
“Hey!” he cried, covering his head with his hands and retreating to the driver’s seat. “I figured doing it in public turned you on. You told me you wanted to!”
“No,” I smoothed down my hair and checked my lips in the rearview to see if they were all puffy and pink. “I said I needed a favor.”
“My bad.” He shifted in his seat, panting, and rearranged the fabric of his jeans. “What can I do for you?”
“Never mind.” Des really was a sweet guy. “Thanks for the ride.”
“Call me anytime you want another one.”
I laughed despite myself and forced myself to pull the door handle. After Des dropped me at the door of Castle Stone, luggage and all, I was determined to find Mary so I could explain that I wouldn’t be staying. After clarifying to the girl at reception that I wasn’t a guest, she said, “Ah, you’re American. Are you Sheila who’s doing work experience in the restaurants?”
I didn’t say yes. “I just need to see Mary, please. Is she available?”
“Let me just get someone to show you the way.” He led me to Mary, where she was seated at one of the many desks, behind a half-screen.
“Welcome to Castle Stone, Sheila,” she said standing to shake my hand. Her hair was cropped close and she wore a forest-green polo with the Castle Stone logo emblazoned on the front, tucked into a pair of chinos, belted at her thick waist. There wasn’t a trace of makeup on her wind-chapped face.
“Cheers, I’ll take it from here,” she said to the uniformed young man, who nodded and left. “So, have a seat, have a seat,” she said to me. “Perfect timing,” she said, “there’s no one around at the moment. Any friend of Timmy’s is a friend of mine, so I’m glad to help.”
I didn’t mention that I’d never met Timmy, or that I’d just slept with his sister’s fiancé. “I’ve been thinking about this whole thing, Mary. I’m really grateful, but…”
“Not at all. Between Ashleigh and me, we figured it all out. I have to keep a file on everyone here on the grounds, so I’ll need to copy your passport and all that in case we’re audited by immigration. Apart from that, no one but me needs to see the particulars. I’ll take care of you.” She looked me up and down. “Make no mistake about that.”
She sat back in her chair and smiled. “I’ll just misfile the thing, as it were, once I’ve filed your status with the government. After that, they don’t care a whit if we call you Shayla or Sheila or Uncle Sam.”
“I’m not really comfortable playing fast and loose with border patrol, so Mary…”
“That’s the beauty of it! You’ll never earn a penny since you’re on work experience. It’s not as if the Earl will be breathing down our necks. He’s just as happy not to be involved in the day-to-day admin, plus he trusts me. You’re grand. The fact of the matter is, I don’t have to file with any tax departments or what have you. And,” she said winking, “if we do get into hot water at any point, Timmy knows a fella down at the embassy or the green card department — one of them places — who can iron over any wrinkles. Best not to ask too many questions.”
“Can I have a word, Mary?” I heard a firm, rich voice behind me say. Infused with authority, the question was more of a statement. I knew without looking it was Tom O’Grady. My breathing sped up.
“Of course, Chef,” she said, rising from her chair.
“No, keep your seat. I just wanted to let you know Callum won’t be continuing in the kitchen. I’ll send him in shortly so you can let him go.” I resisted the urge to crane my neck around to get a look at Tom O’Grady.
“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that. I’ll take care of it. Chef, if you don’t mind, I’d like you to meet Sheila Doyle.” I swallowed hard, preparing myself to tell him the truth about who I was and make one last-ditch effort to convince him to let me write his book. If only I had a pitch; I needed some hook to convince him why. I stood up, turned around and extended my hand.
“Oh,” I breathed. I’m pretty tall, for a woman, but Tom O’Grady is easily a head taller. He sported a blinding white chef’s coat that buttoned diagonally up the shoulder, accentuating the broadness of his chest. Instead of the traditional tall, white chef’s hat, his unruly dirty-blonde curls were tied back in a black bandana-style head wrap. “Ninja angel,” I thought. “Karate pirate.” These phrases sat on my tongue, and I didn’t dare speak lest they pop out. He grasped my hand firmly and shook it.
Before I could explain who I was, Mary stepped in with, “This is Sheila Doyle, she’s training on kitchen duty.”
“How soon can I have you?” he asked. I examined his strong jaw. His hair was dirty blonde, but the beginnings of his beard were red-gold.
“What?”
“Mary!” A young boy with a skinny neck protruding from his work polo, and an unfortunately pimply complexion, poked his head around the office door. “The Qatari Princess and her ladies just arrived, and the Earl’s sitting in the lounge in his dressing gown watching videos! I haven’t read the protocol sheet but I’m fairly certain that won’t do.”
“If you’ll excuse me for just a quick second,” Mary said, rushing out the door.
“I asked how soon I can have you.” I searched his face. As I waited for him to elaborate, my heart flopped around my ribcage. “It’s only that I just let go of that useless what’s-his-name and I could use a body. Have you experience?” he wiped his hands on the kitchen towel he carried.
“Not…uh, some.” I didn’t know how to answer. My breathing had grown shallower. I couldn’t get enough air through my nose. My lips parted involuntarily and I was embarrassed to hear myself panting. “I wish I had more.”
He narrowed his sleepy eyes and his full mouth pulled up at the corner. Little crinkles app
eared at the corners of his eyes. Still, he seemed irritated. “You’re from America, I take it.” He looked past my face and deep into my eyes. My leg was going numb from being wedged against my chair in the tight space. I could smell him from where I was standing; a combination of heady musk and sharp, tart apple. If I took a step forward, I’d be chest-to-chest with him.
“Yes.” I sensed I shouldn’t elaborate.
“You’re not going to tell me you’re from New York City?”
“I’m not.” He stood still, waiting. I’m not going to tell you, anyway. Might as well add this to the growing list of lies. “I’m from Rhinebeck, New York State. Way upstate. Nowhere near the city. The city!” I shuddered. “No. Not this girl.”
“More the country type, then.” He draped his kitchen towel over his shoulder and crossed his arms. He stood there like he had all the time in the world.
“You could say that.” I wouldn’t, of course, I shifted uncomfortably. My leg was now fully numb. I tried to shuffle sideways from between the desk and chair, dragging it along with me like it was made of wood. Putting weight on it was a mistake. I pitched forward. With lightning reflexes, he caught me by the wrists.
“Easy,” he commanded. That voice. It was deep and smooth enough to lull me, but even with that one word, I caught a whiff of condescension that brought me to my senses. Sorry, farmer-man. You’re not better than I am. Let’s see who can write a book and who goes to bed at night smelling of bacon fat. I could feel the Manhattan sass in me rising up. New Yorkers didn’t have a reputation for being aggressive for no reason. I inhaled slowly. Baring my teeth wouldn’t get me what I needed.
“Don’t you have to get back to the restaurant?” I pushed myself back as far against the desk as I could, trying to leave an inch of daylight between us.
He stayed exactly where he was. “I don’t have to do a thing that I don’t want to do.” I could tell by the way he said it that it was true and it flattened me. He didn’t want to do this book and he especially didn’t want to do it with me. “A few years back, I learned that the key to happiness is pleasing myself.”
Summer at Castle Stone Page 11