Summer at Castle Stone

by Lynn Marie Hulsman

  “I’m so relieved to hear you say that. He asked me before you even left, but I didn’t want to stress you out. It makes sense since we’re saving for the wedding and all. Our old place is obviously paid up through this month. I found someone to take my room. Someone Eric’s friend from work used to date. I don’t think you’ll mind living with her at all.”

  “Sounds great,” I lied.

  “When are you coming back, anyway?”

  I told her about the dates on the plane ticket, and before I could even finish, she jumped in with a plan. Maggie always saw the big picture. Before I knew it, she had the girl’s sister — who was moving to New York for a summer internship and was also looking for a place — sleeping in my bed. On the one hand, it meant saving rent money; on the other hand, what if I wrapped this up and came home early?

  “You’ll stay with Eric and me for the rest of the summer!” she declared. “Oh, this is great. I’m strapped with all the wedding deposits and my agent said my royalty check won’t be coming in for ages. You know what they say, ‘Nothing happens fast in publishing.’”

  I knew she wanted that to be the final answer so she wouldn’t have to feel guilty. As for me, I didn’t relish the idea of being a third wheel. And Eric was a good guy and all, but I preferred him in small doses. I’d cross that bridge when I came to it.

  The Earl was waving at me, miming that the tea had arrived and was getting cold. He pretended to drink from a cup with his pinky extended, and then wrapped his arms around himself in an elaborate reenactment of shivering.

  “Maggie, we’re going to have to talk later. I’m being called away from the phone.”

  “I hope it’s Chef Bedroom Eyes O’Fills-Out-His-Jeans. You should totally have sex with him! Now that you’ve tasted Irish, you’ll never go back, they say.”

  “Who says that? What? No.” I stammered. “There’s nothing sexual between me and Tom O’Grady. He’s my boss. And, he hates me.”

  The dust near the phone I was on needed urgent attention. So much so that Catherine ignored a bellman who needed a signature at the other end of the desk in order to clean it.

  “Boss? You’re the boss, Missy. Don’t let the author steer the ship. It’s a road to disaster. You’re the writer. You have to get a book on paper. You need to ride him like a show pony.”

  “I’m not going to simply hop on and ride him,” I insisted. “I’ve been gently coaxing for a week now. I can’t just go in there and take what I want.” Catherine’s pretty pout turned downward for a quick second, before she resumed pretending not to listen to my conversation. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the Earl pantomiming his own death from dehydration, complete with pretend vultures pecking out his eyes.

  “I’m sorry, I really have to go. I’ll find a way to call you soon.” Before I could deposit the receiver back into its cradle, Catherine intercepted it. She made a big show of spritzing it with cleaning spray and wiping it clean.

  “Ta, my job to see that everything stays clean here at The Castle,” she chirped.

  The Earl whistled.

  “Young lady, are you prepared to take responsibility for ending the line of the family Stone? If you force me to observe good manners, bringing about my untimely demise, then I along with the preceding eleven dead and decaying Earls of Wexford shall haunt you for the rest of your days on earth.”

  “That was dramatic,” I said, sliding into the heavy oak chair across from him. He burst into a rollicking, joyful laughter. Catherine flicked us an annoyed look.

  “That’s calling a spade a spade! I like you,” he said, shoving a fragile bone china teacup across the table at me. It wobbled in its saucer before settling to a halt.

  “Tell me your name.”

  “It’s Sheila.”

  “Right, Sheila, I’m called Tony. I’ll be mother while you tell me about yourself, Miss America.” He poured tea for both of us, while I talked. After I served myself a scone, he heaped mounds of sandwiches and small cakes onto his plate. If you ignored the crumbs down his front, he really was quite elegant for a man his age. His dancing green eyes were deeply set and his face featured fine bones under his weathered skin. I imagined his face reflected a life of riding horses, rowing crew, playing tennis, and whatever else rich men that weren’t required to work did to pass the hours. In contrast to his otherwise noble bearing was his hair. It amply covered his scalp, with a heavy part down the side, but each strand was fine, giving it a downy quality. Individual hairs reached out from his skull like the tentacles of a sea creature, and the sun falling in through the high window lit them up, lending a halo effect.

  I realized that if I was going to make it in to the village to find a beauty salon, I needed to get going, but this was a golden opportunity. In addition to the pleasure I got from watching Catherine’s agitated glances from behind the desk, this tete-a-tete allowed me to ask all about Tom O’Grady’s history on the estate. I felt a little guilty, but Tony — he told me to call him that — delighted in regaling me with tales of Tom’s successes. I made a mental note to ask more questions about his culinary training. I wanted to be able to cite awards and achievements for the book. As Tony said himself, he couldn’t be prouder of the boy if he were born of his own loins. He chuckled in appreciation when I suggested that might be more graphic a phrase than was needed.

  “That lad saved my bacon. He could still be living like a king in London town, but he gave it all up to come back here and drive away the bean counters.”

  “Didn’t he have lady troubles?” I asked, crumbling up a tiny raspberry tart with the tines of my fork. “I was told that’s why he came back to Castle Stone.” I felt sleazy, like an undercover reporter for a pulp magazine.

  “Bah, don’t breathe that woman’s name in my presence. When he first landed back here after she’d had her way with him, he was like the walking dead. Whatever the reason, I bless the day he came home. I’m the first to admit, I’ve no head for business. My dear wife was the brains behind this organization. After she passed, things turned swiftly downhill. I put my trust in a pair who promised to run the estate. I feel a fool about it now. Swindlers and embezzlers, and I never saw it for the scales over my eyes. It took Maeve O’Grady to sit me down and show me the light of day. After the lawyers examined the books and proved her right, she ran the two off the land with a pitchfork.” He closed his eyes, picturing it. “Spunky lady, our Maeve.”

  The Earl signaled to a bellman who was crossing the lobby, “You there, lad! Would you be so kind as to ask the kitchen if my companion and I could have a touch more hot water?”

  “Certainly, Your Lordship.” The boy beelined in the other direction, eager to please.

  “Nice lad, that one. He likes the fellas.” I raised my eyebrows in surprise at his candor. “Don’t mention it to Father Walsh, over in the chapel. He’s high-strung enough as it is.”

  “Er, I won’t then.”

  “I must say that this happy accident nearly makes up for my missing my stories on the telly. ‘Wouldn’t you be more comfortable watching your videos up in your rooms, Lord Wexford?’” He mimicked in a high voice. “I certainly would not! I’m lonely enough as it is without having to watch telly on my own like a pensioner in a home. Feck the taxes! If running the castle as a resort means I have to sit alone at night or ‘wear suitable clothing in public areas,’ then sell the whole lot and set me up in a semi-detached number with housemates to share my crisps with. Where’s the fun in Strictly Come Dancing if one’s shouting by oneself?”

  I guided the conversation back to the topic at hand. “From the way they tell it,” I said, crossing my fingers under the table, “they owe their lives to you. You allowed Mrs. O’Grady her house and a job, and you sent her son to culinary school and bought him a restaurant.” It made me uncomfortable to fish this way. I took extreme liberty with Mrs. O’Grady’s actual words, and I knew it. I pushed on, though, thinking that this might be the hook for the book I’d been flailing to find.

  “T
hey owe me nothing. What have I done? Let Maeve live in that ancient cottage that she’s preserved and kept neat? Tossed her a few coins for doing the work of a true farm wife? And as for Tom, he earned plenty of attention in the youth competitions for hospitality workers when he was still wet behind the ears. I didn’t gain him entry into those fancy schools and programs, he got those on his own merit. I paid a few fees here and there to speed things along. And as for backing his restaurant in London, well, I got my money back and more when he sold it, didn’t I?”

  A waitress in a crisp white top and long, emerald-green apron appeared and refreshed our tea. Catherine came out from behind the desk and made a big show of replenishing the stack of brochures on the console near our table. She glanced at me, my bag, and my plate, searching no doubt for a clue as to why I was sitting with the Earl of Wexford having tea, while she was running credit cards and answering the phones.

  Using silver tongs, the waitress added tarts, scones, and tiny cakes to the plate. She used a crumber to neaten the table, and lay down fresh linen napkins on top of smears and stains on the tablecloth (embarrassingly, all on my side of the table). With a wordless smile and a nod, she disappeared.

  “In the end, there’s no way I could ever repay Maeve.” He took a contemplative sip from his cup. “When Helen was ill, it was she who saw us through. It must have been nine months that she stopped living her own life and devoted herself to Helen’s care. At first, supporting her through physiotherapy, then dealing with the nausea and pain. For those last months, I don’t know if Maeve saw daylight. What I do know is that the last thing Helen saw was Maeve’s kind face smiling above her bed. If there was a discomfort she could be spared, Maeve made sure to spare her of it.”

  My lip trembled, remembering a similar time. I bit it, took a deep breath and asked, “How did she die?”

  “Ovarian cancer.”

  Without warning, my eyes filled up. The Earl pulled a clean handkerchief from his breast pocket and handed it across the table.

  “Your mother?” he guessed. I nodded.

  “Beastly thing, cancer.”

  We sat in silence for a few minutes. My tears eventually subsided. He asked me a few questions about my mom; I asked him a few questions about his wife. It was good to talk nitty gritty details with someone who understood, and to have a laugh or two about some of the dark parts without being judged. Hank had shut the door on the conversation shortly after the funeral.

  “I’m sure your mother is looking down on you with great pride. I know I’d be proud to have a fine daughter like you.” He looked out the window, quiet for a moment. Several horses were being walked along the trail, led by grooms and students. I wondered where my mother was. I liked the idea of her looking down on me, but I just didn’t feel it.

  “Thank you,” I said simply.

  “Helen and I were never blessed with children. We’ll never know if it was something related to the illness, but it doesn’t matter now. In the end, she was enough for me. But her passing has left me very, very alone.” Outside, a bird called. Three high chirps and a lower trill.

  “Now then, I’ve kept you quite long enough.”

  “To be honest, I have to get into Ballykelty before the shops close. Is it far?”

  “Not at all, just a stretch of the legs and you’re there. It’s a fine day to walk in the village. Go mingle with the young folk. Spring is in the air, as they say. Before you’re off, however,” he pulled several small disposable plastic containers from various pockets in his dressing gown, “Pack away some of these goodies. They’ll only be binned and I’ll bet around midnight tonight you’ll be walking the floors looking for some of Tom’s sweet treats. Oh, speak of the devil himself!”

  I looked up to see a tall, youthful man wearing dark-wash jeans, hiking boots and a black knit turtleneck sweater. He was hunched over, looking at the floor with his hands in his front pockets. I would not have recognized him as Tom O’Grady.

  “Tom!” The Earl called, beckoning. “Headed into the village, are you?”

  It was with clear reluctance that Tom approached our table. Angling his body slightly toward his benefactor, he asked, “Can I run an errand for you? I’m off to meet with a few vendors at the green market.”

  “I’ve everything I need and more,” the Earl said. “But Miss America here could use a guide. As a favor to me, will you show her the way?” My heart thudded. This was exactly the chance I’d been waiting for. I just wished I didn’t feel like a schoolgirl whose best friend’s older brother had been forced to ask her to the dance.

  “Sure,” Tom said, hooking his thumbs into the back pockets of his jeans and filling his chest with air, then releasing it in an elaborate sigh. “As a favor to you.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Better good manners than good looks.

  New Yorkers are known to be fast walkers, but the combination of Tom’s long stride and determined pace left me jogging alongside him by the main drive leading to the walls of the estate. The few breathless stabs at conversation I’d made had been met with not much more than a terse yes here and a no there. About halfway to the main road, it hit me. “You’re embarrassed to be seen with me, aren’t you?”

  “Embarrassed? No.”

  “Is it my hair?”

  He turned and looked at me for the first time. “Your hair? What about your hair?”

  Now I was embarrassed. “You know, just that I have to get it done. The color’s grown out and it needs a trim.”

  “I hadn’t noticed,” he said, eyes back on the road. That stung. Had he looked at me, ever? Feeling hurt put me in a prickly mood.

  “What else didn’t you notice?”

  Eyes straight ahead, he said, “I didn’t notice that you’ve enough glop on your lips to power an oil slick. And I suppose I didn’t notice that you’ve lined your eyes like a raccoon.”

  “For your information, Chef, this is the fashion!” I was speaking on borrowed authority from Maggie, and hoped I was getting it right, but anyway, what did he know?

  “I’ve no doubt it is.”

  “Then what’s your problem?”

  “I’ve no problem.”

  Jogging a few steps forward so I could be shoulder to shoulder with him, I asked, “Then why did you bring it up?”

  “I didn’t. You did.”

  “You just told me I looked ugly!”

  “I never did.” He pulled a roll of mints from his pocket, peeled back the paper, and offered me one. I shook my head no and waved him off. “I merely pointed out what I observed. You’re wearing a lot of makeup.”

  “Oh, and you don’t like that?”

  “No, I don’t.” He popped a mint in his mouth. “I prefer things natural.”

  “Oh, you mean like Tabitha What’s-Her-Name?” The minute I said it, I knew I’d blown it. Any anger or irritation that had shown on his countenance dissipated; his face was a mask of placid nothing. He walked on like I wasn’t there.

  Fuming, I stomped along next to him, enjoying the mild pain in my heels from smacking my shoes on the paved road. It gave me some release, kept me from needing to shout at him. It kept me from beating myself up the way Hank would if he saw how I let my emotions overtake me. “I become who I have to be to get the story,” he always preached. “You can’t be a big girl about it.”

  I had my fish on the line and I’d let him off. How stupid was I to worry what Tom O’Grady thought or didn’t think of me. This was going all wrong. I intended to ask him about his philosophies of food, and to tease out stories about his life growing up here at Castle Stone, not alienate him. If he noticed my stomping, he did a good job ignoring it. We continued on without uttering another word. We turned along a busy road and walked single file along the side until we reached a crossroads at the top of a hill. Cars were buzzing past, so he held out an arm to block me from walking into the road.

  “Careful,” he growled, like he was in charge of me. He looked both ways, then put an arm around my shoulders,
manhandling me across the street. Warmth and scent rose from his armpit, the pleasant musk with a sharp tang I remembered from the first time we’d met. Without thinking it through, I leaned in and inhaled deeply. The manly smell stirred something slumbering in my lower belly. “It’s dangerous here if you don’t know what you’re doing.”

  Once we were safely across, he jammed his hands back in his pockets. “Here’s the Ballykelty high street,” he said, walking a few steps ahead of me.

  We headed down the old, narrow road and eventually made our way onto a thin strip of sidewalk. To my American eyes, each shop was more atmospheric than the next. There was a butcher’s shop with high glass cases featuring legs of what I assumed were lamb, and whole hogs’ heads. The butcher himself stood dapper behind the counter in a full suit, complete with vest, and a wool hat on his head. There was a knit shop with a wooden sign touting “Aran Jumpers” in which an old woman actually sat in an armchair in the corner, knitting. Even the candy store was intriguing. Through the window, I saw boxes of bar candy with labels I’d never seen, and jars of pink lozenges, gummies shaped like babies, and some rectangles that looked like yellow sponges.

  As we approached a side street, Tom stopped and announced, “This is where I’ll leave you.”

  “Oh, all right.” The abruptness of it threw me for a loop. I guess I hadn’t expected to spend the day with him, but then again, what had I expected? The thought of separating from him made me lonely. “It’s not him, Shayla, it’s being alone in a foreign country,” I advised myself. Plus, I hadn’t been anywhere other than my cell, the worker’s canteen and pub, and the kitchen for as long as I could remember. Being in the open space and seeing strange faces was making me feel vulnerable. Big girl’s blouse, now. Tell him goodbye.