“Well good bye.”
“Cheers,” he said, hesitating for a moment before turning and walking away. I was bothered that he didn’t look back.
I peered down the direction he was walking, and saw stalls and stalls of fresh vegetables, fruits, and an array of colorful flowers. Still others showcased jam jars of different sizes, open burlap sacks of grains with giant scoops in them, and even slabs of handmade soap. It was a place I’d want to browse later, but if I was going to get my errands done, I had to get moving.
I hurried to the only bank in town and withdrew some money. Up to now, I hadn’t really spent much. My tab at the canteen and pub was on my card. Cash in hand, I sought out the uniform shop Brigid had told me about and bought myself a pair of clogs for the kitchen. I asked a lady on the street where I could find a drugstore, and she laughed and cooed over my accent. “The chemist is just past the tea shop, lamb. Good luck.” She was so sweet and motherly, I wanted to follow her home. Back in New York, a woman on the street was more likely to ignore me, or worse yet, spit in my face, than take the time to stop and make friends with me. I pictured her feeding me soup and then tucking me in for the night. Was Ireland filled with such women?
On my way back to the candy store, I stumbled upon a hair salon that was open. Wary, I pushed open the door to the dubiously named, “Hair Ya?” It had an old-fashioned bell that tinkled up by the transom, and I liked that, so I decided to stay.
“Can I help?” A middle-aged woman drying a comb on a small towel stepped out from behind a screen, past the two other stylists who engaged in conversation with their be-robed clients as they snipped and curled. Her smock was stitched with her name: Grainne. “Do you have an appointment?”
“No, sorry, do you take walkins?”
She checked her watch. “We do, but it’s getting late in the day. What were you looking for?”
“Foil highlights on my roots and a trim?”
“Sorry, love, a color correction and highlights would take too long.”
I frowned. Who said anything about color correction? “Well, is there anything you can do to clean me up? I won’t have a day off again for a while.”
She sat me in the chair and fastened a shell-pink cape around my neck. She picked through my hair like an ape grooming its mate. Finally, she offered, “I can do a single-process to match your natural color. See the roots? You’re a light golden brown.”
It was one thing to be told my name was Sheila Doyle, but to be told I wasn’t a blonde was another thing altogether. “No, I’m a dark blonde with platinum highlights.”
“You might well have been back in the day when you started bleaching your hair, but you’ve aged since then.” Insult to injury. And I prefer the delicate moniker “highlights” to “bleach,” if you please. But what choice did I have? I couldn’t go around looking like a zebra.
As my stylist mixed the color and painted it on my hair, she asked where I was from, and why I was in Ireland. She, like every other woman in Ballykelty she told me, was keenly aware of who Chef Tom O’Grady was.
“Wasn’t long after that Tabitha flew off to Martha’s Vineyard with that filthy American hedge fund fella, beg your pardon, and left your man Tom holding the bag a week before their wedding, lots of the girls around here thought they might be the one to salve his wounds. If a man’ll commit to marriage once, he’ll do it again, was the thinking.” She kneaded the brownish-maroon paste into my hair with her gloved fingers. It felt so good to be touched. Ever since Des, I’d been craving any kind of contact. Before that, it had been so long. Now that my body remembered the feeling, it wanted more. I closed my eyes and relaxed into the massage.
“So, tell me, Grainne…”
My stylist laughed. “It’s not pronounced ‘Grainy,’ it’s pronounced ‘Grawn-ya.’”
“Oh, sorry.” I should have known better than to try to sound out any word with Gaelic roots. “Anyway, tell me,” I asked in what I hoped was a casual way, “Did they? Salve his wounds, I mean?”
“Not long after he came back and opened the restaurant up there — glad to have him do it, too, we were. The whole town’s economy would’ve come crashing down if Castle Stone failed. My own son works as a porter on the estate — that witch came to Ballykelty. And didn’t she bring the circus with her! There were them paparazzi hiding in every corner, trying to get photos of her and poor Tom O’Grady. There were guards everywhere at the top of the road by the castle. I forgot to lock my car in the street one morning, and one of ‘em was hunkered down in my back seat. Turns out he heard Her Majesty, Tabitha the Terrible, was getting her hair done by us. I swatted him up the street with my morning papers. Come along, love, let’s get you rinsed.”
“So, you never answered. Did any women around here actually salve his wounds?” I had a graphic image of a creamy-skinned Irish beauty rubbing lotion into Tom’s muscled flesh.
“Whoops! Sorry, love.” She’d let the hose slip. A puddle of soapy water sat on my eyelid. Tamping my eyes with a towel, she said, “I’ve ruined your mascara. If we have time, I’ll do you a make-up application, free of charge.”
She led me back to her station. With a dry mouth, I forced myself to ask yet again, “Do you know if any local women licked Tom O’Grady’s wounds for him? You never said.”
“People say he swore off women, so none that I heard of. But not for lack of trying. On the occasion that he came into Ballykelty, he moped about like a shadow. Course that’s catnip for some. Girls want to be the one to change a man. I say it can’t be done. A man’s got to come to it on his own. End of. But there’s no denying a dark and broody one can tempt you to try.”
I shifted my eyes and got a good look at myself in the mirror.
“Ah, look at the sight of you,” she breathed. “Lovely.”
I took the image in. I looked softer and less obvious. In a way, I blended in with my surroundings more than I had before. But one thing was different: my eyes. On forms, when pressed to fill in the box for eye color, I’d always written “hazel.” The color had always read as neither here nor there. Now, my eyes shone green, without question. I squinted and looked more closely in the mirror. They were still rimmed in gold, but the green was what popped.
“See what finding harmony with what you were born with can do for you?”
I nodded.
“The reddish tones in your natural hair color contrast with the green of your eyes. If you don’t mind my sayin’, that tan top isn’t helping the cause at all. A young girl like you should think about wearing some color. Did you notice how the pink of the cape makes you look more lively? Now, about your cut. You’ve an inch of fuzz at the bottom. Would you trust me to cut it shorter? Say to around your jawline?”
I’m in this deep, I thought. Why not? Grainne obviously knew more than I. Again, I nodded.
I closed my eyes and drifted while she combed, snipped, and razored. For a moment, I imagined I was sitting in the chair at the salon around the corner from my apartment in New York. I imagined having to go to work at HPC tomorrow and then it hit me afresh that I didn’t work there anymore. I shifted in my chair. Before long, I’d need to find a job. I didn’t relish the thought of tapping my father’s well, but the publishing world was a small one. Once it got around that I’d been fired, I wondered who’d have me. Even if anyone did, I’d be bottom assistant and certain recipient of weekend projects and coffee cups thrown at my head. Or, I could just get a job in retail and scrape along on my crumbs from writing Dumbass Guides.
A long piece of hair fell from above and brushed my cheek on its way to my lap, pulling me back to the present. Uh oh. This was not a trim. I didn’t open my eyes; I wanted to save the shock for one big blow. I took a big breath and banished all thoughts of New York. For now, I was in Ireland, the land of slowness. My workdays were physical, but at least I didn’t have the weight of the world on my shoulders. I’d deal with all the rest when I had to. For now, it was just nice to rest in the cushy chair and feel the wa
rm blow dryer on my neck.
“And Bob’s your uncle,” the stylist said. “There. Open your eyes.”
I stared. I looked like a completely different person. My brows were knit and I had a very serious look on my face. Judgmental.
“Go on, then, nobody died! It’s just hair,” Grainne laughed. “It grows every day.”
Her humor was infectious and I burst into a laugh. I watched my mouth spread into a broad smile and my eyes lighten from clouded to bright. The more I looked at myself, the more I liked what I saw. Grainne was watching me look at myself. Two bright spots appeared high on my cheeks when I caught myself thinking, “Hey, you look pretty.”
“Now, I’ll stay after so we can re-do that makeup of yours.”
“Is my makeup that bad?” I asked, already knowing the answer was bad.
“Not at all,” she insisted, way too heartily. “It’s just that I smudged it, so. It’s my fault entirely that the spray got away from me.”
I checked the time. I really wanted to see more of the village before everything closed.
“No thanks. Could I just get some makeup remover and splash some water on my face?”
“Yes! Let’s just do that, then,” she said eagerly wiping the cosmetics I’d applied. “So much better. Sure, you’re gorgeous now.”
When I left the shop, the sun was still strong but on the wane. It was a warm afternoon, with enough breeze to whisk away the stillness. I didn’t have a plan, but found my feet carrying me up the high street and down the side street to the greenmarket. The colors and smells everywhere awakened my appetite. I bought an apple and crunched into it as I walked.
A sketch artist, working in pencils and charcoals, sat among samples of his work. Gulls on the waterfront, rolling hills studded with sheep, and an array of portraits. The faces varied in type from bubbling toddlers, chins soft with baby fat to wind-cured old men, some with pipes, some in caps. He waved me over and beckoned me to sit. I told him I didn’t have the time nor the money to spend. I’d never had my portrait drawn, but I didn’t enjoy having my photograph taken, so I doubted I’d like this.
“This one’s with me,” the shaggy-haired young man said. “Sure, you’ll be doing me a favor, saving me from death by boredom and maybe bringing in some trade.” I hesitated. “It won’t take a minute, I swear.”
Reluctant, I sat down and watched him go to work. The breeze felt soft on my face, and I liked the feeling of my legs being in the shade, while my face was in the sun. For the first few minutes, I couldn’t imagine being able to stay still for the amount of time it would take. Gradually, my muscles grew used to just resting. After a while, I enjoyed doing nothing. As promised, he was done in a fairly short amount of time. When he showed me the picture, I was moved. It didn’t quite register as me, at first. The dark hair, curling slightly under at my jaw threw me. Once I adjusted to that, I focused on my expression. It was softer and more serene than usual; nothing like the girl in the mirror in my apartment on 43rd Street. I could see the shadow of my mother’s face in the lines of my own. I liked it.
“You’re a really fine artist. I have to pay you something.” I rooted in my bag for my wallet.
“Not at all, the pleasure was mine. A bargain’s a bargain. Good luck with it.”
I meandered around and stopped at the soap vendors, where I sniffed every bottle and bar. The fragrances of lavender, rose, vanilla bean, sandalwood, and lemon flooded my senses. I bought a small bottle of cinnamon conditioning oil to match my new hair.
I browsed bushel baskets of cabbages of hues ranging from greenish-white to deepest purple, jewel-pink rhubarb, and carrots with the jaunty green tops still on. Next stop, a stall boasting giant barrels filled with every pickled item you could dream of. Round red peppers, cucumbers of every size from midget to jumbo, and something I didn’t examine too closely that looked worryingly like eels.
At the herb and greens stand, I couldn’t resist burying my face in every bundle and inhaling the scents. There was spicy arugula, tingly mint, savory oregano, and my favorite: tangy lemon verbena. I closed my eyes and took a deep sniff. That’s when I heard his voice. “Sure, he sounded keen, but he’s not signed the paperwork yet.”
Tom O’Grady was standing on the inside of the stall, talking to the farmer who ran it. I shifted over slightly, to be hidden behind the back of a flatbed truck.
“It makes all the sense in the world,” the farmer said. “We’ve been certified organic 100%. Do you know how much effort that took?”
“Aye, I do,” Tom replied. “And I want to see it pay off just as you do.”
“Did you tell him about how healthy rapeseed oil is? Did you make him understand that as a rotating crop it’s perfect for the land in Galway?”
“We’ve been over all that. Course I did. If it were up to me, we’d be bottling it and labeling it with my logo tomorrow. But it’s not up to me. We could lose our shirts without a distribution partner. Don’t you think I’m eager? If we get the rapeseed oil going from your farm, my next step is jam and chutney with the Castle Stone brand. If it took off the way my business plan outlines it, it could get the estate out of debt in a matter of five years.
“When do you see him again?”
“Not for a few weeks yet,” Tom said, running his fingers back through his hair. “But I’ve got to work something out.”
“Then do it, man! What a boon it would be for me, after all these years of struggling. And you’d do the same for the fruit and veg farms with your other scheme.”
“I’ll give it my best effort,” Tom said, shaking hands with the man.
I ducked further back behind the truck and watched him walk on to the next stall. He picked up a head of cabbage and turned it over in his hands. Bin by bin, he dwelled on various types of potatoes, spending more time with each than I could have thought possible. For the first time since I’d laid eyes on him he appeared relaxed. His brow wasn’t knit and his shoulders were down.
Blending in, I followed him. The gait with which he ambled from vendor to vendor was unhurried and even light. His face was open. He smiled at people. They say there are things in life that deplete a person and things that recharge. Walking among the spoils of the land and chatting with the growers who coaxed them from the earth and hauled them here infused Tom with vitality in an obvious way. I couldn’t look away from it.
I continued to follow, standing behind this pole or that stack of empty baskets. I couldn’t help but draw closer and closer, upping my risk of being caught. At a stall run by goat farmers, Tom stood perusing the wheels and pots of cheese. A weathered woman proudly handed over a generous slice and Tom popped it in his mouth. He closed his eyes and savored the morsel. I was near enough to hear the deep purr in the back of his throat as he moaned “ummm.” Drawn to his pleasure, I inched closer. His face was the picture of surrender. When he opened his eyes, I was caught.
The expressions on his face shuffled from ecstasy to surprise to guardedness. He searched my face, quizzical. I watched him register who I was, and his face melted into a liquid smile. Helium filled my heart.
“Well, hello there,” he said.
I couldn’t think of an answer.
“I might not have known you.” His eyes ran over my hair, my eyes, and then down my body. I felt exposed. “It suits,” his voice warm and deep. His eyes continued to rove. I looked down to check if my blouse was undone. His expression changed back to cool. “Anyhow, I’m just off home,” he said, and he veered up the side street.
“Wait!” I called urgently. He stopped and turned around. “I was going to go look for a coffee. Will you join me?”
“No, I won’t,” he said. The bottom dropped out of me.
“Oh, OK…”
He smiled. “But I’ll have a cup of tea.”
Tom escorted me to one of the few places in town that served coffee that wasn’t made by stirring powdered crystals into boiling water. He didn’t drink coffee himself, but as a chef he understood my desire fo
r the real version of the thing. The peace I’d witnessed in him at the market had vanished on our short walk down the side street, and the rest of the way down the cul-de-sac where the patisserie sat. He’d resumed his round-shouldered posture, hurrying along with his head down and his hands in his pockets.
His demeanor changed again once we were seated. He seemed calmed by the fact that the cozy little place was nearly empty, and the counter person who brought our hot drinks took no particular interest in us. He drank his tea with obvious relish.
“Are you hungry?” he asked. It seemed that the answer to that since I’d been in Ireland was always yes. I nodded.
“Let me just go get us both a treat.” He returned to the table with two massive slices of fruit cake, each decorated with a white ball toasted brown on the top.
“Simnel cake,” he explained. “You only find it around Eastertime. There are eleven of the marzipan balls on top. One for each apostle, minus Judas. That’s what you get for betrayal, I suppose. Cast out and forgotten.” He laughed a light, mirthless laugh.
I wondered if he was referring to Tabitha, but I chose not to dig deeper. The tinge I felt around my own dishonesty closed my mouth. I comforted myself with the fact that my lies were different and only meant to help Tom in the end. It felt sour in my belly. I stuffed it all down with a huge bite of the sugary almond paste.
“I make one for my own mam every year, o’ course, and she always fusses over the decorations. I know, though, that she’s happier with something simple. I could give her the choice of a box of diamonds or a box of my shortbread, and she’d take the shortbread.” He smiled, thinking of her.
“She must love eating in The Grange Hall.”
“Truth to tell, she could take it or leave it. When I re-opened the place under my name, I intended a casual atmosphere. People still tend to dress smart, so Mam feels she must, too, when she comes in.”
“But does she like the food?”
“She does, yeah. But she prefers simpler fare, like what I make her at home. I try not to overwork the food, even in The Grange Hall. I like to let the individual flavors stand for themselves. But high-end guests want a bit of pizzazz. A spun-sugar cage over a pudding here, a tri-colored terrine there. Mam only comes in if there’s an occasion. If she eats out of the house at all, it’s in Uncle Jack’s Pub. The secret there is the menu is fairly well the same but the dishes are plated more casually and have homelier names.”
Summer at Castle Stone Page 17