“Speaking of your mom, do you live with her?” I asked, putting a great deal of effort into taking normal bites of my cake. I hoped I’d slipped that question in skillfully. I didn’t want to seem too interested.
“I don’t, no. I lived in her house as a boy, and she keeps my room there for me.” Tom stared past me, thinking. “I owned a flat in London for a while. Thought I’d settle there but things didn’t go according to plan.”
“Where do you live?”
“If pressed, I’d have to say The Castle. I sleep in what’s called The Triangle Room, in the front, right corner. Tony told me to take what I liked but I couldn’t see any sense in taking one of the better rooms that could be rented, seeing as how it’s just me. It’s temporary. I’m just here to get the restaurant up and running and the finances back on track.”
“Temporary? How long have you been back?”
He laughed. “Years.” He rubbed his eyes hard with the heels of his hands, then shook his head. “Ah, I don’t know what I’m doing.” I let that sit there, waiting. He didn’t speak again.
“So, what do you cook when you’re left to your own devices?” We were having such a nice conversation, I felt arch for steering it toward my goals. He’d opened up to me, finally, and here I was doing an undercover interview. Maybe he was right to be suspicious of New York types.
“Meat and veg, to be honest. I like to do a roast joint on a Sunday, with a bit of salad if it’s in season. That or a nice colcannon or maybe some mashed potato. In the spring, nothing beats a shepherd’s pie. I’ve worked hard to buy as much local meat as possible. We’re close to 85 percent, and I’m still at it. Same goes for fish. We’re surrounded by water. What’s the point in flying in seafood?”
It felt wonderful to be having such an amiable chat. It sure beat chafing off of each other all the time.
“Surely you’ve tasted how sweet and fresh it all is at The Castle. No doubt you’ve seen the fishmongers come with the trucks now you’re up before dawn to peel the spuds?” A teasing smile overtook his face, and I couldn’t stop myself from smiling back. “How long do you reckon it’ll take you to learn to boil water?”
“Well, if someone would actually take me in hand and teach me, I might learn!” The remark was meant to be a slap at Bill, but I was aware that it came out like a demand for private lessons.
He sat back in his chair and sipped his tea. Slowly, he said, “I might have some time.”
I panicked. Blood rushed to my cheeks and my pulse raced. A scene with the two of us alone in the kitchen splashed across my mind and I realized just how attracted to him I was. A vision of me reaching up to kiss him played in my head, swiftly followed by one of him pushing me away. I was mortified! Of course he wouldn’t be kissing me. As if! I worked for him. I was American. Plus, my hairdresser said he wasn’t on the market.
“Well, I would certainly value your input,” I said crisply, sitting up in my chair.
“I hope you don’t mind my sayin’, but you’re a bit of an odd duck.”
“Of course I mind you saying it.”
“You misunderstand me, I mean it in a good way.” Maybe that’s what he said, but I felt under a spotlight. I got that hollow feeling in my belly, like when sexy Nate back at the HPC office called me “Pal” while sliding his hand around Padma’s delicate waist. Wasn’t I always the ugly duckling in a pond full of swans? Jordan sure brought the point home when he drooled all over our lithe cocktail waitress instead of paying attention to me on our date. I didn’t need another handsome guy with tons of status to blatantly point out that I’m an also-ran and always would be.
“How can there be a good way?”
He sat up straight. “I meant that you’re different.” And here we were again…off on a bad foot. I should have known the ease wouldn’t last.
“Different always means weird. Different is the sister’s funny best friend.” I sensed I should let it lie, but being insulted by Tom O’Grady shamed me. The shame was channeling itself into brattiness.
“I like funny,” he said irritably. “I also like different. More’s the pity for you if you don’t. Anyway, I’ve just seen the time. If you’ll excuse me, I have to get back.” He threw a few notes and coins down on the table. As he reached the door, he turned back. Relief coursed through my veins. I wanted him to come back and have another cup of tea. He wavered for a second and I held my breath, waiting. Finally he said, “If you come back after dark, mind yourself on the main road.” With that, he turned and walked out of the shop, the door easing to a close behind him.
Dear Mags, it’s confirmed. I’m my own worst enemy. Why is it that when something is going smoothly, I have a compulsion to blow it apart? : See Assistant Job/HPC. I had Tom O’Grady right where I wanted him then I mouthed off and drove him away. Here’s the idiotic thing — I imagined he was flirting with me. Stupid, I know. Now that Des opened up Pandora’s Box (pun intended) I guess my subconscious is sniffing around to see what’s available. OK, we agree. No more checking out Tom O’Grady’s backside or wondering what it would be like to feel the stubble on his jaw. I think the next night out at the worker’s pub, I’ll just grab one of the myriad undergardeners/bellmen/grooms/busboys who’re anyone’s for a pint and a glass of whiskey, and get it out of my system. There. No more Tom.
I can’t believe I’m even wasting my time dwelling on Tom and his oh-so-obvious rock star hair and his come-to-bed eyes. What am I, every dizzy girl in town? No ma’am. I see beyond all that. My ex-partner, Noah, wore orthopedic shoes and a lavender Member’s only jacket, and he insisted that we call each other “partners.” (That still makes me shudder a little), but he did have a Ph.D. in physics. See? I saw beyond. And no one could ever accuse my first real boyfriend, Josh, of being good looking, am I right?
I can’t believe I’m wasting time on all this trivial B.S. when I have actual good news. Here it comes! I figured out what this book is!!!
All this time I’ve been struggling, trying figure out how my book could compete with every high-end cookbook on the bookstores’ gift tables, slick with haute cuisine food shots and intricate five-step/three-page recipes and the answer was right here: Don’t compete. Simple.
Simple is the whole key. Instead of precise measurements weighed to the gram, I’ll encourage ‘Chef O’Grady,’ (smug bastard) to suggest ‘a handful of this,’ or ‘as much of this as you like,’ offering a guide that’s more like a recipe your friend’s grandmother would have scribbled down for you on the way out the door.
When he talked to me about food just now, he spoke with such passion and delight. I just need to get him to talk so I can capture it. I can use it to write glorious essays about local food. The poetry is already there, in his language, in the way he paints the picture of what he loves.
I can fill in the blanks from experience. I’ll weave the smell of Ireland’s chimney smoke and the sound of its boat’s horns into the headnotes. And of course, there should be photos. How could there not be with the landscape here and the atmospheric aspects of Mrs. O’Grady’s kitchen? But here’s where it’s different — there should be also hand-drawn images of huge loaves of bread, and long, rustic farm tables covered with root vegetables, maybe a pot of chicken soup on the fire. Home.
“Hiya,” a man said. I looked up from my journal, and standing there was an attractive 20-something guy with a charming smile and a nice, solid body. “I noticed you’re alone. There’s a pub not far from here, if you’d like to get a drink with me.”
I looked past him out the window. The sun was setting behind the castle way up on the hill. He seemed nice enough, but I just didn’t have the taste for it.
“Thank you so much for asking, but I have to get home.” I smiled.
“Maybe another time, then.” he said. He was gone as quick as he’d shown up. I opened my notebook and scrawled down one last thought:
Listen, Maggie, it’s getting late and I need to head back to the Castle before dark so I don’t get myself lost.
I’ll write again soon. Love, Shayla
P.S. I totally changed my hair. And guess what? A random stranger asked me out! I think I might love it. I owe you a selfie. xx
With the sun mostly down, there was a slight chill in the air. The cool air danced on my now-exposed neck. I turned up my collar against it. I retraced the steps I’d taken earlier alongside Tom. The foreign sounds all around kept me on high alert. A housecat screeched; I heard the distant sound of a horse galloping. A car horn beeped its high funny beep, and I realized I was walking on the wrong side of the road for safety. Once I was inside the walls of the estate, I felt safer but the twilight and the coolness heightened the fact that I was alone. Tired now, I dragged my feet the length of the driveway. Without Tom to argue with, the walk back was twice as long.
Chapter Fourteen
A promise is a debt.
I stopped at two cups of tea this morning. I was starting a week of “jobs rotation,” meaning the goal was to expose me to everything on the grounds, and I was nervous enough without being wired on caffeine. I didn’t relish the idea. My comfort in the restaurant was increasing but Mary explained that everyone doing work experience was required to do this, regardless of his concentration or specialty. “It’s a benefit, really,” she explained when I begged her to keep me put. “And Sheila,” she said, emphasizing my fake name, “People would notice if I gave you special treatment. We don’t want to be found out, do we, so?”
It was hard to believe another week had gone by without Tom telling me why hadn’t fired me on the spot, the very first day. Since then, I’d learned a fair amount despite Bill’s swim-or-die attitude. Brigid helped, and I always had one eye on Tom, watching the way he kneaded dough for the piecrusts or the way he plated a simple stew with a sprinkling of fresh herbs on the top. On breaks, I jotted down notes and made simple sketches so I’d remember it all. The book was taking shape. As often as possible, I eased the stained and spotted recipes out of their plastic holders and into my pockets. More than once, Bill had dressed us all down for being careless, citing the extra work he had to do to replace all the missing ones. Lined up with the others, I gazed at him with a look of innocence. I couldn’t get caught; I’d had to deliver Oscar-winning performances. Butter would not have melted in my mouth.
The book was coming along. I’d pinned down chapter headings and was narrowing down themes for essays. Once I presented it to him, there was no way he could say no. And thank God for that, my funds were dwindling and my student loans and credit card bills weren’t going to pay themselves.
When I thought about Hank, there was a sickening dread in my bones. I hadn’t spoken to him since I got here. It’s not like we chatted daily when I was home in New York, but the amount of time that had passed was stacking up. He’d left a couple of messages asking how I was, which was unusual. I was generally the one who reached out. I hadn’t told him I’d been fired from HPC.
I made it a point to stay off my phone since the international calls cost a mint. I did shoot out the occasional email, but to use the wifi I had to head to the lobby in the castle. Most nights, I was too tired. Also, I tried to keep away from snooty Catherine, the receptionist, as much as possible. I was up very early this morning to prepare for my unfamiliar day and I’d ducked her in the workers’ canteen. She was dressed impeccably and clearly headed for the front desk. Clean and safe. That’s the kind of life girls like that got handed on a silver platter. And where was I scheduled for work today? The chicken coop.
I wrestled with the lock on the gate. Here’s a tip if you don’t already know it: chickens are loud! By the time I gained entrance inside the fence, sweat drenched my body from the combination of the exertion and the tension of the chickens’ insistent squawks. There was straw on the ground and birds milling around everywhere. There were white ones, black ones, large ones, small ones, spotted ones, and one poor hen hopping on one leg. They made me nervous. I kept my eye peeled for the rooster, who woke me up every day. I’d never laid eyes on him, but I had a picture in my mind and it wasn’t pretty.
“Hello?” I called through the open door. Mrs. O’Grady rushed out past me, sending the birds scattering in terror, screaming louder than they had before, and slammed the gate shut.
“Dear, you mustn’t leave that open. The hens’ll escape.” She looked me up and down with a skeptical eye. “I’m afraid that jumper is far too pretty to ruin out here in the yards. Oh, and your shoes. They won’t do at all.” I was wearing a pair of beige canvas espadrilles. Aside from my gym sneakers — which no women wear on the street — this was about as casual as it got in New York. “They’ll be stained as soon as you step in your first cow pat.” My first cow pat? How many would there be?
“Come along,” she said, leading me out of the gate and closing it tightly behind us. “We’ll find you a field jacket and some Wellies in the barn.”
In short order, I was back at the hen house in a too-large canvas coat with the sleeves rolled up, clomping along with a green pair of rubber boots on my feet. I had to admit, it was pretty fun to step right in mud puddles rather than avoiding them.
“Now then, the chore list is on the wall, you may as well get down to it.” She grabbed a bucket and scattered feed. Chickens everywhere scrambled, clucked, and pecked. I rushed inside the hen house, trying not to look like I was running. The chickens inside seemed to be napping. Much better.
“Right,” I thought, “I’ll just get down to it.” I read the list:
1. Mend holes in walls. Hmm. I didn’t know where to find a hammer, or even if that’s what one would use to do the job. When Maggie moved to the city, her father had given her a dusty-pink “Do-It-Herself” tool kit that looked like an oversized cosmetic bag, but was filled with screwdrivers, nails, and pliers. The only time we ever took it out of the bottom of the closet was the night we rolled in drunk from the office party and couldn’t find a corkscrew. After an hour, we opened the bottle with a hand-drill. This seemed substantially more complicated. OK, on to the next thing.
2. Give the hens vitamins 1X/day. Syringes on shelf. I looked at the various chickens sitting around in their boxes. Their beaks looked sharp. If I tried to pry their mouths open, would they bite me? Surely one day without vitamins wouldn’t kill them. Didn’t Prevention magazine say vitamins were a scam anyway? I was pretty sure it did. Anyway, the fair-skinned holistic doctor who wore the turban down at Gramercy Apothecary told me that Vitamins D and B would increase my breast tissue (which I thought was pretty rude considering I was in there for an earache). Chickens wouldn’t want big breasts. They’d be more likely to get eaten. Moving on…
3. Gather eggs 3X/day. Use wire baskets by door. I could do that! Eagerly, I picked up a basket and peeked into the straw for eggs. I didn’t see any. Maybe someone had already done this?
Mrs. O’Grady came back into the henhouse, and set her feed bucket on a high shelf. She looked at my empty basket. “Are you collecting the eggs?”
“Yes!” I said, trying to look busy. I’d come too far to get sent home now. Joy! I saw an egg sitting in an unoccupied box. I picked it up, and put in it my basket. “There.”
Mrs. O’Grady stood there, waiting. Finally she said, “And are you going to collect the rest?” I looked around and didn’t see any more eggs. “The rest are under the hens, dear,” she said helpfully.
“Yes, of course,” I laughed it off. “That’s because they came out of the bottoms of the chickens. Right.” I approached a spotted hen and she turned her head to one side, giving me the fish eye. “I’ll just check now.” Mrs. O’Grady waited. Gingerly, I reached toward the tail of the hen. Maybe the egg was at the back. As I reached, the hen hit out with a lightning-fast peck. I screamed like a little girl and pulled my smarting hand to my mouth.
“Daisy!” Mrs. O’Grady scolded the bird. “Don’t let her bully you, Sheila. You just pick up the hen carefully and hold the wings to the side, like so.” She authoritatively scooped up the chagrined chicken and took the egg. “Then,
you just set her down safely in her spot, no harm done.” I stood frozen to my spot. I was saved when one of the maintenance men walked through the door, holding a huge pickle bucket containing nails, screws, and other tools.
“Came to patch up those coupla holes, but I can do it later if you’re busy, Mrs. O’Grady.”
“Not at all, Jimmy. I’ll have one of the boys collect eggs when you’re through here. We’re just off to get Sheila settled in minding the horses. She signaled for me to follow and I did.
“Mrs. O’Grady? Sorry about that. I’m sure I’ll get the hang of it soon.”
“Don’t worry, there’s plenty to be done elsewhere.”
The stables were a gentle walk away, and I enjoyed the rising sun of the April morning on my face. Horses sounded good to me. I’d read Black Beauty and Misty of Chincoteague. I could do that. Shielding my eyes, I could see all of the activity. Guests were being fitted with helmets and matched with horses, grooms were brushing down the shining animals, and two children were being trotted around in a circle, in a fenced-in circular course. It really was beautiful.
“Do you ride, yourself?” Mrs. O’Grady asked me.
“Sure, who doesn’t?” I mean, I’d been taken around Central Park in a carriage the night of my senior prom, and my grandparents had set me on the back of a pony or two when I was a kid when we’d gone apple-picking upstate.
“Mornin’ fellas! This is Sheila. She’s on the work experience rota and here to lend a hand,” Mrs. O’Grady called. As we drew closer to the action I grew more and more nervous. Some of the horses were way bigger than I’d imagined from this perspective.
Summer at Castle Stone Page 18