Summer at Castle Stone

by Lynn Marie Hulsman

  When I crossed the little footbridge to the self-catering cottages “village,” I glanced behind me to Maeve’s cottage. Nap was still standing on the table, looking in the window. Good. Tony had stayed put. I looked to my left and right to see if anyone I knew was around. There weren’t many people in the area. Guest occupancy was light this week. The few people milling around were strangers. I checked the number on the door and slipped my key into the lock.

  From the outside, the cottages looked nice but not spectacular. The modern buildings, added when Tom took over, were simple wooden affairs with slate roofs, situated around a green with benches and a fountain. Inside, it was a different story altogether. A stunning chandelier hung in the foyer. Glancing around at the splendor, I realized I should leave my wellies at the door. I stepped out of them and hung my cardigan on a peg. The huge, open-plan kitchen featured a central island, a restaurant-quality range, and a large area with sofas and a window seat, and a working fireplace. Everything from the crown molding to the cabinetry was modern and tasteful, but hinted at the feel of the rest of the estate.

  The sitting room’s fireplace was as tall as I was, with a magnificent brick hearth. A brilliant designer had divided the spacious room into three conversation areas. My favorite was a grouping of chocolate-brown leather sofas, and two overstuffed easy chairs. I could imagine the cozy parties one could have during a family reunion weekend in that room. Not that I have enough family for a reunion, I thought with a little stabbing twang.

  I wafted up the stairs and looked behind all the doors. Five bedrooms, a bathroom and two utility closets. I sneaked into the en suite bathroom of the largest bedroom and used the facilities. It was so pristine, I didn’t want to throw my soap or its wrapper in the trash. I slid it into my pocket. On my way out, I avoided the window. No one was supposed to know I was here. I opened all the drawers and closets, the way I do when I first get to a hotel room. In the very last drawer I opened, there was a strip of condoms. I slammed it shut.

  The next biggest bedroom was mostly done in shades of white, down to the carpet, which felt squishy and luxurious under my stocking feet. The king-sized brass bed was so tall, it had steps on either side to help you ascend. I couldn’t resist. I climbed up, and lay down. The mattress would have been delicious under any circumstances, but after the grim bed in my cell, the luxury was almost more than I could bear. I rolled over onto my stomach and sprawled out like a starfish. I closed my eyes.

  I heard the gentle, constant hum of a riding lawn mower and the occasional birdcall. The longer I lay there, the more I unclenched. I heard a cow lowing in the distance and it reminded me of the photo of Tom I’d seen long ago in New York. It was probably taken on a May Day like this one, all warm, clear, and bright. That photographer had known what he was doing. The sun warming Tom’s caramel-and platinum-hued hair and glinting off the pale, vibrant blue of his eyes showed him to his best advantage. So did the jeans and tight Henley the stylist had no doubt chosen for him.

  Drifting off, I imagined how firm the muscles of his upper arms would feel under the rough-hewn cotton of his shirt. What would it be like to sneak up on him from behind and put my hands on his broad, strong shoulders? Squirming, I wiggled myself a little deeper into the plush duvet.

  “Sheila!”

  Jumping up, I smoothed my clothes and tried to look ready to start my lesson. I smiled at Tom, inviting him to see the humor in the situation. His face remained placid. Like a sea anemone, I stretched out every tentacle to take his temperature. There was not a playful cell in his body. This was going to be a long day.

  “I’ll just wash my hands and I’ll meet you in the kitchen,” I told him. “If that’s OK with you,” I amended.

  He gave a terse nod and headed down the stairs.

  I tied on the apron he’d brought me and unpacked the groceries from the bags he’d carried in. His cell phone rang several times, but he ignored it. He set out various cutting boards and arranged bowls filled with flour and beaten egg and vinegar with oil. I didn’t dare interrupt his flow, and he didn’t bother explaining what he was doing. Finally, he got me started peeling and thinly slicing vegetables for a salad. He explained and demonstrated how to hold the knife, and emphasized the importance of uniformity without using a single superfluous word. Several times, he made me set aside my mistakes. He’d feed them to the goats, he said.

  I stood chopping and mincing, increasingly uncomfortable in the silent atmosphere. Finally, he spoke.

  “I’m just after calling into my mother’s house.” He let that hang in the air.

  “I was there this morning,” I told him, unable to bear the tension of the quiet.

  Using a wooden hammer, he beat a chicken breast flat. “I’m aware.”

  We continued to work in silence. The cold shoulder began to piss me off. I carefully washed an array of delicate lettuces, while he roasted red peppers over the flames on the burners, holding them with tongs. At some point, the doorbell rang. I moved to answer it and he simply held up his hand, signaling me not to. From time to time, he explained what he was doing. Occasionally, he had me mimic his work, and corrected me until I copied his techniques perfectly. The pressure of trying to guess what was up his bum was making me pissy.

  “Do you mind telling me why we’re here?” I asked. There had been a huge shroud of secrecy about meeting him here and strict instructions about not telling anyone where I was headed.

  “We’re here because I promised you a cooking lesson. I’m a man of my word.”

  “But why here?”

  He shrugged and turned his back to me, continuing to work.

  “You could have just cancelled.”

  “We struck a bargain.” He poured a bottle of rum into a flat dish and laid a row of ladyfingers in to soak.

  “Well, if it’s so awful for you to be here with me, I can let you out of it. I can just leave now.”

  “May as well learn to tolerate each other. We’ll be spending the evening in Dublin together soon enough. Now, will you set that aside and lay the table for two? The linens and china are in that box, there.”

  Tolerate! How did I fall from friendly company to impossible to bear? I lay down my knife and, one by one, slammed pieces of silverware on to the table.

  “Sheila, is that where your knife should be?”

  For a flash second, I thought of where I’d like my knife to be. Containing my fury, I washed it and slammed it safely back into place with the other sharp knives while he oversaw. He was treating me like a baby. Listen, Farm Boy, I wanted to say, you may be an accomplished chef but I grew up in the capitol of the world. Mess with me at your own peril.

  I felt him watching me. He was cool as a spring pond.

  “Don’t get cross with me so. There’s a way to do things. An order. When you use a sharp knife, you don’t leave it lying about. When you cut radishes, you don’t do some bits in chunks and some bits in paper-thin slices.” He lined up every knife neatly with points all facing in the same direction. “And here in Ireland, people don’t swan around calling people ‘Babe,’ and ‘Honey,’ and Tony.” Using long tongs, he lay a breaded chicken breast into a pan of hot oil and it sizzled angrily.

  I tossed the pile of napkins I was holding aside. “When,” I spat, parking my hands on my hips, “have you ever heard me call someone ‘Babe’ or ‘Honey’? Don’t show your ignorance by lumping all Americans into one pile.”

  “Ah, well, maybe not, but your liberal use of Tony is surely sweeping the land.”

  I shook my head. I could feel that I was making a nasty face at him, but I didn’t care enough to stop. “You’re mad because I’ve been hanging out with your mother and the Earl? For your information, they’ve been having a wonderful time and it’s been nothing but innocent.” I eyeballed him. He was squirming, so I added, “So far.”

  He tore off strips of brown paper and lined the countertop near the stove with them, whipping them around like sails in a storm.

  “I’m not m
ad, for your information. Mad means mentally ill. The condition you must be suffering to want to muddle up the lives of two innocent people in their golden years. No, Sheila, the word you’re searching for is angry, and you’d be correct.” He lifted the chicken out of the pan and put it on the brown paper to drain. “I’m angry that you’ve come in here like an American with no regard to manners or decorum and encouraged my mother to disrupt her life and behave like a school girl. It’s fortunate that I ran into Father Walsh on the way. I sent him over to ‘Maeve’s’ to look in on the situation.” His triumphant expression confirmed that he felt he’d won a point in whatever game the two of us were playing. “Imagine what people at the church would say about her on a Sunday,” he muttered. “She’s a proper Irish widow, not one of the Housewives of Beverly Hills.” He took a metal bowl from the freezer and fitted it into a mixer. He poured in a pint of cream, and set it to whip. The roar of it filled my head.

  Furious, I continued to set the table. What a spoiled brat to want to snatch his mother’s flirtation away from her. Just because he had chosen to live the life of a monk, didn’t mean Maeve had to suffer without romance and perhaps some twilight cuddling. If I didn’t need notes from today for the book, I would have stormed out. But if I had, he’d probably have called me a lazy American on top of everything else. No way would I prove the jackass right. I set my face in stone and carried on working like a perfect servant. But I had an ace up my sleeve. I felt my face twist into a self-congratulatory smile, and I didn’t care if he saw it. If he didn’t watch his step, he’d be going solo to his dinner in Dublin.

  While he was spooning superfine sugar and a teaspoon of pure vanilla extract into the whipping cream, his phone rang again and he checked the number. Switching off the mixer, he answered it. “Howya, Andrew. You got my message, did you? OK, go on and tell me.” I set taper candles in crystal holders, pretending not to listen. “Good stuff! Yeah, tell me more.” With the phone pinned between his cheek and shoulder, Tom deftly cracked half a dozen eggs, separating the eggs from the yolks. He poured the yolks into a saucepan, whisking them together with sugar and milk. I peered into the pan. The thin custard mixture began forming fat, languorous bubbles.

  “Anyhow, did you want to take me up on it? Romantic dinner for two, set to go with the key under the mat. Nice surprise for the little missus, if you can get your Mam to take the baby. And the place is yours for the night. You can leave tomorrow at check-out time.” He walked into the hallway. I strained to hear his side of the conversation.

  “Something came up with the girl I was bringing.” He laughed softly.

  Girl he was bringing? So, not such a monk after all, huh, Tom O’Grady? Hot shame rose in my belly. I was the kitchen assistant on duty to make a seductive dinner for one of the faceless girls he bedded here, but didn’t dare to name in public. No wonder he didn’t want me telling anyone where I was going. It’s his secret love nest. I pictured Catherine from the front desk, decked out in a silk negligee, rolling around on the sumptuous bed upstairs, calling Tom “Chef.” I pushed the image out of my head.

  Tom laughed again. “No, it’s nothing like that. What do you take me for? Married men have the wildest imaginations. Just didn’t work out the way I’d planned, that’s all.” He chuckled like a lad. “Well, if we’re all set then…oh yeah, I never said. You and the missus will dine on a tangle of lettuces with our farm’s goat’s cheese, bacon-wrapped roasted peppers, breaded lemon chicken with garlic and rosemary over spinach linguine, and tiramisu to finish. I’ve got a couple of nice bottles for you, too, mate…Too true. She doesn’t know what she’s missing, but I hope you’ll enjoy it in her place. Nah, you owe me nothing. Right, see you, then.” I heard his footsteps, so I scrambled to open the wine, reasoning that it had to breathe.

  Emboldened by my irritation, I took a stab at information gathering. “By the way, why did I have to keep my being here with you such a secret?”

  Smooth as caramel he replied, “My time off is never truly time off. If people know where to find me, they find me.” He pulled a carton from the refrigerator and scooped something thick and creamy into the custard.

  “What’s that?”

  “Mascarpone cheese. People say Italian is the best, but I have an artisanal cheese-maker I source it from right here in Ireland. Our cows know what they’re doing.” He grabbed a clean spoon and dug into the soft cheese. “Try it.”

  He held out the spoon and waited. I moved my mouth toward it to bite, but got embarrassed. I gently pulled the spoon from his hand and slid it into my mouth. It tasted fresh and creamy, with just the faintest hints of sweetness and tang. “Mmm. That is really good.” I lay the spoon in the sink and asked, “But what if there were an emergency?”

  “If Bill rang and left an urgent message, I’d follow up. And Mam knows where to find me.” He looked at me seriously. “Keep this to yourself, please. This is one place on the grounds where no one comes looking for me.”

  Like when you’re plying the women from town with your fancy food and wooing them onto the pillow-soft mattress upstairs? My mind did a shuffle of all the workers at Castle Stone, the waitresses and shop girls in the village and, of course, Tabitha. Could she have been the one who stood him up? I hated the idea of it. The girl who did my hair swore he behaved like a confirmed bachelor. But he still had one foot in the world where people sent formal gowns upon request and had a fleet of drivers. He could be James Bond for all I knew. I guess he kept his manly behavior under wraps, here in this secret lair. There, done. The table looked gorgeous. I stood back to survey my handiwork and slumped against the wall. I was very tired.

  “I’ve brewed espresso for the tiramisu. Do you fancy a cup?” It was the first human thing he had said to me all day.

  “Yes, please, but could you turn it into a cappuccino?” I sat down.

  “All right.” He busied himself making coffees. “But I’ve another job for you. See those ladyfingers I baked yesterday? Split them in half, lengthwise, and use them to line the bottom of that serving dish. Set the leftovers to the side.”

  “Who’s going to eat this lovely feast?” I asked, sitting in the charming floral-patterned window seat, even though I’d just eavesdropped like Mata Hari. I chose a serrated knife and began splitting the fragrant cakes. The tip fell off of my first torpedo-shaped delicacy. When Tom looked away, I popped it in my mouth. The sweetness of Tom’s creation melted onto my tongue. I savored it, holding it in my mouth for as long as possible before swallowing.

  “An old schoolmate of mine and his wife. They were sweethearts from age 16. Andrew got a scholarship to study in England, so they were apart for years. To Maisy’s credit, she waited for him. She’s a good old-fashioned girl. Always wanted to be a mum. After they married, they hoped for a child right away, but it didn’t go according to plan. It was hard on Andrew.”

  “The ladyfingers are finished.”

  “Good. Now, see that chunk of dark chocolate? Use that microplane grater and shave it into that Pyrex bowl there, and set it aside. But first, here. Drink that.” He quickly whisked together the leftover espresso with some rum and poured it over the layer of cake. He soaked the remaining cakes with the rest of the liquor.

  He set my coffee before me. It was like sipping hope and happiness. I closed my eyes to enjoy the full impact of the aroma and flavor. “There’s a dash of cinnamon in there, I hope you don’t mind.” I shook my head no. “Anyway, so, after a lot of heartache, my friends got the child they’d longed for. Healthy, chubby, full of giggles.”

  “Boy or girl?” I asked. I wanted to stay with this conversation, not to go back to our roles as teacher and student. I shaved the aromatic chocolate as we chatted. It was pleasant.

  “Boy. He’s my godson. Name of Thomas, after me.” His face bloomed into an expression of pride.

  “What does a godfather have to do?” I asked.

  “You know, promise to guide his spiritual growth, raise him if his parents pass, buy him gifts on his bir
thday and confirmation, and the like. He’s no trouble at all. His mother’s wonderful, and he favors her.” He sipped his coffee. “Will you measure out a level teaspoon of that Dutch cocoa there and set it aside for me?” He asked. It was a soft request; the first time he’d asked instead of commanding.

  I let myself imagine what raising a baby in a small village like Ballykelty must be like. Did this Maisy have chickens? I knew how to keep chickens, now. Did she carry firewood? Cook meals? Buy food at the farmer’s market? I shook my head to clear away the daydreams. Really, Shayla, I said to myself, no Irish working man would have you, given your checkered past, so what’s the point in picturing yourself in the role? An unwelcome scene of myself in a pinstriped suit with a baby on my hip, running for a cab, chased in hot pursuit by a uniformed nanny with a diaper bag played in my head. There was no dad in my montage. Maybe that’s because I can’t picture Hank ever having had a baby. I didn’t have a single memory of him taking care of me when I was little. Or maybe it’s because I can’t picture a man wanting me enough to make a baby with me.

  “Sheila?”

  “What?” I looked at the spoonful of cocoa in my hand.

  “I asked if you wanted a family of your own.” I shifted my eyes to Tom’s face. I hadn’t quite surfaced from my daymare. “Ah, never mind, just making conversation.” He took our cups to the stove, and topped them up. “It’s certainly none of my business.”

  “No, it’s alright,” I said, dumping the chocolatey powder into the dish. “I guess…” I realized I didn’t have an elevator answer prepared. “I guess I don’t know.”

  “Fair enough, some women aren’t meant to marry and have children, I suppose. A career can be just as important.”

  He saw me as a worker, not a wife and mother. The thought drained my energy. I was more exhausted than I’d been all day. Oh well, fair enough. If I got what I wanted, I’d likely turn out like Hank, flying from job to job and keeping company where I could find it.