Summer at Castle Stone

by Lynn Marie Hulsman

  “I really should go pack,” I replied.

  “Pack? You’re not leaving us, are you?” Her brow wrinkled. “I’ve not kept track. Is your time finished?”

  “No, I’m just heading into Dublin, that’s all.”

  “Tonight? Funny, Tom’s going to Dublin tonight. Come along, walk with me. I’m spitting cotton, as His Lordship says. Well, used to say.” She pursed her lips and took my elbow. Before I could change course, I fell into step with her, walking toward her cottage. She sighed.

  “I really shouldn’t.”

  “You’ll not deny me a bit of company and a chin wag, will you? I’ve gotten so I don’t like a quiet house, lately.”

  “Well, maybe for just a minute.” I looked around. Surely, Tom had duties in the kitchen this morning. “I would like to copy down those couple of recipes we talked about.” As much as I didn’t want to stir the pot with Tom, I needed to finish this book. The sooner I did, the sooner I didn’t have to squirm under Tom O’Grady’s scrutiny, pompous ass that he was.

  Maeve sat me down at the table and brought in a tray with a pot of tea and some tiny mince pies on it.

  “Of course it’s the wrong season for mince, but I opened a large jar from a batch I put up last winter only last week when Tony…Lord Wexford mentioned his partiality toward it.” She laughed nervously. “I made such a great batch, they’re nearly running out my ears.”

  I took a bite out of one. A wanton moan escaped from my throat. That pie was hands-down the most delicious thing I’d ever put in my mouth, bar none.

  “Oh, God, what is this?”

  “It’s mince. I make mine with real beef suet, and of course figs and almonds, and the usual. I’ve warmed these and opened the lid. That’s Castle Stone’s own Cashel blue cheese melted in there. Nothing like it in the world,” she said, utterly confident in its excellence. Maybe you could carry a few up to His Lordship.” Before I could answer, four pastries were wrapped in brown paper.

  “Hmm, maybe. Would you mind if I got your recipe file? I should probably get back.”

  “Wait until you see,” she said like the cat who swallowed the canary. She pulled a laptop out of one of the drawers in the dresser near the sofa. “Lord Wexford brought this to me and gave me my first lessons. Imagine the sight of it! Maeve O’Grady on the computer. It seems just yesterday that we got electricity in this cottage.”

  “Does Tom know you have this?”

  “Phhtt! Tom hardly drops in. You only saw him here lately because he’s been sniffing around, asking questions about you.”

  A hummingbird erupted in my ribcage. “Questions like, ‘Is she an awful, immoral bad influence? And ‘Does she carry a gun?’”

  “Not at all! Questions like, ‘Did she say she has a fella back in the States,’ and ‘Does she ever talk about me when she pops round?’ He was being a right Nosy Parker about the Earl to boot. ‘What did he eat? How late did he stay? What did you watch on telly?’ I told him, ‘Stop in more often yourself if you want to know my comings and goings.’ Honestly, there’s not a reason in the world why he can’t. I suspect he’s a,” she dropped her voice low, “‘workaholic.’ I heard that daytime presenter talking about it one day. She said people who don’t want to face their troubles head on bury themselves in work. I’ve wondered if I should mention it to Father Walsh.” She fired up the computer and stabbed at the keys with her two index fingers.

  “Troubles?” I prodded. Hank would be proud of me. No one could accuse me of being polite. The tiny notebook and pen I kept tucked in my pocket stood at the ready. I shoved the remaining half of my mince pie into my mouth. Oh, man, was that sublime. But I had come to do a job. Treats would have to wait.

  She continued to tap the keys with great vigor. “Oh, you know, the business in London with that Tabitha. I knew she wasn’t worth a penny the day I met her. She bit the head right off the girl clipping the microphone to her dress. Poor lass of about 18 years of age, just trying to do her best. I didn’t mention it to Tom, but I kept my eye on Miss Tabitha after that. One face in public and another behind the scenes.”

  Oof. I felt as if I’d been punched in the solar plexus. I’d be sick if Maeve talked that way about me. In fairness, she had every right to. I really wanted to leave. I didn’t like the idea of Tom catching me here after my promise to stay away. Worse yet, I liked that Maeve liked me. I didn’t want to abuse her trust.

  “Here’s a photo of Tom on the set of the show with her. She turned the computer screen around so I could see it. Back then, Tom wore his hair a bit longer and his face lacked fullness and weight. He looked trim and sleek in a well-cut suit, over a crisp French blue shirt open at the collar. I preferred him now. He struck me as more solid and substantial.

  “You see the paint she has on her face? That’s not just for telly. She walked out of the house every day like that, even here on the grounds.” Maeve clicked through some other photos in the album. I didn’t really take them in; my mind was focused on Tabitha being here, in my territory. Eating in The Grange Hall, riding the horses, sitting down to tea with Maeve. Where had she slept?

  “What did Tom see in her, do you think?”

  “That’s easy enough. He saw in her what she wanted him to see.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Let’s just say that our Tom was always a good lad. Star pupil in the village school, altar boy, helped around here trying to fill his Da’s shoes and doing a fine job I might add.” Her eyes took on a watery shine. “Sometimes I think he should have tested the waters and sown some oats instead of devoting himself so much to me.”

  I felt a swell of humility. Who was I to think I knew what was best for Maeve O’Grady? Maybe Tom was right to protect his mother. The Irish had ancient roots, traditional ways of doing things. Perhaps I was like those scientists who trudged into an unspoiled terrain, infecting the peaceful inhabitants with my culture’s ways. After all, I was a stranger here.

  “In hospitality college and the fancy cookery schools, he hardly had time for girls.” She shook her head, eyes focused miles away. “I had a bit of money. I’d have gladly given it to him to keep him from working so hard. It was a point of pride to him, it was, to keep his scholarships and earn his way. I see the damage it did him. As they say, ‘All work and no play makes Tom a dull boy.’ Poor lamb.” She snapped her eyes onto mine and said brightly, “But he succeeded.”

  Her face warmed to a smile. “You have to hand it to him, he reached every goal he set for himself. He opened his restaurant with a loan from the Earl, and the next thing you know, the telly station showed up, sniffing around looking to snap him up and slot him into the show they’d thought up.

  Those city wheelers and dealers had it all planned out. On the strength of his restaurant, they created the whole thing, and stuck a contract in front of his face. I believe he accepted in order to pay Lord Wexford back more quickly. Generous man,” she said, her eyes shining, “he said from the start the money was a gift, not a loan. From the first day on set, it seems Tom was thrown into Tabitha’s arms. Sometimes I wonder if the producers and the agents and the whatnots in London didn’t have a hand in it so they could ring the papers themselves.”

  She pointed to a photo on the screen. “Here’s a picture of the house they bought in London.” Tom, in khakis and a slouchy weekend sweater stood on the stairs of a Georgian beauty with a bright-red door, arm slung proudly around a tricked-out Tabitha.

  I recalled Tom saying he didn’t like city life. “How long did they live there?”

  “Not a single day. Tom wanted to make it official after the wedding.” She poured us each more tea. “They never got that far.”

  “Why?” I realized this breached the bounds of polite conversation.

  “We’ll print these recipes, won’t we, if you’ll show me how.” Changing the subject and pretending I hadn’t spoken was an Irish tactic I’d seen before. A useful one, at that. I wish I could get used to the discomfort and use it myself. Unfortunatel
y, I had a case of Clinical Compulsive Disclosure. I’d made up the condition in my head to explain why I always answered questions when asked point-blank. ‘How much is your rent?’ or ‘Why aren’t you married yet, Shayla?’

  Maeve stood up and flipped the switch of a small printer that hadn’t been there the last time I’d visited. I excused myself to the bathroom and wrote down everything I could remember while she printed out some of the recipes that she’d painstakingly typed into files over the last few days. This had shaped up into a productive morning. There wasn’t a great deal more I needed for Tom’s cookbook.

  Before I headed down the stairs, I tiptoed into Tom’s room for a sneaky peek. Scanning his boyhood lair, I took in the trophies, the piggy bank, posters of old bands, some well-worn children’s books. My eye landed on a photo I hadn’t looked at last time. It was of Tom and his parents. His father stood in the back, wearing a suit and tie, and a formal overcoat. A striking young Maeve, with the same gorgeous bones under youthful skin, stood in front of her husband. Even with her Sunday hat on, she didn’t reach his chin. In the very front, with his parents’ hands on his shoulders stood a seven-or eight-year-old Tom. His face was so open, his body so easy, as if nothing bad had ever happened and nothing bad ever would. A feeling of urgency came over me, my muscles leaping to attention. I yearned to protect that boy, that boy who didn’t exist.

  “Sheila?” Maeve called.

  “Coming!” I tiptoed back to the top of the stairs, and then hurried down.

  “Oh, there you are, pet. Will you let me pack some pies for yourself?”

  “Yes. Yes, please.”

  I tried to smash in among the tall potted plants surrounding the main entrance to the hotel. I pushed my rolling suitcase as far in among the boxwoods as possible without risking the ire of Danny the gardener. I reckoned this was a go-to meeting point for regulars on the Castle Stone estate, but Tom hadn’t really thought through the part about being inconspicuous. Every minute seemed like an hour as I wondered who would pass by next. If Mary saw me hovering around, she’d surely ask what I was up to.

  Brigid had carefully applied my makeup so that it would look like I was wearing next to none. The stylist who had sent the dresses had thoughtfully thrown in samples and testers from every high-end line available at Saks and Bergdorf’s. We started with a color-correcting primer, which was a good thing. My skin was growing pinker each day from working outdoors in the unusually strong Irish sun. As spring was bleeding into summer, everyone was remarking on the banner weather. Brigid found a shade of foundation that matched my skin to a tee and powdered it to set. She had a surprisingly steady hand, so the liner she used blended in with my lashes, serving only to make me look alive and awake.

  “You really know what you’re doing, don’t you, Bridge?” I wondered why she didn’t doll up herself more often. She could snag that Kieran at the bar, no problem.

  “And why wouldn’t I? You think girls like me don’t know fashion?”

  “What do you mean girls like you?”

  “Hold still! Stop talking.” A few flicks of brownish mascara, and a matte pinkish-nude lipstick, and I was the picture of dew and youth.

  Where was Tom? I glanced at my watch and saw that he was nearly 10 minutes late. Oh well, he can wait for me, then, I thought. I ducked into the lobby to use the restroom one last time before the trip. On my way out, I tried to blend in with a large party of guests in order to slip out the front door unnoticed. Duck-walking with my hand shielding my face failed to fool eagle-eyed Catherine.

  “Sheila! Do you have a quick moment?”

  Busted, I made my way to the desk, full of foreboding.

  “I’m just after speaking to your father.” My heart sunk. “We had the nicest chat. He’s quite a charmer.”

  “Oh,” I said, trying to seem disinterested. “What did he have to say?” If he’d spilled the beans about who I was and why I was there, it was over.

  “Well, first of all,” she said, giggling, “He demanded to know who had kidnapped his little girl and held her hostage on a shamrock farm.”

  Fear hummed in my cells. “Did he ask for me by name?”

  “No, it was lucky we don’t have anyone from the States in at present. Clever me, I reckoned at once that it had to be you.” She beamed, looking pleased with herself. I saw Tom through the glass panes in the massive oak front door. He was talking to a delivery man. He didn’t see me.

  “Yes, clever you,” I agreed. “Did the two of you chat about my job?” Had Maggie told Hank what I was up to?

  “He asked me what Castle Stone is, so I explained. He said it sounded charming and that I’d better get used to the quiet now, as you’d be letting the world know about it once you got home. He said you’d write a book about your vacation!” Her laughter tinkled. “Have you sent him photos of yourself in an apron and a hairnet?”

  “Did he leave his name?” I wondered if she’d recognize my famous father’s moniker. If so, she’d surely blab to the rest of the staff.

  “He said he was your father! I assumed you know his name. He was being cheeky, and said I was to call him Hank.”

  “Sounds like Hank.”

  “He only asked that you ring him. Here’s another message, by the way. Honestly, we do have guest duties here at the front. We’re not a message service.” She slid it across the desk huffily. “I thought surely you’d get a mobile phone by this point.”

  This subject made me uncomfortable. The truth of the matter was that I should have. For ages, I’d complained that I couldn’t figure out how to get signed up. Then I used the excuse that I was saving money. The truth of the matter is that I just didn’t want one.

  There’s just something about the pace here that makes me want to stay out of reach. I’ve hardly logged on to the wifi the whole time I’ve been here. Back in New York, I never sat down at work or walked through the door at home without checking my email, Twitter, Facebook, Instagram, and Pinterest. I always felt like I would miss something if I weren’t constantly connected.

  Here, if I’m working in the kitchen, anything urgent is handled on the spot, in person. No assignment for the next day exists. You start fresh. I love that when lunch finishes for the day, it’s finished forever. Very Zen. Very ‘In the moment.’ If someone wants to tell me something, they walk to the dorm block, or look for me in the back of Uncle Jack’s. If they don’t find me, they tell me later.

  I glanced out the front. Tom stood staring straight back at me, raising his eyebrows. In a rookie move, I checked Catherine to see if she’d noticed. My guilty look put her on high alert.

  “OK, then. Thanks for the messages.” I made my way to the back door, trying to be nonchalant.

  “Sheila!” Tom called in through the open door. Catherine’s eagle eye was glued to me.

  “Could you tell Chef O’Grady I need a word?” She asked, eyes narrowing.

  “Of course,” I said. I shuffled to the door as quickly as I could, and whispered, “Meet me at your car,” to Tom. “Go.”

  It took him a second, but he caught on. I indicated that Catherine was watching through the window. He made a big show out of shaking my hand, then left, whistling. I checked to make sure Catherine’s wasn’t looking, and went for my case. It was gone. I pressed my nose to the glass. One of the young bellmen had wheeled it across the lobby and was handing it across the desk to Catherine.

  “It’s unclaimed. The handbook says to treat all unclaimed luggage as a potential risk,” he said gravely. To my horror, Catherine was unzipping my bag.

  “That’s mine! I called, picking up the pace. “I’ll take that.”

  Resting on the very top was a very high-end slip, embossed with diamante sparkles sent to me by the stylist. For all the world, it looked like a negligee. She held it to the side and continued to dig. “My bag!” I called. “You can put that down.”

  Under the slip, I’d packed the folder I’d stolen from Brenda’s office. She’d opened the flap before I lunged the up
per part of my body across the desk and slammed the whole case shut on her hands.

  “Ow!” she said, leaping backwards. I ran around the desk and grabbed my slip. I stuffed it into the case and shut the whole thing without zipping it. Stumbling across the lobby’s floor, I clipped more than one strolling guest. I wrestled with the front door and got myself outside, panting and sweating. It was a good thing I’d worn yoga pants and a t-shirt for travel; I’d hate to be doing this in my dress. I squatted down behind the boxwoods, far from the prying eyes of Catherine and organized myself. Fleeing to the employees’ car park like a guest skipping out on the bill, I spotted Tom’s car and wedged myself in the front seat, suitcase and all.

  “Sheila, what the…”

  “Just drive!” I crouched down, not even bothering to fasten my belt. I’d have Tom stop the car at the gates. Finally able to breathe, I sat up a little straighter. With the main part of the castle behind us, I dared look over my shoulder. Standing outside at the entrance was Catherine. Judging by the look on her face, she’d clocked us.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Even a small thorn causes festering.

  Anyone who ever tells you that you can live through a couple of hours of anything is a liar. I don’t know if it’s possible to die of discomfort, but I’d say I was in critical condition following our drive to Dublin.

  There was promise at the beginning. He’d snaked along at 10 kilometers per hour on the main drive, preaching about safety first. I’d joked that he drove like an elderly lady on her way to church, and I thought I’d caught a shadow of a smile. I must have been mistaken. With the focus and precision of a solder, he pulled to a stop on the shoulder before the gate, marched around to the left side, and commandeered my case. He deposited it in the boot, got back in the driver’s side, then pulled my belt across me and fitted it into the buckle like I was a child.

  “I’m responsible for you,” was all he said in the way of explanation.