Summer at Castle Stone

by Lynn Marie Hulsman

  As we drove along the gorgeous back roads of the Irish countryside, I breathed in the beauty. There was a swelling in my chest caused by the expansive space. It threw me off balance. I regretted agreeing to come. I wanted to be back in Castle Stone. It was contained, easy to navigate. I felt safe inside the gates of the manor. Driving along with Tom under the endless blue sky, my body felt like it was falling and floating at the same time. We drove in silence, but the silence was charged. In some people’s company, silence is companionable and an affirmation that nothing need be said. The pressure of what was unspoken between us made my head hurt.

  “I saw you leaving my mother’s house this morning.”

  There it was.

  I turned in my seat to face him. “She insisted that I come. What was I going to do? Blow her off? I have a rule: be polite to senior citizens, especially ones who were there when you needed them.”

  He didn’t glance at me. “We had an agreement.” He gripped the steering wheel tightly.

  “No, we didn’t have an agreement. You gave me an order.”

  “I asked for a favor.”

  “You ask an awful lot of favors for someone who isn’t even my friend.”

  He kept driving, eyes forward.

  I sat there smug, relishing the feeling that my being right made him uncomfortable. During my freshman year of high school, my English teacher had pronounced “Yeats” as Yeets instead of “Yates.” The second it was out of her mouth, my hand flew up to correct her. Proud that I knew something so esoteric, I expected a compliment but was met only with a tight-lipped, low-volume acknowledgement. When I complained to my nerd-table friends, Lulu Chin fixed me with a wise stare and said, “Of course you’re right. But would you rather be right or liked?”

  The rest of the drive, I took awkward stabs at fixing the situation. I tried to crack a joke, but didn’t even earn a smile. The few times I commented on the scenery, I got grunts and nods, the most baseline offerings one could get away with and not be accused of ignoring another person.

  “Who are your favorite fiction writers?” I asked, cutting a wide swathe of possibility for discussion in the stagnant air.

  “I don’t read novels.”

  That shut me down. I considered apologizing. I wished I’d never brought up the fact that I was doing him a favor. I sensed bringing the subject up again would make the bad feelings worse. Pride in an Irish man was something to be respected. I’d just pointed out my upper-hand status by virtue of my heading to the Gresham Hotel with Tom to try helping him win something he truly cared about.

  The excitement of seeing the city of Dublin temporarily cheered me. I have to admit, I felt a little rejected when Tom pulled up in front of the main entrance of the hotel on O’Connell Street, and dropped me off.

  “They have your name at the desk,” he told me from the wound-down window. He didn’t even get out to unload my case. “The room’s been charged to me. All you have to do is sign in. I’ll ring you once I’m settled. We’re meeting Burton at 8 sharp in Toddy’s Brasserie downstairs.” He pulled away while I was still standing on the pavement.

  Inside the deluxe lobby, I approached the polished wooden reception desk. “Hello, I’m Shayla…” I dropped off. I had no idea under what name Tom had booked me. Panicking, I recalled something about hotels requiring passports of foreign guests. This could go sideways, quick. “I’m here with Tom O’Grady,” I began again, putting the ball in the court of the young woman behind the desk.

  “Lovely, and welcome to the Gresham. If you’ll give me a moment, I’ll just check.” I watched her type, starting to sweat a little. If I was going to have to check in as Shayla de Winter to match the name on my passport, I wanted to get this sorted before Tom parked the car.

  “Are you an Irish citizen?”

  I shook my head no.

  “Passport please.” I handed it over. She looked at it, typed something into the computer and handed it back, folded closed. She smiled. Well, big money certainly bought discretion. If she noticed my name didn’t match the one Tom had given her, she didn’t let on.

  “You’re in Mr. O’Grady’s suite,” she said, sliding a room key toward me.

  My heart flipped. Had Tom assumed I’d sleep with him? A short film of a bare-chested Tom O’Grady reclining against luxe bed pillows with a room service tray of champagne and oysters across his lap played in my brain. Cut to me in a shimmery satin teddy. Dissolve! The only pajamas I’d packed were my Sarah Lawrence College t-shirt and a pair of running shorts.

  “He booked into two Bijou Singles, but when I realized it was Chef O’Grady,” she said with a pretty blush, “of course I upgraded him to a two-bedroom suite. You’ll be staying in the Elizabeth Taylor suite. It features a private balcony. After all, it’s Tom O’Grady, isn’t it?” Her eyes sparkled. “Oh, look. Good afternoon, Mr. O’Grady,” she called, waving. I whipped around to see Tom coming in the front entrance.

  “Thanks a lot.” I snatched the key and took off, hoping to duck the lobby before she asked any questions about who I was.

  “Miss!” she called. I froze, but didn’t turn around. If she said my real name, I could just start running and keep on till I hit the street. I crouched, as if at the starting line of a race.

  “The elevator you need is in the other direction!”

  Turning on my heel, I saw that it was open. Bursting into a sprint, I made it in before the doors closed. I slumped against the wall, panting. The sensation of whooshing upward was pleasant. I hadn’t been in an elevator since the day I’d landed at Shannon Airport. In New York, there was rarely a day when I didn’t ride in an elevator. In Ireland, the act was an event.

  I gasped as I pushed into the suite. There was a formal sitting room boasting sweeping gold drapes, richly upholstered sofas and chairs, and a fireplace. I knew Tom had to be at my back, so I ran into the first bedroom I spied and shut the door behind me. I felt a twinge of guilt as I saw my ginormous four-poster bed kitted out in gold-and-red striped linens, complete with curtains. There was a little writing desk, an area where I could make tea or coffee, and joy of joys, slippers and a bathrobe. Only on Hank’s coattails did I stay in rooms like this, and the occurrence of that had grown increasingly rare since I’d graduated college. In my usual digs, facial soaps and body lotions were one in the same, and the menu didn’t include conditioner. I slipped off my traveling clothes and shimmied into my plush robe, taking note of my iron, hairdryer, and the dizzying array of gels, mouthwashes, and lotions, all scented with rarefied herbs and flowers.

  I set the little hot drinks machine up and started myself a cup of tea.

  I heard the door to the suite open and pulled my robe closed tightly around myself. I heard Tom walk through to his room and the click of the door to his bedroom. Of course, Shayla, I told myself. He’s going to rest and change. What did you think? He’d barge into your room like Fabio and throw you to the king-sized bed, uninvited?

  Breathing out, shoulders slumping, I checked the clock. Hours and hours until the dinner with the distributors. I ran a bath instead of taking a shower, because, well, that’s what you do in Ireland. I noticed myself picking up little habits like this. In the back of Uncle Jack’s, Mary and Brigid had weaned me off of the vodka and soda and onto cider or brandy, because that’s what they ordered for themselves. I could hear the change in my language as well. After the tenth time of calling the back of a car “the trunk” and getting called out, it’s human nature to start calling it a boot. I vowed to myself not to continue the practice at home like so many junior-year-abroad assholes back from Prague and a tour of Europe who claimed they couldn’t bear ice in their water and walked around calling everyone wankers and promising to ring them up. But for now, it was nice to have chocolate with my afternoon tea and to eat beans for breakfast.

  I took my time dressing. While I didn’t miss having to put on a day’s armor in the form of dark nail polish on squovally filed fingernails, and a pair of boots that could simultaneously
get you a table at Per Se and kick a pervert on the subway, it had been a while since I’d taken care with my appearance. I spread out the samples of cosmetics sent with my dress and surveyed my treasure. Tom’s friend had even thought to include little samplers of scent from various designers. I took my time sniffing each one before deciding on a green apple and grass fragrance. For one thing, the Irish spring was here in full force. People had gone so far as to comment that it may as well be summer. For another, it reminded me of the way Tom smelled, only more like a distant memory than the real thing.

  I applied my makeup the new, modern way I’d been taught, starting with moisturizer and eye cream. I moved onto undereye concealer, color-correcting primer, and a light foundation. It was like Sephora had exploded in front of me. I took extreme care with every step and added touches like bronzer and highlighter. Even though I knew Tom preferred a fresh-faced look, I went for a smoky eye. I could just picture Mr. Burton, the opponent we’d be up against. I imagined he liked his women hard.

  My garment bag contained three dresses. I’d narrowed it down from eight, but didn’t want to wind up feeling awkward here in Dublin with no back-up plan. There was a simple black sheath, utterly timeless and with clean lines. I also brought a sleeveless pale-pink 1950’s-style dress with a tight bodice and flared skirt because I imagined that it would be Tom’s favorite out of the bunch. Silly, I know. In the end, I chose a deep red 1940’s number with undertones that made my eyes pop like follow spots. With its long, tight sleeves and a plunging neckline formed from twisted fabric that drew attention to the décolletage, my neck looked like a swan’s. Well, Shayla, you get what you pay for. Breaking the 100 mark, price tag-wise, was big news for me. I could only assume this one broke the 1000 mark.

  In deference to the show-stopping color of the dress, to which I was not at all accustomed, I wiped off my bright lipstick and relined and filled in with nude tones. Emboldening my eyeliner was the final touch. I looked modern and bold, but not costumed. Tom’s contact had included the perfect shoes. They were muted gold, with a very high heel. Shaped like a bootie, they were more like a sandal with cutouts and straps. Elegant and light, but not delicate.

  Dressed and ready, I considered diving onto the sumptuous bed for a lie-down, but didn’t want to risk looking like a pile of wrinkled laundry at dinner. Just as I was about to brew myself another cup of tea, there was a knock at my bedroom door.

  I opened it and had to catch my breath. There stood Tom O’Grady in a navy suit with a subtle stripe that fit him like a glove. He wore a white shirt and a solid, pale-blue tie that matched his eyes exactly. His wavy hair was brushed back from his face, styled but not fussy.

  “Wow,” he said, scanning me from the toes up.

  “Wow yourself, Mr. London.”

  “If I’m Mr. London, then you’re Miss Manhattan.” He gave me a slow smile. “Our costumes for the fancy-dress party. No one would guess we’re simple country folk.”

  I forced a laugh.

  “Listen, I had some drinks sent up. Seeing as you’re here on my behalf, I’d like to make sure you’re comfortable. I hope something’s to your liking.” He waved his arm toward the coffee table to indicate a huge silver bucket filled with ice and bottles of beer and some Cokes, another smaller bucket with a bottle of white wine on ice, and a bottle of red standing by some assorted glasses and a plate of cheese. “Of course, if you’d rather have sparkling water, or tea…”

  “No, I could use a glass of wine. White, please.” I could just see myself spilling the red down the front of myself before dinner.

  “I might stick with something soft.”

  “Really? You’re going to make me drink alone?”

  He hesitated. “I haven’t been on the drink for quite some time.”

  “Oh, if you don’t drink, don’t let me pressure you.”

  “That’s not it. I do drink. After…well, after I came back from London, drinking became less of a pleasure and more of an escape for me. Once I saw it, I laid off.” He leaned back and smiled at me. His eyes crinkled up merrily at the corners. “There’s a difference to drinking to forget and drinking to enjoy. Right now, I’d say I’m enjoying myself more than I thought I might.”

  “Is that a compliment or an insult?” I sat down on the sofa and he poured me a glass of wine.

  “Take me as you see me is my best advice,” he said cracking open a beer and offering a crooked grin. I loved the way his canine teeth were just the slightest bit prominent. It suggested wolfishness; something just slightly wild.

  I had the impulse to recline and smile back, but I reminded myself that this was a business arrangement. As such, I plunged right into banishing a few elephants from the room. Taking an unladylike slug of my wine, I got right down to it.

  “I know you’re mad at me about your mother. Let’s talk about it.”

  “Ah, Jaysus,” he said, raking his hand through the waves of his hair. “I was just beginning to relax.” He took a drink of his beer straight from the bottle. I approved. I prefer men who drink from the bottle. “You Americans. Always wanting to talk.”

  “You’re mad at me. We should hash it out.”

  “Who said I was angry? And if I were angry, who’s to say it’s about my mother?”

  “Well, are you angry about your mother?”

  “Yes.”

  “What else is there to be angry about?”

  “Nothing. I’ve let it all go.” He helped himself to a slice of cheese. “Moving on.”

  “No really. What else is there to be angry about? If it’s about me salting those strawberries instead of sugaring them, I’ve already groveled to you and Bill.”

  “Forgotten.”

  “Did I break an egg on the way to the kitchen from the henhouse? You see, Brigid started chasing me and singing Yankee Doodle, so the basket…”

  “Not at all.” He took another swig of his beer. His face was smiling, but his eyes weren’t joining in the fun. He was mad.

  “Is it about Tony? Lord Wexford?” I sipped my wine to give him time to answer.

  “As I said, I don’t approve of you meddling in the affairs of my family, but no.” His eyes softened for a moment, and he laughed lightly. “As if I could control how he behaves with you. He is an entity unto himself. He’s a good man,” Tom proclaimed, clinking his bottle to my glass.

  A shadow formed in the back of my brain, telling me he was mad about Des. I blushed at the egotism. But still…wasn’t there some fire to his exit? I tried to recall how he’d seemed in the car park.

  “All right?” Tom asked, still smiling.

  I chose my words carefully. “Are you angry that I was…unavailable to speak to you the night you came to my dorm?”

  His face closed up. “No. Why should I be?”

  Damn. I’d stepped right in it. “You shouldn’t, of course. Right.” I felt like I’d passed him a note in class saying, “Do you like me? Check yes or no” and he’d checked no. Idiot me!

  “If you want to break the rules and bring strange men into the women’s dorms, I’d think you’d want to sleep with a real man instead of a pimple-faced boy who can’t hold his drink, but to each her own.”

  “Wait a minute, he’s not a boy!” Indignation rose in my chest.

  I couldn’t read the placid expression on his face. “As I said, it’s not my business if you want to sleep with lads.”

  “He was drunk. He showed up at my window!”

  “Ah, so he is the one who broke it. A boy and a hooligan.”

  “He was having trouble with his girlfriend!”

  “Ah, sure, and you were the port in the storm.”

  “I put him to bed…”

  “I’ve no doubt of it.”

  “I put him to bed and told him to sleep it off. Why do you care?” My breaths were coming double-time and Tom’s gaze landed on my heaving chest, lingering.

  “I don’t care. I told you that at the start,” he said, topping up my glass. “Looks like you could u
se another drink.”

  “You know, Tom,” I began. He raised an eyebrow and treated me to an amused smile. “I wouldn’t be so quick to judge if I were you.”

  “Is that right?”

  “Yes, that’s right.”

  He stared at the floor for a minute, then looked at me hard. “For your information, I don’t bring liquored-up party girls around Castle Stone just to kiss them goodbye in the car park and send them on their way the next morning like some people I know do.”

  “Oh, puh-leeze. What about the tart you cooked that dinner for?”

  He set his beer down. I was hoping he’d open another. With all of the high emotion, I’d downed two and a half glasses in short order. I reached for some cheese and a large cracker to soak up some of the alcohol.

  “What tart? Come to that, what dinner?”

  I didn’t like the feeling that bubbled up in my chest. “You know. The dinner we cooked together.” I couldn’t help myself. I reached for my wine. I’d hardly had two drinks in a row since I’d been in Ireland. But Tom threw me so off-kilter. “For that girl.”

  His eyes searched mine over the rim of my glass. I saw the memory kick in for him. “Ah, that girl. Right. Turns out it was bad idea from the start. I got the sense I couldn’t trust her.”

  “That’s what you get for picking the wrong ones. Maybe you shouldn’t always go for the pretty, exotic ones.” I sounded like a preachy priss, but I didn’t care. I felt small. I hated feeling like one of the ones who never got picked first, but I knew that’s what I was.

  “Maybe I shouldn’t. You might be right, Sheila, you might be right.” He stared at me with a strange look on his face. He didn’t speak. I took a few sips of my wine as an excuse for something to do with my hands.

  “I mean,” I blathered in a fit of discomfort, “there was Tabitha, after all.” Her name sent a scalding poker through my gut. I suppose it’s because I hate fakey girls like that who trade on their looks and their charm. That stuck in my craw back in New York, and I certainly didn’t want to be compared with that type on this side of the pond. I was glad to leave my old private high school classmates and strivers from the HPC office behind. They always won for the wrong reasons.