Chapter Twenty-Two
Instinct is stronger than upbringing.
After two solid days of non-stop sex punctuated only by the delivery of gourmet meals and the occasional luxury shower, a twelve-hour shift in the kitchen really took it out of me. Harder still than the labor and the standing on my feet, though, was pretending not to be intimate with Tom. He didn’t go out of his way to make it easier on me, either. As I stood at a metal counter beating dozens of eggs with a whisk, Tom reached above me to grab a flour-sifter from a high shelf. No one paid the slightest bit of attention as he pressed his pelvis against my back during the stretch. My body remembered the position and sprang to attention, involuntarily pushing back against him. I had to cough in order to stifle a moan.
“Sheila, come here” he ordered at one point. “Take a taste of this and tell me if it’s too salty.” With my back turned to the rest of the staff, no one could see that Tom slid his finger, along with the spoonful of soup, into my mouth. By lunchtime, I didn’t think I could make it through the day without spread-eagling myself on the kitchen island and begging him to take me right there, on its floured surface.
My reprieve came in the form of Mary’s request for me to fill in at the hostess stand in The Grange Hall. “I know you’ve not been trained but you work in pairs. Mairead is the head waitress; she knows the seating charts and what have you. You’re in capable hands with that girl. We just need another body to greet the guests and direct them to the toilets. You’ll need to dress smart, like. Take your cue off the others. D’ya mind?”
I didn’t mind a bit. It saved me the torture of being near Tom without laying my hands on him. “Mary,” I said, closing the door to the office and peeping around the cubicles to see if we were alone. “Could I have a private word?”
“Ah, sure, have a seat,” Mary said, taking her own chair. I sat across from her.
“Mary, I have to get something off my chest.”
“Go on.”
“You and Brigid are really the only ones here I trust. You set me up with my paperwork and didn’t breathe a word of who I was. And I’d have been put out on the curb my first day if Brigid hadn’t helped me in the kitchen. And for no good reason. Just because you’re kind.”
“Ah, well, you’re easy to be kind to. Always making me laugh. And you’re good people. I can always tell.”
“I don’t have many friends here, Mary. I appreciate all you’ve done for me.”
“There’s Mrs. O’Grady.”
“That’s true, but I can’t tell her this. Anyway, you’ve kept my biggest secret, from the minute I got here. I feel I can trust you.” I knew I was taking a gamble. Mary had been good to me. I didn’t want to see her hurt or embarrassed. “I’m going to tell you something that I hope you won’t tell anyone else.” She didn’t say a word. Very Irish of her, not to tip her hand, I thought. “I’m having a secret affair with Tom O’Grady.” There. That defined the type I liked and identified an individual. And I’d shown respect about sharing sensitive information. I watched her carefully.
“I am gobsmacked,” she said simply. I waited.
“I just had to tell someone,” I explained. “It’s exhausting to keep secrets. So I picked you. Hope that’s OK.”
She looked straight at me. “And why not? That’s what chums are for.” She smiled. “I’ll do you one better and tell you my secret.”
‘Oh, God. Please don’t let it be that she has a crush on me,’ I prayed. I remembered what it felt like when Tom rejected me. I didn’t want the shoe to be on the other foot.
“I like girls.”
“Oh. Really?” I replied, with as little emotion as possible.
“One in particular.”
“I don’t want disappoint, Mary but…”
“Does she already have a girlfriend?” Mary looked worried. “It’s only that she’s been sending me signals. She made me a quilt for my bed, then asked me if I needed help putting it on there.”
My face nearly cracked with a huge smile. I giggled with relief. “No, uh, I was just going to say that I didn’t want to disappoint you with what I was wearing tonight. I only have a few skirts and dresses.”
“Just do me a favor, will you? Let’s keep this between us. Ashleigh’s been trying to throw me together with her cousin. Insisted we all go for pints at the pub down in Ballykelty. I don’t want to hurt Ashleigh’s feelings, but her cousin has as much personality as a wet rag. Science fiction novels and the great battles of Ireland were the only topics on offer with that one. Mental! I’m really not one for historical reenactment. Apart from that, even,” she looked at my shyly. “I like Brigid. Don’t breathe a word about that, either!”
“My lips are sealed.”
She came around the desk and gave me a hug. “It’s funny, Sheila. Ashleigh told me you like girls.”
“Did she?” I kept my expression blank.
Mary put on a brave face. “Never believed it, myself. Hope hearing that doesn’t offend.”
“I’m not offended at all. If I did like girls, though, I’d be fighting off Ashleigh’s boring cousin for a chance with you. I’d even don historical reenactment gear to do it.” It was true. Mary was kind and capable, and funny.
“Ah, get on with yourself,” she said, opening the door and pushing me out. “I already give you the best shifts, and I’m lying to my own government so’s you can work here like an undercover spy. Flirting with me will get you nowhere.”
That night, I stood at the hostess stand freshly washed and groomed, and wearing a respectable face of makeup. Brigid had spied me in the hallway of the dorm wearing the red dress from the meeting with Chris Burton, and had shooed me into her room.
“You can’t dress better than the guests!” she told me. “Where did you get a frock like that? Must’ve cost thousands! We’re about the same size, take what you like from my wardrobe. When I came here, my mother insisted I bring a trunk filled with dresses ‘suitable for church.’ Even if I went to church, I defy her to show me a priest who requires a new outfit at every mass. She’d have me dress like a spinster schoolteacher, if she had her way. The ones she sent are at the back. Pick from the front.”
“Brigid, these are stunning! You must spend every cent of your wages on clothes!”
She looked pleased. “Not at all. You see, I went to art college. It’s just I couldn’t get a job after doing anything in the fine arts or design field. I have eight brothers and sisters, so I’ve been cooking since I could stand on a stool without tipping a pot down my front. With the recession, I was lucky to get my job here.”
“But these are amazing. I rifled through 40s and 50s-style dresses that had been reworked to include modern touches. Some featured appliques, some spangles, and some had ironed-on graphic words and phrases.
“These could hang in a gallery, Bridge.”
“Aw, go on. But lookit, I also quilt. When you have eleven people in a household to feed and clothe, you have to make do with what’s there.”
She waved her hand toward the quilted wall hangings and bed coverings on the other side of the small room. The textiles showed solid craft skills, but the 21st century spin set them apart.
“These would go for a fortune in boutique stores in Manhattan.”
“I’ll admit,” she blushed, “I’ve a man selling them for me on Stephen’s Green, in Dublin. I don’t want to get my hopes up, but a woman from New York was grilling him about my pieces, asking where they came from like, and who the artist was.”
“Well, I can see why. You should move to a big city where you could be in an artist’s community.”
Her face closed. “Nah, I’m happy where I am. At the moment, I’m in no hurry to go.”
“Do you have a special friend around here?” I asked innocently.
She grabbed two or three dresses from hangers in an obvious move to change the subject. “Let’s get you kitted out.”
Gauging from everyone’s muted compliments, I gathered Brigid’s china-blue s
undress with the ruffled petticoat, topped with a vintage flowered cotton cardigan, fell under the category of “appropriate.” Mairead turned out to be nice, and in addition to kindly teaching me the ropes of dealing with reservations and assigning tables, she cracked jokes in between customers.
“Shayla?” a big voice suddenly boomed from behind me. “Is that you, dear? Look at the sight of you! Of course it is,” he said, wrapping me in a huge bear hug. “You remember old Brian Lynch from the airplane, don’t you? Sure, it’s been ages.”
“Who’s Shayla?” Mairead whispered.
“Shayla,” he started.
“Sheila,” I explained to Mairead.
“I’m here on a little GlobeCo business. It’s only a shame the wife couldn’t join me. Don’t go reporting me to GlobeCo, mind. I pay all her expenses when she travels with me. I’m known for keeping meticulous records, me. My colleagues call me Mr. Spreadsheet, don’t they? The Mrs. sprained her ankle playing golf, thought it best she should stay home. Ah, well, she’ll have the girls to keep her company.”
“Golf! Now that is quite a sport,” I said, hoping to steer the conversation away from me.
“Mairead, let me just seat our guest,” I said, picking up two menus and trotting ahead to a table as far from the hostess stand as possible. It turned out to be the one with the nicest view of the grounds, the outside dining area lit up with torches for the evening. “Mary instructed me to seat you at our VIP table.” That wasn’t true, but Brian had been so nice to me on the plane, and what was the point of having a service job if you couldn’t use your powers for good once in a while.
“The Mary who gave me a tour of the grounds?” he asked. I nodded.
“Sturdy lass, that Mary,” Brian said. I handed him a menu, and stepped to the side while one of the busboys filled his water glass. “You know, Shayla, I might have remembered you’d be here chasing after your man Tom O’Grady.” I faked a coughing fit to drown Brian out. The busser gave me a look as he moved on to the next table.
“Just a reminder,” I bellowed, “the offerings at The Grange Hall include locally sourced ingredients whenever possible, and we cook with the freshest, most organic vegetables. Our meats, eggs, dairy, and seafood include the best nature provides. Chef Tom O’Grady develops and executes the recipes for our dishes with the help of a blue-ribbon staff. We hope you’ll enjoy your meal, and let us know if there’s anything we can do to enhance your experience.” I’d taken the kernel of the welcome speech Mairead gave customers and made it my own.
“Lovely, lovely,” Brian responded.
“I’ll leave you to your dinner. Oh, and Mary asked me to send over a bottle of champagne. It should be here shortly.” I’d pay for that myself. I walked back to the hostess stand hoping I could afford it.
The rest of the night went swimmingly. Mairead handled the seating charts and timing of the reservations, and sent me to greet, sweet-talk and smooth ruffled feathers. I met a couple from Amsterdam on a 25th anniversary tour of Europe, a jockey from Lexington, Kentucky, who’d ridden in all three races of the Triple Crown, and a pair of Irish-American schoolteachers from Sheboygan, Wisconsin, who had saved their whole lives to make a pilgrimage to the motherland. I surprised myself at how much I enjoyed interacting with the guests. I loved the hens and horses, but at a certain point, conversation with them fell short.
After my shift, I was so energized that I couldn’t wind down. Instead of heading back to my dorm, I paid a rare visit to the back room of Uncle Jack’s for a drink.
Kieran, a strapping lad who sometimes worked in the kitchen doing prep or dishes, acted as barman. “Would you look at the high-fashion model who’s graced us here tonight, fellas? I’d swear that I know this girl, but the one I’m thinking of only wears men’s clothes and usually has enough dirt on her face to grow a crop of potatoes in.”
“Hilarious, Kieran.” I headed for a table.
“I’m just funnin’ with you. Sit here at the bar and tell me the craic. You look gorgeous tonight. Good on you.”
I broke my rule and climbed up on the barstool.
“Can I have a glass of water, please?” I was parched. I had worked hard. I’d probably talked more in the last six hours than I had in a month. Most of the time, being on the estate was an exercise in Zen. In the city, I constantly interacted with people. There was hardly a moment without small talk. Here, I spent swathes of time gardening, cleaning the church and tending animals. And while it’s true that the Irish are truly raconteurs, they aren’t afraid of silence.
He set down a pint glass of water and I drained it in one go.
“Here,” Kieran said, setting a glass of whiskey in front of me, “this one’s with me. You’re doin’ my head in drinking nothing but water at my bar.”
“Make that two, willya, Kieran?” Tom’s voice boomed out from behind me. He still wore his head wrap and chef’s whites. I checked my watch. Dinner service had ended.
“My pleasure. Good to see you in here, Chef. It’s been a while.”
“I’m not really a brown-liquor kind of girl,” I whispered to Tom.
“Nonsense, what whiskey and butter won’t cure, there’s no cure for,” Tom declared, raising his glass.
“Slàinte!” cried the people in the bar, toasting to the old adage.
“And don’t bother telling me what kind of girl you are,” Tom whispered, lips grazing my ear, “because I happen to know.” Without taking his eyes off mine, he drained his glass. Game, I took a big slug of my own. It tasted like the air smelled on a cool, Irish night. “Why don’t you finish your drink? I’ve Castle Stone business to discuss with you. Over in the tower. It’s a private matter.”
Kieran pretended to polish glasses, but I could see his ears perking up.
“There you are, Sheila,” called Brigid, pushing through the door. “I’ve spent half the night looking for Mary, so I could drag her in for a pint. No sign of her, so you’ll have to do. Come into the snug and have a drink with me.” Tom turned around on his stool. “Erm, that is, unless you’re still on duty. Alright, Chef?” Her wheels turned, trying to work the scene out.
“Maybe I’ll catch you back here in a while, Bridge.” Tom got up from his stool and headed for the door. There’s a scheduling issue Chef needs to go over with me.” I slid down and scooted out the door before anyone else had a chance to ask questions.
Out in the warm, June air, I burst out laughing. My heart thrilled, like I’d stolen something. “Isn’t it pretty out tonight?”
“Aw, sure lookit. That’s not the only pretty thing ‘round here, so.” Tom pulled me into the shadow of a huge oak tree and stifled my laughter with a deep kiss. “Mmm…you taste delicious.”
“Thank you.”
“Don’t get too big for your britches, it’s the whiskey.”
I swatted him as punishment and he sprinted to get away from me. With all I had, I ran after him, and dove at his legs. We tumbled to the grass, and he rolled on top of me, pinning my hands to the ground.
“Stop,” I begged, gasping for breath and giggling. “This isn’t my dress!”
“Then we should get it off of you, right away,” he said, tugging the skirt upward.
“Tom!” I shrieked, “No!”
Chuckling, he stood up, and held out a hand to help me to my feet. Walking along the path, Catherine appeared from the shadows.
“Chef? Alright, then? It’s only I heard shouting.” Her cold gaze passed over me.
“Right as rain, thanks for asking,” Tom said without stopping. “Home safe, Catherine.” I burst into a jog to keep up with him, leaving Catherine standing with her painted mouth hanging open.
“Tom,” I whispered as soon as I figured we were out of earshot. “I think she was on to us.”
“So be it,” he said, as we approached the back door to the castle. He pulled a skeleton key from his trouser pocket that I thought must surely be a joke. “After all that business with Tabitha, I learned the key to happiness is to please mys
elf.”
He turned the ancient key in the lock and pushed open the heavy, wooden door. I didn’t ask where we were going, but I hoped it was his bedroom. He led me down a dank corridor, its stone walls covered in a combination of giant oil portraits and faded tapestries, which I could only assume were older than anything I’d ever laid a finger on. We headed up a narrow staircase. At the top, Tom opened what appeared to be a closet door and shoved me inside. It was pitch black and hung full of dank and musty garments. My claustrophobia kicked in just as Tom flung open a door leading to an oddly shaped room, half-bathed in moonlight. He strode ahead of me and flicked on a lamp.
“The Triangle Room,” he announced. “Otherwise known as home.”
The first thing I noticed were the shelves and shelves of books. I browsed the spines. There were biographies of Napoleon Bonaparte, Abraham Lincoln and Simone de Beauvoir. He had Dante’s Divine Comedy. The volumes of poetry included works by Emily Dickinson, Walt Whitman, Charles Baudelaire. “You told me on the drive to Dublin that you don’t read.”
“I said I don’t read fiction.”
“Well, I see Ulysses right here, and The Complete Works of Shakespeare.”
He grinned wickedly. “Maybe I stretched the truth. Only for effect, mind you.”
“You’re full of surprises, Chef O’Grady.”
Someone had valiantly fitted the strange angles of the walls and ceilings with elaborately carved crown molding, and the fireplace boasted a magnificent marble mantle. Still, there was no denying that the effect of the narrowing of the room to a sharp point lent the effect of a fun house. Deep-burgundy linens that matched the quilted and carved headboard adorned the bed. You couldn’t help but call the room opulent. “It’s gorgeous.”
Summer at Castle Stone Page 28