Summer at Castle Stone

by Lynn Marie Hulsman

  It was complicated. How could I explain how lonely I’d been, for so long? After Mom died, I saw my grandparents less and less. Hank was always busy, always traveling. Before long, they were gone. No one stuck around to love me. If I told him that, he might look for reasons why.

  “I know I’m happy right now. Can I have one of those bottles of water?” I wanted to talk about something else.

  “Help yourself.”

  “By the way, where are we going?”

  “It’s a surprise.”

  I lay back against the seat and closed my eyes. I wasn’t in control. I opened one eye and took a look at capable, strong, beautiful Tom. I stopped trying to be.

  When we pulled in to the Cobbler’s Hill Country House Hotel, I startled Tom by screaming, “Oh, look. Deer!” A whole family stood at the edge of the woods, nibbling on fresh, green shoots.

  “Here we are, in the ‘land of heart’s desire,’ according to one W.B. Yeats, who lived not far from here.”

  The Georgian main house featured antique furniture with modern comforts, and the lady who checked us in lived locally. She didn’t draw a single breath during her speech outlining the local history. She offered us tea and scones in the drawing room, but Tom was clever enough to ask if we could have it sent up as we needed to freshen up from the trip.

  We were settled into the School Room, replete with flocked wallpaper, Chinese rugs and a spectacular view of the river running through the property. Our bathroom boasted a roll-top tub with brass fixtures.

  “Ooh, that’s the first thing I want to do,” I told Tom.

  “I’ll do you one better. Slip your shoes back on and follow me.”

  After a short drive, we wound up near the sea’s edge. Tom pulled into the car park of an Edwardian bath house promising “Organic health and beauty, from the sea to you.”

  Tom confirmed our reservation at the desk. We were led to a sort of a wet room featuring a bathtub, something that looked like a cedar coffin with a hole for your head, and a shower. We spent the next hour lolling naked in the hot, salty water tinted the color of tea from the iodine given off by long ropes of fresh, slimy seaweed, and enclosing ourselves in the steam cabinet to open our pores and perspire out toxins. In between, Tom pushed me under the freezing cold sea-water shower, where I shrieked and danced and protested as he held me tightly around the waist to keep me in my place.

  Neither of us had a condom. I wanted Tom inside me so badly. The sensations of oil and fragrance and temperature along with the slickness of our naked bodies tortured me. I knew both Tom and I were safe; we’d done the practical unromantic work of going over our sexual histories. Reckless with passion, I begged him. In that moment, I was willing to take chances. If my future were decided for me, I could stop worrying about what to do next. Tom held strong and we made do with pleasing one another in more creative ways. I felt like a teenager and Tom proved to be as nimble and renewable as one.

  I could barely dress when it was over. My muscles wobbled as I staggered to the lobby and drank what must have been a gallon of cool water.

  “What next?” I asked Tom. He was starting out across the car park.

  “Quick, let’s get to the car,” he said, gathering our things, and pulling me by the elbow.

  “What’s the matter?”

  He unlocked the passenger side and pushed me in. He grabbed his sunglasses from the visor, clapped them on, stepped on the gas. “Damn,” he swore. “I thought all this was over.”

  “What?”

  “Photographers. My face on the cover of cheap, glossy magazines.”

  Tom pulled in to the hotel, and barely said a word as we walked back to the room. His mood scared me. I hovered around the coffee and tea service, not sure what to do next.

  “I was thinking we’d go for a drink at a pub I like down by the sea, but now I don’t really feel like it. I thought coming all the way up to Sligo would take care of it. I’m sorry, Sheila.”

  “Sorry for what?”

  He sighed. “They’ve left me alone for some time now. There wasn’t much to write about with me sticking close by the estate. I hadn’t anything to do with women since you know, Tabitha. There was the odd photo of me standing next to some girl in Ballykelty saying we were to be married or I’d broken her heart, or what have you. I didn’t mean for you to have to cope with this.”

  “Is it that big a deal? So what, they print an unflattering picture of me, saying Tom O’Grady’s standards have fallen?” I laughed.

  He shot me a stern look. “Don’t talk like that. It isn’t true,” he kicked off his loafers and sat on the edge of the huge, king-sized bed. “What I’m sorry about is that those sleazy reporters will start digging into your past and printing God knows what. Could be that you failed your college exams or that you were arrested for shoplifting. ‘Course it doesn’t even have to be true.” He slapped his hands on his knees. “If I find out someone at the Castle sold this story, mark my words, heads will roll.” His expression was hard.

  “Let’s just have a drink here.” I really needed one now. “Wine OK?” I asked, eyebrows raised. He nodded. I called room service and had them send a bottle of Sauvignon Blanc and some sandwiches. I figured gentle was the name of the game. Whiskey on an empty stomach seemed the wrong choice for Tom at the moment.

  I excused myself to the bathroom and took a long look in the mirror. The end of the road was nearing fast. How soon would it be before someone outed me as Shayla de Winter and Tom put two and two together? I pushed the thought of it out of my mind and changed into one of the robes that were hanging on the back of the door. We had now. We had this weekend. I didn’t want to think ahead to anything else. For once, things just had to go right for me.

  I opened the door and made a beeline for Tom, who was lying on the bed, propped on his elbow, drinking a glass of wine. I took it from his hand and set it on the bedside locker.

  “I’m sorry the trip went arseways on us. I wish my ridiculous notoriety, if you can call it that, hadn’t spoiled the fun for you.”

  “Let’s just stay in all weekend, can we Tom? Can we pretend there’s nothing outside these four walls, and just be with each other?”

  “I can think of nothing I want more, Sheila. Beautiful Sheila.”

  I covered his mouth in kisses to stop him from calling me by the wrong name.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Speak of the devil, and he will appear.

  The day we got back, Tom dug straight into work. Separating from him had been difficult after our intense long weekend. He’d barely been off the property since he’d come back to help Tony. People weren’t used to managing without him. I had the morning off. On my way to stash my luggage back in my dorm room, I ran into Brigid going in the main entrance.

  “Jaysus, it’s quare warm today.” She took the bandana she had tied around her neck and used it to tie up her hair. “Anyone would think this is the Bahamas and not Ireland. A word to the wise: You’ll want to watch your back around Catherine.”

  “Why?” I motioned for her to follow me.

  “She’s found out about you and Chef and she doesn’t like it.”

  My heart sunk. “How did you know?”

  “Come on, Sheila. I worked right alongside the two of yous. I’m surprised you didn’t shag right there in the scone dough. I told Mary from the start that what Ashleigh said about you couldn’t be true. And it’s fairly hard to miss the fact that you disappeared together for days.”

  “Does everyone know?” I unlocked my door and waved Brigid inside.

  “Not at the moment, but I’d say they might soon. Go talk to Mary. She’s got her finger on the pulse. If there’s something to be sorted out, she’ll sort it.” Brigid smiled a wicked smile. “She’s just back herself. She was away looking after her gran, and I went to a quilting convention in Cork at the weekend. Now we’re both back, I’m going to drag her over to Jack’s for a round or ten. Things were too quiet here without her.”

  “Are
you headed to Jack’s to put your moves on Kieran?”

  She laughed. “Close, but no banana, as they say. But maybe tonight will be my lucky one, anyway. Wait until you hear it, Mary’s looking into whether she can take me on as a full-time paid worker.” She blushed. “Don’t spread that around, though. Wouldn’t want Mary to get in trouble for doing me special favors.

  “Aw, that’s brilliant, Bridge.” I took off my jacket and hung it on a peg. “I’m glad you’re going to get what you want.”

  “Mary’s a good friend.” She smiled. “Mary’s grand, she is. Now get yourself over there and find out what’s what.”

  The second I poked my head through the door, Mary was up on her feet to shut the door behind me. She told me to sit down, then handed me an envelope.

  “Remember when that Chris Burton left in the night?” she asked. I nodded. “He left this note for Chef. Thanks be to God, it got stuck in one of the pigeonholes up by the front desk. Far be it from me to snoop into other people’s private correspondence, but in my defense, the envelope wasn’t sealed. You and Chef were gone by the time I knew what I had in my hands. Go ahead, take a look at it.”

  I slid the paper out of the envelope. It was a letter telling Tom that their business relationship was over, no surprise there, and that it was my fault for being unprofessional. I scanned down the page. He went on to say that Tom should know that I’m not who I say I am and that he advises Tom to contact the authorities as I may be traveling under false papers.

  “Right,” Mary said. “We could have handled this had Catherine not stuck her pointy little, turned-up nose into it. She’ll never admit to reading Chef’s post, but I know she did. I saw her take it out of her pocket and stuff it back into the pigeonhole, and ever since, she’s looked like the cat who ate the canary. If she’s asked me once, she’s asked me a dozen times when Chef would be back on the grounds.”

  “Mary, there was a photographer following us around up in Sligo. You don’t think Catherine…?

  “Well, if she did and we can prove it, she’ll be sacked quicker than you can say Jack Robinson. Chef hates the paparazzi worse than poison. For now, let’s deal with the facts. Chef’s in the kitchen for a twelve-hour shift today, and she’s on the desk from now till midnight, so you’re likely fine until tomorrow. You’re due at the hostess stand for dinner service tonight. Unfortunately, I won’t be here. My home parish priest is retiring and I’m expected at his leaving do at 6 o’clock. How do you want to play this?”

  There was no choice. “I’ll have to tell him the truth.” I’d gather up what I had of the book tonight and get it ready to show it to Tom. “Mary, can you fix the schedule so Tom’s free in the morning?”

  “Ah, sure, I’ll do that.” I stood up and headed to the door. “Don’t look so worried, pet. It’ll all work out, so. He loves you.”

  “He never said that.”

  “When the apple is ripe, it will fall,’ my gran always said. Good luck to you.”

  Standing at the hostess’ stand that evening, I felt a million times better. I’d gone straight back to my room and organized the book. I arranged the drawings, inserted dummies and descriptions of how I envisioned each photograph, and reread and tweaked my essays. I threw out any recipes that I deemed leprechaun twee or modern foodie. I even wrote out an explanation of why I lied, and how being in Ireland and watching Tom had changed my thinking. This, I stuck in my journal. I’d only hand that over to Tom if my words failed me.

  The cheer of the expectant diners took my mind off my troubles. Before I knew it, I’d lost myself in the familiar rhythm of seating guests and chatting with my colleagues. Through the glass picture window, I saw Nap running back and forth, a black and white streak. Sure enough, not far behind Lord Wexford followed. He no longer had his cane. They headed in the direction of Maeve’s cottage. I crossed my fingers and said a silent prayer that all was well in their corner of the world.

  I seated a group of ladies from Philadelphia who were travelling around Ireland on an ancestry tour, each tracing her roots. Also in that night was a couple from Scotland whose brogue was so thick I had to ask three times what their name was. My favorite clients of the evening were a young couple from Screen who’d gotten married two days before. They had spent their honeymoon night in the hotel in Enniscorthy, where their wedding took place, but as a special treat, their myriad brothers and sisters had pitched in and given them two nights at Castle Stone. The young pair seemed nervous, as though they had never dined in so lavish a restaurant. I bent over backwards to make them feel at home and asked the waiter to comp them desserts, on me.

  Eventually, there was a lull. Mairead and I stood gossiping and laughing when Catherine approached.

  “What brings you into the restaurant tonight, Catherine?” Mairead asked, wary. Catherine wasn’t what was known as a girls’ girl. Everyone knew she was a stickler for rules, and fun-loving Mairead knew to watch her back.

  “I wanted to let Shayla know that she has a visitor at the desk in the lobby. Mairead, can you spare Shayla for a few moments?”

  “I can spare her, but would’ja stop saying her name that way? Geez,” Mairead replied. I felt sick. I wanted to think that it was the young couple I’d bought desserts for, but I had a dark feeling it could be Chris Burton. Or worse. What if it were people from immigration. Was it possible I’d broken some Irish law by interning under the wrong name?

  A man with a full head of gray hair stood at the reception desk, his back turned to me. Catherine called out, “Mr. de Winter? Here’s your daughter, Shayla,” with a glint in her eye and a smile on her face.

  “Hank? What on earth are you doing here?

  “Shayla, I could ask you the same thing. I’ve tried to reach you on and off for months. Do you know I had to hear you were fired from Haversmith, Peebles, and Chin from Brenda Sackler? I’d been leaving you messages on your old work number, and no one bothered to tell me you didn’t work there anymore.”

  Catherine didn’t even bother to hide the fact that she was taking in every word.

  “So you came to track me down?”

  “Hell no. I was the keynote speaker at a writer’s conference in Dublin last night. The only way I had to get hold of you was by leaving a message at the desk for you here. From what I understand, you’ve been MIA for the last four or five days. Do you know the trouble I went to getting myself out to these godforsaken sticks? I had to wrestle out of your friend Maggie where you are. She didn’t tell me how off the grid this place was. Didn’t anyone tell you I was coming tonight?”

  “No,” I said, glaring at Catherine, “they didn’t. Come on, let’s step outside so we can talk.”

  I led him out the front and around the side of the main building. We stood on one of the smaller paths, under a gas light.

  “All right, Shayla, just tell me what you need and I’ll fix it. One phone call to HPC and you’ll have your job back. Or do you want me to talk to Brenda? After the weekend we had on Martha’s Vineyard, I’m sure she’ll give me whatever I ask for. Wouldn’t be the first time, heh heh.”

  “I don’t need anything. I came here to get a book written, and I’m just about done. Once I turn it in, Brenda won’t have any reason to doubt me.”

  “You mean that cookbook? Shayla, when are you finally going to let me walk you in to George at Atlas Talent? I’ve told you a hundred times, as a favor to me he’ll tailor-make a project for you. A real book. Not a Dumbass Guide and not a cookbook.”

  “My cookbook is a real book.”

  “To housewives and suburban soccer moms. Maybe that’s what you’re cut out for. Who am I to say?” He looked around. “I’m flying out tomorrow night. Let me get you a ticket and bail you out of this mess. Don’t you miss New York?”

  “A real bagel and some lox would taste good,” I admitted. There was no point in explaining to Hank that Ballykelty offered its own delights. To him, if it existed off the island of Manhattan, it wasn’t worth hearing about.

  �
�At any rate, it must have been easy to get the material you needed out of these rubes. Do you have what you need to write this pamphlet?”

  “It pretty much was.” I wanted Hank to see that I’d done a good job, that I was going to wind up on my feet.

  “Did you use all the tricks I taught you? Did you make them trust you?”

  “Aye, she did,” Tom said, stepping out of the darkness by the castle wall. “Catherine told me you wanted to see me, Shayla?” His face betrayed no emotion. “And you must be Hank de Winter? You might be shocked to hear that I’ve read your books. You see, I’m naught more than a simple country rube.”

  “Tom, I was going to explain in the morning.”

  “You’re no better than those filthy paparazzi who follow me around snapping pics and selling my story.” His mouth twisted into a mean line. “What’s your angle, Shayla? An intimate tell-all? Who bought it? Hello? The Sun?”

  “Hank, there’s a bar attached to the restaurant. Go have a drink, and I’ll meet you there later.”

  “Don’t have to ask me twice,” he said, heading toward the castle’s main entrance.

  “Tom you have to listen.”

  “I don’t have to do anything.” He pulled off his headwrap and unbuttoned his chef’s coat at the throat, and strode off in the direction of the back castle entrance to his room. I ran after him, barely able to keep up. I grabbed at the back of his coat. He shrugged me off angrily and stopped in his tracks.

  “Tom, I didn’t sell an article. I’m writing your cookbook. Brenda Sackler’s my agent.”

  He stared at me coldly. “You’re not writing my cookbook. I’ll see to that.” A look of understanding came over his face. “Oh, I see it now. God, how could I have been so blind? You’re the girl who rang me. The girl I almost said yes to.” He shook his head like he was trying to shake the memory out of it. “You’ve been lying to me for that long?” His eyes beamed disgust. “Who are you?”

  “I’m me, Tom!” I said in a ragged voice.

  “Who? Sheila?” he said, in a voice dripping with scorn. I grabbed for his hand, desperate to hold it, but he just pulled away.