Summer at Castle Stone

by Lynn Marie Hulsman

  “Let’s just drop it.” I gathered our glasses and the wine bottle, and moved them to the coffee table. I turned on the TV to discourage Maggie from lecturing me further. We snuggled our feet under a shared afghan and settled in to watch The Late Night Show. We chatted through the opening monologue but focused in once Miranda Swanson came on for an interview. She was on to push her latest rom-com movie. She’d done so many BBC costume dramas and Merchant Ivory films using a posh, British accent that it sounded odd to my ears when she spoke in her native Irish lilt.

  “So we know you’ve been busy with the film,” Dave said to Miranda Swanson, “what about your love life?”

  “You know, Dave, that is a good question. What about my love life?” Miranda asked, pulling a face. “I’m not dating anyone at the mo…”

  “Not since you’re big break up with…”

  “Stop! Do not mention he who must not be named. It’s funny, while I’ve been in this, shall we say, fallow period, I’ve been loving this blog called In Love with an Irish Farmer. Honestly, Dave, I’ve been wondering if I shouldn’t just give this up and start growing my own beetroot and raising chickens.”

  I could see Maggie’s lips moving. I watched her jump up off the couch and point at the TV screen, but all I could hear was my own blood roaring through my ears like the ocean.

  “Tell me more about that,” I read Dave’s lips saying.

  I popped back in to reality just in time to hear Miranda say “crazy, quirky girl who’s down on her luck with love, but who may be on to something. I wouldn’t mind feeling a bit of grass beneath my feet after the hard work of shooting that last film. And if there were a sexy farmer willing to set a roast dinner in front of me on any given Sunday, so much the better.”

  “You heard it here first, folks,” Dave said. “Run, don’t walk to your local cinema to catch The Engagement Watch starring the lovely Miranda Swanson. Could be your last chance as she transitions from top Hollywood film actress to Irish chicken plucker.”

  Maggie flicked off the set and screamed. She climbed up onto the sofa and started jumping up and down. My phone rang. I looked at the number. Brenda.

  “Hello?”

  “Who’s got their finger on the pulse? Me, that’s who. Be in my office tomorrow morning at 10.”

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  A story without an author is not worth listening to.

  “Have a seat, Shayla.’

  The mention my blog had been given in the New York Times styles section had secured me Brenda’s full attention. I knew they worked fast over at the famed Gray Lady, but I had no idea it was this fast. Apparently, yearning for life and love outside of the concrete jungle was the new black. According to Brenda, my memoir could go to auction, meaning multiple publishing houses could get into a bidding war. I just had to agree to name myself.

  “It’s a no-brainer, really, Shayla. If you go by Sheridan, you can tie in the couple of articles you did way back when for The Observer. If you go by de Winter, well, you know what kind of clout that brings. What’s the point of being anonymous?”

  Way deep in my gut niggled a memory. Tom’s voice railing against people who’d used him and exploited him. He hated the reporters, he hated the paparazzi, and it was crystal clear that he hated me for tricking him into helping me write the cook book. He considered me a slick, New York City opportunist. The kind one could never trust. That would never change. I could explain and apologize till the cows came home, and he’d still hate me. I’d made my bed and now I’d have to lie in it. I was a city girl now.

  “Brenda,” the intercom buzzed on the desk. “Ray Diablo is here to see you.”

  “Son of a bitch! Shayla, with all the excitement from the TV shout-out and the Times article, I double-booked. Just let me get rid of him.”

  “I hope you’re not talking about me,” Ray said, grabbing Brenda’s tweed-clad shoulders in his giant hands for a neck massage. I could tell by her expression that she hated it.

  “Of course not, Ray, don’t be an ass! We’re talking about Shayla’s dad. Can’t do a business lunch and a spa day at the same time, now, can we?” She flashed him a pinched expression that she probably thought read as a smile.

  He rolled a chair over from another desk and sat down. “Shayla? I feel like I ought to know you.”

  “Last time we met, my hair was blonde. And long. And stringy. You know me from here.”

  “That’s right, I do. You said you’d call me and you never did.” He treated me to a slow smile.

  “I left the country.”

  “Not to get away from me?” he flirted. “Don’t believe everything you read. Aren’t you a writer? Hey Brenda, that’s what I’m here about. It’s been two weeks since I cut that other clown loose. If we’re going to get this thing done and turned in, we need to get on it. I’m starting a barbecue tour of food trucks across America soon, and I won’t have time for all this book shit.” He glanced at me. “Pardon my French.”

  “Ray, you’re the talent. Don’t worry about steering the ship. I’m on it.”

  “What about her?” he asked, jabbing a thumb in my direction. “She looks like someone I can work with. Can I get her cheap?” He flashed me a grin.

  Brenda sat up in her chair. “You know, that’s not the worst idea I’ve heard today. I’m not saying it’s a deal but what’s the harm in a couple of getting-to-know-each-other dinners, somewhere hot and high-profile? Just say the word and I’ll get you a table wherever you like. I have two or three up-and-comer clients with restaurants that’ll be in The Times by next week. I could get you in now. And call a few reporters I know from The Post,” she muttered under her breath.

  “That’s settled, then. I need me a co-writer. And we’ve gotta eat, don’t we?” He pulled his card out of the back of his jeans pocket and handed it to me. “Call me, and tell me when and where. See you tonight.” We both watched Ray push through the glass double-doors and disappear down the hall.

  “Lookit,” Brenda said. “How long are you back in New York, and I’ve got you set up with a blog that made the New York Times, a soon-to-be very nice book deal, and now a replacement boyfriend? Who’s your fairy godmother?”

  “Boyfriend? I thought we were talking about me co-writing his book?”

  “Eh, that we’ll see about. Although,” she tapped her head, “If we slid you in to that slot, it might be that much easier to sell you to Tom O’Grady.”

  “I don’t want you to sell me to Tom O’Grady! Just…just leave him out of all this.”

  “All right, for now. We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it. For now, just make sure to be seen with Ray. A lot.”

  “Brenda, I’m having a business dinner with him to pitch myself as his co-writer.”

  “Fine,” she said, standing up to signal that the meeting was over. “Just make sure you do it somewhere with lots of cameras.”

  Maggie zipped me into the tight sheath dress. “There,” she declared. “You look perfect. But please try not to spill anything on it. I may have bought it at Housing Works, but it is an Alexander McQueen.”

  I looked at myself in the full-length mirror on the back of her closet door. “I don’t know, Mags. It’s kind of…black.”

  “And? What were you looking for? Pink? It would be much better if we could have booked you in for a half-head of highlights, but you look fine.” I shot her a look. “Better than fine. It’s a black dress, in a classic line. You’ll fit in. Once I get your makeup done, Ray Diablo will want to eat you alive.” She pushed me into a chair in front of her new vanity with the light bulbs encircling the mirror, and gently pulled my hair back into a cloth headband.

  “I’m going to talk about co-writing. It’s ridiculous, really. I could just email him a set of proposals and manuscripts.”

  Maggie laughed. “Do you think Ray Diablo is going to read them? Shay, do you think he’s even read his own books? He’s the kind of guy who has people for everything. He has a stylist who created that signature l
ook with the jeans and custom-designed bowling shirts. He has business people planning and running Austin Heat. Do you think he could have opened a restaurant and kept it alive? He’s very, very cute but he doesn’t strike me as the brightest bulb on the tree. I heard he’s not even a chef. Mark my words, they gave him that cooking show on the strength of his good ol’ boy charm and his pretty face. I dare you to ask him where he went to culinary school.”

  “You’d think if he needed a writer…”

  “You’d think, but then you’d be wrong. Like I said, he has people for that. Your job tonight is to get in there and tell him whatever it is he wants to hear in order to become one of his people. Now pucker.”

  I held still while Maggie did my lips. Six months ago, I would have killed for this chance. Now it just seemed like so much work. I heard my phone ping on the desk. An email. I signaled to Maggie to let me pick it up. It could be Ray canceling. I crossed my fingers that it was.

  It was from Brigid! My heart started pounding. I hadn’t heard from anyone at Castle Stone since I’d left. “Give me a sec, Mags. I’m just going to use the bathroom.”

  I went in and closed the door behind myself. I didn’t want to share this.

  Hiya Sheila

  I’m sorry I haven’t gotten in touch before now. It sounds silly to say, but I just got caught up in the routine, you know? Seems like life here on the estate takes place in a bubble. You’ve been on my mind. The kitchen isn’t a patch on what it was when you were here alongside me. There’s not a bit of craic in there. Without you messing everything up, Bill has no one to be cross with, ha ha. Just kidding. You really were getting better at cooking toward the end.

  So, Mary told me the whole story about how you’re a famous New York writer and you were going undercover to do a story on Chef. I googled your Da. How’d ya stand living in the dorm after growing up in such a palace (Google Earth)?

  Same old, same old here, except maybe Chef. He’s back to being his old way. He’s short-tempered and he never jokes around. I spoke with his mam after church last Sunday. She said it’s not right for such a young man to behave like an old man. She was off to give Sunday lunch to Lord Wexford, so we didn’t speak for long.

  You must be grand now, back in the big city. Just do us a favor, don’t forget Mary and me when you’re eating a bowl of gold up in that high-rise apartment of yours!

  Brigid xx

  When I came out, Maggie waved me back into my chair. “No, no!” she said, dabbing at the corners of my eyes with a tissue. “Don’t destroy my work. Keep those eyes dry. Anyway, what I was saying was, get in there and tell Ray Diablo you’re the right one for the job. Don’t let him argue with you. Imagine it, between the blog and the book…what are they going to call it? I’m in Love with an Irish Farmer?”

  “No, not that.”

  “Anyway, between your two projects and one of Ray’s books under your belt, you may never have to work as an editorial assistant ever again. My agent’s pitching the synopsis for my next novel. If I sell ‘Unwritten works 2 and 3,” and a film option, I’ll be tap-dancing topless on my desk the next day to the tune of “Take this job and shove it!”

  “Maggie, I don’t want to sound ungrateful, I really don’t, but what’s the point in doing Ray’s book? Or my book, really?”

  She put her hand on her hip and stared right into my eyes. “What’s the point? The point is that you’ve worked your whole life to be a real writer, and you’re steps away from it becoming a reality. What else is there?”

  “You’re right.” I conceded.

  She nodded and smiled a satisfied smile.

  “There’s really nothing else, now, I guess. Now let’s get me ready.” I closed my eyes and let her paint the rest of my face on.

  “Sorry I’m late,” I told Ray as the waiter pulled out my chair. I had no real excuse, so I didn’t offer one. I’d hung around at Maggie and Eric’s drinking wine until she literally walked me downstairs and put me in a cab to Yong Sook Korean Bar-B-Q.

  “No worries,” Ray drawled easily. He took a pull from his longneck beer bottle. “You want a drink?”

  “White wine.”

  Ray ordered my drink. “After I left Brenda’s, I went back to the office and told my assistant about you. Not ten minutes later, Brenda called and gave me the exclusive scoop. Looks like you’re poised to be a household name. My PA did her magic on the computer, and sat me down in front of your blog. Sounds like you’ve had your heart broken, little lady.”

  “Yeah, I’d rather not talk about that. Why don’t we order?”

  “Already taken care of.” That annoyed me. How did he know what I wanted to eat?

  “My PA explained to me that if your book takes off the way your blog has, we could leverage the cross-marketing.” I could tell he was concentrating hard to pull off this speech. “It seems young women are a demographic my brand of raisin’ hell and inch-thick steaks have failed to pull in. She put a call in to the head of marketing at Ray Diablo, Inc., who said I should definitely make this a go.”

  My wine came and I took a long drink. I forced a smile. This was going exactly the way it was supposed to. I felt nothing.

  “But don’t get excited yet. I told him that this wasn’t about the money, it was about the chemistry. If I don’t feel it, it doesn’t happen. Know what I mean?”

  “I do, Ray. I really do.”

  A throng of waiters appeared and arranged pots, dishes, plates and bowls on our table. I got a whiff of something so foul that it brought me to my feet. “Wow, I think something’s really wrong here,” I said, hands cupped over my mouth and nose. “Do you want me to call someone?”

  Ray laughed. “Naw, that’s just the hongeo. It smells strong, but if you breathe in and out through your mouth, you’ll be able to get it down.”

  “Is it food?” I considered myself to be fairly worldly, but this was pushing it.

  “It’s fermented skate. Skate’s a weird fish. It doesn’t pee like other sea creatures. It just passes the uric acid through its skin. Once they ferment it, that acid smells exactly like ammonia.”

  “And you want to eat it because…?”

  He laughed. “That’s the beauty of being who I am. I can go wherever I want and do whatever I want. I never get bored. My show took me on location in Korea and while I was there, I ate all this stuff. Now I’m in New York City, and all I have to do is snap my fingers and I can get it again.” He picked up his metal chopsticks and began heaping what appeared to be chicken feet onto his plate.

  “What’s that?” I asked, pointing to a glutinous brown dish topped with finely chopped vegetables.

  “Acorn jelly.”

  “I thought I read somewhere that acorns are poisonous to humans.”

  “They are. Unless you cook them, grind them into a powder, and cook them again using precisely the correct method. Try it.”

  “No thanks, I’ll just stick to the wine.”

  “Where’s your sense of adventure? I’m supposed to be the backwater hick from Texas. Weren’t all you New York babies given sushi and champagne in your cribs?”

  “I’ve lost my taste for it. I’ve become more of a meat and potatoes girl.” With the extra glass of wine on my empty stomach, I felt dizzy. Or maybe it was more than that. I couldn’t catch a deep breath, and I felt like the floor was dropping out from underneath me. It dawned on me that I was having a panic attack. I looked around wildly for a paper bag to breathe into. “Ray, I hate to do this, but I’m not feeling well. Would you mind terribly if I just took a rain check?”

  He stood up immediately. “No, of course not. I’m sorry you don’t feel good. Let me take you home.”

  “No! Please. You stay here and enjoy…all this. I’ll be fine.” The floor was modulating in waves under my feet. I just wanted out of there.

  “I’m going to put you in a cab. There’s no arguing about that,” Ray took me by the arm and let the waiters know he’d be back.

  Ray gave the driver a twenty-doll
ar bill and told him to make sure I got inside the lobby of my building. “You don’t have to do that, Ray.” I just wanted to be alone. I didn’t want Ray looking at me.

  “That’s how I operate,” he explained. “The sooner you surrender to Ray, the better off you’ll be.” He knocked the passenger-side window, and the cab took off. “You look like you could use a little babying.”

  As I watched the buildings speed by on my way uptown, I thought about Maeve. If she were here, she’d insist that I eat broth and bread, tuck me into my bed, and turn the lights down. But Maeve would never be here. And I will never be there again. Time to move on, Shayla, I coached myself. Tomorrow would be a new day.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  It’s more difficult to maintain honor than to become prosperous.

  I handed Hank his scotch, and sat down on the couch.

  “Glad you could finally make the elevator ride down to have a drink with your old dad. It’s been over a month since you’ve been back. When you’re the flavor of the day, I guess you have to make hay while the sun shines or lose your chance. No time for the likes of me.”

  “It’s not like that, Hank. Mostly, I’ve been trying to work.”

  “You’re either working or you’re not working. I’ve been working for 30 years straight. There is no try, only do. Writer’s block is a myth. When there’s something to be written, you put your head down and you write it.” His face softened and he took a long look at me. “So, how does it feel to finally have a book deal of your own?”

  “It’s not ‘finally.’ I’ve had book deals before,” I defended.

  “I mean a real one.”

  I shifted uncomfortably and took a sip of my wine. The deal was done. Brenda had sold my book. She had me re-envision it as a confessional/memoir/how-to book and had advised me to write in tips and tricks for farm life. I had essays on burying eggs to keep them fresh, how to prevent botulism when canning vegetables from your garden, and of course, how to approach a horse without getting your head kicked in. The title had been decided: The City Girl’s Guide to Irish Farm Life. The thought of Tom ever seeing it filled me with dread so I just didn’t think about it. At least the title didn’t mention my being in love with an Irish farmer. I must have been out of my mind when I let Maggie convince me that outing myself was the solution.