Hair still wet from the shower, I flung open the windows at Fred and Irma’s. It only served to let in more hot, humid air. Someone knocked on the apartment door. Pulling a tank top over my head, I cautiously went to the door and yelled, “Who is it?”
“It’s Mary and Brigid, from Castle Stone,” came the cheery reply. “We buzzed and buzzed, but there was no answer. I hope you don’t mind that the doorman let us up.”
I scrambled to open the multiple locks and the chain to let them in.
“Surprise!” Mary said, giving me a big hug. She wore a canvas hat with a string that made her look like an explorer from the Australian outback, and a fanny pack around her waist that sat right below her belly. In stark contrast, Brigid had on a pair of black cat’s-eye sunglasses, an A-line mini dress printed with a large pattern of tropical fruits and a pair of Israeli clogs. It occurred to me that I’d never seen Brigid wearing anything but chef’s whites or jeans and wellies, despite the treasures in her closet. Her developed sense of style caught me off guard. It suited her. I waved them into the apartment, sat them on the sofa, and gave them ice-water.
“Sorry we didn’t call to tell you we were coming, but Maeve made us swear on the graves of our ancestors that we wouldn’t. She said you’d refuse to see us.”
I thought about it. Mary was right.
“It wasn’t easy finding out how to get in touch with you. I pressed Timmy to go to his sister Ashleigh and ask Des to get in touch with his cousin Maggie. She’s the one who gave us your address. By the way, Ashleigh and Des finally tied the knot. It was touch and go there for a while. They had a big row about Des cheating on her with some nasty slag.” I squirmed in my chair, hoping the slag in question wasn’t me. “After that, he became a model citizen. Guess you don’t know what you have until you’re likely to lose it.”
“Yeah,” I agreed. “That’s the truth. Why are you two here?”
Mary smiled. “You see, Brigid here is being headhunted to be the curator of the quilt collection at the Folk Art and Craft Museum here in New York. And I came to see for myself what living in the big city might be like. So far, I’m finding it tolerable.”
“Are you serious? What about your job?”
“Ah, I can find a job anywhere there’s a hospitality industry. There’s a hotel every other block here. Barring that, I saw some horses in Central Park. Where there’s horses, there’s stables.”
“But wouldn’t you miss Ireland? Wouldn’t you miss the country?”
She took Brigid’s hand. “Not as much as I’d miss Brigid.”
A lump formed in my throat at the naked expression of affection.
“Oh, here,” Mary said, “Before we forget. We’ve something for you. Brigid,” she said. Brigid rooted in her hand-sewn shoulder bag and produced a large, creamy eggshell-colored envelope. “Open it.”
I could tell it was a wedding invitation. Theirs? No, they weren’t excited enough. “The marriage of Mrs. Maeve O’Grady and Lord Anthony Stone, Earl of Wexford.” The relief I felt at not seeing Tom’s name as groom flooded through my limbs.
“Oh, that’s wonderful,” I said. “Perfect.”
“Maeve sent me to get your promise that you’d come.”
There was no way on earth I could sit in a church with Tom O’Grady during a wedding. I was sure the pain would actually kill me. Luckily, I wouldn’t have to.
“I’d love to be there, but I can’t afford it.”
“Lord Wexford insists on paying.”
“I can’t take his money.”
“He told me you’d say that. That’s why I got together with your friend Maggie and booked you onto a flight.” Mary produced some printouts and lay them before me. “Once you’re in Ireland, you’re a guest of Castle Stone, so that’s sorted. His Lordship’s putting you in a real room, no dorm for you this time. And here’s an envelope of cash for incidentals.” She put it on the coffee table.
“Listen, even if I wanted to go, I can’t. I start an internship at a farm upstate in ten days. It’s all set.”
“Not a problem,” Mary said. “Flight’s tomorrow, and the wedding’s the next day.”
“Sorry, I can’t just up and leave.”
“Maggie said that you could,” Mary said firmly. “She told us you’ve no job, no appointments, and could give us no reason not to go. She basically told us you don’t have a life.”
“It’s good to have a best friend, isn’t it?”
“In this case, I’d say so. She told us she’d personally put you in a car to the airport.”
I was starting to get angry. “Why do all of you think you get to decide what I do?”
Brigid glanced at Mary. “Maggie said you’ve been miserable, and that maybe this would sort you out once and for all. Your Maggie is nothing if not American. She said perhaps if you faced your problem head on, you’d come away with closure.”
“And you see, Sheila, Chef’s been a holy terror ever since you left. Maeve thinks having it out with you might set him straight. Closure may not have made its way to Ireland yet, but we were all taught in church that leaving things unsaid ruins the soul. She told me that after she read your cookbook…”
“How did she read my cookbook?”
“Your Maggie sent her a copy and begged her to show it to Chef.”
I felt faint. “And did he see it?”
“That I don’t know,” Mary said. “I do know she sat him down in front of your blog, though.”
“My blog? How does she even know about that?”
“Maeve’s gotten to be quite the computer whiz. You should see her Pinterest boards. Anyhow,” she said, standing up, “we’ve an appointment with an estate agent this afternoon. “Can you picture it, Sheila? Us an old married couple living in a New York high-rise apartment?” Mary threw her arm over Brigid’s shoulders.
“All I can say is grab happiness where you can find it.”
Chapter Thirty-Two
What the heart knows today, the head will understand tomorrow.
I was very glad it was after eleven at night when the cab pulled up at reception. The air was warm and a sweet breeze blew. It was so quiet, I could hear the leaves rustling in the trees. Inside, seeing a new girl working the desk filled me with relief. When I asked, she informed me that Catherine was no longer employed at Castle Stone.
She gave me the key to The Pink Room. Mary had told me that I’d be given a proper room, but I never dreamed I’d be assigned to one of the best guest rooms, right in the castle. I sneaked up, looking both ways. I knew I’d see Tom eventually, but a public place surrounded by people sounded a lot better to me than alone on a secluded stairwell. I didn’t like to feel hated, even if I knew I deserved it. Now, he’d hate me more because his mother was marrying Tony.
There was a bottle of wine waiting for me in my room, but I didn’t have a taste for it. There was an envelope laying on the tray next to it that read, “Sheila.” I opened it and read:
Our Dear Sheila,
We’re so happy you came to our wedding. We both know we would never have seen this happy day arrive had it not been for you. As it’s a second marriage for both of us, we’re keeping the celebration small. We’ve limited the party to family. You’re our guest, and very welcome indeed, no matter what.
Maeve and Tony
Exhausted from the trip, I set the letter aside and slipped on my nightgown. I was too tired to even take a bath. I felt happy. I couldn’t wait to see Maeve. Losing her had been the most painful part of being banished from Castle Stone. It was strange that she hadn’t been in touch. But then again, neither had I. She must have felt as awkward about my lying to Tom as I did. I was surprised, frankly, that she’d cared enough to include me. Maybe it was something Irish that I didn’t understand, like you owe a debt to the matchmaker.
As my head hit the pillow, I thought about how strange it was to reassure an invited guest that she was welcome at the party. I fell asleep hard and dreamed that I gave birth to a baby goat.
On my way there, I ran into Brigid on the path.
“Sheila,” she cried, running at me and flinging herself into my arms. She was dressed for the kitchens.
“Aren’t you going to the wedding?”
“Some of us had to work it and I drew a short straw. Look at the sight of you! You look perfect for a summer wedding.” She glanced at her watch. “We’ll have to have a proper catch-up later. I’m nearly late and I don’t want to hear that gobshite Bill laying into me this morning.”
“I’ve missed you, Brigid. I have to tell you everything. I’m going to work on a goat farm in upstate New York.”
“Why on earth would you go to someone else’s goat farm? We’ve plenty of goats here.”
“Maybe because I was invited never to come here again?”
“Well, that can’t be true, can it? Look, here you’re standing.”
“Brigid! I’m talking about Tom.”
“Do us all a favor and make up with him, willya?” She started to jog down the path to the castle. “When the two of you were having it off, life in the kitchen was a hell of a lot lighter. See ya!” she said, and broke into a full run.
I expected to see more wedding guests assembling outside the church. As I approached the ancient stone building, I heard the lilting notes of organ music float out the heavy, wooden doorway. I peered in. It took a moment for my eyes to adjust from seeing in the bright morning sun, to seeing in the dusky darkness. There was no sign of Tom. I breathed out. About 40 people sat scattered in the ribbon-bedecked pews. Simple but gorgeous arrangements of flowers and greenery festooned the altar. I wondered if there was a bride’s side and a groom’s side. I slipped into one of the pews near the middle. I didn’t want to draw attention to myself by being too far forward or too far back.
I watched people arrive in twos and threes. Most genuflected at the pews before entering, and most knelt on the low, leather-covered kneelers before taking their seats. I wondered what they were praying about. Did they want something, or were they simply giving thanks? Apart from poetic speeches around the Thanksgiving table, and the rote nighttime prayer my mother said with me when I was little, I’d never been taught to pray.
A phrase popped into my head. “God, please show me the way.” I heard the plea in my own voice. A thrill took over my blood, like I’d just committed magic. Rather than a sensation or waiting for something to happen, though, I felt a sensation of relaxation. I slumped back on the bench, listened to the music, and looked at the elaborate stone carving on the pillars and the grotto around the altar.
Then he was there. Tom, dressed in an impeccable seersucker suit, with a French-blue shirt, and thin black tie. His hair was longer, and had more gold and platinum streaks than I remembered, but then again, it was August. He’d no doubt been walking the grounds in this summer’s glorious and surprising Irish sun. I pictured him digging in the gardens and riding one of the horses. He genuflected and slid into a pew in the front, next to a petite redhead, with smooth hair and a pink linen dress. Before lowering himself to the kneeler, he gave her a quick kiss.
The ceremony itself was part of a Catholic mass. I’d never been to one. I watched altar boys dressed like junior versions of priests march up the aisle to assist. Father Walsh presided. His singing voice surprised me. It was like being at the opera. Danny sat in the front, moving his lips along to the words, closing his eyes in rapture. There were other priests there, swinging smoking vessels filled with fragrant incense and dipping gold ornaments into buckets of holy water and sprinkling the congregation. When Maeve entered, my heart lifted. She wore a silk suit and it was periwinkle, just as I’d envisioned it.
At the end of the ceremony, I waited for the couple’s kiss, but none came. I wondered if that was Catholic tradition, or simply another modesty on the part of the bride. I wasn’t sure what to do next. I watched the crowd for cues. Everyone stood as the priest and his entourage filed out, then one by one, they made their way to the aisles, genuflected again to the altar, and exited. I kept my seat, waiting to leave the empty church. When Tom turned around to make his way to the back, he clocked me. For a second, he began walking toward me and his eyes lit up. I swallowed hard. It was like a bird with a broken wing was trying to flap and peck its way out of my chest. As fast as he had lit up, he then shut down. He looked away from me, face closed off. He put his hand on the small of the redhead’s back and steered her out with the rest of the crowd.
I gave him some lead time before rising from my pew. I peeked outside the door, terrified that there would be a reception line, with Tom standing in it, alongside his girlfriend. It was just Father Walsh, Tony, and Maeve. When I shook Father Walsh’s hand, it dripped with sweat. I discreetly wiped it off on the skirt of my dress.
“No matter how many holy unions I have the privilege of overseeing, I never quite get used to the feeling of stage fright. It’s a good thing I quit competitive Irish dancing to enter the priesthood. I don’t know how long I’d have lasted.”
“Well, it was beautiful, Father.”
“And so are you,” Tony said, gathering me into a hug. “You’re a sight for sore eyes, my dear.” He held me at arm’s length and looked at me, then leaned in and whispered into my ear. “Maeve has missed you. And she’s not the only one.” He then literally put my hands into Maeve’s. I had dreaded this moment. Surely, she must have forgiven me if she’d invited me to the wedding. On the other hand, I’d lied to her. Afraid to look down into her eyes for fear of seeing disappointment, I closed my own and waited for her to speak. She didn’t say a thing she just clasped one hand and walked me away from the light crowd to the shade of a big oak a little farther out into the churchyard. She kept silent until I couldn’t take it anymore.
“Maeve, I’m sorry I didn’t tell you the truth. I’m not a liar. All signs point to the fact that I am, but that’s really not who I am.”
“I know that, dear girl, or we wouldn’t be standing here. Don’t tell Father Walsh I said this, but sometimes the end justifies the means where love comes into play. Remember Tony’s heart scare? The poor man needed constant care, so, and there was little choice but to move him into Tom’s bedroom.” She winked at me. “And if Tom’s old bedroom wasn’t the most comfortable for the patient, and he required a softer bed for convalescing, that must have been God’s plan.”
“Maeve!”
“And here we stand today, married under the watch of heaven. As I said, the end sometimes justifies the means. So, then. I’ve looked at your cookbook. Not bad.”
I held my breath and waited to hear more.
“A few recipes need tweaking, I’d recommend putting in a few traditional ones you left out, and there’s a fact or two that’s wrong. But it feels like something Tom would write. If you want to do some real good in this world, convince him to publish it. It’s a natural marketing tool for the Castle Stone range of foods and products.”
My heart sank. “If they ever get backing. I ruined that deal for Tom.”
“That’s not the way Brian Lynch told the story to me. He’s sorry that Burton fellow ever crossed your path, but he’s grateful that you brought our business venture to GlobeCo’s attention. Apparently, they were looking to expand into the natural and organic market. Brian Lynch came off as a hero for landing the Castle Stone account. It goes without saying that the farmers aro
und here are tickled pink. And so’s Tom.”
My heart dared to open a crack.
“Mary told me you showed him my blog.” I felt sick thinking about it.
“Aye, that I did. Sat him down in front of it, but he said he wouldn’t read a word. From what I heard from the girls around the office, though, he sat at Mary’s desk for over an hour doing just that.”
“So, now he knows I love him.” I felt raw.
“Don’t you wager he knew that before?”
I felt crimson climb from the neckline of my dress, all the way up to my face.
“Don’t you wager everyone knew that?” She laughed softly. “You’re not the only Cupid on the estate. Why not go and tell him?”
“What difference would it make? He already read it online. And anyway, I’m too late. What am I supposed to do? Declare a dual with his perfect girlfriend?”
“I don’t think my niece is the dueling type.”
My chest lifted like a thousand helium balloons had been launched in my heart. I gave Maeve a hug, and my feet began carrying me to the marquee, where the guests had gathered. My eyes picked through the crowd, looking for Tom among the blossom-colored clothes of the attendees. Landing on a pair of broad shoulders clad in a neat, striped jacket, they drifted upward to find a loose, sunny mass of wavy hair. Tom!
Marching up to him, I tapped him on the shoulder. Smiling, he turned around, holding a delicate glass cup of frothy, pale-peach punch. For a split second, his eyes crinkled into the familiar smile that bathed my brain like a drug, lulling me into knowing that the world was safe, and all would be well. I felt a jolt of heat. I was sure I saw it in Tom as well. At least I hoped I did.
“Tom, may I have a word with you?” There wasn’t much point in calling him Chef or Mr. O’Grady at this point. The cat was out of the bag.
Summer at Castle Stone Page 35