“Certainly,” he said to me. “If you’ll excuse me,” he said to the several people gathered around him in conversation. “Why don’t you follow me?”
He began walking in the direction of the castle. He didn’t look at me and he didn’t say a word. His long strides sent him sailing across the grass as he deviated from the path. As had so often been the case, I wound up jogging to keep up.
“Tom,” I tried, but he held up a hand to quiet me. I kept following.
Finally, we stopped at the back entrance to the castle. He unlocked and flung open the door, and went in, taking the stairs two at a time. Panting, I ran to keep at his heels. He led me through to his triangle-shaped room and closed the door behind us.
“Why?” he demanded in a loud, ragged voice. His face contorted in anguish. I wasn’t sure if he might hit me, or harm himself, or burst into tears. I looked away from his face. It scared me. Now I wasn’t sure this could be fixed.
My eyes looked past his, afraid to meet them. I spied something new above his desk. There, taped to the wall, was a line drawing of me. Clearly, it had been drawn by my friend down at the market in Ballykelty. But I hadn’t commissioned it. With hope in my heart, I jumped off the ledge.
“Tom, I didn’t mean to lie.”
He started to yell, but it was my turn to hold up my hand for silence. “Yes, the lie at first was mercenary. I wanted what I wanted. But my lie would never have caused you harm. I knew I could be good for you.”
He turned his back to me and looked out the window.
“Yes, I wanted the book for me, but here’s the truth: I know I’m good. I knew that if I could convince you to let me make this book, you’d come out on top.”
“You could have told me the truth at any time,” he said, still looking away. “You made a fool of me.”
“How did I make a fool of you? Oh, do you mean by plotting to get Tony and Maeve together? Look, I’m sorry about that…”
“No!” he roared, turning to face me. “By letting me fall in love with you.” His eyes blazed and he panted in quick, shallow breaths. “I swore I’d never do it again after Tabitha.” His fists balled up, and he paced a short line back and forth, never taking his eyes off my face.
“But I’m not Tabitha!”
“You lied like Tabitha.”
“I didn’t, Tom, I really didn’t. Anything that mattered, I told the truth about. I told the truth about being in love with you.”
He relaxed his hands. “I’m supposed to believe that?” He held his palms out to me. “You lied to me, Sheila.” He scoffed. “I mean Shayla.”
“What does it matter what my name is, Tom? You know who I am.” I searched his eyes, but he gave nothing away. “Do you really think I’m a liar?”
“Bear in mind, I saw the tape from the James Beard Awards Dinner.” I saw the slightest crinkle at the corner of his eyes. “You put on quite a show.”
I took a step toward him. “I told the truth.”
“Sure, you threw away your career telling the truth.”
“I’d do it again.” I raised my chin and looked him in the eye.
He crossed the floor until he stood in front of me. “What’s the rest of the truth, Sheila?” It was warm in his room with the window closed. I could smell his musky sweat, overlaid with the grassy smell of his hair.
“The truth is, I’m an anxious mess.”
“Go on,” he said, inching closer to me.
“The truth is, I’m not cut out for the city. I’m moving to a goat farm.”
“More,” he said, advancing.
“I just want an easy life, even though that’s supposed to be embarrassing for a 21st-century woman.” I stepped so close to him that the tips of our shoes touched. “I want to be taken care of.”
“And,” he breathed, gripping my upper arms in his broad, flat hands.
“And,” I was scared. I knew what I needed to say, but I couldn’t bear being sent away again. I breathed in and jumped off the cliff. “And I love you.”
“I know that,” moving his hands down to my hips. “The whole feckin’ world knows that you’ve gone and posted it on the bloody internet,” he said, smiling in a wicked way. He looked up at the heavens, “What can I do with this girl? Everything she touches goes arseways. Go on then,” he instructed. “Say even more.”
I tilted my head back and looked up into his blinding-blue eyes, “I want you,” I whispered.
He covered my bottom with the expanse of his hands and pulled me into him. “Mmm…” I moaned. Every memory of his skin rubbing against mine; the feel of him inside me sang in my body.
“A fool could see that from a hundred miles away,” he whispered, voice husky, stubble brushing my ear. “Tell me more. What else?”
I could barely make enough noise to say it. “I want to marry you,” I breathed. He spun me around and lay me on the bed. Immediately, he started clawing at his tie and unbuttoning his shirt, his hot mouth covering mine with deep slow kisses.
“You’re mine now,” he said in a low, growly voice, and stripped me naked. “And when we marry, it’s my name you’ll be taking. Shayla O’Grady.”
“Yes to the O’Grady part. I want to be part of your clan. But I’m not who I was before. I’m Sheila now, and always will be. Will you have me as Sheila?”
“I’ll have you alright, let me show you.”
Over the next hour, slow and deliberate, and sweet, he showed me how much I belonged to him.
By the time we walked hand in hand across the lush green grass to the marquee, guests were halfway through the festive meal. A small band, consisting of a bouzouki, fiddle, banjo, tin whistle, accordion, and a hand-held drum played with a stick that I was later informed is called a bodhran played merrily off to the side. I noticed most musicians had a pint close at hand, despite the early hour. It clearly didn’t do their playing a bit of harm. Father Walsh raised his eyebrows at our joined hands, swinging between our bodies as we rejoined the throng. At least I hope his reaction was to our hands and not the state of my bedhead.
“Where did the pair of you skive off to?” called Tony. “We’ve been having a whale of a time. We meant to put you to work serving the guests.”
“Tony,” I bantered back, “I know it’s your wedding day, but should you be drinking, given your delicate heart?” I winked, and he burst into laughter.
“I thought the point of being married is that your wife minds your secrets,” he replied. “I can see nothing’s sacred among you women.”
“Get yourselves a plate, you’ll miss the buffet,” said Maeve. She didn’t have to tell me twice. I’d worked up a fierce appetite, and of course everything looked beautiful. It was, after all, a wedding at Castle Stone.
“You go ahead,” Tom said, “I’ll just have a word with my mother here.”
I heaped my plate full of Irish bacon and sausages, coddled eggs, kippered fish and smoked salmon, and the prettiest strawberries I’d ever seen. Just as I was about to sit at a table with some of the older folks from town who belonged to the church, Maeve waved me to pull up a chair next to hers.
I watched Tom lean in to the band leader, and the music came to a close.
“Friends, I’d like to make a toast to the newlyweds. I’ll be the first to admit that I’d scales on my eyes when I first became aware of their friendship. For the life of me, I couldn’t imagine it working out. Had it not been for Sheila, it likely wouldn’t have,” he said, raising his glass in my direction. Now, two have become one and they’ll enjoy the blessing of companionship and love for the rest of their days, which God willing, will be many. To Maeve and Tony.”
The crowd erupted into cries of “hear, hear,” and “to the blushing bride,” and “may they have joy all their days,” and glasses were refilled all around.
“Quiet, quiet please. I have another bit of news I planned to keep to myself, but my Mam insists I announce it now.”
“I knew it! Maeve’s expecting!” shouted an old codger from the
back, who was decidedly in his cups.
“I’d hold your tongue, or her new husband might brain you.”
Tony jumped to his feet and held up his fists in a mock-fighting stance. “Disparage my lady and you’ll have to answer to St. Brigit of Kildare and James Joyce here.”
“St. Brigit would never punch a man,” Father Walsh exclaimed.
“I’d take my chances with them two,” the old codger said standing up.
“Another toast! I’d like to make a toast to my fiancée, Shayla de Winter Sheridan Sheila Doyle soon to be O’Grady. Will you all join us back here in a week’s time for our wedding?”
The crowd roared and everyone jumped to his or her feet, clapping and shouting. The band took off in rollicking, double-speed version of “Whiskey in the Jar”. I could hardly breathe for being covered in kisses, and squeezes, and while I watched all of this happen around me, I felt my cheeks stretching into a smile I didn’t know if my face could contain.
Someone pressed a glass of champagne into my hand. A week’s time? What if Hank couldn’t make it? I breathed in and out, knowing he either would or he wouldn’t, and that if he didn’t I would be OK with that. I’d love to have him at my celebration, but he could no longer let me down. I was a grown-up. I could rely on myself for happiness. Plus, I thought, as Maeve took my hand in hers and squeezed it, I’ve found a family. No one could ever replace Mom, but Maeve was a close second.
Tom pulled me onto the dance floor. Where would I get a dress in time? I took in the gorgeous wrinkled faces of the old folks and the fresh-scrubbed freckled and strawberries-and-cream complexions of the young, and realized that it didn’t matter at all. The people of Ireland had seen thousands of brides over the centuries. Legends and poems talked of the brides’ characters, not their dresses. It would all work out. And as for Maggie, she’d show up. There was no doubt in my mind.
As if on cue, the clouds above our heads parted and a blinding beam of sunlight illuminated the dance floor, firing up the tresses of the redheads bouncing around me, and warming my skin. I looked to the heavens and thought of my mother. For the first time since her death, I didn’t feel emptiness and loss, I just felt joy. Had it not been for her love, I wouldn’t be clapping and reeling with these good people, on this sacred land. I decided to believe that the part of her that lived in my heart had guided me to leave what I knew and find what I needed. Her strength was my strength. Twirling, I blew a kiss to the sky.
I jumped up and down with the group, filled with a wild abandon until my fiancé took me in his arms and kissed me. All motion stopped. I closed my eyes and breathed in his smell. He smelled of trod-upon grass, late-summer Discovery apples, and ancient, vital, metallic blood tinged with the fragrance of the sea. Joined together on the estate at Castle Stone, music and voices shouting in Irish brogue surrounding us, I already felt married. These were now my people. I was home.
Enjoyed Summer at Castle Stone? Then don’t miss Lynn Marie Hulsman’s hilarious debut Christmas at Thornton Hall.
Turn the page for an exclusive look at the first chapter.
Christmas at Thornton Hall
Chapter One
“Juliet, it’s Phillipa from The Gastronome’s Trust. Big stuff. I hope I’m not calling too early,” she said, not sounding sorry at all.
I held the phone with one hand and stroked the still-warm, empty space next to me in the bed with my other, drinking in the sensation of being a grown-up.
I seriously cannot believe I’m me, I thought, suppressing a manic giggle. I’m in my boyfriend’s Mayfair apartment – which he owns! – answering a phone call from my agent who’s about to offer me real money for my very much in demand culinary skills to put in my – wait for it! – savings account. A savings account which now has enough for me to go back to college and complete my sociology degree. Who would have thought it? Juliet Hill – back on track. Certified Grown-up. Even my mother would have to agree. My mind was racing, even though my body hadn’t quite caught up, yet.
I’m on the brink of a new beginning, I’m moving back to New York to complete the studies I’d dropped all those years ago. And I’m moving back with my successful boyfriend…successful and athletic, I thought, wincing as I stretched out my aching limbs. After recent work trips to the States, then New Zealand, Ben seemed determined to make up for lost time: he was like the cat that swallowed the canary. Absence had certainly made his body grow fonder, and his heart, too, I hoped. So maybe, if I’m honest with myself, my world hadn’t been properly rocked last night… but then he’d practically just stepped off a plane, for heaven’s sake, I couldn’t expect nirvana. We’d have plenty of time this holiday season to get back on the same page in the old sex department.
Where is he, anyway? I peeled one eye open to check the clock on his night table. 6:55 a.m. My agent, Phillipa, certainly was getting the worm, as it were.
“Juliet,” she said sharply. “Are you listening to me? I asked if I’ve awakened you.”
“No, Pips, it’s fine,” I lied breezily, forcing myself to sound alert, “I’ve been up for ages.” Phillipa Burton, owner of London’s top agency dedicated to placing chefs in private households, expects everyone’s full-on attention. I’ve always thought of her as one of those British school-mistressy types. She scares me a little, but I pretend she doesn’t. I’m a favorite because I’ve always behaved like a soldier in her army.
“Darling,” she said crisply, “I’ve just had a specific request come in for you to work over the Christmas holiday. I explained that you blacked those dates out with us, but the client insisted I ask, and here’s the kicker…You’d need to be there tonight.” She paused. “The housekeeper rang and said if I could send Juliet Hill, they’d pay a fee for the late notice, and a holiday bonus. The call came at six, and I’m sorry to say the offer’s only good until eight o’clock this morning.”
I let her talk, knowing I’d be turning the job down. I’d tell her about my plan to move back to New York with my soon-to-be fiancé and having to leave the business altogether once the holidays ended. No need to stir up emotions and spoil the joy right now. While she tried to sell me on the job, I let my mind wander to thoughts of caroling around the piano with Ben’s cousins and uncles, mugs of warm mulled wine on the sofa, and smiling faces peeking over a crispy roast goose flanked by massive tureens of root vegetables. This Christmas was going to be special – a real family celebration. Impeccable Ben, in his well-cut suit, standing possessively with his arm around my shoulders, welcoming me into the fold, and for once in my life, I’d be wearing the right thing. Nothing too slutty, or cheap. And certainly no stains on my starched, white blouse. His family would murmur among themselves about what a perfect match I was for their Ben.
I was determined that all would go according to plan. When I’d phoned him last week to firm up this year’s holiday plans, he’d been kind of quiet on the phone from his office in New Zealand – he’s on location there for a film his firm is representing. I’d chalked his lukewarm mood up to exhaustion. Poor Ben, I’d thought. He’s lost without a girl like me to loosen him up. After all, he is English. He can’t help it if he’s tightly wound.
He told me he had something important he wanted to talk about with me. Once he said that, I’d changed the subject, fast. I hadn’t wanted him to spoil the big surprise, hoping he wouldn’t discuss logistics until after the thrill of the engagement wore off. I couldn’t help grinning and giving myself a little hug just thinking about it.
Anyway, back to the present. Focus on Phillipa. I would never act like a diva with my agent so I let her ramble. “Keep your head down, do excellent work and don’t cause trouble,” is a roadmap I try to stick to. Well, for the most part, if you don’t mind turning a blind eye to the whole Paris debacle.
“Juliet!” Phillipa barked, snapping me out of my daydream again. “Did you catch that? I said eight a.m.”
“Of course, sorry,” I said, stifling a yawn. “Who requested me?” I asked, though I pretty
much knew.
“So you’re interested? Are you changing your mind?”
I wavered for half a second. Of all the food-forward, over-the-top, gourmet meals I’d created, I’d never once done a traditional Christmas feast at an English hall. My wheels started to spin, planning menus and visualizing the tabletop in full cinematic Technicolor. The chance to design a dinner that would simultaneously hearken back to childhood roots so different from mine, while putting a surprising, modern spin on conventional favorites like sage and onion stuffing, roasted Brussels sprouts with chestnuts, a flaming Christmas pudding, drew me in – quite against my will. My cells started tingling, just thinking about the chance to put my signature all over a meal that jaded guests thought they knew inside out and backwards. I bit my lip.
“I’m sorry, Pips,” I said, honestly. “I want to, but I just can’t.” I was surprised to feel my eyes beginning to well.
“Well, if you change your mind, you know where to find me,” she said crisply. “If I don’t hear from you, I hope you have a happy Christmas and check in with me in January.”
“I definitely, definitely will!” I said, pushing the “end” button on my iPhone with my left thumb. I looked at my naked ring finger. And when I do call, you’ll be stunned to hear that not only am I moving to New York, but I’m also engaged to be married.
So, I’m a chef, but not a chef like you’d think. I’m a chef who makes my living cooking not in any restaurant where a regular person – or a rich, powerful or famous person, actually – could book a table, but behind the legendary “green baize doors” of some of the most posh private residences in the world. I’ve made it to an apex in my career. All the meals I cook now are invitation-only.
I eventually escaped upward from testosterone-fuelled kitchens in France, and the early days of the London restaurant scene, but not before honing my culinary skills, growing a T-bone-thick hide, and a tongue like a sushi knife. Nothing else has ever come as naturally to me, and I have to say, so far, it’s given me a pretty good life. I’ve done more traveling than most people do in a lifetime, and I’ve stood in rooms with princes, war heroes and TV stars. And, indirectly, it led me to Ben. Handsome, funny, swaggering Ben in his well-cut suits.
Summer at Castle Stone Page 36