Seeds of Tyrone Box Set
Page 54
Harrison swallowed.
I had Paulo, he reminded himself. He did the best he could. Still, he had to wonder if it might have been different if he’d had someone like Patrick at his side, strong, supportive, and patient.
Another squeeze of his hand told Harrison he was slipping, and he shook himself out of it. They’d left Omagh town center behind them and were once again surrounded by fields. “What were Patrick’s pajamas like?” he asked Aidan.
“Ah, oh, um…they were…red.”
Like Aidan’s face, Harrison observed. He glanced Patrick’s way—the Irishman’s ears were crimson—and then met Pru’s gaze. She, too, was fighting back the laughter. Fortunately for the lovebirds in the front seats, their arrival at Barry’s farm had saved them from elaborating on what Harrison imagined to be very revealing nightwear.
“Christ, it doesn’t even look like the same place,” Patrick uttered. The engine was still winding down, and he already had the door open. At the same time, the door to the farmhouse opened, and Seamus Williams peered out into the late-afternoon gloom, frowning heavily.
“Chance?” he hollered. “Best fetch your gun. We’ve got trespassers again.”
“I’ll give you feckin’ trespassers,” Patrick retorted as the two brothers met halfway between the car and the house and shared a warm hug. Seamus kissed Patrick loudly on the cheek.
“You found your way all right, then?”
“It’s one long road. Can’t go wrong, really.”
“Well, I couldn’t, but you could get lost in your own bathroom.”
The more the two brothers bantered, the less Harrison understood. “We should get out of the car, shouldn’t we?” he suggested.
“Yeah,” Pru agreed and opened the door on her side. “Not as cold as home, is it?”
“Nowhere near.”
“Guess we won’t be seeing a white Christmas this year, H.” She sniffed and rubbed her nose.
“Pru…”
“Don’t worry. I haven’t touched the stuff in months.” She gave him a reassuring wink and got out of the car. Harrison delayed a moment longer. Pru did what Pru wanted. He could keep watch over her at least. It would give him something to focus on other than his own vices. Not that he’d turned to drugs, or—Pukeapalooza aside—alcohol. His comfort blankets were far more discreet than that.
Pushing his glasses up his nose, Harrison climbed out of the car and joined the others inside.
“Wow!”
It was like walking into a perfect Christmas. A log stove flickered behind an iron grid, accompanied by country Christmas music playing from another room, and the tree was unreal. Or, rather, it was real—he breathed in deeply, filling his nose with the pine scent, along with the smell of spiced cookies.
“Tea, or something stronger?” Seamus asked.
“Tea for me, please,” Patrick said.
“Obviously. I wasn’t askin’ you.”
Patrick made a face at his brother, who ignored him in favor of finding out what everyone else wanted to drink. Aidan went with tea; Harrison asked for coffee, and Pru did the same.
“Where’s your man?” Patrick asked.
“Gone to pick Dee and Mike up from shopping. You probably drove past him on the lane.”
“Was he in a pickup?”
“Aye. Did ye see him?”
“No.” Patrick grinned.
On the way here, Harrison had been so lost in thought, he wouldn’t have been able to say whether they’d passed a pickup truck if it was the Million Dollar Question.
“I’m also not seeing a mad collie dog anywhere,” Patrick said.
“She’ll be hiding under the stairs, so she will.” Seamus put the kettle on and stepped back, glancing through the doorway that led to the stairs. “Come say hello, Tess.” He snapped his fingers, and the dog peered out of her hidey-hole.
“God, she’s a poor love,” Patrick cooed. The thud of a tail slow-wagging against the floor came their way. “It’s terrible the way this big mean oaf locks you away. Aw. Poor girl.” More tail wagging.
Harrison was enthralled. He’d seen Tess over Skype when chatting with Michael, but it was different meeting the dog for real. Since Chancey and Dee moved in, Michael said she had gravitated to Chancey. Michael hadn’t complained, but Harrison got the impression he was a little bit put out by Chancey taking his position as “Shay’s right-hand man,” particularly as the dog seemed to go along with the job.
“All right, so. Tea no sugar for young Patrick. Aidan? Are ye still lookin’ to stand yer spoon up in it?”
Aidan smiled. “I’ve cut back to three spoonfuls.”
“Tablespoons?” Seamus teased.
“This is awesome,” Pru whispered. Harrison nodded. It really was. The house had a great feel to it, relaxed, welcoming, happy.
“Do yous have sugar?” Seamus asked them. They both shook their heads. “Right, shall we go take a pew?”
He led the way through from the kitchen, past Tess and the staircase, to the living room, where a coal fire burned, giving off a gentle warmth. There was another tree in here, much bigger than the one in the kitchen, and surrounded by gifts.
“Now you’re just being greedy,” Patrick said, nodding at the tree.
“It’s a long story. What happened was—sit down, make yourselves at home.”
Harrison perched at the end of one of the two sofas. Pru sat next to him. Aidan took the armchair, while Patrick sat on the arm. Seamus stayed on his feet, set to tell his story. He took a breath and let it go.
“Oh, hell. Me gingerbread men will be cremated. Be right back.” He strode from the room, and the four of them listened in silence to the bang of the oven door and Seamus’s hissed cursing about how hot it was. He returned a moment later, shaking his hand.
“Funny thing about ovens, that, Shay,” Paddy remarked. Seamus gave him a wry grin.
“So what was I sayin’? Oh, aye. The trees. So, Chance promised Dee we’d go up to Joe’s place. D’ye remember him, Paddy?”
“Joe…O’Brien?”
“The very same fellow.”
“I thought he was in prison.”
“That was his brother, Jack.”
“Oh, right, so, go on.”
“Well, the same day we went to get the tree, some fellas from Dungannon stopped off.”
“I know what’s comin’ next,” Paddy said.
For now, he was going to be the only one who knew. A door slammed shut, pulling smoke from the fire into the room, and the sound of two young people singing at the top of their lungs warned of their imminent arrival.
“D’you think you could lower the volume a little?” came the request in a deep, southern accent.
“Daddy, don’t be a grump.”
The two youngsters trooped, arm in arm, into the living room, and then stopped dead.
“H-Harrison? What the…?”
“Hey, Mike.” Harrison smiled, hoping only he could hear the blood pounding in his ears. All his fears converged on him as he waited for Michael’s expression to change to one of loathing.
Instead Michael burst into the widest smile, shaking his head so fast he might have been a wet dog. He charged straight at Harrison and threw his arms around him.
“Harry! Yer here! Best pressie ever!”
Chapter Ten:
Walking Toward Him
Well, it was cool at least. That was a change from Christmas in Miami and Rio, both. But, it wasn’t Pennsylvania weather. He wondered if it was snowing back home. Paulo loved the slow drift of snow flakes, loved sitting at the window with a cup of coffee, watching as the world turned white. He’d especially loved being able to turn from the window, coffee in hand, and see the outline of Harrison’s form under the covers. There was nothing like making love on a snowy day.
With a sigh, Paulo looked down at his phone.
He’d finally received the text from Pru yesterday. It wasn’t exactly a phone call like Jill had promised, but it was something. Honestly, it w
as more than he’d expected even.
Once they were face-to-face, he was going to let Pru know exactly what he thought about the shit she’d pulled on him, but only after he’d gotten drunk off holding Harrison in his arms.
Paulo checked the message again. It was for an address in Tyrone County, Ireland. She’d signed her name with an x after it. Kiss. He must have read the message fifty times before finally Googling it. So this was where Harrison was hiding. Or Pru. Both? Neither? Maybe he’d stumble upon some random clues. A map, a glass egg, and a key, all there to lead him to the next location. Paulo laughed and then sighed. He was so damn tired, but not about to give up now.
Somewhere outside his hotel room, there was laughter and a thud as a couple drunkenly stumbled up the hallway. He couldn’t fault them their noise. Any other Christmas Eve and he might be one half of that couple. He could remember one time Harrison had climbed on his back, and Paulo had carried him down the hall as Pru and her then boyfriend—what was that guy’s name?—chased after them in their own amalgamation of tag/waterless water polo.
Back home it was still the twenty-third and Mamãe was probably ready to explode that he wasn’t there for their family Christmas. He’d spoken to her briefly, but could only get a sentence or two in as she lamented loudly to Mother Mary about her idiotic son.
Poor Adriano. Did he also have a lover he was now chasing halfway across the world while his own mamãe tried to interfere? But Paulo Fernández is a very successful businessman, Adriano. He’ll keep you quite happy. Paulo chuckled. What else could he do?
He even imagined Adriano with his own version of Pru, turning her nose up at his calls.
“Good luck, Adriano,” he said, glancing at the clock.
It was time.
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For all the traveling he had done in his life, Paulo had never been to Ireland, so instead of renting a car and trying to find his own way, he decided to take the bus. Even on Christmas Eve, they seemed to be running in plentiful supply, though he supposed it was the Dublin International Airport after all. He was seated and headed in the right direction without too much trouble. Or maybe it just seemed simple because he’d faced both his angry mother and Jill Miller-Degas, so what was grabbing transportation in a foreign country on Christmas Eve?
Paulo had packed light, not sure if he was going to find Harrison at all, or if he did, if Harrison would then shut the door in his face. Did he know Paulo was coming? Harrison was going to get a surprise when he saw him, either way. For a man who had always made a point of being well-groomed, it was sort of freeing to be traveling the roads of Ireland with his jacket, a single backpack with an extra pair of jeans, a few wrinkled shirts, and a bag of travel-sized hygiene products.
He wondered if he should stop somewhere and shave, but hadn’t Harrison always loved when his face was a little rough?
God, he missed Harrison.
Whatever miracle of arrogance, stubborn pride, or even hope that had seen Paulo through this far, also teased him with fantasy. He imagined Harrison grabbing him around the waist, kissing him, insisting they hole up in a hotel and make love for a week. He might need to buy some clothes then. That was nothing though, easily accomplished. He’d buy a whole new wardrobe and then donate it when they left the country if it meant things went well with Harrison.
It was sometime around noon when Paulo realized his phone had died. Of the few things he’d brought with him, Paulo had been smart enough to include his phone charger. Unfortunately, intelligence failed him when he left it behind at JFK, still plugged into a free outlet.
He pocketed the phone, watching as the impossibly beautiful green of the countryside passed him by. Everyone said it was verdant, but he’d never realized just how right they were.
Nearby, a couple chatted. Two young men, sitting next to each other, a little too rigid, staring straight ahead. If they had just been friends, they would have been more relaxed, and the close proximity wouldn’t have bothered them, but Paulo knew the look of a young man trying not to be too obvious. The five point five seconds before he was out as a gay man, Paulo had been the same as those boys.
He smiled privately and wished them luck.
There was a bus change in Newtownstewart that consisted of him walking a whole forty feet or so from one bus stop to the next. The delay waiting for the second bus was much more significant than the walk, and it was almost dark by the time they reached Omagh.
With no cell phone to guide him to his next destination, Paulo decided he would stop somewhere to see if he could find a place to charge up his phone. It didn’t seem like the sort of town that would have an internet café, but what did he know of quaint Irish towns, really? Maybe they had a hardcore underground technology scene. Paulo laughed. Lord, he was jetlagged.
All he needed was an electrical outlet, a kind stranger with a cord, and a bit of luck that they fit. He walked into a corner pub and was washed over with the noise and bustle of men and women drinking Christmas Eve away.
The woman behind the bar tossed him a hearty hello in her rich Irish accent. It made him feel immediately welcome, and he appreciated her for it. He greeted her back, though whether or not he could be heard over the noise was questionable. It seemed like everyone and their mother, sister, and third cousin, had turned out to this pub. He had to practically shove his way up to the bar and wave her back over because two people had called orders to her before he’d even reached her.
“I’m sorry to bother you,” he said with a tired smile.
“No bother, love. What’ll you have?”
“Lemme have a Guinness. Wonder if it tastes the same as in the States.”
“Dunno.” She winked at him. “Is that how you got that curly hair? If not, then you don’t know what you’re letting yourself in for.”
She poured him a stout.
“I was also wondering if you—”
“Give us a minute,” she said, shouting back at someone who had shouted at her.
It didn’t matter, he suddenly had the attention of two other patrons. One was an older man wearing a faded Santa’s cap. When he grinned, the skin around his eyes crinkled. Next to him, with her arm slung over his shoulder was a woman that couldn’t have been more than twenty.
“Your accent is amazing,” she said without preamble. Her cheeks, chin, and the tip of her nose were tinged pink, a lovely contrast to their sharpness. She could have looked stern, but her eyes sparkled too much. “I say Northeast America with a hint of Latin America?”
“Not too bad. I assume you’re Irish?”
“She’s puttin’ it on, mate,” the man said.
“It’s a fake accent?”
She nodded playfully, sending her curtain of raven hair fluttering. “But not too far removed.”
“England?”
The playful smile widened.
“What are you doing in these parts?” the man asked.
“Ireland or this specific bar?” Paulo considered the question for a moment. He’d spent part of his long layover in Newark chatting with a young father whose toddler crawled over him like a monkey. When the man asked Paulo where he was headed, instead of offering the simple answer—Ireland—he said, “I’m chasing someone.”
“A fugitive?” the young father had asked, trying to untangle his son’s chubby fingers from out of his hair.
“Guess so,” Paulo said with a bit of a smile. He’d had a couple of drinks in the airport bar and he was feeling cheesy. “He stole my heart and ran off.”
Now that the couple were asking, he found himself more purpose-focused, a little less whimsical. “I need to find an address. M
y phone’s dead, but I’ve memorized it.”
“Write it down?” Someone from his right, someone he hadn’t even realized had inserted themselves into the conversation, said. It was a plump, older woman. She pushed a napkin and a pen toward him.
Paulo quickly scrawled the address and pushed it back to her.
“Well, that would be Ol’ Barry’s farm.”
“Who’s Barry?”
“Cranky fecker, he was. Dead now, mind. He left the place to the Williams boys, so he did.”
“But only the big brudder owns it now, doesn’t he?” another man called. “I heard Paddy sold it.”
“Aye, that he did.”
“Seamus runs that farm now.”
Paulo was about four steps behind. Paddy… Williams boys… “Patrick Williams?” he said. The name triggered a vague memory.
“That’s the one,” the young woman smiled. “Ran off to America and married a man.”
“Hush you,” the bartender swatted her with a small towel. “Gossiping.”
“How’s it gossip if it’s the truth?”
“Well, it’s not really a secret, is it? And Seamus is shacked up with that other American. He’s a real cowboy.” The woman did her best southern accent then. “‘I’ve got goats ridin’ boats.’”
Someone else cackled.
“She does a great impression, doesn’t she?”
“Goats and stoats on boats.”
Paulo looked up and realized he was surrounded by people now. Very friendly, very drunk, people who had much to say about Ol’ Barry’s farm, the brothers, and all things that rhymed with goats.
“Listen,” the woman behind the bar said, taking Paulo’s now-empty mug and refilling it. “Those boys are me family, so you best tell me what you want with them.”
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