by Tom Collins
“I was going to get you a traditional Claddagh,” I told him, my voice quavering and my palms getting damp, “but that didn’t seem right. This is your heart, and all that matters is that we both know what it means.”
He gazed at it as if it were a rare diamond before putting it on his left middle finger, hooves facing toward his knuckles. I wasn’t finished, however. I leaned in to quickly kiss him and said, “Whenever you want to promise me your heart forever, you let me know. We’ll exchange these rings, and your heart will be with me, and my heart will be with you.”
He went into the bathroom and cried. The big puss-baby.
Mister O’Brian, on hearing this last story, brought out a handkerchief, wiped his eyes and blew into it noisily. “So you’re engaged?”
“That we are,” I said throwing his accent back at him. “He gets his paramedic license next month, after which we plan the wedding.”
He looked over at Oliver and sighed, as if longing. “He’s a right bonnie lad, I’ll gi’e ye tha’ much, son; puts me in mind o’ a deadly li’l piece tha’ used to wax me shillelagh more’n once ‘pon a time.”
“Mister O’!” I gasped. The old codger had finally managed to shock me. I’d known he hadn’t any family, but had presumed it was because he outlived them.
“Sure,” he flashed me a grin that let the young man he’d once been shine through—and a wickedly handsome lad he must have been, too. “Di’ ye thin’ I been comin’ into this pub all these years just fer th’ honeyed whisky? I come fer th’ show as well. Yer granda was definitely me cup’a back in the day, an’ tha’ uncle o’ yern who takes after ‘im is still a sight to behold. Jaysus, Mary, Joseph an all th’ Holy Martyrs,” he laughed at my expression of incredulity, “ye didn’a invent buggerin’, me boy, ye just discovered it,” he winked.
“Food up!” Erin shouted from the other side of the window before I could think of an adequate response. A heartbeat later, my cousin burst from the kitchen dressed up in full cook’s uniform, ceremoniously bearing a silver platter with the Christmas goose, roasted to perfection nested upon it. Behind him marched the extra waiters and waitresses we’d hired for tonight with family style platters of leg of lamb, sugared hams, more golden geese, Yorkshire puddings, chestnut stuffing, cranberry sauce, glazed carrots and mountains of champ.
The hungry, waiting customers, many of whom had been brought to this traditional dinner by their parents when they were little, and now had their own children in tow, cheered and quickly got settled at the long tables. The wait staff, swished up in their kilts to set the platters down.
That was something else that had changed; turns out, customers had adored my kilt and written as much on their comment cards. So Aunt Rosie had given in. Every Sunday night, for the special, family style dinner, all the waiters and waitresses were required to wear kilts, and for this particular dinner, Aunt Rose had ordered up special kilts with the O’Shaughnessy tartan (yes, we Irish have tartans, too. They’re not just for the Scots).
They all looked very fine in them, Bren and Jill included. Mister O’Brian watched the well-coordinated ballet of food and, for the first time, I noticed he was looking at the men as if he wished he were still young enough to catch one.
“Aye…there’s al’ays some’at foin to be seen wi’ me old Irish eyes in th’ Irish Eyes to make me feel young again. I heartily approve o’th’ changes yer auntie’s made in the ‘décor’ o’th’ place.”
He clearly indicated the kilts swishing past with laden trays and I couldn’t help but chuckle at his boyish antics. I flipped up my kilt, flashing him a bit of thigh as I left the bar.
Oliver was still up and about, he had something he wanted everyone to see and was making the rounds. He’d already shown it to Aunt Katie, Uncle Sean and little Oona, Uncles Dev and Joel, and, of course, to Sandy and Dom. Now he was pressing it on Uncle Gabe and Connor. He showed Doctor Vera Lieberman as well, whom Uncle Gabe had brought as his date.
“I’ve seen it twenty times already,” Uncle Gabe groused as I came up. “You showed it to everyone at the barn!”
“And to everyone in the emergency room…including some of the patients,” Doctor Lieberman mentioned wryly. I liked her. She was sharp and sexy.
“Oliver,” I chided, blushing.
“What?” he said back. “I’m proud!” and he flashed the book cover he held in his hand.
Erin came up from behind Oliver. Draping an arm over Ollie’s muscled shoulders he said, “Let Ground Control kvell if he wants, Spacer.” Oliver flushed with pleasure at the nickname Erin had given him, though he tried to hide it. “What, it’s gonna kill you?”
The publishers had sent it to me only last week, and the book itself wouldn’t be out for another six months. The publishers I’d sent queries to had finally gotten around to checking out my website. They’d been interested, and the video there of my gallery showing had convinced them. They’d commissioned artwork for a story, and sent the fantasy tale to me to read, along with ideas for the cover from the art director. One idea was to have a pair of men battling the forces of evil.
I immediately snapped a picture of the painting I’d done of Oliver and me back to back, fighting off a horde of monsters. It hung in our bedroom, on the wall over the head of the bed.
They’d loved it, requesting only minor alterations to make the characters match those in the book. So a copy had gone out to them. It’d been accepted, and now would grace the cover of a fantasy novel due to be out in every bookstore in the country.
If I was lucky, and I certainly felt lucky, this would be the first of many book covers.
Jill called us over to a spot Bren and I had staked at one end of the family table. As I settled in across from my twin, I grabbed up the small teapot I’d set out special by Oliver’s plate.
“You don’t have to pour my tea for me,” he said, taking the chair beside me.
“Hello,” I said, continuing to fill the mug with warm green tea. “I’m Liam and I’ll be your waiter.”
“You sure you want to do that?” He grinned even as he lifted his mug of tea in a toast to me. “I’m a pretty demanding customer.”
“I hear you tip well if the service is entertaining enough,” I murmured into his ear while flicking the hem of my kilt as a reminder of the illicit peek he’d gotten all those months ago. I felt his face warm next to mine. His hand touched my bare knee, and glided up under the hem.
Oh, baby, I thought, as I met those world-devouring eyes of his. There was the smoldering, cognac heat of the untamed lion I loved so well, but there was also a taste of honey mingled within, sweet and warm. They sparkled.
“Lamb!” my voice shouted, bringing us both out of each other. Brendan was holding a platter of sliced leg of lamb out to us, an impatient expression on his face.
Even when we explained it to him later, Bren still couldn’t understand why we both broke out into gales of laugher and collapsed happily into each other’s arms.
~ Críochnaithe~
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