Herself

by Leslie Carroll

  “I’ll stuff the inclination,” I promise. I want to stick my head out the window like a dog and enjoy the wind’s caress through my hair, to breathe in the aromas, both sweet and savory, of Irish country living. Passing through Enniskerry, I bite my tongue to refrain from remarking that it looks like an advertisement for the Irish Tourist Board, ready for its postcard close-up. I am about to make a comparison to New En gland, but catch myself before I do, wondering if it’s a uniquely American thing to see something of our own everywhere we go, in an effort to lay claim to it somehow.

  “Pretty, isn’t it?” Jamie says, his hand on my knee. “Ya can see why we’re so house-proud. There’s no place like Ireland on God’s green earth—and we like it that way.”

  The road from the village into the Powerscourt estate proper is shaded by old, old trees which command both awe and respect, not just for their beauty but for what I perceive as their wisdom. And then the surface turns to gravel as we rumble up to Powerscourt itself, a grandly Italianate villa, and I blush to admit that the first thing that catches my eye is the sign for the gift shops. Followed by the one for the ladies’ room.

  Acres and acres wait to be explored. And here we are, Jamie and I, in Ireland’s lush countryside amid a united nations of botany: the Italian Garden, the Japanese Gardens, the North American trees rising toward the sky in Tower Valley (the centerpiece of which is a tower modeled after the design on Lord Powerscourt’s pepperpot), and the two majestic winged horses built of zinc by a nineteenth-century German professor.

  And I want to run and skip and laugh through every hectare of it.

  Here I am, snapping digital photos like a modern-day Margaret Bourke-White. I am in love with the obligingly photogenic winged horses, wishing we could mount them so that we could soar across the stately Triton Lake and into the pines beyond.

  Then suddenly the heavens open and the giants weep—whether from sorrow or joy I’m unsure—and Jamie and I run down the pebbled pathways in search of shelter, finding it (more or less) in the Grotto within the Japanese Gardens, a mystical-looking sanctuary thanks to the petrified sphagnum that covers its every surface in shades of green and gray.

  And hungry with emotion I kiss Jamie Doyle with a mouth full of ardor and happiness. Kissing and kissing, as if we’ve just invented this delicious pastime and require as much experimentation as possible to perfect it before announcing our discovery to the world.

  And the firmament stops leaking, sending a gift between a break in two clouds, one resembling a dragon and the other a giant briar pipe…a rainbow worthy of chasing to its end.

  And, sodden clothes and squishy shoes notwithstanding, we clasp hands and follow it where it leads, leaving us in Powerscourt’s Pets Cemetary, a necro-garden of sorrows, where the once-and-always beloved four-legged friends of the wealthy and well-connected, have an unparalleled eternal vista. Perhaps I, too, could look at those undulating mountains forever.

  And I weep for the loyal that lie beneath this earth and for the dog that Jamie knows I always wanted. Maybe he knows, too, that the reason I never did get a pet wasn’t my stated one. It wasn’t really that it’s too hard to keep a dog in a Manhattan flat or that I spent too much time out of town. Those were my excuses. But my reason? That I never wanted to experience its death. I have yet to master the precepts of mortality and most likely never will.

  “I know what will cheer you,” my companion says as we stroll back toward the house. As one looks out from the steps of Powerscourt, the vista over the gardens to the mountains is spectacular, and the view heading toward the opposite direction is no less grand. A breeze riffles through my imagination, and suddenly Jamie and I are in a Merchant-Ivory movie, though I have yet to determine its plot.

  “Are you reading my mind again?”

  He steers me straight for the shops. “You tell me.”

  From the array of unusual semi-local crafts, the Irish souvenirs one might find in any gift shop in the country, and a smattering of kitsch, I select gifts for Imogen (a book on famous Irish Jews) and for Venus (Speak Gaelic! CDs and a sachet of lavender-scented drawer liners). I find myself feeling somewhat guilty when I’m drawn to a fluffy white terrycloth bathrobe with the word Herself embroidered in gold thread above the right breast. “A bit self-indulgent, don’t you think?”

  “Oh aye, but Herself, Himself, they’re some of my favorite colloquialisms. Sweet and tart on the tongue. They’re expressions often used to refer to someone putting on airs and pulling an attitude as though they were the lady or lord of the manor—but it’s not without a degree of affection, ya see. We all need to feel important and special sometimes, don’t we?”

  Jamie insists that I try on the robe (he calls it a “dressing gown”), and though it’s unlike me to make such a spectacle of myself, he asks so endearingly that I have to oblige him. “What do you think?” I say, appraising my image in the gift shop’s mirror.

  “Tworl around so I can get a better look.”

  There are other tourists watching me now, evidently amused, and I think the joke’s on me. “The sleeves are kind of long, aren’t they?” Until I start rolling them up I look like a little girl modeling her mother’s—or maybe her dad’s—jacket.

  Jamie grins. “I’m a betting man, and I have a feelin’ you’ll grow into it.”

  Once the voluminous sleeves have been adjusted to my proportions—the “one size fits all” label isn’t kidding, evidently—it’s like wearing a big hug: safe and cozy. I feel warmly confident. “Isn’t it grand?” I crow giddily. My embarrassment gene suddenly slips into recessive mode, and I succumb to the urge to twirl and prance about the gift shop like a heroine in a 1950s musical comedy. Herself. It’s me. Or the me I wish I was—or could be. You gotta love it. Purchasing this bathrobe has just become what Imogen would term a “moral imperative” in the realm of retail. I proffer my credit card to the rosy-cheeked old-age pensioner at the cash register.

  “It’s quite yummy, isn’t it?” she says, as she wraps the robe in tissue paper. “And you look darlin’ in it.” She leans toward me, and adds in a conspiratorial whisper, “I wouldn’t be a bit surprised if you got lucky this evening. Your gent seemed quite taken.”

  “He’s—” I decide not to explain. Better to just play along. “From your mouth to God’s ears,” I reply, giving her a little wink.

  Okay, so now I’ve spent exponentially more on myself than I have on my friends, and Jamie counsels me to stop feeling guilty over it, because Imogen and Venus would understand. He’s right, I suppose. Venus has a huge warm heart and this entire trip was her idea in the first place, so I’m sure she’d want me to feel okay about treating myself to a pricey memento. And Imogen is so acquisitive that she’d never think twice about buying a present for herself, no matter the cost.

  And so back we head to Dublin through the picturesque vales and around the hillsides. Although I spy grazing sheep and lazy cattle who eye us with only the mildest of interest, there’s nary another soul in sight; it could be almost any year in eternity. “You know, I feel a bit gypped that we didn’t find a pot of gold at the end of that rainbow,” I tell Jamie. I know it’s a legend, but I do actually feel disappointed.

  “We found the gift shop. Doesn’t that count? Maybe you did find a pot o’gold, but you didn’t recognize it. Sometimes folklore arrives in metaphors, y’know.”

  “You just made that up!”

  His irresistible grin spreads from dimple to dimple. “I know!”

  We motor up to Boynton’s front door, a no-stopping zone. After several awkward moments, Jamie inquires as to my dinner plans.

  “I really need some time to myself this evening,” I tell him truthfully, “though it’s been a gorgeous day, and I did have a wonderful time in your company.” I’ve been neglecting my journal, and though the handsome new friend by my side is infinitely more compelling than an inanimate book of observations, so much has happened in the past couple of days—I think I’m beginning to have feelings for Jam
ie, for starters—that I really need to step back and get analytical, at least for an evening. Right now I feel like Alice falling down the rabbit hole, and I need to don a pair of crampons and slow my descent before I really end up way over my head. I’m supposed to be uncomplicating things on this vacation, and Jamie Doyle presents a massive, albeit charismatic, complication in my life right now.

  “I’ll try to stop by Blackpools later,” I assure him. As I ascend the steps to the town house, we slip into an Alphonse/ Gaston routine: he seems to be waiting until the door closes behind me before he motors off, and I am waiting until he drives away before I enter the hotel. Even this little good-bye is a difficult one, which further messes up my head. I “blink” first and head inside, to the emotional safety behind the royal blue door.

  Yet something, a sixth sense, if you will—or it could have been my desire to look out of the nine-foot-high windows in the little parlor to see if Jamie is still there, sitting in his mini, trying to see inside, past the drawn striped silk drapes, guessing that I would have entered the charming sitting room for just that purpose, before going up to my room—something makes me poke my head into the parlor. Are my eyes deceiving me? Or maybe it’s a trick of the light. A man is sitting on the sofa, the sumptuous, cushy kind of couch that envelops you, even cradles your tush as you sit. He is sipping a cup of tea. His silhouette, the strong back, broad shoulders, the full head of dark brown hair, naturally wavy, is horrifyingly familiar. Of course it could be anyone sitting there, I tell myself. But it isn’t anyone. It’s David.

  There are a half dozen things I want to say, but the first thing that comes out of my mouth is “You broke your promise.”

  David turns around, still holding his teacup. “I know. Can you forgive me, Tess?”

  “Not unless there’s a very good reason for your following me across the Atlantic and interrupting my vacation when I expressly asked you not to contact me.”

  “I’m sorry,” he replies, hitting just the right note of contrition. “I thought all bets were off when you asked me to meet you at the Boat house the day you left.” He gently places his cup on the pretty tray atop the coffee table.

  “My contacting you doesn’t count. It’s your not contacting me that was the bargain we struck. I told you I needed time alone. To think. Sort things out. And I haven’t yet been able to give any serious thought to whether I can continue to work for you. With you. So we’ll have to start the clock again, I’m afraid.”

  “I wanted to see you, Tess. I’ve missed you. Really missed you. And I know I broke our agreement, but I had to come here to tell you that.” It’s probably the most romantic thing he’s ever said to me.

  Suddenly I become fearful. “Are you feeling okay…I mean…how the hell are you, David?” Oh, God, he didn’t cross the ocean to tell me he’s only got four days to live or something?

  “I’m fine, Tess. Perfectly healthy, if that’s what you’re asking. Don’t worry.” David rises and holds out his hands to me, and guided by a force stronger than my conscious willpower I accept them and drink him in. He’s as handsome as he was a few days ago, as tall, as confident in his skin, but his face appears a bit more careworn; the recent stresses—both physical and political—are already exacting a price from his princely looks.

  I feel as though I’ve gone, emotionally, in the past five minutes, from the proverbial frying pan into the inferno. It would be inhospitable for me not to invite him upstairs to my room. Besides, my skin is still atingle from his wildly romantic statement of a minute or so ago. He must have been anticipating how things would play out, at least at the beginning, because he shoulders an overnight bag and follows me up the stairs, our collective tread noiseless on the thick Persian carpeting.

  And the big question I haven’t voiced yet is the next one to escape my lips. “How did you know I was here?” Only two people were aware of my travel plans, and I’m relatively sure that one of them wouldn’t sing, now matter how much pressure was applied.

  “Your cousin was reluctant to tell me at first, but she still thinks we might have a happily-ever-after in our future.”

  “It figures.” Imogen is going to hear from me. It doesn’t count as a head-clearing vacation if your ex-boyfriend appears, rather literally out of the blue, to muddy your thoughts even further. “Do you think we have a happily-ever-after?”

  He doesn’t reply, and I know not to push. Do I even want to get back together with him? We have a history. It’s safe and comfortable because it’s familiar, but does that mean it’s healthy? And then there’s Jamie Doyle. A vacation flirtation? Perhaps it is only that. I’m emotionally vulnerable, and Jamie is more than willing, evidently, to make me feel good about myself, even if it’s just for a week. A confidence-restoring fling. Maybe he makes a habit of beguiling American lost souls, making each woman he enchants feel special, sending her back stateside with a rejuvenated sense of self-worth. Sensitive Samaritanism.

  I’m thinking too much about Jamie.

  Twelve

  I need to deal with David now. He’s behind me on the stairs, his hand on the small of my back comfortable and reassuring. It’s been less than a week since he decided to end things, and I’ve missed his touch more than I’ve been willing to admit to myself. After all, it wasn’t my idea to end our relationship.

  Once inside my room, David admires its décor, its view, and its appointments—particularly the fireplace and the marble bath. And then…(had I been expecting him to take me in his arms and kiss me? Tumble me onto the bed?)…he says, “You look good, Tess.”

  “Sightseeing agrees with me, I suppose.” I try not to sound disappointed. “So does shopping. Look what I bought this afternoon!” I untie the green ribbon securing the clouds of white tissue paper and lovingly unwrap my new acquisition, modeling the fluffy Herself bathrobe for David.

  He chuckles. “Isn’t that a little big on you?”

  I guess I had expected, or wanted, him to be at least complimentary, if not enthusiastic. Then again, what straight guy gets enthusiastic about a terry robe? “I…I guess I need to grow into it,” I say, now feeling very small indeed.

  “So…may I take you to dinner? I understand there’s a terrific restaurant—modern Irish cuisine, they’re calling it—tucked into a hotel on the Liffey.”

  I take a deep breath. “Is that where you’re staying, then?” Did he assume he was going to room with me? Do I want him to?

  “I booked a room at the Shelbourne down the street.”

  Oh. “Dublin’s grande dame. I haven’t poked my head in there yet. I suppose you’ll blend in with all the local politicians who apparently belly up to the bar every day. The Dáil is just around the corner.” Okay…he needs me, but isn’t making any assumptions that I will leap into his arms or throw myself at his feet just because he tracked me down and took a transatlantic flight to be with me, instead of waiting a few more days until I returned.

  “Let me shower first and I’ll be ready to go. Did you make a reservation?” Through the half-closed bathroom door I can hear him on the phone with the concierge, prompting her. Boynton’s is no stranger to a celebrity clientele, and if the young woman from Berlin has never heard of American congressman David Weyburn, she’s responded in the affirmative to his charisma, which, when I hear my phone ring, is evidently enough to convince the people at the Octagon to hold aside a quiet table for two against our arrival this evening.

  It’s rather a strange dinner—not merely because the insanely expensive food (which isn’t dissimilar in menu or price to anything one might find at an upscale New York bistro) is served up in infinitesimal portions which would probably make the average Irishman apoplectic—but because our conversation is awkward. We discuss what I’ve seen of Dublin thus far, how I find it, how the topography and weather compare to New York City, the much-vaunted friendliness of the Irish (I omit certain salient details there), and it feels like an odd sort of first date, rather than a romantic reunion. David has ordered a bottle of Frenc
h wine. I find myself drinking too quickly out of anxiousness and in the expectation that the classic social lubricant will ease the tension.

  And maybe it’s a good thing that I’m still hungry even after devouring a tiny fruit tartlet masquerading as dessert. After all the fish and chips I’ve consumed thus far, a scant few inches of broiled halibut plated up with a couple of green beans is probably a gift to my digestive system, at any price.

  “You don’t seem to be having much fun,” David remarks astutely, signing the credit card slip with characteristic authority.

  I lean over the table to whisper to him over our cappuccinos. “This place is kind of cold, don’t you think? The atmosphere, not the temperature. No ‘Irish charm’ what ever. It’s so yuppified in here. We could be dining in TriBeCa, if it weren’t for all the pub signs outside. They don’t even have Irish Coffee on the menu!”

  David places his hands over mine. “Then let’s do a pub crawl! Tell me where you want to go.”

  “Authentic. Someplace authentic; that’s all I know,” I reply, thinking of Blackpools, which would in fact be the last place I’d step inside with David.

  As we stroll through the narrow, crowded thoroughfares of Temple Bar, it feels a bit like the French Quarter of New Orleans used to, when it seemed like every fraternity house in the city had spilled out of its taverns onto Bourbon and St. Louis. David and I are in another demographic entirely; I’m just about the only woman not dressed in fraying hipsters and a belly tee. I feel like such a grownup in my black sheath, pashmina, and pumps.

  “There’s a pub every few steps,” David rhetorically notes. “Anything catch your fancy yet?”

  I remember the men in Davy Byrne’s mentioning O’Donoghues, which is right near David’s hotel and mine, so I suggest we head over there. Once I dangle it as the birthplace of The Dubliners, David is sold, though we look rather incongruous in our dressy attire inside this dark, and highly casual, nightspot. And if it isn’t old Conlan, sitting in on the tin whistle with Turlough, to night’s band, named after a seventeenth-century blind harper. I give him a wave and he tips me a wink as I scare up a pair of low stools to perch upon while David bellies up to the bar for two Irish Coffees. My craving must be satisfied.