“I’m aware of that,” she said.
Oliver cleared his throat and continued reciting.
“‘I thought leaving it there would be a nice touch. I would have felt stupid leaving the key to my inheritance on an I-love-London key chain on top of the fridge. You have to have some style when you’re leaving things from the beyond. In the cabinet, you will also find the name and address of a man at an auction house who is fully prepared to handle and sell the paintings. His name is Cecil Gage-Rathbone and he is very good at what he does. Cecil can also handle the sale of our work in progress, which is not yet finished!
“ ‘Up in my room, there’s a disused fireplace. I’m sure you saw it before. It’s all painted over. Get in there, reach up, and behold, you will have the next thing you need. Take this with you to our final destination, which is . . .
“ ‘Ireland! Bet you’ve always wanted to go to Ireland, Gin. I am here to oblige. Ireland is truly one of my favorite places, and the last one I visited.
“‘Here’s the thing, though. I can’t actually remember how to get to the place I want you to go. Richard knows, though, and since you’re there with him now, you can ask him. Say you want directions to “the place near his gran’s.” He’ll know what you mean.’ ”
Ginny stood up instantly and headed up the stairs. She was at the door of her room before she realized that Oliver had not followed her. He stood at the foot of the steps, gazing up.
“What?” she asked.
“I can come up?”
It hadn’t occurred to her that he wouldn’t follow her up to her room. But they had been staying in hostels together for two days now. . . .
“Just come on,” she said.
Oliver’s reaction on seeing the Christmas decorations was nothing compared to his reaction when he reached the threshold of her room.
“Bloody hell,” he said.
Ginny’s room—Aunt Peg’s room—was quite the assault on the senses when you first encountered it. Oliver stared at the floor-to-ceiling collage of wrappers and assorted pieces of paper. Ginny was already on the floor, shoving aside the suitcase she had set in front of the fireplace. There it was—the little portcullis made of plastic. It gave with just a slight effort. Ginny got on her back and slid her head into the opening. The chimney had been sealed off at some point, but there was still a frigid draft coming down through the darkness. Just a few feet up, an object was wedged sideways in the flue. She reached up and grabbed it, and it came down, along with a handful of dust and filth that landed on her face. She sneezed it out and retracted herself.
It was long, narrow box, like the kind of box a collapsible umbrella might come in. It was made in two long pieces, which just needed to be pulled apart to open. There were two things inside—a long object, and a small baggie. The baggie contained fine art pastels—large, fancy crayons with labels written in Italian. There were four of them, a gray one, a white one, a deep green one, and a light green one. The long object was a piece of blank paper.
“Oh no,” Ginny said.
To be fair to the paper, it was very nice paper. It looked handmade. You could see the fibers. And it was almost completely translucent. Still, blank paper implied drawing something, and that was bad.
“What am I supposed to do with this?” Ginny asked. “Does she think I can draw? Because I can’t draw. Come on, you know what I have to do.”
“You’ll be fine,” he said.
“I’d be better if you told me.”
“Honestly, you wouldn’t. It doesn’t make any sense without knowing the location, but the actual task doesn’t sound difficult. We could leave tonight. We could go without them. I’d bet you we could get some cheap flights, be there in no time. That’s how I was planning on doing it before they got involved.”
For just a split second, Ginny was tempted. No more staring at Ellis and Keith. Just go off, get it done now. But no . . . no. Keith was offering to drive. That was how she was going. That was how it had to be.
“We go with them,” Ginny said.
“Then we’d better look up the ferry times.”
Ginny’s computer was on the floor next to her bed. She pulled it over. Oliver stood over her as she typed and leaned against the bureau, making him look about fifteen feet tall.
“There’s a ferry to Dublin at one,” she said. “It leaves from Holyhead.”
“Which is in Wales. That’s about six hours away. We’re going to have to leave at five in the morning.”
He said it like it was a challenge.
“Then that’s when we go,” she replied.
“Well, then, I suppose I should . . .” He looked down at an eyeliner Ginny had left on the bureau, picking it up and examining it curiously, like he had never seen such a wondrous object before. “. . . I should go,” he said. “I’ll meet you in the morning, at his place, I suppose.”
He left the room. Ginny heard him hurry down the stairs and let himself out.
“You’re so weird,” she said out loud.
Richard was somewhat surprised to find Ginny sitting on the sofa when he returned home that night.
“You’re home,” he said. “And you brought . . . some scrap-heap challenge materials. . . .”
He pointed at the tabletop and window that had joined the many decorations in his living room. They really didn’t look very impressive out of context. The tabletop was yellow, with several reddish circular stains, mostly in the center, but some on the sides. There was what also appeared to be a long black scorch mark along the side. The paint had flaked up completely in several places, revealing a duck egg blue door underneath. The door had been sawed in half and barely sanded, leaving one rough edge. That was the edge that had been on her foot in the car. The window was more artlike because it had a painting on it, but it was still very dirty, and the wood frame was shabby.
“That’s the piece,” Ginny explained. “It’s not finished yet.”
Richard turned his head to the left and to the right, trying to comprehend how a rough yellow tabletop and a colorful but dirty painted window went together, then shook his head, apparently deciding this was not the best use of his mental energies.
“So there’s more?” he asked.
“One more piece,” she said. “We have to get it.”
“And where is this piece located?”
“Ireland. The letter said I was supposed to ask you for directions to the place near your gran’s.”
Richard nodded and looked away, jingling his keys in his palm for a moment.
“Right,” he said. “Of course. Well, I propose, if you’re up for it, a trip to the Rose of Delhi. It’s just down the road, and they do a very good curry. Let me change and we’ll go.”
Richard quickly changed into jeans and a sweater, and they were soon walking down the rain-soaked streets. It always rained in England when you weren’t looking, giving the roads and sidewalks a glossy shine. The night was otherwise clear, and not too cold.
For the second time in her life, Ginny found herself in an Indian restaurant. This one had a distinctly dramatic flair. There were heavy velvet drapes over the door to keep out the cold. Inside was a world of bright rose-colored walls, covered in tiny elephants stenciled in gold paint. Bouncy Bhangra music was playing, and there were fresh flowers everywhere—a small arrangement by the door, little vases on all the tables, another vase full on the host stand. They were effusively greeted, given warm, moistened washcloths to clean their hands with, and tucked into a cozy window table. The waiter immediately set about rearranging all of the glasses and silverware. This always baffled Ginny. Why did they set it one way and change it as soon as you sat down?
A moment later, she was facing down a menu she didn’t really understand. Korma, masala, rogan josh, vindaloo, chicken tikka bhuna, aloo gobhi, biryani . . . she had no idea what these things were. When the popadoms came—the large, crispy disks that were sort of the equivalents of tortilla chips at a Mexican restaurant—she felt slightly more comf
ortable. She still had no idea what was in any of the five small silver bowls of dips that went with them. She allowed Richard to guide her through the ordering process. He got her something not too spicy, and made of lamb.
“My family is from Ireland,” he said, poking a hole in the center of the popadoms so that they could be broken up and eaten. “I was born there. I moved here when I was little, so I never had the accent. I’m the only Murphy who sounds like this. It’s the family shame. The place you’re going is just outside of Kildare, near the Curragh.”
“What’s that?”
“About twenty kilometers of open grazing land. It’s where the sheep are. They wander into town at night and eat up all the grass in your garden and leave you with the gift of sheep poop.”
“So, I’m going to an open field?”
“No,” he said. “Not exactly.”
“So, what’s there?” Ginny asked. “What am I going to see?”
“Didn’t the letter tell you?”
“I didn’t read that page yet,” she said. It was the truth. She hadn’t. “I kind of read them as I go.”
Richard broke off a large piece of popadom and tapped it on the edge of his plate. He seemed to be debating something with himself.
“Is something wrong?” she asked.
“No,” he said. “Just thinking of the best way to get there. You’re going from Dublin, I presume?”
“We’re taking the ferry in the morning.”
“Of course. I probably shouldn’t have taken you for curry tonight . . . though I’m sure your trip will be fine. Just a little . . . choppy, sometimes . . .”
He tore his bread in half again and left both pieces on the side of the plate without eating them.
“So,” he said, changing his demeanor entirely. “Dublin. New Year’s Eve. You’ll be with your friend, right?”
“There are four of us,” Ginny said.
“Four? Where did the other two come from?”
“Keith and his girlfriend. He drove. It’s . . . fine.”
Now they were both being cagey. The waiter came by with a cart with their food, so there was a natural pause while he set up a hot plate and put down the steaming metal dishes of curries and rice and bread. It was enough time for Ginny to come up with a change of subject.
“How normal is it for people to go away to boarding school here?” she asked, as they dished up their food.
Richard could easily handle a turn in conversation like that. He was used to getting constant, random questions fired at him all day long.
“It’s not abnormal, but it’s not the usual thing either.”
“I just met someone who went to one,” she said. “You always read books or see movies about people in England going to boarding school. I thought maybe it was what most people did.”
“No,” Richard said. “I didn’t go to one. I know a few people who did. They’re very expensive.”
“So you have to be kind of rich to go?” she asked.
“Well, it usually implies some money. Some people go on scholarship, some schools cost less than others. It varies. Generally, though, there has to be some money coming from somewhere.”
So, unless Oliver had gone to school on scholarship, he had to have some money in his family. He was probably smart enough for a scholarship—but people who won scholarships didn’t seem like the kind of people who would just walk away from university. And while his clothes were probably secondhand, they were still very high quality. He knew good stuff when he saw it. Her guess was that there was some money, at least in his past. So why would he need her money from the sale?
“I’ll write down the directions when we get back,” Richard said, returning to their primary conversation. “It’s not far from Dublin. Shouldn’t take you long to get there, especially if you have a car.” He gestured to the food. “Tuck in. I think you’ll like that.”
Whatever it was, it did look delicious. It was a deep reddish brown color, like chili, flecked with bright green pieces of cilantro. It smelled like nothing Ginny had ever eaten before.
“It’s okay,” Richard said, indicating her plate. “Try it.”
He was definitely talking about the curry, but she got the distinct sense that he was trying to reassure her about something larger, something waiting for her in Ireland.
She plunged her fork in and took a big bite. The dish, whatever it was, was just as delicious as it smelled, full of tender meat and freshly cracked spices. Richard never steered her wrong. Whatever was waiting for her . . . it was all going to be fine. She was sure of it.
The Emerald Isle
“Why are Americans so fascinated by Ireland?” Keith asked when he opened the door the next morning. “Ellis and I were just talking about this. Now we need you to explain. Explain, American. You all seem to think it’s magic. Ireland . . .”
He said the last word in an Irish lilt. Ellis, who was sitting on the steps cradling a cup of tea, shook her head.
“Morning, Gin,” she said. “I wasn’t talking about this. He was. To himself.”
Ginny smiled thinly, taking in Ellis’s jeans and sweater from the day they had started their journey to France. Either Ellis had gotten there very early or . . . or she had never left and had no other clothes to change into. That was the horrible but entirely likely option. Ginny tried to beat down the creeping misery that came with this thought, the one that wound around her body like a vine.
“Plus,” Keith added, oblivious to her suffering, “you all think you’re Irish. What’s the appeal? Do you like the accent more? Is it all the magical rocks? Oh, look, a leprechaun. . . .”
That signified the arrival of Oliver, who was just coming up behind Ginny.
“Good morning,” he said.
“Is it?” Keith asked. “Is it?”
Oliver took his normal course of ignoring everything that came out of Keith’s mouth and got into the backseat. He had prepared for this leg of the trip by packing very lightly—just a backpack. No computer. Nothing he couldn’t keep on his lap. Ginny could barely face getting back in the car, which was looking ever so slightly the worse for wear. The heavy driving in the rain and snow had covered it in a layer of grime that actually altered the color and tinted the windows, making it feel even smaller.
“Ahead of us today,” Keith said, jiggling the key and coaxing the cold engine to life, “we have yet another long drive to a ferry crossing. Nothing like the Irish Sea in the dead of winter.”
“You could drop us off at the ferry terminal,” Oliver offered.
“Oh no,” Keith said. “Wouldn’t miss it. New Year’s Eve? Dublin? You and me together? The magic of you combined with the magic of Ireland?”
This time, they headed north and west, to Holyhead, in Wales. This was the longest drive yet, well over six hours—about the same amount of time it took Ginny to fly to England in the first place. There was very little discussion. No one was quite awake enough for that. Ginny stared glassy-eyed at the changing English landscape. The signs were suddenly in English and another quite strange language that Oliver told her was Welsh. She hadn’t realized that Welsh was something people spoke, or even that it existed. It was a bit wilder here, rolling hills and tiny villages, and long stretches of nothing but fields.
It was slightly terrifying to drive into the belly of the ferry, a cavernous space half full with huge trucks and a smattering of cars and motorcycles. As soon as they had parked the car, they made their way up the stark metal staircase to the passenger decks. Keith and Ellis both stretched out on some seats in one of the lounges, head to head.
“You getting some sleep, mad one?” Keith asked, as he positioned his coat under his head as a pillow.
“No,” Ginny said.
“Make sure no one feeds us to the kraken, then, right?” He gave her a little smile and a wink.
They were both asleep before the boat even left the dock. Ginny sat across from them, wobbling in her seat as the boat listed left and right. She couldn’t sl
eep that peacefully—not on this boat, and not in this position. Oliver went outside on the deck. She could see him through the drizzle-splattered windows, battling all of nature in his attempt to light a cigarette. The wind battered his coat and sent its tails flapping, his closely clipped hair pushed up on end. There was something mesmerizing about watching him try to do the same thing over and over. The flick of the lighter. The cup of the hand. The turn to try to find the one position where the wind wouldn’t put out the flame. After a few minutes and two ruined cigarettes, he gave up and came back inside.
“Must be a smokers’ lounge,” he said. “I hate them. They smell terrible. But it’ll have to do.”
“They smell like smoke,” Ginny said. “What do you think you smell like?”
This was a little unfair. Oliver didn’t actually smell like smoke that often—maybe just a tiny whiff on his coat right after he came in. He walked away silently. Ginny looked over at the happily sleeping couple again, shook it off, and decided to go out onto the deck.
Then they were off, the Welsh coast vanishing into the mist. Though it was a cold and choppy passage, Ginny enjoyed the trip. The ferry in the summer had been smooth and even, the sun beating down on blue water. She enjoyed the slosh and chug of the boat. It was active. This was traveling. It had a pulse to it. She spent most of the four-hour trip walking loops of the deck, listening to music at full blast on her headphones. (No Starbucks: the Musical. She had considered putting some of the songs onto her playlist, but then realized she had enough of Keith in her eyes and ears at all times. She was learning.) She took pride in the fact that she could walk so steadily as the boat rocked and slammed on the water. She was starting to feel in control of this thing—she could handle being around Ellis and Keith. She could handle Oliver. A little loud music, a rough boat ride across the Irish Sea . . . she could take it.
When the announcement was made for all drivers to return to their vehicles, Ginny bought two coffees and went to wake Ellis and Keith, who were still sound asleep on the lounge chairs.
The Last Little Blue Envelope Page 15