by Annie Cosby
I tried to hide my confusion. His mother’s accent was rather obvious. He smiled. “I was adopted,” he explained easily.
“Oh.” Adopted? This boy was a giant question mark. What else didn’t I know about him? The silence was uncomfortable, and I didn’t want him to know all I was wondering about his life. “You won’t be lonely over there?” I asked quickly.
“I have three brothers there. That’s more than I’ve got here. I’ve got seven nieces and nephews, too, and they’re growing up entirely too fast. And sisters-in-law and cousins, too many cousins to count.” He’d stopped mopping and was just talking passionately while leaning on the mop handle. “And a bachelor of a brother willing to put me up. I’ve got to go before he decides to get married and I’m out of a free room.”
“Have you been to Ireland before?”
“Some of us go back every year for Christmas. Not all of us, every year. It’s really expensive. But as many as can go each year. And then my brothers, they have childhood friends there, they started moving back as soon as they could afford it. Two of them went to college there, and never left.”
“So you’ve got a winter home, too,” I said quietly.
He looked me in the eye for a long moment and then smiled. “I guess you could say that.”
It was quiet again and it made me uncomfortable. So I babbled. “Of course, if I had the means, I’d get out of here, too,” I said. “I mean, away from home. Not here here.”
He smiled. “You not having the means? Is it strange that I found that a bit of an oxymoron?”
I shook my head. “I think that’s one thing that you never understood.” I was careful, broaching the subject of the fight on tiptoe. “It isn’t my money. It’s money for me, on one condition. On the condition that I make the decisions that they want me to make. Sort of a farce, I guess. Pretend to make the decisions, while they call the shots, then sure, I’ve got means.” I trailed off, but he had no response. “But you, you seem to have it good. Why would you want to leave?”
He was quiet for a moment. “I guess I am lucky in that respect. I’ve always had the freedom to do what I want with my minimum wage. I guess this would sound strange to you, but this place has never felt like home. I’ve lived here my whole life. But in Galway every year, going back there, it just feels like home.” His face was contorted in a familiar way that I’d seen him use in my presence before, as though he was trying to work out a difficult equation. “What’s home but where your family is?” he went on. “I mean, the family I was raised with. And so much of my family’s there. Really, what’s home but where the people who love you reside? And my mum and dad become so much more themselves there. I don’t know if that makes sense.”
Strangely, it did to me. In so many different ways. Not least of all with my own father.
“Well, Mrs. O’Leary will miss you,” I said quietly. “Oh God, Mrs. O’Leary!” I stood and moved toward the door. “She’ll want you to go see her when you can. I need to go say good-bye to her for the day, I need to get home.” My cheeks were red, and for some reason I suddenly felt the need to be away from this boy whose mere presence made me so nervous.
“Home? Where’s home?” he said playfully.
I smiled in spite of myself. “Well, I meant the Pink Palace, if home is where your family is. But I’m not sure I buy your definition of home.”
“Oh, really? And what definition do you buy?”
“Well, honestly … I don’t think I’m old enough to know yet.” I waved awkwardly and left, wondering where in that conversation my stomach had started doing mad somersaults.
Lúnasa
Lughnasadh
It was the weekend after August first. Owen and company were becoming antsy with the waning summer, and they were all eager for entertainment. Unfortunately, we had different ideas of what constituted entertainment.
“It’s some sort of party for locals,” Blondie explained. “It happens every year, but we’ve never been before.”
“We’re not locals,” I pointed out.
I knew the only reason the kids from the big houses wanted to go was because their parents would be appalled if they found out. Forbid a kid to do something and it became substantially more inviting, I knew this from firsthand experience. This, however, was something I really didn’t want to do.
“The locals don’t care, they’ll all be drunk anyway,” Owen said.
“I don’t want to crash a party,” I said.
“We’re not crashing.”
“Oh, I want to crash a party!” the bimbo squealed. “I’ve never crashed anything before!”
Owen rolled his eyes. “Cora, it’s a party. If it was private there wouldn’t be signs plastered over half the town.” I didn’t trust Owen like I once had, I’d learned my lesson. But my mother’s recent accusation of shunning these kids was fresh in my mind. If it would keep all parties involved placated, maybe it was worth it.
I reluctantly agreed.
“Sweet, let’s go drink their beer,” Benjamin Huston said.
The night of the party was hot. My balcony doors were flung open, but there was no wind. I had been on the phone with Rosie when I heard Owen downstairs. It was rare that his voice brought relief, but Rosie’s conversation was waxing difficult.
“I’ll call you later, Rosie,” I said, interrupting a rather long account of her latest date with Steven.
“Oh—uh, ok.”
Why on Earth are you surprised nobody wants to listen to this boring story? Rosie’s constant need to validate her existence with the attention of guys our age was becoming more and more annoying to me as the summer wore on. At least that’s what I told myself. In reality, it felt very similar to jealousy.
I hung up and slipped into my one-and-only lacey party dress. It was still slung over the trunk at the bottom of my bed; apparently my mother’s flippant resolution not to do my laundry still held firm.
I glanced in the mirror and greeted my reflection with a grimace. Rosie would have started preparing for an event like this hours ago, makeup spilling over her desk, straightener and curler both out, plugged in, and threatening to burn the house down. But I was another story. Any attempt to tame my hair or skin only resulted in my looking a bit like a clown. Better to look like a hobo than look like you’re trying too hard, I thought. My stomach curled with the desire to look like Rosie did at the end of her preparations, primped and perfect. But it was really a fear of failure that kept me from pulling out my ancient stash of makeup. You can’t fail if you don’t try.
Downstairs, Owen was positively glowing as he chattered to my father. He wore khakis and a soft white shirt unbuttoned nearly to his belly button. Never had he been more the personification of Abercrombie. He talked easily with my dad, at home in the big kitchen. My mother stood idly by, saying nothing for the first time in her life, and merely nodding as we left. I wasn’t sure if the silent treatment was meant for me or for the odious Linda Carlton’s son, but I had a feeling Mom didn’t know either.
Outside, Blondie and the bimbo simpered over my dress, obviously having forgotten they’d seen it a dozen times before. The Huston kid was already drunk. Even Marshall Ritz was there, eyes glazed. Did they invite the whole neighborhood? There was no way we could inconspicuously crash a party where the locals would undoubtedly know everyone else. Including me. Because that was the real problem, wasn’t it? What would the kids from the big houses think if we came across some Oyster Beach local who knew me?
But my misgivings didn’t really become uncontrollable until we began to near Mrs. O’Leary’s little yellow house. “Hey, where is this thing?” I asked Owen, feigning nonchalance.
“I don’t really know; somewhere in back of a motel,” he said.
There was only one place that could be misconstrued as a motel. My stomach dropped.
“I’m really reconsidering this,” I said quickly. “I think it’s a bad idea.”
Owen rolled his eyes. “I don’t know why you’re being
so weird,” he said. “We’re not dealing crack or something.”
“Benjamin’s already drunk.” I was grasping at anything. “He’s just going to start a fight or something.”
“Jesus, Cora, no he won’t. This isn’t West Side Story.” He was right; Benjamin was a Huston, he’d probably never used his knuckles in his entire life. Desperation to be anywhere but here was flooding my veins.
Unfortunately, we didn’t have to search for the party. The resort was backlit and awash in chatter and music. People were flocking to the patio behind the office.
The first person I saw was none other than Aidan O’Brien.
Shit.
He stood at the side of the building, talking brightly to some younger girl. He was the spitting image of his brother. Aidan might let me pass unnoticed, but if I knew Rory (and I liked to pretend I did) he would say hello. He was so goddamn sweet.
What on Earth would I say to him?
Hey, what are you doing here? Oh, is this your parents’ resort? I didn’t even notice!
Shit. Shit. Shit.
Hey, Rory! I’m just here at your party. It’s open to the public, right?
I followed Owen with my head bowed. There were rocks in my stomach. A short stone path led from the boardwalk down a tiny hill around the big red building. A great big wooden gate was flung open to reveal the huge patio alight with a happiness I couldn’t feel.
The patio was outlined with a single string of fairy lights strung up by poles at each corner. The little lights threw an almost magical glow over the patio where a few people danced and even more stood around talking. Several men with guitars sat in a jumble in the corner, alternately talking and playing. There was a long, low table off to the right, littered with drinks and punch bowls.
“Bingo,” Benjamin slurred. The bimbo was at his heels.
Immediately to the left of the gate, Mr. Hall sat in a metal folding chair, tapping his foot rhythmically but seemingly out of tempo with the acoustic guitar. More rocks tumbled down my throat and settled in my stomach with a crash. My two worlds were colliding, and I wasn’t prepared for it.
In my haste to not find Rory, I let my guard down. Somebody else found me.
“What are you doing here?”
Jen Johnson stood before me like an angel in a flowery, nearly sheer white dress. Her long blonde hair flowed in easy waves over her shoulders. Perfect beach waves, Rosie spent hours trying to get. Jen looked as though she’d been born that way. I stood like a caricature of a teenage girl in front of her.
“Hi,” I said lamely.
She rolled her eyes. “Are you here to see Rory?” she demanded.
I stuttered but managed to shake my head. “Just here with some friends.” I began to gesture behind me, but quickly dropped my hand. They’d all scurried off, except Owen.
She shot a glaring look over my shoulder at Owen and then slipped silently away across the dance floor. Couples were beginning to emerge there, twirling with greater energy.
“What a bitch,” Owen muttered. He weaved his arm around my waist to lead me toward the drinks table. I slipped out of his grasp and twirled around.
“Ten minutes tops,” I said.
“What? Why?”
“No, you know what, I want to leave now.” I stamped my foot like a petulant toddler.
“Let’s just—”
“Cora?”
No, no, no, no. I twirled back around too quickly to compose my face.
No!
“Come to celebrate Lúnasa?” he said loudly over the music from some distance away.
Shit.
Though my face must have looked like a deer at the point of impact with a Range Rover, Rory was smiling from ear to ear. His smile absolutely lit up his face. He waltzed through the crowd with complete ease, but when he came to a standstill in front of me, I got the distinct impression that his eyes were nervous.
“Rory?” I said weakly. “What are you doing here?” In my haste to compose my voice, my content faltered.
He laughed it off. “I was about to ask the same of you.” But he didn’t wait for an actual explanation. “Do you need a drink?” He gestured toward my empty hands.
I shrugged lamely. Words were obviously failing me today.
He moved purposefully off toward the punch bowl, and I followed awkwardly. God, he looked good. He wore a blue t-shirt that fit just well enough to remind me that it had been a long, long time since I’d seen him with his shirt off. He wore khaki shorts and a worn pair of tennis shoes without laces. He turned and handed me a cup full of red juice.
Dear God, I hope this is spiked.
“It’s Owen, right?”
I realized with a jolt that Owen was, indeed, still with us. His existence had quite slipped my mind.
“We met a while back,” Rory said, extending his hand.
Owen, however, was not interested in small talk. He didn’t actually acknowledge that Rory had spoken, and instead shuffled away with a mumbled declaration of a need to find beer.
“Are you having—I mean, I know you don’t know anyone—but—”
“I just got here,” I heard myself say, “but I’m having a blast.”
Neither of us spoke for a moment. Why is he making me so nervous? Why wasn’t he talking? Maybe it was the fact that I had just crashed the first—and last—party of my crashing career, and it just so happened to be his. I steered carefully clear of that thought, which would only make my hands shake worse.
“Is Mrs. O’Leary here?” I asked.
“No, no, she doesn’t leave her house much.”
Once again, we plunged into silence. Why these nerves? Screw the party, it was definitely that shirt. Or those arms! Stop looking at his arms!
“And how did you—I mean—” He laughed uneasily. “We’ve just never had anyone from the big houses here.”
“Yeah, I—my friends—” I could hear Benjamin guffawing loudly at something Owen was saying. I definitely didn’t want to associate with them now. “This is awkward,” I finished weakly.
He laughed. “It doesn’t need to be,” he said. “You know half the people here already. I can give you the lowdown on anybody you don’t know.” He came up to stand next to me so we could face the others and point. I played along and let him explain the most infamous of the locals.
He pointed out his mother, his father, a few people I would never remember, a few Johnson children, and I added my own commentary to them all. Spiked or not, the punch was doing its job; I was talking more than I intended.
“All these people celebrate Loo—uh …?” I trailed off.
He laughed. “Lúnasa.” He pronounced it LOO-nah-suh. “And no, as far as I know, nobody in Oyster Beach knows what Lúnasa is. Or anyone in Ireland, for that matter. It’s a really ancient Celtic holiday. It’s more of a way for my parents to remind people they’re Irish.”
I glanced toward where Mrs. O’Brien was unloading more food from a trolley onto the long table near the back of the office building. Aidan stood nearby, helping. “So what is Lúnasa?”
“It was a harvest festival. It marked the beginning of the harvest season. They celebrated the god Lugh and all the food the Earth gave them. It was apparently a really crazy party. Poetry, music, games, dancing—all the modern makings of a party, at least. They also had this weird tradition called … damn, what were they called? I don’t remember, but they were these trial marriages. Kind of like a blind marriage, a guy and a girl would hold hands through a wooden door, and they’d be married that way. But the marriage only lasted a year and a day, then they could both walk away from it. Like a trial run.” He seemed to become embarrassed all of a sudden.
“With today’s divorce rate, that could probably help America a bit,” I said.
He grinned. “Sorry, I was rambling.”
A loud booming laugh broke through our little world on the side of the patio.
“That really loud guy is Captain Harville,” Rory said, as if to change the subjec
t. “He’s the head of the local police.” The cop was boisterous and friendly, and when he noticed Rory pointing toward him, he bounded over.
“Miss Manchester! How are you doing?”
“I’m good, officer; thanks,” I said.
Rory looked at me, perplexed.
“How nice of you to join us!” Captain Harville exclaimed. He carried a plastic cup filled with a golden-brown liquid. It smelled like something my dad kept in a cupboard at home. Perhaps whiskey. “You have to meet everyone! And, Cora—” Captain Harville’s voice dropped a few decibels, as if in concern for the topic at hand. “You do remember Mr. Hall, don’t you?”
I nodded weakly. A glance told me the old man was still perched on his folding chair in the corner. The sight of him flooded me with pity for Jen Johnson (which was the last thing I wanted to feel right now) and concern for Mrs. O’Leary.
“I’ll just go wave him over—”
“Oh!” I exclaimed. “Please don’t, he looks so comfortable …”
“I was actually just going to show Cora around a bit,” Rory jumped in deftly. I eyed him with adoration. Could it possibly be that he wanted me to himself?
“Oh, all right then,” the big cop’s face fell. “I only mention it because he was asking about you only the other day.”
My cheeks burned. Why on Earth would Mr. Hall do that?
Captain Harville took a sip of his drink, which seemed to reinvigorate him. He became bouncy again and finally left us after eliciting promises of everyone dancing later in the evening.
“How do you know Mr. Hall?” Rory asked when he’d gone. “Or Captain Harville, for that matter?”
“Mr. Hall was the one who … the one to … well, he was the one to help me when I found—I mean—”
But Rory was nodding in understanding. His eyes flicked involuntarily to the corner where Jen Johnson stood amid a gaggle of girls. Did I imagine her eyes were smoldering?
“He also …” I faltered. “He told me a lot about—”