by J. C. Long
When she returned with the receipt, I glanced at it and winced a bit.
“Oi told yeh it’s expensive.”
I folded the receipt up and stuffed it in my pocket. “I don’t care. Besides, it’s my dad’s credit card anyway.”
Fergal laughed and patted my shoulder—once again letting the touch linger afterwards. “Remind me to thank yer dad fer breakfast if I ever meet ’im, then.”
Caibidil 11
BACK IN the truck, Fergal once again became tight-lipped about where we were going next. “Oi promise yeh’ll like this one,” he said when I told him I don’t like surprises.
I sighed, resigned to the fact that he wasn’t going to tell me anything. I turned the radio on and was instantly bombarded with very loud, very traditional Irish music. I winced, turning the volume down to a reasonable level.
There was something familiar about the song, something I couldn’t quite place. When it finally struck me, I clapped my hands together in victory. “This sounds like the music from the dancing scene in Titanic!”
“Yeh’ve got a good ear,” Fergal said, sounding impressed. “This is Gaelic Storm—they were the band playin’ in that scene.”
“You’re just a fountain of information.” I listened a bit. “I really like this—it’s a beautiful song.”
“’Course it is—it’s Irish.”
I couldn’t argue with him there; since arriving in Dublin, everything I’d laid my eyes on was beautiful. Even with the sky overcast and gray, the day seemed absolutely perfect. As we drove, I couldn’t help but wonder where he was taking me.
“This area of town is called the Liberties.” Fergal informed me. “It’s the oldest—nearly one thousand years old, since the time of the Vikings. Oh, over there, that’s the new Teeling Whiskey Distillery, opened in 2015.”
I peered at the building he was gesturing to. Surely he didn’t drive me over here to look at a whiskey distillery. “Where are you taking me? I said I don’t like surprises!”
“Okay, fine, Oi’ll tell you the address—that’s it. Number Fifteen, Usher’s Island.” He put a lot of emphasis on the address, so I knew it was meaningful and important.
“Where have I heard that address before?” I knew it, I did, I just didn’t remember where I’d come across it. I thought maybe it was in the Dublin book that I’d been reading, but I was still in the early chapters, at a time too early for there to have been addresses.
It wasn’t until I saw the bridge that it hit me.
“That’s the James Joyce Bridge,” I blurted. “Number Fifteen, Usher’s Island… that’s the house from the last Dubliners short story, ‘The Dead,’ isn’t it?”
Fergal beamed at me like he was proud I’d come to the right answer. “Aye. It was also the real-life home of Joyce’s great-aunts. He visited it all the time—it’s why he set ‘The Dead’ there.”
Excitement began to bubble inside me. “And we can visit it?”
“They restored it to its Victorian style and people can take tours, if yeh have a reservation.”
“And I’m guessing we have a reservation.”
“Right yeh are. So, are yeh excited?”
That was an understatement. “Yes! Very!”
“Oi told yeh yeh’d like this surprise.”
I couldn’t say for certain, but I thought he was relieved.
That damn bird started its flapping in my stomach again.
The James Joyce House was everything I thought it would be. Each room was Victorian splendor, and yet it was dark, almost gaunt—the way it was when Joyce himself visited, so they said. It was that gauntness that inspired the story he wrote, that dinner party. I felt a great urge to speed to a bookstore and buy Dubliners again just to read that story.
When we got to the dining room, I couldn’t help but gasp. It was utterly beautiful.
“This place is incredible,” I said softly to Fergal, putting my hand on his forearm. His skin was warm to the touch, and something else stirred in my stomach. I took my hand away quickly, stepping away from him under the guise of examining the big oak table and the china place settings.
“Yeh can almost feel the story here, right?” Fergal stepped behind me, reaching down to touch the smooth, polished wood of the chair. The motion brought him very close to me. When I inhaled, I caught the scent of his cologne and beneath it a clean, masculine, soapy scent. He was standing close enough for me to feel his body heat on my left side. My heart began to beat faster.
What the hell is going on with me?
“Right,” I said. My voice sounded hoarse to my own ears. I put a few feet of distance between us and did my best to maintain it throughout the rest of the tour. If Fergal noticed, he didn’t say anything. The space helped me regain my mental bearings a little bit, but it did nothing to stop the way my thoughts kept turning back to the man walking around behind me. I was hyperaware of his presence; every step he took, every time he shifted his weight, I picked it up.
I didn’t like it.
By the time the tour was over, it was pushing two o’clock.
“Do you have any other amazing things planned for today?” I asked as we once again approached the truck.
“Nope, Oi’ve emptied my bag of tricks.” Fergal grinned. “Oi guess next stop is St. Patrick’s.”
The next leg of the drive seemed heavier than the others, and I wondered if Fergal was feeling it too. His fingers were tapping on the steering wheel, though I couldn’t tell if it was a nervous gesture or one he was doing without thinking. I might have been imagining the way he’d gotten closer to me while we were at the James Joyce House. I didn’t want to let my imagination run wild—I didn’t need to start creating this fantasy and make things more awkward between us. Fergal was the only person I knew in Ireland who wasn’t related to me. I didn’t want to ruin whatever friendship was growing.
“Is this your first time going to St. Patrick’s?” I asked when I’d had enough of the silence.
Fergal looked at me as if I’d grown horns.
“What? Stupid question?”
“My family is Catholic and Oi’m from Dublin, so aye, stupid question. But, Oi guess yeh can be forgiven, since yer a strainséir.”
“Hey,” I said indignantly. “My mom is from here—I’m not a foreigner.”
Fergal muttered an apology but was smiling, and I couldn’t help but return it.
“St. Patrick’s is beautiful,” Fergal said.
“I’ve seen pictures of it, in coffee books. Picture books of Ireland were sort of a hobby of Mom’s. I think it helped her feel more connected to her home. She loved those things. She would show me pictures of them all the time. One of her favorites was of St. Patrick’s. Especially at Christmas time, we always looked at that one.”
“Oi don’t think pictures can do it justice, really,” Fergal said.
I nodded my agreement. One thing I’d found since arriving here was that it was beautiful beyond imagining. Photos, videos—nothing beat seeing it in person. If you looked at a picture of it and it took your breath away, it would be nothing compared to standing in its splendor. Part of me wanted to drive into the middle of nowhere and stand amongst rolling green hills, see the sheep grazing in the fields, and truly know what it was to be in Ireland.
I was not surprised to find there were a lot of people inside the cathedral when we arrived. It had to be one of the most popular tourist spots in the city. There were at least fifty people outside, taking pictures of it. I couldn’t blame them; I had my phone in my hand and began snapping pictures right away.
The exterior was beautiful, an exquisite representation of architecture that somehow conveyed a sense of beauty with a somber seriousness. Stepping onto the grounds, I felt this quiet hush fall; even though we were outside, people began to whisper to each other instead of talking normally.
All conversation ceased by the time we stepped inside the cathedral. It was gorgeous. The sun shone at just the right angle to filter in through the stained gl
ass windows, casting their multicolored glow on the ground. Gold seemed to highlight all of the dark wood surfaces. Coats of arms hung along the walls.
“It’s amazin’, right?” Fergal said softly.
“I’ve got goosebumps,” I replied, running my hands over my arms.
“Oi was christened up there.” Fergal started towards the front of the cathedral, gently trailing his fingers along the wooden pews as he passed.
“You were?” I was surprised; I didn’t think the place allowed events like that, as popular a tourist site as it was.
“Aye. Bet it cost my mum and da a pretty penny. Not just fer me, but fer all my brothers and sisters too.”
I hadn’t even thought of Fergal as a unit in a family, which was strange. I couldn’t believe I hadn’t asked him about his family yet.
“How many are there? Brothers and sisters, I mean.”
“Oi have two brothers and three sisters.”
“Wow—your parents had three boys and three girls. Pretty lucky.”
“That’s nothin’. We were born in alternation too: girl, boy, girl, boy, girl, boy, every two years.”
“This all makes me want to know more about my mom,” I admitted, staring up at the gorgeous stained glass window. “I don’t know that sort of thing about her. I mean, I know about her sisters and brother, but I don’t know anything—where she was christened, did she take first communion? General things about her as a child. I’ve heard a few stories, but just a few. Most of the ones I hear are about her and my dad—how they met, fell in love, that sort of thing.”
“Well, yeh could always ask yer Gran,” Fergal suggested. “Oi’m sure she’d be ’appy to tell yeh those kinds of stories.”
I nodded. “You’re right. I’ve got to get out to Grandma Murphy’s—I want to see the place, anyway. When my mom did talk about Ireland, Grandma Murphy’s was the first place she’d mention.”
“Oh, Oi’m sure Mrs. Caolainn will get yeh there.”
“Yeah,” I agreed, “I bet she will.”
We left St. Patrick’s after another fifteen or twenty minutes. We drove around Dublin after that, Fergal pointing out interesting sights or historic monuments, stopping for half an hour to eat a late lunch at a really tasty burger place that Fergal recommended.
After that, Fergal drove to a beautiful set of buildings and pulled into a parking lot across from it.
I looked at Fergal, confused. “Where are we? Why did we stop here?”
“This is Trinity College. This is where Oi went to uni—me and Hannah. Like Oi said, they have a great education program. Oi just wanted to show yeh the campus.” Fergal propped his wrists on the steering wheel and looked at me. “Yer cousin and Oi had some good memories here.”
The campus was truly beautiful, with green grounds spreading out and white-columned buildings. It was college-brochure perfect, even in person.
I stared at the campus for a moment, imagining myself walking up to those big buildings every day, strolling across the green grass, surrounded by the other students. The image came through so vividly.
Shaking my head, I reminded myself that it was a bad idea to consider any kind of life changes after a major loss. I still was in no real condition to think about the future. True enough, I felt okay in Ireland, like I was somehow close to Mom, but there was no telling how long that would last.
When it came right down to it, I didn’t want to think about the future.
“It’s a beautiful campus,” I agreed, my voice sounding falsely chipper to my own ears. “Where to next?”
Fergal frowned slightly. “Are yeh okay?”
I nodded, forcing a casual smile. “I’m fine! Where do you want to go next? I’m down for anything—it’s still early yet.”
“Why don’t Oi show yeh Chapters, then?”
“The bookstore? Sounds good!” I could happily spend hours inside a bookstore. I was glad that Fergal and I had that in common. Most of my friends back home didn’t read more than one book in a year and were ready to leave after five minutes in a bookstore, so I didn’t even bother to take them. My friends who did like to read preferred to shop on their Kindle or iBooks, so they, too, were no good company.
Fergal’s frown grew into a smile once more, and we were off.
When we finally left Chapters—me with only two books, which was definitely a challenge—the sun was starting to set.
“Oi can’t believe that we spent two hours in there,” Fergal commented, tossing his own bag of books into the backseat of the truck.
“Is two hours a lot or a little?” I asked, buckling up. “I can’t tell based only on your words.”
“Oi don’t know fer yeh, but that’s a short time for me.”
I couldn’t say why that comment relieved me so much, but it did. “Yeah, for me too.” I looked at the clock on the dashboard. “I guess you should get me to the bus stop, huh?”
Fergal snorted. “No, Oi’m drivin’ yeh home.”
“What? We had a deal! I’ll take the bus home!”
“Aye, well, there’s a wee flaw with that plan that we didn’t take into account at lunch.”
I crossed my arms over my chest, not really annoyed. I was glad to be riding home with him, actually, but I wanted to put up a good front. “What’s that?”
“The bus will get yeh as far as Ballymore Eustace.” He looked at me meaningfully for a moment before returning his eyes to the road.
“Right?” I waited for him to tell me the flaw, but then it slapped me in the face and I felt like an idiot. “How will I get home from Ballymore Eustace?”
“Aye. Sorry. Oi wasn’t thinkin’ either. Oi’ll get yeh home, don’t worry. And no arguin’ either,” he added, pointing a finger at me sternly. “No way in hell Oi’m puttin’ you on a bus with no way back. Ms. Gwendolyn would murder me. Oi’d rather have yeh pissed off at me than her, any day.”
“That’s just because you’ve never had me pissed off at you before,” I teased. “Don’t worry—I have no desire to walk God knows how far in the dark. I gladly accept your offer of a ride.”
On the drive we talked about his siblings—he loved his sisters, didn’t get along with his younger brother, and had dinner once a month with all of them at his mother’s house.
“Let’s stop talkin’ about me, though. Oi’m sick of talkin’. What about yeh? Now that yeh’ve seen St. Patrick’s, what else would yeh like to do here?”
I thought about it for a minute, looking out the window at the countryside going by—what little I could see in the rapidly dying light. “I want to see more of the country,” I said. “Well, the countryside, anyway. My mom always told me that there was nothing more beautiful than watching the sunrise in the Irish countryside, or lying in the dew-soaked grass, staring up at the stars in the sky.”
“Are yeh sure yer mum wasn’t a poet or somethin’ like that? That’s beautiful—and it describes Ireland perfectly.”
It was completely dark by the time we passed out of Ballymore Eustace, but the clouds in the sky were breaking up, so the moon shone through in infrequent patches, giving the journey an ethereal, almost dreamlike quality.
“Yeh know, we could see the countryside,” Fergal said as we drove into Abhainn Dún. He sounded suddenly unsure of himself, like he was nervous about what I would say in response to him. “Oi know a great place where me and my mates go campin’ sometimes in the summer. Oi could take yeh there, if yeh want.”
“That sounds perfect,” I assured him. “I haven’t been camping in a long time—not many places to do it in the middle of Atlanta, and my parents were too busy to take the time to go somewhere we could camp.”
By the time we arrived at Aunt Gwendolyn’s, we’d made plans to go camping the following Friday and Saturday nights and return on Sunday. Fergal looked so excited about the idea, and I couldn’t help but catch his enthusiasm.
“Thanks so much for showing me around today, and for taking me to the Joyce House. That was incredible.” I opened th
e truck door and was surprised when Fergal did as well. “What are you doing?”
“Oi’m walking yeh to the door. What does it look like?”
“You don’t have—” I started, but Fergal just hopped out of the truck and shut the door behind him. Shrugging to myself, I followed him to the door.
“Oi ’ope yeh had fun today,” Fergal said. I didn’t know if it was just me, but his voice seemed to have dropped about half an octave, taking on a husky quality. His pale green eyes peered intently into my own.
“I did,” I answered without breaking eye contact. Something seemed to sizzle in the air between us. I didn’t know why it was happening, I certainly wasn’t consciously telling it to, but our bodies began to move closer together. I finally broke eye contact for a brief second when Fergal’s tongue came out and wet his lips.
We’re going to kiss. The thought echoed in my head, growing louder each time. We were so close to each other—
“I thought I heard your truck, Fergal!”
The front door swung open and Aunt Gwendolyn stood there, beaming at us. She had a mostly empty tumbler of whiskey in her hand.
Fergal quickly took a long step back, putting a solid two feet between us. He ran his hand through his hair—a nervous tick, I suspected. “Evenin’, Gwendolyn. Oi was just returnin’ yer nephew, as promised. Exactly as Oi got him. Now he’s ’ome, so Oi’ll be off. Good night, Gwendolyn, Ronan.”
I couldn’t say for certain, but I was pretty sure I managed to squeak out a “Good night” before he climbed into his truck and cranked the engine. We shared one last, brief moment of eye contact through the windshield before he drove off into the night and back to Dublin.
Caibidil 12
I WOKE the next morning to the sound of rain beating against the house. I opened the curtains and looked out. It was no light sprinkling; the rain was coming down in heavy sheets that made it hard to see more than ten feet beyond the house.
I washed, dressed, and started downstairs, then stopped when I heard Hannah and Brendan’s voices. They were standing near the front door, Hannah’s arms around Brendan’s waist, her head against his chest.