Flying by the Seat of My Knickers

by Eliza Watson

  He snatched up the card, a glint in his eyes. “I will.”

  I wasn’t sure if they were referring to checking out the beer or each other.

  We ordered food and Flanagan’s hard cider, except Declan had a whiskey. I took a drink of cider, and a sweet apple flavor filled my mouth, much lighter than Guinness. Not even a week in Ireland and I was becoming a beer connoisseur.

  My phone dinged, signaling the arrival of a text. Mom.

  “She says her grandparents were Patrick and Mary Coffey. Teri hasn’t located the letters or naturalization papers yet, so she doesn’t know Grandma’s town.”

  What the hell was taking her so long?

  “Now that you have their names, we can check the 1911 census,” Declan said. “Do you think her parents were married by then?”

  I shrugged. No clue.

  Rachel’s cell rang out on the bar next to her pint. My body went rigid, not wanting our fun to end. And not wanting the caller to be Tom Reynolds firing me for getting his wife drunk. She stepped outside to take the call. She returned a few minutes later with little stress lines creasing her forehead. She polished off her beer, rather than beating the pavement back to the hotel in crisis mode or firing me per Tom’s request. I relaxed on my stool.

  Gerry promptly brought her another cider.

  Rachel raised her glass. “Here’s to Caity, for escorting Kathleen Reynolds around Dublin like a true local.”

  “Here, here.” Declan raised his glass.

  “Absolutely.” Gretchen smiled faintly.

  I enjoyed the positive recognition, since it might be short lived. Recalling Declan and Gretchen’s toast the other night, I said, “Sláinte!”

  “You helped her feel better about her daughter going off to college,” Declan said. I’d mentioned our conversation briefly to him earlier, leaving out the drinking part. “See, you can help women in this job. No need to be a counselor.”

  He was giving me more credit than I deserved. My counseling had merely consisted of advising Kathleen to talk to her daughter, because I wished Mom had talked to me. Not real profound.

  Rachel gave me a curious look, unaware of my aspiration to be a counselor, since I hadn’t even considered the career until yesterday. Still, it sometimes seemed like Declan knew me better than she did, same as Gretchen knew Rachel better than I did.

  Hopefully, that would change.

  I had the feeling Rachel and I might actually bond, thanks to our Irish grandma we’d barely known.

  Chapter Seventeen

  When we arrived back at the hotel, Rachel and Gretchen headed toward their guest-room elevator on the opposite side of the lobby as Declan’s and mine.

  “It’s early,” Declan said. “How about researching your granny?”

  “Sure.” After hanging out at Coffey’s pub, I was psyched to learn more about Grandma’s past.

  “My room or yours?”

  I sobered instantly, despite two pints of hard cider. Of course we’d have to go to one of our rooms to use a computer.

  He gave me a curious smile. “Afraid you left your knickers lying around?”

  “Yeah, I was trying to remember what shape my room is in.”

  “Right, then. My room is grand. We’ll go there.”

  Declan acted like it was no big deal, like he had no ulterior motive for inviting me to his room. Of course he didn’t. If for no other reason, I was Rachel’s sister. He wouldn’t jeopardize his job by having a fling with me and possibly ticking me off.

  Possibly being blasted with pepper spray again.

  We entered his room, much tidier than mine, and tidier than I expected, considering he only ironed the front of his shirts. The duvet was folded neatly on a chair, with a note telling housekeeping to leave it off the bed.

  “Too warm with the comforter on?” I asked.

  “Too dodgy. Never know when it last saw the wash. I’m not a germophobe, but travel too much to get sick. I sanitize the phones and telly remote.”

  I hadn’t disinfected a thing in my room. What rare, incurable disease was I going to contract?

  “And best to sanitize the drinking glasses with a bit of whiskey before using them,” he said with a sly grin.

  “They don’t change the glasses?”

  “See any glasses on the housekeeping carts, do ya?”

  During my one encounter with a housekeeping cart, I’d been too frazzled to pay attention to anything besides my garbage. I thought about the hotel robe I’d worn nightly.

  “Do you think they wash the robes after someone checks out?”

  He shrugged, looking skeptical.

  I should have been more cautious. I never even used the plastic cover on a public toilet seat, for fear it was the same piece of plastic going around and around.

  Declan sat at the desk and booted up his laptop. He searched Ireland’s 1911 census for Patrick and Mary Coffey while I waited anxiously behind him.

  “Patrick and Mary were very common names,” he said. “Coffey wasn’t, yet there were several couples with those names in Westmeath.” He scanned the records. “Here’s one with a daughter Theresa born 1911.”

  A sense of excitement zipped through me. “Theresa was older than my grandma, so that could be her sister. And there’s an Ellen, two years old. My mom’s middle name is Ellen. Probably named after my grandma’s sister. I’m sure she never knew that. My grandma couldn’t have hated her sisters to have named her kids after them.”

  “So it’s likely her family. Their eldest child, Michael, was four years old. They lived in Killybog, County Westmeath. It’s on the border of Meath and Westmeath, under a half hour from where I grew up. Our rellies were practically neighbors. Might still be since many people farm their ancestors’ land.”

  “Maybe our families knew each other. Have you ever been to Killybog?”

  “Loads of times. My mate Peter is a publican there. It’s been a few years since I’ve seen him. We were good mates in school.”

  “What’s a publican?”

  “Means he owns a pub.”

  “How couldn’t my grandma have been happy living in a town named Killybog? Is it as cute and quaint as it sounds?”

  Declan nodded. “I’ll show you.” He pulled up Google Maps and clicked on a small icon of a man in the lower corner and dragged it over to Killybog on the map. Suddenly, we were cruising down the streets of Grandma’s hometown.

  “Omigod.” My eyes widened in awe. “I never knew you could do that.” My gaze swept down a street lined with colorful storefronts, including a blue building with a red door and gold lettering reading Molloy’s.

  “Molloy’s is Peter’s place.”

  I studied an old stone church located at the end of the street. “Is that the church from my grandma’s photo? Can you zoom in?” I connected to the hotel’s Wi-Fi on my phone and downloaded the pic Mom had sent me. It was indeed the same arched doorway, stained-glass windows, and steeple reaching up into the sky.

  “I attended a funeral there several years ago.”

  I gasped, my gaze darting to Declan. “What did it look like inside?”

  His gaze narrowed in contemplation. “Ah…it had pews, an altar… It looked like a church.”

  I let out a disappointed sigh, as if Declan’s memories of the place would provide insight into Grandma. Though it was cool that he’d been in the same church Grandma once had.

  “That’s the only street in town,” he said.

  “I can look at it more later.”

  I had a feeling I wouldn’t be getting any sleep tonight.

  Declan returned to the census and pulled up the original document. I leaned in, peering over his shoulder, squinting to read the faint handwriting that noted the birth county for each family member, whether they could read or write, their occupations, et cetera. Declan turned his head toward me, our noses just inches apart. We stared into each other’s eyes, his breath warm against my face, but not warm enough to be causing the heat rushing through me. He serio
usly had the thickest lashes ever. He glanced down at my lips, and I instinctively licked them. His gaze still glued to my mouth, he leaned in closer, his lips just shy of touching mine. My heart raced. My mouth went dry with anticipation.

  Declan was going to kiss me.

  I closed my eyes, preparing for the kiss. He snapped back, and my eyes shot open. His panicked gaze darted to the computer.

  I slowly straightened, trying to focus on the census rather than the woodsy, spicy scent of Declan’s cologne. And the fact that he’d almost kissed me.

  Declan finally broke the awkward silence. “It says your granny’s mom, Mary, was from County Wicklow. Too bad it doesn’t have the town. We might drive through it on our tour tomorrow and not even know.”

  Visiting my great-grandma’s homeland was even more exciting than seeing the filming locations for P.S. I Love You.

  Heart still racing from our near kiss, I fought to keep the nervous flutter in my chest from floating up my throat to my voice. “She probably came from a large family if there were already three kids, and my grandma wasn’t born for another five years. Why hadn’t she wanted to come back to visit them? Why’d she claim they were all dead?”

  Declan continued staring at the computer, avoiding my gaze. “You might be better off not knowing. When I helped my granny with her ancestry research, I discovered her dad hadn’t died when she was two, like her mum claimed. He ran off with the pastor’s wife.”

  “Omigod, your poor grandma. How did she handle the news?”

  “I never told her. She was eighty-two. I figured, why upset her at that point in life. Not only would she hate a dad she never knew but be upset her mum never told her the truth. Let her think he died.”

  I nodded. “You’re probably right. But unless it’s really bad, I’m telling my mom. Hopefully, it helps her better understand why her mom was so distant. Why she left Ireland and what she was trying to escape from. I came to Ireland to escape my life, but not forever.”

  Declan finally met my gaze, quirking a curious brow. Exactly why did I want to escape my life? My ex?

  “I should go,” I said before he could question me or mention last night.

  “Right, then. We can always research civil registration records later to track the family’s marriages and deaths. But that’s a bit time consuming and costly. When I researched my granny’s rellies, I about went mad with paper trails. Probably easier for me to contact my mate Peter. It’s a rural area. People know each other for kilometers. Might even be some Coffeys sitting in his pub. I’ll e-mail him straight away.”

  “Thanks, I appreciate it.” Our gazes locked, and heat rushed to my cheeks once again. “See you tomorrow.” I bolted toward the door.

  “Wait.” Declan stood and walked toward me.

  Heart racing, I stared at the door, debating fleeing or turning to face him and whatever this attraction was between us. Hadn’t I just told myself I wasn’t going to be a one-night stand, allowing a guy to take advantage of me? I had to be strong. I slowly turned to him, prepared to explain why I couldn’t stay.

  “I have something for you.” He stepped into the bathroom and returned, handing me the hotel’s lavender toiletries. “Here. For your friend’s shelter.”

  I had never been more attracted to a man in my life.

  “Thanks,” I muttered, then turned and fled.

  I flew down the hallway, squeezing the toiletry bottles in my trembling hands. If Declan was as big of a player as Rachel claimed, why hadn’t he kissed me? What was wrong with me? Besides that I was a neurotic mess. Not to mention I’d blasted him with pepper spray. Was he now a bit gun-shy perhaps?

  Not as gun-shy as I was.

  * * *

  I stashed the soft velvet robe back in my closet, gagging at the thought of it not having been washed when the previous guest had slipped it on after showering. My adrenaline rush over visiting Coffey’s pub, discovering Grandma’s hometown, and my near kiss with Declan was winning the battle against exhaustion and two pints of cider. I debated washing out my new Coffey’s T-shirt in the sink so I could wear it. However, I was only out of uniform a few hours a day.

  And I was leaving Ireland in three days.

  Melancholy zapped my adrenaline rush, and I sank onto the chair in front of my laptop. Before I left, I wanted to rent a car and drive to Killybog, except I had no money for a rental and I’d have to be suicidal to attempt driving on the opposite side of the road when I couldn’t even walk safely across a road here. Besides, what would I do when I got to Killybog? Grandma had left there almost eighty years ago. What were the chances she still had relatives in the area?

  I e-mailed the 1911 census link to Mom and Rachel, not mentioning I’d been alone in Declan’s room researching our family tree. Rachel would go berserk after she’d warned me about him. I pointed out that Grandma had a sister Ellen, Mom’s middle name. I crossed my fingers that Mom wouldn’t find it too upsetting that she’d been named after an aunt she never knew existed.

  Rachel responded to my e-mail almost immediately, thanking me, promising we’d chat more about it later. No surprise she was still online, working, no doubt.

  An e-mail from Martha popped into my inbox, answering my questions on becoming a counselor. She advised me that she had an undergraduate degree. A master’s wasn’t required unless I wanted a job with a clinic or hospital as a mental health counselor, which entailed developing client treatment plans and billing insurance companies, for which I also needed to be licensed by the state. Jobs weren’t plentiful, so I had to be willing to possibly relocate to Madison or Chicago. The prospect of starting fresh in another city was an enticing idea, except for the paying-rent part, especially since she also mentioned it wasn’t the best-paying profession. However, any profession was better paying than none, and being able to help women would be fulfilling and give me a sense of purpose. She suggested we further discuss my counseling aspirations when we met next week at her therapy group and that she’d be happy to mentor me.

  I replied, thanking her for the info and offering to be my mentor. I was totally psyched about my new career goal.

  I returned to my ancestry research. I Googled Coffey, County Westmeath—discovering a slew of Westmeath genealogy forums. I excitedly clicked on one. Hundreds of messages had been posted over a ten-year period. Several Coffeys searching for ancestors, but none from Killybog. Many of the inquiries posted a few years ago still hadn’t received responses. Most of them were from people living outside of Ireland. Not very promising. Yet I posted a message.

  Searching social media for Coffeys in Ireland would probably be more productive than posting on the forums. Maybe it was time to get back on Facebook. If I was no longer allowing Andy to control my life, a Facebook page would be a step in the right direction. And then I wouldn’t feel so lonely. When I was home, my only interaction was with my parents and the mailman, who delivered my daily debt-collection notices.

  I had cancelled my page, not merely deactivated it, so I started from scratch, using my first and middle name, Caity Ann, no last name. I entered the required information, then tapped an apprehensive finger against the keyboard.

  Even if Andy found my page, it was private, not public. I’d make sure we didn’t share the same friends so he couldn’t stalk me via them.

  I published my page, and panic zipped through me.

  After several calming breaths, I gave myself a mental pat on the back. However, my sense of accomplishment was short lived. I needed at least fifty friends so I didn’t look totally pathetic.

  Ten minutes later, I’d only come up with sixteen potential friends, all of them related, except for Declan. I wasn’t sure I wanted to see what was on his page. What if he’d posted the pic of me in the sausage costume, then tagged me after we became friends? My cousin Amber in California was recently married. My cousin Emma worked at an upscale Hawaiian resort. My cousin Lexi was twenty-five and studying for her PhD.

  Did I really care to see everyone flauntin
g their wonderful lives in my face when mine was pretty much shit? I was proud of myself for standing up to Andy by creating a page, but I wasn’t exactly proud of my life.

  I shut down my computer before I could delete my page.

  If Facebook couldn’t give the illusion that I led a glamorous, exciting life, what could?

  Chapter Eighteen

  Upon waking up the next morning, my first thought was, Thank God I’m waking up in my bed and not Declan’s. That I didn’t have to do the walk of shame from Declan’s room to mine. I’d have regretted it. It wasn’t merely about Declan not respecting women by sleeping around, but about me not respecting myself for sleeping with him. I needed to feel better about myself, not worse. And not having slept with him made me feel a bit better. I’d stood strong despite my physical attraction to him. Although he hadn’t kissed me, I assured myself he would have if I’d hung around longer.

  I was proud of myself for leaving.

  I was also psyched to have learned more about Grandma’s family. The thought of touring County Wicklow, my great-grandma’s homeland and the filming location for P.S. I Love You, caused me to spring out of bed.

  I rushed through the shower and ironed my black cotton pants and my new green sweater. Rachel was allowing us to wear business casual today. I tossed my hair up in a clip and put on makeup, including my Manic Magenta lip gloss, which complemented the sweater nicely.

  I headed down to the office, where Declan was gathering up the snacks for the tour. I slipped a bag of Taytos in my purse. We exchanged good mornings. Hopefully, he didn’t notice the nervous quiver in my voice. He acted casual, as if nothing had happened in his room last night. It hadn’t, yet it kind of had.

  Had the near kiss meant nothing to him?

  “Here’s a copy of the tour itinerary.” Rachel gave us each a detailed overview of the day. “The guide will handle everything. You guys are just there in case something happens.”