Her Great Irish Escape

by Michele Brouder

  “Hey, what’s going on with all the construction vehicles?” he asked, lowering his voice.

  “Haven’t you heard?” she asked.

  “Nah.”

  “Big renovation project. They’re going to spend eighteen months turning this place into a five-star hotel.”

  Declan let out a low whistle. “Did the Fitzes win the EuroMillions or something?”

  Ada shrugged and laughed. “Who knows?”

  As he turned to introduce her to the group, he noticed Grace looking at him with an arched eyebrow.

  “This is my cousin Ada. She works here as a docent at the manor, and she will be giving you an extensive tour of the building and the grounds for the next two hours.”

  There was a café at the back of the property, and he instructed them to meet him there at the end of the tour.

  “You won’t be joining us on the tour, then?” asked Mrs. Peete. She was a chatty, cheerful woman.

  “Nah, once you’ve seen one castle or manor, you’ve seen them all,” he admitted.

  “All right then,” she replied, her smile wavering.

  Declan sighed. He reminded himself to keep the whole experience positive. His brother and Maureen and their brood were depending on Declan to keep the business afloat.

  “Enjoy yourselves, and take your time,” he called out after them in an effort to keep things upbeat.

  Once the group disappeared with Ada, Declan walked around the grounds for an hour, admiring the well-kept lawns and the lush blooms of flowers. The sun shone bright and there was a little bit of heat there that warmed the back of his neck. He removed his jacket and threw it over his arm. He made his way back to the café and ordered a grilled sandwich with chips and a cup of tea. Glancing around the seating area, he saw there were tables of four. He grouped three of them together for the rest of his group. Within thirty minutes, they all came straggling in, and immediately each one took a brown plastic tray and got in the cafeteria line.

  Once they were all seated, they engaged in conversation with each other. Declan noticed that Grace exchanged a few words with the priest, who had sat next to her.

  “So, how was your tour?” Declan asked, refilling his cup with tea from a silver pot.

  They all spoke at once, enthused. Declan laughed.

  Mrs. Robinson said excitedly, “It reminds me of Downton Abbey! Can you imagine living in a place like it?”

  “Huh, Downtown Abbey,” Mr. Robinson repeated.

  Declan said, “They’re big, drafty places.”

  Mrs. Robinson wasn’t to be deterred. “If my family had never left Ireland all those generations ago, just think, I could have been in a manor like this.”

  Declan looked doubtful. “Most likely downstairs as a scullery maid.”

  Laughter twittered among the crowd. Fueled, Declan crossed his arms over his chest and went on. “But honestly, this isn’t the real Ireland. A part of it for sure, but not the bulk of it. Real Ireland does not include living in a castle. Real Ireland is a horror story of emigration as generation after generation have had to leave for England, America, and Australia, all to find work.”

  “The scenery is so beautiful, I don’t think I could leave,” piped in Mrs. Peete.

  Declan looked thoughtful. “It is, but you can’t eat it.”

  From the far end of the table, Grace asked, “Then why don’t you show us the real Ireland?”

  “Ah, she speaks,” he said good-naturedly.

  “What do you mean, ‘real’ Ireland?” Mr. Peete asked.

  With her thumb pointing toward Declan, Grace said, “Well, you don’t think he spends his days visiting castles and museums?”

  All eyes were on Declan, who muttered under his breath. He leveled his gaze at Grace, who raised one eyebrow. One corner of her mouth lifted—it was as close to a smile as he’d seen from her. He took the bait.

  Without taking his eyes off her—it was just about impossible—he said, “Real Ireland? Real Irish people? The majority of Irish people have never lived in castles or manors, but in houses handed down from one generation to another. The majority of Irish people haven’t been aristocracy or even landed gentry. In fact, for many centuries, they weren’t even allowed to own land,” he said, warming to the subject. “The average Irishman works, has a family.”

  “Can you show us that?” Grace pushed.

  “You want to get a job while you’re here, too?” he asked.

  She blushed and he found that endearing. The rest of the group chuckled.

  He looked at every member of the group, all their faces on him.

  Declan sighed. “You really would prefer that? What about kissing the Blarney stone and all the usual stuff?”

  They couldn’t be serious. Declan had to be careful; this was his brother’s livelihood. But his tour group was all smiles, and buzzed with excitement about doing something different.

  He looked at them in disbelief. “If you’re serious about seeing something different in Ireland, something other than the usual fare, there would need to be total unanimity among the group. That’s only fair. Talk it over amongst yourselves and let me know. I’ll be on the bus,” he said, standing up from his chair. He crumpled up his napkin and set it on his plate.

  Grace was first on the bus. She ascended the few steps and came face to face with Declan, sitting in the driver’s seat.

  “We’ll leave our tour in your capable hands,” she said with a smirk.

  “In my capable hands,” he repeated, putting emphasis on the word “capable.”

  LATER THAT EVENING, as soon as the tour bus had dropped them back at their hotel, Grace, at the invitation of the Robinsons, went into the pub for a pint. At first she’d declined, but then she thought, what was the alternative? Sit in her hotel room for the rest of the evening? She soon found herself sipping a Guinness at a table with them. The Robinsons were nice people to hang out with, she soon discovered. She wasn’t normally a drinker, not even socially, usually only having a glass of wine or champagne at weddings. But she figured since she was in Ireland and on vacation, she might as well try the national drink. She took in her surroundings. It was a small, dimly lit space. A group of locals was gathered along the bar watching some game on the television. Every once in a while, there’d be shouts and cheers and arms would go up, startling Grace.

  It was almost eleven by the time Grace walked through the door of her hotel room. She was thinking about breakfast the following morning, looking forward to the Irish fry-up that the hotel provided. She had discovered the joys of black and white pudding and was seriously thinking of smuggling some back home in her suitcase.

  As she closed the door behind her and put on the security latch, her cell phone rang in her pocket. Pulling it out, she saw her sister’s name flash across her screen.

  Grace plopped onto the bed, picking up a small plastic tub of sweets she’d bought in the shop next to the hotel. They were flat, jellied strawberries dusted with sugar. When she removed the lid, she saw the sugar piled at the bottom of the tub. The smell reminded her of cotton candy: pure sweetness.

  With a resigned sigh, she answered her phone. “Hi, Judy.”

  “I’ve been trying to get a hold of you,” her older sister said. Grace stiffened.

  “You do know I’m in Ireland on vacation,” Grace pointed out, her voice clipped.

  Judy ignored the obvious. “But I want to know that you’re all right.”

  “I’m fine, I told you that,” Grace said firmly, popping a jellied candy into her mouth.

  “Are you really? Because if I’d been dumped at the altar the day of my wedding, I don’t think I’d be fine,” Judy said.

  “Well, that’s you and I’m me,” Grace said brusquely. “I’m fine. I’ve been too busy to think about it.”

  There was a pause on Judy’s end before she softly said, “You’re going to have to think about it at some time.”

  “Not right now,” Grace said.

  Judy sighed. “Have you he
ard from him?”

  “Nope,” Grace replied. She added quickly, “Look, I’m good. I’ll be home next week and we can talk then.”

  But her older sister was not to be denied. That’s how Judy was. She always said what was on her mind, and she didn’t shy away from having unpleasant conversations with people. Including, obviously, this one with Grace.

  “What he did to you was awful,” Judy pressed.

  Grace squeezed her eyes shut, realizing she was now a passenger on a journey she didn’t want to take. At least, not right now.

  “You were together for five years, and it didn’t dawn on him until the morning of your wedding that he didn’t want to marry you? He couldn’t even tell you the night before? I mean, he waits until you arrive at the church and then he bails?” Judy said, her voice rising higher with each word.

  “It’s all right, Judy, really it is,” Grace said, her voice cracking.

  Judy lowered her own voice. “No, Grace, it isn’t. I’m worried about you in a foreign country on your own. You’re . . . vulnerable.”

  “Oh, don’t say that,” Grace whined. “I will be a lot of things, but I refuse to be a victim.”

  “I was thinking I could fly over and join you,” Judy said casually.

  Grace’s eyes widened. That was the last thing she wanted. She loved Judy and she knew her sister had her back, but Judy joining her on the tour would defeat the purpose of the trip for her. This trip was going to be an event that Grace had planned to insert between the disastrous non-starter of her wedding day and the rest of her life. This was where the healing was going to start.

  “No, Judy, stay put. I need to do this by myself,” Grace said firmly. Besides, with Judy there, she’d ask her every five minutes how she was feeling or how she was doing, and that would surely drive Grace to jump off the nearest cliff. What Grace needed was to be alone.

  “Are you sure?” Judy pressed. “I could be there by tomorrow.”

  Grace shook her head, even though her sister couldn’t see her. “No, seriously. I’ll be home next week.”

  “All right,” Judy said, her voice full of uncertainty. “But if you change your mind—”

  “You’ll be the first to know,” Grace said, finishing her sentence. “I’ve got to go. It’s after eleven here.”

  “I forgot about the time difference,” Judy said.

  They said their goodbyes and once the call was ended, Grace flopped back onto the bed.

  No matter how hard she tried to resist, the memories of her wedding day came flooding back to her. It was more a series of impressions: the excitement as she slipped on her dress and viewed herself in the mirror, the brightness of the sun, and then the confusion when she stepped out of the car and the best man approached her and her father to tell her that Mark had done a runner. She could still remember squinting from the combination of the sun in her eyes and not comprehending yet what the best man was trying to tell her. That awful feeling of things collapsing inside her like an implosion with the realization that Mark had left her on the day of their wedding. How could she not have known him? How had she not foreseen this? Or had she simply chosen to ignore the little red flags popping up all over the place?

  Grace curled up on her side. Looking back, she should have realized that he had never wanted to get married. It had been her idea to get engaged, to move in together, and it had been her idea to have a big wedding.

  Mark didn’t even like to travel. They were just going to do a staycation for a honeymoon. That’s why in the aftermath, she’d chosen Ireland, to get as far away from him and everything related to him as possible. Ireland had been on her bucket list and due to a cancellation, she’d been able to hook up with this tour. She’d been in Ireland for less than a week, and she’d already been bitten by the travel bug. She made a pact with herself that now that she was single, she would do the travelling she’d always wanted to do. Nothing or no one was going to hold her back. Grace kicked off her shoes and turned on her back, yawning. She supposed she should get up and put on her nightgown, but her eyelids kept drooping.

  Thoughts of the Irishman floated across her mind. He certainly ticked a lot of boxes. It made her mad at herself that she could be attracted to a man at this point in her life, so fresh and raw after being dumped. She’d sworn off men. And a man like Declan was kryptonite. By the time she drifted off to sleep, she’d pushed all thoughts of him out of her mind. She had to.

  AFTER HE DROPPED OFF his passengers at their hotel, Declan stopped at the petrol station and filled up the tank for the next day. He didn’t want to be waiting in line for petrol in the morning. It was still light out. That was one of the things he missed about the Irish summers: the long stretch of the evening until almost eleven o’clock in June.

  He sent a text to his mother to tell her that he wouldn’t be home right away and not to keep supper for him. She immediately texted back saying there’d be a plate in the oven. He smiled to himself. His Irish mammy. The thing he missed most about living so far away was his family: his parents, his brother, and his two sisters, Eimear and Sorcha.

  He drove down the narrow lane of the passageway, what the older generation called a boreen. There were only a couple of houses in the passageway. Neighbors whose families had been there for generations, just like his own.

  At the end of the passageway was a bungalow with a pebble-dash front and a center entrance, with one window to the left of the front door and two windows to the right. A garden sat immediately in front of the house, surrounded by a low, whitewashed stone wall. It was there, right where he expected her to be, that he saw his gran, tending to her prizewinning rosebushes. After religion, gardening was Gran’s favorite hobby. She had an extensive collection of roses and a massive vegetable garden out back. Every year at the agricultural fair in town, Gran collected many ribbons, trophies, and cups for her roses, vegetables, and baked goods. In the parish, her coffee cake was legend.

  Currently, she was stooped over with a pair of secateurs in her hand, deadheading her rosebushes. When she heard the tour bus pulling up the gravel passageway, she straightened and gave him a wave. She wore her Gran uniform: flowered apron over a blouse, cardigan, and skirt, and today’s footwear of choice was a pair of hunter-green wellies. If he ever saw her in pants, he’d take her directly to the A & E. She had a head of thick, wavy, snow-white hair, which she wore short.

  She set down the secateurs, removed her garden gloves, and stepped through the small white wrought-iron gate. Gran stood with her hands on her hips while he stepped out of the minibus.

  He kissed her on the cheek by way of a greeting.

  “How’s my boy?”

  He nodded. “There’s no fear of me, Gran.”

  She shook her head with a smile. “There never is, is there, Declan?”

  He shrugged and smiled back at her. The youngest child of her only child, Declan had been the favorite among favorites. He knew his Gran had a soft spot for him. What she didn’t know was that he had a soft spot for her, as well. She was just over eighty and he hoped to God that when he was her age, her good genes would grant him the same vitality.

  “I heard you’ve extended your stay,” Gran said.

  “Just until Paul gets back on his feet,” Declan said. He nodded toward the rosebushes, blooms in a variety of colors: red, pink, white, yellow, orange, and peach. “They’re looking well.”

  “It’s been a good year for roses,” she said. “They’re an amazing flower but they sure are high-maintenance.”

  “You make it look so easy,” he said.

  She shrugged with a laugh. “Come on in for a cuppa. I’ve got a nice cake, as well.”

  “You don’t have to twist my arm,” he said, following her through the front gate and crossing the threshold of the house. In the front hall, there were pictures of the Sacred Heart of Jesus and the Immaculate Heart of Mary. His grandmother went to Mass regularly and said her rosary daily, and he had to admit that he found comfort in the thought that there
was somebody in the world praying for him. He followed her happily to the kitchen at the back of the house. This house, which had been in his mother’s family for generations, held many happy memories for him. When he was a child, both his parents had worked, and he and his brother and sisters had been minded by their gran. She had doted on them. There had been a discussion about what would happen when Gran would no longer be able to live alone, and it had escalated into an argument between his older sisters, both saying that Gran was going to live with them. Finally, his mother had stepped in and reminded them that Gran was her mother and she would live with her when the time came.

  Gran put the kettle on and pulled out china teacups and plates. She retrieved a cake plate with a coffee cake on it and cut two generous slices.

  Declan took a seat at her kitchen table as he’d done a thousand times before in his lifetime. She took the kettle full of boiling water and poured a bit into the small stainless-steel teapot, swishing it around to heat it up. He’d been watching her do this ritual for years, as well. To see it always made him feel homesick. Once she’d rinsed out the teapot with boiling water, she added some loose tea to it, filled it again with boiling water, and set it on a trivet in the middle of the table. She brought the teacups over.

  “Pour the tea and I’ll bring the cake,” she instructed.

  Declan set a mini-strainer on one of the teacups and poured the tea. The tiny leaves gathered in the strainer. Steam rose off the amber liquid in the cup. He set a cup for his gran in front of her seat. Then he poured a cup for himself.

  Gran talked about the neighbors and what was going on in their lives. These were people Declan had known since he was a little boy.

  “Now, how long will you be staying in Ireland?” Gran asked, her piercing blue eyes meeting his own.

  Declan shrugged, taking a forkful of cake. “I don’t know. Whenever Paul gets back on his feet. And with a broken leg, who knows when that will be?”

  Gran shook her head. “I called to them yesterday. I brought over a shepherd’s pie for their dinner. Your mam and dad are hopping with all the children to look after.”