by Elle Casey
“Jesus Christ, Micheál, I…” Whatever I was going to say is lost in a wave of unbridled joy, thank God. Easy, Erin. Go slow now, Girl. You are gettin’ waaay too carried away. I have never connected physically in this way with another human being and I’m afraid that my brain is being excluded from this soul to soul dance. Is this simply serious desire? Intense lust? Or something else? Are we connecting here in a way that doesn’t happen every other day? My heart would like to think we are but my head knows better than to invite romantic complications into the mix just now.
Later, as we lie staring up at the heavens and neither one of us has spoken in some time, my mind gears up a notch and doubt takes hold. I wonder if he thinks I’m easy now. This is still Ireland after all; it’s cool for men to do as they please sexually, but women are still breaking out of some very entrenched roles. It the Madonna/Whore complex shite, and I don’t mean the singer. Basically, there are girls that you fuck and there are girls that you marry. Not that I’m looking to get married, no way José! But still…
I turn to him and try to keep my voice light and breezy. “Don’t worry, I’ll still respect you in the morning.”
He shifts up onto his elbow and kisses me on the lips. “That’s a relief, ‘cause I don’t usually do this quite so quickly.”
“Me either,” I gush a little and then recover. “I mean, I’m pretty busy with the bar an all.”
He just stays there looking at me and smiling.
“What?” Nobody has ever looked at me this way before.
“Nothing. I’m just looking at you. You’re beautiful, that’s all.”
As far as I’m concerned, there’s nothing sexier than being told I’m beautiful. I roll into his arms and we start making love all over again.
I have no idea of the time when we eventually leave the island, but the sun is beginning its climb over the horizon and the world is tinged with yellow and orange. As we moor the boat at Doolin, I glance at the name painted on the side— Surf ’n’ Turf.
“Hey! This is your boat!”
He’s just finishing tying the rope and is helping me out onto the dock. I haven’t found my land legs yet and I fall into his arms when I try to stand.
“Whoa! I gotcha,” he laughs, catching me. “’Tis mine, but you looked like ye were in need of a bit of excitement … hence the earlier subterfuge.”
“Well, I think I’ve probably had about as much excitement as I can bear, but thank you. It’s been a wonderful night.” I stand up on my tippy-toes, wobbling, and kiss him. He kisses me back, warming me to my toes.
“Where are you staying?”
“Mrs. O’Grady’s B&B. Do you know it?”
“I surely do. I’ll walk you back.”
My feet barely touch the ground all the way home. The only blip on the horizon is that Ridlee might just very well end my life today, but right now it feels worth it…
CHAPTER TWELVE
RIDLEE
DONAL AND I LEAVE THE bar and all its noise behind. The air is crisp and completely missing any scent of car exhaust or smog. I’m not sure if my lungs can handle all this freshness. Regardless, I pull in a couple lungfuls of the stuff and let it out slowly. All that Guinness is making me feel giddy inside and light headed. Or maybe it’s this giant hunk of man walking next to me. He really is pretty damn cute. When did well-worn jeans and workboots become cute on a man? Just now.
“So, you’re visiting¸ eh?” he asks, his accent obvious even with this short sentence.
“Yep. I’m from the U.S.”
He’s facing forward as we walk, but using shorter strides than I think he normally would so I can keep up.
“And what brings you to the green isle?” he asks.
“Oh, I’m just here with a friend. Erin is her name. I guess her family is from around here. We’re just here for a couple days.”
His voice is deep, yet soft. “That’s too bad.”
My heart flips a little over that. I have no answer for him but I do have a question. Should I ask it? My Guiness-pickled brain says, Yes! Ask away!
“Why is it too bad?” Do you like me? Do you want to kiss me? Do you want to do more with me? Because I might say yes, Donal! I just might. All you have to do is ask.
“Because there’s no way you can see enough of Ireland to appreciate it in just a couple days. You’ll miss all the best parts.”
I’m disappointed in his answer, and that’s just plain stupid. I really did drink too much beer tonight. Not only am I getting all ooey-gooey over some complete stranger just because he’s a big daddy hunk, but I’m also letting my mouth get ahead of my brain. Think, Ridlee. Be smart. Be witty. Don’t be a dweeb.
“Maybe I’ve already seen all the best parts.”
“Have you been to Boyne Valley?”
“No.”
“Ring of Kerry?”
“Nope.”
He’s sounding more confident as he continues. “The Giant’s Causeway?”
“Uhhh, no. Not that place either.”
“Tell me you’ve at least paid a visit to the Guiness Storehouse.”
I suck in a loud, hissing breath. “Ooo, that sounds important.” Uncle Miley would be so disappointed in me. I didn’t even know the place existed, but I’m sure that won’t be an acceptable excuse in his world.
“How can you say you’ve seen the best of Ireland when you’ve managed to miss all of those places?”
Should I flirt or just play it safe? I decide to split the difference.
“Well, I’ve seen your lovely home town. I like that place a lot. And I’m going to visit the Cliffs of Moher tomorrow, so that counts, right?”
He’s silent long enough that it makes me look over. His expression has gone serious, when before I could have sworn I heard a smile in his voice.
“Did I say something wrong?” Gah, maybe flirting with him offended him somehow. I have to rewind what I said in my brain. Was it that bad? It didn’t sound too forward, but maybe Irish farmers like it way more conservative. I’m about to apologize when he responds.
“No, you’re all right. It’s just me. I’ve a tendency to think too much sometimes. Comes from spending a lot of time alone out in the fields I think, with no one to talk to but the animals.”
“You have animals?” I’m a city girl, through and through, but the idea of animals has always appealed to me. The closest I’ve ever gotten to being an animal owner was to feed a stray cat that would sometimes sneak onto my porch when I was in college.
“A fair few.”
“What kind?” My arm brushes up against his when I lose my balance a little and he puts his hand on my lower back to help me. When he pulls it away a few seconds later, I feel bereft. There’s a hand-shaped hot spot on my skin now, and I want it to stay there all night.
“A few horses. Two cows, two calves, and a steer. A few sheep. Two goats.” He pauses. “And some chickens for laying. Got rid o’ the pigs last year.”
“Wow. You weren’t kidding. That’s a real farm.”
“Aye. It’s a real farm.” His voice has pride in it. And maybe fatigue. I guess that’s what farmers are … proud and tired. I can dig it. It’s totally hot, actually. I wonder if he’ll let me watch him drive a tractor.
Looking at his profile, I can tell he spends a lot of time outside by the lines and the deep color of his skin. “You’re the first farmer I’ve ever met. Do you like it? Having a farm, I mean?”
A ghost of a smile turns up the corners of his mouth. His face morphs into a thing of beauty. “Aye, I like it fine enough. It’s hard work, but I like using me hands. Workin’ with me hands, that is…”
Oh. My. God. His hands. They’re huge. I look again, and yep, they’re like catcher’s mitts. He said he likes to use his hands. It gives me a thrill just to imagine it. I can picture him wielding big, heavy, mean-looking tools, his muscles bulging and stretching with every movement … and then those same hands holding the tiny soft lamb babies with amazing gentleness. My inner r
omantic has taken over my brain. I’m falling in love with an image cooked up during one of my historical romance phases when I wouldn’t read anything that wasn’t based in the eighteenth century. I really need to never drink Guinness again.
I blurt out my next question. “Are you married?” Where did that question come from? Oh. Yeah. The rational, reasonable part of my brain. The smallest part of my brain that is surprisingly still functioning, thank God. Flirting with a married man is so not part of my plan for Ireland.
“Nope. I was close once, but it didn’t … work out.”
“Oh. I’m sorry to hear that.” Now that’s a complete lie; I’ll admit it. Selfish, I know, but it is what it is. If he were married, we wouldn’t be here right now and I wouldn’t be fantasizing about seeing those big old hands covering my …
“Thank you. That’s very kind of you.”
“I can be kind.” I roll my eyes at my sad attempts at conversation. Talk about awkward. But if I say what’s really on my mind, he’ll probably abandon me here in the dark, and I have no idea where we are. It never crosses my mind to be worried about that, though. Not while this giant of a man is next to me.
“Perhaps you’d like to pay a visit to the farm. That is, if you have enough time.” He glances at me, but by the time I sense it and look directly at him, he’s turned away again. Is he embarrassed? Shy? Socially inept? Nervous like I am?
“I think I’d like that.” I chew my lip. Would I? Would I like to visit a real farm where this man lives and works? Yesterday I would have said hell no. Tonight, I’m thinking all things are possible.
“Think about it before you decide. Be sure it’s somethin’ ye want to do.”
His caution seems fraught with deeper meaning, but I’m too buzzed to figure it out. “How can I know when I have no experience with it?”
“What’s that?”
“I mean, I’ve never been to a farm, so how do I know if I want to go to one?”
“You’re not being asked if you like going to farms, just whether you have the desire to learn a bit more about one in particular. Mine.” He pushes his hands into his front pockets. “You can decide after whether you like farms or not.”
He surprises me with how he’s split those hairs for me. It’s like inside that farmer exterior lies the heart of a lawyer. I love a man who can debate a point with me. My blood rushes a little faster through my veins. “You’re a very rational person, Donal.”
“When it’s called for. Some might say I’m irrational though, I should warn ye.”
“Oh, really?” I’m very intrigued. “Do tell, Donal. Who calls you irrational and why?”
He takes a while to answer. I can tell from the rounding-in of his shoulders that he’d rather not elaborate. “Ah, it’s nothing, really. Forget I said anythin’.”
I really, really don’t want to forget what he said, so I won’t. But I’m not going to press him on it, because I get the sense that he’s a shy guy and pushing would put him off. And for some really stupid reason I haven’t quite determined, I don’t want to do that.
“So how much farther to the B&B?” I ask.
He points up the road. “See that street lamp there? The one glowing a bit blue? That’s the spot for your turn. The house is just three doors down on the left. You can’t miss it.” He stops walking.
I stop too, looking back at him. “Aren’t you going to walk the whole way with me?”
“Do ye want me to?”
“Of course? Who else is going to protect me from all the bad guys?”
He smiles a little. “Och, there aren’t any bad guys in this town, except for George Reilly and he’s only bad because he’ll drive you looney with talk of his lost dog.”
“Lost dog?”
“Lost his hound in the Great Blizzard of 1982. Never got over it. If you’re here longer than a day, you’ll meet him.”
“Can’t wait.” I pause and then hold out my hand kind of backwards, trying to look casual about it. “Are you coming or not? I’m a little tipsy. I could possibly get lost between here and there.”
“Wouldn’t want that to happen, would we?” he asks, taking my hand and stepping up next to me.
This should be no big deal. I’ve held hands with tons of guys. Maybe over a hundred guys. Erin and I hold hands, for crapssake. So why does it feel like such a big deal that I’m holding hands with Donal the farmer?
His fingers are so long and thick, they go completely around my much smaller hand and overlap. This is what a child must feel like when she holds her father’s hand. Ugh, now my palms are starting to sweat. Is there no end to the confusion tonight? Why am I being such a freak? Maybe those old codgers were right. Maybe a witch has been working some magic around here. Maybe she zinged me for talking about the hag.
I search my memory banks desperately for something to talk about. An earlier half-conversation jumps to mind. “So what’s up with the Cliffs of Moher?”
His hand drops from mine in an instant. “Come again?” He stops walking, forcing me to stop too.
I shrug. “When you listed all the famous sites to see in Ireland, you left that one out. Isn’t that one of the biggest ones? And it’s really close too, right?”
“Indeed it is.” He drops his head to stare at the ground and runs his fingers through his hair. “Listen, I … mmm … need to stop here. I’ve me animals to care for an’ all. Perhaps I’ll see you around town before you leave.”
He turns and begins walking down the sidewalk in the opposite direction without another word.
I watch him go, my jaw dropped open. “What the fuck?” I whisper under my breath. Then in a louder voice I yell, “Do I still get my tour of the farm?!”
“If ye like,” he yells back. And then he’s gone, swallowed up into the inky black dark.
I turn and make my way back to the B&B, following the left-turn-at-the-lamp directions given earlier. The wonky picket fence and ghostly outlines of fucked up gnomes come into view and I know I’m safely home. Now I can go lie in bed and wonder what the hell I said to make Donal take off in such a hurry. I find I care way more about that answer than I should.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
ERIN
I TIPTOE BACK UP THE GARDEN PATH TO THE B&B and look for a key to let myself in as quietly as I can. Surely one must be hidden somewhere around here. The dawn chorus is in full swing, and there’s already enough light to see the foggy dew that clings to the grass in Mrs. O'Grady’s front garden.
The door is locked and none of her cheeky gnomes are giving up the goods. “Bollox,” I mutter, looking around for an alternative. I search in my bag for my phone and send a text to Ridlee. The ping of the text registering ricochets back to me from the open window directly above my head.
“Riiiddddd-leeee!” I hiss. I am pretty good at the whisper-yell, even if I do say so myself.
No answer.
I immediately get a vision of my friend, prostrate on the bed, her face buried in the feather-down pillow, completely out of it. She probably still has her boots on. That girl has taken to the Guinness like she suckled on it as a child. There’ll be no getting any sense out of her until at least lunchtime if previous hangovers are anything to go by.
I walk round the side of the house looking for another way in. Every window and door is bolted shut. “Whatever happened to trust?” I mutter, crossly. “Jesus Christ, it’s Doolin, not downtown LA.” I wiggle each window I pass like the expert burglar I clearly am not.
Bingo! One of the windows gives as I wiggle it. It is a small frosted glass at the side of the house. But the opening is too small. I peer through and can make out a handle about half way down the rest of the window. Another window. And one that I might possibly fit through. It’s high, so I search around for a ladder, but there’s nothing.
Then, I spy an old bicycle leaning against the wall. That’ll do. Everything is going well — the latch on the bigger window surrenders without much trouble¸ and the bike feels pretty stable — until I t
ry to haul myself through. I am in all the way to my waist when I hear the bike collapse noisily to the ground. I squeeze my eyes shut tight and wait for the clamor of old Mrs. O'Grady coming to investigate.
Silence.
Great.
My legs are hanging out the window and my torso is all but in. I look down to see that the ground is a good five feet below me and there is absolutely nothing for me to use as leverage as I climb in. It’s a bathroom, and all that lies below me is a peach porcelain bath. I look around helplessly.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck,” I mutter darkly. Giving one last push with my hands I let go and tumble into the bathtub below, hoping that by some miracle I won’t break my neck.
I’m moving way too fast. Instinctively, my hand reaches out for the peach shower curtain. That, along with the rail it’s attached to, and a whole host of shampoos and soaps comes down with me with an almighty thud as I land on my side. Remarkably, I am unhurt. Or is it that I’m just still too drunk to feel anything?
“Hello, dear. Are you alright in there?”
Shit. It’s Mrs. O'Grady.
I scramble to my feet and reattach the shower rail. Demonstrating some rather lightening-quick thinking, I wrap a towel around my head and open the door just a crack.
“Oh, there you are, dear. I thought I heard a noise. Are you in difficulty?”
“Mrs. O'Grady! Good morning. I’m so sorry, I dropped the shampoo bottle. I hope I didn’t wake you.”
“Not at all, dear. Sure, I’m an early riser like yourself. I’ll put the kettle on and start the breakfast. In fact it’ll be great for me to have it all out of the way before six-thirty. That way I can get to seven o’clock mass. Will your friend be joining us?”
Fabulous. There goes any chance of sleep. “That would be great. And, sure, of course Ridlee should join us. She wouldn’t miss a full Irish breakfast for the world. She just loves black pudding.”
