by KT Webb
Aoife, on the other hand, has done everything in her power to make me feel more at home. Now, I’m helping her make the beds in one of the eight available rooms at the B&B. We have a large group of tourists coming in tomorrow. We’ve got to be ready to host them.
“I know I’ve told you before that this was your grandfathers' childhood home. But did I tell you this was once his bedroom?” Aoife asks as we smooth the top sheet over the mattress.
I shake my head, “No. How do you know this one was his?”
Aoife winks and jerks her head to the side to tell me to follow her. She leads me to the spacious closet and pulls the string to light the bulb overhead. Now I’m wondering if I’m about to find out my grandpa was kept locked in a closet during his formative years. Thankfully, Aoife lifts a pile of pale-yellow towels from one of the shelves to reveal a name carved into the wall. At some point, the closet was repainted, but whoever did the painting left an unfinished section that showcased the scratched name of Brion Molloy.
“Wow! I’m surprised no one has patched over this. It looks to have been done by a child, so it could be seventy years old for all we know!” I’ve dropped onto my knees to run my fingers along the textured section.
“I wouldn’t let anyone patch it. There are a few other little things like that in this old house. It gives it character and speaks to the history of the family who once filled these walls with love and laughter,” Aoife sighs.
“Thank you for showing me that. It’s extraordinary.”
As we finish preparing the room, I can’t help but think about all those years grandpa spent living with the family he later left behind. I never got the feeling there was any hatred fueling the decision to leave Ireland, but now I’m not so sure. If the family was so upset when they left that they never spoke to them again, there might be more to learn.
“I assume your father will be my employer now. I haven’t heard a word about what your grandfather intended. I can only hope I’ll be able to stick around. This place has become a second home to me through the years.”
Her concerns catch me off-guard. I never once thought about what would happen to this place if it wasn’t being managed from afar by my grandfather. I’m almost sure my grandma would be able to handle the business affairs, but would she and grandpa have wanted to hand it down to the next generation? Grandma could still have another decade or two left in her, but with the loss of grandpa, everything seems more questionable than ever before. I feel like I should say something, anything, to Aoife to ease her mind. Everything that comes to mind leaves too much to chance, and I would hate to give her false hope. Maybe the businesses won’t stay with my family at all, perhaps they’ll be passed on to one of grandpa’s brothers here in Kinnitty.
“I’m sure everything will work out in the end, Aoife. Whoever ends up in charge would be crazy to let you go,” I squeeze her hand before we spread the comforter across the bed.
“Thank you, I hope you’re right.”
I’ve grown closer to Aoife at this point than I ever was to my own mother. Looking back at my interactions with my mom, I realize there was no doubt about the love we shared. She loved us fiercely, and we had a great family life. Things change. I don’t know what exactly led my parents to make the choices they did in the wake of my own personal heartbreak; I may never know. I have to accept that. The oddest feeling is knowing that chapter in my life has ended, and the new chapter is filled with hope and promise. My grandfather knew what he was doing when he sent me here.
Tonight’s blog post is brought to you by a glass of wine. I’ve settled into the couch in front of the fire I started myself. Much of my writing since my arrival has been focused on the easy stuff. The new blog I started before moving here has been written in the style of letters to my grandpa. At first, telling him about my experiences and thoughts was cathartic. Now, it’s become more. People started responding to my adventures, and I have more readers than I ever did with my travel blog. Through “To Grandpa, With Love”, I’ve told my followers about the things I saw in Dublin, gave them the lowdown on my day to day life in Kinnitty, and offered tips for how to order coffee creamer online. Tonight, I’m going to dive down a little deeper. I’m ready.
The words pour out of me with ease. It’s freeing to be able to share what I’m feeling without having to fear the immediate backlash of hurt feelings and anger. It’s not like I’ve heard from anyone I know in America in the time I’ve been here. There are feelings there, but they haven’t been thrown in my face yet. If I’m going to let this place heal me, this is how it’s going to start.
To Grandpa,
I’m sitting in my cottage, staring at a crackling fire and thinking about why I’m here. You wanted me to come here to heal the hurts caused by your decision to emigrate to the U.S.A., but I can’t help but feel like you had ulterior motives. The people I’ve met since coming here have made me feel more at home than my family has in years.
I won’t go into any details about that because I’m pretty sure other people are reading these letters, and I don’t believe in airing my dirty laundry on the interwebs. But I’m going to tell you what’s going on in my crazy mind lately.
Let’s talk heartbreak. At one point in my life, I assumed heartbreak could only be caused by the end of a romantic relationship. It seems accurate, right? Well, as you know, that was probably the most naïve thing I’ve ever thought. Sometimes, it’s the actions of the people we thought loved us. If I’d known my heart can break into a million little fragments, and each piece can be broken by a different source, I think I’d have thrown in the towel long ago.
It seems overdramatic, right? My heart was broken by the one person I thought would never hurt me. The person who was supposed to be my best friend. To this day, I think she believes my pain was caused by the ending of the relationship, but that’s not the root of the problem. You see, my heart was breaking long before I knew it was happening. Pieces were being chiseled away every time my “friend” decided to betray me. It was already so fragmented by the time I learned the whole truth, that all I was left with was a sliver of what had once been a heart full of love. My world view changed in the span of a few moments, and I walked away from everything I’d built my life around.
You were the only person who understood my pain. You loved me through it all, you never made me feel like I was in the wrong, and you supported me as I tried desperately to figure out who I was in the aftermath. Now you’re gone. I never knew how fully you understood the gravity of my situation until you were no longer here to ask for guidance.
You gave me one final gift before you left this world, a plane ticket. The ticket that took me across the ocean and into the country that raised you. It wasn’t until today that I realized your reasons for sending me here were layered. I’ll never know if you knew I would find the connections I thought were gone forever when I came to Kinnitty. I don’t know if you planned for me to meet the people who have made me feel like I’m part of a family again.
All I know is I’ve been welcomed by a woman who makes me ache for the days when I could fall into my own mothers’ arms. She accepts that I’m not perfect. I’m not from here, I’m different, I’m awkward sometimes, and I’m broken. My new friend sees the cracks lurking beneath the surface but doesn’t treat me any differently because of them. In the two weeks, four days, and seven hours since I arrived at the Molloy Bed and Breakfast, my heart has begun to heal. I can never thank you enough for that.
With Love,
Blake
I look over the post and make a few adjustments before I click the button to share it with the world. My stomach is in knots because I don’t know if my parents or sister follow my blogs online. If they do, they’re going to get a glimpse into the pain they’re responsible for. With a sigh, I close the laptop, finish my glass of wine, and snuggle into the blanket I’ve wrapped around my shoulders.
Three weeks. That’s how long it’s been since I haven’t been able to get Blake Molloy out
of my head. I have no idea what it is about her that has me hooked, but I am. Of course, she has no idea. Just because I’ve got these feelings doesn’t mean I’m going to act on them. Besides, I’m confident the way I feel can be explained away by the fact that I haven’t found a woman I could tolerate for more than a few minutes in almost a decade. Well, I should admit that it’s actually that I’m almost immediately irritated by single women. Most of them are desperate. They flirt carelessly, thinking only about the moment instead of considering the future. I’ve never been that person, and I never will be.
Aside from any of that, I know for a fact that mum would kill me and bury my body in the pasture behind the B&B if I acted on my attraction to Blake. I already endured the third degree from mum when she dragged me from the cottage the day I brought Blake to Kinnitty. There was no way I was going to tell her what happened in Dublin. She doesn’t need to know everything, and she certainly doesn’t need to know how I behaved with Blake.
As if to prove I can’t get anything past that woman, as soon as we were alone, she launched into a carefully worded warning designed to remind me of what I already know. Blake Molloy is off-limits. There was no denying the attraction I felt for her, my mom could see it from the way I looked at the girl who took me by surprise. She saw it in the way I hung around the B&B with every spare moment, trying desperately not to seem like a lost puppy following Blake around. I already know we aren’t suited for one another. I told mum just that.
The trouble is, as much as I want to honor Blake’s request and be her friend, I don’t know if I can stay away from her. There is something more going on in her head than just the loss of a beloved grandfather. She’s careful about how she talks to me, as though she doesn’t trust anyone but herself. I know how that feels.
Whenever Blake shows up at my pub, the Wolfhound, I feel a little on edge. My best friend and business partner, Patrick already knows I’m hiding something. I suspect he can see it written all over my face, but he has enough sense not to draw attention to it. He’s been with me through every bit of my life. I’m pretty sure he knows everything there is to know about me and can probably read my mind by now.
We’re working on another brew in the yard that connects my cottage and the pub on the same piece of property. Every time we come up with a new recipe, it takes some trial and error to find the perfect combination of ingredients. This latest lager is different from a lot of our flavors because it has a sweet berry taste combined with the rich base flavor every Wolfhound Brew is famous for. We decided that after receiving multiple suggestions from our customers that it was time to create a pale ale for those who don’t appreciate the darker brews. Once we’ve got everything set up, we head into the pub and sit in the storeroom.
“What's the craic, Gan?” Pat asks as he takes a sip of tea.
I shrug, “Just thinking.”
“That sounds dangerous, you look far too serious.”
I nod and smile. My dog has only just realized we’re done with the brewery for now. He comes charging over to the back door for some attention. Sarge is a good boy, a lot of people find it amusing that he’s allowed to hang out in the pub with us, but I feel bad leaving him home alone all the time. Ever since he was a pup, he’s been trained on proper pub etiquette for a dog. He typically follows me around and leaves everyone else alone.
“Seen Blake lately?” Pat breaks me from my thoughts.
“Um, yeah. Blake was at the pub a few nights ago for a drink, you were here. Remember?” I’m doing my best to sound casual.
“Right, but you haven’t gotten the nerve to ask her to spend some time with you yet?”
“Come on, Pat. You know I can’t do that. First of all, she’s quite a bit younger than us. Second of all, you know my mum would kill me.”
Patrick laughs, “I’m sure the second one has way more to do with it than anything else.”
“You’re not wrong,” I chuckle as I rub behind Sarge’s ears.
“You know, I’ve been trying to think of how to say this, but I don’t think there’s a right way. So, here goes,” Patrick leans forward in his chair. “I know you loved Madigan, but you’ve got to let go and move on. She isn’t coming back. For all we know, she’s dead. It’s not like my sister has been in touch with any of us since she left.”
His words pour over me like the ice water in his hand. Patrick has been my best friend for longer than I was in love with his sister. I met him first, then fell head over heels in love with his twin. The three of us were inseparable when we were growing up. That all changed when Madigan and I went to college, and Patrick chose to train to become a carpenter. It was the first time we weren’t all together, and I think Pat knew my true feelings for his sister were bound to break through the surface as I spent more time alone with her. I push the memories aside before I can be pulled under the riptide that always comes.
“I’m not still pining for Madigan. I know it seems like it, but I’m not. I just haven’t found anyone I want to pursue,” I shrug.
“You mean until now?”
With a shake of my head, I remind him that it’s not an option. “She isn’t interested in me, you can trust that. Blake told me she swore off men, and I believe her.”
“How could someone who’s barely out of college swear off men already? She probably doesn’t know what she’s missing, if you know what I mean,” Pat thrusts his hips a few times.
“Don’t be vulgar. I don’t get the feeling she’s inexperienced if that’s what you’re trying to say. I think she’s just protecting herself, and I don’t blame her.”
With that, the topic is effectively over. Pat knows better than to push me to talk about what happened with Madigan. As far as anyone knows, she dumped my arse and left the country. I’d rather everyone see me as a pitiful, heartbroken pub owner than have anyone learn the true nature behind our break-up. It’s not something I want to revisit. Ever.
The following Friday brings another night of live music, just like every Friday before. Blake is at the pub, waiting for her drink. It’s always the same. I’ve got her hooked on Writer’s Tears, and I’m not even sorry. When I set the glass down in front of her, she offers me that grin that catches me off guard every damn time. I’ve got to get it together.
I’m a little nervous about how the night will play out. Thankfully, we’ve avoided any uncomfortable situations with the Molloy clan. I’m not sure if they’re just waiting in the wings or if the storm has been brewing over our heads the entire month, Blake has been in Kinnitty. Tonight, the band is none other than Molly Molloy and the Mandrakes. I have no idea why they chose that band name, and I have no interest in asking. I can only assume it’s because they’re a bunch of Harry Potter fans, and the back-up singers sound a little like the mandrake roots when they’re pulled from their soil.
Molly, on the other hand, is quite talented. She’s a great kid. Her dad is the manager for Molloy Dairy, someone Blake will undoubtedly meet at some point. My concern is that because a Molloy is performing tonight, other members of the clan will show up and cause a raucous. Of course, mum told me about the pointed looks Blake has received when she’s been spotted around town. She can handle nasty looks, but I don’t know how well Blake will handle a verbal assault.
Blake is around the same age as Molly. Maybe I’m worrying for no reason, they may hit it off. It’s more the older generation I’m worried about. I’m trying to decide if I should warn Blake about the band, but there have been posters up for weeks. She must know by now.
“You ready for the band to play?” I ask casually.
“Yeah, I’m a little nervous, though. I know I’m probably related to the main singer, right?”
I nod, “Actually, the whole band. They’re all Molloy cousins. Don’t worry, Pat, and I will keep an eye out for anyone acting like arseholes.”
Blake laughs, “I’m not worried, I’m just a little nervous. I haven’t met any of them since I’ve been here.”
Maybe Blake hasn’t not
iced the tension when she’s been out and about with my mom. I’m not going to mention it. People start flooding in, and I see the corner table taken up by Molloy’s who glance at Blake with curiosity. Okay, that’s better than shooting daggers at her. When the music starts to play, Blake is clearly enjoying herself. I can practically feel my muscles relaxing. It isn’t until I have to grab another bottle of Jameson from the back that things take an unwelcome turn.
“Imogen? Imogen, is that you?”
Oh no. There’s no way I’m going to be able to intercept this before it goes off the rails. Blake recognizes the name and turns to see who called for her grandmother.
“Imogen is my grandma. Did you know her?” Blake asks, not realizing the storm brewing right in front of her.
The drunken man blinks a few times, then narrows his eyes at her as though trying to see her clearly. Roald Molloy. He’s the second born of the Molloy family, and he’s a real piece of shite. I vaguely remember something my mum told me once about a love triangle between Brion, Imogen, and Roald. It isn’t hard to guess who the winner was.
