by Fox, Nicole
“Making money is more useful, Saoirse,” Pa had responded. “Learn how to do that instead.”
And that was the end of it.
I slink over to the instrument now and sink down carefully, like I’m afraid that if I plop down too hard the piano will recognize I’m just some sad little peasant who doesn’t belong here and tip me over onto my ass.
I touch a key with one finger. Plink. Soft. Solemn. Melodic.
The room echoes beautifully, and I have a sneaking suspicion it was designed with acoustics in mind.
The windows beyond look out over the lake. Now that I think about it, the whole house looks out over the lake, actually. It’s wrapped around the water, nestled on the shores so that the light bouncing into each room shimmers and shifts with the tides.
I can’t even imagine living in a place like this. Somehow, it feels like I’d have been a much different person if I did.
I touch the key again softly. Plink.
Then, with a shudder I don’t quite understand, I push back from the instrument and get ready to leave.
Suddenly, I notice a tall figure lounging against the doorframe.
My breath catches hard in my throat. “Jesus!” I practically scream.
The man is wiry in his skinniness, but there exudes a certain deadly vitality about him.
He’s bald, which only serves to make his eyes more piercing.
“W… who are you?”
“My name is Quinn,” he replies formally. “I am the butler. My apologies for startling you.”
I am the butler. He says it almost ominously.
“Oh. Right. Wow,” I breathe, still trying to get my heart rate down. “Um, well, I’m the Saoirse. I mean, I’m Saoirse.”
My cheeks color with embarrassment, but he doesn’t crack a smile.
“Master Cillian wanted me to inform you that breakfast is ready for you downstairs.”
“Oh. Okay. Thanks.”
He doesn’t say a word as he turns for the door, but I follow him anyway. He’s definitely spooky, but there’s something intriguing about him, too. As much alien as he is human.
The moment we hit the staircase, I recognize the general layout. At the bottom, we make a right that’ll lead us to the kitchen.
I can’t help looking around for Cillian.
No sign of him, though.
“Master Cillian is addressing the men in the automobile garage,” Quinn says as though he can read my mind.
He hasn’t even glanced back at me.
I frown. “Oh. Thanks.”
“If you wish to speak with him, I can let him know.”
“Oh, that’s not necessary,” I say quickly. “He must be busy.”
He stops at the entrance of the kitchen and ushers me inside. I give him a grateful nod, but he doesn’t react at all. When I glance behind, he’s already gone.
“Don’t worry. You get used to him.”
I gasp and turn around again.
The woman behind the kitchen counter is the polar opposite of the austere butler I’d just met. She’s short, plump, and rosy-cheeked, with dark brown hair streaked with grey tied into a tight bun at the back of her head. She’s wearing a floral dress beneath a well-worn white apron covered in stains, most of which look old, though a few still gleam fresh.
“Hello, love,” she murmurs. “Dear God, you look hungry.”
I raise my eyebrows. “I’m, uh—”
“And look at how skinny you are! This just won’t do.”
When I don’t move forward, she comes out from around the kitchen counter, grabs my arm, and drags me to one of the leather barstools that surround it.
“Take a seat,” she says. “I’ve made a full Irish for you.”
Without asking, she pours a tall glass of juice and pushes it towards me.
“Drink up, darling. I added a little protein powder. You look like you need it.”
I pick up the glass and take a sip. The sip turns into a gulp and before I know it, I’ve drained half the glass.
“Wow,” I gasp, looking at the juice with interest. “That’s delicious.”
“Freshly squeezed,” she explains. “Orange, lime, and mint.”
I smile and take another sip. “It’s brilliant. The best thing I’ve ever tasted.”
“No need to butter me up, love,” she says, but I can tell she’s pleased by the compliment. A pair of dimples wink on her cheeks.
“I’m Saoirse.”
“I know.”
“You do?”
She gives me a look that’s hard to decipher. It contains so much. “Everyone knows about you,” she says.
Her smile takes most of the sting out of her words, but it’s not exactly easy to hear all the same. She notices my expression at the last moment.
“Oh, dear, I phrased that awfully harshly. No one blames you.”
I glance up. “I’m not sure that’s true.”
“Master Cillian has always been stubborn,” she replies. “He’s always acted first and thought later. You couldn’t have stopped him even if you tried.”
“He lost his family and his country over me,” I say softly.
“I think you’ll find that some things are impossible to lose,” she says sagely, “if they mean enough.”
I smile. “I don’t know your name.”
“Oh silly me, going on and on without so much as introducing myself. I’m Fiona.”
“Fiona!” I say as I remember what Cillian told me the other night. “The famous Fiona. Your stew was amazing. Have you worked for the O’Sullivans long?”
“A couple of decades now,” she explains. “I joined the family a few years after Quinn.”
I lower my voice instinctively. “Is he really as scary as he seems? I swear he’s a vampire.”
Fiona chuckles. “Sometimes, he’s even scarier,” she says. “But like I said, you get used to him.”
“Well, I don’t have to get used to him,” I reply. “I won’t be here for long.”
Fiona doesn’t respond to that, apart from raising her eyebrows.
Instead, she turns to the stove and starts flipping something that smells like heaven.
I watch as she works with unhurried efficiency. Before I know it, she’s shoving a heavy plate into my hands, piled high with a mountain of food.
“Eat, child,” she says with a kind of maternal fondness that I haven’t heard in almost thirty years. “There’ll be time for talk after.”
* * *
I spend two hours in the kitchen with Fiona.
I eat while she talks. And I realize that I’m actually enjoying myself.
The moment that realization hits me, guilt quickly follows. I’m allowing myself to push back the weight of my responsibilities.
No, it’s worse actually—I’m allowing myself to forget them completely.
It’s been almost twenty-four hours since I even thought about Pa. He would have expected me yesterday. He’ll be expecting me today.
And when I don’t show, he’ll be worried sick.
I’ve disappeared on him, with no warning and no explanation. I have no idea of what he’s going through or what Tristan may or may not have told him.
A part of me is nervous of what my husband might do.
He’s threatened Pa before, but I’ve long suspected that’s simply a ploy to force me into submission.
It’s worked so far. And perhaps this is my way of calling his bluff.
But the fact that I’m gambling on my father’s life twists my stomach so bad I feel like I’m developing acid reflux.
“You okay, dear?” Fiona asks, interrupting the dark bend of my thoughts.
“Yes,” I reply, forcing a smile onto my face. “That was an amazing breakfast, thank you. But I think I need to walk it off now.”
“Enjoy the grounds,” Fiona tells me. “I’m going to start lunch.”
“Lunch? Already?”
“Of course. I’ve got to stuff Master Cillian full of all the food he’s m
issed while he was away.”
I smile, touched by the amount of affection in her tone when she speaks about Cillian.
I give her a parting wave and leave the kitchen. The plan is to head down to the gardens, but I’m still curious about the house.
I feel like a kid in a candy store. Everywhere I look is something worth touching, worth investigating closer.
I peruse flower arrangements, so fresh that dew still clings to the petals.
I meander down hallways with stern old portraits of old men who share little features with Cillian. One has his nose, another his hair.
None of them have his smile, of course.
That’s Cillian’s alone.
At the far end of one corridor, half-hidden behind a fiddle leaf fig, I spy a large, studded door. It’s curiously unadorned. I can’t help but walk over and push it open so that I can peek inside.
“Whoa,” I breathe.
The room is at least two stories tall and lined top to bottom with shelves, all brimming with books.
All except one.
The shelf directly across from the entrance bears neat rows of video cassettes, the kind I haven’t seen in years. Curiosity piqued, I walk over and skim my eyes across it.
Dates are scribbled in a tiny print along the spines of the tapes. They go back decades. I run a finger across them. It comes up dusty.
No one has touched these in a long time.
Something stirs in my gut. Guilt, maybe. Like I’m intruding on something I shouldn’t be. But my curiosity wins out.
I notice a TV set in the wall in the far corner. Beneath it are drawers.
Acting on a hunch, I pluck one of the tapes from the shelf and go over to the television. The drawer opens up on silent wheels, and sure enough, it reveals an organized array of equipment—DVD players and sound bars and whatnot.
I find what I’m looking for: a VCR player.
My hands are shaking for some reason, though I don’t have the faintest idea why. It takes me a moment to get the tape into the slot, but once I do, the TV flickers to life immediately.
I’m dropped into a sunny Irish day, in the middle of an exquisite garden.
Two little boys run around in the distance.
The images are grainy, and they’ve got that yellowish tint that I associate with old home movies. There’s something faded and comforting about what I’m watching.
I sink into one of the plush beige lounge chairs facing the TV and keep my eyes fixed on the screen.
As if my thoughts had called them forward, the two little boys run up straight towards the camera.
The older of the two isn’t quite familiar, but there’s no mistaking that distinctly O’Sullivan set to the jaw.
This must be Sean, Cillian’s older brother.
And then, next to him, there’s Cillian.
I recognize him immediately. It’s amazing how much he looks the same now as he did then. The blond-gold curls are the same. The light blue eyes are the same. The smile is exactly the same.
“Ma!” little Cillian cries, launching himself at the camera and unmasking the videographer with a jostle of the frame.
I expect a laugh or chuckle, but Cillian’s mother gives nothing. “Careful now,” she lectures softly.
“Because of the baby?” little Cillian inquires thoughtfully.
“Yes.”
“Where’s Da?” Sean asks. “He promised he’d come play with us.”
Little Cillian shoots his brother a “you should know better” expression.
“Da never plays with us,” he says. “He’s too busy breaking legs.”
“Cillian!” his mother barks.
“It’s true,” little Cillian replies, completely unrepentant.
His face. I can’t stop looking at it. There’s a real innocence on it, despite what he’d just said about his father.
And that gleam in his eyes—it’s the unbridled promise of youth.
It’s that time when you believe you can do anything. Be anyone.
He smiles into the camera. My heart flutters a little as an old dream is pulled to the surface.
My hand settles awkwardly against my hollow stomach. I’d prayed so often and so fervently. To keep my womb empty and my life free of unnecessary complications.
It seems almost perverse, almost ungrateful now, to feel that strange flicker of desire. The need to feel my womb flutter with life.
And why?
All because I’m faced with the ghost of dream: a child I’d once wanted with a man I once loved?
Loved.
I hitch on the word, not sure where it fits amidst all this shit.
I shake those thoughts away and concentrate on the images flickering before me.
“Why doesn’t Da come to the gardens anymore?” Cillian demands. “He used to.”
“That was before,” Sean says.
“Sean,” his mother cuts in from behind the recorder. “That’s enough.”
“What?
“I miss her…”
“Sean!”
His mother’s voice turns cold and even I flinch at the strength in it. The image I have in my head transforms.
I’d imagined a soft, warm woman. Kind eyes and an easy smile. Now, I can see someone else entirely. Her tone has transformed her completely.
She moves the camera to the left and it lands on Cillian.
He’s beneath a low-hanging tree with dozens of massive pink flowers hanging off its stooped branches. He jumps high, trying to catch one.
His face is partially sunburnt, cheeks scoured red from exertion.
But his smile is so beautiful that I pause the video, catching him mid-jump.
I stare at his bright, smiling features for a moment, and then my fingers twitch instinctively.
There’s a writing desk right where I walked in, piled high with papers and pencils. A blank notepad hangs off the edge. I grab it and a fountain pen and sink back into my seat.
My eyes flicker back and forth, from the screen to the pad and back again.
I lose myself in the drawing.
And then I lose myself to time.
* * *
I don’t look up until he’s almost here.
“Shit!” I gasp at the sound of approaching footsteps. I’m panicking like I did something wrong as I stuff the open pad into the side of the lounge chair between the cushions.
The door opens and Cillian strides in.
One glance at his face and I know he’s been looking for me.
He stops short, but it’s not my face that’s captured his attention. It’s the image frozen on the screen.
The image of himself.
“What the hell are you doing?” he demands with an intensity I don’t expect.
I frown. “Um, I was just… looking around.”
He raises his eyebrows. “Looking around? Or snooping around?”
I grit my teeth. “You said I had freedom of the grounds.”
“Doesn’t mean you have the right to invade my privacy and the privacy of my family.”
His words cut deep, but I try and keep my expression controlled. “I’m sorry,” I say, because I know I shouldn’t have watched those tapes without permission. “I didn’t mean any harm.”
His jaw twitches. I can see that he’s trying to compose himself. But something about finding me in here watching his old home movies has hit an unsettling nerve.
His eyes keep flitting towards the screen. I resist the urge to do the same.
“Why don’t you go up to your room now?” he sighs. “I’ll be out for lunch, but I thought we could have dinner together. In the garden.”
“Oh. Okay. We can just eat in the kitchen,” I say. “I’m not fussy.”
“I know,” Cillian replies. But his expression is still a little tight.
And suddenly, the differences between the boy behind me and the man in front of me seem stark.
I nod slowly, wondering why exactly he’s reacting so badly to finding me i
n here, watching his old family videos.
I glance back at the screen.
“I’ll turn it off,” he snaps. “You can go.”
I walk past him, but he doesn’t meet my eyes. I think about asking him what’s wrong, but I can sense he won’t answer me.
It reminds me of the other tense moment we’d shared in my bedroom when I’d asked him whose clothes he had offered up to me.
The man has secrets.
More than I ever suspected.
Still, even as I walk through the house, still undecided about where I’m going, I find justifications for him. I make excuses. I pull out a defense he hasn’t asked for.
A secret is not a lie.
And God knows I have enough of both of my own.
41
Cillian
Later That Evening—Cillian’s Room
“Well, damn, boy!” Kian chirps the moment he limps into my room. “You planning on proposing tonight?”
I scoff at his reflection behind me in the mirror. “Don’t be ridiculous.”
“Me, ridiculous?” he guffaws. “You’re the one wearing a fucking suit!”
I turn my back on the mirror to face him in person. “I could be wearing a goddamn trash bag and still look better than you.”
“Dude, don’t deflect. I’m merely observing.” Kian chuckles to himself.
“Fuck you,” I grumble, but I strip my jacket off immediately and fling it right at him.
It hits him square in the face. Then it’s my turn to laugh.
Rolling his eyes, Kian tosses it aside on the bed and plops down, wincing as he rubs gingerly at the edge of his cast.
“Does she know this is a formal affair?” Kian asks. “I assume you sent a save-the-date with dress code and all that.”
I ignore his taunting. “I just told her we were having dinner,” I admit. “Outside.”
“And?”
“And what?”
“I don’t know. It was an awkward invitation.”
Kian frowns. “Why?”
I sigh. “I found her in the library,” I say. “She found our old home videos.”
“Fuck me. Those still exist?”
“Apparently. I thought Ma got rid of them ages ago.”
