Then I remember.
And just like that, I’m back into myself fully and glance frantically around. “Claire?”
“In here!”
I step into my jeans and lean into the bedroom. She’s stretched out on her stomach, her feet in the air, crossed. A tablet rests on the bed in front of her, its glow illuminating her face. Feckin’ hell. Sex with Claire was deadly. She’s looking mighty feen, hair still mussed from the riding. And while, of course, my lad’s piping up for another go, I’m also feeling the frustration with work ebb away just looking at her.
“Could you eat now?”
She glances up and makes to rise. “Sure. Lemme help.”
“You stay there. I want to be doing this, yeah.” She gives me a big grin that goes right inside me, it does. I hustle to the kitchen and busy myself making a hodge-podge of a dinner out of the non-perishables we’d bought. I’m halfway through when my poxy mobile dings again.
I pick it up—it’s a text alert. One that’s triggered whenever my sister is late for a payment. Frustration spikes through me. I hit the icon for Siobhan.
“Hey.”
“We talked earlier.” She’s sounding groggy. “Why are you ringing now?”
I pull my mobile away and look at the time. Shite. The time difference slipped my mind. “You didn’t tell me you were three days late with the mortgage.”
“What are you at, Conor, ragging at me?” Her voice definitely sounds awake now.
“How many times is it I’ve told you, I can help you when you’re needing it. If you were short a few quid, why didn’t ya tell me?”
Her breath pushes into the speaker. “You don’t need to be sending me anything at all. The farm’s mine, remember? It’s mine to handle.”
“Then why aren’t the bills paid off, yeah?”
She’s quiet for a moment—probably picturing all the ways she can belt me from across the pond. “Not that you’d know much about it, but I’ve bought a ram from over near Ballinasloe. A fine lad, big as an ass, which is what you’re being. And I’ve got two old ewes to market for their meat come the morrow. I’ll have the payment made soon enough.”
“You shouldn’t—”
“Conor. It’s past time to start believing I can handle the farm without you, yeah?”
Agitation and frustration rise within me. I’m wanting to help. If she’s not letting me put a finger in it, what am I good for? Leaves me a right bowsie. If I hadn’t left her, she wouldn’t be shouldering all the burden herself.
“Night, Conor. Let me try to get in some sleep?”
“You know I’m only looking out for yourself, yeah?”
She groans. “Sure look it, and being a right gowl about it.”
Shite. I hang up and finish prepping dinner. Then I find myself setting the table for the meal, because I know that’s what Claire’s liking.
No. Scratch that. That’s only partly true. It’s growing on me as well, because when we sat down earlier and took our time eating, it weren’t half bad. The feeling of sharing a moment together. Not rushing. Enjoying.
That frantic call from work was a sharp reminder that I put my whole self too much into a soulless corporation. Rushing to get ahead there. Rushing through my life.
So stopping and enjoying? Yeah, I’m finding I like it. Maybe too much.
Claire
“Dinner’s on,” Conor calls from the kitchen.
I power down my tablet to conserve the battery and step into the main room.
He’s set the table.
A part inside me goes squishy at that. Especially when I notice a couple of candles glowing in the center. I know the candles are because we need to see, but I can’t help thinking it looks romantic, okay? Like it means something.
“Wow, this looks great. Thank you.”
I settle at the table and drape my napkin across my lap. He’s made some kind of sandwich with—I lift the top slice of bread. “Canned ham and potato chips?”
“And sugar, mind.”
“Ooookay.” I take a bite. Different. But surprisingly good. The flavors mix and dance on my tongue, and I close my eyes. Mmmmm.
I open them, ready to tell Conor thank you again, but he’s staring at me with hooded eyes. He’s still bare-chested, though he put his jeans back on.
“What?”
“Never thought watching someone eat would turn me on,” he says, voice low with a trace of surprise.
Warmth blooms in my chest. “Oh yeah?” I take another bite, this time taking my time biting into it, closing my eyes, and giving a good “Mmmm.”
He closes his eyes and groans.
He’s distracted and edgy, but he’s joking with me, interacting, so I know the edginess isn’t about us. There’s no awkwardness in the air, or regret.
I take another bite. “What’s going on?”
He starts eating and, in between bites, tells me about his sister buying a ram and delaying her loan payment.
When he’s done, I say, “You’re worried.” It’s clear he doesn’t believe his sister can take care of the farm and its needs.
“Of course I’m worried. She could lose everything she’s been working her arse off to keep.”
“It’s her farm to lose, isn’t it?”
He falls back against his chair. “But if I hadn’t left—” He breaks off and looks to the side. Guilt wafts from him, so thick I can feel it.
“But you did. And she elected to take on the responsibility.”
He leans forward, eyes intent on me. “And I can be helping her with that. But she won’t see her way clear to it.”
Something else is at work. Something he might not even be aware of.
“Has she asked for help in the past?” I’m trying to figure out why he feels like he has to help. If she fell into some trouble before and he bailed her out…
“No.”
“So she’s never needed your help?”
His jaw clenches, and he glances away. “No. Hasn’t once asked me for help. And I’m clear over here. If I can’t be there mending fences for her, or helping with the feeding or any of the other physical chores, it’s the least I could be doing, yeah, to be sending her money.”
Siobhan seems as if she’s doing fine, and Conor has engaged Brother Mode a bit too hard.
“You like to help. She’s lucky to have a brother looking out for her.” I didn’t mean to reveal anything with that statement, but he looks at me sharply.
His eyes wander my face. “You have a brother or sister or two?”
I push the last bite to the side of my plate. “No. I sometimes do wonder what it would have been like to have one.” And when that happens, I quickly snuff that thought, because most likely the sibling would have steamrolled over me too, or tried to micromanage like Conor’s doing with his sister.
But maybe it might have played out differently with me. What if I had a sibling who was supportive but not take-charge. Would my life be different now?
It’s rare that I take a trip down pity lane, but I allow a tiny fantasy of having a brother or sister who was there for me when my life fell apart. Hell, a sibling who would have helped me see the danger sooner. Or at the very least, wanted to help me rebuild when I left Mom and Pensacola. I’d have still turned away any financial assistance and worked the two jobs to put myself through the local community college in Sarasota, but it would have been nice to know that security net was there.
To have someone familiar by my side during that scary-because-I-could-mess-up time.
Conor
I help Claire clear the table, and we take up our spots by the sink for washing up.
But as I’m drying plates—she took up wash duty this time—I find I’m on edge about her questions regarding the farm and Siobhan. I’m not upset at Claire, and that’s what’s got me on edge. I don’t know what is bothering me about it.
I shove that aside and put away the first plate. The domesticity feels odd, but also…nice. I’m not used to this sharing or t
aking time out of the day to savor a meal.
It makes me wonder…what if we continued this when we return to Sarasota? She has me wanting to know more about her.
It could get awkward since we’re both in the same league, but I’m starting to see that opening up to someone isn’t necessarily a bad thing.
Maybe that’s what’s got me on edge? That I’m not balking at opening up?
Chapter 12
Claire
We’re quiet as we put away the dishes, but it’s a contemplative quiet, not an awkward one.
I hand the last glass to Conor, and my phone rings. I dig it out from where it had fallen in the seat cushions and glance at the screen. A number I don’t recognize.
“Hello?” Normally I don’t answer a strange number, but with the weather emergency, I make an exception. I’m ready to hang up, though, if it’s a telemarketer.
“Claire Hitchins?”
“Yes. Can I help you?”
“This is the nurse on call at Saint Joseph Hospital in Denver.”
Denver?
The nurse continues, “You’re listed as the emergency contact for Constance Hitchins.”
My stomach evaporates as cold sweat pops onto my skin. “She’s my mom. Is she okay?” Panic and worry have made my voice higher, and it cracks on the last word. Yeah, I had to cut her from my life to protect myself, but she’s still my mom and I don’t want her to be hurt.
But what is she doing in Denver?
“She’s stable,” the nurse announces with practiced calm. “She was in a car accident and was taken to the ER. She was admitted to ICU and was just transferred to a ward. She should be released by the end of the week. We tried reaching you earlier but couldn’t get through.”
My chest eases a fraction. “Thank you,” I whisper, my relief stealing the volume from my words.
“Do you want her room number?”
“Oh. Yes. Hang on.” I dash into my room and grab the pad of paper and pen from the hotel. “Okay, I’m ready.”
I take down the information and thank the nurse. I’m not sure how long I stand there after hanging up, but my hands are shaking, the pen still tight in my grip. I collapse onto the bed, my knees weak. Then guilt floods me anew when I realize that I’m not immediately making plans to go see her. She’s in the friggin’ hospital, yet my mind didn’t go straight to logistics.
I tell myself that I cut her from my life for a reason and that reason hasn’t changed.
The bed shifts, and Conor’s strong hands are gripping mine, which are still shaking. “You’ve gone white. What’s the story with your mam?” Conor’s voice pulls me into focus.
“She’s been in a car accident.”
He squeezes my hands. “Shite. How bad is it?”
I stand up and move to the window, though I can’t see anything beyond them. “They say she’s stable and should be released by the end of the week. The storm must have knocked out the cell service for a bit because they tried to call me earlier.”
“Fuck. And here you are stuck in Atlanta without a way to be seeing her.”
I look out the window. That guilt is now like a knife, cutting up my throat.
“Yeah. Too bad,” I manage to say, throat tight.
“Maybe the weather will clear soon, and you can still fly there. Or rent a car and drive.” He closes the distance between us in two strides and takes my hands again, turning me to face him. Mine feel like cold lumps. “Where is she keeping herself?”
“Denver,” I croak.
“That’d be one hell of a road trip, yeah.” He picks up his cell. “Let me ring some folks.”
Panic hits me, and I pace into the kitchen and back. “Who?”
He looks up from scrolling around the screen. “The airport. Delta. Maybe we can find out when they’ll be getting clearance to fly again. At least then you’ll know when you’ll be likely to leave.”
I snatch the phone from his hand, and he startles.
My palm feels sweaty holding it in my tight grip. “I don’t need you to do that.”
His forehead pulls down in a frown. “And why would you not be needing it?”
“Because…” I swallow and take a deep breath. “Because I’m not planning to fly out there,” I finish on a rush.
He stands there staring at me. Then blinks. “Your mother’s bloody banjaxed her car and herself, and you’re not wanting to visit?”
I flinch and turn away, not wanting to look at his face as he judges me. “No.”
“But ya have ta be goin’.” His accent has grown thicker. “Who else will be sittin’ with herself?”
“I can’t. You don’t understand.”
The urge to spill and admit to him how sick and weak I used to be is pushing against me.
But this is just a fling. You don’t go dumping emotional crap like that on a fling. No matter how sweet that fling is being. I spin back to the window.
He steps around until he’s in front of me again. He leans to the side until he can look up into my face. “You’re talking rubbish now. Let me do what I can to help.”
Even while I’m getting increasingly frustrated and angry that he’s pushing me on this, my heart breaks a little at that statement. He always wants to help.
I shake my head. “You can’t fix this. It’s my decision. My problem.”
“Yeah, but—”
I hold up a hand and face him. Realizing that my excuses sound lame and that I look weak for not going, I say, “I’ll think about it.”
Anything to end this discussion.
Conor
It’s clear that Claire doesn’t want to talk about what’s happening with her mam. Biggest clue? She’s now in her room reading on her tablet. I run my hands through my hair.
Her mam’s in fucking hospital, and she won’t be trying to see her?
I’m more agitated about it than she is, and I don’t even know her mother from Adam.
When I kick the dark red footstool, I’m realizing something else—I’m bleeding pissed off. And resenting what she’s throwing away.
It’s an ugly set of emotions, I know.
My mother didn’t have much love or care for me or Siobhan. Not enough to stick around. She walked out on us when I was fucking seven. Seven. And if there’s a chance her mam has any care for Claire, she needs to be heading to Denver. I’ve seen and met enough mothers to know mine was not the usual stripe.
I fall back into the couch with a sigh and cross my arms. The other part that’s hurting my heart? I opened up to her about the farm when she questioned me, but when I’m asking what’s troubling her? Instant dry up.
I’d have to be thick not to see there’s something she’s not telling me.
Claire pops back out of the room fully dressed. “I’m getting stir crazy. Wanna go watch the storm from the lobby?”
I look at her for a moment and will my emotions to bite the back of my bollocks. A lot of these emotions are because of my own past. That’s not fair to her. I nod and blow out a breath, releasing some tension. “Sure, yeah. Let me pull on my trainers.”
She blows out the candles, and soon we’re padding down the hall. Eerie red bulbs pulse along the hallway enough to leave anyone with sense feeling their hairs rise. We must not be the only guests after getting ourselves a bit stir crazy, because when we get to the foyer, it’s jammers with a good-sized crowd hanging about. Most of them look to be business men and women types, looking out-of-place in “casual” clothes. It probably doesn’t help that the whole scene looks strange—the hotel’s set up lamps on tripods hooked to a rattling generator, lighting the place up like a movie set.
Because I hate how we left things, I slip my fingers into hers as we walk to the big picture window. She stiffens for a moment and then squeezes my hand, making my heart feel warm, yeah. Generator-run lights are arrayed out front, giving us a better view of what’s going on outside than we could get from our room. The Bradford pears are at a near forty-five degree angle in the parking lot.
Rain is still bucketing against the panes.
Nearby, some boyo has a weather radio plugged into a power line running from the generator.
“What’s the news?” I ask.
He looks up. “The eye passed east of here about an hour ago.”
“So we didn’t get a letup,” Claire adds.
“Nope. Hurricane hit Atlanta just after it was downgraded from a Category 2 to a 1, so we’re seeing winds around ninety miles an hour.”
“Jaysus.”
“Yeah, they think we’ll be out from under its arms by early morning.”
I nod. “Thanks for the update, yeah.”
“Sure thing.”
We watch the wind playing about for a time. The rain’s sounding like tiny beads hitting the glass over and over.
Claire rests her head on my upper arm. Just that tiny gesture has me feeling like I won a major victory with her. A strange notion after what we were doing on the hotel floor, but some gestures can just feel more intimate somehow.
“Seeing Mother Nature like this can really make you feel insignificant,” she says.
I squeeze her hand. “Sure it can.”
Behind us a guitar chord strums. Claire tugs on my hand, and we make our way over to a corner of the common area where two lads are having a go at playing covers on their acoustic guitars.
The couches and chairs in front of the duo are taken, but there’s a spot on the arm of one of the couches so I settle there and pull Claire onto my lap. It feels great having this excuse to hold her against myself. I may be turning into a sap, but fuck it.
The lads are playing a cover of a Nine Inch Nails song. Their voices are good, and their playing’s not half middling. Everyone claps when they finish, and they go right into another tune. It’s obvious they’ve played a lot together—they have that casual ease with each other of best mates.
At the end of the next song, a cover of “Black Horse and the Cherry Tree,” someone calls out “Stairway to Free Bird,” and we all obligingly laugh at the stale joke. But they do glance up, and the darker haired one asks, “Any requests?”
Deserving It Page 7
