Mrs. O’Neil averted her gaze as a shadow of annoyance crossed her face. I stepped back, knowing I had somehow offended her.
“I’ve been handling the B&B by myself for nearly ten years, so I think I know how to manage things.” Her forcefully polite words rang in my ears like thunderclaps. “And I’d rather not have a stranger meddling in me kitchen. Maddie says you’ve come here to work on a project—”
“The O’Connor book,” Mr. O’Neil interjected. “She said you’d be spending much of your time up in County Roscommon.”
Totally bewildered by this frosty reception, I tried to smile but only flinched uncomfortably. “Well—yes, I will have to go up there to have a look around. But I was really planning on staying here every night. Maddie said everything I’d want to see was within a few hours drive of Ballinderry.”
Mr. O’Neil looked at his wife, then both of them looked at me.
“All the same, today you shall have your breakfast with the guests.” Mrs. O’Neil’s thin, dry lips curved in a fleeting smile. “Tomorrow—well, we’ll see what happens tomorrow. But the other couple ordered breakfast at nine. They’ve come to Ireland for the riding.”
She moved toward the stove, and Mr. O’Neil picked up his newspaper, both of them dismissing me. I turned toward the foyer and the public rooms, my mind spinning in confusion. Several things had just become apparent, and most obvious was the fact that the O’Neils didn’t—and wouldn’t—consider me family. They saw me as an outsider, a guest, and I would likely remain so until I left. They were hoping I wouldn’t get in the way, and the more time I spent working on my book, the happier they’d be.
With half an hour to kill before breakfast, I crossed the foyer to the front door, then stepped out to do a bit of exploring. The farmhouse, which I’d barely glanced at yesterday afternoon, was a long rectangular structure, with a centered front door and four windows on each side, two on each of the first and second floors. Mounds of colorful flowers spilled from boxes at every window, and a thin beard of ivy covered the upper walls as high as the roof. A graveled parking lot led from the road to a small stone porch before the front door, but a soft, green lawn spread beyond the parking lot to a charming little creek that curved through the grass. The house and grounds were beautiful, but the walled garden at the side of the house took my breath away. Peering through the garden gate, I saw an actual orchard with clusters of apples and pears hanging in abundance.
I laughed in simple appreciation of the glorious sight. In my entire lifetime I couldn’t recall ever actually seeing an apple hanging from a tree, much less a pear. Yet here they were, waiting to be plucked, as natural and pretty as you please.
There was no sign on the garden gate, so I assumed guests were free to wander in it. I opened the gate and stepped inside, marveling at the profusion of tropical plants and flowers. Somehow I’d imagined that Ireland would suffer hard winters—after all, the Irish were famous for sweaters—but these plants wouldn’t be able to survive freezing temperatures for prolonged periods. I made a mental note to correct another of my misguided preconceptions.
The garden ended at an ivy-covered, four-foot-tall stone fence; beyond it I could see other stone fences that probably served as cattle pens. To my left lay a patchwork of green pastures, dotted with black and white cattle; the house stood to my right. Directly in front of me were barns, cattle pens, and a large open area of trampled brown earth.
I debated climbing over the wall for a little more exploration, then decided against it. If I wandered into a place where I wasn’t welcome, my already-dour hostess would grow even sourer. And since I had to remain here for two months, I knew I’d better do all I could to keep the peace.
I turned instead toward the house. The rectangular building visible from the front concealed other structures that had been added on to the back, probably as generations of the O’Neil family grew. Maddie had mentioned that the main house was over two hundred years old, so these rear buildings had to be later additions. Several chimneys poked up from the tin roof, and by process of elimination I figured out which windows belonged to the roomy kitchen where I’d met the O’Neils this morning. Other rooms stretched out behind it, and lace fluttered from several of the windows. If the front house contained the public spaces used for guests of the B&B, these back rooms had to be where the O’Neil family actually lived. Taylor, I realized, stayed in a room in the family section of the house.
I checked my watch, saw that it was nearly nine, and moved back toward the front door. As I crossed the graveled lot, I saw the small house Taylor had mentioned as a place where I could work in privacy. Roses rambled over its yellow stucco walls, and fuchsia and lupine grew as high as the square front window. I walked up to the rough door and knocked softly, and when no one answered, I opened the door and peered inside. A couple of chairs sat in the center of the room, while a heavy oak desk squatted against the far wall. A daybed sat in the corner of the room, piled high with pillows and a white linen counterpane. Though the building’s design was primitive, I saw electrical and telephone outlets on the wall, so Taylor was right—this would be a good place to work.
I reentered the house just as an older couple came down the staircase. The man and woman looked older than the O’Neils and seemed quite distinguished. Her shoulder-length silver hair was tied neatly at the nape of her neck, and she wore jodhpurs and a soft sweater. He, too, wore clothing that reeked of casual elegance, and suddenly Mrs. O’Neil’s comment about the other guests and riding made sense. This couple had come to the country to ride horses. And since the O’Neils did not keep horses, these people would soon be heading out for the day.
I nodded good morning to them, then followed the man and his wife into the dining room. Mrs. O’Neil had set a beautiful table for three, with an elegant silver teapot occupying the center of the table. I moved to the empty place and sat down to eat with people I didn’t know.
The silver-haired woman gave me a polite fellow-guest’s smile as she picked up the teapot. “Shall I pour?”
“Please.”
“We are Hans and Aleen Christoffels.” The woman spoke in a careful, educated accent. “We are from the Netherlands. Are you American?”
“Yes.” I accepted the cup, thanked her with another smile, then reached for the sugar bowl.
“We didn’t hear you come in last night.” Aleen clasped her hands below her chin. “We thought we were the only guests in the house.”
“I’m sure I was already dead to the world when you came in.” I sprinkled a teaspoon of sugar into my tea, then began to stir. “But I’m traveling with two friends—surely you saw them?”
“The young couple?” Hans accepted a cup of tea from his wife. “I thought they were part of the family. They stayed in the kitchen until after midnight, laughing and talking.”
I tasted my tea, then stared down at my plate. “They are part of the family—at least she is. The young man is her fiancé. I’m just along for the ride.”
The kitchen door creaked then, and we heard the sound of quick footsteps on the solid oak floor. Fiona O’Neil entered the dining room with a tray loaded with three steaming plates of eggs, bacon, sausages, fried cherry tomatoes, and some dark bits of something I wasn’t sure I wanted to taste. She set our plates before us with an ease any waitress would have envied, then lowered her tray and breathlessly asked if we needed anything else.
Hans, Aleen, and I shook our heads and murmured our thanks. Mrs. O’Neil nodded brusquely, then turned and hurried away, her footsteps thundering down the hall.
I looked down at my breakfast and saw more food than I usually ate for lunch and dinner combined. Fiona O’Neil had provided her best for her guests—the outsiders.
I had not been in Ireland twenty-four hours before realizing that Cahira O’Connor might prove to be my salvation. Without her, I would have nothing to do but sit around the farm and feel useless. In the space of a morning Mrs. O’Neil had made it quite clear that I wasn’t family, nor wou
ld they treat me as such. Even Mr. O’Neil, who had smiled warmly at me during our introduction, had neither the time nor the strength to entertain or guide a bored American tourist. Maddie was no help either. Eager to introduce her American fiancé, she took Taylor off in the family car to make the circuit of friends and relatives. Even Hans and Aleen, with whom I’d had a remarkably pleasant conversation at breakfast, hopped into their rental car and drove off to find a riding academy.
I found myself alone.
Solitude has its pleasures, I’ll admit. If not for the strange sense of disconnectedness that left me feeling confused, I might have enjoyed wandering through the fields and tramping down the country roads. But some irritating little voice kept whispering that I didn’t belong here, that I had no purpose for coming.
After breakfast, I thumped up the wooden staircase to my room, then stared at my open suitcases and the bed’s wrestled sheets. One thing was clear enough. Mrs. O’Neil may have considered me a guest at breakfast, but she certainly didn’t when it came to cleaning my room. My wet towel still hung on the back of the door, and the stillrumpled bed meant no one had even entered my room.
I sat on the edge of the bed, wondering if I should unpack or call a travel agent for the next return flight home. A strange thought struck me: I could go where I wanted, when I wanted, and if I were to fall down dead in some peat bog, no one would miss me for hours, perhaps days. This aimless pace was so unlike my minute-to-minute New York existence…
“The thing you need is a plan,” I told myself as I bent to unpack my suitcases. “Find the nearest library. Take your notebooks and your tape recorder and ask if you can borrow the family car. Soon Taylor will be ready for a break from Maddie’s relatives, so he’ll be glad to go with you and help navigate these country roads. You’ll feel better once you’re elbow-deep in note cards and history books.”
The simple act of formulating a plan did brighten my outlook. I stacked my jeans and underwear in empty bureau drawers, tidied the bed, closed my suitcases, and pulled out a canvas bag of note cards and blank spiral notebooks. As I was pulling my laptop out of its protective case, the sound of voices drifted in through the open window. I looked out to see Taylor and Maddie walking up the drive, hand in hand. Maddie’s cheeks were flushed with excitement, and the wind had blown Taylor’s hair into the same tangled riot every rural farmer wore. If Maddie had dressed him in a sweater and knee-high boots, he’d look like an Irishman altogether.
I left my supplies on the bed and skipped down the stairs to greet my friends. “You two were up early this morning,” I called, my boots crunching the graveled drive as I walked toward them. “And I heard you were up late, too.”
“I guess so.” Taylor smiled at Maddie as she leaned into him. “Fiona started telling stories about Maddie and her brother—”
“Whist now, that’s enough,” Maddie teased, her Irish accent deeper and more melodic now that we stood on her home turf. “You behave and keep my secrets, or I’ll make you eat blood pudding every morning till you grow to like it.” She stood on tiptoe, kissed Taylor on the cheek, then released his hand and moved toward the house. “Let me check on lunch. I’ll call you directly.”
Wearing an unusual expression of contentment, Taylor thrust his hands in his pockets and watched her go.
“Nice morning?” I asked, my voice dry.
“Yeah. We drove around to several farms. I’ve met so many O’Neils and Kellys and Murphys that I’ll never keep them straight.”
“That’s nice.” I folded my arms and looked toward the horizon as a heavy and uncomfortable silence fell between us. Taylor should have noticed it, but he kept his eyes focused on Maddie’s retreating back.
“I ate breakfast with Hans and Aleen.” I glanced at him, searching for any sign of comprehension. “They were interesting people from the Netherlands. Mrs. O’Neil said they were here for the riding, and I was thinking bicycles until I saw them in jodhpurs.”
Maddie went into the house, and as the door closed, Taylor finally turned to look at me. “That’s nice. Say—what are you going to do this afternoon?”
Relief struggled with irritation as I stared at him. He hadn’t forgotten me, and he wouldn’t leave me here alone…as long as Maddie wasn’t around to interfere.
I slipped my hands into my jeans pockets and stepped in front of him, blocking his view of the front door. “I thought I’d ask to borrow the car and see if I can find a library nearby. I looked at the map, and Terryglass is a good-sized city just north of us. If they don’t have a decent library, Birr is just a few miles to the northeast.” I playfully punched him in the shoulder. “So—do you want to come with me, or do you have to stay and play house?”
The warmth of his smile sent shivers down my spine. “I’d love to find a library. Last night I gathered that Maddie and her mother want to do all sorts of female things together—they have to shop for dresses, plan the wedding flowers, make out the guestlist, and that sort of thing. If I can find some good books, I might be able to catch up on my reading and do a little work on my thesis while we’re here.”
I exhaled a long sigh of contentment. “Great. Shall we ask for the car at lunch?”
Taylor pulled a set of keys from his pocket and dangled them in front of me. “No need. Fiona gave me the keys to James’s car. He doesn’t get out much anymore, so the car is ours for as long as we’re here.”
We began to walk into the house together, and I brought up a subject I didn’t dare mention with any of the family around. “How bad is he, Taylor? He didn’t look very sick yesterday.”
“Fiona says he has good days and bad days. Yesterday was a good day, but he was probably running on adrenaline because he knew Maddie was coming home. But he’s already struggling to manage the farm work, and they’ve had to hire a couple of guys when it’s time to sell cattle. But James can still handle the milking by himself, and milk is the mainstay of this farm.” His voice dropped in volume. “When things get bad, though, Fiona is going to ask Maddie’s brother to move back home. I gather she isn’t exactly looking forward to that.”
“Why not? Pretty young Erin is besotted with what’s-his-name.”
Taylor’s brows slanted in a frown. “His name is Patrick, and from what I can tell, he’s sort of the family prodigal. He and James had a falling-out years ago, and Patrick’s been in Limerick ever since. Maddie hasn’t seen him in four years.”
We had reached the door, so I turned on the threshold to ask another question. “So, what does the guy do in Limerick?”
“Computers. Intel and several other major computer corporations have opened offices in Limerick and Dublin, and Patrick does freelance work for most of them. Maddie says he’s done very well for himself, but his success only irks James.”
“So”—I put my hand on Taylor’s wrist as he reached for the door-knob—“it’s James and Fiona now, is it?”
“Well, it can’t be Mom and Dad,” he answered, grinning back at me. “At least not until after the wedding.”
I didn’t answer, but stepped into the house and shivered in the cool shadows of the spacious, spotless front rooms.
I was pleasantly surprised to discover that Mrs. O’Neil set a place for me at lunch. I suppose since her B&B did not serve lunch or dinner, she either had to feed me with the family or run the risk of allowing me to starve under her roof.
Her cheery kitchen was the sort of place I would have naturally felt at home if given half a chance. A small television atop the refrigerator provided a background of noise, while a hodgepodge collection of photographs decorated the front of the fridge. Red-and-white gingham curtains fluttered from the window, and a matching tablecloth covered a long table with a bench at each side.
Taylor slid onto a bench next to Maddie, and I sat across from them. Fiona took a seat at the end of the table, then nodded toward the bowl of chicken salad in front of Taylor. “Eat up,” she said, her voice warm as she smiled at him.
I felt myself begin to r
elax. She didn’t know me, she was probably feeling pressure to be accepted by her future son-in-law, and of course she wanted to please Maddie. She probably didn’t mean to treat me with coldness, and truthfully, she hadn’t done anything to hurt me. She had just kept me at arm’s length, but I probably would have done the same thing.
Though I wasn’t hungry after that big breakfast, I smeared some chicken salad on a slice of brown bread and took small bites so I wouldn’t offend my hostess. She ate quickly, talking about the farm and Maddie’s relatives, and the room seemed to warm as she shared a funny story and we all laughed. The temperature plummeted, however, when Taylor announced that we wanted to drive to Terryglass or Birr to find a library.
“A what?” Fiona’s face froze, her brows arched into neat little triangles.
“A library.” Taylor helped himself to the bowl of chicken salad and began to make a second sandwich. “Kathy wants to begin work on her project, and I thought I’d pick up some books on Kipling.” He smiled at Maddie. “I thought I might find some interesting texts that I can’t find in the States. Besides,” he winked at her, “I know you and your mother have lots of girl things to do.”
Maddie’s face fell in disappointment. “You’re leaving me?”
Nonplussed, Taylor froze with his knife in midair. “I’m only going to the library. We’ll be back before dark.”
Maddie nodded, but her blue eyes filled with water as she stared down at her plate. I pressed my lips together and studied my half-eaten sandwich, afraid of what was coming next.
“There’s a nice historic library in Cashel.” A nervous tremor filled Mrs. O’Neil’s voice as she set a heavy bowl of potato chips in front of me. “And Cashel is a famous place—you ought to see it while you’re here.”
The Emerald Isle Page 5
