“A’course,” Mary says, nodding her head. “I’ll clean it. I could come by every Monday after work. I could even take yer laundry with me and then bring it back. What do yer think, Ronan?”
I put up a hand, a physical barrier between her and me. It’s futile because her expression doesn’t change. “Nay. I can take care of meself. Caris takes gross liberties with the state of me household.”
Mary stomps her foot and returns to the kitchen, her lower lip protruding in another pout.
“I’ll thank yer to keep yerself from meddlin’ in me affairs,” I say to my sister, blistering her ears. “Especially, the ones of the female persuasion.”
She puts her palm over mine, and in a moment of weakness, I let her comfort flow through me. But instead of comfort, she returns my verbal punch. “As long as I’m yer sister, ‘tis my prerogative.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
Savannah
My heart sinks into the depths of my soul as I watch the verdant green landscape of Ireland fade into the distance. I’m closer to Scotland now, and I don’t know whether to breathe a sigh of relief or stomp my foot in frustration over what I’ve lost.
Sarah, you never really had it. You only had his body. His soul’s not fit for duty.
This is going to go down in infamy as the most fucked up tour of my life. I know that it can’t possibly get any worse. Unless I died. And right now, I feel like I’m going to.
The ferry sways underneath my feet as it chugs slowly through the ocean. Mel stands beside me. He hasn’t really left my side except to drive the bus. He probably thinks another disaster is going to befall us since Mother Nature’s usually not such a bitch. Today, the skies have dawned a brilliant blue, and it looks like it’s going to be smooth sailing until we arrive in the land of plaid kilts and golf.
And I’m not going to partake in either. I don’t even want to see or sample any of the local flavors. All I want is to hole up in my five-star hotel and vegetate. Turn on every single electronic in my room, charge my phone, iPad and laptop and drown myself in room service and technology until I want to throw up from the electromagnetic field.
I left without saying goodbye. That’s right, Sarah. You’re a coward of epic proportions. I slinked away like a love thief in the night. Except I left in broad daylight. The worst part is that he didn’t even try to come after me. I sat in that tiny booth in the back of the Wintervale Inn watching Mel savor his last pint while waiting for Ronan O’Farrell to come after me and tell me he cares about me. That he wants me to stay.
I’m a complete and total idiot.
Now I know how all those dipshits feel that run after me every hour of the day and night, begging for a scrap of my attention. How pathetic and out of control. Not admitting to myself that I wanted him to come after me seems to cause more pain than if I just slipped down to the steel floor of this ferry into a human puddle and cried. Tears prick my eyes right now, but I won’t cry over a man who obviously doesn’t want me. Besides, Mel’s already gone through enough. I don’t want him worrying about my emotional state on top of everything else.
Savannah Starr will pick herself up by her Jimmy Choo bootstraps and move forward. And when this tour’s over, Sarah Strauss will go home and get emotional, drinking vodka and eating Urban Bourbon until I puke.
Ireland shrinks in the background, shifting back to its tiny size from the depths of the ferry. I know that even the memory of Ronan O’Farrell is going to make my knees weak and my panties damp every time I indulge. It won’t feel fair that memories are all I’ll ever have of him and what we shared for a fleeting moment. What’s been destroyed in the blink of an eye.
Maybe he wants to talk about what happened. Maybe he wants to rail at me for not saying goodbye. At the time, the thought of doing that caused so much agony I ran away from it, doing the cowardly thing. Running is what I’m good at. I’m fleet of foot and lack depth of emotion due to the trappings of fame that give the illusion of happiness. But fame isn’t reality. The only part of my life that gets every part of the real Sarah is my songwriting. No one can accuse me of being emotionally unavailable there.
For the next few years, all of my songs are going to pour my heartache out on the page, just like Taylor Swift does whenever she’s going through a public break-up. If you could even call my departure a break. What do you label it when you have a hot fling and you part ways?
The aftermath.
I grip the steel railing until my knuckles turn white. My stomach roils a bit with the motion of the waves, and I try to move with them instead of fighting against them. Kind of a metaphor about how I could be living my life. Rolling with the punches is never a bad strategy.
“A penny for your thoughts, young lady,” Mel’s voice snaps me back to the present as I turn my face toward the sun and the mist of the ocean spray hits my cheeks. I inhale the salty fragrance.
“Just glad to be on the move again with Ireland turning into a dot of land on the horizon,” I say, glad he’s not that observant. “I know we have to go back to Dublin for our final date. After that, if it’s a few years before I hit Europe again, I won’t be sad about it. I think this is the Universe’s way of telling me to keep my feet on US soil.”
Mel chuckles and checks his phone for messages. “You’re not kidding. I think you’ll really like Dublin, though. It’s just like being in any other major city.”
“In and out of there with no fuss is all I’m looking for,” I say, and swipe my hands together as if I can take Ireland and everything that happened there and toss it in the trash.
Along with my broken heart.
And aching body.
The only cure for the latter would be to throw myself overboard. I contemplate it for a minute but then Mel gives me a wink, and I realize that my own joke’s in poor taste. I need to start being kinder to myself. And stop being so damn dramatic. I’m even making myself gag.
If it’s better that Ronan’s in the not so distant past, why then does my body yearn for the man? The urge is so overwhelming I want to swim to shore, hunt him down, and melt into his strong arms again.
A small part of me holds tight to the beautiful memory of sharing our song with the people of Wintervale at the Yule festival. It’s one of my favorite memories of all of my concerts, even gala benefits.
Too bad we’ll never sing our song again.
* * *
I wind my way through the backstage area toward my manager, fitting my Shure ear monitors on so I’ll be able to hear myself over the roar of the crowd and the house noise from my own band. As I glance out into the frenzied crowd, I notice the fingers of overhead lights dancing across their features. It still gets to me that perfect strangers living in another country have shelled out over a hundred dollars apiece to come and see me perform live.
Part of me still feels like that scared little girl from Arcata who shivers at night thinking about how every fan will finally find out that I’m a total fraud. I’m really not that talented of a singer but my heartfelt lyrics and melodies touch people. It’s that special sauce that some musicians have to connect with others on a personal level. I never take it for granted, and tonight’s no different.
“I heard you debuted a new number while you were stuck in that Irish hellhole,” Preach says, putting his hand on the small of my back. “I asked them to change the set list to include it for your encore.”
I stop short, and he practically topples us both over when he runs into me. I whirl on him. “No. I’m not singing that song. Not tonight…not ever.”
In spite of his obvious confusion, I’m not going to tell him why. That if I sing the song that I wrote with Ronan it will gut me, pushing me past the point of no return. I haven’t even begun to grieve the man. I will not rub my own wounds raw with musical Ronan just like I did with physical Ronan. I’m not a masochist.
“Why not? The fans here in Scotland would love it. There’s a lot of those damn heathens here just like there were in Ireland. Fucking pagan wors
hip. I blame that damn Outlander. So many housewives and young girls watching that drivel every week and romanticizing it.”
“Well…let’s not contribute to that then,” I say, holding Helen’s neck to keep from reaching out and slapping him across the face. How dare he trivialize and judge Ronan’s beliefs. It’s the same as saying that Nana Aislan was a crackpot. Pagan rituals may not be traditional but at least he has beliefs and values. Which is more than I can say for many of us on this damn tour.
With a glance behind me, I enter the stage and let the crowd’s adulation drown out Preach’s careless words.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Ronan
“What the feck is that?”
A man stands on the corner of O’Connell Street holding some contraption with a light on the end of it. If I didn’t know better, I’d swear he was trying to titmickey the famous labor leader’s bronze junk.
“’Tis a video camera, yer Bombay Shitehawk. Ain’t yer ever seen one of these afore? They were invented afore yer were even born. Yer a right bogger, yer are.”
I mumble something obscene and walk away, trailing behind Caris. She’s been stopping in front of every damn window and gazing inside like a sick fool in love with modern fashion. The get ups inside the shop windows look like something I don’t ever want to see again. The last time I was in Dublin, I was a ten-year-old kid who didn’t understand the filth of modern society. Each time my da would offer to take me again, I refused, content to stay in Wintervale where I felt safe from the perils of the city.
A car whizzes by me so fast, I feel it’s backwind clip my shoulders. I turn and pump my fist at it. The driver honks the horn and tells me to go feck myself.
Ah, the joys of city life. I can see why Caris told me to come here and everything would be all right. Damn her and Dublin all to the mighty fires of hell.
A man brushes past me, and he’s talking to himself like a lunatic. I turn to Caris and fling my hands in the air. “Why are we here again with these manky townies? Who runs through the streets of Dublin talking to nay one but ‘emselves?”
Caris takes my hand in hers. “’Tis called a blue tooth, Ronan. He’s actually talkin’ to someone on the other end of his cell phone. I know yer not one for modern technology, but the rest of the world has passed yer by. Yer don’t ‘av to own any electronics, but it might not be a bad idea if yer at least knew what they were when yer do see ‘em. The last thing I want is yer gettin’ into it with citizens on the street over what they’d consider the mundane.”
I growl under my breath and tag along after her as she moves along the sidewalk again, her packages shifting in her hands. I’ll never understand why women enjoy shopping so much.
“I guess yer right. I’ll try to figure it out, but I don’t ‘av to like it, I don’t.”
She laughs and rolls her eyes at me. “Nay one would ever expect yer to like anythin’ yer were dead set against. Not even me.”
The crisp spring air embraces me as I walk along the boulevard with my sister. We’re even staying in a hotel tonight, the first time in my life sleeping away from home. I probably won’t like it. Hell, I know I won’t like it. Caris found some ancient castle, saying it has good energy and would be more like my simple cottage back home. She knows just how to play to my weaknesses, but it does have indoor plumbing so there had to be a compromise.
She begged me to help her shop and buy things for the inn, but I hadn’t anticipated all of this. Mannequins wearing knickers for all to see. If I had known it would involve a car ride into Dublin and an afternoon of buying a bunch of things we don’t need like a right fuck face, I’d have told my own sister to stick shopping up her arse.
Now, I’m regretting this entire day.
The lush greenery of the boulevard can’t compete with the verdant meadows of Wintervale, which flickers with every shade of green on the color wheel. I should have come years ago with my da when he’d asked me. Caris is right. I’m a bogger, and I’m not sure I should continue wearing my beliefs around my neck like a badge of honor. What makes what I believe any more important or right than anyone else? It’s not right or wrong, it’s just…different.
Savie taught yer that.
I tell the nagging voice inside my head to shut the feck up and let me get on being fumed at life in general. The sooner this is over, the sooner I can go home and lick my wounds in peace.
I miss her.
Sometimes the pain of it overwhelms me to a point where I double over and have to take a moment to regulate my breathing, in and out. I never knew what it was like to be overcome with emotion over a lass. Is that love? I’m not sure. I’d ask Caris, but she’d start spouting shite about the prophecy and rub my face into a steaming pile of I told you so. I still have some shreds of pride hanging off my mangled ego.
“Shall we head to the castle?” Caris asks.
I nod, and she starts to head back toward the parking lot where we left her old vehicle. It’s about a thirty-minute drive out of Dublin to the hotel, according to my sister. After a strained drive where not much is said outside of basic pleasantries, we stop at a wrought iron security gate. Caris gives the man a ticket of some sort, and we’re allowed inside. The pile of stones only holds a hundred people, and I find I’m actually looking forward to it. As much as I hate to admit it, I’m enjoying my time outside of Wintervale.
Caris shoots me a look. “Shall we explore afore freshenin’ up?”
“Nay. I think I’d like to lay down a spell.” I look around, trying to remember the directions the front desk clerk gave to reach our room.
“Here, take this map,” Caris says, producing a piece of paper from her purse. “It’ll help yer find yer way.”
I meander through the various hallways, trying to read the signs so I don’t get lost and end up in the dungeon. Thank the heavens I didn’t see an alligator infested moat on my way in, or I’d surely have fallen into it. I’m a fish out of water, even inside this old pile of rocks. I wonder if it’s in my best interests to stay so tied to my beliefs that I forsake all else, even my own personal growth.
At last, I glance up and see a brass plaque that says, “Blarney Room.” I found it. Rubbing my eyes, I turn the door handle, anxious to lay down and catch a quick nap before I have to head back downstairs to meet Caris.
Once my eyes adjust to the darkened room, I walk over toward the heavy velvet draperies, intending to open them a sliver so I can at least see my own limbs. A lump in the bed stops me dead in my tracks as I steel my body for combat. Who thought it would be a good idea to invade my privacy in this way?
As I walk closer, intending to strategize my next move, a light snore assails my ears. I’d know that soft sound anywhere because it haunts my dreams every night and my waking fantasies every day.
“Savie?”
At my whisper, her eyes flutter open. “Ronan?”
“Tis me.”
She blinks, her face morphing into the very definition of surprise. “My God, what are you doing in my room?”
I rear back in delighted surprise. She’s staring at me like she wants me to say something that makes sense, but all I want to do is crawl into bed and cover her body with my own.
“Me? What are yer doing in me room?”
“This is my room, Ronan. The Blarney Suite is always reserved for the artist who’s performing in the concert. Me.”
I don’t have the pleasure of understanding her. All I know is with her eyes droopy with sleep and her raven hair tousled about her shoulders, she’s the most gorgeous sight that’s ever met my hungry eyes.
I reach down and capture a silky strand in my fingers, bringing it to my lips so I can kiss it and inhale her citrusy scent. I’ve missed yer so much, Savie. But I won’t tell yer ‘cause yer left without even sayin’ goodbye.
And whose fault is that?
She needs to stay laying down, because if she stands up, I don’t think I can take the visual confirmation that she’s pregnant with another man’s baby
. Enough time has passed that a babe would be curving her belly with its presence.
I might never forgive myself that I took advantage of her in that delicate condition, but then again, I didn’t have that knowledge at the time. Had I known, I would have never lain one hand on her. I don’t play that way. There’s a modicum of respect between men, even rivals, which creates a line you don’t cross.
My mind races as I consider the part Caris has played in this fiasco. She gave me the map to Savie’s room. On purpose. But what I really want to know is why. We haven’t seen each other in weeks. She didn’t communicate in any way which means she moved right on after she left. That I meant nothing to her. Even though I don’t have a phone, I still receive mail and she knows how to write a note. Hell, she could have even given her message to Caris to relay.
But she didn’t. And there’s nothing that screams louder than the words that remain unsaid.
“What time is it?” she asks, rising up in the bed but clutching the sheet to her bare chest. I get it. Even though I want to, I don’t look anywhere below her eyes.
“How would I know? Yer know I don’t carry one of those contraptions around with me everywhere I go. I imagine ‘tis still early afternoon judgin’ by the position of the sun.”
She’s the only thing in my life that’s ever remained a mystery, an enigma. There’s no closure, no tying the loose ends into a wee bow. That thought opens up the floodgates to another torrent of deep, rich pain rushing through me. Maybe when the words of the Cailleach Beare flowed over me, part of my subconscious had actually believed her because I want it to come to pass. I want a family of my own.
Around me, electricity crackles in the dim air, vibrating my cells and sending every sensation straight south. Savie watches me, and I stare into her fiery eyes, finding emotion contained within them that I can’t decipher. I wish she’d say something. Anything. Tell me to get the feck out of her room. Tell me to go meet my maker or sink to the flaming depths of hell. Anything but this stilted silence that feels more foreign to me than she is.
Solstice Song Page 18
