Made With Love: I Love You Forever

by M. K. Shaddix

  ‘It’s a special place,’ Bridie nods. ‘And thanks be to God the tourists think so, too. What little we sell in the village wouldn’t be enough to keep us going.’

  ‘Why didn’t she update the plant?’

  ‘If we had the money for all that, I wonder.’ She looks up at Josephine’s portrait with deference, then back to me. ‘But your grandmother used to say, “Love isn’t a feeling, so much as something you can touch and smell and taste.”’ Bridie takes a swig of tea and then turns to me. ‘Sure you can pratter on all day about how to engineer the best cheese. That’s all a load of bollix really. “The reason St. Enda’s tastes so good,” Josephine used to say, “is because it’s made with love.”’ Bridie chuckles to herself. ‘She also used to say processed cheese tastes like plastic.’ She puts a hand on my forearm. ‘Could I ask you a favor?’

  ‘I guess so.’ As long as it has nothing to do with making cheese. Out of love.

  ‘I’ve been putting off an appointment--nothing really, just my doctor being over cautious--but if you wouldn’t mind covering for me here tomorrow.’

  My mouth droops open.

  ‘We’ve booked another tour in, you see. They’ll be here tomorrow at noon.’

  ‘Me?! But I don’t know the first thing about cheese!’

  ‘Ah, that’s not a problem. You know people, and how to make a sale! Isn’t that what you do in New York?’ Bridie prods. ‘Anyway, it’s only for an hour,’ she assures me. ‘If you get hung up on something, just ask one of the girls.’

  I peer out across the factory floor. ‘Just the tour?’ Because I’m fairly sure, if you left me to do anything else, I’d burn the place down.

  ‘Of course,’ Bridie smiles.

  This is getting involved, Julie!

  ‘Alright,’ I smile.

  ‘Brilliant!’ Bridie darts out of the chair with a sudden vigor. ‘I’m off now. Stay as long as ya like.’ She waves herself out the door.

  Why do I get the feeling she’s up to something?

  After a few hours work, I hobble my way back to Clare’s, the sharp twisting pain in my ankle now a dull ache. When I roll into the kitchen, Clare’s on me like a fat kid on a cupcake.

  ‘And where did you get off to?’

  The table is laid, and Dermot and Cormac gape up at me like sympathetic younger siblings.

  Damn. I thought they’d be done by now.

  ‘I was down at St. Enda’s.’

  ‘Whatever for?’ Clare asks, her eyes clouding over.

  My God this woman is nosy!

  ‘I had to make a call.’

  Thankfully, this seems to satisfy Clare.

  I turn in early, head wrecked from the day (not that I did much of anything), but I can’t sleep. I lay stock still, eyes trailing from one shadowy photo to another, trying to imagine the world that could have made my grandmother and Dermot, Mum and Clare. None of them felt the same inside my head, and how could that be? This spitting ocean bog was home to all of them. Maybe when your world is as small as Inishmore, the secret worlds inside you grow at triple pace. Dad’s secret worlds all ran in a tight orbit around New York, Josephine’s around St. Enda’s. I didn’t know what it was Mum had dreamed of, or Clare. A small world or a big one? And, in that dream, was the other there?

  I close my eyes and try to conjure a New York small enough to run me into Michael twice in the space of a week. There is no such place, I know, but I try for one anyway, lining Broadway with stone fences and plunking a few sheep in the park. Just as I’m fading into sleep, I walk my dream self through the rush hour crowds. Somewhere between the Bryant Park station and Midtown, I see a flash of horse flesh and the broad, easy riding back of a particular Irish cowboy.

  CHAPTER TEN

  The sun doesn’t have a chance to jar me awake this morning. Cormac beats the dawn to the punch.

  ‘Julie. JULIE.’ He grabs at the duvet.

  ‘Mmh.’

  ‘It’s Louie. You’ve got to come.’

  Who?

  ‘Come ON!’

  ‘Alright, alright.’ I’d kill to stay in bed, but I’m right behind ya.

  We tear across the back garden and up the field to the shed.

  ‘He was grand yesterday,’ Cormac puffs over his shoulder. ‘On his feet and all that. I was up with Marilyn, she had twins, two big piebald ones. I looked in, and Louie was lying over, not moving.’

  ‘Oh no.’

  ‘He’s in here.’ Cormac shows me into a narrow stall piled with straw. Louie lies on his side, breathing shallowly under a heat lamp. There’s a man bent over him in a sweater and surgical gloves.

  ‘How’s he now, Michael?’

  Michael?

  He turns to face us.

  Holy hell. It’s Wonder Boy. Again.

  ‘He’s grand,’ Michael says. ‘Heart rate’s up. He’s taken a bit of milk. Just a touch of stress, I think.’

  Cormac kneels down at the calf’s head and peers into his eyes.

  ‘Morning,’ Michael says to me. ‘Nice sweater.’

  I look down. Shit--is that what I’d pulled on in the dark?!

  ‘Thanks,’ I grimace.

  ‘How’s the ankle?’

  ‘Good. Thank you.’

  ‘Glad to hear that,’ Michael grins.

  Dermot pokes his head into the stall behind me. ‘How’s the patient?’

  ‘Perking up a bit,’ Michael says. ‘Keep an eye on him, but I’d say he’ll be on his feet by the afternoon.’

  ‘Please God,’ Dermot says and nods good morning to me.

  ‘You want to feed him?’ Michael asks me.

  That’s an emphatic no. Thing smells like gone off cheese.

  Before I can answer, Michael has a warm bottle in my hand.

  ‘Cormac’ll show you,’ he says and nudges me forward.

  I stoop down, and Cormac lifts Louie’s head into my lap. He latches onto the bottle, his deep, wet eyes on mine.

  Alright: I’m in love.

  ‘You’re fairly handy at that for a city girl,’ Michael smiles down at me.

  ‘Arrah, she’s from good Aran stock!’ Dermot says.

  ‘I’m just going to wash up. Two minutes.’ Michael disappears down the corridor.

  ‘You didn’t tell me Michael was a vet,’ I say to Dermot.

  ‘You didn’t ask,’ he winks at me.

  Michael reappears, and Dermot shakes his hand heartily.

  ‘What do I owe you?’

  ‘Not a rex.’

  ‘Now.’

  ‘Pay me when the co-op settles what it owes you in arrears,’ Michael says, wiping his hands on a cloth.

  ‘You’re a gentleman.’ Dermot pumps his hand again.

  Is Michael blushing?!

  ‘Listen, good luck at the meeting today. I know it’s a big one,’ he says.

  ‘I didn’t sleep a wink last night,’ Dermot says and kicks at the barn door.

  ‘I’m pulling for you.’

  ‘Well, I thank you for that.’

  Michael nods and looks at Cormac and I. ‘See you later on so,’ he says.

  I watch after him as he strides, just bow-legged, down the corridor. Was there ever a finer ass in the great state of New York?

  Snap out of it, Julie. You’re going home, and you can’t take him (or his ass) with you.

  Cormac shoots a devilish grin at me. ‘You liiiike him,’ he trills.

  ‘Not like that, I don’t.’

  ‘You do,’ he whispers.

  Alright, cuz. You asked for it.

  ‘What was your girlfriend’s name again?’ I grin.

  Cormac’s face falls flat, and a tiny red spot singes its way onto his neck.

  Bingo.

  ‘She’s not my girlfriend,’ he mumbles as he flicks a cake of mud off the toe of his boot.

  ‘Noooo?’ I catch his eye, and the two of us crack up laughing.

  The three of us make our way back to the cottage for a bit of breakfast. Clare’s making something ‘special’.
/>   ‘Because you’ve all been up early. Slaving away,’ she says over the griddle. The kitchen is filled with the glorious greasy reek of frying bacon (‘rashers’, Cormac tells me) and buttered pancakes. She sets a mug in front of me and smiles wide.

  Is that coffee?! Is Auntie Clare the Ice Queen starting to melt?

  ‘So tell me, Julie,’ she asks once we’re all full to bursting. ‘What are your plans when you head home?’

  Oh, I see. This is an info pumping exercise.

  ‘I’m launching my own firm. My partner and I are.’

  ‘Partner?’ she raises an eyebrow at me good-naturedly.

  ‘Not like that,’ Cormac simpers.

  ‘She’s my business partner,’ I grumble. Clare shrugs. ‘Actually, she just signed the lease for our office downtown.’

  ‘Isn’t that lovely?’ Clare says.

  She’s very enthusiastic all of sudden. Was she afraid I was going to back out on our deal?

  Dermot grunts affirmatively behind the paper.

  ‘So that means you will be going?’

  ‘Well, yeah.’

  ‘Lovely,’ Clare says and folds her hands into her lap.

  ‘What are you at today?’ Cormac asks me.

  Good one, Cormac. Out me to your Mum!

  ‘I’m giving a tour,’ I say under my breath.

  ‘A wha?’ he asks.

  ‘At St. Enda’s,’ I rasp.

  ‘You’re WHAT?!’ Clare barks.

  There goes that loving feeling.

  ‘Bridie asked me to step in for her,’ I say. ‘She’s got a doctor’s appointment.’

  ‘Oh. Well,’ Clare grumbles. ‘I s’pose your ankle’s sorted.’

  ‘Almost,’ I say.

  Dermot chuckles over the top of the paper, his eyes on his wife. ‘Fair play, Julie,’ he says.

  Clare smirks at him. ‘Don’t you have a cow to stick your arm up?’

  ‘Bwahahaha!’ Cormac howls.

  On that note…

  ‘I’d better get going. The tour’s due in at ten,’ I say.

  The ‘girls’ are out back of St Enda’s when I limp up, bright home brought mugs of tea in their cupped hands.

  ‘Heya, Julie. There’s a man in there asking for you,’ Aoife says out of the side of her mouth.

  A man? For me?

  ‘In a suit,’ Orla adds.

  They snigger like schoolgirls as I push through the door.

  Cathal paces in a tight oval in front of Bridie’s desk. A garish bunch of hot pink roses in plastic on his arm.

  I should’ve known…

  ‘Mr.. Heaney,’ I say, trying not to look at the flowers. He pushes them into my face.

  ‘Call me Cathal,’ he says.

  ‘Cathal.’ I take the roses. ‘You shouldn’t have.’ I lay the sarcasm on thick.

  ‘It’s only a token,’ he says, dimples threatening to swallow his face.

  So you didn’t catch my tone.

  ‘Hope your ankle’s mended,’ he says. ‘The roads out here--worse all the time.’

  You don’t say.

  I riffle through the broom closet for a pitcher or a canister (or a garbage pail) to set the flowers in. When was the last time someone gave me flowers? Was it Stuart? No, he only sent arrangements to hire-ees and fire-ees. I dig deep in my mental inventory--it was Brad alright. Red gerbera daisies two weeks after my actual birthday, the ponce.

  ‘Did you hear from the notary?’ I ask, pushing Brad forcibly out of mind’s reach.

  ‘No,’ Cathal laughs as if it were a joke. Then he catches my eye. ‘I mean, not today.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘I’m here,’ he sidles over to my side of the desk, ‘on personal business.’

  He’s not serious?

  He winks at me.

  Oh God, he is.

  ‘Would you be free tonight? Connor’s does a smashing roast,’ Cathal prattles on.

  ‘I’m…’ Washing my hair?

  ‘It’d give us a chance to go over the contract.’

  ‘Is there anything to go over?’

  Cathal picks at a loose thread on his jacket pocket. ‘No. Not really.’

  ‘Thank you, Cathal, but--’

  ‘No, I get it,’ he whinges. ‘You have other plans. With the vet, is it?’

  Wonder Boy?

  ‘No,’ I snap.

  Cathal squints at me. ‘Let me tell you something about Michael. He may seem like a good lad. Goin’ round on his pony. Minding the cows. But he’s a pure chancer!’

  ‘What does that even mean?’ Not that it interests me at all, but…

  ‘He didn’t tell you about Deva? Sure, why would he?’ Cathal sneers.

  ‘Who?’

  Is he married? That had definitely not crossed my mind. Maybe she’s his lover.

  ‘She’s the young one he jilted! Day of the wedding, goes AWOL. Poor thing had to leave the island because of him. No one’s seen her since,’ Cathal crows.

  A sickening twinge rises from the back of my throat. He had player more or less tattooed on his forehead, but runaway groom? And I thought Brad had commitment issues! Of course, Cathal could’ve made the whole thing up. Look at him there in his pointy shoes and his pinstripes. Totally made it up. Of course, I could ask around. But why would I do that? Michael’s nothing to me.

  ‘He could leave twenty more for all I care,’ I say flatly.

  ‘Probably will, too,’ Cathal snipes. ‘Look it,’ he holds out a hand and counts off, ‘he’s back and forth to London, no girlfriend to speak of, and he lives with his mother!’

  He has a point there.

  Cathal points a finger at me. ‘Mind yourself,’ he says.

  Mind myself? What am I? Sixteen?

  He shows himself to the door without another word, and I slump down behind the desk, dazed. Half a world away, and who do I meet? Bradley Scholer with an Irish twang.

  Orla and the rest of ‘the girls’ troop back onto the factory floor, clucking and ribbing at one another.

  The tour!

  I flick through the ream of notes Bridie’s left for me on the desktop. ‘St Enda’s was founded by Mrs. Josephine Tully in 1975, relocated to this site in 1977’--yadda, yadda, yadda. ‘The cows’ milk is poured into vats and heated to sixty-three degrees Celsius.’ And then they add something. Not starter cultures. It’s all about wild bacteria here at St Enda’s. Rennet! That’s what they add. It causes the milk to set. ‘The mixture’s then cut and stirred until curds form.’

  Yum. I think I just vomited a little in my mouth.

  ‘Then it’s scooped into molds and placed into the cooling chamber to cure.’

  I yawn and check my watch: 11:38. How did I let Bridie talk me into this? I should be working on Kate’s and my inaugural campaign! I swivel round in the chair and prop my foot up on a filing cabinet. The top drawer screaks open. I dart a look over my shoulder--the coast is clear--and pull out a handful of bulging, brown-spotted files. The fattest flops open on my lap. Employee records.

  There’s a soft rap at the door. I jerk my head upright.

  ‘Ms Quinn?’

  I jerk round to see Teresa’s magnified eyes blinking at me from the doorway. I shove my knees under the desk. Had she seen the files?

  ‘Yes?’ I stammer.

  ‘Just wanted to let you know, the tour’s been postponed ’til two. Flight was held up,’ she says.

  Imagine that.

  ‘Thanks, Teresa.’ I can feel my ears burning. ‘But I think I’ll stay here and read through Bridie’s notes a few more times.’

  Teresa clasps her hands in front of her. ‘Just like your granny,’ she says and bumbles out of the office.

  If one more person says that…

  I plop the files onto the desk and thumb to the back of the pile. There she is, Maeve Tully. Date of birth: 2 January 1965. First pay slip, 1 July 1980. She worked at the factory right up to the year before I was born--1982. I flick back a few pages. Ronan Quinn? Dad worked here too? That’s weird. I run a
finger down the roster. Yep--every summer from 1977 to 1982. Last day he clocked in: 20 October 1982. I flick back a few pages--and Mum quit the same day! What does that mean? I skim back over the roster and find Clare’s name. Last pay slip 10th January 1983. She’d quit just the day Mum left Ireland. Did they fall out over something here at St. Enda’s? Maybe Josephine had promised the factory to Mum. But then, why would she leave?

  I crack open the next file. Projected profits for 2000. That’s all?! How could a factory like this be sustainable on such measly profits? Someone had to have invested privately, but who?

  The phone buzzes and I start out of the chair.

  Why am I so cagey?!

  I stare at the receiver, then out at the factory floor. Should I pick up? I decide not to, but then grab it on the sixth ring.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Heya, Bridie?’ a man trills.

  ‘No sorry, she’s not in. Can I take a message?’ Why not, right?

  ‘Oh, I see. This is David--Shamrock Tours. You got a slot open Monday morning?’