Made With Love: I Love You Forever

by M. K. Shaddix

  Another tour?! I knew I shouldn’t have picked up!

  ‘Uh…’ I flip open Bridie’s day planner. ‘Yeah. Eleven o’clock?’

  ‘Brilliant. See you then.’

  Well grand.

  There’s a flash of movement at the door, and I snap upright. Is that Michael? What the hell is he doing here?

  He pauses at Bridie’s usual station and then peers into the office. His eyes bug when he sees me.

  ‘Heya,’ he grins at me. ‘Is Bridie not in?’

  ‘She’s out today.’

  Great, stammering again.

  ‘Is she?’ Michael looks over his shoulder and back, brow furrowed with worry. ‘My mother sent me over with lunch for her. You free for a bite?’ He lifts two paper sacks.

  ‘I don’t usually…eat lunch,’ I lie. Cathal’s crooked finger leers into the front of my mind, but my stomach gives me away with a monstrous rumbling.

  ‘Do you not?’ Michael looks me up and down with a jesting smirk. ‘You like mackerel?’

  If you had a pair of lobsters in your back pocket, it’d still be no.

  ‘My mum marinades ’em in lemon and garlic, grills ’em fresh,’ he says and puts a hand out to me to help me out of the chair. I stare at it as if it smells. ‘Best this side of the Shannon,’ he says.

  ‘I really can’t.’ I cock my head toward the files.

  ‘There’s something I want to show you,’ he says, hand still out. ‘It’s a secret.’

  Like how you jilted your fiancé’s a secret? No thanks.

  Michael doesn’t wait for me to actually refuse. He grasps me by the wrist and pulls me to my feet. ‘Trust me on this one.’

  Trust you?! For a split second I consider going dead legged and flopping back into the chair like a child mid-tantrum. I don’t because that’d be stupid, and Michael would only laugh at me and then scoop me up Super Man style. I yank my hand free and stride out the door. Michael points me down the corridor to a rust-pocked door. I’ve never noticed it before.

  ‘After you,’ he says and opens the door for me.

  I raise an eyebrow at his stupidly handsome smile and skirt past him.

  There’s another corridor, a dank, narrow one, and then a wrought iron staircase. Michael hops up first, the paper sacks under one arm, and wriggles at the handle. There’s a poking scrape and the door swings open.

  ‘Did you just pick that lock?’ I ask.

  ‘No,’ he says and reaches for me.

  I follow him up and out into a bright rush of wind. A flat pitch of corrugated metal stretches out before us. ‘Just here,’ Michael says. He leads me round the lee side of the gable and leans back against the gentle slope of the roof.

  Whoa. We are way up here.

  I crouch down, cagey as a spot lit deer, beside him and let my eyes settle on the cutting landscape below us--the swirled limestone hills and the bristling fields, the church spire in Kilronan, and the deep, swarming sea. It’s more than enough to take my breath away.

  ‘This is Bridie’s favorite spot,’ Michael says as he doles out two baguettes and two pots of a thick yogurt and smoked mackerel spread. ‘I don’t think she’d mind my showing you.’ He hands me a coffee. ‘Or your having her lunch.’

  ‘You have lunch with Bridie?’

  ‘Every week.’

  ‘Up here?’

  ‘When it’s not pissing. Keeps her young, she says. And it gets the tongues wagging downstairs, which she only loves,’ he laughs. ‘She used to look after me when I was small, and Mum and Dad were off working.’

  ‘And she taught you how to pick locks?’

  ‘Among other things,’ he smiles and hands me a hunk of bread smeared with the pate.

  ‘Just full of surprises.’

  ‘To the gills,’ Michael says.

  I take a wary bite. The flavor is rich and tangy and undercut by a slight woodiness. I take another bite, my eyes fluttering closed. I’ve never tasted anything like it, and I find myself chewing slowly, savoring every subtlety of flavor. When I open my eyes, Michael is staring at me, a boyish smirk on his stubbly face.

  ‘It’s good, isn’t it? I keep telling Mum she could make a fortune.’

  ‘She packs your lunch too?’ I smile.

  ‘Only when I’m good.’

  I skip the bread and spoon the mackerel straight out of the Tupper Ware. ‘The meeting Dermot was going to--what was that about?’ I ask between spoonfuls.

  ‘Same old, really. The co-op’s been running in the red for the past few years now, downturn and all. Everyone’s scrambling to keep their mortgages paid and their herds looked after.’

  ‘That bad? From what Dermot’s told me, I had the impression the industry here was sustainable.’ I gnaw at the baguette, heaping more and more mackerel onto the crusts.

  God it’s so good!

  ‘Well, it was, and then all these bargain mega stores cropped up. The coop can’t compete with their prices.’

  ‘What’ll happen?’ I think of Dermot and his favorite heifer, Marilyn.

  ‘They’ll have to sell out, sooner or later. A German chain’s put up an offer.’ Michael pinches the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. ‘They put it to a vote at the last meeting, and it was shot down, but only just.’

  He goes quiet.

  ‘If they did sell, what would that mean for St. Enda’s?’

  ‘I really don’t know,’ he says.

  I think of Bridie and the rest of the old gals, my throat clenching unexpectedly. Michael takes out a thermos and pours two cups of coffee.

  ‘Bridie’s at the doctor,’ I say.

  He frowns. ‘Anything serious?’

  ‘I don’t think so. Check-up, she said. I don’t think she’d mind my telling you.’

  Michael smiles over his coffee cup. ‘You’re here covering for her? You’re not the worst.’

  ‘For a plastic Paddy?’

  ‘I wasn’t going to say it,’ he laughs.

  ‘You’re not so bad yourself. For a culchie,’ I smile coyly at him.

  Michael slaps at his knee, and I can feel a smile creeping, slow but steady, onto my face.

  WHOA--what, are you flirting now?!

  ‘I should get back. The tour’ll be here any minute.’ I pick myself up and ball the paper sack between my hands. ‘Thanks for lunch.’

  ‘I’ll go down with you,’ Michael says, and is up before I can hedge him off.

  This’ll get the tongues wagging.

  Before we reach the side door, I can hear the girls kicking back down the road from their toasted sambo lunch at the Arms. Michael stops me short before I can squirrel myself away in the office.

  ‘What are you at tonight?’ he asks.

  Besides trying to get off of this rock? ‘I’m working.’

  Wait. Is he asking me out?

  ‘Later,’ he smiles.

  ‘Like late?’ I picture myself picking my way up the rough road in the pitch dark to spend another night with the Ice Queen.

  ‘There’s a session on in the village. Few of the lads talked me into it.’

  A session?

  I must have made a face because Michael shoots his hands up self-defensively. ‘A céilí,’ he says.

  Sorry, what?

  ‘It’s only a bit of cráic,’ he says.

  Crack?!

  The door flings open, and in marches Orla and the rest of the girls. She stops short at the sight of Michael, eyes batting like a possessed prom queen, and Teresa crashes into her.

  ‘What are ya like?’ Orla barks at her.

  Aoife seizes on the commotion. She steps out of line and sidles up to Michael.

  ‘Doctor Reilly,’ she sings out, ‘how are you?’

  ‘Ladies,’ Michael bows his head to them just noticeably, and they collectively swoon. ‘Sorry now, I have to be going,’ he says. To my absolute horror, he turns to me and winks. ‘I’ll see you tonight round seven.’

  He’s telling me now, not asking. I open my mouth to pro
test, but Michael’s already shot out the door.

  ‘Ohhh, Miss Julie!’ Assumpta digs a fist into my shoulder.

  ‘I tell ya, if I were thirty years younger,’ Orla sighs as she wanders back to her station and slips on her smock.

  A dull knot of giddy apprehension was blooming now at the base of my neck. What am I going to tell Clare? Could ya leave a key out for me? I’m going to a crack fest with the island’s most eligible womanizer?

  Teresa taps at my shoulder. ‘The tour is here. Shall I let them in?’ she asks.

  Perfect timing.

  ‘Yeah, please,’ I say. Teresa leads them onto the factory floor, and I dart into the office for my notes.

  There are six of them, two couples from Texas and one from the Bronx. They’re dressed to climb Kilimanjaro--heavy hiking boots and zip-off vinyl pants. They pronounce Ireland with three syllables instead of two: I-ER-land, not ARE-land. They’re thrilled to death I’m an American.

  ‘I could NOT understand a word of what that man was saying,’ the lady from Amarillo says out of a pile of candy smelling hair.

  They were fresh off a tour that ended in Killarney.

  ‘Honey, you have yourself a few more of them black beers, you’ll hear him loud and clear,’ her husband says to me behind his hand, but loud enough so they can all hear.

  The New York missus rolls her eyes.

  ‘Right, so if you’ll just follow me,’ I say. I lead the six of them painstakingly through the factory, from the vats to the molds to the curing room. Orla has to bat the Texan’s paw away from one of the unripened wheels.

  ‘We cain’t eat none of these?’

  ‘You could,’ I say, ‘but they haven’t peaked yet.’

  ‘Peaked?’ the New Yorkers ask in stereo.

  ‘They have to cure for at least…at least…’ I look to Orla in a panic.

  ‘At least three weeks to bring out the full spectrum of flavors,’ she says, rescuing me.

  ‘Well, where’s the ones that are cooked?’ Texas wants to know.

  ‘Right this way.’ I usher them into the gift shop.

  The Texans head straight for the samples.

  ‘When did the factory open, did you say?’ one of them asks. ‘Em…’ I flick through my notes. ‘1975,’ I spurt. ‘The business was founded by Josephine Tully--’

  ‘That her?’ another asks, pointing at a portrait.

  ‘Yes. That’s her.’

  She squints one eye at me and takes two steps too close. ‘You look like her!’ she spurts.

  Here we go.

  ‘Well--’ I cast about for a subject changer. They pin me to Josephine, they ask more questions I can’t answer.

  ‘Have you tried the vintage range? It’s lovely and sharp.’

  ‘Oooooh.’ There’s a mad rush to the samples case.

  ‘You can’t get cheese like this back home,’ the New York woman says, her jammed mouth full.

  ‘It’s hard enough to get here in Ireland,’ I say. ‘St. Enda’s is one of the few Irish companies still making 100% handcrafted cheese. The reason it tastes so good,’ I say, glancing up at Josephine’s portrait, ‘is because it’s “made with love”.’

  The tourists swoon collectively.

  ‘If you sold this in the States, you’d make millions!’ the New Yorkers say.

  I blink twice. I hadn’t thought of that.

  ‘I don’t know about millions,’ I mumble.

  But thousands? Very doable.

  ‘I’d buy it.’

  ‘So would we,’ the Texans holler.

  A light bulb flares in my head. I grab up a pad of paper.

  ‘If you could jot down your email addresses, I’ll see if we can’t make that happen.’

  My brain is firing like a subtropical thunderstorm, ideas flaring left and right. I could have an e-store up and running in no time. Imagine! An untapped profit stream! Bridie would be able to update the factory and pay more into the workers’ pensions. I’d be pitching in to the farmers’ cause.

  ‘I’m putting you all on our mailing list so you can receive Friends of St. Enda’s discounts,’ I add, flushed now with excitement.

  ‘We’ll be checking our inboxes!’ they promise.

  I watch the group file out and pocket the addresses. I might have made a balls-up of the tour, but I’d nailed the closing spin! I saunter back into the office and prop open my laptop.

  Let’s have a look at the competition.

  I run a search for gourmet and artisan foods and click on a cheese connoisseurs’ blog. Aside from Bridie’s crash course, I don’t’ have a clue. The prices for speciality varietals are jaw dropping. Fifteen to twenty dollars per pound?! For glorified mold? That’s highway flippin’ robbery.

  The Skype icon pops onto the desktop: Kate’s calling. I click answer.

  ‘You’re up early!’ I say as I adjust the web cam. ‘Wait, are you in the office? On Saturday?!’

  ‘Yep,’ Kate grumbles, bleary eyed. ‘Roger made a huge mess of the campaign, and now we’re all here trying to make the deadline!’ She ducks close to the mic. ‘I’d say Stuart’s regretting his choice right about now. He asked me what you’d been doing since. International markets, I told him.’

  ‘Nice.’

  ‘Thought you’d like that.’

  ‘How’s things on your end?’ I ask.

  ‘Putting in my resignation at the end of the week. Chavez Bros. ready and willing.’

  So this is a go. Why do I feel dizzy all of a sudden?

  ‘You there?’ Kate asks.

  ‘Yeah. Still here,’ I cough. ‘You sure this is a good idea?’

  ‘Uh, YEAH!’ Kate laughs. ‘Just waiting for my partner to get her ass back stateside. How are you holding out?’

  ‘Good.’ I smile up at her.

  ‘What is that about? Did you get laid?’

  ‘NO!’ I yelp.

  Shit. Too much smiling.

  ‘Right then, what are you up to?’ Kate asks, rapping her blunt honey-red nails on the desk.

  ‘Just putting some marketing theories into practice,’ I say.

  ‘Julie Quinn! Does this have anything to do with that cheese factory you’re selling?’ Kate asks.

  ‘Maybe,’ I say slyly. ‘You remember that food critic we contracted for the wholefoods New York campaign? Do you have his contact info?’

  ‘Yeah, James Ryder,’ Kate says as she flicks through a file cabinet. ‘What do you need it for?’

  ‘It’s a long story.’

  ‘Okay, what are you not telling me?’

  ‘Nothing! Seriously.’

  ‘I don’t believe you. But I trust you. So I’m posting it to your inbox… now.’

  ‘Thanks a million, Kate.’

  ‘No prob. Gotta go--Stuart’s coming. Oh--send the money ASAP!’

  ‘Will do! Chat ya later, partner!’

  ‘Bye!’

  I close Skype and sprawl, like a fat cat exec, into the desk chair. All I have to do is upload St. Enda’s stock to the wonder that is the internet, call in a favor from my food guy in the city for a bit of free press, and BAM. St. Enda’s goes global without having to go ultra modern.

  The telephone rings. Do I answer it? Nah. They’ll call back. Still ringing… I give in and pick up.

  ‘Hello, Julie? It’s Bridie here. How ya now?’

  ‘Very well, Bridie.’

  ‘The tour went alright?’

  ‘Oh yeah, perfect,’ I smile to myself.

  ‘Didn’t I tell ya?’ Her voice is soft and reassuring, as always.

  ‘And what did the doctor say?’

  ‘Oh, you know the way. He’s saying nothing and keeping saying it.’

  ‘Oh no.’

  ‘Ah no, it’s grand, but come here to me. He’s ordered a rake of tests. I don’t know what all. Would it be too much to ask you to stay on for one more day?’

  I waver over the receiver. ‘What about Clare? She’s the one taking over.’

  ‘Not at all!’ Bridie balk
s. ‘She’d run the customers off with that scowl of hers.’

  ‘Well…’ I bite at my thumb. I still haven’t heard from Cathal. It wouldn’t be that much trouble, and it’d give me a chance to set up the factory website. If it’s a success, who knows, maybe Stuart’ll be the one begging me to take my old job back. ‘Okay,’ I tell Bridie.

  ‘Oh, brilliant! You’re a star!’ she trills. ‘One more thing, if you don’t mind, Julie. I think I left my purse after me. In the desk there. Could you have a look?’ I slide open the top drawer. ‘I don’t see anything.’

  ‘In the back there.’

  I reach into the drawer and feel about blindly. My fingers hit on something, and I drag it out. A red felt box emblazoned with a circular seal--the same one on Mum’s necklace--stares up at me. I tip back the lid and blink at a bundle of letters, dozens of them, and every one postmarked NYC. My God. They’re letters from my mother!

  ‘Do you see it?’ Bridie asks.

  ‘No,’ I say, my voice brittle and wavering.

  ‘Right so. I must have left it somewhere else,’ Bridie says.

  ‘Yeah, okay. Bye…’ I hang up in a heart clenched fog. So she did write to Josephine. It looks like every couple of weeks! But no letters had ever come from Inishmore, not that I know of, anyway. Had my grandmother ever written back? Mum never said so, but then she’d never said much of anything about Josephine. She must have cared about Mum; she’d kept these letters, and not only kept them, but hid them here in her desk. From who? Clare?