‘It’s complicated,’ I say. Brad’s perfectly-cropped blonde head juts into view. Stop grinning at me like that, you bastard!
Bridie squinches her nose at me.
‘It’s a long story,’ I continue. ‘I just got out of this thing. With this guy. Anyway, transatlantic romance is the last thing I need.’
‘Or maybe it’s the first,’ she simpers and pads out.
‘Yeah, okay.’ I’d let her rope me into hawking cheese, but matchmaking? That’s where I draw the line. I could never be happy with Michael, anyway. He’s too… country. I’ve never seen him in a pair of proper shoes. Hardly ever shaves. Imagine kissing him! He’d wear the face off me. Right… off.
I shake my head. Seriously. No more swooning over Wonder Boy!
I scroll down the St. Enda’s webpage. Five more orders, and one of them’s for two hundred units! At this rate, I’ll make my money back in no time. I peek out the office door. It’s going like clockwork out there. Maybe Bridie’s right. I should take a break. My mind flits back to Michael. I would like to see him again. The other night was nothing short of amazing, and we didn’t even kiss! I pick up the phone and put it back down straight away. What am I doing?! I don’t even have his number.
‘Drop of tea before you head?’ Bridie chirps from the door.
‘Sure,’ I say, putting on that I’m very busy.
‘Lovely.’ She scooches a mug across the table. ‘Ta, loveen,’ she says and waddles out.
I lift my head to say goodbye, but she’s gone. There’s a post-it stuck to the mug. It’s Michael’s cell number! How does she do that?! I peel off the post-it and pick up the phone. I don’t know whether to smack Bridie or hug her neck. I glance up at Josephine.
‘So, what, I have two fairy godmothers?’ I key in the number and try not to breathe into the receiver. Two rings. Three. This is stupid. I hang up.
Two seconds later, the phone rings.
Feckin’ caller ID! I swallow and pick up. ‘Hello?’ That sounded nonchalant, right?
‘Julie? Did you just call?’ Michael asks.
‘Oh yeah. Got cut off there.’
‘On a landline?’
‘Uh-huh.’ My ears smolder.
‘Right. You up for a bit of fresh air tomorrow?’ he asks.
‘Um. Yeah.’ I am starting to smell like soured milk.
‘I would stop in tonight, but there’s an emergency at one of the dairies.’
‘Yeah, that’s…cool.’
A man on a mission--is there anything hotter?
‘See you tomorrow morning, round eight.’
‘Okay, bye,’ I smile into the receiver.
‘Good luck,’ he says and hangs up.
Good luck? For what?
When I get back to the cottage, I find it out. Dermot, Cormac, and Clare are holding their breaths in front of the TV.
‘What’s going on?’ I ask Dermot.
The reel from this afternoon’s protest plays back.
‘I don’t believe it,’ Dermot groans.
‘WHAT?’
He turns to me, hang dog. ‘The Germans have rejected our counter-offer.’
‘No!’
He nods woefully. I look to Clare, heart raked wide open, but she won’t look at me. On screen, Kieran stands before the co-op office with the blondie reporter.
‘I’m here with the president of the Kilronan Co-op, Mr. Kieran Coen. How are the men and women you represent coping with the rejection of their latest offer?’ she asks.
‘We’re still hopeful that the company will honor our request with a more sustainable trade agreement,’ Kieran answers.
‘But they’ve already announced that no further negotiations will take place, and they’ve threatened to withdraw their offer.’
Dermot clicks the TV off. ‘To hell with them!’ he hollers.
‘You should’ve taken the money like I told you,’ Clare says. ‘Who’s going to pay us now?’ She wheels round to me. ‘Julie? Lord knows what she’s on about at the factory.’
I gulp.
‘I’ll tell ya what she’s on about,’ Dermot spits back at her. ‘She’s given us a chance to stand up for ourselves! St. Enda’s would’ve had to close if it weren’t for her!’
Clare’s lip quivers. ‘The factory’s sorted for a week, and she’s a hero?!
‘I’m trying to help,’ I say, head high.
‘Oh well, that’s very big of you,’ she says, ‘but you’ll only draw the thing out. The big corporations will win. And I’m not saying that to be cruel, it’s just the way it is! And you parade in there, filling their heads! What happens when it all goes to pot, and you back in New York?’
‘It won’t. I know it won’t.’
‘How can you know? You’re here a week! And you think you know everything!’
She’s right. The only thing I know about Inishmore is where to buy cheese and a good pint of Guinness.
Clare puts her hand to her chest and takes three sharp little breaths. ‘I’m only saying this because no one else will. And because I care about what happens to this island. The Germans have come here with a real offer. I’m not saying it’s the best, but it’ll go further than your ten thousand liters. Much further.’
I search Clare’s face. It’s drawn, as usual, but with a different twinge at the corners of her mouth. She’s afraid. I reach out, not quite believing what I’m about to do, and clutch at her hand. It’s cool and very small, like my mother’s.
‘Please. Please trust me,’ I say to her. ‘If we had you behind us, it would make all the difference.’
Clare pulls her hand away. ‘Us?’
I tuck my hand into my lap, sheepishly. That was too much, too soon.
‘Look,’ I say, my voice low and trembling. ‘This isn’t about me.’
‘Oh, you’re right there!’ Clare barks and squares off with Dermot. ‘The Germans will win this price war, and when you sign this agreement with them, the factory will have to close. I’m trying to make plans for the future!’ she says, hand flat on her chest like she were taking an oath. ‘I’m trying to make St. Enda’s into something profitable!’
I gape at her. ‘But your mother. How could you--’ I gasp.
‘My mother would want us to carry on. That is her legacy. Not cheese, for God’s sake!’ Clare bellows.
‘Dude,’ Cormac breathes, eyes bugging.
‘And you! Stop talking like a Yank!’ she yells at him.
He huffs at her and stomps off to his room.
‘Jesus, Clare.’ Dermot shakes his head at her and grumbles his way out the front door.
Clare stands, eyes misty, shoulders slumped, in the middle of the room. I don’t know where to look. For all my good intentions, I’m ripping my family apart.
‘Clare.’ I take a tiny step toward her, but she seems not to have heard me. Her eyes are hard set on something in the darkness I cannot see.
I’m scared too, Clare, I want to tell her. I’ve pitted the islanders against Progress, and when has Progress lost a fight? What I’d done was impulsive and more than a little selfish, but I did it because I believe in Inishmore! I believe in the people, in Dermot and Clare and Michael, and the unhurried candor of their lives. That belief is stronger than my fear. But I can’t say all that. I’ve barely gotten her name out.
I leave her there in the sitting room, staring out of the blackened window, and slip, shivering, into bed. Clare is being over cautious. That’s only natural. She has everything to lose. Her spitting words play back inside my head and, with a sinking, sick feeling, I realize she could be right.
I roll over and bury my head beneath the duvet. It will all work out just as I’ve planned. It has to, and in the meantime I could have a lovely no-strings-attached fling with Wonder Boy… Mmmm. Wonder Boy. Johnno, the broke legged notary, is due back in a couple of days. I clap my eyes shut and hope, in a secret fold in my heart, that he gets lost on the way.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
I wake up in stages, not even
noticing the soft, rising light at the window. It’s amazing, what you can get used to in a week!
I expect the worst when I roll out of bed and into the kitchen, more revolutionist ire from Dermot and stoic grumblings from Clare, but the storm has apparently passed. The two of them moon at one another over a plate of brown bread and marmalade, Clare’s face rumpled and Dermot a tad flush.
‘Good morning,’ Dermot yodels when I step in from the hall.
Not the sort of uncomfortable welcome I was bracing for, but I’ll take it.
‘Morning.’ I nod to both of them and plant myself, back to the table, in front of the window and pour myself a mug of tea.
‘Lovely morning,’ Dermot says.
Clare arches her back, arms outstretched to the ceiling. ‘Isn’t it just?’ she says.
Okay, happy Clare is way creepier than fuming Clare. I shudder when she smiles over at me.
Cormac sidles in, texting one-handed, and chokes down two pieces of toast.
‘Cormac!’ Clare swats at him playfully.
‘Sorry, Mum!’ he hops up from the table. ‘I’ve got to go!’
‘He has a date with Ava,’ Dermot winks at Clare.
‘Dad! Gaaah!’ Cormac whines. He sulks over to me. ‘I’m taking her down the beach,’ he whispers. ‘Good luck,’ I smile.
A jeep pulls into the drive, and he flies out the door to meet it.
Is that Michael?! With all the drama last night, I’d forgotten he was coming! Again. I look down at my frumpy T-shirt and my sweats. I’m a mess! Michael steps out and unloads two bikes from the boot. He fist bumps Cormac hello and then waves toward the window. Oh GOD, can he see me?!
I whirl round to the hall. ‘Got to run, sorry!’ I yip and high tail it to Mum’s room. Where is that hoodie Cormac lent me?!
‘What is going on?’ Clare asks. I can hear the screech of her chair as she pushes back from the table. ‘It’s Michael,’ she says.
‘Oh yeah?’ Dermot crackles open the paper.
‘Are those bikes?’ Clare shuffles to the far window. ‘Lord save us.’ I can just hear Dermot chuckling into his mug. ‘You laugh now,’ she says in a hardened whisper. ‘If she falls for that lad, we’ll never be rid of her!’
And we’re back.
‘Go ’way, will ya,’ Dermot laughs.
Falling for Michael. Pfft.
I get ready in 4.5 minutes, a personal best, and slip outside. Michael waves to me, flashing that cheeky smile of his.
I’m not that easy.
‘Heya,’ Michael says, casual as you like, and puts a hand out.
God he is a ride!
I sidle up beside him, Clare’s eyes boring a singeing hole into my back. You want something to talk about, Auntie? I’ll give you something to talk about.
I brush his hand aside and throw an arm around his neck.
‘Morning,’ I drawl.
‘Em… Morning.’ He smirks at me sidelong. ‘Are you drunk?’
‘What? NO!’
‘You’re roasting!’
That’d be the hormones.
‘I’m pumped!’ I grin at him.
‘Pumped?’ he grins back.
‘Yeah! To go. Let’s go,’ and I throw a leg over the old bike.
‘Alright,’ Michael laughs. He lugs a rucksack onto his back and walks his bike to the road. ‘You want to do a few laps in the yard here first?’ he asks. I push off and wobble pin-ball style down the road. ‘Guess not.’
‘Where are we going?’ I shout over my shoulder, trying desperately to control the bike.
‘Hang a left at the cross.’
‘OK.’
He catches me on the bend and, together, we peddle up a steep ridge and onto a soaring limestone plateau. The grass gives way here and there to pocks of heather and skeletal bands of rock. Heaped up on the horizon, there’s a graceful curving wall and, as we get closer, I can see that it’s not one wall but four, all of them staggered in a tightening half moon. The land sheers, abrupt and jagged, behind the ramparts, cutting back upon itself before it hurtles into the sea.
‘What is that?’ I ask, breathless and wide eyed.
‘Dún Aonghasa. A stone fort. One of the oldest,’ Michael says. He hops off his bike and leads me into the outer ring.
‘A fort?’ I come up against a phalanx of sharp, upright stones. ‘Oh, wow.’
‘That’s the cheval de frise. Anti calvary.’
‘Calvary?’
‘During the Bronze Age. The people here would’ve fended off invasions from the Vikings and the Gaels.’
‘Look at you. Mr. History Channel,’ I joke.
Michael smiles shyly. ‘Come here, let me show you this.’ He takes my hand and tows me into the innermost ring. A massive stone slab runs to the edge of cliff. I tiptoe to the face. Down, way down, the sea churns against the rock. It sounds like a living thing, sucking in and blowing out below me.
‘Dear God,’ I sigh.
‘They say this stone here was used in rituals,’ says Michael. The druids would come here and light massive bonfires. People could see them across the bay.’
‘Sacrificing virgins?’
He sits down, dangling his legs over the cliff edge. ‘Criminals, mostly,’ he grins.
I sit down beside him, but keep my legs tucked underneath me. ‘Dune what?’
‘Aonghasa,’ Michael says.
‘And what’s that mean?’
‘Fort of Aengus. He was a mythical king.’
‘Hmm.’
‘Sort of a Celtic cupid.’
I smirk at him. ‘So, instead of arrows, he had, what, a big stick?’
‘A harp, actually. One lick on that thing, and you were a gonner,’ he says.
‘And you brought me here to…’ I needle him.
‘For the view!’ he says and throws his arms open.
I look out over the water to the peaks of Connemara and the near hump of Black Head, then back down again across the low flank of the island.
‘Well, it’s one helluva view.’
Michael nods, his gaze soft and steady on a distant swell. Out here in the sharp air, sitting like that amid the rocks, he looks old. Not old as in old but ancient, like he was a wooly tunic away from the third century. He catches me staring.
‘Should we head?’ I ask, scrambling to my feet. The field trip’s been lovely, but I have to get to the bank!
‘Yeah, sure,’ he says. ‘One more place I want you to see. It’s just up the pass there.’
We take off down a lazy, sloping road that dips into a shallow valley. Michael jumps off his bike and hoists it over a stone wall. ‘This way,’ he says. ‘Shorter.’
I look down the field. Two slate mares stand twitching at the far wall.
‘Is that alright?’ I ask him. ‘We’re not trespassing?’
‘Well, we are, I s’pose.’ He lifts my bike over and helps me up.
And we’re doing it, anyway. Okay. First time for everything.
‘Gets a bit rough through here, mind yourself,’ he says.
We wind our way up the field, skirting rocks and soggy depressions in the rough highland grass. A flat topped hillock rears in front of us, and Michael charges up a trail rutted with hoof prints.
‘Wait up!’ I huff after him.
He smiles back at me but doesn’t slow. I catch up to him at the summit, my side racked with a poker hot cramp.
‘I’m,’ I heave, ‘from a flat place.’ A deep, crystal blue lake glints at us from a hidden recess. It’s staggeringly beautiful. Next to this, Central Park looks like a mud pit.
‘Sorry now,’ Michael says. ‘Got to get the heart going if you’re going in.’
‘IN? In there?’
‘Course.’
‘Ohhh no.’
He shoulders his backpack and takes me by the arm. ‘Come on.’
‘Alright, but I’m not going in,’ I grumble. ‘I don’t do cold water.’
Michael’s already stripping his shirt off. ‘It’s not that
cold.’
I shake my head. ‘Nu-uh.’
‘Come on,’ Michael says. ‘There’s no one for miles!’
‘I’ll just watch,’ my eyes darting to avoid the hardened outline of his body.
He yanks at the waistband of his jeans. ‘That kind of girl?’ he says, raising an eyebrow.
‘I need to make a call actually.’ To tell Kate I’m at the bank, not bike touring with a nearly naked, outrageously handsome Irishman.
‘Are you seriously going to waste this,’ Michael gestures broadly, ‘on a phone call? Come on!’ He turns toward the water.
And off go the pants. Oh my sweet Jesus, he does work out.
‘You’re not coming?’ he calls over his shoulder.
Not looking at you. Not looking at you. My God, that is one shockingly tight ass!
Michael climbs onto a ledge, dives in, and comes up whooping. ‘You coming or what?’
I pace the shoreline. It does look inviting, a striking emerald blue. What’s the big deal? I’m a grown woman. I’m in total control of myself. And it’s just a swim.
‘Alright,’ I say, ‘but close your eyes.’
Made With Love: I Love You Forever Page 21
