Loving Irish

by Katy Regnery

  “Oh, wow,” said the girl’s voice, first surprised, then amused. “Oh, Ian. What’s going on here, huh?”

  “N-Nothing,” said Ian, feeling petulant. “N-Nothing…is g-going on…h-here.” Except hiccups. Hiccups are definitely going on.

  “Someone’s a drunky skunky,” said the voice.

  Hilarious. The disembodied female voice was hilarious. Ian laughed, trying to say what she’d said, without luck. “D-Dunk…d-dunk the…dunky sk-skunk…”

  “Shit, Ian. How much did you…Oh, my. A bottle and a half? Whew.”

  “Lotsa…b-bottles,” answered Ian. “F-For. Hallieeeeee. Hallie’s b-birthday.”

  “Yeah. Well, sorry, Romeo. That’s not happening…”

  She continued talking, this she-devil, this harpy harbinger of horrible news, but all Ian heard in his head were the words “not happening” over and over and over again.

  Not happening.

  Not happening.

  Nothappeningnothappeningnothappeningnothappening.

  Hallie is not happening.

  Ian is not happening.

  Promises are not happening.

  Nothing is happening.

  His eyes burned so terribly this time that they were wet when he reached up to rub them, and someone—no doubt the someone attached to the fucking voice that had destroyed his dreams and shattered his heart—touched his face, gently pushing his tears away.

  “Hey,” she said, “it’s okay.”

  “It’s n-not,” he sobbed through another fucking hiccup.

  Not happening is not okay.

  “Ian,” she said, “maybe you should sleep. Sleep will help.”

  He felt the whoosh of a breeze over his face as she covered him with a blanket, but he couldn’t bear to be alone. Hallie was warmth and light and everything he wanted in his future. If she wasn’t happening—if she didn’t love him—he was alone. And his once-beautiful future would be dark and grim, and so fucking lonesome, he’d rather die.

  Not happening.

  “S-Stay,” he said to the body with the voice, reaching up blindly until she took his desperate hand in hers. “Stayyyyyy…w-with…m-me, babyyyyy.” Oh, Halcyon. Happen and stay.

  “Are you sure?” she asked. “I mean, I want to, but Ian…”

  The whirling in his head wouldn’t quit, and her voice was so far away he could barely hear her anymore.

  Not happening.

  Not happening.

  So very far away.

  So far away.

  So far…

  Away.

  CHAPTER 5

  “Two weeks ago, I asked you all an important question,” said Kim. “Your first binge. The birthplace of your addiction. Where did it all begin? Does anyone want to share?”

  Shandie was sitting beside Ian again, and she raised her hand, along with five or six other people seated in the circle.

  “Jonah, why don’t you start. Tell us your story.”

  The remaining hands lowered, and Jonah, who was four years sober, cleared his throat, and started at the beginning: an abusive father, an absentee mother, and a childhood seeped in poverty.

  And this was the reason Ian hadn’t raised his hand: because he’d had a loving, if stern, mother, a kind father, and two devoted siblings. Their apartment at Summerhaven wasn’t fancy, but it was comfortable, and Ian liked sharing a room with Rory. He had plenty to eat and new sneakers whenever the old ones wore out. He did well in school, was taken to Disney World in Florida twice before the age of twelve, and went to Ireland every other year to see his grandparents and cousins.

  Ian hadn’t been abused or mistreated. He’d been cared for and loved.

  But he’d still become an alcoholic.

  Why?

  Because one glass of wine to “calm his nerves” had led to five in under ninety minutes.

  And in the morning? When he realized what he’d done? The only remedy for the fierce and relentless pain in his heart—and his head—was more wine.

  At first, he’d been good at hiding it. For the rest of the summer, he’d stolen bottles from his parents little-visited wine cupboard and liquor cabinet. When he went to parties in Weirs Beach, he’d volunteer to work the keg and drink two Solo cups for every one he poured. Rory and Tierney had noticed his hangovers, of course, but they’d kept mum, advising him to keep his new habit from their mother, who’d skin him alive if she found out. A month later, his parents drove him to college in Boston, and that’s when all hell had broken loose.

  Beer was everywhere on campus: at fraternity parties, in his friends’ minifridges, and at the off-campus convenience store that sold beer to minors at a significant markup. It wasn’t a habit that sneaked up on Ian quietly—it was a fast and furious descent. He was probably a full-blown alcoholic by Columbus Day.

  But that didn’t matter to him, because there was no girl coming home to Boston that Christmas wearing his ring. There’d been no promises or love made. There were only shattered dreams and love lost. And Ian continued to drink.

  He was a textbook “functioning alcoholic,” someone who binge drank and who used alcohol for coping with unpleasant feelings. He would occasionally set boundaries for himself, but he’d always be unable to stick to them for any prolonged length of time. He was arrested by campus police more than once for public urination, nudity, and disorderly behavior, but he was also one of the star hockey players of the college team. That went a long way in keeping him from being expelled, which—in retrospect—might have saved him. Instead, he attended weekend rehab where he’d dry out for a few days before returning to campus and resuming bad habits all over again.

  Ian slipped through college and somehow sobered up enough to shine at job interviews for high school coaching jobs. Genial and handsome, he was offered three great opportunities after graduating, but the “real world” proved to be Ian’s ultimate downfall.

  Continued partying with friends meant that he was often late to work and drunk at practice. It was an embarrassment to the school district when Ian was arrested for DUI one Saturday night. He was promptly put on probation and ordered to undergo both rehab and counseling. Upon his return to work two weeks later, he was sober. Barely. And not for long. At the next matchup between his team and that of a neighboring town, he arrived late and drunk, pushing a ref on a call he didn’t like.

  And that was the end of coaching. He’d been fired the next day.

  Ian found a job at a local Boston ice rink, doing maintenance and driving the Zamboni, until one night he drank a couple of 40s on the job and drove it into the boards. When the rink manager found him the next morning, passed out in the cab of the machine with empty bottles by his feet, he was fired from that job too.

  After that, Ian lost his apartment, selling most of his belongings and refusing to tell Rory and Tierney how bad things had gotten. He found himself napping in doorways at churches and libraries, his life a dismal failure, his heart numb to hurt and shame except when the buzz was wearing off.

  In those spare moments of utter despair, one hurt after another would bubble to the surface like scum on a pond. And there was one that always trumped the rest.

  Halcyon. Her face. The look on her face that morning. When she found him…them—

  “No!” he shouted.

  Shandie’s hand landed on his thigh.

  “Ian,” she said gently—the room had gone silent and still, Jonah’s narrative temporarily on hold—“it’s okay. You’re okay.”

  Ian blinked, looking around the circle, his eyes landing on the group leader, Kim, for a moment. She tilted her head to the side, her dark eyes kind. “Are you all right, Ian?”

  He gulped, nodding his head. Shifting his eyes to Jonah, he shrugged. “Sorry, man. Bad memory.”

  There were mumbled It’s okays and Been theres from the group, other members nodding their heads with understanding.

  In some ways, Ian had beaten the odds. Since relapse was most likely in the first three months after recovery, making
it to six months sober meant that Ian had achieved abstinence and was now tasked with maintaining it.

  And frankly, he knew better than to go down the Hallie Gilbert rabbit hole. He couldn’t change the past. Thinking about it—torturing himself about it—would depress him and make him susceptible to relapse. But on the other hand, being around her again made it next to impossible not to think about the past.

  “Please. Go ahead,” said Ian, gesturing with his hands for Jonah to continue.

  “What was the memory?” asked Jonah, taking a sip of his coffee.

  “I hurt someone,” Ian answered.

  Jonah nodded. “You were drunk?”

  “Yeah. First time.”

  “Are you powerless over your addiction?” asked Jonah, referencing the first step.

  “Yes,” answered Ian.

  “Do you believe God can help?”

  “I do.”

  “Have you given God permission to help?”

  Ian nodded. “I have.”

  “Have you taken a personal inventory?”

  Again, he nodded. “Yes.”

  When he’d tackled step four, Ian had literally sat at his dining room table with a pencil and yellow pad. He’d started the list with Hallie, then added his parents and siblings, college friends he’d hurt or embarrassed, his hockey team, his coach, the school where he’d worked and the kids he’d let down. At the end, he had a long, long list of people who’d suffered because of his addiction.

  “Have you admitted it?”

  “Yes.”

  In fact, Ian had read the list aloud at a different meeting—the one in Moultonborough that he’d first attended with Rory, two nights after he’d arrived at Tierney’s on a bender.

  “Have you asked God to correct and/or remove your shortcomings?”

  Steps six and seven.

  Ian nodded. “I have.”

  “Have you made a list of wrongs?” asked Jonah gently.

  “Yes,” said Ian.

  “And have you reached out to those you harmed to make amends?”

  Step nine: Amends.

  Make amends.

  And there it was: the sticky wicket.

  The contradiction of Ian’s life right now was that on one hand, being around Hallie hurt, but on the other hand, being around Hallie, whom he harmed first and most of all, was the only way to make amends for his wrongdoings.

  He blinked at Jonah, feeling the sting of tears behind his eyes. Looking down at his thigh, he saw Shandie’s fingers tighten a little, just to remind him that he wasn’t alone.

  Taking a deep breath, Ian looked up at the group. “I’m trying.”

  “Keep trying,” said Jonah. “Making amends, and living amends, means genuine change.” He paused for a moment and then added. “You might doubt it at times, Ian, but amends are the key to serenity. You cannot go through life avoiding those you hurt. By making amends fully and completely, we don’t have to avoid people or places. We don’t have to regret or try to forget the past. We can allow it to be part of the fabric of our lives. We can live with it, instead of in fear of it.”

  Ian clenched his teeth together and blinked again, but it didn’t help. A tear slipped down his cheek, hiding in his beard on its descent.

  “Thanks, Jonah,” he whispered, unable to say more.

  “Anytime, man. Work the steps. They work,” said Jonah, before picking up where he’d left off in his own story.

  Ian thought about Jonah’s advice, tasting it, weighing it, deciding whether or not he liked it.

  Wouldn’t it be something not to regret the past? Ian asked himself. Wouldn’t it be something to be free of it? To live with it? To somehow find a place for it that didn’t hurt?

  Shandie’s hand squeezed his leg again before she lifted it away.

  She leaned close to him and whispered, “How about a coffee after the meeting?”

  But Ian shook his head.

  You cannot go through life avoiding those you hurt.

  There was somewhere else he wanted to be.

  ***

  Hallie lay next to Jenny in the darkness, listening to the night sounds of the lake through a half-opened window and feeling—for the first time in so long—a small measure of peace.

  Colby Cottage was finally coming together, mostly thanks, she had to admit, to Ian. In the week that he’d been working at her cottage from sunup to sundown, he’d gotten a lot done.

  The raccoons were gone, and the upstairs floors and walls had been thoroughly cleaned and disinfected. After a fresh coat of paint, the rooms would feel new. He’d gutted the broken glass from shattered windows and covered panes with heavy tarps and masking tape until new glass could be installed. The tree branch that had protruded into the guest bedroom was gone, and a piece of plywood and a royal-blue tarp covered the hole in the roof. Ian had three roofers coming to give Hallie estimates next week.

  Hallie’s furniture had arrived, two days late, and the workers had claimed she only paid for delivery, not unloading. Giving the guys a look that would curdle butter, Ian told them to wait in the cab of the truck and unloaded it all himself, helping her unroll the living room rug before bringing in her sofa and chairs and putting together a full-sized bed in her and Jenny’s bedroom while she plugged in lamps and unwrapped framed pictures in the great room.

  She’d almost asked him to stay for dinner when the movers finally drove away. They’d barely exchanged a word since she’d informed him on the first day how much she didn’t want him there, but dinner seemed like the least she could do after all that heavy lifting. However, by the time she’d mustered her courage to ask him, he was already calling out “See you tomorrow” and driving away.

  For all she knew, he had a girlfriend in town.

  Or two.

  Or twenty.

  In any case, he certainly seemed like he had somewhere else he needed—or preferred—to be.

  “Mommy?”

  “Yes, baby?” asked Hallie.

  “Mr. Haven sure is strong, isn’t he?”

  She glanced over at Jenny’s little face, brightened by a beam of moonlight. “Yes, sweetheart. He is.”

  While Hallie was grateful for Ian’s help, and their cottage was much cozier and safer now than it was when they first arrived, the greatest development since he’d started working for her, was the effect of his presence on Jenny.

  Since his arrival, Jenny spoke more often and even, sometimes, when she was lost in thoughts about Ian, with sweetness.

  Having Ian around was good for Jenny.

  And no, it didn’t make Hallie like him (much) or trust him (at all) but she couldn’t challenge the strong stirrings of gratitude deep inside that wouldn’t quit. So she’d stopped fighting them. She was grateful for Ian Haven, whether she liked it or not.

  But she refused to let her feelings for him go any further than gratitude, and on that point, she would be unyielding.

  Fool me once, she reminded herself, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me.

  “Is Mr. Haven married, Mommy?”

  Hallie took a deep breath, realizing that she didn’t know—with total certainty—the answer to this question. Could he have a wife somewhere? She supposed he could and was surprised by the sharp twist in her heart when she imagined Ian belonging to someone else. It’s not that she wanted him—not at all—but she didn’t love the idea of him with somebody else either.

  “I don’t know,” she answered. “I don’t think so.”

  “Are you ever gonna love Papa again?”

  “No,” said Hallie firmly.

  “Well…maybe you could love Mr. Haven instead.”

  I did, she thought. Once upon a time, I loved Mr. Haven very much.

  “No, Jenny,” she said gently. “Mr. Haven just works for us. He can be your friend, but that’s all.”

  In response, Jenny huffed out the breath she’d been holding before flipping over to present her back to her mother.

  Hallie sighed. So much for sweetness.


  Swinging her legs over the side of the bed, she stood up and leaned over to kiss Jenny’s cheek. Then she turned to the door, closing it halfway, and headed for the kitchen.

  She took the dinner dishes from the white-painted, round kitchen table, and pushed in the sweet white chairs, which had cheerful blue-and-white-gingham cushions. Under the table was a blue, gray, and white braided rug, and once she painted the brown kitchen cabinets white, the little kitchen’s transformation would be complete.

  Turning on the faucet, she was relieved to see that the water had turned from coppery brown to a light yellow. To test the plumbing, Ian had insisted she run the water in all faucets for over two hours. He told her that it would either run out, indicating that her well was dry, start edging its way toward clear, which meant that the plumbing had just been unused for too long and needed a good flushing, or stay brown, which would mean pipe galvanizing. Because option three would require the replacement of her pipes at great expense, she’d checked on the water regularly that day, relieved beyond measure when it started lightening from brown to tan and, now, to light yellow. She’d still boil it before drinking just to be safe, but at least it didn’t appear that she’d need to pay for new pipes.

  Just as she placed the clean dishes in the drying rack, she noticed headlights brightening up the road out the window over the sink. And since she was the final cottage on a dead-end road, it was likely that it was someone coming to see her.

  Maybe it was Brittany stopping by for a chat or to ask wedding advice. If Ian was the best thing about moving for Jenny, then Brittany was the best thing for Hallie. Having her friend so close meant that Hallie felt more supported and loved than she’d felt in a long time, and no matter how much heartache she’d experienced in her own life, planning a wedding was just plain fun. Hmm. Maybe Britt was coming over with more magazines with bridesmaid pictures. Last time, they’d almost narrowed down the choices to eighteen, she thought with a chuckle.

  After wiping her hands on a dish towel, she walked to the front door, opening it to find the Summerhaven truck parked just outside the white gate. Though the paint was still peeling on it and it was missing a picket, it hung on two new hinges now, and Ian had made quick work of clearing the front path with a chainsaw and rake.