Jameson sank back down onto the bench. “Je-sus!” he said, running his hands through his hair. “That’s the one thing that really gets to me. I’m shit-scared when Thomas talks like that. It suddenly hits me smack in the face that there are things he really doesn’t understand.” He gestured to the thundering waterfall, then shook his head. “Answer me honestly, Aisling – do you think he’ll ever get to be more sensible and mature? D’you think he’ll ever be able to work things like this out for himself?”
Aisling took a deep breath. “It’s hard to tell,” she said carefully. “Like everyone else, boys like Thomas are individual, and they learn in a different way. Some will be more capable in one area than in others. He’s still young and I’m sure he’ll become more conscious of safety as time goes on.”
“Yeah . . .” Jameson said, looking back at the waterfall, “I reckon you’re right.”
They headed back towards the car now, and as they walked along, Aisling found herself slipping her hand into his. She had done it almost before she realised, and was grateful when Jameson squeezed her hand, but said nothing. She knew she was contradicting what she’d said earlier, and hoped that he wouldn’t feel she was playing around with his feelings.
* * *
When they drove into the town Thomas had picked, Aisling was relieved to get out of the car because every minute spent in close proximity to Jameson was a sweet torture that was difficult to endure.
Thomas babbled on about how it was an old-western cowboy-style town, and kept pointing out the traditional craft shops selling patchwork quilts and old-style cross-stitch cushions and wooden toys and suchlike things – delighted to have a new audience in Aisling.
As they walked down the wide streets, Aisling found she was starting to match the boy’s enthusiasm, as she was fascinated by all the details of the wooden buildings – from the ranch-style doors to the galloping horse murals on the walls.
“There’s not too many shops open on a Sunday,” Jameson said apologetically, “but it’s nice for a walk out anyway.”
“I don’t mind at all,” Aisling said. “I’m enjoying just looking around. It’s absolutely amazing.” She stopped to look at a shop window filled with traditional rag-dolls. “I think my sister’s little girl would love one of these – I won’t be a minute.”
“Let’s go – to my favourite place!” Thomas said, tugging on his father’s sleeve.
“We’ll be there soon, Thomas,” Aisling could hear Jameson say as she made for the shop door. “Just be patient for a little while longer. Aisling wants to get some stuff for her folks back in Ireland. She has to buy them today in case she doesn’t come back here again . . .”
Aisling’s heart dropped at his words. At the awful thought of never seeing this gorgeous man again. She turned on the doorstep of the shop and found him looking at her. For a few seconds their eyes held, and Aisling felt like rushing over and burying her head in his chest, and then dragging him off somewhere secret where she could lie in his arms.
Instead, she went into the shop and bought a rag-doll for Bernadette.
Five minutes later, they crossed to the other side of the road and Aisling immediately understood why Thomas had been so animated about this ‘special shop’. As she stepped inside, she knew that there couldn’t be a child from America or Ireland who wouldn’t share his feelings.
It was a Christmas shop, a huge colourful, twinkling place – full of every decoration and toy imaginable – and it was open all the year round.
Thomas caught Aisling by the hand, dragging her from one display to another. Aisling could hardly contain her own delight as she took in imitation Christmas trees in every size, shape and colour, and all the different tree decorations and baubles.
“Oh, the children at school would love to just come and look at this,” Aisling whispered to Jameson. “It wouldn’t matter about buying things – just looking at this place would be enough to keep them talking about it for weeks.”
She wandered about, lifting round glass balls with snow-scenes that produced storms of snow if you shook them, and countless coloured ornaments with Christmas scenes that when wound up played familiar festive music.
Feeling a tug on her sleeve, Aisling turned around to find Thomas holding up a Father Christmas doll about eighteen inches in height, dressed in red velvet down to the last detail. He even carried a matching velvet sack, full of miniature teddy-bears and toys and, wound up, played a Christmas tune.
“This is just perfect,” she said, taking the doll from him. “Completely perfect.”
Jameson laughed as Thomas shot off towards a corner of the shop. “He’s found the female figure – they make a pair.”
Aisling picked her way through the baskets of glittery things towards Thomas, where he stood holding a green-hooded figure, with the same sack and tiny toys as the Father Christmas she held.
“It’s a Mother Christmas,” the saleslady told her, “and they’re cheaper if you buy the pair together.”
“In that case,” Jameson said, taking the figures from Thomas and Aisling, “then we must have the pair.” Waving away all protests from Aisling at the cost, he had the assistant wrap them up separately, first in sturdy boxes, then draped in gold paper with silver stars. He handed one to Aisling and the other to Thomas. “The green for Ireland and the red for America,” he said, smiling. “And hopefully, they might meet up again some Christmas.”
“Thank you,” Aisling whispered, giving him a light kiss on the cheek. She looked down at the beautifully wrapped parcel, wishing with all her heart that his words would come true.
When they finally dragged Thomas out of the shop, they strolled down the streets again, and then stopped off at a ranch-style steakhouse for a traditional cowboy meal.
The journey back home passed quicker than the journey in since they didn’t have a stop-off. Thomas – fortified by the hefty meal – soon fell asleep, and Aisling and Jameson chatted quietly or listened to the radio.
Then a particular song came on the radio that caught Aisling’s attention. It was a male American singer, different to anything she’d heard before. She leaned forward and turned the volume up a little.
“You like that song?” Jameson asked, smiling.
“I love it,” she said, closing her eyes to concentrate on the words. “He has a fantastic voice.”
“Good – it’s one of my favourites and I have it back at the house,” he told her, delighted.
“Who is he?” Aisling asked. “His voice and style is really different to any of the singers we have back home or in England.”
“It’s Bob Dylan – I have a couple of his albums. The song you’re listening to is from his latest album, and it’s called Girl of the North Country.”
“If the other songs are as good as this, I’d love to hear them,” Aisling said.
“You can listen to it next time you’re over,” he said casually. Then, when she didn’t say anything, he took his eyes from the road for a moment. “Aisling,” he said quietly, “you are going to come back to the house again . . . aren’t you?”
Aisling turned her face towards the window. “I want to,” she said, “but I’m afraid of what might happen . . .”
“Nothing will happen,” Jameson stressed, “if you don’t want it to. I promised you that earlier.”
Aisling moved around to face the front. She watched as he manoeuvred the car past a huge truck, her eyes drawn towards the strong, brown forearms with the sleeves rolled up. Then her eyes flickered upwards to his chest and then his hair which curled well past the back of his neck. She noticed a strip of dark, tanned skin where his hair ended and the collar of his blue denim shirt started. And as she looked, the betraying flush of desire crept over her again, and it was all she could do to stop herself reaching over to touch him.
Jameson glanced at her and catching her eye suddenly said, “You know there’s something real special between us . . . don’t you?”
There was a long silence. Th
en, holding the gold and silver parcel tightly to her chest, she said, “Yes, I know that.”
They drove the rest of the way back in silence, apart from the low music and the odd little snore from Thomas as he lay fast asleep in the back.
As they pulled into Harpers’ drive, Jameson reached over and grasped Aisling’s hand. “When will I see you again?”
Aisling slid her hand from his, and started gathering her parcels and bags together. “I honestly don’t know,” she said. “I don’t know what plans will have been made while we’ve been out today.”
“OK,” he said, “I’ll definitely be around for the next few days.”
Aisling stopped what she was doing to look at him. “Are you going away?”
“I have some business in New York . . . sorting out an exhibition.” He touched his hand to her cheek. “Just let me know when you can come over, and I’ll sort my plans around your schedule.”
“Oh, God!” Aisling said, her voice full of frustration. “This is totally pathetic! I’m like a stupid schoolgirl – all this worrying about my parents and what they’ll say!”
“It’s OK,” he said quietly. “Really, it’s OK. I understand what’s going on, and how hard it is for you. Truly . . . I do.” He leaned across her and opened the car door, his arm resting on her body for a few moments. “Just come round to the house any time. Day or night. It doesn’t matter . . .” He gave a little laugh. “For some reason, I’m not sleeping too good at the moment.”
Aisling looked up at him. “I’m not sleeping too good either.” Then, she stretched to look into the back seat. “Thomas seems to making up for us both . . .”
“Listen . . .” he said, giving a slow smile, “if you fancy sharing an early breakfast with me any morning, just call across. It doesn’t matter how early.”
Before she could reply, the porch door creaked open. Jean stuck her head out. She gave a wave and disappeared back in.
“I’ve got to go,” Aisling said, clutching the parcels. “I’m really sorry.”
He looked back at her without saying anything.
“Thanks,” she whispered, “and thanks for another wonderful day.”
She closed the car door, and walked down the path and into the house.
Chapter 21
The next two days flew past with a final family get-together, as Michael and Ali had to head back to New York, and then visits to more towns and more wool shops looking for knitting patterns for Maggie to take back home. Aisling also checked out several more bookstores, and was delighted when she found the last book on Charles’s list. She smiled as the saleslady wrapped up the grave-looking tome entitled Nostradamus, and wondered, as she often did, where on earth Charles got his odd ideas from.
Declan had discovered American vintage clothes stores that sold outfits he thought only existed in 1920’s gangster films. He had a great time looking through the mobster-style suits and hats, while Maggie trawled through the rails of well-preserved fur capes, coats and dresses.
There was never any chance of Declan actually buying anything, as he wouldn’t have dared appear in Tullamore in the dandified outfits, but he told Bruce and Jean that just seeing them and trying some of the hats on had given him more than enough pleasure.
Aisling found the shops a distraction from her constant thoughts of Jameson, and was grateful to arrive back home like the others – tired and ready for an early bed.
In between shopping trips and visits to the Harpers’ friends and neighbours, Aisling spent any spare time sitting out on the deck with her book. It lay open on her lap, unread, as her eyes wandered in the distance to the white house across the lake.
Several times she was tempted to walk down to the path leading to the house, but cowardice prevented her, and she never went any further than the little jetty at the Harpers’ side of the lake.
Thomas appeared on the Tuesday afternoon asking Aisling to come out in the boat with him, but she had to decline as they were heading out for a barbecue at Bruce’s brother’s house.
“Oh, the poor cratur’,” Maggie said, shaking her head as the boy ran back down the path. “He’s taken a real shine to you, Aisling. You’ll have to make a bit of time for the lad before you go back, you know. God knows when he’ll get anyone else to pay him attention.”
Aisling turned away. “I’m just going upstairs to get my bag,” she said, not trusting herself to get into a conversation about Thomas. Her mother’s patronising attitude about handicapped people really annoyed her. If Jameson had to put up with this sort of stuff regularly from ignorant people, it was little wonder he was so reserved at times.
* * *
On the way back from the barbecue that evening, Jean swung round from the front seat to Declan. “Did you decide whether you’re going to get in touch with your cousin or not?”
“Oh, sure I’m sick of telling him,” Maggie butted in. “He was all talk travelling over about contacting Martin, and, now we’re here, he’s put it off.”
“Now, Maggie,” Declan said, “it’s not just as simple as that. You see,” he explained to everyone, “I’d no idea how big America actually was until I came over here and saw it for myself. I knew it was big, but I somehow had the impression that it was like England – that you could travel from place to place in a few hours!” He laughed. “Wouldn’t you think that I’d know right well the size of it – and all the maps and globes of the world we studied in school!”
“Well,” Maggie said, ignoring his geographical comments, “you know that your brothers and sisters back home will be disappointed if you go back and haven’t even been in touch with him. And,” she said, wagging a warning finger at him, “don’t be looking at me like that! I know you too well. We won’t be home a week and you’ll be kicking yourself for not making the effort to even pick up the phone to talk to your cousin.”
“OK, OK,” Declan said wearily. He’d had a pleasant afternoon and evening out, and had more than a touch of indigestion after the big, overdone steak he had consumed at the barbecue. “But I haven’t seen him for over ten years – and I’ve never even met his wife.”
“Maybe,” Bruce intervened, “a phone call would do no harm. At least you can say you spoke to him, and it would keep everyone happy.”
“Thereyou are!” Maggie was delighted now, having Bruce take her side. “A phone call certainly can’t do any harm.”
Later that evening, fortified by several bourbons, Declan found himself chatting to his cousin, and came off the phone to relay the whole conversation to his wife.
“You said we’d do what?” Maggie said in a high voice, almost choking on her tea. “That we’d visit them this Thursday!” she repeated. “What in the name of God made you say that?”
Aisling held her breath. Was there a chance that her parents might go away for a few days?
Declan held his hands up in despair. “Now, do you all see what I’m up against?” he said, brave with alcohol. “I can’t do right for doing wrong.”
Maggie was on her feet. “I can’t leave you to organise anything by yourself.”
“Didn’t I ask you to come on the phone?” he argued.
“How long,” Maggie interrupted him, “did you say we would stay for?”
“Just a few days – no more,” he assured her, “and it had to be this week, for they’re off on a fortnight’s holiday to Florida next week.”
“Florida?” Maggie said, her voice higher still as though Florida meant something to her. She sank back down in her chair.
“Oh, Maggie,” Jean put in now, “you’ll just love it. It will give you a chance to see a bit more of America while you’re here. You’ll be close by New York, and you’ll be able to visit the Statue of Liberty and go shopping in the city.”
“Jean’s right,” Aisling said, leaning on the back of her mother’s chair. “It’s a brilliant idea – and you’ll be able to pass on all the news about Martin when we get back home. And I bet you’ll have no trouble finding the lacey knitting
patterns in New York.”
“You’ll come with us,” Maggie said quickly. “Won’t you, Aisling?”
Aisling suddenly saw any chance of seeing Jameson Carroll flying out of the window.
“No, no, Maggie,” Aisling’s father said. “I said we would go on our own – they only have the two bedrooms.”
Maggie’s mouth opened and closed like a fish in water.
“Aisling will be just fine with us,” her aunt said. “She was just saying that she hasn’t got as much swimming in as she would like. We’ll be delighted to spoil her here, won’t we, Bruce?”
Aisling tried desperately to avoid the smile on her face turning into a huge grin. At last, she was going to be able to spend some time doing what she wanted, and with whom she wanted.
The day or so leading up to the visit was spent in a flurry of activity as Maggie got herself sorted out and packed for the Connecticut visit. There were clothes to wash and iron and now more presents to buy to take to the cousin and his wife.
Declan was grateful to escape from the accusing eye of his wife, and sloped off with Bruce for a peaceful afternoon’s fishing.
“We’re going into town for a few things, Aisling,” Maggie called from the kitchen. “Are you coming with us? If you don’t, you’ll be on your own.”
“I’m going to go for a swim,” Aisling said casually, “so I’ll see you when I get back.”
As soon as the cars had pulled out of the drive, Aisling found herself heading down the garden and towards the lake – and swimming was the last thing on her mind.
It had been three days since she had last seen him. Three whole days. Three days during which she had hardly slept, hardly ate and hardly been able to think of anything else.
She stood at the bottom of the Harpers’ garden now and looked across towards Jameson’s house. But there was no sign of life about it.
Maybe, she thought, he’s gone away to New York after all. Maybe he got sick ofwaiting. Aisling felt a stab of disappointment under her ribs. Surely, she thought, hewould have let me know? But another little voice inside her said, Why should he?
Aisling Gayle Page 20
