Aisling Gayle

by Geraldine O'Neill

  He had made his feelings plain, and she had given him no reason to hope that she would make the effort to see him.

  She sat down on one of the slatted wooden chairs at the edge of the water, gazing vacantly into the distance. But minutes later, she was back on her feet again, craning her neck for any signs of life at the white house.

  But still there was nothing.

  Eventually she gave up and made her way back up the little hill to the house for a drink and to find something to read to distract her mind. She poured an ice-cold orange juice, and then wandered into the sitting-room to check out the bookcases. She needed something – anything at all, that would take her mind off Jameson Carroll.

  She knelt down on the floor in front of the bookcase in the silent, cool room. Absentmindedly, she flicked through the pages, pausing to read a verse here and there, or scan summaries on the back of the novels.

  One small, beautifully bound book held her interest more successfully than the others – a collection of inspirational poetry and quotes. Aisling found herself smiling at the witty pieces and taking her time to ponder over some of the more serious ones. Then, one of the pages seemed to jump out at her. It read: If you do what you’ve always done you’ll get what you’ve always gotten.

  Aisling read it – then read it again. Then read it several more times.

  Then she dropped the book in her lap and closed her eyes.

  Suddenly – for the first time in days – a picture of Oliver Gayle crept into her mind. A picture of the man she had almost forgotten. A picture of the man she was married to – but did not love.

  And in that moment, Aisling Gayle knew that if she went back to him and the life they were living, nothing would ever change.

  She would get more of what she’d always gotten.

  Oliver would never really change And she would never change. Not dramatically anyway. She couldn’t be one of these wives who pretended to be blind forever. She would just slowly wither away, or drown in a sea of bitterness and regret.

  And it would all be her own choice.

  She opened her eyes and looked down at the quote in the little pocket book. Slowly, she read the dozen or so words again that had mirrored such a strong reflection of her own life. Then she flicked over the pages, reading more of the quotes. The more she read, the more of them seemed to be written especially for her – and the stronger the feeling grew in her, that she could not go back to the life she had been living in Ireland.

  She stood up, and hugged the little book close to her heart. And as she did so, she thought back to the morning she had watched the dawn come up over the lake from Jameson Carroll’s window.

  She wrapped her arms around herself, the hardness of the book’s edge digging into her ribs, wishing that it were the tall, rangy artist’s arms that were hugging her.

  And then an ache of emptiness and loneliness shot through her, and she rocked back and forth in an attempt to ease it. It was so strong she found her breathing short and almost painful.

  She lifted her orange-juice from the shelf and drank it down quickly, then ran across the room and out into the hall and porch and back out into the garden. Within minutes, she was on the path leading down towards the lake. She stopped at the water’s edge, and looked over towards Jameson’s house. This time she saw the unmistakable figure – and the red hair – of Thomas kicking a football in the garden, and her heart soared.

  A short time later, she had run around the path dotted with grass and wild flowers and was calling out to the boy.

  “Ash-leen!” he yelled back, giving a whoop of delight. Then, his face suddenly became serious. “Come on,” he said, tugging at her hand. “Dad – he’s down – in room.”

  Aisling followed him into the house, all the doors thrown wide open, and along a corridor. At the end of it, a door opened on to a spiral staircase which took them down to the basement.

  “Dad! Jameson Carroll!” Thomas called. “It’s Ash-leen from – Ireland.” He pointed down the stairs. “You go first – surprise Dad!”

  By the time she had reached the middle of the stairs, Jameson had moved from his easel and was coming up to meet her. Then his hands were reaching out and encircling her neat waist, and he lifted her down the rest of the steps. His strong touch made Aisling’s heart race, and she buried her face into his warm neck.

  “God, Aisling . . . I’ve missed you so much,” he whispered into her hair. “I didn’t know whether I would ever see you again . . .”

  Aisling swallowed against the huge lump that had suddenly come into her throat. “I’ve missed you, too,” she said in a hoarse voice. “I really tried to stay away . . . but I couldn’t do it.”

  “Dad?” came the voice from the top of the stairs. “My paintings – can I show them to Ash-leen?”

  Jameson loosened his embrace. “Come on down,” he called, his face beaming.

  Thomas’s footsteps thundered down the wooden staircase. He came over to take Aisling’s hand, then he brought her over to a bench beside one of the French windows. He lifted up a pile of paintings. One after the other, he handed them to Aisling for inspection. As she looked at each one in turn, her smile grew broader. They were all versions of the same thing. Paintings of Thomas’s boat. Basic drawings in larger-than-life colours, but perfect in proportion and detail.

  “I did them – yesterday!” he informed her proudly.

  “They are excellent, Thomas,” Aisling said, nodding across at Jameson. “Much, much better than I could ever attempt to do.”

  Thomas beamed with pride. “Him –” he said, thumbing in his father’s direction. “Him – very good artist!”

  “I was hoping I might see some of your dad’s work, too,” she said smiling.

  Jameson shrugged his shoulders, kind of embarrassed. “It’s all here,” he said quietly. “Feel free to look around.”

  Aisling turned around, her gaze taking in the huge collection of framed and unframed pieces that hung on walls, and more stacked on the floor in all shapes and sizes. A few of the pieces were instantly recognisable as scenes from around the house and lake, although worked in a very individual, stark kind of style, using shades rather than colours.

  Others were brighter and more detailed, but still showing the unmistakable hand of the same artist. Then there was a mixture of subjects and styles, some veering more toward the abstract but again stamped with Jameson Carroll’s unique style.

  Already Aisling knew that she would pick his work out anywhere. Just as she had felt the individuality within the artist himself, she could now see that difference reflected in his work.

  “They are just beautiful,” she whispered.

  “Good,” he said, coming over to rest his hands on her shoulders. “I’m glad you like them. I was kinda worried about showing them to you.”

  Aisling picked up one of the lake paintings. Not too big, not too abstract – and not too bleak. The lake looked just as it did in real life, and it captured the colours that were in the shrubs and trees just now. “I like this,” she told him. “It really captures the atmosphere of the lake.”

  “Keep it,” he told her.

  “No,” Aisling said, suddenly embarrassed, “I couldn’t . . .” She put the painting back down by the window.

  “I want you to have it,” he insisted. “It’s yours.”

  Then Thomas appeared, asking if he could go back out on the boat.

  “Okay,” Jameson said, “but be real careful. We’ll be out in a couple of minutes when Aisling’s finished looking round.

  When the boy had disappeared through the French windows, Jameson bent down and lifted the painting up again. “Take it, Aisling,” he said. “Please. I really want you to have it.”

  She hesitated for a moment. “Thank you,” she whispered, feeling tears coming into her eyes. “It’s beautiful.”

  “I’m not too sure about that,” he grinned, “but since you think it’s beautiful – it’s only fair that it should go to a beautiful owner.”


  Aisling lowered her head, then, when she lifted her eyes again she met his, and she knew that he meant every word. And with him she did feel beautiful. Much more beautiful than she had ever felt with Oliver Gayle.

  She put the painting down on a table, and this time it was she who moved towards him.

  Her arms reached up and slid around his neck – the neck that she had imagined touching and stroking these last few lonely nights.

  “I missed you,” she told him now, “and I thought about you all the time.”

  Jameson looked back at her without saying a word. He didn’t need to. It was all there in his face.

  “I’m sorry for being so scared . . . so mixed-up about everything,” she whispered. “I’ve never been in this situation before. I never imagined how this sort of thing could feel.” Then she suddenly felt herself being lifted from the ground. He looked deep into her eyes without saying a word, and then his lips came down on hers. His body pressed so hard against her that she could feel his pounding heart.

  For a moment she felt overwhelmed, then, she clung to him as though she would never let him go. As little ripples of pleasure rushed through her body, Aisling knew that she couldn’t walk away from what she’d found with this man.

  Regardless of their short time together, she knew that there was something deep down in both of them that connected in all the right ways. In the way that the two Christmas figures had echoed each other. Like two halves of the same thing. There was that kind of sameness with her and Jameson. Underneath all the differences of culture, nationality and religion, there was a kind of old familiarity that could not be ignored.

  And Aisling knew that she would never want another man the way she wanted him at this very moment.

  He moved his lips away from hers now, and she felt his mouth first on her eyelids and then moving down her neck. His hands came to caress her shoulders through the light material of her blouse, and then he started to undo the little covered buttons, one by one.

  His lips followed the soft trail of her newly tanned skin, as it was exposed inch by inch. Aisling closed her eyes tighter as his lips moved on to the top part of her breasts. The part her lacy bra did not quite cover. Then Jameson led her by the hand over to a big heavy sofa draped with a tartan shawl, and they lay down together. They spoke in low whispers of their feelings, and kissed and caressed each other – inching nearer and nearer to the complete intimacy they both now wanted so badly.

  Then, Thomas’s voice sounding in the distance brought them back down to earth.

  “I’m real sorry, Aisling,” Jameson said, kissing the little hollow at the base of her throat, but I’ve got to go see that he’s OK. With the water and all.”

  “I know,” she said softly. “I know.”

  Hand in hand, they walked towards the French windows and out into the garden. When they came to the end of the building, they could see Thomas down at the water beside the rowing boat. He waved when he saw them, and came running back up the path.

  “The boat?” he panted. “In the boat – now?”

  Jameson glanced at Aisling. “Do you have time?”

  She nodded. “I’d love to go out in the boat. There’s no one back at Jean’s – they’ve all gone off for the afternoon.”

  “In that case,” Jameson said, “we’ve no real excuse not to.”

  They all got into the small vessel, Thomas taking the oars in the middle, while his father and Aisling sat at either end of the boat, aware of very little except each other.

  As they circled around the lake in the hot, hazy sun Aisling constantly caught herself looking at Jameson and wondering what it would be like to make love with him.

  It would be unlike anything she had ever experienced with Oliver. She knew that instinctively, from the feelings that ran through her when they kissed and when she felt his hard body on top of hers . . . when she felt his fingers touching her through her thin summer clothes.

  After an hour or so on the lake, the hot sun eventually drove them back into the shade of the garden. Jameson disappeared into the kitchen and emerged minutes later with a bottle of Coke for Thomas, and glasses and a bottle of champagne for himself and Aisling.

  “Good God!” Aisling gasped. “Pink champagne!”

  “And why not?” Jameson smiled. “It’s a lovely drink for a lovely lady – and anyway, I’m celebrating.” He poured the drinks quickly, the bubbles trailing down the side of the crystal flutes. “A contract I’ve landed for a couple of businesses,” he explained. “They like the bigger lake scenes.”

  How casual he was about something so exciting, Aisling thought. And how different her life had become in the short time she’d known him. Here she was, sitting by a blue lake in the sun with a handsome stranger and about to drink champagne – pink champagne! Back at home she would be either out working in the garden or helping out at the shop.

  She reached across to touch her glass to his. “Congratulations,” she said, suddenly feeling sort of shy – then she took a sip of the sweet, fizzy drink.

  “I’m also celebrating the fact that we’re spending another lovely afternoon together. That’s definitely worth a bottle of pink champagne!” he laughed.

  Then they sat and talked – drank more champagne – and talked again.

  Thomas went off into the house to change into his swimming clothes, and Aisling and Jameson sat watching him as he dived under the water time and time again. By the time they were on to their third glass, Thomas had headed into the house to dry off, and Aisling was explaining to Jameson in more detail about the religious problems of divorce, and how serious that was to a devout Catholic like her mother. She also admitted that her own religious convictions were certainly not as strong, but she had to keep that quiet for her parents’ sake and the fact she was a teacher in a Catholic school who was expected to uphold the Church’s views on these matters. Then she went on to tell him all about her sister Pauline and her illegitimate daughter, and how that situation was viewed in a small parochial village.

  Jameson listened quietly, taking every word in. Apart from an understanding nod or an encouraging comment, he said very little. He seemed neither shocked nor willing to pass judgement. The few questions he did eventually ask were more practical and related to Oliver.

  “I’ve no feelings left for him,” Aisling said. “None of it hurts any more.”

  Then Jameson talked.

  He told her about the fairly solitary, but happy life he had led as an only child. Then he told her more details about his marriage and the life he had led before he moved up to Lake Savannah. Aisling was surprised to learn that up until recently he had worked in the property business.

  “It was a family business,” he explained with a shrug. “My father and uncle were involved in it all their working lives.” He gave a wry smile. “It wasn’t my bag at all, although I gave it a good shot for a long time. Too long. My father’s retired now, and we’ve sold up most of the business. We still rent out a few apartments, but that’s about it. We all have enough to live on comfortably for the future – and it means that I can spend most of my time with Thomas and my painting. So I’m mighty grateful to the property business for that.”

  Aisling shook her head. “My life is just so small compared to all these things you’re talking about . . . and I dread to think of how my parents’ little shop would compare to your big business deals.”

  He reached a hand to touch her gently on the cheek. “I don’t give a damn about the money, Aisling – and I don’t want you feeling it’s some kind of issue, or difference between us. The only good thing about it is that it’s bought me this place and some freedom.” He smiled now. “And if I hadn’t come to live up here, I wouldn’t have met you.”

  “And if it hadn’t been for Thomas,” Aisling said, smiling, “we probably would never have met.”

  “That’s a bit of a miracle. Thomas has never been happy seeing me around women. Usually, he’s pretty wary.” He lifted Aisling’s hand now
, and held it between his own for a moment. “It’s not just me,” he said, lifting her fingers to his lips. “We both saw how special you are.”

  “I’m not special at all,” Aisling said, drawing back a little from him. “If I were here much longer you would both find that out fairly quickly.”

  “For one thing,” Jameson went on, ignoring her protestations, “the fact that you saw something good in Thomas tells me a whole lot about you. Then there’s your lovely Irish voice that I could listen to all day long.” His hands came to rest gently on her shoulders, and he looked into her eyes. “And then there’s all this – your beautiful face and your lovely blonde hair . . . and then all the other bits.” He gave a low chuckle. “I’m sure the very best bits are all hidden.” Then, he drew her into his arms. “But one day . . .” He kissed her long and hard, then said, “Have I convinced you now just how unique you are?”

  Aisling smiled and blushed – but somehow felt more relaxed again. And then they sat for a while longer enjoying the afternoon sun – talking about nothing in particular and finishing off the pink champagne.

  “I’ll have to go,” Aisling said, checking her watch. “My mother and Jean will be back from their shopping trip soon, and they’ll wonder where I’ve got to.”

  Jameson reached out and caught her hand. “Don’t go just yet . . .”

  “I have to,” she said. “My parents are leaving in the morning for Connecticut – they’re going away for a few days.”

  “Does that mean that you’ll be free?” he said hopefully.

  Aisling looked at him. “What do you think?” she asked in a low voice. “Will it just make things harder for us?”

  He touched a finger to her lips. “I’ll settle for anything just now, Aisling . . . anything.”

  She nodded slowly.

  “I’ve sat out here, in the garden or on the deck, every morning,” he told her, “just looking over towards the house, wondering what you were doing. Wondering whether you were lying awake or still asleep. Wondering all sorts of things about you. And I know I’ll do that every single morning until you go back to Ireland.” His voice dropped. “And when that happens . . . I don’t know what I’ll do.”