The afternoon shopping was sunny and hot, and Aisling was delighted as they wandered around Frances Carroll’s favourite stores, which surprisingly were not the wildly expensive places Aisling had imagined.
“I still find it hard to be extravagant,” Frances confessed to Aisling over a coffee and hot cinnamon cookies with vanilla sauce. “I much prefer to search for a bargain. I get a real kick when I feel I’ve got something at a knockdown price.” She smiled now. “I remember when Sam and I first got married, and we had to count every penny. Everything we had went into the business in those days.” There was a far-away look in the older woman’s eyes for a moment. “I was Sam’s secretary, you know. The first secretary they could afford to hire.” She touched Aisling’s hand and laughed. “It’s funny how things turn out, isn’t it?”
Aisling smiled back, feeling totally relaxed with this lovely American woman, and now suddenly realising where Jameson Carroll got his down-to-earth attitudes about money.
“I think that it’s a good thing to have to work for money at some point in your life,” Aisling said, “because it means you value it more. My own parents have always encouraged us to help out in the shop. When we were younger we all had jobs to do after school and on a Saturday, and I still help out if anyone’s away or sick.”
“I’m glad to hear that,” Frances said, pouring the vanilla sauce from a little jug over the buns. “But you must tell me more about your life back in Ireland – there’s so much that we haven’t had time to talk about.”
Aisling’s heart jumped, and it must have shown on her face because Frances said quickly, “I don’t mean to pry into your personal life – just things like the school you work in, and what your part of Ireland is like.”
Aisling smiled and took one of the cookies, then she launched into a big description of school and the midlands of Ireland and all about her parents’ shop – and everything else that wasn’t connected to the husband waiting for her back in Tullamore.
Later, they left the restaurant and went back out into the shops. Aisling found a lovely blue sweater for Thomas with a sailing-boat motif on the front, and a leather-bound collection of Irish poetry for Jameson. It was an anthology, with delicate illustrations that she knew he would like. Aisling was delighted when she found it, because she had never seen anything like it back in the shops in Ireland.
When she came out of the bookshop, Frances presented her with a big bag of Hershey’s chocolate bars to take back to the children in school. Aisling was both grateful and touched at the gesture.
She was also grateful to this kind, elderly American woman for not quizzing her about her private life. She had carefully skirted around any conversation about home or where Aisling lived – or anything that might just verge towards the personal.
Mr Scott picked the two women up at five o’clock as planned outside the largest department store. Aisling had picked up more souvenirs, a winter outfit for little Bernadette and a smart golfing sweater for Charles. Maybe, she thought, it just might be the incentive he needed to take up some sort of outside interest. And if he didn’t – it was a nice sweater in any case.
As Aisling looked through an American fashion magazine that she had bought, Frances Carroll reflected over the afternoon they had spent together. She had watched Aisling as she shopped and listened carefully to everything she said. And everything about Aisling Gayle told her that this woman was perfect for her son. Her honesty and lack of pretentiousness was refreshing.
Of course she knew the poor girl had been terrified in case she asked about her marriage. But Frances Carroll knew that these traditional things – the things that should be the most important bits in life – did not always turn out the way people dreamed they would. She and Sam had had a long and happy marriage, and that was what she had hoped would happen to Jameson. But life didn’t always give you what you hoped for.
She had enjoyed her afternoon immensely with Aisling, and she knew there was something very special about the girl. And it wasn’t just because of Jameson or even the way she just clicked with Thomas. It was a whole lot of things. Never, in the years her son and his wife had been together, had Frances relaxed in such a way with Verity.
Whatever it was about Aisling Gayle, Frances Carroll knew one thing for definite. This blonde, Irish girl meant more to her son than any other woman ever had – and ever would in the future.
If there was anything she could do to help them be together, then Frances Carroll would do her damnedest to make it happen.
“Aisling?” Frances suddenly found herself asking: “Do you really think you’ll come back here – back to Jameson and Thomas?”
Almost immediately, she saw Aisling’s eyes fill with tears.
“Oh, I’m so sorry,” the older woman said, “I had no business asking you such a thing.”
Aisling groped in her handbag for a hanky. “No . . . no,” she said, shaking her head. She stopped for a moment, trying to compose herself. “Don’t apologise, please. I’m the one who should be sorry. I’ve been trying to shut it out of my mind – the fact that I’m going home tomorrow.” She swallowed hard to remove a lump in her throat which seemed as though it might choke her.
“Don’t upset yourself, Aisling,” Frances said, tears now appearing in the corner of her own eyes.
“I don’t want to go back,” Aisling said, shaking her blonde hair, “but I came with my parents . . . and I have to go back with them. I have to go back and sort out the situation with my husband . . .”
Frances’s gaze dropped, and she just slowly nodded her head.
“I know Jameson explained it to you,” Aisling whispered, “and I hope you understand.” She took a long, painful breath. “I never, ever thought I’d meet another man. But my husband – however bad he’s been – deserves an explanation. I can’t just stay on here and never go back.”
“Of course, of course,” Frances agreed.
Aisling shrugged, dabbing at her eyes. “I don’t even know if I’d be allowed to stay on legally like this.” She looked up now at Jameson’s mother. “I honestly, honestly . . . in my wildest dreams never expected to fall in love. I’ve never felt like this before – I couldn’t even have imagined it.”
“I understand, dear,” Frances said quietly. “I really do.”
“I’ve just got to be sensible,” Aisling said, “for Jameson’s sake, too. He’s got to have time to think it all over – from a distance. After I’ve gone back, he might forget me . . . he might decide that it was only a holiday romance.” She swallowed hard again. “However hard it is for me to go back home now . . . I think it’s the right thing for everyone’s sake.”
Frances Carroll took Aisling’s hand and nodded in agreement – but she felt a complete hypocrite for doing so. She knew that Aisling’s departure would not be a good thing for Jameson even in the short term. It would not be a good thing for Jameson at all.
In fact, she couldn’t imagine anything worse happening to him. She had watched him this past week – as the days grew nearer to Aisling’s departure – and she could see the haunted, defensive look returning to his eyes. But, however protective she felt towards him, she knew that Aisling was only being sensible.
She only hoped with all her heart that being sensible was the right thing to do.
Chapter 36
Aisling’s last day flew past in a whirlwind of activity, trying to fit things in before the late evening flight back to Ireland. The early part of the morning was spent re-packing her bags, to accommodate all the extra things she hadn’t really meant to buy. Then, she phoned Oliver to remind him of the plane arrival times. The line had not been good, and she used it as an excuse to keep the conversation brief.
Then, she decided to give Jean a last ring before leaving.
“How have things gone, honey?” Jean asked in a low voice, explaining that she didn’t want to be overheard by Aisling’s parents who were also in the last throes of packing.
“Really well,” Aisling sa
id. “Thomas is making a good recovery, thank God . . . and Jameson’s parents are as nice people as you would ever meet. They made me so welcome . . .”
“And Jameson? Is everything okay with you both?” There was a pause on the line for a few moments. “Has it been worth all the heartache with your mom . . . or are you having regrets?”
“No regrets at all,” Aisling answered immediately, “but there are complications . . . I’ll write to you when I get back, and I’ll explain everything. And once again – thanks for everything. Especially for your understanding.”
They chatted for a few more minutes, then Aisling asked her aunt to reassure her parents that she would see them at the airport later that evening.
“I’m real glad I got to know you before you left,” Jean said, “and I’ve missed our relaxed chats over our cocktails in the evening.” She gave a little tinkly laugh. “It was tea morning, noon and night after you left. And no doubt, we’ll all have a cup of terrible American tea at the airport!”
Aisling laughed too, then her voice dropped a little. “Jean . . . is my mother okay? I’ve been worried . . . I hope I didn’t ruin the rest of her holiday . . .”
“No, you did not,” Jean whispered. “We had some lovely trips out, and your mom and I did some serious talking. The thing is, Aisling – your mom is only doing what she thinks is best for you, and what she’s been brought up to think is right. And in her case, a bad marriage is better than broken marriage vows.” She paused again. “Any mother from Ireland would see things the way she does. She really loves you all, you know – but it’s hard for her.”
“I know that, Jean,” Aisling replied, “and I feel awful for hurting her.”
“I understand what you’re going through, honey,” Jean said, “but it’s better to risk hurting her now than to end up blaming her for the rest of your life.”
* * *
Jameson followed Aisling about, trying to help – but basically just not wanting to be away from her even as she packed. It was difficult, because it was as though time was not theirs any more, and now belonged to the trivial practicalities of preparing for the dreaded journey back to Ireland.
A final visit to the hospital filled in another part of the day, and left Aisling feeling much happier, because Thomas looked almost like his old self. She gave him his sailing-boat sweater, which he loved, then they played some games together, and finished off the tiny-piece jigsaw puzzle with the boating scenes.
“You – take this home,” Thomas said, crushing the finished jigsaw back into the box. Bits of it spilled on the bed and the floor and Aisling and Jameson moved around, picking the pieces up.
“That’s really nice of you, Thomas,” Aisling said, “but it’s yours. You can do it again back at Lake Savannah. You could even glue it together and make it into a picture for your bedroom wall.”
Thomas held his thumbs up. “Swell! A swell idea!” he said. He winked at Aisling. “Better than – old paintings – he makes!”
“Wow!” Jameson said, laughing. “You really are getting better, buddy! You didn’t have the energy for that kinda brave talk before!”
Aisling laughed and looked at Jameson. Then she noticed that his face was laughing – but the laughter had not reached the darkness in his eyes.
Eventually, the time came for her to say goodbye to the boy, the boy who had brought Aisling and his father together, the boy who had unwittingly brought a deep, passionate love into her life.
Thomas gave her a big hug. “See you . . . real soon,” he told her, with a big grin.
Aisling nodded and managed to keep a smile pinned on her face until she was out of the ward. She kept her gaze straight ahead as she and Jameson came down silently in the lift together, and walked silently back out to the car.
* * *
The trip to the airport was fraught with difficulty, with heavy traffic all heading in the same direction as themselves. Conversation was stilted, as Jameson had to keep his concentration on the weaving vehicles as they jostled for spaces in the packed lanes.
They had left Jameson’s parents’ house early to allow for traffic, and to give them a little time on their own in the airport before they met up with the others.
Once they were in the airport and the car safely parked, they headed for a restaurant in the airport, and found a table in a quiet corner.
“I’m sorry there’s nowhere a little fancier,” Jameson said, spreading his hands out on the formica table, “but I reckon we’re better here in the airport than looking for somewhere else outside with all the traffic.”
“It’s grand,” Aisling said quickly, “and you’ve been so good driving me here and waiting with me . . . under the circumstances with Thomas and everything.”
Jameson lifted his head so that his eyes looked directly into hers. “I wish I could say I was happy to bring you here,” he said in a flat voice, “but I reckon it would be the most untruthful thing I’ve ever said.”
Aisling looked back at him, unable to find anything suitable to say. What was there to say?
They ordered sandwiches they didn’t really want, a cold glass of beer for Jameson and a Martini for Aisling. Apart from helping to ease the tension between them, Aisling felt the drink just might relax her a little for the meeting with her parents.
Jameson got up several times to check the plane schedules on the board, whilst Aisling sat staring into the large chunky glass and idly playing with a mixing-stick and a slice of lime.
The feeling of depression that had started on the car journey had really crept over her. Watching Jameson, she was sharply reminded of the stranger she had met that first day in the shop with Thomas. He had that same frowning, defensive look . . . and Aisling knew that while she had quickly changed that look, today she was the cause of the return of it.
He came back to sit down beside her, and then he lifted a carrier bag from under the table. “Hell!” he said, his eyes brightening a little. “I nearly forgot.” He lifted a large, thin square package out from the bag. “I got this for you . . . I know you liked it.”
“You shouldn’t have . . .” Aisling said, now feeling even more awkward. Her throat tightened with emotion as she took the gift from him. It was wrapped in paper decorated with silver stars and moons and tied with gold thread – the sort of details he knew she would like. “It’s so beautifully wrapped that I don’t want to open it.”
“Well,” he said, shrugging, “you can wait till you get back . . . back to Ireland.”
Then, just to fill the dark, empty silence, Aisling found herself carefully untying the gold thread and unwrapping the decorative paper to reveal a long-playing album. When she examined it, she recognised it as the Bob Dylan album they had listened to on the long, warm evenings back at Lake Savannah.
“Oh, Jameson . . .” she whispered, putting the record flat down on the table. And, when she looked up at him, and found his eyes upon her, the stranger from the shop had vanished. She was once again looking at the man she knew so well and loved so much.
He gripped both her hands across the worn table – a serviceable, formica-topped table that had undoubtedly witnessed countless emotional goodbyes.
“I wanted to buy you something real special,” he said, a hint of self-consciousness in his voice. “Jewellery or something feminine like that – the kind of thing you could keep. But I knew it might cause you a problem, having to explain where it came from.” He lowered his gaze. “I reckoned that the album would let you take a few memories back without anyone else knowing what it meant.”
“The memories the music will bring back,” she said, “are worth much more than jewellery to me.” Then, she reached into her bag and gave Jameson the gift-wrapped, leather-bound poetry book.
He opened the package and looked at the cover, then opened the pages, halting to read a line here, and to examine an illustration there. Then, he closed the book and just held it in his hands. After a few minutes he lifted his head, and his eyes were shining with tears.
“It’s not too late,” was all he said.
“Please,” Aisling said in a quivery voice, “don’t say it . . . please.”
He slowly nodded his head. “OK,” he said quietly, “I’ve made a deal with myself that I won’t cause any big scenes here, although I really want to just pick you up in my arms and take you back home with me.” Then he took a small blue card from his shirt pocket and laid it out on the table in front of her. It had his address and phone number in Lake Savannah, and on the other side he had handwritten his parents’ address in New York.
“If – or when – you get things sorted out,” he told her, “contact me any time.” He gave a wry smile. “Don’t worry about the time difference, just call when it suits you. The same invitation as before – middle of the night, breakfast time – any time. I’ll be waiting.”
“Thank you,” Aisling whispered, “thank you.” She dropped her head, her blonde hair closing over her face like two pale wings.
“We could have a good life together, the three of us,” he went on, “and if you got homesick for your family, Jean is just a few minutes’ walk away.”
Aisling reached across the table and very gently pressed her finger to his lips. He caught her hand and held it – kissing it for a final time.
Then, it was time to go.
Aisling led the way, head down and heart aching, with Jameson following silently behind with her bags. They walked out of the restaurant and into the concourse, and then out into the departure area. And there – sitting on the first bench inside – were Maggie and Declan.
“Aisling!” Maggie was on her feet, running towards her daughter and hugging her as though she hadn’t seen her for years. “Thank God you’ve come! Thanks be to God and his Blessed Mother, you’ve come!”
Surprisingly, both her parents managed a civilised and fairly warm welcome to Jameson, immediately asking for Thomas. He told them that he was making a good recovery, but that it would be several more weeks before he was ready to come out of hospital.
Aisling Gayle Page 35
