by Holley Trent
She extended one limp-wristed hand to shake or kiss or–hell, he didn’t know. “Nice meeting you.”
He released Emma’s hand and shook the nanny’s.
She transferred a slip of paper into his palm and quickly pulled her hand back.
Fuck.
With a little finger wave and a giggle, she whispered, “Bye, now.”
“Right.” He tucked the number into his pocket, skimming the edges of a heavy stock business card in the process, and put Emma on his hip.
Don’t hold your breath, lady.
She looked like the kind of woman who wanted a boyfriend, and he didn’t want to be that, not for any woman. He refused commitment or anything resembling it, and for good reason.
Chapter 2
Erica trailed her fingertips along the lobby’s polished, wooden chair rail and made a cursory glace of placards as she sought the exhibition’s beginning. The framed photographs comprising the student art show elicited emotions from her that had less to do with the subject matter and more to do with the talent presented in it. Those kids had verve. They probably had no idea how their formal art training gave them a leg up, and not even so much for skill, but confidence. That was the rub.
Upon approaching a black-and-white diptych, she shook her head and scoffed. What part of the brain were these kids using that she obviously had no gateway to? How mature were they to be creating these compilations? On one half of the study before her was a close-up shot of long, elegant fingers belonging to what was apparently a very fine woman, given all her diamonds and immaculate manicure, holding a wine goblet’s delicate stem. The second half featured a vagrant’s dirt-caked fingernails, digits gnarled into a fist wrapped around the neck of a paper sack-shrouded bottle.
“Wow. How’d she even come up with that? What possessed her to take a picture of either? Did she plan that in advance, or…” Erica squinted at the paper placard beneath the work. “A first-year student? Fuck.” She threw up her hands and backed away.
Really, there wasn’t anything to hate about her photos. They were simple portraits, crime scene shots, or rally captures meant to accompany newspaper prose. Straight-on shots. Nothing special. Nobody gave them much thought. They just took up space, or not, if breaking news pre-empted them. She was reasonably sure nothing she’d ever photographed had made anyone ruminate.
“That one’s my favorite,” came a soft voice from her left.
Erica yipped, having thought she was alone in the lobby, and turned to find a small-framed, very pregnant woman with long light brown hair and eyes as blue as the Caribbean smiling at her.
American. Southern.
Erica cocked her head to the side and narrowed her eyes. The world seemed rather small again. Did Americans congregate in Maynooth the way the Irish did in Boston?
“You work here?” Erica asked.
The woman shook her head. “My husband is a professor in the history department. I totter over every now and then with his lunch. Sometimes I pop in here for nostalgia.”
“Nostalgia? You’re a photographer?” Please tell me you’re not as good as these kids.
“No, I never had any talent with that medium.” The woman stepped closer to the diptych, eyed the placard, and grunted her appreciation. “I studied art for a while when I was in college. I had to give it up, but I still regret switching majors.” She rubbed the top of her belly, idly it seemed, and let her forehead wrinkle. “Back then I was raging an internal battle between what I was good at and what would actually pay money.”
“What was your medium?”
“Drawing.” She laughed–a cute little snorting laugh she seemed completely unabashed by–and turned her bright gaze to Erica. With one corner of her mouth crooked upward into a smirk, she asked, “Who the hell can pay the bills with pencil drawings, right?”
“I see your point.” And she did. Sort of. She had never planned on becoming a photographer. It was just a job she was trying to make a career. Maybe. If it hadn’t been for her particular set of circumstances, she never would have thought photography was profitable. “Just out of curiosity, what’d you switch to?”
The woman rolled her eyes. “Biology.”
“And?”
“And I ended being a police sketch artist for years before I moved here. Ain’t that a kick in the head? That’s not even art. That’s just a utilitarian chore that’s mostly being phased out by folks with fancy computer programs now. It’s a good thing I’m being kept. What the hell would I do with myself otherwise? Caricatures at carnivals?”
Erica shoved her hand into the pocket of her light jacket and fiddled with the spare lens cap left there for that exact purpose. “Kept?”
The woman shrugged. “Yet another thing I didn’t plan, but…” She looked off through the windows overlooking the campus for a moment, deep in thought. “You can’t always plan things. Other peoples’ plans become yours. Anyway, I had an appointment nearby today so I stopped in just to grab a few extra minutes away from my kids.”
Erica’s expression must have been rather telling, because the woman blushed and put up her hands. “I mean… Ugh.” She sighed, closed her eyes, and pinched the bridge of her nose between her thumb and forefinger. “They’re great. Really sweet kids, but they’ve got a lot of energy and I’m…”
“Tired?”
“Yes.” She stuffed her hands into her cardigan’s pockets and turned back to the diptych. “And with this one coming, I worry I won’t get ten consecutive minutes of peace for the next five or six years. I guess, though, I’m glad they’ll all be close in age. I knew this would be hard, but hard is one thing. Exhausting is a completely different ball of wax.”
“Hmm.” Erica moved along the wall with the woman and assessed the charcoal drawing along with her. “My mother had six,” Erica volunteered. The woman seemed to have an open ear, and Erica felt compelled to fill it. When would she have the chance to just talk again? She couldn’t remember the last time she’d been able to unload without someone judging her or telling her Latina women didn’t whine.
She wanted to fucking whine.
“I was right in the middle,” she said with a chuckle. “The neglected one.”
Her “neglect” had been a bit of a running gag when she was a kid, up until it stopped being funny. No one ever noticed she was missing. The independence had been good in some ways. She’d learned how to be her own counsel and never asked for favors. Her mother was all about hearth and home and had no life outside the Desoto clan. Erica swore that would never be her–she wanted an identity.
At sunup her mother woke, fed them all, and got them out the door to their various jobs or school buses. She spent entire days with her back bent over grunt work, cleaning and cooking. She spent nights feeding everyone again, cleaning up their messes, washing their clothes. When she fell into bed every night next to the snoring husband who’d already been asleep for hours, she probably said her prayers on her back and thanked the lord for giving her another day to serve.
“Mamí, you’re like a slave,” Erica of age fourteen had once commented while her mother sweated over a steaming hot pot. “You’re smarter than this. You could do things.”
Her mother’s response had been something along the lines of, “You don’t know nothing. You’ll see. You gonna need someone to take care of you. You better learn your place.”
Even being a teenager, one who’d been raised Catholic and taught to obey, Erica had balked. “I’m going to be someone. Have my own things, like abuela said.”
Mamí had stopped stirring and turned with a scowl on her flushed face. “You listen to a crazy old woman whose sharp tongue gonna get her shot one day, or you listen to your mother?”
One day, Erica ran.
She shook herself free of her reverie and rubbed her arms, feeling as though a chill had settled in, though the building was quite warm. The dreams would come back if she left that particular floodgate open. Best she change the subject. She cleared her throat and mana
ged a small smile for her companion. “So, where are you from? You seem to have a bit of South in your mouth.”
The woman grinned and pushed some of that honey brown hair back from her face. It was even longer than Erica’s, but the length didn’t seem dated on her. The hair made her seem young, though she had to be close to thirty. It suited her.
“I guess I do, huh? Although, sometimes I hear myself talk and I hear my mother’s Yankee twang. I guess it depends who I’m speaking with. I grew up in North Carolina. In The Triangle. Lived there until three years ago.”
“No way!” Erica moved her camera bag to the other shoulder and shifted her weight. “This is turning into a really weird day for me. I live in Kannapolis. I just met a guy here on campus who goes to school in The Triangle.”
“Yeesh.” The woman cringed. “Uh, did that man happen to have two wild young’uns with him?”
“Yes, actually he did.”
She put up her hands. “Your coincidence just became less coincidental. Those little ruffians were probably my kids. I guess Curt’s walking them home now.” She rolled up her cardigan’s sleeve and focused at the clear gummy watch on her wrist. “Need to get them down for naps. I bet they’re giving him hell. Are you in the area for long?”
“I’m on sabbatical. I’ll be floating around between here and England until the weekend. I’m flying home out of London. Other than that, I’m not on any real schedule. Just wandering and…” She tapped her camera case. “Trying to find some inspiration.”
“Why don’t you come by for dinner tonight? I’d love to hear about what’s going on at home. I haven’t been back to North Carolina since my daughter was an infant. Been too hard to travel. Besides, I don’t get to chat with creative types too often. Pretty much all our regular visitors are geeks of some sort.” Her lips twitched, and Erica wondered what was so funny.
Erica shrugged. “Hell, why not? I could use a good meal.” She extended a hand. “Erica Desoto.”
The woman clasped it. “Carla Fennell. We live nearby, so you could probably walk from here. If you give me your phone, I’ll put the directions into your notepad if you’ve got one.”
“I do.” Erica woke up her phone and handed it over.
“We’ve gone so long without guests other than my father-in-law and my husband’s friends. They’re great to see, but boy, I miss having girlfriends around.”
That made Erica pause. A kindred spirit, perhaps? Maybe she wasn’t as singular as she thought. “Haven’t made any friends?”
“Oh, I guess I haven’t tried. I have friends at home in the US, you know? Good ones. Part of me feels like I’d be cheating on them if I made new friends here, but I know that’s irrational. They’d want me to be social.”
Oh.
Carla handed the phone back.
Erica tucked it into her bag’s front pouch. With her hand on the bag, her memory was spurred about that last shot she missed and the gorgeous slob who’d jogged up the path toward her and grinned as if she were some kind of plaything, and a disposable one at that. Suddenly, she felt very dizzy standing there and realized it was because of all the blood flooding her cheeks. She blew out a breath. Never had a man had that effect on her. “Uh, the guy with your kids, Curt, he’s a decent sort?”
Carla giggled and tugged her creeping shirt over her waistband. “That’s a loaded question. Why do you ask?”
“He’s flirtatious, huh?”
Carla shrugged. “He is, but since he’s always given me a wide berth, I don’t really know the extent.” She looked at her watch face once more and grimaced before mumbling something about tantrums. “So, see you around five? We eat sort of early for the kids. Sorry.”
Erica put up her hands in a calming gesture. “Don’t apologize. Five is great. It’ll give me a chance to charge up my camera battery. Should I bring anything?”
“Just your company.” Carla got almost all the way to the door and suddenly turned with a snap of her fingers. She pointed at Erica. “If you need a charge, use the student lounge. Right around the corner and through the double doors.”
“Thanks!” Nice lady. If I had friends, I hope they’d be like her.
Erica took one last look at the diptych, and with a sigh padded off toward the lounge. She understood now, and her mind reeled at the revelation. She didn’t have “it,” whatever it was. She wasn’t an artist. Never would be, and didn’t even have a fall-back like Carla.
Now what?
* * * *
Curt stared up at the gray sky, raking a hand back and forth through his thick hair as his other hand held his cell phone to his ear.
“We need an answer in two weeks,” the woman on the other end said.
“I can give you an answer right now, but I don’t know if it’s the one you want to hear.”
“You do understand how much paperwork we need to shuffle to arrange for your visa?”
“I’m perfectly aware, or haven’t you noticed I’ve lived in the US for much of the past ten years? I’ve done my own fair share of document filing.”
“Mr. Ryan, are you going to be a problem for us?”
“Probably.”
The woman sighed on her end, and Curt pitied her a bit. She was just a lowly HR drone with the unfortunate task of setting a fire under him. Hell, she probably spent entire days dealing with surly mathematicians and scientists, and likely wondered why couldn’t just one of them be easy. Curt knew he wasn’t easy. Never had been.
“We need an answer and your start date,” she said with a sigh.
“Fine.”
“And, uh…” She rustled some paper on her end. “Just for my records, have you been approached by any other companies?”
“Your records, huh? Or did Bridget Rose tell you to ask? Because that sort of falls into the realm of none-of-your-business.”
“The firm is prepared to pay you a signing bonus that could substantially offset the Federal deficit, and you don’t think they’re entitled to some curiosity?”
“Well, well. I think you have a sense of humor, don’t ya?”
“Two weeks, Mr. Ryan.” She hung up.
He let the phone fall to the grass. “Fuck.”
“I hate to interrupt your commune with nature, Curt, but dinner’s about ready and we have a guest.”
Curt sighed, propped himself onto his elbows, and glared at his old college friend. He’d been staying with Grant, his wife Carla, and their two kids for the past few days. They lived in Maynooth, closer to Dublin than his family in Mahon. He needed to be near Dublin to do what he’d come to Ireland for in the first place.
“Oh yeah?” he called across the garden. “I take it this person is the sort of guest who’d be concerned about the lush sprawling on your sod, huh?”
“Most likely. Come on, food’s hot. If we hold up dinner again, Carla’s going to bark. She’s cute when she’s mad, but I don’t want to get her blood pressure up. It’s probably bad for the baby.”
“Probably.” Curt stood with a groan and as he passed through the storm door, Grant gave him a reassuring pat on the back.
“A good meal will make it all better. Always does.”
“And it’ll provide something for all that alcohol to soak into, yeah?”
“Precisely. Can’t have you poisoning yourself with Irish Gold when you’re so close to earning your doctorate. Poison yourself after you get the check for the signing bonus. That way you’ll have insurance to cover your detox. While you’re drying out, maybe you’ll realize life doesn’t suck as bad as you think and give up the sauce for good.” As he passed, Grant gave Carla a goosing that made her yip and reflexively flick a dishtowel at him.
Curt rolled his eyes and as he approached the sink to wash his hands, he caught sight of the mystery guest in his blurry periphery. He turned his head fully toward the dining table to line her up within focus of his glasses.
That woman! Sitting there at the Fennells’ kitchen table with little Adam on her lap. What the hell?
<
br /> “Curt, you remember Erica, I guess?” Carla asked, pressing a glass of whiskey toward him.
He tried not to think too hard about how her supplying him with booze seemed antithetical to the drying out he really wasn’t in need of. “Yeah, how could I forget? Brain’s not quite that pickled yet, regardless of what you lot pretend.”
“Speaking of pickled brains, are you really content with Seth graduating before you? The same guy whose advisor disappeared without a trace for two full years?” Grant asked. “Fuck, you had all that time to catch up while he was in Russia with an expired visa, and you squandered it. What the hell were you doing, anyway?”
“Yeah, about that…” There was a tug at his jeans’ leg. Curt looked down to find Emma staring up him with a scowl on her angelic face. He knelt. “Yes, dear?”
“No eat potatoes.”
Carla blew out a long-suffering sigh at the stove and mumbled something incomprehensible.
“I’ll eat your potatoes,” Curt offered, feeling very magnanimous.
Erica snickered and he raised a brow at her. Oh, is that funny?
“No want them,” Emma reinstated as he returned his gaze to the tot.
“Okay. I promise they won’t touch your plate. There shall be no potato taint anywhere near your dish.” He looked across the room at Grant, who was trying, and failing, to suppress a laugh as he set the table. “You sure she’s Irish?” Curt asked.
“Mostly. That quarter Italian bit seems dominant, though. She’s averse to potatoes unless they’re going into her nonna’s gnocchi and covered in red sauce.”
“Nonna?” Emma turned in circles, looking around for the aforementioned missing grandparent.
“No, honey, Nonna’s not here right now,” Carla said softly, scooping her up. “You can call her later if you want.”
Emma’s bottom lip stuck out. “I want Nonna.”
Carla sighed again and looked back and forth from Curt to Erica, finally landing her gaze on the stranger at the table. “I’m sorry. I’ll be right back. It’s easier to handle these things before they turn into a full-blown shriek-fest. Five minutes?”
