“I’d like to hear more about your Irish grandmother.”
“I’m saving it for dinner conversation. I’ve created a whole database of conversation starters for the next few days, and I’m proud to say that none of them include the weather.”
“But don’t you know that’s all they talk about in Shambles? Such is the curse of a seaside town. The wind blows in and the wind blows out and that’s about the most that happens.”
“Back to your grandmother…”
“We’ll be in separate rooms,” he says with some finality. “I’d be surprised if she’d even let us stay on the same floor. She’s … old-fashioned.”
“I could already tell from that spoon comment. I don’t want to get on her bad side. I better abide by the rules.”
And, well, honestly, this is a bit of a relief. What Angie had said the other day about the fact that I get emotionally compromised when I sleep with someone is totally true. I hate to think that our one-night stand will remain a one-night stand, but on the other hand, if I can keep a clear head, then all the better.
Plus, the last thing I want to do is explain to Padraig why I’d want to keep my distance in the bedroom. The fact that I don’t even have to tell him is a bonus.
I’m staring at Padraig (because that’s what I’ve been doing a lot on this drive) when he suddenly starts gripping the wheel tighter and tighter, his knuckles turning white on his large hands.
“Are you okay?” I ask him just as his eyes pinch shut in pain. I look to the road and the fact that we’re on the wrong side is confusing me, thinking we’re going to die. I’m not used to the way they drive here yet. Then when I look back, his eyes are open and unblinking.
“I’m fine,” he says. “Just had a dizzy spell for a moment.”
“Like a panic attack? Because I definitely get those.”
“That’s probably it.”
“Do you want to pull over? Do you want me to drive?”
He looks at me, squinting in disbelief. “Have ye ever driven on this side of the road before?”
“No, but I’m sure I can figure it out.” I don’t want to tell him that I’ve been wincing this entire time because it feels so damn wrong to be on this side.
“I’m fine. Really. Just … overwhelmed.”
I can only imagine, so I leave it at that.
For the rest of the drive I go over our fictional engagement until it’s starting to sound real, though Padraig definitely has something on his mind as he gives me nods and grunts and one-word answers.
Finally, the road curves out of the rolling green countryside and a wide estuary appears in front of us. The sun seems to come out from behind the thick clouds for just that moment too and I smile at the way it glints off the water, feeling serendipitous.
“Welcome to County Cork,” Padraig says as we drive over a bridge and the road hugs the water on the opposite side. Soon, the town emerges, a narrow slip of stone buildings along the waterfront, interspersed with bright, candy-colored buildings. “And welcome to Shambles.”
“It’s so cute,” I say, staring at all the charming pubs and restaurants and stores selling wool and gnomes and clover souvenirs. With the narrow cobblestone roads and stone walls, it fits the quaint Irish town of my dreams.
Except, as we keep driving through and out of the town, a wide expanse of sandy beach runs alongside the road.
“A beach,” I remark. “For some dumb reason I didn’t picture Ireland having white sand beaches.”
“We have plenty of beaches like this. There are miles of them down the coast here. In the summer, you can go swimming. In the winter, you can always go for a polar bear dip.”
“That sounds like something a macho rugby player would do after a few beers.”
“Maybe,” he says with a small smile.
After a few minutes of driving along the sea, he takes a road that heads inland through green hills bordered with crumbling stone walls and low hedges. Piles of melting snow are dotted here and there. We slow near a sign that says Shambles Bed & Breakfast and he turns onto the long gravel driveaway flanked by a wide expanse of lawn.
“A B&B?” I ask, surprised he didn’t tell me about that.
“Best one in town,” he says, winking at me as he puts the car in park. “I have to say that or I’ll get the spoon.”
In front of us is a rather large two-story stone house done up in stark white with an undulating thatched roof. I’d heard about all the thatched roof cottages and houses in Ireland and desperately wanted to see one.
I get out of the car and take in a deep breath of air. Even though it’s the dead of winter, there’s a freshness here. The air is chilled but damp with the sea and it feels like I’m waking up for the first time. Either that or the jet lag is finally wearing off.
“She’s pretty in the spring and summer,” Padraig says, stopping beside me and staring at the house. “But my nan takes good care of it.”
“Your grandmother runs this place?”
“Yea,” he says and then looks over to the green-painted door that’s opening. “Now you can finally meet her.”
I’m not sure if he’s saying that because he’s already playing the role, but out of the front door steps who I assume is his grandmother.
And she’s not at all like I pictured.
For some reason my mind conjured up this tiny round woman wearing a perpetual apron and permanent scowl, her hair kept under a bonnet.
For one, she’s tall. Even though she’s got a hunch, she’s at least an inch taller than me (I can see why she’d be so formidable with a wooden spoon). Her face is pale and wrinkled, with deep folds around her mouth, yet her eyes are bright, curious, and shining. She’s bundled up in a big coat and I don’t think there’s an apron underneath. Her white hair is kept back under a scarf, though, like a young Queen Elizabeth.
“Padraig!” she cries out. “Yer late!”
I can barely understand her thick accent, or if she’s genuinely upset or not.
Padraig takes my hand and gives it a squeeze, his warm palm pressed against mine, contrasting the chill outside. In that squeeze, I feel everything that’s going through his head with what we’re about to undertake.
He’s home and I’m here with him and this isn’t going to be easy.
What have I gotten myself into?
“Nana,” he says, pulling me over to her where she waits by the front door, her coat pulled tightly around her. That’s when she really notices me, notices us holding hands, and her gaze becomes sharp as an axe.
We stop in front of her and her eyes run up and down me in inspection before looking back to Padraig.
“Where are yer manners, boy?” she says to him, jerking her head toward me. “First of all, ye haven’t introduced me to yer girl here, and second of all, ye never told me you were bringing company. I should have known. I could have cleaned up. The good lord knows this place could have been fully booked and there would’ve been no room for her.”
Padraig gives her a patient smile. “Are the rooms all booked up?”
“Ach, no,” she says almost angrily. “It’s January. There’s only the Major here.”
“The Major?” I ask.
“That’s what I call him,” Padraig says to me. “Ever seen Fawlty Towers?” I nod. “Well then, ye know the Major is the old man who lives at the hotel. We have a Major here.”
“He has a name,” his grandmother chides him, even though she’s the one who called him the Major first. “And speaking of names, what the devil is yer name, miss, since Padraig has lost his manners somewhere on a rugby pitch?”
I hold out my hand. “I’m Valerie Stephens.”
Her skin is rough and calloused and she gives my hand a bone-crushing shake. I try not to wince.
“You’re a Canadian,” she says to me.
“No, American,” I correct her. “I’m from Philadelphia. But I live in New York.” Or, I did.
Her eyes narrow at that. Very unimpressed. I’ve not
iced a bit of hostility from people here when I tell them where I’m from.
“Yea,” she says carefully. She brings her sharp gaze to Padraig. “Where ye find this one then? Don’t think you’ve ever brought a girl home before, let alone some American. Ye snatching up tourists?”
Kind of.
“How about we make the introductions inside where it’s warm,” Padraig says. “And where’s my hug, anyway?” He gently pulls his grandmother into a big bear hug and my heart seems to grow a few more sizes.
“Oof,” she says, trying to get out of his embrace. “You trying to kill yer oul’ nana?” She manages to pull away and heads through the door. “Okay, come on, come on. I’ll get a pot of tea going.”
We step inside the front hall and I’m immediately met with a rush of warm air. The place is all white stone walls and wood floors and so many cozy earthy knickknacks and thick rugs all over the place.
“Hang up yer coats on them hooks. Take off yer shoes,” she says to me, pointing at my boots. “Put on those slippers, miss. You too, boy.”
I hang up my coat and quickly unzip my boots, picking out a pair of handmade wool slippers that are all lined up in various colors and sizes along a low bench. I put on a pair of dark green ones and to my surprise Padraig chooses hot pink.
I giggle, and he shrugs. “They’re the only ones big enough for my feet. I know my nan knitted these as a joke, she just won’t admit it.”
“What are ye blathering on about?” she says as she disappears around the corner. “Don’t think my hearing has gone. The devil has cursed me for having to listen to yer nonsense until the day I go.” She then mutters under her breath, “Won’t be a moment too soon.”
I look wide-eyed at Padraig. She’s both hilarious and intense in her grumpiness.
“You’ll get used to it,” Padraig says quietly, leading me over to the living area.
“I heard that!” his grandmother calls out from the kitchen.
The living area is beyond cozy, with a roaring fire at one end, a plush couch, and two doily-accented armchairs. In the middle is an old wooden coffee table littered with brochures and a guestbook. Even if the next few days end up being crazy, at least I can say I stayed in a genuine Irish house in the country.
“Where’s me oul’ man?” he asks. He’s only home for a few minutes and already his accent is deepening.
“He’s in the cottage taking a nap,” she answers from around the corner. “You’ll see him later.”
We sit down on the couch and Padraig puts his arm around me, and I settle into him like it’s second nature, and for a moment there, I really believe this could be real. It feels real, being with him like this. Just easy and casual and protected by his big burly mass in this quaint, cozy home.
Then his grandmother comes out, putting her hands on her hips and stopping in the kitchen doorway, eyeing us. “Now, do ye want a mineral before yer tea?”
A mineral?
“Just tea is fine,” Padraig says.
“Ah, go way outta that. She looks tired. She needs a wee mineral. I’ll get some for ye both.”
She disappears, and I look at Padraig. “A what?”
“Old folk like to force feed it on ye,” he whispers in my ear, causing very inappropriate shivers to cascade down my back. “It’s just 7-Up.”
“Oh.” I never drink soft drinks. My mother never had them in the house growing up, and if I ever indulged she told me I’d just get fatter. Which, in hindsight, was probably a healthy thing to do, even if it didn’t come from a health-conscious place.
Still, when his grandmother delivers us two glasses of 7-Up and says she’s going back to “wet the tea,” I end up drinking half of it in one go. Guess I was thirsty, or perhaps just deprived of corn-syrupy goodness.
By the time she comes out with the pot of tea, I’ve finished the glass. She looks mildly impressed and says to Padraig, “Yea, see, yer wan needed a good mineral. She looks the picture of health already.”
I watch as she pours us tea, her hands remarkably steady. “Now, please, one of ye explain what’s going on here. Padraig, ye never mentioned a lass when we talked and now here she is. This is like hen’s teeth, you know it.”
“Well,” Padraig says, sitting up straighter. He takes his arm out from around my shoulder and puts his hand on my knee. “I have something to tell ye and I’m glad you’re sitting down. I figured I would wait for Dad to wake up…”
“That would take donkey’s years,” she says. “Now, what’s the story, I ain’t getting younger.”
Padraig gives me an anxious smile, squeezing my hand before turning to his grandmother. Here we go. “Valerie isn’t just my girlfriend, Nan. She’s my fiancé. We’re getting married.”
A big, heavy pause fills the air while his grandmother frowns, scrutinizing us. Finally she leans back in her chair and gives us a dismissive wave, looking the other way. “Oh, away with ye. Yer codding me, aren’t ye?”
Padraig laughs gently. “I’m serious. We’re engaged.”
She looks back at us, arms crossed and lips pursed. “I’m supposed to believe ye? Where’s her ring? Yer a real eeijit if you propose without a ring. Didn’t yer mother teach you better than that? I know she did because I raised her better than that.”
I’m not sure at first what Padraig is going to say, but from the way he’s not looking at me, I have an idea.
“I don’t have a ring because I wanted to ask Dad if I could use Mam’s. I think it would mean a lot to him, and to Mam, if I could give that ring to Valerie. Let the ring live on. Do ye know what I mean like?”
I keep the smile plastered on my face though I don’t feel good about it at all. I know Padraig is coming from a good place, albeit a desperate one, and I am not one to judge what someone does to appease their family, because, believe me, I’m no angel in that department. But it does feel like he’s not taking the implications seriously.
However, it does seem to work on his grandmother because her features soften. “Merciful Jesus in heaven, yer serious.”
He nods, his grip on my knee tighter. “We’re very much in love and that ring would do us a great honor.”
Ouch. The very much in love part. Who knew I would feel something from that?
She stares at him some more, then at me. Finally she says, “Yer father might just have a heart attack when he wakes up to this news.”
“But he’ll be happy, yea?” he asks, his tone anxious. This is all he’s wanted, the whole reason for doing this.
There’s a twinkle in her eye as she sips her tea. “We’ll have to wait and see, won’t we?”
11
Padraig
I wasn’t shocked that my nan didn’t believe me at first. After all, the only times my family has seen me with a girl was when someone I was briefly hooking up with was photographed in the tabloids. Announcing that I suddenly have a fiancé is, as my nan’s colorful words put it, as rare as hen’s teeth.
But she did believe it, especially as I gave the story about the ring. Which, I didn’t at all feel bad about until Valerie practically berated me in the car earlier for even suggesting it.
I know why she thought it wasn’t a wise idea. The last thing I want is for it to seem like I’m spitting on my mam’s grave, but the truth is, it would mean something to my dad. As long as he never finds out the truth, then he can die knowing I found true love and that this love pays tribute to the love between my parents.
When it comes to jinxing or cursing future love for me though, I’m not worried. Maybe it seems like crying wolf to Valerie, but I was honest with her when I said I wouldn’t be getting married to anyone. A fake engagement is enough, even though sometimes when I look at Valerie I’m hit with this feeling, deep in the seat of me, that what we have could become something more under different circumstances.
But these circumstances are what we have and she doesn’t know everything. She doesn’t know what I’m really going through and hopefully she doesn’t ever have to know. Hope
fully my father won’t either.
When we’re done with our tea and my nan has warmed up to the idea that Valerie is my fiancé, she gives her a quick tour of the place and I grab our luggage from the car. She puts Valerie in the biggest bedroom upstairs, with the best view over the back gardens, cottage, mews, field, and forest. No surprise, she puts me downstairs beside Major’s bedroom.
“Well, hello young fella,” Major says as he steps out of his room and sees the three of us in the hallway. “Didn’t know you’d be by. It’s been a while.”
“And he’s staying a while this time, aren’t ye boy?” Nan says, nudging me with her sharp elbows.
“What’s that?” The Major says loudly, gesturing to his ear.
“She said I’m staying a while,” I say, raising my voice.
“Wha?”
“I’m staying a while!”
See, the Major got his name because he was a major in the army back in the day and is always sharply dressed in a suit, like he is now, even though he doesn’t go anywhere except the pub. But unlike the character in Fawlty Towers, he’s not senile, just hard of hearing, and he refuses to wear a hearing aid.
“Ah,” he says with a nod. He claps his hands together and smiles. “Good.”
We make quick, albeit loud, introductions to Valerie, then my nan takes her around the property, to the archery set-up in the walled garden and the falconry mews (an owl is the B&B’s logo, and it’s what we’re most known for).
Meanwhile, it’s time for me to say hello to my father.
I take in a deep breath and head over to the stone cottage, which is where I actually grew up.
I open the door and step inside and am hit with a wave of nostalgia. The smell of the stone in winter, the wood burning on the fire, the dust of the thick rugs and woolen throws. It’s been a few years since I’ve been back and yet I’m instantly transported back to when I was a child.
There’s two bedrooms, the toilet, the small kitchen, the dining room with the same round table, the living area, and just off of that, a tiny alcove lined with books where my mother would spend her time reading and writing poetry.
My Life in Shambles: A Novel Page 11
