Winter Wishes

by Fern Michaels

  Chapter Three

  ONDINE

  Ireland is the geographic equivalent to Prozac. If psychiatrists prescribed a week in the Emerald Isle, the world would be a mentally healthier place.

  My heavy mood lifted moments after landing in Dublin. First, the An Garda Síochána working in the Passport Control booth complimented my hair. Then, a super sexy Chris Evans lookalike police officer flirted with me while I waited at the baggage carousel.

  Even the double-decker bus ride from the airport to my hotel was filled with pleasant surprises, like free Wi-Fi and a sign that read, NOTICE TO NITELINK PASSENGERS: LADIES, THE POLES ARE FITTED FOR YOUR SAFETY. NO DANCING.

  I cashed in my Hilton Honors points for two nights at the Morrison, a sleek boutique hotel favored by musicians and actors. The girl at the front desk apologized because my room wasn’t ready by offering me a glass of champagne and an upgrade to a suite. When she said the concierge could assist in making restaurant reservations, arranging for spa services, recommending night life hot spots, and procuring theater tickets, I asked her if he could get me a date with Colin Monaghan.

  “Ah, so ya fancy our Colin, do ya?” she said, then leaned over the counter and lowered her voice. “He was here last week. Had dinner in our own Morrison Grill.”

  “Shut up! You’re not serious?”

  “Ah, sure.” She smiled. “He’s over County Kerry way, shooting an action film.”

  “I know,” I said, returning her smile. “I am headed there next. In fact, finding Colin is the whole reason I came to Ireland.”

  She frowned and glanced over at the burly valet standing at the door

  “Not in a creepy, stalker kinda way, though.”

  Now, I am making my way through the narrow alleys of the Temple Bar district, reading the bright neon signs promising PIZZA & BOOZE; SOUP OF THE DAY: WHISKEY; and BOOZE: BECAUSE NO GREAT STORY EVER STARTED WITH SALAD.

  My phone vibrates, alerting me to a new text. I pull it out of my pocket and open the message, which is from Vivia.

  I made a few phone calls, pulled a few strings, promised my firstborn, and I have hooked a sister up! Check your e-mail ASAP!!

  I walk down the street, over a bridge spanning the River Liffey, and to a colorful, bustling Christmas market with stalls selling mugs of steaming whiskey-infused hot chocolate and bowls of seafood chowder, woolen sweaters, handmade scarves, artisan jewelry, jars of Shines Wild Irish Tuna, and Butlers chocolate reindeers. I step beneath a large candy cane with a FREE WI-FI sign hanging from it and wait for my e-mail to download.

  To: Grace Murphy

  From: Vivia Perpetua Grant

  Subj: Get your groove on

  Fáilte go hÉirinn! (That means “Welcome to Ireland!”) If you are reading this, it means you have landed in the Isle O’Monaghan. I hope you have packed your dancing shoes because I scored you two VIP tickets to Lillie’s Bordello, an uber-posh club that is the Dublin hang-place for celebs, including your boy, Colin. Grab a hot Irishman as your plus one. Do everything I would do and snap selfies to prove it (See attachment for the address to Lillie’s Bordello, the POC, and your tickets).

  I’ve also been burning up Google and calling all of my contacts in Hollywood. I found out exactly where Colin is filming in County Kerry. The shoot is near a little place called Sneem. They are looking for extras for the film. I have included the name and phone number of the casting director. Give her a call.

  Love, V

  I squeal. Literally squeal like a tween at a 5 Seconds of Summer concert.

  “Are ya pissed from drinking too much whiskey nog at the Jameson booth or did Michael Fassbender just send you a sexty?”

  I turn in the direction of the voice and find a pretty redhead leaning against a booth selling silver jewelry.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Ya just squealed.”

  “I did, didn’t I?”

  She nods her head and a long lock of her coppery hair falls over her eye. “If ya just got a sexty from Michael, be a pal and let me take a look,” she says, blowing the hair away from her eye. “It is Christmas, after all.”

  I laugh.

  “Sorry, no sexties from Michael Fassbender.”

  “Damn.”

  I walk over to her booth.

  “My girlfriend just sent me two VIP tickets to some posh club called Lillie’s Bordello.”

  “Feck me.” She whistles. “That is a reason to squeal.”

  “Right?”

  She nods her head. “Lillie’s Bordello is jammers with celebs. Bono, Rihanna, Mick Jagger, Colin Monaghan, and even Michael Fassbender. They all party there.”

  “I am Grace, by the way.”

  “Pleased to meet ya, Grace,” she says, grinning. “I’m Ondine.”

  “Nice to meet you, Ondine,” I say. “Your jewelry is very pretty. Do you make it?”

  “Guilty.”

  I pick up a delicate silver necklace with a round polished silver pendant engraved with strange words.

  “Is this Gaelic?”

  “Yes. It says, ‘What lies behind us and what lies ahead of us are tiny matters compared to what lies within us.’”

  “Are you kidding me?”

  “No,” she says, frowning. “Why?”

  “It’s like”—I shake my head—“serendipity brought me to you. You can’t begin to know how much the saying on your necklace resonates with me. I’ll take it.”

  “Sounds like ya got a story to tell.”

  “A long story.”

  “Ooo, those are the best kinds.” She pats the stool beside her. “I’ve got the time.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Come on, then,” she says, smiling. “Tell me your story while I wrap up your necklace.”

  I step into the booth, take a seat on her stool, warm my feet by her space heater, and unload my whole heavy story on her. I even tell her the bit about coming to Ireland to find Colin Monaghan . . . but not in a creepy way.

  “You are brave to travel to a strange country, alone, for the holidays.”

  “So you don’t think I am crazy?”

  She laughs. “Oh, I think you are mad as a box of frogs! But, no worries, I like mad.”

  Ondine tells me her story. She’s half Irish, half American. Her father is Irish and her mother is American. They couldn’t bridge the cultural divide and divorced when she was ten years old. She has been bouncing back and forth between Ireland and the States ever since, studying international law at Columbia and spending summers and holidays working at her father’s pub and restaurant in County Kerry, near her father’s home. She tells me about her large family scattered from Dublin to Denver.

  “It must be nice to have such a large family.”

  “Exhausting,” she says, rolling her eyes. “What about you? Do you have a large family?”

  I shake my head. “I don’t have a family.”

  “Everyone has a family.”

  “Not me.”

  “Go on with ya.”

  I give her a pathetic half smile, half frown and shrug my shoulders.

  “So you will be spending Christmas alone?”

  “Yes . . . unless Colin invites me back to his place for a little whiskey nog.”

  “Listen,” she says, handing me the wrapped box containing my necklace. “I know we just met, but you are welcome to spend Christmas with me, at my father’s house.”

  My stomach clenches. It happens every time someone looks at me like I am a homeless, crippled war vet. Poor, pitiful Grace.

  “Thank you, but . . .”

  “Think on it,” she says. “You said you were headed to Sneem. I live in Sneem. If that’s not serendipity at work, I don’t know what is.”

  I am about to stand up and say good-bye when I decide to step out of character. Instead of letting my pride get in the way of accepting a kindly offered handout, I decide to grab it with both hands.

  “I would be happy to spend Christmas with you, but only if you agree to be my plus one at
Lillie’s Bordello tonight.”

  “Are ya fecking serious?”

  I nod my head.

  “I can’t believe it. Lillie’s Bordello! We are going to catch some good craic!”

  “Crack?” I stand up. “I’m sorry, Ondine, but I don’t do drugs.”

  “No, no,” she says, laughing. “Craic doesn’t mean what you think it means. Craic is Irish for ‘fun, having a good time.’”

  “Oh,” I laugh. “Then we are going to have loads of craic.”

  Later, as I am stepping into a cab to go to Lillie’s Bordello, I realize this trip is just like that old Nissan Sentra commercial—the one where a guy named Bob is speeding down a highway in a Nissan Sentra. A policeman pulls him over, but doesn’t give him a ticket because . . . it’s Bob. He passes a sign that says, NO PARKING, EXCEPT FOR BOB. Everything is golden for Bob.

  I am Bob. And I am loving it.

  Lillie’s Bordello turns out to be a super swanky nightclub with a Victorian brothel vibe. Crushed red velvet wallpaper, leather sofas, wood paneling, and cozy nooks in dark corners perfect for getting down and dirty in a hurry. We order martinis and stand near the dance floor. A cute DJ with a buzz cut and mirrored sunglasses is spinning a pulsating electro beat while a bouncer aims a huffing fog machine at the people on the dance floor.

  A gorgeous man in an Armani suit sans tie asks me to dance and before I know it we are grinding to a Calvin Harris and Rihanna remix. When the dance floor becomes too crowded, he takes my hand and leads me up the stairs to a members-only room called the library. He tells me he works as a second-unit director.

  “For movies?”

  “Movies and television shows,” he says, draping his arm over my shoulders and leaning in close enough for me to smell the spicy cologne on his heated skin. “I just finished filming in County Wicklow. A show called The Marauders.”

  I am dying to ask him if he has ever worked with Colin Monaghan, but he is absently toying with the slender straps of my LBD and making it hard for me to concentrate. He leans in to kiss me and I let him. He tastes of whiskey and brash self-confidence. He tastes like a bad boy. If I am not careful, assistant director Seán’s Armani suit is going to be balled up on my hotel room floor and I am going to be adding another notch to my lunatic belt.

  By the time Ondine links her arm through mine and we stagger out of the club, past the golden velvet rope separating the in-crowd from the crowd outside, we are pissed on martinis and totally feeling the craic. We have also become fast friends.

  Before parting ways, she asks me if I would like to drive with her to Sneem and crash on her pullout sofa at her cottage.

  “You’re serious? I wouldn’t be an imposition?”

  “Ah, away with ye then,” she says, laughing. “I’d love to have ya. Besides, if ya manage to track down Colin, ya have to promise to come back and help me track down Michael Fassbender—but not in a creepy way.”

  Chapter Four

  SAVING MR. BANKS

  The four-hour drive from Dublin to Sneem takes us through rolling farmland, over gorse-covered hills dotted with fat, woolly sheep, and through forests of towering pines as ancient as the Celtic tribes that once lived here. At Ondine’s suggestion, we make a quick detour to visit the Rock of Cashel, a castle and cathedral perched high on a hill with sweeping views of the countryside.

  I worried spending four hours in a car with a virtual stranger would be uncomfortable, but we talk and laugh like we have known each other all our lives. No awkward pauses. No forced convos. The discussion flows as freely as an Irish spring.

  We stop for dinner in Kenmare, a postcard-perfect town. The main road, Henry Street, is lined with Victorian-era row houses that remind me of an exuberant grade school student’s art project. Each building is painted a different color—mellow lavender, sky blue, brick red, pea green, sunny yellow—and strung with twinkling white fairy lights.

  We have fish and chips at O’Donnabháin’s, a charming pub and restaurant with cozy wooden booths and a potbellied stove. The air is tinged with the scent of burning wood and foamy ale.

  When I made my reservations for this trip, I booked a single room at a B and B fifteen miles inland from Sneem because that was all I could afford, but serendipity has decided to cram my stocking full of unexpected goodies this Christmas.

  Ondine’s cottage is within walking distance to the Parknasilla Resort and Spa, which, according to the waitress at O’Donnabháin’s, is where Colin and cast are staying while they film the movie.

  By the time I take the last sip of my Bulmers Irish Cider and swallow the last bite of my crispy-coated, flaky fish, I am practically vibrating with anticipation. In less than an hour, I am going to be within walking distance of Colin OhMyGod Monaghan.

  “Let’s go,” Ondine says, smiling.

  “You’re sure? You haven’t finished your Guinness.”

  “I’m good.” She stands and shoves her arms in the sleeves of her coat. “I saw the look on your face when the waitress said Colin is staying at Parknasilla.”

  Everything about Ondine’s home is straight out of an Irish fairy tale. The whitewashed cottage, with its thatched roof and blue-painted flower boxes, sits at the end of Oysterbed Road on a wooded hill overlooking the sea. The cottage and surrounding eighty acres have belonged to her family for generations. Her father lives in town, over his pub. He gave her the cottage as an incentive to stay in Ireland full-time.

  By the time we unload the car and unpack our suitcases, the sun looks like it is swimming in the sea, its slender golden rays dipping in and out of the water.

  “If you follow the path through the forest, keeping the water on your right, you will eventually reach Parknasilla,” Ondine says, handing me a flashlight. “Good luck, my friend.”

  I take the flashlight and hurry down the path. Twenty-two minutes later I arrive at the resort. The main building is an eighteenth-century stone manor, with towering chimneys and a slate roof. Other than a couple walking hand in hand along the water and a waiter bearing a silver tray with empty champagne glasses, the place is dead. I consider going inside the resort and inquiring at the front desk, but don’t want to seem like a gauche American tourist. I keep walking until I arrive at a gravel parking lot. Three gigantic cranes affixed with lights are parked in the lot. They’re the kind of lights you would expect to see on an outdoor movie set. You know that dry mouth, fluttery tummy feeling you get right before you are about to go on a first date with a new guy? That’s what I am feeling right now. Any second, the man of my dreams could walk up to me, smile, and walk away with my heart.

  I hold my iPhone low, snap a selfie with the movie lights in the background, and text it to Vivia with the message: Guess where I am?

  It takes seconds for her response to hit my phone.

  Colin Monaghan’s arms? Get it, girl!

  I laugh and switch my phone to airplane mode before continuing my not-so-subtle recon mission around the resort. I walk through the gardens, peek into windows, stop by the bar and order a Coke. I even pop into the spa and schedule a massage for later in the week. The girl working the desk at the spa tells me all treatments include a complimentary day pass to the facilities. If I still haven’t found Colin by the day of my appointment, I will use my saved B and B money and get that massage.

  Maybe I set an unrealistically high expectation in hoping to find Colin on my very first day in County Kerry, but I return to Ondine’s cottage with a little air missing from my buoy, the one that bobs around inside me and contains all of my hopes.

  * * *

  The next day, while Ondine is working in her father’s pub, I am back at Parknasilla, skulking in the bushes, peeking in more windows, pretending to be a guest catching rays on the sun loungers. Other than a few trailers parked behind the main lodge and some people carrying clipboards and walkie-talkies, I see no evidence that Parknasilla is the temporary home to a major motion picture crew. And I certainly see no evidence that Colin “Fell-From-Heaven” Monaghan is
in residence. No golden rings of light, no heavenly choir singing, no bolts of lightning shooting from the sky. By the time I return to Ondine’s cottage, a little more air has escaped from my hope buoy.

  * * *

  On my third morning in Sneem, I put on my spandex running tights and jog the path through the forest. I am not going to lie. My buoy is nearly deflated. I spoke to a maid at Parknasilla yesterday who hinted the crew had moved to another location. She said the director insisted everyone at the hotel sign strict confidentiality agreements and that she could get sacked just for saying the words movie crew.

  Instead of following the path to the resort, I veer right and run through the forest. I keep running, breathing in the crisp, pine-scented air, until I come to an incline. I dig deep for that last bit of endurance and run up the hill. By the time I reach the top and break out of the forest, my breath is coming in sharp jags and my glutes are on fire. The view is spectacular, though. Totally worth the pain. I am standing on a rocky outcropping overlooking the water. I collapse on the rocks and stare up at the wispy clouds skittering across the cobalt sky. For the first time in . . . maybe ever, I am at peace. Lying on this rock, listening to the waves lapping below, I suddenly realize the frenetic energy that coursed through my veins back in Philadelphia, the urgent need to keep moving, keep working, has dissipated.

  I close my eyes and let the warmth of the morning sun sink down deep to my bones. I am wrapped in a cocoon of well-being and utter contentment, about to drift off, when I hear the steady thump-thump-thump of helicopter blades. I sit up, shield my eyes with my hand, and stare out over the placid sea. The helicopter is flying parallel to the shore about a hundred feet over the water. The tail has a large green shamrock painted on it and I realize it is one of those see Ireland by air tours. I am about to lie back down when the helicopter banks left, the passenger door swings up, and a man tumbles out. My stomach drops to my tennis shoes as I watch him struggle to hold on to the landing skids, his feet flailing wildly.