Breakaway

by Deirdre Martin

  “For chrissakes, Lou, it was the first time I met the guy. Besides, I’d really like to spend a little more time talking to Erin, if you don’t mind.”

  “I do mind,” Lou said brusquely. “You’re great at this shit, and if there’s one thing the NHL needs, it’s players who are great at this shit. They all seem to love you, Rory. I don’t care who tugs on your sleeve: if they’re famous and not dangerous, talk to them. Talk to everybody. You get it? Erin, blame me for all this, not him. Okay? Now I gotta find something real to eat, pronto. None of this finger food bullshit.”

  Erin heard Rory curse Lou under his breath as he waddled away.

  “Quite the character, eh?” Rory looked apologetic as he leaned over and kissed her bare shoulder. “I’m sorry about this. I knew it was going to be a big-deal party; I just didn’t know how big deal. I—shit.”

  Erin looked around. “What?”

  “See that guy over there beckoning us over? The one with the slicked-back hair and kind of rubbery face?” Erin nodded. “That’s Ken Taggart. He’s the chairman of the English National Ice Hockey League. I really should go talk to him.” He cocked his head hopefully. “Come with? It won’t be long.”

  “No, you go. I’ll just be in the way.”

  “No, you won’t.”

  “Rory, go,” she said, which was the last thing she wanted.

  Rory searched her face. “You sure?”

  “Go. I’m tired. I’m just going back to the room. I’ll be fine.”

  “I won’t be too late,” said Rory. “I promise.”

  Christ, he’s a natural. Irish. You’ve all got the gift of gab.

  Lou Capesi’s words reverberated in Erin’s head as she returned to the hotel room. I must have been born in another country, she thought, because if there’s one thing I don’t possess, it’s the gift of gab. Never will, either.

  She unzipped her dress and peeled off her Spanx, hoping that if her body were able to relax, her mind might follow. But it didn’t. She felt miserable at the party, watching Rory glide smoothly from clique to clique, bringing smiles to people’s faces, making them laugh. She knew it was all part of his job. She also knew that when he was exercising that part of his personality, she ceased to exist for him. She wasn’t like him—wasn’t like that—and she never would be. At first he’d say, “It’s okay,” but eventually he’d become annoyed, and then he’d flat-out start to feel she was holding him back, this silent albatross of a wife who was such a terribly shy bore at parties. She’d become a liability. There was no way she was going to let that happen.

  She pulled on the clothes she’d arrived in, threw all her things together in a bag, and then, opening the safe in the room, took some money for herself. She left a note in the safe, telling him she’d pay him back. She wrote another and left it on the bed, telling him she loved him, but that he’d be better off without her. He mightn’t be able to see that now, but give it one season back in New York, and he would.

  Finished, she went downstairs to the lobby and ordered a cab to take her to Heathrow.

  41

  “I never thought I’d be so happy to see your busted cabbage of a face, Rory Brady.”

  Rory was relieved when he pressed Sandra’s doorbell and not only did she answer it right away, but she almost disconnected his arm pulling him inside, she was that glad to see him.

  It didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out Erin would go straight to San’s when she got back to Ballycraig. When he’d gotten up to the room and read her notes, he’d wasted no time. He threw his stuff in a bag and caught the next flight from Heathrow to Galway, glad that he’d left the Range Rover in the airport’s long term parking lot. He was having nonstop conversations with Erin in his head all the way back to Ballycraig. Explaining. And doing his fair share of wondering, too.

  It was one of those boiling, end-of-summer days when the air was as stagnant as that of an old classroom. Unfortunately, the only relief in Sandra’s house was a small plastic fan on one of the end tables. Honestly, Rory didn’t know how she could stand living without air-conditioning.

  “She just ran into town to pick up a few things for me at the shops,” San told him. “Here, let me get you a glass of water, then I’ll give you the quick low-down before she gets back.”

  Rory nodded, picking up a copy of the newspaper to fan himself with. Something was different. Then he realized: the room was tidy as a pin. Maybe working and being free of that prick bag Larry had lifted San’s self-esteem.

  “Here you go.” Sandra handed Rory a glass, pressing her own to her forehead. “This is murder. Any ideas I have ever had of going troppo for a holiday flew out of me head today, I can tell ya that much.”

  “San, please.” Rory couldn’t hide his desperation.

  “She showed up here at around ten this morning, gobsmacking me, as you might imagine. I thought: Jesus, this isn’t good. But she still had her ring on, so I figured it couldn’t be too bad.”

  Rory gulped down some water. “Was she crying?”

  “Nope. She looked more blank than anything. She came in and just plopped down on the couch and told me all about you goin’ to do the PR and that.”

  Rory braced himself. “Well, why did she pull a runner? Does she think I was out whoring or something?”

  “Feck off. She still trusts you. No, she started talking about seeing you in your true element and all this shite. How happy you were flittin’ about shaking hands and all that.”

  “It’s part of my job!”

  “I know, I know,” Sandra soothed. “Calm down.” She pressed the cold glass to her cheek. “She’s getting cold feet. For all her talk about a new life with you in New York, she’s scared to death about leaving home.”

  Rory grimaced. “I thought that might be part of it.”

  “You know Erin: sometimes her way of dealing is to just cocoon herself.” Sandra’s gaze shifted guiltily. “Look, I’m sorry about the trouble I caused between you two about you leaving the B and B so early that morning. I should’ve kept my piehole shut. But my first instinct was to protect her.”

  “I appreciate the apology,” Rory murmured.

  The front door opened. “San—”

  Erin halted.

  “Don’t give me that trapped look,” said Sandra, pulling no punches. “You knew he’d come after you. So don’t you dare turn tail, especially since you’re holding my bag of groceries.”

  “Jesus, you could have let me at least put the groceries down before bludgeoning me,” said Erin. She handed the bag over to her friend, but it was Rory she was looking at. “I thought you had another day of PR activities,” she said coolly.

  “I did. But I told Lou I couldn’t be there, because this is more important. Believe it or not, the fat bastard agreed. The way I see it, this is what’s going to happen: we’re going to fix this, then I’m going to pack and say my good-byes to everyone in town. Then I’m going to fly to New York, where you’re going to meet me in two weeks.”

  Rory surprised himself, the authoritarian sound of his voice, the inflexibility of his words.

  Erin looked taken aback. “You’re being a bit pushy, don’t you think?”

  “That’s all I’ve got time for, Erin. Take it or leave it.”

  “Not here.” She looked at Sandra apologetically. “Do you mind if we go?”

  “Don’t be a daft cow. Get out of here.”

  “Where do you want to go?” Erin asked Rory.

  “Somewhere air-conditioned.”

  “Only place I can think of is the B and B. Or the church.”

  Rory looked skeptical. “The church is air-conditioned?”

  “She’s not jokin’ you,” said Sandra. “The place is still packed, but the average age of the parishioners is sixty, and they’re startin’ to get a bit wobbly when it’s warm. The younger ones don’t even want to go in the summer, especially if their parents are taking a break from it. It’s Father Bill’s way of trying to hold on to what he’s got, I gue
ss.”

  Rory wasn’t pleased, but it didn’t seem they had much choice. “Saint Columba’s it is.”

  “You could go to confession while you’re there, Rory,” Sandra said playfully. “Get rid of all those black marks on your soul.”

  “We can’t have Father Bill having a stroke now, can we?” Rory replied. He turned to Erin. “Shall we?”

  * * *

  Erin hadn’t been inside Saint Columba’s in quite a while. The old pews were nicked but still shone, thanks to the cleaning woman, Mrs. Kendall, who buffed them with lemon cream and beeswax every Monday. The tile floor was spotless, too. Looking down at it reminded Erin of the brisk click, click, click of the women’s heels every Sunday. Colored light streamed through the stained glass windows, while up front, rows of red votive candles flickered beneath a statue of the Virgin Mary. Above the draped altar hung a crucifix. Erin always avoided looking at it; the gruesome, twisted body of the man nailed to it always upset her.

  They chose the pew closest to the back doors in case they needed to make a hasty escape from Father Bill. The man yammered so much he could make a dead man rise up just to tell him to button it.

  “I’m sorry about the PR situation,” Rory began. “It was the exception, not the rule. It won’t be like that all the time.”

  Erin folded her hands in her lap, embarrassed. “I know. I just sort of short-circuited. I watched you at the party and saw how much you enjoyed all the mingling and hobnobbing, and I thought, ‘He’s in his element.’ You didn’t even seem to mind being pulled away for conversations all that much. Lou said you were a natural.”

  “Yeah, I’m sure he thinks it’s the stereotypical Irish-gift-of-the-gab thing.” He touched her cheek. “Don’t you think I’d rather have been with you?”

  “I don’t know,” Erin despaired. “I really don’t. I was at the party and all I could think was, ‘I don’t belong.’”

  “As I said, that party was an exception. However, you had better get used to parties like that if you’re serious about the art world.” Erin was mildly taken aback, which amused Rory. “What did you think, you’d hide in the basement of a museum archiving things? You’ll have to be out there, at gallery openings and new exhibits and all that. Did you never think of that?”

  “Of course I did,” Erin lied, somewhat irritated.

  “You can’t just run away because something frightens you.”

  “Are you calling me immature?”

  “You are when it comes to this.”

  “I just felt trapped, Rory.” Her throat felt tight. “All of a sudden, it seemed to be happening so fast. I know I’ve always wanted to leave Ballycraig, but that was overwhelming.”

  Rory looked crestfallen. “You didn’t enjoy sightseeing or the art tours?”

  Erin grabbed his hand. “No, no, I loved all that,” she assured him fervently. “Like I just said, I was overwhelmed.” Rory started stroking her hair tenderly. “The past few days are the only time I’ve ever been out of Ireland. You know that. And so—”

  “Joining me in London was both good and bad,” he finished for her, pulling her close.

  “Yeah. I’ve been slinging around this bravado, and now that everything I’ve ever wanted is all coming together, I realize how sheltered I really am, and you know what? I’m scared witless.” Her lower lip began trembling. “I’m the same wimp I always was.”

  “That’s not true.”

  “Yes, it is.” They held each other close for a long time. Erin heard the church doors open behind them and stiffened. But it was just Teague’s mother, come to light a votive candle and say a few prayers. If she noticed her and Rory, she gave no sign.

  Rory kissed her hand. “Here’s what I think we should do. I’m going back to New York. You stay here until you’ve got your mind all sorted. I don’t care if it takes you more than the next two weeks. Take a month. Take a year. You come to me when you’re ready. I’ll still be there waiting. I’ll always be there waiting for you. There’s no way I can be happy if you’re not happy, too. I mean that.”

  “Rory—”

  “I mean it.” His hands were on her shoulders, eyes searching hers. “This time it’s about you, Erin.”

  Erin began to cry. “I love you so, Rory Brady. You know that?”

  “I do.” He gazed around the church. “You know what I’m going to do right now? I’m going to light one of those votive candles and say a prayer for us.”

  Erin’s jaw dropped. “I don’t know if you can do that.”

  “Why not? I was baptized here and I’m getting married here as well. I’ve a right to light one candle.”

  Erin nodded. “All right.”

  Her eyes tracked him to the front of the church. She pictured the two of them standing there with radiant looks on their faces, while the pews behind were overflowing with relatives and villagers looking on as she and Rory exchanged wedding vows. The image filled her with a sense of joy and happiness she could barely put words to. She’d waited a long time for this.

  42

  “Yo, Bono: I’m really getting tired of looking at your ugly mopey face.”

  Rory gave Eric Mitchell the finger as they pushed tables together in the back of the Wild Hart. He’d never fully enjoyed hanging out there because it was run by Erin’s uncle Charlie and aunt Kathleen. Erin’s aunt was a pro at getting off a good crack or two underneath her breath. It was a marvel she and Bettina weren’t related.

  Now that he and Erin had reunited, this branch of the O’Briens were okay with him, albeit warily. They had all spent the past two weeks keeping an extra eye on him, all except Quinn, who told Rory he believed people’s relationships were their own business.

  There were six of them hanging out tonight: him, Eric and Jason Mitchell, Esa, Ulf, and Sebastian.

  Rory lowered himself down into his chair with a grimace. They all did. Practice was killing them. Last year Rory had thought, Ah, I’ll be used to it by next year, but he wasn’t. He never would be, which was the point. No matter how great you might be doing on the ice, you could always do better—at least according to Coach Dante, nicknamed “Mikey the Merciless” behind his back.

  “He’s right,” Ulf chimed in, backing up Eric’s statement. “Mope, mope, mope over Erica.”

  Rory rolled his eyes. “Erin.”

  Her uncle came over from the bar, smiling sympathetically. “How’s training camp going, fellas?”

  Ulf groaned. “Hell, as usual.”

  “That’s because you’re getting old,” said Sebastian.

  “No, it’s tough.” He pointed at Rory accusingly. “It doesn’t help that he’s about as happy as a priest at a swinger’s party.”

  Erin’s uncle looked pleased about that. “’Course he doesn’t look happy: he’s parted from my beautiful niece.”

  “She is beautiful,” Esa concurred.

  Erin’s uncle scowled at him. “Hey! I’ll thank you to keep your Finnish eyes to yourself.”

  “Just looking, no touching.”

  “Feckin’ A, you’re not,” said Rory.

  “A good Irishman always defends his turf,” said Erin’s uncle. He folded his arms across his barrel chest. “Usual all round?”

  Six nods of the head.

  “Any food?”

  “I could eat,” said Ulf.

  “What a surprise,” Jason drawled.

  “I’m hungry as well,” Rory confessed.

  “Yeah, me, too,” said Sebastian.

  “Good pot pies tonight,” said Erin’s uncle. “Fish and chips as well.”

  “We’ll all have both,” said Esa, looking around the table for confirmation. Everyone agreed.

  “Good boys,” said Erin’s uncle, heading into the kitchen.

  “He’s a good guy, your uncle,” said Ulf, watching him make his way to the kitchen.

  “He’s my fiancé’s uncle, Ulfie.”

  “Well, he’s still a good guy,” Ulf insisted with a sulk.

  “You say that every ti
me we’re in here, you dolt,” said Eric.

  “Back to Mr. Happy,” said Esa, addressing Rory. “You need a wild night out, Bono. Revelry.”

  “Revelry is the last thing I need.”

  “Afraid you’ll stray?” Esa asked, arching an eyebrow.

  “Afraid I’ll be bored to death.”

  “It’s only been two weeks, Rory,” Esa continued. “You act like it’s been years.”

  “If your fiancée was Erin, wouldn’t you feel that way?” Rory challenged.

  Esa squirmed a bit. “Well…”

  “So shut your gob, then.”

  “What is she again?” Ulf asked. “A painter?”

  The Mitchell brothers exchanged looks.

  “Can you believe two women have married him?” Jason asked his brother.

  “No shit,” said Eric.

  “The last one doesn’t count,” Ulf growled.

  “Cut him a break tonight, guys, will ya?” Rory implored. “He’s still in mourning.”

  Ulf narrowed his eyes. “You mockin’ me?”

  “I swear to God, I’m not!” Rory looked around the table at his teammates. “I’m not!”

  “I know,” Esa said. “That’s what makes you so sickening.”

  Conversation masked the sound of rumbling bellies. Rory’s mates were right: he was being a bit of a mope. He had to put things in perspective: yeah, things weren’t exactly how he’d pictured them to be, but it wasn’t forever.

  “Ho. Ly. Shit.”

  Esa punched Rory’s shoulder. “Look who’s coming out of the kitchen to serve us dinner.”

  Rory turned. It was Erin, carrying a large platter of food. Rory pushed himself out of his chair so hard it fell over as he started hustling toward her.

  “Let the girl at least put the tray down,” said Erin’s aunt, appearing at the door of the kitchen with a second platter.

  Rory strained impatiently in Erin’s wake as she made her way to the Blades’ table.

  “Hiya, fellas,” she said with a friendly smile as she started unloading the food.

  “Would you ever hurry up so I can throw my arms around you?” Rory cried.