Flying by the Seat of My Knickers

by Eliza Watson

  Mom had asked Rachel to give me this job not only for financial reasons but she feared I was sinking into a deep depression, after missing church bingo two weeks in a row and the Friday fish fry at the Elks Lodge. Was it a wonder I was clinically depressed when my social life consisted of bingo and fish fries with my parents?

  Declan wore an amused smile.

  I clamped my teeth down on my lower lip. “Sorry. It’s not funny.”

  “Sure it is. If we didn’t laugh at our jobs, we’d cry. Or quit.”

  I smiled faintly. “Are you sure you don’t make up these stories to make me feel better?”

  “I’ve been doing this job three years. Believe me—your stories could never beat mine.” He gestured to my hands. “Although you might die trying.”

  I could see my obit now. Death by humiliation.

  Chapter Six

  Two hours later, my palms had stopped burning, and my ankle was borderline. An ice pack would feel awesome, but then I’d have to tell Rachel about me tripping and be exiled to the sausage costume. Speaking of which, I was in our office placing photos of my sausage debut with attendees in wooden Celtic-design frames. My moment of humiliation was caught on film for eternity and would be displayed on VIPs’ desks. I came across a picture of Declan and me the photographer had taken as a test shot. Declan wore a dimpled smile, and his blue eyes held their usual mischievous glint that made you curious what he was up to.

  Declan snagged the photo from my hand. “Ah, grand, a souvenir snap.”

  I snatched it back. “I’m not having that show up on Facebook.” Even if I didn’t have a page.

  Tom Reynolds walked in. I set down the photo and busied myself with a frame. Declan grabbed the photo.

  Rachel popped up from her chair. “Can I help you?”

  “I’m wondering if you could make a dinner reservation for Kathleen and me tomorrow night.” He glanced in my direction. “How are the hands? You doing okay?”

  I reluctantly peered over at him and muttered, “Ah, yeah, thanks.”

  Rachel shot me a questioning look.

  He walked toward me. “That was quite the spill. Thought you might have sprained an ankle. Hope your phone wasn’t a fatality.”

  Luckily, packaging tape had done the trick and my phone still worked.

  “Sorry about interrupting your call,” I said.

  Rachel’s curious expression turned to panic. Why had I mentioned interrupting his flippin’ call? I hadn’t been in the frame of mind to apologize earlier, and it seemed the right thing to do.

  “No problem. Glad you’re okay.” He eyed the photos on the table. “Great shots. We should put one in the company newsletter with the article on our meeting.”

  How about plastering it on the side of a double-decker bus so everyone in Dublin could get a good laugh?

  He gave Rachel his dinner details, then left.

  Rachel marched over to me. “Spill? Sprained ankle? Interrupting his phone call? What the hell happened?”

  As I explained the story, a horrified look seized Rachel’s face, her breathing quickened, and the vein in her forehead about exploded. Good thing he hadn’t mentioned my leprechaun socks. That might have really sent her over the edge.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t trip on purpose.”

  I could see Rachel mentally counting to ten, like she’d done while we were growing up, trying not to lose it.

  “I know you didn’t trip on purpose, but I can’t believe you didn’t tell me this before I just got blindsided by Tom Reynolds. It’s not like keeping Izzy’s vet run from Dad. This is really serious, Caity.”

  When I was seven, I’d played with Rachel’s Barbies without permission. I’d left them lying on the floor, and our cat, Izzy, had chewed off all their feet. Despite her anger, Rachel had remained calm enough to search for the missing feet, afraid Izzy had swallowed them. After tearing the house apart, we were short two feet, so Mom whisked Izzy off to the vet without Dad’s knowledge. The vet assured us it was better for Izzy to pass the small pieces than to undergo major surgery. My punishment was being on litter duty, analyzing Izzy’s poop for a week until the two feet finally materialized. After a few days, Rachel forgave me, and we took turns monitoring the litter box.

  “If you hadn’t been here and he’d asked how you were, I’d have been clueless and looked like a complete idiot.”

  You recommended these stupid backless shoes I can’t freakin’ walk in!

  Rachel eased out a calming breath. “Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine.”

  I was closer to finding a pot of gold under a rainbow than I was to being fine. Rather than this week bringing Rachel and me closer, I was afraid it might cause an even bigger wedge between us than my ex had.

  * * *

  Rachel and Gretchen headed over to Malahide Castle early to make sure everything was in order. I took advantage of the hour break before Declan and I had to load the buses, and ran to the nearby shop he’d mentioned earlier. It was located in a brick building with red awnings over windows displaying scantily dressed mannequins in haute couture.

  I asked to be directed to the underwear and was informed the knickers were on the far wall. Knickers were what Grandma Shaw had called my worn pants she’d cut off at the knees every summer.

  I made a beeline for the undies. They started at a size eight. I had no clue how that compared to US sizes. The pair I’d bought at the hotel came in small, medium, or large. According to my exchange-rate card, these cost almost fifteen bucks a pair. Even more than the hotel gift shop.

  My phone rang. Mom. What had been confiscated now? Outside of a pair of diamond stud earrings, I owned nothing else of value. I debated letting it go to voicemail. Not only did I feel bad she had to deal with my financial mess, but I had some serious guilt over us growing apart the past two years, thanks to my ex. And I always ripped on Rachel for putting work before family. I answered the phone.

  “Well, something is going your way. I just received a call from the temp agency. Good thing they had me as your emergency contact, so they called when your e-mail came back undeliverable and your old cell number was out of service. Talk about great timing. So at least you’ll have a job over the holidays. They said your position from last year was already filled since they couldn’t reach you, but the elf job is still open. You make such a cute elf.”

  I’d forgone the elf stint last year to wrap presents at a department store since my ex couldn’t handle the embarrassment of his girlfriend dressed as an elf in the middle of the mall, for everyone to see. Yet I’d handled the embarrassment for three years. The gift-wrapping job still required the elf uniform. However, I was hidden away at the back of the store and didn’t have to wear the hat or shoes since the supervisor couldn’t tolerate the jingling bells of ten busy elves. I was surprised they were offering me the elf job after I’d argued with a little brat over the correct lines to “Frosty the Snowman.” Until then, my favorite part of the job had been entertaining kids with Christmas carols. Guess there was a shortage of desperate college elves this year.

  Being an elf again would be a definite step backward.

  “Oh, and I was talking to your uncle Donny today, and he said you can borrow his pickup truck. He bought a new one. He was going to give it to your cousin Luke, but he wanted a car instead.”

  “Yeah, a car that doesn’t reek like wet dog, manure, and tobacco.” I about gagged at the thought of the truck my cousin Luke and I used to drive around my uncle’s field, picking pumpkins.

  Nothing like adding salt to the wound of my repoed car.

  “At least it’s a vehicle. You can use my car most evenings and weekends to get to your elf job, but the truck would be a backup in case I need my car. And you can use it for job hunting and interviews.”

  That would make a great first impression if I showed up at an interview smelling like I’d been shoveling cow dung.

  My phone beeped, signaling another call. Rachel. I thanked Mom and answered the
call.

  “I left the contract for the step dancers on my desk. I need you to check it and see what time they were scheduled to start. I swear to God if they no-show like that damn temp, I’m going to lose it.”

  I could cover for a sausage, but no way could I fake my way through a step dance.

  I’d made it almost the entire day without Rachel noticing my leprechaun socks, or asking to run out shopping because I’d forgotten half my suitcase. I wasn’t admitting anything now.

  “Sure. I’m in the bathroom. I’ll call you back.”

  Crap. I grabbed a size eight black pair of undies, praying they would fit. I’d have to sneak out again to find a cheaper store. The black socks only cost four bucks, so I splurged and bought five pairs. They were cotton socks, thicker than my leprechaun socks, so hopefully they’d help my shoes stay on. At least I’d look professional, even if I didn’t feel professional.

  I stepped outside into a steady mist, and a cool breeze sent a shiver up my back. It hadn’t looked like rain when I’d left the hotel. I realized I’d also forgotten to pack an umbrella. Ireland’s rain and humidity were wreaking havoc on my naturally wavy hair, and I wouldn’t have time to flat-iron it.

  So much for looking professional.

  Chapter Seven

  Shrouded in a light mist, Malahide Castle had stood stoically for over eight hundred years, persevering against Ireland’s harsh climate and likely dozens of invasions. Not only was this my first castle but the oldest building I’d ever visited.

  I asked Declan to snap a few quick pics of me in front of the castle as we escorted the group up the gravel path. “Make sure you get all the ivy and those windows.” Green and red vines softened the castle’s stone exterior. Crisscross grids, resembling pieces of lace, adorned the tall windows.

  “Right, then. So you’d also like the castle in the photo, would ya?”

  I smiled. “You know what I mean.”

  A breeze blew a few stray wisps of hair across my face, and I blinked away the raindrops on my eyelashes, trying to keep my eyes open while Declan snapped a few shots, my waterproof mascara being put to the test. I was going to have to Photoshop my hair in all my Ireland pics.

  “Do you think we’ll be able to take a tour?” I asked.

  “Would imagine so,” Declan said.

  “You’ve seen one castle, you’ve pretty much seen them all.” Gretchen strutted alongside Declan, tossing her blond hair over her shoulder.

  Declan shook his head, disagreeing. “Ireland’s castles are modest compared to the likes of Windsor or Neuschwanstein.”

  I made a mental note to Google both and added them to my bucket list of castles to visit.

  “What castles have you been to?” Gretchen asked me.

  Cinderella’s Castle at Disney World.

  “This is my first,” I reluctantly admitted.

  “Really?” She acted surprised, when she’d undoubtedly assumed I’d never seen a castle, or she wouldn’t have asked.

  “I remember my first castle,” Declan said. “My grandparents took me to Blarney. I kissed the Blarney stone, and then my mates told me the workers and locals pissed on it for craic.”

  My top lip curled back. “Seriously?”

  He shrugged. “When you’re a young lad, you believe anything.” He slowed his pace, gesturing toward the castle. “Savor this moment. You won’t ever see your first castle again. And this job will eventually make you cynical. Nothing will wow you. A four-star hotel becomes slumming it.” He smiled. “I envy you.”

  Gretchen looked at him like he was nuts for envying me.

  For once, I actually agreed with her.

  I paused, taking a mental picture of the large stone building’s round corner towers, red arched door, green and red ivy… I let out a contented sigh. No matter how many castles I might see in my life, I would never forget my first.

  Rachel greeted the group at the entrance with a bright smile despite the stress lines around her eyes. The step dancers had arrived later than contracted, so they wouldn’t be performing when we entered. I handed Rachel the contract as she escorted us up a red-carpeted, winding staircase and through a room paneled in wood so dark it was almost black. The connecting room was bright and airy with paintings of the castle’s previous residents filling the cream-colored walls. Golden chandeliers hung over the two wooden banquet tables with ornate candelabras running down the centers. The taper candles’ flames danced to the soft Celtic background music. Waiters in black tuxes served Flanagan’s and Brecker Dark in crystal beer glasses, and Kildare Sausage cocktail weenies in puff pastries.

  Ten minutes later, three teenaged girls, wearing brightly colored dresses with elaborate designs and detailing, greeted the Kildare Sausage and Flanagan’s executives with a lively dance on a narrow balcony at the front of the room. Their heels clicked against the wooden floor, their blond ringlet wigs bouncing in rhythm to the Irish tune. Once everyone was seated, Rachel led our staff to the dark room and assigned our roles for the evening. Mine was to stand in the entrance foyer, directing people to the bathrooms and outside to smoke. Signs pointed down the hall to the bathrooms, and the exit was at the bottom of the stairs from the banquet hall—you couldn’t miss either. One little VIP mishap and this was the only position Rachel trusted me with.

  The festive music drifted down from the dining hall to the entrance. I held my back ramrod straight, slapped my hands on my hips, and did a little jig, mimicking the dancers. My ankle had stopped throbbing, thanks to four ibuprofen.

  My phone rang. Mom. I let it go to voicemail. I texted her that Rachel frowned on personal calls and texts while working. She texted back Check your e-mail. Didn’t it go without saying that e-mailing was also frowned upon? And I was trying to keep phone usage to a minimum due to the insane cost of international service. The castle didn’t offer free Wi-Fi. Of course, my curiosity got the best of me, and I turned toward the wall, discreetly pulling up my e-mail. I immediately regretted it.

  While buying gas, Mom had seen a sign that Moto Mart was hiring. How perfect was that? Her words, not mine. If I didn’t want to use Uncle Donny’s pickup, I’d need a job within walking distance, and it would be full time, not temporary like the elf job. A job application was attached. I did a mental eye roll, but I should appreciate her efforts. I hadn’t thought she’d ever play headhunter for me again. She’d landed me my last job thanks to her friend Patsy. She’d been upset about me being fired, so I’d had to confide in her about my ex’s obsessive and psycho behavior without going into detail about his emotional abuse. Unlike Rachel, Mom hadn’t seen past his deceivingly charismatic facade.

  Visions of me in a pea-green Moto Mart polo shirt, pumping bitchy former classmate Megan Fischer’s gas, flashed through my mind. It would be my luck she’d be home visiting from New York so she could rub her successful magazine career in my face. No way was I working at Moto Mart. But without a car or Uncle Donny’s pickup, I couldn’t look for work or get to work if I landed a job.

  Or rather when I landed a job.

  “When do the buses head back?” a man asked, causing me to jump.

  I spun around to find Rachel’s spy. What was with this guy always wanting to leave?

  “After dinner and the tours,” I said.

  His gaze narrowed. “But about what time?”

  I have no clue. You do the math.

  Of course I couldn’t say that or admit I didn’t know, so I lied. “Nine o’clock.” I hoped that was close to the actual time. He bought it and headed outside, phone in hand.

  Tom Reynolds walked down the stairs from the hall, dressed in tan slacks and a blue-and-tan plaid oxford shirt. My gaze darted around the tiny foyer. Nowhere to hide. Perhaps I exuded more confidence and professionalism in my new black socks. The thicker socks were helping my shoes stay on, preventing another tripping incident.

  Hopefully, I could answer his questions.

  “How are things going?” he asked.

  “Fine,” I l
ied. “Are you having a good time?”

  “It’s Ireland. How can you not?”

  If you were dressed like a sausage or had tripped in front of the company’s CEO…

  “We haven’t been formerly introduced. You’ve been helping me, and I don’t even know your name.” He held out his hand. “Tom Reynolds.”

  As if I didn’t know who he was.

  I shook his hand. “Caity Shaw.”

  He arched a brow with interest. “Are you Rachel’s sister?”

  I nodded, surprised he hadn’t known. Yet it wasn’t like Rachel made idle chitchat with the CEO.

  “I see the resemblance now.”

  Rachel and I had the same blue eyes, our only similarity, physically or otherwise.

  A woman walked down the stairs, and he slipped an arm around her shoulders, drawing her against him. “And this lovely lady is my wife, Kathleen.”

  Kathleen was much shorter than her husband and at least ten years younger. Her long brown hair was pulled back in a loose twist, and minimal makeup enhanced her natural beauty. She wore a brown tweed pencil skirt, a cream sweater, brown scarf, and brown leather boots. It resembled an outfit Catherine, Duchess of Cambridge, would wear to an English polo match. I had to admit, I’d recorded Kate and William’s wedding and had several collector-edition magazines documenting their lives from childhood.

  I smiled and introduced myself.

  “My dad used to call me Katydid.” Her face lit up at the fond memory.

  Rachel walked down the stairs, joining us.

  “I didn’t realize Caity’s your sister,” Tom said.

  Rachel’s bright smile camouflaged the fleeting look of panic and hesitation in her eyes. Her cheeks turned a faint pink. “Um, yes, she is.”

  Had she momentarily entertained the thought of denying our relationship? I’d seen Rachel look frustrated, angry, displeased, exasperated, and annoyed at me. But this was a new one.