Aisling Gayle (36 page)

He sat back in his chair, his spine pressed tight up against it. “I wish we could both forget about that.” His eyes darkened. “But it doesn’t have to get in the way of everything . . . let’s enjoy the bits we can. My folks don’t pry into my life. Hell, I’m a grown man with my own life.”

“Well,” Aisling said, swallowing hard, “that’s where the difference lies. In Ireland – well, the part I live in anyway . . . parents are still very involved in their families long after they’ve left home.” She fiddled with her hair. “I feel really stupid at my age worrying about what my parents think – but it’s just the way things are. I can’t change it all over a few weeks.”

Jameson covered her hands with his. “I’m sorry for making you feel bad . . . forget New York . . . it was selfish of me.”

“I would really love to come,” she said softly. “I would love to come and see New York with you and Thomas. And . . . if things were different, I would love to meet your parents.”

“Let’s forget I mentioned it,” he said, kissing the top of her head. “C’mon, the coffee’s getting cold.”

They walked around the lake, shielded from the rain by a large umbrella, Aisling’s heart heavy because there was a tension between them that had not been there before. When Harpers’ garden came into view, Aisling gripped Jameson’s arm to bring him to a halt.

“What day are you going to New York?” she asked.

He shrugged. “Probably tomorrow or the day after. My folks don’t mind, and I can go across the city to the place that’s exhibiting my stuff when I want.”

“I would just love to see your exhibition,” she said, a catch in her voice.

“Please, Aisling,” he said, “ I really do understand.” He moved the umbrella slightly, checking if the rain was still heavy enough to need it. It was light but still fairly penetrating. “There might be other times.”

“I’ll spend every waking minute with my parents,” she said, “and then when you come back . . . I’ll find a way to come across and see you.”

“Day or night,” he said simply. “I’ll be waiting.”

* * *

Maggie and Declan were full of stories about their visit to his cousin. “Oh, they gave us a real Irish welcome,” Maggie gushed as they drove back to the house. “And they were delighted with the tea I brought over to them. More delighted with that than the presents.”

“It was a pity about the change in the weather though,” Declan commented. “I was beginning to feel we were back home in Ireland.”

“Oh, it didn’t hold us back,” Maggie pointed out. “Martin drove us all around, and his wife is a grand baker. We had home-baked soda bread – imagine! Soda bread in America. They’ve some kind of shop that has a lot of the Irish things in it. I got a good few recipes off Catherine, so I’ll try my hand at them when I get home.”

“You needn’t wait until you go back home,” Jean told her. “You have my oven at your disposal, and we’re all willing to be guinea pigs, especially if there’s chocolate in any of the recipes.”

“Begod,” Maggie said, “I just might have a go at one tomorrow. Mind you, we may have to go to the shops for some of the ingredients. I’d like to go back to that wool shop in town anyway.” She gave a little sniff. “Catherine’s not a knitter, unfortunately, so we didn’t find any decent shops for wool. I think I’ll go back to the one in Binghampton. It was about the best I’ve seen so far.”

Any time the conversation veered towards what Aisling had been doing while they were away, she carefully switched it back by quizzing them all about their trip.

“It sounds as though Martin’s wife is very nice,” she said. “Are they planning a visit over to Ireland some time?”

There was a silence. “Well,” Maggie said, “I don’t know what kind of reception she would get if she came over.”

“Or Martin for that matter,” Declan said with a sigh.

“What do you mean?” Aisling asked.

“Well,” Maggie said again, “it’s the religion part for one thing and then . . .” She hesitated for a few moments. “Well, she’s not just American . . . she’s got what you’d describe as a well-tanned skin. Too well-tanned, if you know what I mean.”

“Do you mean she’s foreign?” Jean asked. “Mixed race?”

“Something like that,” Maggie said. “Not that I would be against coloured people myself . . . we had a very nice black missionary priest at the church last year. It’s more the religion bit that’s the problem – she doesn’t seem to have any.” She dug Declan in the ribs. “What did she call herself?”

Declan looked vague. “A humanist . . . or a humanitarian
or some such thing.”

“Anyway,” Maggie rattled on, “she’s a very nice woman, and her colour and religion are not my business.”

Aisling could feel her face starting to burn. “Other people’s religions have nothing to do with us,” she said pointedly.

Maggie looked at Declan and raised her eyebrows. “I’m not disagreeing with you, Aisling. Sure, that’s exactly what I’ve just been saying.” She gave a little sniff. “It’d be different if it was my
own
family, but thanks be to God, for once it’s not.”

Aisling’s heart dropped like a stone. Nothing had changed. The holiday in America and staying with Bruce and meeting Martin’s wife had made not an iota of difference to her mother’s outlook. It was still firmly rooted in the small-minded ways of back home.

“We went to see the Statue of Liberty,” Declan said, changing the subject.

“And New York City,” Maggie gasped. “You wouldn’t know where to begin describing it, but your father bought a nice book with pictures of all the places we went to.” She leaned forward and tapped Aisling’s shoulder. “It’s a great pity you missed it. You would have loved seeing New York.”

“Maybe I’ll get to see it another time,” Aisling said, in as bright a voice as she could muster.

But inside she wondered what her mother would have to say if she announced that she was planning a trip to New York with Jameson Carroll. That, she knew only too well, would be quite a different matter.

The next few days passed fairly quickly with visits to more places and more people. The temperature had continued to fluctuate, hot in the day and then plunging down to fairly cool in the evenings accompanied by showery weather.

Jean kept apologising for the change in the weather, as though she were responsible for it, and explaining that it was most unusual for the time of year.

Aisling spent the time when she was in the house either reading or watching the American television channels – anything to keep her mind off the big white house at the other side of the lake.

“Is everything all right, Aisling?” her mother asked, when she came upon her staring out at the rain-splattered window. “You’re not homesick, are you?”

“I’m fine,” Aisling said, turning back to her book, “and I’m definitely not homesick.”

A while later Maggie came bustling back into the sitting-room. “Jean says you have to phone Oliver. She says you’ll feel better after that.” Her voice dropped. “To tell you the truth I’m getting a bit homesick myself. I’d like to hear how they’re doing up at the house and the shop.”

Aisling stifled a sigh of annoyance, but she got to her feet and went into the hall to the phone. It rang out. She tried several times later that afternoon, checking the time difference for Ireland, but there was still no reply.

The following evening, with Maggie almost glued to her elbow, she tried again. Just as Maggie had stuck her ear to the phone to check for herself, it was finally picked up.

“Yes?” Oliver’s self-assured tones echoed over the line.

By the time Aisling had the phone back, she found herself flustered and not quite knowing what to say to this husband of hers, whom she had neither spoken to or thought about for what seemed an awful long time.

“Hello, Oliver . . . I’m sorry for not . . .”

But before she could say another word, his voice cut through.

“Aisling, I’m sorry I didn’t get a chance to ring – but I’ve been caught up with the play. Have you been trying to get through to me?”

“Just a few times,” she said, trying to put some feeling into her voice. “It doesn’t matter . . . as long as there’s nothing wrong.”

“No, no,” Oliver said, “Indeed no. There’s nothing wrong at all.” There was silence for a few seconds. Then, he said quickly. “Are you having a good time? What’s the weather like out there?”

“Fine,” Aisling said automatically, despite the rain. “Is everything OK back home? Pauline and Charles and Bernadette?”

“Grand. I’ve called in regularly. Charles is making a grand job of running things with Pauline and Peenie keeping an eye on him. And little Bernadette is the finest, running around the place and wrapping everyone around her little finger.” He said nothing about the holy statue episode. That could wait until they got back home. “And the weather’s not too bad. The odd drop of rain as usual, like.”

“And your play?” she checked, still aware of her mother hovering around.

“Oh, that went off well,” he said. “We got a great crowd, and a very fair write-up in the local papers.”

“Oh, I’m delighted for you,” Aisling said, her voice pitched unnaturally high to sound enthusiastic for her mother’s sake. She was rewarded by a smile appearing on Maggie’s worried face, before she disappeared back into the kitchen.

“Sure, it’s not too long until you’re due back home now, is it?”

“No . . . around . . .” A picture of Jameson Carroll crept into her mind, and she could hardly get the words out, “around another week or so.”

“A week?” Oliver’s tone was high with surprise. “I thought it was nearer a fortnight . . .”

“Sorry,” Aisling corrected herself. “It is actually around a fortnight . . . counting the travelling and everything.”

“Oh, right . . . a fortnight then.” Oliver repeated. “Well,” he said in a brighter tone, “you’ve nothing to worry about – I’ll be at there at the airport, waiting for ye all.”

“That’s good of you,” Aisling said quietly.

“I’ve got the times all written down and everything,” he said, as though he was talking to one of his commercial salesman. “So you’ve nothing to worry about at all.”

There was silence for a few seconds. “So . . .” he said, sort of awkwardly. “I won’t waste your phone bill . . . chatting on. Tell your mother and father that I’m asking for them . . . and that I hope ye all enjoy the rest of your holiday.”

“I will,” Aisling said.

“Goodbye to you all now.” The line clicked and he was gone.

“There you are now!” Maggie’s face was beaming when Aisling went back into the kitchen. “You’ll feel the better for speaking to Oliver.” She smiled triumphantly at her sister. “Did he say how things were going at the shop, and what the weather was like? And if there was any news? Nobody dead or anything since we left?”

Aisling took a deep breath. “Everybody’s fine back at the shop. The weather’s not too bad, Oliver’s play went well and got a great write-up, and he’ll be there to pick us up from the airport.”

“So, nobody died at all?” Maggie said, sounding almost disappointed. “Oh, well . . . as long as he doesn’t forget to pick us up the day we land home.”

“Oh, Maggie!” Jean said, catching Aisling’s eye and winking. “Don’t be talking about going home just yet. We’ve lots of things we still haven’t done.”

Later on, when Declan and Maggie had gone into the sitting-room to write some postcards, Aisling poured her heart out to her aunt in the kitchen.

“Oh, Jean,” she whispered, “I don’t know what I’m going to do. The time’s flying so fast . . . and before I know it, I’m going to be saying goodbye to Jameson.”

“You still have some time left together,” Jean said, touching her arm.

“No,” Aisling shook her head, and Jean could see the tears forming. “He’s in New York now, and even when he comes back . . . I don’t know how we’re going to see each other again . . .”

“How does he feel about you now, Aisling? How serious has it got?”

“Very serious,” Aisling said softly. “I’ve no doubts at all about his feelings. He loves me . . . and I love him, Jean.” Her hands came up to cover her face, and she struggled against the flood of tears that were threatening.

“Oh, honey,” Jean commiserated, stroking her hair. “I feel so awful about all this – if you hadn’t come out to the wedding, you wouldn’t be suffering so much now.”

Aisling shook her head. “No, you’re wrong. Coming to America has made me waken up to what was happening in my life . . . I couldn’t keep closing my eyes to Oliver and what he was getting up to. That’s why I came away for the summer in the first place. I think I was hoping he’d make the decision and walk away. I was leaving it to him, because I was afraid of what people would say if I took the decision to destroy our marriage.”

“When you say ‘people’, Aisling . . . you really mean your mother, don’t you?”

Aisling nodded. “Well . . . she’s the main one. I could probably face my father and Pauline and Charles . . . but it would kill Mammy.”

“Look at me, Aisling,” Jean said in a firm tone, and she waited until Aisling’s watery eyes met hers. “You’re wrong – I don’t think it would kill your mother at all.”

Aisling moved across the kitchen floor to close the door tightly.

“Your mother,” Jean stated, “is flesh and blood – same as the rest of us! Whether she likes it or not, other people have to make their own decisions in life.” Her face softened a little. “Now, she’s my sister, and I grew up with her . . . but she’s no saint. If she was, her first thoughts would be for other people – not for herself.”