Aisling Gayle (37 page)

“It’s just the way she is,” Aisling heard herself say weakly “It’s the way things are with everyone back home. Sometimes, I think I’m a bit inclined that way myself.”

“Oh, tosh!” Jean snapped. “Maggie’s just the way she is because people let her be that way! I’d actually forgotten how selfish she really is. Haven’t you noticed that she wants to dictate to us all what time we eat,
when
we eat and
what
we eat! She really would like to be a dictator if she got the ch
ance. I can tell the way she talks about your brother and sister that she is trying to
dictate their lives as well.
”

“She doesn’t mean any harm,” Aisling said.

“Harm bedamned!” Jean stated. “If I hadn’t stood up to my own mother and people like Maggie, I would have missed out on a lovely man like Bruce. And I’m not fooled, Aisling . . . she’s only happy to see me because we live so far away, and there’s nobody that really knows us both. It would be a very different story if Bruce and I started coming to Ireland every summer. A very different story.”

Aisling’s head and shoulders drooped. “I know what you’re saying,” she admitted, “but it’s not all about Mammy. How would I face the people at school, the people who come into the shop?”

“Oh, Aisling,” Jean said with a weary smile, “that’s what you call taking responsibility for your own life. Having the courage to make decisions for yourself.” She covered Aisling’s hand with her own. “Now, although I don’t share your mother’s fervent religious views, I do believe that God gave us all free will. There would be no point in us having a mind and a brain if we didn’t use it. Look at the Bible stories – Mary having an illegitimate child and Joseph marrying her even though everyone knew it wasn’t his child. He went against all the rules and regulations of his culture, didn’t he?”

Aisling nodded, not entirely understanding what her aunt was getting at.

“To find out what’s right for you,” Jean said, “you have to follow your own heart and conscience.”

“I know exactly what’s right for me,” Aisling whispered
. “It’s finding the right thing for everyone else that’s the big problem.”

“You’ll never please everyone,” Jean said, “so if you really want something – go for it. Just wait for the right t
ime. Like most mothers, your mother is a lot stronger than you think.” She suddenly gave a wry grin. “D’you know . . .
it’s just dawned on me that this household has now changed into a replica of hers in just a couple of weeks. We’re all doing things exactly the way she likes, because it’s easier than arguing with her.”

The conversation came to a sudden halt as Maggie’s feet came tapping along the hallway. She stuck her head in the door. “That film you were on about earlier is on the television in five minutes, Jean.” She looked suspiciously from her sister to her daughter, and then headed over to the kettle. “Would either of you like a cup of tea before it starts?”

“Thanks, Maggie – but no,” Jean said in a decisive manner, “but you have whatever you fancy yourselves. There’s some nice cookies in a box there, too.” She went to the drinks cupboard and lifted out a bottle of Martini and another of gin. “Bruce and I often have cocktails at this time of the evening, and we seem to have got out of the habit since you heavy tea-drinkers arrived.”

“Cocktails?” Maggie said in a high, disapproving voice. “I wouldn’t thank you for alcohol. Tea suits me just fine. I’m not hard to please.” She rummaged in the cupboard for mugs.

“As I said, Maggie,” Jean said in a sharper tone, “you’re welcome to have what pleases you. I often have a cocktail when I’m preparing dinner, but with us eating much earlier since you’ve come, I’ve kinda got out of the habit. Still, I suppose we can have them
after
dinner just as easily as before.”

Ignoring Maggie’s disapproval, Jean started sorting out all the different ingredients and checking that the cocktail mixer was put together properly. “Aisling, honey,” she said now, “would you mind getting me a bag of ice, and some slices of lemon and limes from the fridge, please? They’re in a little round container with a lid. Now that I’ve started, I want to do this right.”

Maggie opened the box of cookies, and peered inside.
Thank God
, she thought lifting out some vanilla buns,
cakes and biscuits were one thing you could rely on in America.
At least they got that right
. She put two big spoonfuls of tea into the teapot. The giddy way Jean was carrying on, she would need good, strong tea.

Aisling handed over the bag of crushed ice and the container with the sliced fruit. “Thanks, honey,” said Jean, adding ice to the mixture, then giving the container a few good vigorous shakes, “and that little jar of olives in the fridge door, please. Bruce likes his Martinis with those.” She handed the container to Aisling. “Give it a good, youthful shake, while I sort out glasses.” She looked over her shoulder. “Sure you won’t change your mind, Maggie?”

Maggie’s brows came down and her lips set in a hard line. “No . . . no. You and Bruce do whatever ye’re used to, but tea’s fine for the rest of us.”

“I’m going to have a cocktail,” Aisling suddenly said. “I really fancy something different for a change.” She gave the container a last shake, then set it down beside her aunt. “I’ll just check if Daddy wants a cold drink or tea –”

“No need!” Maggie said, but Aisling was already out in the hall. She came back a few moments later to say that both men would love cocktails while watching the film.

Shortly afterwards, ignoring a stony-faced Maggie, Jean and Aisling loaded up trays with drinks and salted pretzels and biscuits.

“For once,” Jean said, with a twinkle in her eye, “we’re going to watch a movie, American-style.” She put her arms around Aisling. “I know it’s not as nice as spending an evening with Jameson Carroll . . . but a weepy movie and a couple of cocktails is a nice ending to any day. Who knows what tomorrow might bring?”

The effects of the slow-moving film coupled with the unaccustomed drinks made Aisling feel sleepy. She headed off to bed around midnight, and after a short while she fell into a deep sleep. When she awoke some hours later, it was to the sound of heavy rain battering against her slightly open window and the low howl of wind. For a few moments she felt disorientated and thought she was back in Ireland. Then, as awareness dawned, she threw back the quilt and padded over to the window to close it.

As she stood stretching on tiptoes, she could just see the tops of the trees in the garden in the bright moonlight. She looked out at the swaying, dripping branches and wondered if Jameson was back home yet. In his white house . . . just five minutes’ walk away.

She came back across the room, her feet cold now on the wooden floor, and climbed back into the bed. She sat upright, the covers draped around her, and her gaze fixed on the closed window. It was unusually cold, the first time Aisling had felt properly cold in America. It reminded her of the nights that she had sat up in Ireland, waiting on Oliver to come home. The nights when she had dozed over, curled up in front of the turf fire, only to waken hours later, the fire dead and her limbs stiff and aching from the cold. The difference now was that she had a choice.

She now had somewhere to go – and someone who wanted her.

Even after wrapping extra blankets around her, Aisling could not warm up. She toyed with going downstairs to the kitchen for one of the hot-water bottles that Jean had hung behind the door for them. Jean had warned them that the temperatures sometimes plummeted at night like this.

She threw the bedcovers off, but instead of grabbing her dressing-gown, she found herself pulling on jeans and a blouse, and then she went to the wardrobe and found a heavy cable-knit sweater that she’d brought for this type of weather.

She went downstairs quietly, lifted her hooded jacket from the coatstand, then silently headed out of the front door.

The garden was eerily quiet, with just the background noise of the rain and the odd chirrupy cricket sound. She half-walked and half-ran down the moonlit garden and then she reached the lakeside path – that she now felt she knew every step of – and she kept moving until at last the familiar white house came into view. But even before she reached it, she knew that Jameson Carroll was not there.

She walked up the garden path and knocked hard on the door, but – just as she had dreaded – there was no reply. She gave it a few seconds, then walked around the side of the house to the garage. The door gaped open, the way it had been left a few days ago when they departed.

Disappointed – and suddenly aware that she was out alone in the middle of the night – Aisling drew the hood of her jacket tightly around her damp hair, and ran all the way back to the safety of the Harpers’ house.

A steaming cup of coffee put some warmth back into her, and then she headed upstairs very quietly and had a hot shower. She felt the tension leave her muscles as she lathered soap over her body and then turned around and around, rinsing it off under the hot jets of water. She stood there under the water, her mind running over the situation with Jameson again and again. What if he didn’t come back? Maybe he had decided that the relationship was going nowhere – because of her cowardice, and fear of taking control of her own life. Maybe he thought it was easier if they didn’t see each other again.

How long she stood in the shower she didn’t know. It was only when she became aware of the water having suddenly turned cold that she reached to turn it off. And then, when she stepped out of the shower, she realised the water still pouring down her face was in fact tears.

Chapter 29

The early part of the following day passed with a visit to an art gallery in a nearby town, lunch at a favourite steakhouse of Bruce’s, and shopping in another small town they had not yet visited. As she walked around the art gallery, Aisling’s thoughts were drawn to Jameson’s work, and the exhibition she wished she had been able to see in New York.

Later the time passed more quickly as she busied herself buying more presents to take home. She was delighted to find a really nice blue swing-jacket for Pauline at a good price. She knew her sister would be delighted, because she had very little money to spend on herself, and she would never get these sorts of styles locally. Then, a few shops further down, she bought a pair of red-check Capri pants for herself, and when she reached the pay-desk, she ran back and got another pair in a blue check to match Pauline’s jacket.

Later that evening, more friends of Bruce and Jean called around with photographs they’d taken at the wedding, and to see the ones that Bruce and Jean had picked up in town that afternoon. It passed another drizzly evening, chatting and sorting food and drinks.

Aisling looked at the pictures of the smiling bride and groom and thought how optimistic and happy they looked. Just like her and Oliver. Then she looked at the photographs taken at the wedding – of her in her pink suit and pink shoes – and wondered in amazement at how long ago it seemed. And yet it had only been little more than two weeks ago. So much had happened in so short a time, and she knew she would never be the same again.

It was only a matter of time until she would be walking off the plane to be greeted by Oliver. Only a matter of time until she would be back in the life she led before she met Jameson Carroll.

The visitors stayed until quite late, and Aisling forced herself to remain downstairs laughing and chatting, and being generally sociable for her aunt and uncle’s sake. When they left, around midnight, Aisling went outside with her mother and Jean to wave them off.

“Thanks be to God that the rain has eased off,” Maggie commented as they walked back in the drive, being careful to dodge the heavy drops of rain from the dripping branches.

“The forecast is for the hotter weather to return,” Jean said, “so you’ll be able to get back to your swimming again, Aisling.”

The kettle was put on for a final hot drink of the night, and everything tidied up.

“I’m going to head on upstairs,” Aisling said, unable to contain a fairly large yawn.

Then as she was bidding everyone goodnight, a loud knock sounded on the door.

“I wonder if it’s our guests . . . maybe they left something behind?” Jean said, rushing to check.

Maggie looked in alarm at Aisling. “Who else could it be, at this hour of the night?”

Aisling shrugged in answer, but her heart lurched a moment later when she saw the tall figure of Jameson Carroll walking in behind Jean – and one glance at his serious face told her that something was wrong.

“Hi . . .” he said, looking round at everyone. “I’m real sorry for disturbing you folks at such a late hour, but I’ve just got back from New York, and I’ve . . .” His hand came up to his forehead. “Well . . . I reckon I’ve just got some very bad news.”

Aisling felt her legs suddenly go weak. “What is it?” she whispered.

“Sit down, Jameson – sit down,” Jean said, rushing over to pull a chair out at the kitchen table for him.

“Thank you, Jean.” He sat. “You see, I just walked in the door and the phone was ringing, and it was a hospital in New York to say that Thomas had been brought in after a car
accident.” He lowered his eyes. “It seems he’s pretty bad.”

Aisling stood rooted to the spot. Then, her legs eventually moved and she went over and put her hand somewhere between his shoulder and his tanned neck. “What happened?” she whispered.