Aisling Gayle (45 page)

Frances looked serious for a few moments, her brow creased in thought. “When do you fly back to Ireland, Aisling?”

Aisling had to think hard – the days all seemed to have run in together. “Friday,” she said, “this coming Friday.”

“And have you anything planned – back up at your aunt’s house?”

“Not really,” Aisling replied, “but all my clothes and presents and everything are there.”

“I’ve just had a thought,” Frances said brightly. “Why don’t we get your parents to bring all your things down here? They could stay overnight on Thursday – we have plenty of room – and then you could all fly out on Friday from New York.”

Aisling’s heart skipped a beat. She could just imagine her mother’s face on the other end of the phone if she suggested them coming to stay in the Carrolls’ house. And not just because of the size and style of the house. Regardless of what her aunt Jean had said, the fact that she was a married woman acting like a
single
one, would be more than enough to send her mother’s blood pressure soaring through the ceiling.

“I’ll have to think about that,” Aisling said quietly, not looking anywhere near Jameson, “but thank you so much for offering. It’s really kind of you.”

“You decide, honey,” Frances said, “and the phone is out in the hallway if you want to call them.”

* * *

Dinner was perfect. Well-done steaks served with dishes of roast potatoes and mashed potatoes and some colourful vegetables that Aisling had never heard of, followed by apple and blackberry pie and thick cream.

“That was one of the most beautiful meals I’ve ever had,” Aisling said, helping Jameson’s mother carry things back into the kitchen.

“I’m so glad you enjoyed it, honey,” Frances laughed, “but I have to confess that although the pie was home-made, it wasn’t home-made by me. I have a nice lady, Mrs Scott, who helps me out a couple of days a week, and she’s famous for her baking.” She beckoned Aisling to close the kitchen door so that they wouldn’t be overheard. “Mrs Scott’s husband helps Sam with the garden and the grounds, and if Sam’s having one of his off-days, then Bill Scott drives us around too.”

As she and Frances tidied things away Aisling’s mind was only half on the chirpy conversation she was having with the older woman. She found herself wondering what her mother would find to say about everything. About the house, the couple who looked after them – the different kind of food they ate . . . everything. And then a cold shiver ran down her spine, as she wondered what her mother’s reaction would be if she dared say she was not coming back up to Lake Savannah.

Aisling turned towards the kitchen door, and then she suddenly caught sight of Jameson crossing the hallway. She took in his tall, well-defined frame in his casual jeans and shirt, his long hair swinging in a way that made her want to run out and bury her face in it. But it was the slight frown on his face that caught at her heart, as he passed on by into the large sitting-room to rejoin his father. The frown that she knew was caused by all the uncertainty that had suddenly exploded into his life. Meeting Aisling, falling in love with her, Thomas’s accident – and now
losing
Aisling.

In that instant she knew that she would face anything to stay a few days longer with him. If she went back, there would only be polite conversations in Jean’s kitchen while she and Jameson pretended that they were just friends – platonic friends.

She would tell her mother and father that she was staying on in New York. That she was staying there until it was time to go back to Ireland – and back to Oliver.

* * *

Jean answered the phone. “Oh, Aisling,” she said in a rush, “it’s so good to hear from you. How is little Thomas?”

Aisling told Jean all about Thomas’s improvement, and how their plans had taken them out to Jameson’s parents’ house. Then, after checking that Maggie was not within earshot, she explained the situation to Jean.

There was a silence for a few moments, then Jean said: “I’ve already prepared your mom for this happening . . .”

Aisling held her breath. “And what did she say?”

“Her biggest worry is that you might refuse to come h
ome with them at all.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “She sat up talking to me for hours last night – telling me about Oliver and all the worries she’s had with Pauline and little Bernadette. And then she broke down, saying that she was afraid you wouldn’t come back home with them.”

“I’d never do that,” Aisling said, “and Jameson understands that.”

“I think she’s come round to you staying in New York until you fly out,” Jean said, “and I’ve a pretty packed schedule for them until then.” Jean’s voice suddenly lifted to a bubblier note. “We’re going on a trip to Cooperstown tomorrow, the place famous for baseball – and where James Fenimore Cooper came from.” She paused as though checking with someone. “Bruce says it’s the guy who wrote
The Last of the Mohicans
or something like that.”

“Oh, Jean,” Aisling said, a little sob coming into her voice, “how can I thank you? You’ve been so good to me . . . so understanding.” She swallowed hard. “The only thing is . . .”

“What’s that, honey?” Jean asked.

Aisling hesitated. “It’s just that . . . I won’t be able to spend any more time with you and Bruce. And despite what’s happened . . . I really did enjoy being with you in your lovely house. I feel awful – everything has happened so quickly.”

“Don’t worry about a thing,” Jean told her. “We had some really nice times together. And anyway, Bruce and I will be down in New York with your parents, to see you all off.”

A huge wave of relief washed over Aisling. “Oh, that’s good,” she said, “that’s really good.”

There was a pause. “Well, Aisling,” her mother’s low voice came on the line, “I hear everything has gone well with the poor lad.”

“He’s coming on,” Aisling said. “He should be out of hospital in a few days.”

There was a long pause. “And I suppose it’s too much to ask of his father to bring you back up here?”

“It’s not just that,” Aisling said. “It’s leaving Thomas. He’s still not well enough to travel.” This wasn’t going the way Jean had described.

“Oh, well,” Maggie said in a hollow voice, “I suppose you’ve made all your own plans? You’ve no intentions of making your way back up to the house you should be staying in?”

“It’s not that,” Aisling argued. “It just makes more sense for me to stay here until it’s time to go back to Ireland.” There was a long, long silence. “Oh, Mammy,” she suddenly remembered, “there’s an ornament – a Christmas figure – and a little picture in the room I was in. Would you bring them down to the airport for me?”

“We’ll have all your stuff with us,” Maggie said stiffly. “Your father and I know the right thing to do . . . and it’s very, very hard to take that none of our children do.”

“Mammy,” Aisling said, “that’s not fair.” She found herself struggling now, trying to find words that would ease the situation. “Sometimes the thing that’s right for one person isn’t right for another.”

“Well,” her mother sighed, “it’s lucky we have the Church and the priests to guide us. That’s why they have rules and sacraments that aren’t meant to be broken.”

“I’ll see you on Friday,” Aisling said.

“Aisling,” her mother said, quickly now, “you
will
be there, won’t you?”

Aisling took a deep breath. “Whatever you might think of me,” she said, “I’d never do that to you and Daddy.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” her mother said. Another strained little pause. “We’ll see you in the airport at the check-in desk on Friday so.”

* * *

After Sam and Frances Carroll went off to the hospital, Aisling and Jameson took a walk in the grounds.

“I’m real glad you’re staying on until Friday,” Jameson said as they walked through the trees hand in hand. He gripped her hand tighter. “Jeez . . .
glad
doesn’t begin to describe it!”

“I’m glad too,” Aisling said quietly, “but the time is just disappearing now.” She paused for a moment. “Although it seems such a long time ago since the day I met Thomas down by the lake . . . and then the day I met you both in the shop.”

“And the day at the wedding,” Jameson said, smiling at the memory. Then he suddenly stopped and pulled her close to him. “Do you regret all this, Aisling? Will you look back on it and feel that you gave up your holiday for me? Do you think you’ll wish you’d never met Thomas and me?”

Aisling looked at him without saying anything for a few seconds. “I don’t regret a thing, Jameson. Whatever happens, I’ll never regret meeting you and Thomas.” She turned her head to the side. “I believe that some things are just meant to happen in life . . . and that’s what’s happened between us. We were meant to happen.”

He touched her cheek lightly. “I never have – and I
never will – love anyone the way I love you, Aisling Gayle.”

Later, as they made their way back up the front steps of the house, Aisling turned to Jameson. “I’m sorry about the fuss I made about coming here. Your parents are lovely people, and I really like them. And the house is just beautiful – I love it.”

Jameson’s face lit up. “When you come back to America – when you’ve had time to sort things out – we could spend more time down in New York if you want.” He opened the door. “Eventually this place will be mine, if I want to keep it on.” He took both her hands in his. “I was never really interested in it before – I felt it was too big for me and Thomas. But if things turn out the way I hope, it would be a great New York base for us. We could go between this and Lake Savannah – whenever you choose.”

Aisling stood on her tiptoes and wrapped her arms around his neck. “I love both your houses and I’d happily live in either or both.” Then, she put a hand on either side of his tanned face. “If that was the only decision I had to make – I’d be the happiest woman in the world.”

Chapter 34

Tullamore, County Offaly

“So you’re going off out for a run, Charles?” Pauline called from the kitchen, as she knelt rubbing Bernadette briskly with a large towel. She reached up to the table for the tin of Johnson’s Baby Powder.

Charles held the car keys behind his back, as he came into the kitchen. He surveyed his sister closely for a moment before answering. She had sounded civil enough, and she didn’t look cross – so he took a chance. “The engine,” he said, pushing his shirt sleeves up, “I thought I might give it a bit of a run out . . .” He looked out of the window towards the field. “You know . . . with my father due back shortly.”

“Grand,” Pauline said, moving back on her heels to avoid the cloud of baby powder that Bernadette had risen by clapping her hands on her white body and legs.

“I’ll see you . . . so,” Charles said, backing out of the kitchen. “I shouldn’t be too long . . . I might have to tinker about a bit with the engine or suchlike . . .”

“Grand,” Pauline said, now holding Bernadette’s pyjama bottoms out for her to step into.
“I’ll see you later.”

The kitchen door closed, and Pauline allowed the broad smile she had been holding back to appear on her face. Jack Byrne had rung half an hour ago, asking if she might like to take a run out since it was a nice evening. She told him that she didn’t like to ask Charles to mind Bernadette again, since he’d been good enough to do it the other evening when they drove into the cinema. And in any case, she had her parents coming back the day after tomorrow and things to do before then – but she’d said if he’d like to take a run over for a cup of tea, then that would suit fine.

It would also, Pauline thought, give him a chance to meet Bernadette before she went to bed.

She’d had a good idea that Charles might be heading off out tonight. He always had that furtive, edgy way about him when he was planning something – plus, he had changed into a fresh shirt, and he didn’t do that for nothing. Pauline wondered now if he did in fact have a girlfriend, as Peenie Walshe had been heavily hinting at recently. You never knew whether to take Peenie seriously or not – but there was definitely something about the way he had reacted whenever Pauline asked, that made her wonder.

* * *

Charles drove around the street Mrs Lynch lived in for the second time, unable to decide on a suitable parking place. This evening, he had made up his mind he was going to knock on Mrs Lynch’s door and ask her if she would like to accompany him to the theatre in Dublin next week.

A Shakespearean group from London were putting on a production of
Othello,
which was right up Charles’s street as far as entertainment was concerned. The thought of asking her to a dance or even to the cinema in Tullamore filled him with terror – but an evening in the Abbey Theatre sounded just perfect. Maybe even a nice meal beforehand and a glass of wine in the theatre – and a programme in hand which would give them a talking-point until the play started. Afterwards, they would have the actual play itself to discuss, which would keep them talking all the way back in the car to Tullamore. Charles smiled to himself at the thought of having a companion who would actually be interested in the same things as himself. Someone on the same wavelength – who would not think having interests outside work and drinking were peculiarities of nature.