Shout (The Voice Trilogy Book 3) (8 page)

CH. 11

              The call of the rooster wakes us both as we cling to each other in the small wrought iron double bed. Rhys pulls me to his side and I mold to his form, snuggling into his neck, the very best smell first thing in the morning. My body immediately springs to life and I kiss his warm flesh, making my way towards his ear, when his phone rings and I’ve lost him. I hop out of bed and pull on a pair of shorts as he rolls over for his phone. As soon as he sees the number, his face twists in a most unhappy mask and I quickly excuse myself.

              “I’ll go make us some tea.”

              “Ok, my love, this shouldn’t take long,” he says with his hand over the phone, waiting for me to leave the room.             

              The house is quiet and the sun not fully risen in the sky. Barefoot, I slink down the stairs, through the sitting room and into the kitchen where I find Brigid.

              “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to disturb you.”              

              “Oh no, child, I am just enjoying the first moments of the day, it’s peaceful, won’t stay this way for long. Join me,” she says, reaching for a second tea cup. “So, how did ye meet our Rhys?”

              “His best friend Matthew is married to my best friend. We met first at their wedding.” I run my finger around the rim of the delicate china tea cup, slightly nervous, but wanting to know her, wanting her to know me.

              “And ye have been together ever since then?” she questions, fetching a pint of cream from the fridge.

              “Not exactly,” I reply with a grin.

              “No, nothing is that easy, is it? Of course, the harder we have to work for something, the more value it holds in our hearts, wouldn’t you agree?” She looks at me as if waiting for the answers to the very questions of the universe.

              “Yes, Ma’am,” is all I can come up with.

              “Tell me about your family, then, Sophie.”

              “My parents have passed,” I tell her, gazing down into my almost empty cup, “and I’ve just recently lost my grandmother, so I suppose,” I pause to take the last sip of my tea, “I don’t have a family anymore.” Looking up into her eyes, I am already regretting such a somber statement, but the light reflected is not one of pity, but of love and concern.              

              “Family is where the love lies, ma’ dear, I dare say that my Rhys is your new family,” she winks and finishes her tea, and I just watch, dumbfounded and speechless. “Ye seem like a good girl, Sophie. He needs someone true in his life, he deserves that. I love him like he’s my own. Come now, help me round up some breakfast.” She pushes away from the table and slips on a pair of well-worn wellies that wait by the back door and motions to another pair that I step into.

              She hands me a large woven basket and I follow her across a wide green field boxed in by a beautifully craggy, old stone fence and through a little wooden gate. A small but prolific garden hides behind the mossy stones. She picks plump, ripe tomatoes just warm from the rising morning sun and digs handfuls of potatoes from a small plot, dropping it all in my basket.

              “It’s good for him to be here, he belongs here,” she muses as we cross the field to another stone enclosure. This one opens to the field and is populated with colorful hens, pecking and clucking their morning greeting. She wades through the hens to the small wooden hen house and begins pulling eggs from a little door, using her apron as a sling. “Well, bring yourself over here, ma’ dear, don’t need to be dropping these eggs before their kin.”

              We return to the house, and she begins washing potatoes.

              “Can I help?” I ask, watching her go through the motions as if she is programmed. She has probably done this same ritual every morning for untold years, thus the rhythm of this house, the comfortable rhythm of the whole country as I’ve experienced so far.

              “Aye, it’d be my pleasure and is in fact my duty, ma’ dear, to teach you how to make my Rhys a proper Irish breakfast. If he is to love you, you must know how to feed him.” She chuckles and bumps me with her hip, sweeping by me to pull a side of Irish bacon from the refrigerator.

              Colleen appears fresh faced and ready for the day and gets right to work on cracking the eggs. The boys filter into the kitchen and take their seats around the table, pouring orange juice and tea, talking about the days to come. When Rhys finally makes his appearance, it is clear his mood is dark. His eyes are hooded, his mouth turned down and when he smiles at me it doesn’t meet his eyes. I take my seat next to him as breakfast begins. The table is buzzing with talk of the upcoming days, the places Rhys must take me and the people he must see while we are here. He listens and answers, but I can see his heart is not here; he is distracted.             

              “What’s wrong?” I whisper in his ear, but he brushes me off with a shrug and a wink, turning to William to discuss a visit to somewhere, but they don’t say where. A few times from across the table I catch Brigid watching me, she always offers a smile or a wink as if to encourage me. When breakfast is finished, they all abandon the table and disappear into the courtyard, leaving Colleen and me to clean up. We clear the dishes while Brigid sits and finishes her tea.

              “Rhys seems out of sorts this morning.” She looks to me in question, but I have no answer. The only thing I can guess is the phone call.

              “I’m sure it’s probably just work,” I shrug and finish drying the dishes that Colleen hands me. I walk out into the courtyard and find him sitting under a tree, his phone in one hand, his head in the other.

              “What’s got you so grouchy this morning?” I sit next to him and he puts his arm around my shoulder and forces a smile.

              “Nothing for you to worry about,” he grins, but it’s not real. “Now, why don’t you go run and shower. We’re going out for a couple of hours.”

              “Are you sure you are up for it?” I don’t want him to wear himself out; after all, we are here so he can recover. But I’m elated at the idea of being able to take in some of the country and being with him in his element.             

              “Yes, Sophie, I’m fine. Don’t worry, now go,” he urges me away as he focuses again on his phone.

              I emerge from the shower to find our room empty. I pull on a pair of jeans and a T-shirt and head downstairs to find Rhys brooding at the kitchen table; his laptop fired up, his furious fingers flying across the keys. He looks up at me like a man possessed, yet, in an instant, I watch him slip his mask on. The emotion leaves his face replaced with that practiced smile and dull, unconvincing light behind his eyes.

              “Are you ready for a scenic drive this morning, Sophie? It’s time to check on the investments.”

              “Oh yes!” I can’t hold back my excitement. I have always wanted to travel, always wanted to explore, and now I have my Rhys as a guide? What could be better? Perhaps his mood, but I’m sure we can solve that. Whatever it is, we will squash it and I will soak up every moment like the last rays of the sun. A small smile breaks his mask and I know his mood can, and will, turn. “But, you shouldn’t be working.”

              “This isn’t work, Sophie, this is family.”

              We drive through the countryside, floating over emerald hills dotted with sheep. The land is cut into swaths, defined by old rock walls that look as if they could fall at any moment, yet appear to have been standing for centuries. We coast along the River Shannon and watch as narrow estuaries become so wide we lose sight of the opposite bank. Ruins blend into the landscape; the hard gray shell of a life gone by seems to be perched atop every hill. We turn away from the river and head north into a barren landscape. Barren outcroppings and ancient Dolmens guard the alien land and a great rocky expanse stretches out before us.

              “This is the Burren, ever heard of it?” he asks. As we slow, he points to an outcropping a few yards ahead. A massive slab of granite is precariously perched atop two narrow legs. “They say they are the graves of giants. Around here, we were always taught they were portals, but to where, we were never allowed to know.” He looks over at me with a forced smile. “We can come back if you’d like, walk around, and get a bit closer.”

              “What was that phone call about?” He looks straight ahead, no emotion betrayed.

              “Nothing for you to worry about.” His mouth is set in a hard line.

              “Rhys, stop keeping things from me. Talk to me, please.” A deep sigh marks his partial resignation.

              “It was a reporter, Sophie, wanting a story.” Shaking his head, he reaches over and grabs my hand. “Can we please not talk about it?” I want to talk about it. What story? I am tired of always feeling like I am in the dark, but I can see in the set of his jaw that he really doesn’t want to broach the subject any further, and I decide to revisit.

              “Where are we going?” We crest a deep green hill and come to look upon a wide, spread valley with the rolling river meandering across the landscape, in the distance I can see the mist rising from what must be a waterfall or rapids, and on the other side of the river sits a long, stone building. As we get closer, I notice the letters SFS written in contrasting color roof tiles topping the building. I look over to Rhys only to catch him smiling for the first time all day. He is beaming. We come to stop in front of the main building; craggy gray stones that look hundreds of years old, arched windows with aged wooden shutters freshly painted a bright green to match the landscape, and tall smoke stacks with pyres of pure white steam rising into the clear blue sky.

              He holds my hand as we walk the length of the building to a wide barn door that sits half open. He pulls the heavy doors open to reveal an expansive space filled by copper kettles surrounded by cat walks and scaffolding.

              “Is this yours?” I ask in awe, still not totally sure what I’m looking at, but impressed by the sheer scale nevertheless.

              “One of my investments,” he winks as we weave through kettles and walk towards the back of the building. “It’s a family business, actually William’s brainchild. I’m just the checkbook and the taste tester,” he grins. We spend most of the day at the still with William giving us the tour, explaining, mostly to me, how the whiskey is made.

              He takes us out to another building that is dark and sealed off and cool, where the walls are lined with row after row of wooden barrels all filled with the family whiskey at various stages of aging. Rhys is ecstatic, soaking everything in, beaming with pride and enthusiasm.

Through another open barn door, I come across a small field populated with goats. It seems odd until I look further and notice a wide spread mini farm that appears to encompass the property. The goats run free as well as a few colorful roosters, some quietly pecking hens and a gaggle of geese that seem to waddle aimlessly but always in a tight group.

              “This is all Colleen,” William grins with pride as he talks about his sister. “She said,
‘Why don’t we grow our own barley?
’ The little trickster talked me out of half the land and here we are two years later looking to expand. She has a bake shop and country store on the other side of the property. She treats those silly goats like family, but she makes some delicious cheeses and bakes like a wizard. You should take Sophie over there once we are done here.” He nudges Rhys, and leads us into a smaller out building that is smoky, but oddly cool.

              More casks line the walls, smaller and of darker wood than the others, and between each row there are wheels of cheese. Sides of pig hang from the rafters in the middle of the small building between two open fire pits in the stone floor.

Flames rise from the pits, reaching for the curing meats. Finn appears with a barrel grasped within the jaws of a massive pair of steel tongs. His forearms bulge as he lifts the barrel above the fire and slowly lowers it, swallowing the flames and the smoke. He releases the jaws of the tongs and steps back, smiling and nodding at Rhys.

              “I’m smoking my wood!” he calls over the barrel with a wicked grin, before he closes the tongs around the barrel and pulls it off the fire, flipping it over, and putting it down. He pumps a metal pedal on the floor and the flames are tamed, retreating into the pit. He steps over it and reaches out to shake Rhys’ hand. “Welcome to my cooperage, Cousin.”

              They talk barrels as we are guided through the remainder of the still before we walk down the hill and visit Colleen in her little shop. The finished hams are wrapped and hung on the front porch.                Brigid’s jams line the little front window. The produce from the farm is strewn about in hand woven baskets, as are loaves of Irish bread and little wheels of goat cheese, some rolled in ash, others covered with vibrant herbs, and the rest a luscious creamy pure white, a little slice of heaven on earth.

              “The smartest investment is always family,” he whispers from behind, wrapping his arms around me and pulling me close. “Look at what she has done in such a short time. She wants to expand into agritourism.”

              “I think that’s a fantastic idea. When I thought of Ireland, this is what I pictured, this is what I wanted to see and feel. It’s perfect. Why are you smiling like that?” His gleeful smirk is a most welcome sight.