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Authors: Mary Carter

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BOOK: The Pub Across the Pond
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She wanted to memorize his face in case she never got this close to him again. She leaned up to kiss him, but his lips were already over hers. The kiss was strong, and it expressed all the yearning she'd felt since she first won the raffle. It said I never even knew you and I've missed you. It said I'm sorry you lost your pub. It said I'm sorry I accepted a date with Collin. It said don't marry Sally. It said I want to belong here. It said there's a secret passage under the earth below the pub. It said how could you do this to me? It said stay away. It said don't ever leave me. His said he still had a few thousand secrets of his own, and no matter what, she would never, ever unlock them all, maybe she would never even really get to know him. When they were done with the kiss, there was nothing left to stay. Silence thudded in Carlene's ears.
“Tell me you're not engaged,” she said. Ronan was silent. “Tell me,” Carlene said again, louder, loathing herself for pleading. He opened his mouth.
“I told ye—”
“It's complicated,” Carlene finished for him. “So what are you doing here?” she said. “What are you trying to do to me?” Ronan turned around and Carlene watched him walk out the door. She didn't know how long she stood in the middle of the floor staring after him as if desire alone was enough to will him back. She must have stood there for a long time, for the next thing she knew Sue Finnegan put her hand on Carlene's shoulder.
“I've called you a Joe Maxi,” she said. “It's time to go home, luv.” Carlene nodded, started toward the door. Then she turned and hugged Sue Finnegan. Sue was stiff at first, then hugged her back, then lightly, shoved her out the door. Carlene heard Sue say, as the gorgeous wooden door shut behind her, “Those fuckin' stiffies get 'em langered every time.”
C
HAPTER
31
On the Edge
Dear Becca,
Can you believe it's already November? I've been here five months! To answer your question—no plans, although it's early yet. Thanksgiving isn't big over here, but Declan already said he'd make me a turkey sandwich. Still no luck getting Dad to agree to come for Christmas. He's already hinting that he'd rather spend it with the Elks. He's not even a member. Any suggestions? What are your Hanukkah plans?
Love you!
Carlene
Sally and Ronan were still engaged. Carlene was positive the whole thing would have blown over by now, it would be in the past, a hideous mistake never spoken of again. Had they set a date? Sally probably needed plenty of time to bedazzle all the bridesmaids' dresses. Luckily, Sally had been taking major time off from the pub, but now that she was back, it was excruciating listening to her yammering on about wedding plans. It was hard for Carlene to listen and simultaneously fight the urge to punch her in the face.
She couldn't take it much longer. Carlene was going to have to fire Sally, something she wasn't looking forward to. Firing someone. It would be so American of her, and once again she felt shame rather than pride. Today Sally was humming as she washed the glasses. Carlene had never heard her hum. Carlene wasn't going to ask her if they had set a date; she feared she wouldn't be able to get the words out of her mouth.
Collin looked at Carlene with a commiserating glance. Carlene gave him a sad smile back. Did Sally even realize how Collin felt about her? Even if she did, Carlene knew it wouldn't make a difference. Sally was under whatever spell or hormone or chemical it was that inflicted women with love. The kind that made them do crazy things, and when asked why, the answer was always
Because I love him.
Sally probably bullied him into marrying her, and now here she was, humming. And Ronan was a grown man, so no matter what the situation, he was responsible for his half of it. Let them have each other. Carlene poured Collin a shot on the house.
“I'm taking the next few days off,” Carlene told Sally.
“You can't,” Sally said. “I have a ton of things to do to get ready for the wedding.”
“When's the big day?” Eoin asked. Carlene braced herself. She didn't want to hear it, even if it was a year from now.
“Two weeks from today,” Sally said. Collin choked on his shot. Carlene laughed. She couldn't be serious. “And no,” Sally said. “I'm not pregnant. We're just in a hurry.” Carlene walked out of the bar and headed upstairs. “Where are you going?” Sally said.
“I'm taking a few days off,” Carlene repeated. “And I'm starting right now.”
 
The tour bus to the Cliffs of Moher picked up passengers from in front of Nancy's. The Cliffs of Moher, otherwise known as the Cliffs of Ruin. What a perfect place to symbolically say good-bye to Ronan. Unforgiving cliffs jutting out six hundred feet above the Atlantic Ocean. Carlene would stand at the edge of the cliffs and let him go, let him be with Sally. She didn't come to Ireland to fall in love, she came to run a pub.
There were mostly older women on the bus, and Carlene sat back and enjoyed their chatter, and gossip, of which there was plenty. After an exhaustive back-and-forth about the weather, they talked about their children, their houses, and their spouses. They gossiped about who was getting what done to themselves and their homes, and tittered about neighbors and neighbors of neighbors. They spoke in hushed tones about who'd died, and harsh tones about who had yet to send a mass card. No one directly tried to draw Carlene into conversation; she sat in the back of the bus where the only other occupant was a man asleep in the very last seat. He was curled up in the corner with his hood pulled over his head. Most likely a drunk, Carlene thought; he'd probably sleep through the entire trip.
Carlene opened her book and put on earphones, although it wasn't music she was listening to, and she hadn't even started the book, which promised to be a thriller—instead it was the women in the front of the bus who captured her attention. She wanted to eavesdrop without having to be involved. She knew if she hadn't been on the bus, she would have been the topic of conversation. Or was she just being paranoid? Maybe a steady diet of rain, sheep, Guinness, and chips, and the superfluous use of the word “lad,” had twisted her brain.
She waited for the conversation to light on Sally and Ronan's wedding, and it eventually did. She heard about how Sally had been chasing him forever, she heard how Ronan was a loose cannon, a mad gambler, nothing like his father, and never going to change. It seemed they felt sorry for Sally, but with a “careful what you wish for” attitude. They spoke of a woman named Ellen, some farmer's daughter who was depressed and never came out of her room. One of the ladies insisted the girl wasn't just depressed, she was “mentally disturbed.” Carlene felt for her, whoever she was. Some days she didn't want to come out of her room; some days she felt mentally disturbed.
Carlene wondered if these women knew anything about the Ballybeog Museum or the men in tweed. They certainly seemed to know everything else that was going on in the little walled town. But Carlene refrained from inserting herself into the conversation. Asking too many questions would just swivel the spotlight back on her. That was the problem with walls, Carlene thought as she looked out the window. They kept people out, but they also trapped people in.
 
It was a long ride to the cliffs, then a long walk up them, but when Carlene finally arrived, she stood as close to the edge as she dared, opened her arms, á la standing on the bow of the
Titanic,
and lost herself in sweeping, endless view. The cliffs were staggering in height and depth, and Carlene felt dizzy as she gazed down the jagged rocks to the ocean cresting below. Gazing out, she felt so insignificant, so small, so temporary. The wind kept her hair blown back and stung her eyes with tears. Once she was over her vertigo, she felt invaded by a feeling of peace. All her petty worries, normally so insistent and large, seemed foolish and insignificant. Up here, she could breathe. Up here, nobody cared that she was crying. Of course, she would have preferred not to share the moment with a couple of hundred tourists. Not that anyone was paying any attention to her. They were endlessly posing for pictures, eating chips and sandwiches, kissing, and chattering.
Children were glued to their cell phones, paying no attention whatsoever, as if they stood at the edge of the world every day. Carlene had an urge to run up to them, one by one, grab their stupid phones that they huddled over protectively as if they were their newborn babies, and hurl them over the cliffs and into the dark depths below. How glorious that would feel! Why didn't she have the courage to do that? What was the worst that could happen? Would they gang up on her and throw her off the cliffs? Would she even care? Where were their mothers? They should be the ones yanking their phones out of their hands and feeding them to the ocean.
She decided, standing there, that she was going to insist her father come to Ireland. She would start an all-out campaign if she had to. And she was going to ask Nancy out for a girl's night, and she was going to find out more about the museum woman, and she was going to crawl all the way into the passage no matter what.
She should make a will first. Who would she leave the pub to? Joe? Let him turn it into Tan Land? Ronan—let him and Sally run it like some happily married couple united by a common goal? Or raffle it off again? Maybe this time to some lost little French girl who dreamed of running away to Ireland?
No, it was still hers, she wasn't leaving it to anyone, which meant she was going to have to make it through that passage without dying. Even though there was every chance that the ground could cave in on her and crush her, or God knows what was waiting at the end, perhaps some wild animal ready to tear into her flesh—what wild flesh-eating animals did they have in this part of Ireland? She didn't have a clue.
Yes, this was the perfect place to fall out of love, or a few steps further, to your death. Two weeks? Who planned a wedding in two weeks? Maybe, like Anchor pointed out, when you'd been engaged for fifteen years it didn't take long to get down to the actual planning.
Standing there, Carlene also thought of the mother she barely remembered. Would they have been good friends? Would her mother have been the comforting sort? The kind whose shoulders you could cry on when another hopeful romance was dashed? Would she have told Carlene to move on with her life and forget about Ronan, or would she have told her to fight for the man that she—
Liked, lusted after, was drawn to, couldn't get out of her mind—anything but loved, because love was a commitment, love was ten plus years of listening to them whine and washing their dirty shorts.
Her mother had been blond like Carlene, slightly thinner, a tad taller. Her mother's hair had been naturally curly too, but she always went to great lengths to straighten it. Did that mean she would have hated Carlene leaving hers in curls? Would she have chased after her daughter with a straightening iron? Carlene had too many questions, and the answers were gone for good.
Would her mother be shocked by the effect her death had on Carlene's father? If she were still alive, would he still be scrubbing, counting, and pacing? Did he blame himself, like Carlene blamed herself, and über-cleanliness was his punishment?
Maybe if Carlene brought her father out here, to the cliffs, he too could let it go, let her go. She would have to lead by example.
“Good-bye, Mom,” she said to the wind.
“Good-bye?” Ronan answered. She was so startled, he had to grab her to keep from stumbling over the cliffs. He pulled her back a safe distance and pulled off his navy hood. He was the man who'd been sitting at the back of the bus. He looked so beautiful standing in front of her, eyes intent on her, hands shoved in his pocket, dark wavy hair blown back by the wind. Carlene didn't even think, she just launched herself into his arms. Two weeks from now she wouldn't be able to do that; two weeks from now he would have a wife. He held her tight, then pulled back. At first he looked as if he was going to say something, and then he simply pulled her in again and crushed his lips over hers. As they kissed, even the magnificent cliffs fell away.
“Hello,” he said quietly when he pulled back.
“Hello,” she said. She went to kiss him again. He pulled back.
“Tell me about your mom,” he said.
 
Ronan led her to the visitor's center at the base of the cliffs. They sat at a small table at the café and had cups of tea. He waited for her to speak.
“She had a weak heart,” Carlene said. She pulled her hands away from Ronan and wrapped them around her chest.
“I'm so sorry,” Ronan said.
“Thank you.”
“There's something you're not telling me.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean like—I can feel it, sure. I can feel you holding back on me.”
Carlene opened her mouth to make a joke, but then stopped herself. When she spoke again, the words came tumbling out in one guilty breath. “It was all my fault. I'm responsible for her death.”
“What do you mean?” Ronan said. She wanted to kiss him for not immediately jumping in to tell her it wasn't her fault. That's what everyone else had done the few times she'd dared to confess to anyone: Becca, a teacher at school, and once even her grandma Jane. Before she could even tell them what happened, they would cut her off with “Oh Carlene,” or “Don't you worry your pretty little head,” or “It certainly was not.” She wanted to hear these things, but they meant nothing if they didn't know what really happened that day. So Carlene continued to carry the guilt of a six-year-old.
“Tell me,” Ronan said.
 
They were on the bus, on their way home. Carlene jostled into her mother with each lurch, ding, and belch of the bus. Carlene was sitting by the window so she could reach up and pull the cord when they were close to their stop. It was the moment Carlene lived for, the only way her mother ever got her to go on the bus. The sun was beating in Carlene's eyes, so she covered them with her hands. It was only for a few seconds. Suddenly she heard a ding, and then before she knew what was happening, her mother had grabbed her hand and was lifting her out of the seat.
It was too late! They were at their stop and somebody else had pulled the cord. Her mother didn't even tell her; there was no warning, not even a slight squeeze of her hand. Carlene heard the ding, saw the red light come on above the bus driver's head. Carlene started crying. Her mother had that weary look on her face, the one that meant she was tired and getting a headache, and soon she would tell Carlene to please, please, just let her have a little quiet, just a little quiet. Instead, she told Carlene that six was too old to cry like such a baby and that if she continued to cry like a two-year-old, when she got home she was going to take a nap like a two-year-old.
BOOK: The Pub Across the Pond
3.59Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
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