Again, Rachel, page 47
‘So tell me, Anna’s in Ireland again? She visits … how often?’
‘Every couple of months, sometimes more often if she’s in Paris for work.’
‘Does she ever think about moving back? With your parents being …?’
‘Old? It’s okay, Luke, you can say the word.’
‘Elderly? Does it bother Anna?’
‘I don’t think so. Her life is in New York – her job, her apartment. And I couldn’t see Angelo living here. Anyway, she’s here a lot. Air travel, ya know? How are you feeling since your mum …’
‘Say it, Rachel.’ He was smiling. ‘You can say the word.’
‘Since she died.’
‘It’s still early days. But I’m doing okay. It hasn’t made me hate everyone …’
‘That’s how you felt after Yara?’
‘Yeah.’ Such a heartfelt sigh. ‘With their bullshit platitudes and their pity. I didn’t know how angry I was. You?’
‘Well, we all know how I “coped”.’ Then, ‘I’m so sorry, Luke.’
‘Stop. Please, Rachel.’ Even with the awkwardness of the screen, our eyes seemed to meet.
‘How’s your dad?’ I asked.
‘A pain in the hole.’ He laughed. ‘He is not going gently into that good night.’
‘He’s only – what? Seventy-eight? He’s young.’
‘Well, he wants to see the world. “While he still can.” I mean, fair enough. Next month we’re taking him to Vegas and Palm Springs. After that he’s talking about Cuba. But I’m glad to get time with him.’ Suddenly sombre, he said, ‘Mum’s death has certainly changed my perspective …’ Then, ‘So! You need to get to your meeting and I should get to bed!’
‘… Luke, are you okay?’
‘Yeah. Just … sorry, I guess, that I didn’t visit my mum more often. Time I’ll never get back now. But we can’t know until we know. And we had a great relationship, there’s nothing left unsaid there. But yeah, it’s something I’ll have to live with.’
‘Luke …’
‘So you’ll give me a heads-up about Yara’s tree? You’re thinking a week? More?’
‘Let’s say a week. Any time of the day that’s better for you to talk? Mornings? Evenings? I mean, with the time difference?’ This was a sneaky attempt to find out about his routine with Kallie.
‘Any time is fine.’ This gave me no information. ‘I mean it. Any time is good. Take care, Rachel.’
‘… You too.’
With a blooping noise, he was gone.
It’s me. Checking in on you regularly. Heard you’ve started having the chats with trees. Are you okay? Yes? No? A one-word answer will do. No need to write Game of Thrones.
Yes, I replied.
‘Welcome to Bottomless Brunch.’ A young server with pigtails and a cute hat slung menus our way.
‘Lunch,’ Claire said firmly. ‘It’s almost two o’clock. It’s lunch.’
‘Claire …’ I side-eyed her. ‘Let it go.’
‘Yeah, sorry.’ She waved away the jug of mimosa. ‘None of that bottomless crap for me, I like my alcohol to contain actual, you know, alcohol. I’ll have a negroni, thank you.’
‘Hey!’ Margaret’s friend Emily had arrived and we got up to hug her. Francesca and Molly were next to appear, then Helen and Kate and, finally, Mum and Anna.
Turning to me, Claire muttered, ‘I don’t know which is worse. That it’s “brunch” or that it’s a “girlie brunch”.’
‘It’s Margaret’s birthday,’ I hissed. ‘She can have whatever she wants.’
‘Hey,’ Helen said. ‘I’ve a question. If my baby is a girl, would it be weird to call her Bella Devlin?’
‘Yes,’ Claire said. ‘You fucking lunatic. They’d be sisters.’
‘And she’d be called Bella Devlin Devlin.’ This from Kate.
‘Anyway, what baby?’ Anna asked.
Suddenly, electrified with understanding, we were all staring at Helen. ‘What baby?’
She shifted awkwardly. ‘Yeah.’ She was sheepish. ‘Yeah. Six weeks.’
‘Why didn’t you tell us!?’
‘I don’t know. I could be in shock.’
‘What does Artie say?’
‘I haven’t told him yet.’
‘Helen!’
‘Anyway, it’s six weeks, which actually means only four. That’s nothing. It’s no guarantee of –’ She looked unexpectedly stricken.
Her gaze flicked to mine. Locked in a terrible embrace, fear squeezed my heart.
Sometime later, when we were all leaving, I grabbed her. ‘Helen’ – I was insistent – ‘if anything ever feels weird to you, anything, ring me, tell Artie, do something. But don’t ignore it. Do you hear me?’
‘Yeah, okay. Thanks.’
‘Even if it’s something tiny. Don’t be embarrassed by how small it might seem. Take it seriously.’
‘But with you, there were no signs?’
‘There might have been, though. Maybe I just didn’t notice them. Don’t make my mistakes.’
‘Oh, Rachel!’
85
Liberty and Finley had been playing on my mind. All of the Quinlivans had. But I reckoned that Quin’s parents and siblings would be better equipped than his kids to process my abrupt disappearance from their lives.
In view of how things were playing out, it was probably a blessing that I’d never assumed a proper parental role. We’d got on, though. I was very fond of them and it felt wrong to just disappear without an explanation.
But I wasn’t sure of the protocol, especially because I didn’t have a clue what Quin had told them. Was I ‘a cheating bitch’? Or had he spun the break-up as entirely his decision? Indeed, was Golden currently ensconced in Quin’s black-and-white tiled kitchen, drinking tea from ‘my’ mug, helping him find the tahini?
I really didn’t like that thought but it was impossible to extract my dislike of Golden from the whole scenario, to establish my precise feelings.
Several times I’d started composing emails to Quin, asking if I could write to his kids. But the memory of that last morning in his front hall, both of us ’fessing up to having cheated, cast a long shadow. There had been such rancour that I was reluctant to contact him, for fear of getting more of the same.
Something else was holding me back: I had no clue if things were done forever with Quin. Every single day I was surprised – almost shocked – by his absence. Did that mean I loved him? Enough to get past what we’d both done?
The only thing I knew for sure was that I knew nothing.
‘Well, thank you!’ It was Wednesday morning and Yara’s flowers were finally beginning to blossom. On Sunday evening, after Margaret’s brunch, I thought I’d detected the tiniest relaxing of the tightly clenched buds. Monday not so much. Or yesterday. But overnight, big changes had taken place.
Tell him.
Luke, the flowers have started. Looking good for the weekend. Does it suit if I FaceTime on your Saturday night, approx 11.30? Too late? X
Not too late. But very early for you to be getting up? 6.30am? You want to make it later? It’s good with me? L x
All good with 11.30pm. Talk then x
By Saturday evening, the tree was an explosion of pink petals.
‘Stay that way,’ I warned Yara. ‘You better be perfect tomorrow morning.’
I will be. Then, Lol.
So much for Luke offering me a later time – I was awake at 5 a.m. Still, it gave me plenty of time to fiddle around with my hair and skin and basically obsess.
Fresh, that’s how I wanted to look. Likeable.
Loveable, actually. I might as well admit it. It was the wrong thing to yearn for but the heart wants what the heart wants.
Out in the garden, the tree looked perfect. Six thirty rolled around and, almost breathless with anticipation, I made the call. And there he was, smiling.
‘Hey.’ I had to fight an urge to hug my iPad. ‘How are you?’
‘Okay. Great, really. So! Let’s see our little girl’s tree.’
For a moment, the breath caught in my chest, the sorrow was so intense. But as I turned the camera, my grief made room for a certain pride. ‘Exquisite, isn’t it?’
‘Totally. But of course it is. She was exquisite.’
Thank you.
After circumnavigating the tree twice, I turned the camera back to me. ‘I’ll send you tons of photos. And would you like some of the petals?’
He seemed surprised. ‘Yes! I’d love them.’
‘Send me your address, I’ll post them!’
‘Okay, thanks. So how was your week?’
An image of Helen flashed in my head and a second too late I answered, ‘Fine.’
He went still. ‘What?’ he asked. ‘Rachel? Is something wrong?’
Should I tell him? ‘My sister Helen, she’s pregnant.’
‘Hey. God almighty.’ He blinked. ‘That’s … is the world ready? And you feel …? Babe, it’s okay to be jealous.’
‘It’s not that. I’m worried that it’ll all go wrong for her.’ Since Helen had announced her pregnancy, anxiety had set up camp in my chest.
‘Is there any reason to think it might?’
‘None. The chances are tiny. Just that I know it happens. I mean, I know it, in my body, if that makes sense?’
He sighed. ‘Yeah. Hopefully it’ll be grand.’
‘Luke … What’s this about feeling jealous? Do you feel that way?’
‘Me? Nah!’
We both laughed.
‘Just.’ He shook his head. ‘Sometimes. There’s Joey, spawning kids left, right and centre …’
‘How many has he now?’
‘Four. I know, it’s hardly a multitude. But he barely even sees his eldest … There are times I want to …’
‘Speak sternly to him?’
‘Yeah.’ He smiled. ‘Very sternly. But it’s okay. It hurts but it’s okay. That’s about as good as it’ll get.’
‘How are you feeling about your mum?’
‘Doing grief counselling.’
‘You are?’ I didn’t know why I was so surprised, after all, he’d told me he’d seen a therapist when he’d first moved to Denver.
‘Oh yeah! This is me now, Rachel! Owning my stuff.’
I laughed. I couldn’t help it.
‘What else is going on for you?’ he asked.
‘Visiting Brigit the weekend after next.’
‘Oh, amazing! How is the Brigit of Madison County? Still in that incredible place?’
‘Even more incredible now.’
‘Rachel, would this be weird? Could you FaceTime me from there?’
‘Well, sure. I can show you some of the changes. They’ve converted the old cow house into a studio, for yoga workshops or painting schools. Residential ones, like. Brigit’s new career, hopefully. There’s a painting school later in the summer. I’m working at it.’
‘Doing what?’ Luke seemed confused. ‘Counselling?’
‘Excuse me! I have other skills too, you know.’
‘Oh, I know.’
‘I’ll be helping Bridge. Cooking for the guests.’
‘What?’ he spluttered. ‘You?’
‘Hahahaha! Yeah! Things really have changed. I can cook now.’
Over-dramatically, he blinked. ‘I can’t even.’
Back in the day, neither Luke nor I could cook. Because we managed the occasional stir-fry, we thought we could, but when it mattered we discovered we couldn’t.
Suddenly I said, ‘Do you remember the night my managers from Hope House were coming to dinner –’
‘– do I remember? Oh my God!’
I’d been angling for a permanent position and fear had made me embark on a menu which was far too ambitious. Luke had been my assistant and we were both fathoms out of our depth.
‘You were yelling instructions from the book,’ Luke said. ‘What was it you kept saying? “Thinly sliced! Luke, these shallots aren’t thin enough!”’
‘And you said, “They’re so thin, they’re fucking invisible.”’
‘Then I tore off my apron –’
‘– which I’d made you wear –’
‘– threw it on the floor and announced, “I QUIT!”’
We both got a wild fit of laughing at the memory. I was helpless, so was he and the release was joyous. Every uncomfortable emotion held in my body, from the very pit of my stomach, up through the clenched tension of my chest, just spun away. It was gorgeous.
Wiping my face, I picked up my screen. My eyes met Luke’s and I said, ‘I QUIT!’ And it began all over again.
When we had regained control, Luke said, ‘I can’t remember the last time I laughed like that. So, I should go to bed, you need to get on with your day. And we’ll talk on her anniversary?’
‘Yes. Yep.’
‘Try to not worry about Helen.’
‘Thanks.’ I smiled, still on a high. ‘Take care.’
And he was gone.
Had I imagined it?
Or had he actually been flirting?
When he’d agreed that I had skills other than counselling? The twinkle in his eye? The way he’d said, ‘Oh, I know’?
Had I imagined it?
Or was this what friendship with him was like?
86
The last ten minutes of the drive were always the most beautiful. On both sides of the bumpy boreen were theatres of green-grey rocks or fields that plunged and rose steeply.
Overhead, a massive expanse of mauve-coloured sky threatened rain – torrential, by the looks of things. But in seconds, the clouds had changed to a less ominous grey-blue, and just as I arrived at Brigit’s house, the sun was blazing.
I’d been here with Luke and I’d been here with Quin and now I was here alone.
You know it’s not an either/or? Suddenly Yara was very loud and clear in my head. It doesn’t have to be a choice between Quin and Luke. You can have a very happy life without either of them.
Okaaay. I had to sit for a moment, to absorb her wisdom.
Here Brigit came, running in jeans and a rough jumper, her arms open. It was shockingly lovely to see her.
‘You’re early!’ She caught me in a close hug and we half danced, half wrestled in her front yard.
‘I’m not. But you know my theory.’ Which was that ex-big-city girls went overboard embracing the whole fey Connemara time-is-elastic thing. The blow-ins were always the worst offenders.
‘What’s going on with your hair?’ I asked.
‘Got one of those spray-in Krazy Kolours in Dealz, they only had carmine. It runs in the rain. You’ll probably see it in action later. So come in, we’ll all have lunch, then go to Femke’s to pick up a jar of rose harissa.’
Whenever I visited, most of my time seemed to be spent in the passenger seat of Brigit’s jeep, traversing the townland of Maumtully, dropping things off and picking things up. It was a billion times more enjoyable and bonding than any contrived spa days or afternoon teas.
‘Femke is the lovely Dutch woman in the mansion?’
‘That’s the one.’
Into the glassy dream house, where I had hugs with Colm and the four kids: fifteen-year-old Lenehan, sweet and straightforward; fourteen-year-old Sully, a confident charmer; ten-year-old Ree, chatty and cheeky; and nine-year-old Queenie, suspicious and hilarious.
Brigit put a sturdy loaf of bread on the table. ‘Treacle and walnut.’ Then a heavy ceramic saucepan. ‘Vegetable soup.’
‘Did you make this?’ I asked.
‘Are you mad? Remember Arthur Ankles?’ A Welsh ex-footballer who’d had a breakdown and retreated from the world. ‘He’s working in the hotel now, doing lunches. Great at soups and breads. And, oh my God, his flapjacks!’
Outside, in the sunlight, the greens were a sharp emerald, then the light dipped and the landscape became a muted sage.
‘It’s ridiculously beautiful here.’
‘Try saying that on a November day,’ Colm said. ‘When it’s been raining for a week and a half and the Lidl wine lorry is late.’
‘Haha. You’re only saying that because you’re embarrassed by how wonderful your life is.’
As soon as we’d eaten, Brigit directed me towards the mud-spattered jeep and we set off at speed down the bumpy track. At the turn of the peninsula, a vast beach appeared, grains of white sand blowing in the wind. Beyond was a flat expanse of silver-grey diamonds.
‘Tide’s going out,’ Brigit said, veering sharply inland towards the town. On Main Street we passed a lanky man outside the hardware store. Brigit exclaimed, ‘Padraig!’ and pulled in suddenly.
‘Just need to return his wetsuit.’ She jumped from the jeep. ‘Two seconds.’
I followed her because I knew that a two-second handover of a wetsuit would become fifteen minutes of intense chat. All fine with me, I was on my holidays.
Padraig was full of news: there had been a ‘ruckus’ in the creamery; the hotel had offered Arthur Ankles a contract until Halloween and ‘the powers that be’ were worried about some ‘young fellas coming from Dublin’ for the August bank holiday. Apparently they didn’t ‘want a repeat of last year’.
About five minutes into the chat, when the drizzle began, neither Brigit nor Padraig noticed. My theory was that when you’d lived here for half a year, you grew a water-repellent coating. Not fully waterproof – you wouldn’t survive a dunking in a rain barrel, say – but light precipitation no longer penetrated.
After we – eventually – said goodbye to Padraig, we got cash from the ATM, filled a prescription for Ree, picked up a plug for Brigit’s father-in-law’s haybob, then went to Femke’s mansion, where we were offered hot drinks from a machine designed by Dolce & Gabbana.
Driving back on the old bog road, I suddenly said, ‘Bridge? Have I ever thanked you for saving my life? Twenty years ago?’
‘… Yes.’ She looked surprised. ‘Lots of times. Why?’
‘I just wanted to say it again.’
‘Okay. You’re welcome. It’s being in contact with Luke, isn’t it? Bringing back memories?’
‘So I’ll be okay?’
‘You already are okay. Look at all the freedom you have.’
‘You’re right, Bridge!’ Suddenly it hit me. ‘I can do anything with my life.’
