She disappeared into the lobby to join Niamh and Kate, while Rosie lingered for a moment, finishing up some work. From the reception area she could hear squeals from Niamh and then the sounds of men speaking. She didn’t need to go and greet them, she thought. Grace was doing all that. They just wanted to relax and enjoy themselves. She’d meet them later. Now she would just sit here and swelter in her navy suit. Was it really that bad? Did she really look as though she was a throwback to a long-ago era? Even her clothes were stuck.
10
PATRICK
Butterflies. He hadn’t had them for years, that racing, agitated feeling. On the morning of their mother’s funeral, there was only a dull, deep dread. But this was something entirely different, a racing sensation, that moment before a storm when the world starts to gather and prepare, bracing itself for what is to come. Nerves.
‘Ready?’ Both carrying their bags, Seán led him into the porch, as though Patrick didn’t know the way, past the line of wellington boots, the walking sticks in a large Chinese pot, the shelf of white geraniums in old terracotta pots.
The lounge of the hotel opened up, the reception on one side and ahead a large room with long sofas, low lighting and then light streaming in from the open doors out onto the terrace. There were large bunches of wild-flowers dotted around the room, the floor was smoothed flagstones.
Niamh was already up from where she had been sitting and was charging towards them.
‘There’s Niamh,’ Seán said to Patrick, breaking into a smile. ‘And that’s Kate.’
But as Seán was engulfed by Niamh, Patrick was staring at a third woman, dressed in a long, flowing kaftan, holding a clipboard, her back to them. Rosie? But she was turning around, smiling, and he saw it was someone else entirely. Perhaps she had moved on and he wouldn’t see her.
Inner torment was suddenly replaced by a screech of disappointment. My God, he thought. It wasn’t nerves. It was excitement.
Niamh turned to Patrick, hugging him warmly. ‘You’re so welcome home,’ she was saying. ‘You’ve had a long flight. How was it?’
‘Slept most of the way,’ he lied, smiling at her. He managed to keep talking, his eyes on Niamh, but his mind elsewhere. Where was she? ‘And watched a film, had something to eat. Wrote my speech.’ He had arranged his face into one of studied, relaxed calm.
He’d last met Niamh at their mother’s funeral, but today she was transformed, smiley, happy, excited and taking on a slightly sisterly role, slipping her arm through his and leading him towards the sofas where Kate was now standing up. ‘I have to introduce you to my maid of honour, my best friend Kate O’Brien, junior doctor at St Vincents. Marathon runner, voted most achieved girl at school… What else, Kate?’ She laughed, as the other woman swatted her arm.
Kate was immaculately dressed in a tight-fitting sleeveless white vest and navy trousers. Her hair was glossy, her arms gym-toned and her make-up perfectly applied. ‘Ignore her, please,’ she said, shaking his hand and smiling up at Patrick. ‘Finally, we get to meet Seán’s brother. He’s always going on about you, stories from growing up. Your hurling career…’
‘Career might be too strong a word for it,’ said Patrick. ‘I played a bit.’
‘A bit?’ Seán cuffed his arm. ‘We won a minor county final because of this man here. One of the greatest days in our lives, wasn’t it, Paddy?’
‘Before Saturday, obviously,’ said Kate to Seán. ‘That’s going to be the greatest.’
‘Obviously,’ said Seán.
Patrick sensed the matchmaking energy from Seán and Niamh. It was like being back in Cork when friends wanted to set you up with some girl so you could all go out together. And then he spotted a man in a pale linen suit briskly walking across the lobby, coming out of what seemed to be the dining room. It was Bertie, the manager from the Shelbourne Hotel. He hadn’t seen Bertie for years and yet it all flooded back. They used to have long chats in the manager’s office about all sorts, while Patrick waited for Rosie to finish her shift. They had talked about fishing and Boston where Bertie had once trained and orchids… that was it. Orchids. Bertie was always going on about them and rotating his little collection of them in the sun. So if Bertie was here… what about…?
‘Welcome, you’re all very welcome to Cliff Top,’ he was saying as he kept up his pace. ‘You’ve brought the weather with you for the wedding, haven’t you? It’s beautiful, isn’t it?’ And then, smiling, his eyes passed over the group and then landed on Patrick, his irises flickering for a moment before the smooth smile returned. He outstretched his hand. ‘Well, if it isn’t Mr Power.’ Bertie grasped Patrick’s hand firmly in both of his. ‘And how’s yourself, Patrick?’
‘Hello, Bertie. Good to see you again…’
Seán and Niamh turned to see who he was talking to, a look between them as though wondering how on earth they knew each other.
‘And you, Patrick. You look well.’ Bertie appraised his suit, taking in the cut, the stitching. Bertie had once given him a lesson on how to tie a tie, something his own father had never bothered with, and he’d never forgotten. Even now, whenever he tied one, he thought of Bertie and the lesson about knots and over and under, the Windsor or the four-in-hand. ‘And what brings you to Cliff Top?’ Bertie’s eyes were on his own now, curious.
‘My brother’s wedding.’
Bertie nodded slowly. ‘A family wedding, always a wonderful occasion. And your journey…?’ Bertie was a study in perfect unruffledness as always.
‘Still in Boston.’
‘Of course, of course. What a fine city it is. You know I trained there as a young lad, green around the ears, didn’t even know there was more than one type of knife.’ He looked at Patrick for a moment, this time more searchingly.
‘And you’re well, Bertie?’
‘The very best. Soon to be travelling to Indonesia on a trip of botanical endeavour. On the hunt of a rare orchid with my pals from the Orchid Society.’
‘You’re still into them, then?’ Patrick smiled at him.
