Kate caught his eye and smiled and this time he smiled back. Or perhaps he should find a nice Irish woman, someone who might fall in love with him too, someone who might like to come to Boston and share his life?
THURSDAY 26 JULY
15
ROSIE
The birds had been in full song for the last hour. In the hedgerow behind Rosie’s cottage, there was a daily feathery opera, beginning before the very first glow of sunrise and ending long after dusk. In the old days, her mother would return from a dawn garden ramble and say, ‘Have you heard the birds, Rosie? Go out there and listen to them! They are magical.’ Rosie refused to do it, being a young teenager, thinking that there was plenty of time to hear birds and more than enough time to ignore her mother’s wishes. And of course there wasn’t.
She was wide awake now and she looked at her far-too-bright digital clock, a relic from her teenage years: 4.57a.m. In the beginning, she had loved her quiet little house, almost hidden in the trees. It had felt like a welcome retreat after those busy, stressful days in the hotel. Now, it felt a little too hidden.
Rosie thought of Patrick, barely believing he was in her hotel, only metres away from her. After all this time. Last night, it had been a welcome distraction to have dinner with her family, but now, in the gloom of dawn, she could think of nothing else.
The look on his face yesterday told her that he was horrified to see her and yet… she wished more than anything to talk to him. But making sure no awkwardness occurred meant that she would have to avoid him for the weekend, it was that simple. And it was easy, wasn’t it? She wasn’t really needed this weekend, the wedding was Grace’s baby, everything was in hand, she could remain hidden away. But if she wasn’t careful, life would just slip away. And if she was anything, it was too careful.
Patrick had taken a risk leaving Ireland and from the look of him – healthy, confident, handsome – he was doing well. Meanwhile she was wearing old-fashioned skirt suits and didn’t even seem to have the kind of thoughts and opinions that Grace or Nessa had. Nessa wanted her life to change, that was brave. But Rosie? Her life was practically shrinking, she was stuck in a rut.
She made a pot of tea, warming the pot, spooning in the leaves, letting it stand for ninety seconds, exactly like Bertie had taught her all those years ago in the Shelbourne Hotel, and poured it into one of her mother’s old bone china Belleek cups and added her milk. Leaving the saucer behind, she went outside, in search of birdsong, which was like a multitrack from the canopy of trees which edged the hotel’s grounds.
The air was heavy with the scent of nectar, a damp dew on the grass, the air chilly but a wash of warmth which signalled that today was going to be a fine one. Past the lavender path, past the greenhouse and the beehives and over to the white-painted bench, under the sycamore. She sat for a moment, sipping her rapidly cooling tea, listening to the birds and the zzzzing of the bees which were hard at work, crawling in and out of the giant roses, before heading off to the next nectar-laden stop. It was first light and in the hotel, she knew, the front desk would still be peopled by the night staff, the kitchen team would be arriving in an hour. For now, the place was hers. Just Rosie, the birds and the bees. She blew on her tea and sipped it. And then she heard another sound. Someone was walking along the path.
16
PATRICK
Patrick’s eyes had flickered open in the dark of his room, his suitcase open on the luggage stand, his suit for Saturday hanging up over the wardrobe, his phone and watch on the table beside him.
Totally wired and fully awake, he couldn’t blame it all on jet lag because all he could think about was Rosie.
Like a war wound which had been prodded, he could feel the same ache as before. That day in the airport, he had turned away, knowing she was crying and completely unable to explain why he was doing what he was doing. He could hardly bear to look at Rosie, her eyes full of tears, her plans for their future scuppered by one comment from Lucinda and his own stubbornness and pride.
When he was on the flight, he had asked for a double whiskey. His hands shook as he sipped his drink.
‘Fear of flying?’ An elderly lady had spoken to him, kindly, in a soft posh Dublin voice.
‘Something like that.’
‘The whiskey certainly helps.’ She held up her own glass. ‘But it has to be Irish, doesn’t it? Isn’t that the best, the cream of the crop?’
‘It certainly is.’
By the time he landed in Boston, he was a different person. Somehow and somewhere over the Atlantic, he’d made a decision. He wasn’t going to be crying into his drink, or being miserable, hands shaking like an overemotional sap, he was going to succeed and he was going to leave all that chaos and drama and emotion back on the other side of the Atlantic.
There were times in his first few years in Boston he thought he might die of loneliness and longing and he might waste away from pining, like some Victorian poet. Walking the floor of the restaurants every night, shaking hands, his restlessness was part of the performance, a word here, a quip there, anticipating someone’s need for a drink, a top-up, a different table, a better chair, the bill, more water, a special aperitif, a nightcap – that was all a performance, an act. No one would have guessed that this smooth, handsome, confident Irish man was so desperately lonely, and not just for female company, he could have that if he needed it. It was for connection, someone who understood him, who made him laugh, someone with whom he felt he belonged.
Now he had actual friends in Boston. Johnny, his chef, was a close friend, and there were buddies at his gym, good business acquaintances he knew he could rely on, his pals at the Boston-Irish Gaelic football club where lads from all over Ireland gathered on the field in South Boston.
No one would ever guess how much he missed a woman he’d only known for a matter of months. A woman who was now married with two children, a woman who had decided she didn’t want anything to do with him, a woman who he was told he wasn’t good enough for. Rosie. Just a woman he used to know.
Now, perhaps, he would have handled it better. Now he would have tried long-distance or at least let their relationship live a little, rather than suffocating it so thoroughly of all air and life. But then he was twenty-two, with the maturity of a larva, the life experience of a mayfly but the ambition of a woefully naive eejit straight from the farm. Then he had a lot to prove, but he now knew success meant something different than just making money and gaining power. Success was his younger brother, able to have a relationship and commit to it. Success was how much love you had in your life, the empathy and kindness you showed to others. Success was listening and learning from others. Success was not being emotionally constipated, or whatever Ashley had called him.
And she had been right, up to a point. But he would never be what Ashley wanted, spilling out his feelings, emoting and baring his soul for the world to see, but being a little bit more emotionally honest was definitely something he could think about. He’d been deeply hurt over the years, by his father, for one. Losing Rosie. And once you survived those kinds of heartbreaks, you got stronger, and he was stronger now. And maybe it was time to meet someone and fall in love again.
He picked up his phone, hoping to be distracted by a message from Boston. Fitzgerald’s would be closing up now, the last bill being rung through, the floor swept, the tables set for next day. Johnny and the rest of the crew having a drink in the kitchen.
There was a message from Kerry-Anne.
Hope flight went well. Talk soon.
