Killian and Isabelle exchanged a glance which was heavy with meaning. ‘You could smile more,’ said Killian, kindly. ‘That’s all we’re saying.’
‘So could Mum and Dad,’ said Isabelle.
Rosie looked over at Patrick. ‘Apparently I don’t smile,’ she said, smiling.
‘It’s overrated,’ he said. ‘I think we should all frown more. What do you think, Isabelle and Killian?’
‘No!’ they shouted. ‘Mrs Juniper says a smile costs nothing, and that you should turn frowns upside down.’
‘I like this Mrs Juniper,’ said Patrick. ‘She sounds like a woman of impeccable sense.’ He looked at Rosie, raising an eyebrow. ‘Thanks for the ride.’
‘You’re very welcome,’ answered Isabelle. ‘And if you like…’ She glanced at Rosie. ‘We could do it again tomorrow?’ Isabelle continued, and then turned to Killian. ‘But we have to be really good, okay?’
‘Look, I’ll leave you,’ said Patrick. ‘Back to our separate lives. I get it. You the owners, me the mere guest.’ He smiled again at Rosie, who wished he wasn’t walking away to take his place with the guests. She was suddenly charged with the feeling she wanted him to stay here with her. They could keep driving, keep going and have an adventure.
‘Bye, Patrick!’ she called briskly, and the children waved at him from the back window.
At least I know I’m not dead, she thought. Over the years, she had wondered if she was still capable of feeling anything. Whatever she was feeling, this whirl and whoosh of so many mixed emotions was like a reminder that she wasn’t dead. She was fully, brilliantly and happily live and kicking. It was like a shot of energy, a bolt of lightning.
At the garage, Grace came out to greet them as Isabelle and Killian climbed out of the back of the Land Rover. ‘I was wondering where my little helpers had gone to,’ said Grace.
‘We were busy talking to a guest,’ explained Isabelle.
‘He wishes he was an owner, like us,’ said Killian.
‘His name’s Patrick,’ said Isabelle. ‘He’s so nice. But he’s sad, I think.’
‘Sad? In what way?’ asked Grace.
‘Because he’s just a guest,’ explained Killian.
‘Was it Patrick, the brother of Seán, our groom?’ Grace smiled at the twins.
‘I think that’s the one…’ said Rosie vaguely, looking around the garage as though she was busy making some kind of inventory of the empty boxes, the rusty garden furniture, the bits of old wood, an old rabbit hutch left over from years ago. There was a new wine fridge in the corner which Grace had placed on top of an old table. All the equipment for the picnic was neatly stacked: the chairs, the rugs, the wicker baskets, glass pitchers, plates, glassware and gingham tablecloths.
‘I don’t think Patrick is sad,’ went on Grace. ‘He looks like a very happy man if you ask me. He and Kate, the matron of honour, will be an item by the end of the wedding, mark my words. He looks like the type who is fighting the women off,’ she went on. ‘The girls on reception were telling me that an American woman called asking if he was still resident and could she get a room tonight. Obviously we’re full, so they booked her into the Sandycove Arms.’
An American woman? Who was she? She must be Patrick’s girlfriend hoping to surprise him. But why would she need a separate room? It didn’t quite make sense.
Grace was smiling. ‘So, no, I don’t think he’s too lonely for female company.’
‘Nor am I,’ said Killian, passionately. ‘I’m not lonely for it. I’m lonely for boy company.’
‘Well,’ said Grace, ‘that makes two of us. Now, pick up that cooler box thing and we’ll go and fill it with picnic food and we will have the most wonderful afternoon, won’t we?’
‘I have to go and have a shower,’ said Rosie. ‘I can’t wear shorts to the picnic, can I?’
‘Of course you can!’ said Grace. ‘You look cool and comfortable. Which is just the atmosphere we want to convey. Stay as you are.’
And so Rosie did, relieved and pleased to not be wearing her navy skirt suit. In fact she couldn’t ever imagine wearing it ever again. The thought of being bundled up, restricted, tight and controlled was unbearable.
32
PATRICK
In front of the wall of the kitchen garden, at the end of the top lawn, beyond the beds of roses and in the shade of a willow tree, there were rugs and low benches. A bar had been set up, a long table, covered in a white tablecloth placed under a large parasol. Grace was mixing the raspberry syrup with Prosecco to make her Cliff Toppers and beside her Rosie was adding ice and extra raspberries. Grace said something, making Rosie laugh. Patrick gazed at her, wondering quite how hard it had been for her to manage a hotel on her own. Obviously, she had a good team, but she seemed to be running everything on her own. And as for the brother-in-law, Laurence, he was a liability. But Patrick was well used to family members who were a liability. He had the prize-winning one.
And there he was. His father was standing to one side talking to another guest, one of Niamh’s uncles. He could hear his voice. ‘…the Cork team are playing well this season,’ he was saying. ‘But when Johnny Barry took that puck to the head and Phelim Murphy grabbed his hurl and whipped the sliotar straight into the goal, I knew Tipp was done for…’
