Looking at the time, I knew I still had another fifteen minutes before Dee was ready for our regular Monday morning walks.
So, I called Brad, who I knew would pick up no matter where he was and what time it was.
“Yo,” he greeted. “You finally called your agent? You know how many texts I’ve sent you?”
“I don’t get them all,” I reminded him. “Some disappear into the ether.”
“How are things? You still enjoying your holiday? Ready for it to be over?”
“Good. Yes. No.”
“Right,” Brad clipped. “You have a meeting in two weeks in London, and then one in Dublin. There’s some party thing there, too.”
“Yeah, I know.”
“You want me to see if we can do it remotely?”
What I loved about Brad was that he never pushed me to do more than he knew I wanted to when it came to activities other than golf. He tried, but he always knew when to back off so as not to completely piss me off.
“Nah. I need to meet with them. Their CEO is coming and all that.”
“Okay.” Brad was quiet for a long moment. “You wanna tell me what’s going on?”
“I like it here.”
“You like a cold Irish village?”
“Yeah.”
“You working out? You need?—”
“I found a gym and am doing cardio. I do need to find a golf course.”
I heard sounds on Brad’s side of the line, and then a door slammed shut. “You want me to set you up? I think there are a few in Ireland.”
“Private ones where I won’t become fodder for fuckin’ Instagrammers?”
“Let me look.”
“Brad? You looked into that development thing they got going in Ballybeg?”
“I did.” He was quiet again.
“Brad?”
“It’s almost a done deal.”
“What?” I sat up.
“Yeah,” he said apologetically. I’d told him how I thought a project like that would ruin Ballybeg. “Who’s running the show?”
“In Cork, there is a development company called Irish Dreams. CEO is an Eoghan O’Farrell, and the guy who’s running this particular project is his nephew, Cillian.” I heard his keyboard then. “The hotel development company, though, is owned by fellow Charleston citizen Gilbert Hampton.”
“Big Gil?”
“Yeah.”
“Fuckin’ hell.”
