Aisling Gayle (10 page)

“Oh indeed,” Maggie said, cheering up now. “And they give huge amounts to local charities.” Then, she bent down to smell a rose bush. She picked one of the flowers and twiddled it around in her hands. “The only thing missing from Aisling’s life is a child.”

Jean raised her eyebrows but said nothing. She found it hard to understand this sister of hers who could lie awake regretting the birth of the only grandchild she had – and yet say everything would be fine if only Aisling gave her a grandchild.

“I don’t know who’s at fault,” Maggie went on, “either him or her. And I don’t know if they’ve ever found out . . . Aisling’s never said. But if they’ve not managed it in seven years of marriage . . .” Her voice tailed off.

“Oh, there’s lots of couples who conceive babies just when they’ve given up,” Jean said encouragingly, and rhymed off the names of girls they knew when growing up.

“I would doubt it now,” Maggie said quietly. “Not after all this time.”

“Aisling seems fulfilled in her teaching career,” Jean said, “and I’m sure she’s marvellous with children. You can just tell, even by the way she treats young Thomas.”

“Oh, she has great patience,” Maggie agreed, “there’s no doubting that.” She looked thoughtful again for a few moments. “If only she had one of her own. You see, it’s Oliver I worry about. A man likes to prove himself . . . in that way. And you never know . . . he could be tempted in other quarters.”

There was a silence.

“Have you any reason to feel that way about him?” Jean asked, realising she was treading on delicate ground.

“Good God, no,” Maggie said defensively. “He’s a good Catholic fellow – at Mass every Sunday. No . . . there’s no reason whatsoever.” She turned and started clearing the table. “It’s just – it’s just you would never know with men.”

* * *

As Aisling and Thomas turned the bend in the lakeside path, laughing and chatting, Aisling caught a glimpse of Jameson Carroll’s house for the first time. It was so tall – and yet delicate and almost regal – that it took her breath away. And the nearer they got, the bigger the house seemed and so full of details Aisling had only ever seen in American films. But this wasn’t a film – it was a house owned by real people. A house with balconies upstairs and a high white deck that ran all the way around it, full of rocking-chairs and tables and even a double wooden swing-seat.

A wave of anxiety washed over Aisling as she mounted the white wooden steps that led up to the meticulous white house. Jean and Bruce’s house was luxurious by anyone’s standards, but this was in another league yet again.

What on earth am I going to say to this man
? she thought, wishing now that she could just turn back. Then, a picture suddenly flooded into her mind, reminding her of the embarrassing incident that happened yesterday when she dropped the parcels. And then her face burned, when she remembered the way Jameson had deliberately avoided any eye-contact when he handed them back to her. And then she thought back to when they bumped heads and he seemed really irritated by her . . .

And then . . . Jameson Carroll was opening the door and just standing there – waiting for her.

He looked different from yesterday, although he was still casually dressed. He was wearing a pale blue denim shirt, loose and flowing, and close-fitting denim jeans. He looked like one of the American singers or film stars. Tall with long sandy hair and a trace of a fair beard and moustache.

“Hi,” he said, his eyes warm and friendly. Then he laughed and shook his head as Thomas tore in past them, beckoning to Aisling to follow.

Aisling felt herself blush . “Hi,” she said, smiling and trying to sound casual. Then, as she passed in by him, their
eyes met . . . and Aisling had that same feeling as yesterday. A feeling of self-consciousness. The intense awareness
of an attractive man looking at her. A feeling she remembered from years back, when she was young and single.

“I hope this wasn’t too early for you,” he said apologetically, “I was trying to hang on to this guy for an hour . . . he was driving me nuts.”

“It was grand,” Aisling said, stopping in the hallway. “We’ve been up for ages. Anyway . . . it’s nice to visit another American house.” She looked around the high, airy hallway, adorned with paintings of every shape and size. “This is absolutely gorgeous,” she breathed. “I’ve never seen anything like it before.”

She turned back to look at Thomas’s father and he was s
miling. A really warm, friendly smile. And Aisling suddenly realised that when he smiled he was very attractiv
e. Not in the usual way. Not attractive in the way Oliver was. Not smooth and handsome and meticulously dressed.

But Jameson Carroll was still very attractive – in a roughish, rangy kind of way.

“Down here,” Thomas said, rushing down the hallway, and excitedly beckoning them to come behind.

“We’d better go see these damned medals first,” the boy’s father whispered. “I think he’ll burst if we don’t get that over with.” He smiled again. “When you’re all done, I’ll fix us some coffee.”

“He’s a lovely boy,” Aisling said. “You must be really proud of him.”

He nodded slowly. “Yeah, I am proud of him.” Then his face clouded over. “Although there’s lots of folks would think there’s nothing to be proud of in a slow kid . . . but I know different. A lot different.”

“Well,” Aisling said, picking her words carefully, “I can see why you’re proud of him. He’s got a lovely nature and that’s the most important thing in any person. I really like him.”

Jameson stopped and looked right at her. “Yeah,” he said, smiling broadly, “I kinda like him too.”

Then they both laughed in a nice, easy way.

As she followed him down the hallway she noticed that his thick, unruly hair had three different shades running through it: the main sandy-blond colour, with an undertone of reddish – hence Thomas’s gingery colour – and then there were odd threads of silver. The silver was hardly noticeable, but it was there.

Aisling found herself wondering how old he was. People often went grey fairly young. He could be anything from mid-thirties to early forties. A bit older than her. And a bit older than Oliver.

Thomas indeed had all the medals and trophies he had talked so much about. He had them displayed in strict order – from the time he first started swimming and could swim only ten yards, through to twenty-five yards and fifty yards and so on.

For breaststroke and backstroke and butterfly strokes – and some strokes Aisling had never heard of. Some of the awards – his father told her quietly – were for special kids like Thomas, and some were for swimming in classes of children of more than average ability.

“You are so clever, buddy,” Jameson told Thomas when they put the last of the medals back in their boxes, and had put the last trophy back on the shelves. He then grabbed the boy in a bear hug and said, “What about the deal we made earlier?”

Thomas looked puzzled.

“Your bedroom,” Jameson reminded him.

Thomas turned to the door of the sitting-room and started to kick the bottom part of it. “Don’t want to!” he said in a low voice.

“No, no, Thomas,” Jameson said in a patient but firm tone. “A deal’s a deal.”

Thomas now leaned his forehead on the door and then moved backwards and forwards, lightly banging his head against the door.

Jameson shrugged and rolled his eyes in Aisling’s direction. “It’s not gonna work, buddy,” he said softly. “You’re just gonna give yourself a headache, and you’ll still have to tidy your room.” He winked at Aisling now. “I’ll have a drink and something nice for you when you get finished fixing everything up.”

There was a long pause, then Thomas slowly turned around and gave an exaggerated sigh. “OK, you win!” He gave Aisling a weary thumbs-up sign and disappeared down the hallway. Then, a few seconds later, his heavy footsteps sounded as he went up the stairs to the next floor.

Jameson smiled and shook his head. “That guy would try anything. He promised me that he would fix his bedroom up first thing this morning, and then he wriggled out of it.”

“It’s good that he has the nerve to try to get out of it,” Aisling said. “It wouldn’t be normal if he did everything you told him. He’s just doing what any teenager will do.”

“Sure,” the tall American agreed. “We do have our fights – he’s by no means perfect – but thankfully, there’s more than enough ups to compensate for the downs.”

They walked down the hallway towards the kitchen, and Aisling’s mouth nearly dropped open when she entered the huge, bright room. Like the outside of the house, it was almost completely white and filled with whitewashed, wooden furniture: old-style dressers, a huge, round table and high-backed chairs. A big rocking-chair with deep, checked cushions sat at the panoramic window that overlooked Lake Savannah.

The kitchen was of a style Aisling had never seen before – in fact the whole house was like nothing she had ever seen before. And certainly not the type of thing she would have expected in a house with only a man and a boy.

As she looked around, something told her that there was definitely a woman’s influence around this house.

“This is just so beautiful,” Aisling breathed, running her hand over the back of the rocking-chair.

“Thanks, it’s real kind of you to say so,” he said casually. He moved over to the large cooker now, and put the coffee-pot back on top to heat up. Then he lifted a basket with pastries and chocolate cookies and set it down on the table. He smiled. “I have to watch how much of this stuff Thomas eats – he’d eat rubbish all day long. He has it for treats, but I make sure that most of his food is good, wholesome stuff.”

“He looks a really healthy boy,” Aisling said, “so you’re obviously doing something right.”

Jameson shrugged. “I wonder at times what the hell I am doing . . . but I try to give it my best shot.” He reached in a cupboard and brought out two pottery mugs and a tall glass. “That’s what pleases me most about Thomas’s swimming. Apart from keeping him fit, it means he’s on a par with the other kids his age . . . and better than a lot. He’s a strong, healthy boy and although swimming isn’t everything, at least I don’t have to worry about him drowning if he’s near water. It’s one area he’s completely independent in.”

“I think you’re really brave encouraging him to do all these things,” she said. “It must be easier to just do things for him at times.”

“Yup,” Jameson said, “it sure is. Being a nagging dad is no fun . . .”

The loud clumping of footsteps signalled Thomas’s arrival back downstairs. “Finished,” he said, panting. “Room – absolutely spot-on!”

Jameson nodded his head and laughed. “I’ll be checking, buddy, so it had better be spot-on.”

Thomas looked at Aisling and winked at her. “He is very bossy,” he said, nodding at this father. “It’s not fair – he make me work too hard.”

“Get the orange juice outa the fridge and stop grumbling,” Jameson told him, “and there’s some of Annie’s chocolate brownies too – but go easy on them.”

Aisling’s ears suddenly pricked up.
Annie.
So there obviously was a woman around.

Thomas clapped his hands in glee and headed for the fridge. He lifted a large jug of juice out on to the table. “You’re a good guy – Jameson Carroll,” he said, filling a tall glass with the drink. He reached across the table and lifted a chocolate cookie. He held it out towards his father in a ‘cheers’ type gesture. “You’re my best buddy.”

“Sure,” Jameson laughed, pouring strong, dark coffee into mugs for himself and Aisling. “I’m your buddy while the going’s good!”

Then a phone ringing in the hall brought the banter to an abrupt stop as Jameson went off to answer it.

“You like brownies?” Thomas asked, holding the basket out to Aisling.

“I’ve never tried them before,” she confessed, “but they look lovely. I’ll have a small one.”

“Annie,” he said, “makes best brownies – ever!”

Aisling wondered again who Annie was. Maybe a girlfriend of Jameson’s?

“Yup,” Aisling could hear Jameson say into the phone, “afraid so – I’m all tied up with a wedding that Saturday – so we’ll have to make it the following week..” Then, there was a pause while he listened to his caller.

Aisling moved to close the door, as she didn’t want to eavesdrop on his call.

“Yeah,” she could still hear him say, “I’m sorry, too – but I can’t get out of it. I really would like to be with you – but it can’t be helped.” Another pause. “Okay, Melanie, we’ll pick up where we left off – look forward to that. Bye.” Then the phone clicked off.

First Annie and her brownies, and now Melanie on the phone. There were obviously women in Jameson Carroll’s life. And why wouldn’t there be? He was an attractive man in a rugged kind of way, although he had no obvious vanities about himself. Not like Oliver. She somehow couldn’t imagine Jameson Carroll checking and double-checking his reflection in a mirror before going out. He looked like the kind of man who just pulled a T-shirt or sweater on in the morning without even glancing at himself.

Then, Aisling shocked herself by wondering what he looked like without his T-shirt on.

He came back into the kitchen now. “Sorry about that,” he said, and Aisling felt herself blushing as if he could read her thoughts.