Aisling Gayle (11 page)

* * *

After thoroughly discussing Thomas’s swimming awards again, Aisling was taken on a guided tour of the house by the boy. “My room,” Thomas told her, with a serious nod, “very, very special.”

“As long,” Jameson said wryly, “as it’s very tidy.”

As they moved from one room to another downstairs, Aisling was completely taken by the paintings and objects displayed in all the rooms. Some of the things that were in frames she couldn’t identify, as they were abstract shapes or pieces of material. Aisling wished she had the nerve to have asked Jameson Carroll what they were, and where they had come from.

Maybe, she thought, if she came again she might eventually feel comfortable enough to ask.

She smiled when Thomas showed her into the bathroom, and she saw it had the same artistic treatment, with pieces of painted driftwood on the window-ledge and baskets with painted pebbles and stones.

When they moved upstairs to the bedrooms, the washed wood furniture was in evidence again. And the hallway had a display of some kind of needlework which looked like small, detailed crochet work. And yet it was not a kind of needlework she had ever seen in Ireland. The pieces were some sort of samples. Some looked like collars, or maybe the facing of a pocket – each piece in its own individul frame, painted or washed to complement the tone of the craftwork.

Each of the four bedrooms Thomas led her through had the wood washed in a different shade to co-ordinate with the curtains and bed covers. Everything took her breath away. It was all so different from the candlewick bedspreads which dominated all the bedrooms back home.

When Thomas threw open the door to reveal his own bedroom, Aisling understood the look of pride on his face, for it was like entering his own private little world.

The room was a riot of primary colours from floor to ceiling – each wall adorned with a different, hand-painted mural. Aisling stood open-mouthed as she took in the American baseball players on one side, every animal you could think of on another, and Disney characters on yet another.

But the scene painted above Thomas’s high, wooden bed was the one that he was most proud of. It was a lake scene, complete with trees and clear blue water and there – poised and ready to dive into the water from the end of a small jetty – was an almost life-sized replica of the boy himself.

“Oh, Thomas,” Aisling whispered, “I have never seen anything like this in my life . . . you are such a lucky boy!”

Thomas nodded, his face suddenly earnest. “And Jameson Carroll – my dad – he’s a very clever man. He painted . . .” His arms moved expansively around the colourful room, “he painted all of this – for me!”

“Your dad?” Aisling said in a low voice “Your
dad
painted all this?”

Thomas’s head bobbed up and down again. “Sure,” he confirmed, his arms folded high over his proud chest.

Then, as she stared at all the intricate work on the walls, Aisling had a sinking feeling in her stomach. A feeling that told her that she was out of her depth in this house. She suddenly dreaded the thought of going downstairs to try and make conversation with this talented man, who now seemed more of a stranger to her than ever.

The difficult moment was postponed as Thomas gestured Aisling to follow him to the room next to his. Immediately she crossed the threshold, the dark, heavy furniture told her that she was in Jameson Carroll’s bedroom. It could only be his room. The old, highly polished furniture spoke loudly of its owner. Aisling stopped dead in her tracks – unwilling to move any further into the man’s private retreat.

But just as she turned away, her eyes glimpsed the huge, Old-Colonial style bed that dominated the room. It had a headpost which almost reached the ceiling, and both that and the bed were draped in patchwork material in dark, masculine shades.

As she turned away from the bed, a small painting in a very old, gilt frame stopped her dead in her tracks. It was a picture of a naked woman. A woman with the classic, voluptuous figure adored by artists – worked in hazy greys and blacks, and discreetly captured in a sideways pose. Aisling felt the blood rush to her cheeks. She wondered if Jameson Carroll had painted the nude. If he had – he must have spent hours working on this.

Hours in a room with a naked woman posing for the painting.

And he must have felt strongly enough about her to hang it in his room.

She shook her head in amazement, because there was no way she would have seen something like this in Ireland. Maybe in the art gallery in Dublin, but definitely not hanging in someone’s house.

Then, she almost laughed, imagining their parish priest’s face if he walked into a house and saw this painting hanging on a wall. Come to think of it – she could imagine her mother’s face if she saw it. Maggie’s artistic leanings were more towards holy statues and pictures of the Pope and John F Kennedy.

As she turned out of the bedroom, an identical small frame by the doorway caught her eye, but the painting this time was merely the head and shoulders of a woman. The same woman in the nude painting. Aisling inspected it closer this time, and noticed that both the frame and the painting were possibly quite old. Maybe Thomas’s father wasn’t the artist after all. But whoever had painted it, the fact remained that Jameson Carroll had no qualms about hanging a painting of a nude woman on his bedroom wall.

Whatever hesitations she had about going back downstairs when she’d seen the ordinary paintings, Aisling now felt even more intimidated. This Jameson Carroll was definitely no run-of-the-mill character. He was probably a well-known artist – and everything about the house told her that he was obviously a very wealthy man.

Then, as she and Thomas started down the stairs, he was there standing at the bottom, staring up at her. “Tell me about Ireland,” he said casually, turning back down to the kitchen. “My grandfolks came from there.”

“Did they?” she said, surprised. She paused. “I suppose Carroll is a fairly well-known Irish name – but it never dawned on me. When I hear the American accents, I just imagine people are simply American.”

He laughed now, showing even white teeth. Casual and very relaxed. Aisling could see that he was a man who could be very easy with women. There was a confidence about him that made her think there was little that would shake him.

“There are very few Americans who are just American
,” he said. “We’re all in a kind of melting-pot over here.”

He poured them more coffee, and then sat opposite her, his elbows resting on the table. “So what’s it like – this little country of yours?”

Aisling thought for a moment, her
hands cupping the
mug. “It’s nice,” she said. “Very different from America . . .
but it’s nice in a plain and simple sort of way.”

He leaned forward. “
Nice
,” he said, his eyes sparkling with laughter, “tells me precisely nothing. Is it possible to elaborate a little further in the interests of promoting your country?”

Aisling dropped her head and started laughing, too. “I suppose I’m not a very good advert, am I?”

“Go on,” he urged, his dark eyes watching her closely. “Ireland looks real good on television . . . I’ve always had a yearning to visit it some day. See where my folks came from.” He took a sip of his coffee. “I should do it sometime.”

As they chatted together, Aisling became more and more relaxed and her self-consciousness gradually melted away. Jameson asked her lots of questions about Ireland, about the differences between living in the country and living in Dublin. And Aisling found herself telling him all about her life growing up in Tullamore, all about her brother and sister and the shop, and things like how her father had taught them all to swim in the lakes in Mullingar.

Jameson Carroll sat back, watching her and listening to every word. “It sounds beautiful – simple and unspoiled,” he told her. “You’ve made up my mind – I’m definitely going to visit Ireland sometime soon.”

They moved on then to the subject of schools and education, but at the back of her mind, Aisling knew that she really wanted to know more about Jameson Carroll. There were a hundred questions she would have liked to ask him, if only she had the nerve.

“The special education out here must be good, judging by Thomas,” she said now. “What sort of school does he attend?”

Jameson explained that he attended a special school about twenty miles away. “It’s expensive by regular school standards,” he said shrugging, “but worth every cent. The school’s very progressive in its methods – and really brings the best out in each individual kid.”

Then, the subject crept back to the house and the lake. “It is so beautiful,” Aisling said. “It must be wonderful waking up every morning, and looking out at that view.” Then, just as the words left her lips, an image of Jameson Carroll waking up in his huge, dark bed suddenly crept into her mind.

“Yeah,” he said casually, “it’s a real nice place. I fell in love with it the first time I saw it. In the last few years we’ve spent more and more time here. We bought it as a holiday place, but it’s become more home now.”

Aisling wondered, if this mansion was his holiday place, what on earth his main home must look like.

Then, Thomas came rushing in. “Dad . . . Dad!” he said, out of breath. “Can we – can we go in – the boat?” He gestured to the window.

“Thomas,” his father said, looking serious now, “you know I’ve set my stuff up downstairs – and I should be getting on with that . . .”

Thomas gave him a big smile, and joined his hands together. “Please, Mr Carroll –Dad – Jameson . . .”

“Good try, buddy,” Jameson told him, “but rowing a boat doesn’t get the work done.”

Thomas had another try. He crossed the fingers of both hands, then closed his eyes. “Please . . . please . . . please!”

Jameson shook his head, but there was a smile on his
lips. He walked over to the window. Thomas, meanwhile, held the two crossed fingers up to Aisling in a silent plea.

“Okay!” Jameson said, turning round. “You’ve got thirt
y minutes – not a second longer! Is that a deal?”

“A deal! A deal!” Thomas headed for the door. “I’ll get the – oars!” His footsteps faded down the hall.

Aisling stood up now. “Thanks for the coffee and everything,” she said, “and thanks for showing me round your beautiful home.”

He looked at her now, in the same way he had looked at her yesterday. The way that made her feel all funny and young. “I kinda thought you might come for a ride in the boat with us,” he said now.

“I really should head off,” she said, turning away from his gaze. “I’ve taken up enough of your time.” She halted. “I really want to thank you again for sorting things out with that man yesterday . . . ” Then, she glanced up and he was still looking at her in that same, intense way.

“I’d almost forgotten about that. It seems longer than yesterday.” Then he gave a really broad smile. “OK then, since you owe me one after yesterday – you’re gonna have to come with us.” Aisling had opened her mouth to refuse again, when he said, “I’d really like you to come with us. In fact . . . that’s what made me give in to Thomas. I’d really like your company on the boat.”

Aisling held her breath for a second. “OK,” she said, smiling. “I’d love to.”

“Good,” he said, guiding her out into the huge, airy hallway, “because Thomas would’ve got round you anyway.”

The teenager had obviously been well-trained in matters to do with the boat. In a few minutes he had it all set up. He pointed out where Aisling and Jameson should sit at either end. Then, everything organised, Thomas sat in the middle and started to row in a very serious manner.

The lake was calm and empty of any swimmers or boats.
As they moved out into the water, Aisling saw yet
a
nother breathtaking view of the house. When she
commented on this, Jameson told her that the house was the first one to be built on Lake Savannah, and the family who originally built it had also owned all the surrounding land. It had eventually been sold off and divided into lots, and now
five more houses shared the beautiful lakeside hideaway.

“They were Southern folk,” he told her, “and named the lake after the area they had lived in there.”

“How long have you owned the house?” Aisling asked, shielding her eyes from the sun.

Jameson looked back at the house now, calculating. “About ten years, I reckon. We bought it when Thomas was around five, when we realised he was good in water.”

We, Aisling thought . . . there was obviously a wife and a mother around at some point.

Curiosity made her bold. “And the other house you mentioned?”

“New York City. It’s where my folks live.”

“That must be a huge difference,” she said. “So busy compared to here.”

He nodded. “Yeah,” he said solemnly, “it sure is a busy place.”

After a while, Jameson noticed Thomas flagging and cajoled him into taking a break. Then he took over. Effortlessly he moved the oars and the boat glided over the glass-like blue lake. Thomas knelt up at the back of the boat, dragging a piece of rope in the ripples.

Aisling sat back, letting her hand trail in the cool water. Her eyes followed the path of the boat, taking in all the tall trees and foliage as they went along. The layout and colours of each garden were completely different, and yet they all blended naturally where they met around the communal lakeside path.