Aisling Gayle (29 page)

As they circled around the lake in
the hot, hazy sun Aisling constantly caught herself looking at Jameson and wondering what it would be like to make love with him.

It would be unlike anything she had ever experienced with Oliver. She knew that instinctively, from the feelings that ran through her when they kissed and when she felt his hard body on top of hers . . . when she felt his fingers touching her through her thin summer clothes.

After an hour or so on the lake, the hot sun eventually drove them back into the shade of the garden. Jameson disappeared into the kitchen and emerged minutes later with a bottle of Coke for Thomas, and glasses and a bottle of champagne for himself and Aisling.

“Good God!” Aisling gasped. “Pink champagne!”

“And why not?” Jameson smiled. “It’s a lovely drink for a lovely lady – and anyway, I’m celebrating.” He poured the drinks quickly, the bubbles trailing down the side of the crystal flutes. “A contract I’ve landed for a couple of businesses,” he explained. “They like the bigger lake scenes.”

How casual he was about something so exciting, Aisling thought. And how different her life had become in the short time she’d known him. Here she was, sitting by a blue lake in the sun with a handsome stranger and about to drink champagne – pink champagne! Back at home she would be either out working in the garden or helping out at the shop.

She reached across to touch her glass to his. “Congratulations,” she said, suddenly feeling sort of shy – then she took a sip of the sweet, fizzy drink.

“I’m also celebrating the fact that we’re spending another lovely afternoon together. That’s definitely worth a bottle of pink champagne!” he laughed.

Then they sat and talked – drank more champagne – and talked again.

Thomas went off into the house to change into his swimming clothes, and Aisling and Jameson sat watching him as he dived under the water time and time again. By the time they were on to their third glass, Thomas had headed into the house to dry off, and Aisling was explaining to Jameson in more detail about the religious problems of divorce, and how serious that was to a devout Catholic like her mother. She also admitted that her own religious convictions were certainly not as strong, but she had to keep that quiet for her parents’ sake and the fact she was a teacher in a Catholic school who was expected to uphold the Church’s views on these matters. Then she went on to tell him all about her sister Pauline and her illegitimate daughter, and how that situation was viewed in a small parochial village.

Jameson listened quietly, taking every word in. Apart from an understanding nod or an encouraging comment, he said very little. He seemed neither shocked nor willing to pass judgement. The few questions he did eventually ask were more practical and related to Oliver.

“I’ve no feelings left for him,” Aisling said. “None of it hurts any more.”

Then Jameson talked.

He told her about the fairly solitary, but happy life he had led as an only child. Then he told her more details about his marriage and the life he had led before he moved up to Lake Savannah. Aisling was surprised to learn that up until recently he had worked in the property business.

“It was a family business,” he explained with a shrug. “My father and uncle were involved in it all their working lives.” He gave a wry smile. “It wasn’t my bag at all, although I gave it a good shot for a long time. Too long. My father’s retired now, and we’ve sold up most of the business. We still rent out a few apartments, but that’s about it. We all have enough to live on comfortably for the future – and it means that I can spend most of my time with Thomas and my painting. So I’m mighty grateful to the property business for that.”

Aisling shook her head. “My life is just so small compared to all these things you’re talking about . . . and I dread to think of how my parents’ little shop would compare to your big business deals.”

He reached a hand to touch her gently on the cheek. “I d
on’t give a damn about the money, Aisling – and I don’t want you feeling it’s some kind of issue, or difference between us. The only good thing about it is that it’s bought me this place and some freedom.” He smiled now. “And if I hadn’t come to live up here, I wouldn’t have met you.”

“And if it hadn’t been for Thomas,” Aisling said, smiling,
“we probably would never have met.”

“That’s a bit of a miracle. Thomas has never been happy seeing me around women. Usually, he’s pretty wary.” He lifted Aisling’s hand now, and held it between his own for a moment. “It’s not just me,” he said, lifting her fingers to his lips. “We both saw how special you are.”

“I’m not special at all,” Aisling said, drawing back a little from him. “If I were here much longer you would both find that out fairly quickly.”

“For one thing,” Jameson went on, ignoring her protestations, “the fact that you saw something good in Thomas tells me a whole lot about you. Then there’s your lovely Irish voice that I could listen to all day long.” His hands came to rest gently on her shoulders, and he looked into her eyes. “And then there’s all this – your beautiful face and your lovely blonde hair . . . and then all the other bits.” He gave a low chuckle. “I’m sure the very best bits are all hidden.” Then, he drew her into his arms. “But one day . . .” He kissed her long and hard, then said, “Have I convinced you now just how unique you are?”

Aisling smiled and blushed – but somehow felt more relaxed again. And then they sat for a while longer enjoying the afternoon sun – talking about nothing in particular and finishing off the pink champagne.

“I’ll have to go,” Aisling said, checking her watch. “My mother and Jean will be back from their shopping trip soon, and they’ll wonder where I’ve got to.”

Jameson reached out and caught her hand. “Don’t go just yet . . .”

“I have to,” she said. “My parents are leaving in the morning for Connecticut – they’re going away for a few days.”

“Does that mean that you’ll be free?” he said hopefully.

Aisling looked at him. “What do you think?” she asked in a low voice. “Will it just make things harder for us?”

He touched a finger to her lips. “I’ll settle for anything just now, Aisling . . . anything.”

She nodded slowly.

“I’ve sat out here, in the garden or on the deck, every morning,” he told her, “just looking over towards the house, wondering what you were doing. Wondering whether you were lying awake or still asleep. Wondering all sorts of things about you. And I know I’ll do that every
single morning until you go back to Ireland.” His voice dropped. “And when that happens . . . I don’t know what I’ll do.”

“I wish I never had to go back,” she whispered. “If I were here on my own, I think I would be brave enough to stay for a while longer with Jean and Bruce . . . but I’m not on my own. I came with my parents, and I have to go back with them.”

“Don’t make any decisions yet,” he said quickly. “I reckon we should wait and see what happens in the next two weeks. I’ll put off my trip to New York for the time being . . . I’m not going to waste a minute of the time we can spend together.”

Jameson called in to the house to check on Thomas, and then he and Aisling walked around the lake together – hardly talking and hardly touching – both so relaxed and easy with each other that it wasn’t necessary.

As they neared Harpers’ house, Aisling heard the sound of a car engine. She turned towards him. “I’ll be back to you, as soon as I get the chance.”

“And I’ll be waiting,” he told her. “Any time of the day or night.”

Chapter 22

Tullamore, County Offaly

“Weighing everything up,” Charles told Peenie, “I reckon that things have improved all round.” He lifted a large meat knife to attack the well-sealed packaging on a box of Dinky toy cars. It was nearly half-past eleven o’clock in the morning, and his father usually had any deliveries opened and on the shelves by ten at the latest. Still, they were quiet at the minute – considering the dry, sunny morning – and they should be finished the last few boxes shortly.

“Improved in what way, exactly, Charles?” Peenie asked. He leaned one elbow on the wooden counter, and dug into his overall pocket for Woodbines and matches.

“Well,” Charles said, thrusting the knife in deep, ripping through a particularly large mound of sticky tape. “Pauline’s humour has certainly improved . . . and that in itself makes life an awful lot better for me, personally.”

“Indeed?” Peenie said, striking a match. “And is it the Byrne lad you were tellin’ me about from Mullingar? The lad that brought her home in the car the other night?” He watched now, amused as Charles tried to wrestle the knife back out from the depths of the box. “An’ would you say that he’s the cause of her good humour?”

“Undoubtedly,” Charles said, his jaw clenched with the effort of retrieving the knife. He gave a huge sigh as it eventually came loose. “She’s never been off the phone since. Although in all fairness, he’s the one who’s been doing most of the phoning up. He even phoned her from Dublin last night.”

Peenie took a long drag on his cigarette, the blue smoke curling its way up into his hair and greasy cap. “An’ tell me, Charles – is it all love talk on the phone? Have you heard what’s been said?”

Charles clattered the meat knife down on the counter, then, with both hands, wrenched the box open.
Dinky
cars and lorries came flying out in all directions. “Aw, feck it!” he exclaimed as the bottom of the box gave way, scattering the remainder of the miniature vehicles on the floor.

“Well?” Peenie prompted, as he scooped up some of the cars. “Do you think they’ll be at it soon? Pauline and the Byrne lad?”

“At
what?
” Charles asked, examining a small blue and yellow caravan. He was surprised to note that they had even put a tiny towbar on the caravan. Amazing, what they could do with even toys these days. He wondered if the towbar had been attached by hand or by machine. Probably machine. T
hese big factories in England could handle anything.

“At
it,
” said Peenie. “You know . . . a bit of what you’d like to be getting’ up to with Mrs Lynch.” He made a suggestive thrusting gesture now with his hips. “Up, ya boyo! That’s what I mean!”

Charles set the toy caravan down on the counter. He pushed his tortoiseshell working-glasses up to the bridge of his nose. “Now, Peenie,” he said, wagging a finger at the assistant. “What have I told you before about that coarse kind of talk? I won’t have you talking like that in the shop – or have any of that crude behaviour you just displayed.” Charles was in his stride now, an excellent take-off of his father. “And furthermore – I won’t have you talking about my sister or Mrs Lynch in that fashion. Two decent women who deserve a bit of respect . . .”

Peenie lifted one of the little vehicles from the counter – a red Brooke Bond Tea van – and inspected it for any dents or cracks it might have sustained in the fall from the parcel.

“
And
,” Charles went on, “you know well that you wouldn’t be coming out with that foul kind of language if my father was around – you’re trying to take advantage of me, and it won’t work.” He put his hands on his hips for emphasis. “Come to think of it,” he said now, “you wouldn’t have a job in this establishment, if my father was to hear about this kind of carry-on. We have our good name to think of in the town.”

Peenie sniggered, the Woodbine dangling from the corner of his mouth. He parked the Brooke Bond Tea van down on the counter beside the other vehicles. “Aw, get away with you, Charles. Where’s yer sense of humour? Sure, isn’t it only a bit of oul’ male banter? A bit of coddology. Sure, if two oul’ pals can’t have a laugh and bit of coddin’ together – life wouldn’t be worth the livin’.”

Charles was silent for a few moment – musing over Peenie’s last statement. You had to be careful with Peeenie Walshe. In the midst of his nonsense, he sometimes came out with the odd gem of wisdom. Especially where women were concerned. And in any case – it was nice to be referred to as a
pal.

“Right,” Charles said, clearing his throat. He would say no more on the matter. The point had been made and Peenie put firmly in his place. He motioned to the
Dinky
cars. “Let’s get these up on the shelf where they can easily be seen, and then you can stack the Lucozade
bottles and the bleach and disinfectant on the back wall.”

“Righto, Charles,” Peenie said, stifling a grin. “You’re the boss-man, and no mistake about it!”

* * *

Peenie perched a packet of porridge oats on the top of Mrs Flannigan’s shopping bag. “I’ve put the eggs on the top,” he told the deaf old woman in a loud voice, gesturing towards the bag for greater emphasis, “so they should be safe enough.”

Mrs Flannigan nodded vigorously and smiled at Peenie and then at Charles and Pauline – not having understood a word of what Peenie had said.

“The porridge oats,” he told her, “are the lightest, and they won’t harm the eggs, as long as you’re careful.”

Mrs Flannigan nodded and smiled all around her again, and went to lift the bag from the counter.

“Mind yerself, now,” Peenie said, taking the bag up in his hand. “I’ll carry it to the door for you.” He chatted to the old woman, taking her arm as they headed out to the door.