Rainfall (22 page)

Chapter 29

Within 24 hours preparations are in full swing.  Mrs O’Reilly has proven herself a force to be reckoned with.  She has thrown herself into the wedding planning with full Irish gusto and by Thursday the sweet, wonderful garden has been transformed.  There is a gorgeous, ornate, Celtic wedding arch and a few quaint wooden benches lined up for the few guests who are due in this evening.  This morning she ferried me into town and I chose a simple, white dress with delicate white straps and a long,
floaty, soft skirt and a gorgeous silk wrap to ward off the evening chill.  White beaded sandals were the only other accessory; I politely declined the gorgeous, delicate silver cross that the saleslady tried to sell me, thinking that God might not take kindly to being so obviously included in my hypocrisy.

Adam is like a man possessed.  He is so obviously delighted and his happiness is so infectious that I find my spirits lifting just being around him and I have convinced myself that everything is going to be okay.  Simon is not around to enjoy his own life so why
shouldn’t Adam be allowed to make the most of it?   If Simon lacked the gumption to fight why should we suffer for it? 

On Thursday morning, at Mrs O’Reilly’s insistence, we head out for some sightseeing.  As our little car ambles through the glorious countryside, I navigate the winding, rustic road, Adam directing.  His eyes scan the road-map, one hand resting lightly on my knee and I almost manage to forget the terrible truth.  I find
myself imagining Adam and I growing old together in this gorgeous setting, maybe running our own little bed and breakfast or farming cows or sheep.  Whatever, I think, making a mental note to brush up on some Irish trivia.  Once we reach Dublin we program the GPS and head for Dublin Castle.  I am eager to see it; I have never been to a real castle before.

“There’s no moat,” are the first words out of my mouth as we stand before Dublin Castle.  Adam laughs at my obvious disappointment.

“It’s not a castle in the traditional sense, babe,” he says, a twinkle in his eye, “all the buildings have been modified and restored.”  He gazes up at the collection of buildings thoughtfully.

“You read the guide book didn’t you?” 

“Yeah,” he admits, offering me his arm.

Despite the lack of a moat the castle is amazing.  It is more a collection of 18
th
century administration buildings than a castle, but it is steeped in history and is well worth the trip.  We take in the Chapel Royal, famous for its vaulting, its fine plaster decorations and its carved oaks. Next to it I admire the Record Tower; the sole surviving tower of the medieval castle which goes some way to appeasing my craving for a traditional castle.  We spend over an hour in the Garda Museum where I am fascinated by the antiquated REWARD posters and, much to Adam’s dismay, I become obsessive about reading each one in detail. 

“Come on, Paige,” he whines, tugging my hand and eventually I let him lead me back out into the grounds.  The Revenue Museum is boring; I really don’t want to know about old Irish taxes, so we sneak out halfway through the guide’s long-winded and slightly nasal rhetoric.  Giggling, we emerge into the sunshine and Adam pulls me behind one of the smaller buildings into a cobbled lane. 

Pushing my hair back behind my ears, he lowers his head, a wicked gleam in his eyes and slowly brings his lips to mine. 
Bad idea
, I think, my body responding, as always, to Adam’s touch.  I curl my fingers in his hair and arch my body up to meet his, standing on my toes. 

“Excuse me!” a loud, disapproving voice booms from behind me and I bury my face in Adam’s shirt, not wanting to meet the eye of the furious castle official.

“Sorry,” Adam grins up at him, looking anything but, and I giggle nervously, scampering past the indignant man and rejoining the group, catching the end of the duties and tariffs presentation.

We have a leisurely lunch at The Silk Road Café which is situated in the Chester Beatty Library where I dine on the most delectable red snapper.  Adam tucks into his Lebanese chicken and I laugh, asking him why he is forsaking his Irish heritage.  The wicked gleam in his eye and his casual observation that “I'm going to pay for that later,” leaves me breathless with anticipation and quite ready to head home.  After lunch we just manage to catch the last guided tour of the State Apartments and the Medieval
Undercroft but throughout the tour my body feels as though I am on a slow boil and Adam continually fans my desire, grazing my breast when he leans across me, stroking the inside of my arm as he guides me down the stairs, and sending me dark, meaningful glances which have my insides squirming.  If I wasn’t so scared of being stumbled upon, I would jump his bones down here in the musty dark of the undercroft. 

By the time we make our way back to our little rental car my body is on high alert, conscious of every move that Adam makes and I cannot even look at him.  He seems to sense this and he deliberately brushes the bare skin of my back under my lemon-yellow, angora cardigan as he helps me into the car.  Raising his brows at me in open invitation, he whistles casually as he makes his way around the car and gets into the passenger seat.   With an almost frantic desire to get home, I test the little Fiesta’s limits as I soar through the countryside, not taking a thing in and Adam chuckles knowingly under his breath.

Twenty minutes later I howl in frustration and bang the steering-wheel; a short, sharp blare of the horn emanating from the little car.  The enormous black and white cow standing next to my window raises her head and observes me with huge brown eyes and I fight the urge to snap at her. Adam is having hysterics next to me, tears pouring from his eyes.  The herd of cattle has all but surrounded our car and no amount of honking or yelling has so much as budged them.

“This is ridiculous!” I moan; winding down my window and, engaging in act which is the height of futility, roaring at the enormous female on my right, “Move, you stupid cow!”  She regards me steadily, her mouth chewing on a clump of grass, and then, with a gentle low, she slowly turns herself around so that I am treated to the sight of her backside.  I don’t believe this is happening!

I turn to Adam who is still laughing, perfectly relaxed and at ease, and I narrow my eyes at him.

“You find this very funny, don’t you,” I accuse and he grins at me.

“I see this as an opportunity Paige,” he whispers conspiratorially.

“An opportunity for what?”
  I ask, baffled.  “We can’t go anywhere.  And how long do you think we can just sit here, doing nothing?”

His raises his hand and, ever so slowly, he takes hold of the zipper of my cardigan pulling it down slowly, his fingers tickling my chest and my eyes widen in understanding.

“As long as it takes Paige,” he murmurs, leaning forward over the gear-shift and kissing me with a passion that has been building all day.

“Oh!” I sigh against his mouth, catching the cow’s baleful eye as she turns her head to glare back at me.  “That’s what you get,” I pull a tongue at her before Adam claims my mouth once more and I forget everything else but him.   

By the time we are finished the windows have completely misted up and when I use my sleeve to clear a circle on the windshield I see that the cattle are gone.   The mist is picking up too. I start the engine and we make our way back considerably more slowly, partly because of the mist, and partly because my original sense of urgency has been sated.  We pass close by another herd of cattle and Adam clicks his tongue in mock-annoyance that they are not blocking our path.  We get back to the Guest House and more delicious home-cooked fare, then we head down the mossy path together, under cover of the beautiful starry night and I wonder if life could possibly be any more beautiful than this.         

The only dark clouds hanging over my head are the incessant, unanswered calls from Carl Sheldon.  By Friday evening I cannot ignore him any longer and, excusing myself from the jovial, pre-wedding dinner for a moment, I make my way down to the cottage, determined to finally get him off my back.

I sit on the comfortable bed regretting that
a
dam will not be sharing it with me tonight. Every minute without him is agony but Mrs O’Reilly has very strong views about the bride and groom not seeing one another on the wedding day, so Adam has been relegated to the Manor house for this evening.  Mr O’Reilly has taken a paternal shine to Adam, so it appears, and seems intent on teaching Adam to drink like an Irishman.  The O’Reilly’s have no children of their own though not for lack of trying.  Mrs O’Reilly suffered eight heart-breaking miscarriages before they finally conceded that it was not to be and decided that God must have a different plan for them.  It still doesn’t stop them from their parental fussing over their guests.  I think the guest house is a way for them to fill the void and gives them the opportunity to take care of people.  Privately, I think Adam is loving it.  He certainly seems to have developed a penchant for Irish beer. 

I pick up my cell phone.  Unsurprisingly there is a new missed call from Carl.   I glance at the clock display; it is almost 7 p.m. so only 2 in the afternoon in New York.  Taking a deep breath I hit the call button.

“Paige!”  Carl sounds frantic and I wince; Carl is never panicked, worried or rushed.  He is the most steadfast person I have ever met.

“Hi Carl,” I try to sound as casual and unconcerned as possible, “What’s up?”

There is an interminable silence and I can sense that he is choosing his words carefully.  Carl is not one to blow up and he never speaks without thinking.  I have always admired his restraint in this regard.

“What are you doing?” he sounds tired, and, more worryingly, resigned.

“What do you mean?”  I ask lightly.

“Paige, I went to the hospital when I heard about the accident.  I wanted to check up on you.   I bumped into
Lizzy,” he sighs, “Simon didn’t integrate.” There is so much meaning conveyed in those three little words but I choose to feign ignorance.

“No, he didn’t,” I say breezily, “it’s probably going to take a bit more time.  I was going to call you, but Adam and
I, well, we both needed a bit of a break.”

Carl Sheldon is silent for so long that I think perhaps our connection has been lost and then I hear him heave a deep breath.

“I spoke to Bill Morris, Paige,” he sighs, and it hits me like a shot in the heart. 
He knows. 
Carl continues unaware of the anxiety attack that I'm having, “Now just tell me where you are.”

“Why?” it is barely more than a whisper but he hears me.

“You know why.” 

“No!” My voice is much louder, more forceful. 

“Paige,” Carl’s voice has taken on the gentle timbre that one would use to soothe a young child, “he has to integrate.  We have to finish this.”

“I can’t!”  I sob; I don’t want to hear any more.

“I know how hard this must be on you but you have to do the right thing.  I think you know that?” he prods and I wipe away my tears, angrily. 

“You know what I know, Carl?”  I hiss his name into the phone.  “I know that I'm happy.  Adam is happy.  Oh, and Simon Harris is an asshole,” I add for good measure.

“That’s your opinion Paige,” he says, not unkindly.

“No, it’s not!” I choke out, “it’s a fact!  And he doesn’t want his life, Doc!  He never wanted it; not since he was a child.  Adam fought for his existence and he won!  Doesn’t he deserve to enjoy the spoils?”

“Adam is a coping mechanism,” he chides gently.

“Adam is a man!”  I yell, “he’s real, Carl.  A real person!  You're the one who kept explaining that to me, remember!”

“I do, Paige and you’re right, Adam is real... to Adam.  And obviously to you.  But Simon Harris is the rightful owner of that body and he needs to get it back.”

“Go to hell!”  I hiss, wiping more tears from my face.  Carl is silent for a long, thoughtful moment and when he speaks again he sounds saddened but firm.

“Paige, if you don’t get him back here by the end of the weekend I’ll have to go to the police.” There is an awful pause, and then, “I’ll have no choice but to have you cited for kidnapping.” I recoil at his words; the true realisation of the consequences of my actions dawning on me. I had not given any thought to the legal implications. I did not think I would ever need to concern myself with these; nobody was ever supposed to know what I had done.  Damn Lizzy!  Damn Simon for calling her!  “Please,” Carl continues, “bring him back.  Do the right thing.”  There is another pause and then, “I’m so sorry.”  The line goes dead and I am left holding the phone, wondering what on earth I can do to stop my world from imploding.

I hear the front door slam and I quickly stow the cell phone in my handbag, wiping my face with the sleeve of my sweater and forcing a smile onto my face, which turns out to be a pointless exercise as it is Simon and not Adam who stalks through the bedroom door.

“What in the hell do you think you’re doing?” he hisses, his features distorted in an angry snarl. I stand abruptly, my eyes darting back toward the door, terrified that Mr and Mrs O’Reilly may be just behind him.  “I wouldn’t tell those people anything,” he answers my unspoken question angrily and I breathe a sigh of relief.  “Are they in on it Paige?” he demands and I realise that the reason he wouldn’t confide in the O’Reillys is that Simon doesn’t like anyone.  He is instinctively and naturally distrustful.