Wellesley Wives (New England Trilogy) (32 page)

She tried to remember where she’d sat with her mother. It was in a window seat, that much she recalled. It was where she’d first told her mom about an American boy named Peter. That was so long ago. They were all gone now—her mother, her father, Peter. She was alone.

“There you are! Come on, I know where we’re going.” Sandra hauled Popsy out of her daydream.

The Horseshoe bar was packed, and there was an intoxicating atmosphere of good cheer. It took her ten minutes to get served but during that time, Popsy managed to find seats at a small table. They had to share it with two men who were deep in conversation, but they nodded and smiled as if to say that using the same table was no problem. There were four or six people at all the other tables, crammed in like sardines. They got settled with their drinks.

“What do you think? Crazy, isn’t it? It’s so busy,” Sandra said as she looked around.

“Maybe there was a game on in town today or a conference in the hotel. There must be a reason it’s so busy.”

The man sitting next to her said, “Ah, there’s a reason all right. It’s Saturday.”

Popsy laughed. “Is it always like this?” she asked, sipping her dangerously strong mojito.

“Nah, it will really get going in about an hour or so.” He grinned. Was he suggesting it was going to get even more crowded? How would that be possible? If nothing else, it would cause a fire hazard for sure.

“So, I’m guessing you girls aren’t local.”

“I’m the tourist, but Popsy here is a real Irish girl,” Sandra said.

“You’re Irish?” he asked, looking at Popsy. “You could’ve fooled me.”

“I’ve been gone a long time,” Popsy said. “Living in the States for the last thirty years.”

He gave her a slight up and down, but she saw it. My God, he’s checking me out, she thought in horror. No way.

“We shouldn’t have let you get away.” His tone was serious, as if the country had parted with her by accident. Then he took a sip from his pint of Guinness.

Popsy looked at Sandra with panic on her face, willing her friend to intervene. It worked.

“I’m Sandra and this is my friend Popsy,” she said and reached across the small round table to shake hands. It was a formal gesture, and somehow cleared the air of anything other than a completely civil conversation.

“Jeff.” The man said, smiling. “Jeff Fitzpatrick. And this is my partner, Simon.”

“Nice to meet you.” Popsy kicked herself for not picking up on the fact that they were together. Boston had a huge gay population. She should have been more empathetic. Looking at him now, she noticed he was wearing a navy cashmere sweater. His short dark brown hair was perfectly trimmed. His general finish was polished and well-tended. He looked good. Why couldn’t straight men be more gay? She said nothing and took a few large sips of her mojito.

Jeff nodded, smiling. “So, tell me, what are you girls doing in Ireland? Sightseeing? Checking out the old home town?”

“You got it.” Sandra went to sip her drink, and looked into her empty glass in surprise.

“They go down easy, don’t they?” Simon asked, speaking for the first time.

He was well-dressed, too, in a pale blue cashmere sweater and dark denim jeans. His hair was longer and light blond.

“If I were you, I’d order two glasses each this round. One for now and the next will be good to go when you’re ready for it. The queues are so long at the bar.”

“That’s illegal in Boston,” Popsy said.

“What?”

“You can only have a single drink in front of you at any given time.”

“There would be a civil war if they tried to introduce that rule over here. It’s considered a national pastime to
line them up
.”

“Is that what you call it? Lining them up? Literally lining up your next few drinks?” Sandra asked, enthralled.

“Yep. What can I say? We have a very relaxed attitude about drinking. But you must never drink and drive,” Jeff warned. They both nodded earnestly. “Because it will spill all over your lap.”

They all burst out laughing, and Popsy realized that she’d downed her drink pretty fast, too. “I’ll get us another.”

“Get two each or you’ll be up and down all night,” Simon reminded her.

“Can I get you anything?” Popsy asked, which in itself was amazing. She had never bought a guy—gay or straight—a drink before. Peter was always there to get them. The memory didn’t hurt her. It was too fleeting, and she was preoccupied trying not to get squashed by the sheer volume of people. Simon shook his head and pointed to the couple of pints they already had lined up. The idea really had merit.

Just like it had with Sandra, it took her a good ten minutes to work through the crowds. When she got the barman’s attention, she didn’t need to think about it. “Four mojitos,” she said.

Sandra was well settled with her two new companions when Popsy got back. She was laughing and tasting Jeff’s Guinness. “It’s so heavy and bitter. I had no idea it would be so, so—”

“Good?” Jeff suggested.

Sandra hesitated. “Well, I’m guessing it’s an acquired taste.”

“Whatever it is, you’ve acquired a white mustache,” Popsy said and laughed at Sandra’s expense. “Don’t wipe it away. Please let me take a photo of you.”

“I think I’ll stick with my mojito,” Sandra said after Popsy had captured the moment.

“What’s in them anyway? They taste fantastic,” Popsy said.

Simon laughed. “Seriously? You ordered drinks without knowing what’s in them?”

Popsy, who was feeling better than she had in ages, pouted like a teenager. “I liked the idea of drinking a mojito, and they look pretty.”

“Well, they consist of mint, rum, sugar, lime, and club soda.”

“Wow, you know your drinks,” Sandra said.

“I worked as a bartender in Miami one summer.”

“The States? Miami can sure be a party town, but you still came home?” Maybe he and Jeff had been together a long time.

Simon burst her romantic bubble. “I only had a summer student visa, but it was a blast.”

They compared summer jobs and favorite places to visit when suddenly Sandra began acting very odd. She tried to hide behind Popsy, but it didn’t work because a man was standing right behind Popsy’s barstool. Then she dropped her head and looked like she was studying her lap. The guys glanced at Popsy.

“Sandra, what in the world are you doing?” she asked, but Sandra was busy covering her head with her hands.

“Quick, hide me,” she said in a panic.

Sandra hadn’t managed to hide herself at all. If anything, she was attracting attention with her arm-flapping and body-diving. Popsy had a buzz from almost two mojitos and found it all a bit funny.

“Why?” she asked stroking the back of Sandra’s head.

“It’s Sven. I wondered if I would bump into him, but I never thought we would. Damn it, Dublin is a big city. “

“Sven who?” Simon looked around as if that would help.

“Sven Richter. He’s this guy I met in Boston, and I knew he lived here, but that’s not why we came,” she whispered loudly, still staring at her lap.

Popsy thought it was hilarious. “Sandra,” she giggled, “we came because we’re revisiting my home country. It’s not a problem if you bump into him. It’s just a coincidence.”

“Ya think?” She glanced up and looked across to the bar door again. He wasn’t there.

“He caused quite a reaction in you, though,” Jeff teased. “I’m guessing this guy was more than a friend?”

Sandra sat up straight again. “No, we only talked a few times. It’s just that he seemed like a nice guy.”

“A nice guy,” Jeff and Simon chorused together and nodded knowingly at each other.

“Ah,” Sandra squealed. “There he is—no wait . . . Oh.” She looked guilty and smiled. “Sorry. False alarm.” She took another large gulp of her mojito.

“So that’s not him?” Popsy laughed. “Looks like you have Sven on the brain. You’re seeing him when he’s not even there.”

“No,” Sandra said. “It really did look like him.”

“We believe you.” Simon smiled, obviously meaning the exact opposite.

“The only reason he’s on my mind is because I found his business card in the pocket of my sweats yesterday. I was supposed to call him months ago and a few things happened, so I guess I forgot. He lives in Dublin, even though he’s German.”

“All very international and high-flying,” Jeff offered as he moved on to his second pint. “What does this Sven do?”

“He’s a doctor,” Sandra said and then looked at Popsy. “Specializing in reproduction and gynecology.”

Even through the haze of two mojitos, Popsy realized what a coincidence this was. Did her friend still want to have a baby? Could Sven help her? She grasped Sandra’s arm. “Ohmygod, you should call him,” Popsy said excitedly.

Sandra didn’t look so sure.

“I’m serious, Sandra. What is it you’re always telling me? ‘Life is not a dress rehearsal.’ We have to chase our dreams and just go for the things we want. We both know how short life is and how fast time flies. What are you waiting for? He even told you to call. You’re not being pushy.”

“She’s right, you know,” Simon said. “You should phone him.”

Sandra looked from Simon to Jeff. Even he was nodding. “Go for it,” Jeff said.

“This weekend isn’t about me hooking up with new guys. It’s about Popsy finding herself again. It’s about girl-time and us getting to have some fun together. There’ll be plenty of time for men.”

“I’ll drink to that.” Simon smiled as he finished his second pint.

The girls were well into their third mojitos and Popsy was a good deal more under the influence than she was used to. That’s when she saw a floor waitress for the first time.

“Now where the heck has she been all night?” Popsy asked, and called her over to order more drinks for the four of them. The men tried to protest.

“I insist,” Sandra said, clearly a little tipsy. “You guys are the best. You’re better than a therapist. Maybe that’s what I need—a therapist.”

“You seem very together to me,” Jeff argued. “Why do you think you would need a shrink?”

Sandra shrugged.

“We’ve had a tough couple of months,” Popsy said. “Sandra and her husband of fifteen years just broke up.”

The boys looked sympathetic.

“We didn’t break up. He walked out on me for a younger woman.”

Simon hissed. “The bitch.”

Popsy and Sandra glanced at each other. “Well, that other woman is my daughter,” Popsy admitted with a good deal of embarrassment.

Even Simon, who seemed fairly unshakable, looked shocked. He pointed to Sandra. “Your husband has shacked up with her daughter?” he pointed at Popsy. They both nodded and then the strangest thing happened. All four of them laughed at the ridiculousness of it all.

“He was my husband’s business partner, too,” Popsy said, and they laughed even more. It wasn’t that funny. But it released the pressure.

“And I thought the gay circuit was bitchy. You guys win,” Jeff said, raising his glass in a toast.

Soon the waitress arrived with their drinks, and Jeff pushed one over to Sandra. “Here, have some more. It will make you feel better.”

“Yeah, a mojito for my mojo! Hey, that’s neat because I lost my mojo and here I am.” She hiccupped and grinned. “I’ve found my mojo in a mojito in a Dublin pub.”

“Who’d a thunk it?” Jeff grinned.

“Thunk it?” Popsy had never heard the expression before, and that, combined with her three full mojitos, was enough to make her laugh uncontrollably and infectiously. They laughed until they produced tears of happiness. It was so good for them to decompress. The boys looked on in mildly inebriated amusement.

When it subsided, Popsy was feeling better than she had, not only in the last few months, but in years. She hadn’t felt this light and silly in as long as she could remember. Mojitos were going to become her new drink of choice. She would have to learn how to make them.

“Now, tell me about you guys. How long have you been together?”

Jeff and Simon looked at each other and then back to Popsy.

“About two weeks,” Simon offered.

“No, it’s two weeks to be exact,” Jeff said.

“Oh hey, so this is all pretty new,” Sandra said and raised her glass to them. “Well, go you guys. I really hope it works out for you. Really I do. Everybody deserves to fall in love.”

Again the men glanced at each other, and then Simon turned to Popsy. “What about you, then?” he asked. “Are you in love?”

She knew Sandra wanted to answer for her. She always rushed to Popsy’s aid these days, but the drink gave her the courage to speak up for herself.

“My husband died in October of last year. It was a massive heart attack.”

Jeff took hold of Popsy’s hands. “Oh, God bless you. How can you be so brave?”

Popsy shook her head. Sympathy would reduce her to tears in seconds. “Well, we came over to Ireland to have a change of scenery and a little break from everything. It’s good to get away.”

“Here, here,” Simon added. Then his expression changed. “You know what you ladies really need?”

“I smell trouble. What do you have in mind?” Sandra asked.

Simon nudged Jeff. “Let’s take these girls dancing. We’ll stay out all night and party like there’s no tomorrow.”

They didn’t need to be asked twice. Popsy had had her fair share of all-nighters when she was a student in Dublin. It was a lifetime ago, but the mojitos kept her going, and the music in the nightclub was infectious. The boys seemed to know everybody, and there was a huge age range, so she and Sandra didn’t feel like the grannies of the night. They completely forgot about their dinner reservations and ended up eating hot dogs and fries from a street vendor with their new friends at around two a.m., and then again somewhere around five a.m. Then they went back to dance some more.

Toward the end of their fun, Sandra was dancing with Simon to the classic Gloria Gaynor song, “I Will Survive.” Popsy was standing with Jeff watching everything. Sandra caught her eye across the dance floor and gave her the thumbs up. Then she mouthed, “Are you okay?”

Popsy smiled and nodded. She really was okay, she realized. This was fun. This was moving on with her life.

Popsy groaned when she woke up on Sunday. “I’m never going out, again—ever.”