Wellesley Wives (New England Trilogy) (40 page)

“This is like one of those imitation country Irish pubs you get in Boston, only I guess this is the real thing,” Popsy whispered.

“Yeah, I wonder where everybody is.” Sandra craned her neck and looked around. “Excuse me,” she called, “Anybody here?”

“I am.”

The voice came from the doorframe at the far end of the bar. Sandra figured it went to a kitchen or stock room. A woman walked over to greet them.

“Hello, ladies, I’m Mrs. Miller.” She wiped her hands on a dish towel. “Welcome to The Boathouse. Is it a late lunch or an early tea you were thinking of?” They had great difficulty understanding what they came to find out was her Kerry accent. Mrs. Miller was from Killarney in Kerry County, and had only lived in Banagher for forty years. Apparently that still made her a relatively new person in the town, but from what Mrs. Miller said, her Kerry accent was still as strong as it was the day she’d met and married her husband.

“Um, we heard that you had rooms to let. We were hoping we could book one for a night,” Popsy said.

“No, a few nights.” Sandra looked at her friend. “We don’t know how long we’ll need to stay.”

Mrs. Miller put down the towel. “Well, I only have five rooms and four are gone, so you would have to share my small room. It does have two beds, but it’s tight. I usually let it out to students in the summer, or the boat hands.”

Sandra thought about this for a moment. It was a change from The Four Seasons for sure. Maybe they should check out the hotel in town.

Put Popsy made up her mind for her. “We’ll take it. We’re tougher than we look. Tell me, though, I thought it was off-season. Why is the place so busy?”

“The lads are in town to work on the boats. Being winter, they’re all out of the water and now’s the time to get ‘em fixed up for next summer. It’s mayhem here.” Mrs. Miller smiled. She obviously liked mayhem. “And yourselves? What brings you girls to Banagher?”

Popsy glanced at her watch. “We should have been touching down in Logan Airport around now, but that volcano has grounded all planes across Europe. That’s why we don’t know how long we’ll be here.”

“Well, America’s loss is our gain,” she said in a matter-of-fact tone and gestured for Sandra and Popsy to follow her. “Come with me now, and I’ll take your details and give you the room key.”

Mrs. Miller told them they could unpack at their leisure and “wander about the place to find their feet.” She let them know she could make them toasted or normal sandwiches anytime, but dinner would be served in the bar between six and eight p.m. Breakfast was whenever they woke.

Sandra didn’t bother asking if there was a gym in the town of Banagher. She would run on the country roads instead, though she preferred the gym because the treadmill was easier on her joints.

Another reason she liked the treadmills was it meant that she could measure the exact miles she’d run, along with the rate and the time she took. But their driver, Gerald, had told her that an Irish mile was not the same as a U.S. one. It seemed crazy to Sandra, but how could she measure her runs if they used different miles? Everything else was different, too, so it was hardly surprising. She would just go out and run for what felt like a good stretch, and that would have to do. She was a little neurotic about her running stats, but she had no choice. Popsy, on the other hand, had slipped back into the Irish system with ease.

“I love this place,” Popsy said when they were unpacking the car. “Can you smell that air? I swear it feels fresher than back home.”

“Vacation brain,” Sandra said. “The air in Boston is just as clean. They do quality checks all the time.”

“Can you not feel a stillness in the air here that just doesn’t exist at home? Maybe it’s the river, or the fact that we’re in the midlands of Ireland, but it feels like time is standing still.”

Sandra laughed. “The truth is I get it, too. It really feels like time is moving slower. Have you noticed that there are no car horns beeping, no landscapers tearing up the peace with their lawn mowers—nothing.” She stopped for a minute and listened to the silence. “It’s perfectly still. Cool, right? Now come on and let’s get these suitcases to our room and go for a walk.”

“It’s not quite The Four Seasons, is it?” Popsy laughed as she held up the old-fashioned metal key. There was no chance of getting a plastic card key here, but then, there were no check in or check out times, either. This was an altogether more relaxed environment and one Popsy favored over the five-star-luxury kind.

A few minutes later they’d unloaded their car and hauled their oversized cases up the narrow stairs and into the tiny room that was called “number five.”

“Oh my gawd!” Popsy moaned when she saw the room. It was unbelievably small and cramped. By the time they’d hauled their luggage in and situated themselves, there was barely room to move. The single beds were pushed up against the walls and between them was a space of a few feet. That was now where Sandra, Popsy, and their enormous cases were crammed.

She laughed now. “Beginning to regret Banagher?” she asked.

“This room is smaller than my bathroom at the hotel in Dublin. This isn’t a bedroom. It’s a closet.”

Popsy sat down on her bed to make more room and decided to make the best of the situation. “Oh, so what? We won’t be here too long, and it’s all part of our great Irish adventure.”

Sandra said, “I guess you’re right. I’ve gotten too soft—too used to the good life. This is fine. A bit tight but fine.”

“Should we even bother to unpack?” Popsy asked as she looked around for somewhere to hang her clothes.

“There’s no closet.” Sandra laughed.

“No drawers, either.”

“Ohmygod, there’s no en suite,” Sandra gasped.

There was a knock on the door. “You girls settling in okay?” Mrs. Miller asked. “I have towels for you, here.”

Popsy crawled to the bottom of her bed to avoid knocking anything over, and went to open the door.

“Oh my, those are big suitcases. There’ll be no room for you with those things,” Mrs. Miller said. “We could maybe put them in the storeroom after you’ve unpacked.”

“We’re fine, thank you. Really,” Popsy said. She didn’t want to highlight that there was nowhere to actually hang their clothes. “Now, can you tell me where our bathroom is?”

“Ah, everybody shares here,” she said proudly. Then she pointed back down the stairs. “You’ll have passed them when you came through the hall from the pub.”

They’d walked past doors marked “ladies” and “gents,” but Popsy had assumed they were for the visitors to the pub and not for people overnighting. She would have to walk through public halls in the morning before she got the chance to brush her teeth or shower—Oh, God.

“We’ll laugh about this when we’re back in Wellesley,” Sandra said when Mrs. Miller had left them alone again.

“Are you sure?”

“I think I need to go for a run. Are you okay to wander around here by yourself for an hour?”

“I’ll be fine. You run and I’ll go for a walk by the river.”

Left to her own devices, Popsy found her way to the back of The Boathouse. What it lacked in bedroom finesse it made up for in outside décor. It was simply heavenly. Popsy soon realized the front of the house didn’t get much attention because all of the love, effort, and serious gardening went into the back where it overlooked the River Shannon.

Metal benches stood on either side of the back door. Both were nestled into beds of lavender. The shrubs had been cut back for the winter, but Popsy could see the first signs of new growth. It made her long to sit on those benches in high summer when the lilac buds would be full and open and smelling like heaven.

A gravel path led from the back door down toward the river where four wooden picnic tables stood. On either end of each picnic table were large wooden barrels crammed with spring flowering grape hyacinths.

To the sides of the garden, Popsy could see wide and much-loved flower borders just beginning to wake up.

What a lovely place to visit, she thought, and began walking down the gravel path to the river.

She would tell Rosie and Marcus about this place. They should bring Natasha here. Standing by the water’s edge, Popsy looked back at the house to see how it would appear to boaters. Now it looked even prettier. There were window boxes under every window and like the old wooden barrels, they were crammed with spring bulbs—miniature ruby tulips and glowing yellow daffodils. It was already picture-postcard beautiful.

Popsy could see why it would be so attractive to American tourists. It would be attractive to anybody. But it was famous for being a pub and not a boarding house. That was pretty obvious after having seen the rooms. She wondered why the pub was so popular. Guess, I’ll find out tonight, she thought as she looked out over the water.

There was a small jetty. It must be where the boats docked when they were visiting.

Now, though, the river was quiet. According to Mrs. Miller, boats were out of the water and being fixed up over the winter. Popsy figured that’s what was happening down in the marina, and so with nothing better to do, she decided to wander along the riverbank, hoping it would lead her there.

She glanced at her watch. It was only four thirty. Time really did seem to move more slowly in Banagher. What a nice thought.

It was easier to get to the town by foot than it had been by car. With just a short fifteen-minute walk, Popsy found herself in the center of the marina. It was also quiet. Being a Monday, she figured most boat owners were at work, paying for their boats. But the crane down at the water’s edge was busy and she heard voices, so she decided to investigate.

She watched in fascination as the men worked to harness a massive boat that was resting on a trailer next to them. It seemed to take an age as they checked and double-checked all the pulleys and tow ropes. The man that seemed to be in charge signaled to the crane operator to “take up the slack.” The machine’s great metal arm went to work and hoisted the boat up until all the straps and ropes were as tense as the guy in charge clearly was.

“Hey,” he yelled, but the crane operator seemed to think the boss meant “stop.” The boat was barely suspended off the trailer, but still he wanted to triple-check all the connections.

She was beginning to lose interest when the crane got the nod to hoist again, and this time the enormous boat rose up and away from its trailer. The noise of groaning metal scared her. She didn’t know if it was the crane or the boat that seemed to suffer from the strain, but slowly it was maneuvered up and over onto a dry dock stand. At this point, another five men moved in to help as they pushed and pulled to ensure the boat landed with a gentle thud onto its new position. It was remarkable to see the river cruisers out of the water. They appeared so graceful and balanced on the river, but out in dry dock they looked oversized and cumbersome.

A fish out of water, she thought, and walked closer to have a better look.

She’d had the good sense to stay well back when the heavy lifting was being done, but now she didn’t think she’d be in anybody’s way. She was smart. She would keep her eyes open and not become a nuisance.

One didn’t manage to raise two girls and get them to adulthood without having eyes in the back of your head, she told herself.

“Would you stand back, hey you—lady!” It took Popsy a moment to realize that the man was actually shouting at her. He ran over, grabbed her by the waist, and pulled them both to the ground. It all happened so fast, Popsy didn’t know what was going on. But as they rolled through the dust, she got a glance skyward and saw a large metal object glide right over their heads.

It didn’t make sense. She’d been watching the crane’s metal arm. It had been on the far side of the driver’s cubical.

The man dragged her by the arms along the rough cement back about fifteen feet to safety.

“Of all dumbass things to do,” he mumbled. His accent was from the north of Ireland.

“What just happened?” Popsy asked as she rubbed her arms.

“You nearly got yourself killed, that’s what,” he said. “Jesus, woman, have you no sense?”

“Sorry. I thought I was out of the way.” She saw that the crane had stopped. Its second arm was only a few yards from where they stood.

“I didn’t even see that,” she said, shocked.

“Hmm, I figured as much.” He was rubbing his elbow that had obviously taken the brunt of their fall.

Then Popsy got annoyed. She wasn’t a fool. She wasn’t in the habit of walking into harm’s way. “Well, it should have been cordoned off with a hi-viz ribbon around it saying to keep out.”

“Like that hi-viz ribbon back there?” He pointed.

There it was, about twenty feet behind her. How had she missed it?

“I’m really sorry.”

“Yeah,” he said, which she took to mean she was forgiven.

“I’m Popsy. As you may have guessed, I’m a tourist here.”

“Well, hello, Popsy.” He grinned. “And yes, I had kind of assumed you weren’t from these parts.”

“Well, I don’t think you are either with that strong northern twang.”

He stood and offered her his hand. “You know an Ulster accent from a midland? Most Americans wouldn’t.”

“I’m not American. I’m Irish. I’ve just lived there for a long time.”

“And I’ve lived here for a long time, too. Just never lost the Strabane accent.”

“The man from Strabane.”

“That I am.” He nodded. “Now, do I need to escort you back behind the tape or can you manage that yourself?”

“Oh, I think I can do that.” She sniffed defensively.

“Good.” He gave a slight bow. “If you’ll excuse me, I need to get this boat locked down. We don’t want any more near misses tonight.” He walked off to bark orders at the men who’d been awaiting his instruction.

A near miss? So that’s what I am.

She felt embarrassed and cross with herself. How stupid had she been to walk into harm’s way like that? she thought as she headed back to the safe side of the high-visibility ribbon.

“Stupid, stupid, stupid,” she chastised herself, and then realized she didn’t even know the name of the man who’d saved her life.