Wellesley Wives (New England Trilogy) (48 page)

The shock was startling. The water was colder than she’d expected. It was totally dark, too. Already she’d moved a few yards down from where she jumped in. Her head popped up, so she dove to get under the surface again. The water stung her face. It was freezing. She tried to turn so she could swim against the flow, but it was too strong, it pulled her along and down.

My God, she thought, I’m actually stuck in this current. It started to pull her down deeper. She swam against it but couldn’t break to the surface. She needed a new lungful of air, fast, but it was useless. She wasn’t strong enough to fight the current.

Popsy didn’t mean to, but her body took over. She took a gasp for air and water flooded into her lungs. Again her muscles involuntarily heaved and tried to choke the water out, but more came in.

I’m drowning, she realized. I’m drowning. I’m going to die. I don’t want to die. I don’t want to leave Sandra or the girls.

She kicked again with all her might, but she was getting dizzy. She’d run out of oxygen, and when she reached out, she wasn’t sure if she felt fresh air or just a jet of cold water. It was all happening too fast. She didn’t have enough time.

Her last thought before she blacked out was, “This is not what I want.”

Shane had jumped in after Popsy. Her hand came out one last time, and he grabbed it. The miracle was that he saw it at all—a complete miracle. Once he got hold of her, he kicked hard and pulled with all his might to get her head up and out. It took all of his strength to pull her with him as he fought to swim out of the swirling black currents, but God had made him a strong swimmer.

This mighty river will either take both of us or neither of us, he thought and I’m not going to die tonight.

He’d known it was bordering on suicidal to jump in after her, but he could hardly watch her jump to her death and not at least attempt to save her. There had been no time to call out. He’d assumed she was just going to the water’s edge to look at the view. That’s what most people did. It was when she’d taken her shoes off that he became alarmed. And then without fuss, she’d jumped. It was surreal. He’d already watched his beloved wife die in front of him, and he wouldn’t have a second woman’s death on his conscience.

He dragged her limp body up onto the grassy river bank a good three-hundred yards downriver. The currents were notoriously strong on the Shannon, and they could drown a weak swimmer with no problem.

Shane smacked her face. “Popsy, can you hear me?” No answer.

Next he laid her to the side so she could spit up the water in her lungs, but her body was limp. “Don’t give up, girl, come on now,” he shouted and then looked around. “Help!” he screamed.

He needed to try mouth-to-mouth, so he turned her back over and pinched her nose. Then he sent up a silent prayer that his lifeguard training wasn’t too rusty, took a deep breath, and brought his mouth down onto hers. Her chest rose and dropped, so he did it again.

“Come on, girl. You have to fight for life. Come back to us.” He looked around. “Anybody?” he yelled again.

Silence, as well as darkness, cloaked him. He breathed air into her lungs a third time and thankfully, this time she coughed and spluttered. “Good, girl,” he encouraged her as she spit up the water that would have killed her. “Good, girl. You’ll be okay now,” he whispered, then picked her up.

As Shane approached the bar, he saw two Athlone students and yelled, “Get me Mrs. Miller!”

They ran inside. In a moment Mrs. Miller was ushering Shane up the stairs and showing him to Popsy’s bedroom. She blessed herself and went to fetch more blankets for Popsy, who was now semi-conscious but weak.

Popsy managed a limp smile for Shane when he laid her on her bed. “Did you save me again?” she asked.

He nodded. “We’re making a bit of a habit of this.”

She stroked his face. “Thanks. That was stupid. Stupid. I didn’t mean to . . .” She ran out of energy and closed her eyes.

“Right now, that’s enough,” Mrs. Miller said. “I have to get that wet dress off her. Shane, you’ll have to help me.”

Sandra came bursting into the room. “Popsy!” She fell to her knees next to where Shane was kneeling beside the bed. Popsy opened her eyes. “So sorry, Sandra . . . wanted a bath—dumb. Sorry.” She closed her eyes again.

Sandra laughed over her panicky tears. “Of all the dumbass things to do. I swear I’ll kill you once you’re better.” She kissed Popsy on the cheek.

Mrs. Miller said, “Shane, you need to call a doctor. Sandra can help me here.”

“There’s a doctor downstairs,” Sandra said. “His name’s Sven. You can’t miss him. He’s a big, blond German man in his forties and he’s wearing a cream shirt, I think. To be honest he’s a gynecologist, but he’s still a doctor.”

Mrs. Miller nodded. “Good. Go and get him. Use the microphone if you need to.”

Shane left and arrived back with Sven just as Sandra and Mrs. Miller were getting Popsy wrapped up in warm blankets.

“Let me know how she is,” Shane said.

Sandra walked out with him.

“You’re soaking wet, too. You need to change.” She put a hand on his shoulder. “You’re freezing. That was a heck of a brave thing you did.”

He shrugged as if to say it was no big deal. “I was just in the right place at the right time.”

“Again,” Sandra said and smiled. “Popsy’s a lucky lady.”

Mrs. Miller came out. “Shane, you have to get out of those wet clothes. Sandra, you come downstairs with me and keep the bar going. God knows what state it’s in down there.”

But everything was fine in the bar. Jeff and Simon offered to help out, and Sandra convinced Mrs. Miller to give them a try. Pretty soon the whole place was drinking Miami-style cocktails.

Shane changed and went back to check on Popsy. When he got there, Mrs. Miller said, “The doctor says she’s going to be okay, but what she needs now is rest. Please stay with her for a bit.”

There was nowhere for him to sit so he plonked himself down on Sandra’s bed and watched Popsy while she slept.

“Rest now,” he whispered, looking at her properly for the first time. She was beautiful. Delicate, and maybe a little too skinny for his liking, but she was beautiful. She seemed to be in a deep sleep. At least she was breathing again. It had been a close call.

“You gave me a hell of a scare, girl.” Popsy laid there, eyes closed, unresponsive. “You can’t quit life. None of us can. We have to keep going, and that’s the truth,” he said.

“You might not believe me, but I don’t want to die,” Popsy whispered without opening her eyes. Her voice was croaky from all the water.

“You’re awake.”

“I am,” she said. She didn’t move a muscle. “And alive, thanks to you, Shane Maloney. When I have the energy, I’m going to give you a great big hug to say thank you for saving my life—again.”

A little while later, there was a knock on the door and Mrs. Miller popped her head in. “That’s enough for tonight,” she said. “You both need your rest. Out you come, Shane.”

Downstairs in the pub, word had spread of the events at the river, but Mrs. Miller told them it was just an accident and everyone was fine. Shane listened from the door but didn’t go in. Instead, he went down to the water’s edge. He stood at the spot where Popsy had jumped and then picked up her shoes—the only evidence that it was no accident.

Chapter 37 

Time to Say Good-bye

It had been amazing luck that Sven was there when Popsy fell in the river, but he’d said he was more concerned about her mental state than the physical and that Popsy really needed a psychological evaluation if it had been a suicide attempt. Over Thursday and Friday, Popsy worked hard to convince everybody that it wasn’t. She said she was heartbroken, but she didn’t want to die.

    In the end, Sandra believed her. She knew her friend well and that while losing Peter was the biggest heartache of her life, she didn’t have a death wish.

Jeff and Simon had backed Popsy and said she wasn’t the suicidal type. They returned to Dublin on Thursday morning and promised to visit Boston very soon. The friendship was sealed. They promised Mrs. Miller they would be back for her famous Wednesday Karaoke Night, and she told them Jeff was the best Elvis impersonator she’d heard in decades. There was even talk of them having a cocktail night once a month.

Unlike Jeff and Simon, who’d only come down to Banagher for a night and stayed in the local hotel, Sven had booked a room in a local Hidden Ireland House. He told Sandra it was a magnificent old mansion built in the eighteen hundreds, and it had been lovingly restored. His room had an enormous four-poster bed, and he tried hard to convince her to come back with him to “talk,” but she refused to leave Popsy’s bedside.

The next morning when Popsy woke, Sandra reminded her that Sven was in town. “You have to go. You have to go now. What are you doing here?”

“I couldn’t leave you, not after your fall.”

Popsy waved her hands. “Go to Sven. I’m absolutely fine.”

So Sandra went.

~
*~

The Hidden Ireland House was easily found, but when she saw it, she got a little inhibited. It was a palatial looking thing with humongous granite gates up to the front door.

Sandra bit her lip and drove the little rental car up the long and winding lane to the old house. She figured Sven must be interested if he came all this way, and she owed it to herself, and to him, to see where this thing was going. The house was quiet and she wondered if anyone was even awake yet as she mounted the steps to the huge, oak front door. It opened before she got a chance to ring the bell.

“I heard the car. It’s good to see you,” he said and smiled.

“And you.” She felt awkward, but when he took her in his arms and kissed her, and she kissed him right back, she knew instinctively this wasn’t some knee-jerk reaction to “get back in the game.” It was more than that. He stopped kissing her and looked into her eyes. “I have wanted to do that from the first moment I saw you working out in the gym in Wellesley.”

“All the way from Boston to Banagher. I guess we never know what life has in store for us.” She smiled at him and tightened her arms around his waist. “I’m so glad you came down to Banagher to find me.”

“Here’s to finding each other,” he whispered. Then he kissed her on the lips again and took her up to his room and his four-poster bed to kiss her everywhere else.

The next morning, Popsy found Shane down at the marina, but she was very careful to avoid the boat crane. As she approached, he gave “the lads” a five-minute break and came over to where she was hovering.

“Mornin’,” he said.

“I’ve come to say thank you—again,” she said. “And I promise I’ll be more careful with my life from now on.”

He nodded. “You can’t swim in the river. The currents are too strong.”

“I know, but I love baths and there weren’t any in The Boathouse. I just really needed one. A bit crazy, I know.”

“You said it, not me.”

“I’m not usually this careless with my life. It was just those two times,” she said, looking at the crane and then out at the water.

“Life is precious, Popsy. Don’t throw it away.”

“I’m not. I mean, I wasn’t. It was a mistake—honest.” He shrugged as if to say, “whatever,” but that annoyed her. “Look, I’ve been through a hell of a lot, and the last thing I need is some guy thinking I’m a whacko. Just because you jumped into the Shannon and pulled me out, that doesn’t give you have the right to judge me.”

Shane laughed.

“What is it?” she asked.

“I thought you were coming down here to thank me, and now you’re giving me a tongue lashin’.”

“A what?”

“You’re giving out to me, woman. What did I do to deserve that?”

Popsy stopped. “Oh, yes, I’m so sorry. That wasn’t meant to happen. So, Shane . . .”

He looked up when she used his name, and it was the first time she got a good look at his eyes. They were lovely, a pale blue, like the midsummer sky.

“Can I buy you lunch? You know, to say thanks?”

He shrugged again. He did that a lot.

“Do you have a lunch hour or something?”

He looked awkward and reluctant when he agreed that he could get away for an hour at one o’clock. Popsy was beginning to wonder if she’d made a mistake, but it was already done. She had no idea where she could take him because Sandra was gone with the car, so she asked Mrs. Miller for advice.

“The weather is unusually warm. Why don’t you make him a picnic lunch and have it down by the river? Not too near the water, mind you.”

“Is it dry enough?” Popsy looked out the window of The Boathouse.

“Sure. Besides, if it gets wet, you can find shelter quickly.”

Mrs. Miller was right, as usual, so Popsy fixed up a fine picnic with her help. Then she headed back out to the marina with her basketful of goodies and the big old quilt Mrs. Miller had given her.

Shane seemed delighted with the idea of a picnic. They chose a spot not far from The Boathouse and shook out the blanket. Popsy laid out the food, and he opened the bottle of white wine that Mrs. Miller had slipped in without her knowledge.

“This is very nice,” he said and handed her a glass.

“It was Mrs. Miller’s idea,” Popsy confessed taking the glass from him. She was glad to see that Shane seemed a lot more relaxed. Sitting down on the blanket, they were eye-to-eye, and he didn’t look down so much. “Ah, that one is full of great ideas—some better than others.”

“What do you mean?”

“You don’t know?”

Popsy shook her head.

“She has my heart scalded about you since the day you arrived. She’s trying to fix us up.”

Popsy’s silence said it all.

Shane laughed. “You really had no idea?”

“None.” Then she was embarrassed. “Ohmygod—this picnic, you don’t think that I did all this just to . . . you know.”

Again, he laughed. “What? Seduce me? No, Popsy, relax. Mrs. Miller may not be able to see, but I understand that your heart belongs to another. You’re not exactly on the lookout for a new man, not like that friend of yours, Sandra. She’s a right firecracker, that one.”