All the while Mr. Kerrigan set out to charm us. And he did. I noticed that Simon was watching the man’s hands, and realized that this criterion was evidently not giving the expected result. Well, there’s always an exception.
“Have you any vacation plans in mind, Mrs. Teasey?” Shay Kerrigan asked me when he’d given our orders.
“Oh, we let our fingers do some walking—on the maps— last night,” I told him.
“I hope you’ll do more than that,” he said eagerly, leaning toward me across the table. In his enthusiasm, his deep blue eyes sparkled, crinkling at their corners when he smiled and widening for emphasis as he talked. He was a great one for the wide hand gesture. (
Must
Snow stare at his hands so?) “We’re a poor country, industrially speaking, Mrs. Teasey, and way behind the rest of the world, but we’ve got some of the most beautiful scenery. If you go nowhere else, you ought to go down to Dingle, do the Ring of Kerry, particularly this time of year, though it’s beautiful year long. Then turn north toward Galway—don’t let the song turn you off, because it’s all true. Sunset in Galway Bay has to be seen. Oh, grand”—he broke off to return a greeting—“how’s yourself?” When the man smiled pleasantly at us and moved on, Shamus Kerrigan remarked that he owned the restaurant. “I used to race motorbikes with Reg, before he gave it up.”
If Simon wanted anything in the world more than a gun, it was a motorbike.
“
You
ride motorcycles?” Simon shot me a glance that said, “You see, good guys ride bikes too.”
Kerrigan grinned at Simon’s reaction. “Got a Bultaco 250cc right now.”
“A trial bike?” Simon was ecstatic.
“Spot on.”
“Would there be any scrambles or trials going on here soon?”
Kerrigan was grinning more broadly now, with sideways glances at my reaction. “Every Saturday and Sunday, somewhere in Ireland, there’s something going on. In fact, there’s a trial on at the Curragh this Saturday. If you’d really like to go …”
Simon turned pleading eyes to me, his face screwing up the way he had had as a small boy desperately wanting what seemed unreachable. I groaned inwardly, wondering what expression on my face was being read by the others. Conflicting emotions, I hoped. Certainly Simon must realize the awkwardness in my being beholden to this man. And it would be—for Simon—a slap at his father, for Teddie had been almost apoplectic that
his
son could be interested in anything so plebeian and disreputable as motorbikes. Evidently bike racing was in better odor in Ireland than in the States.
“I’ve promised to take my nephew, Mrs. Teasey,” Kerrigan was saying, his expression bland and innocent. Then he winked at Snow. “He’s fifteen. If you’d like to come too, Snow?”
She played it cool. “Thank you very much, Mr. Kerrigan, but if Simon cares to go, I think I ought to keep Mother company.”
“If we could persuade your mother to join us, would you come then?” That dratted man was clever enough not to condescend to my daughter but to approach her on a conspiratorial level that suggested I’d be missing a treat by refusing.
Snow rolled me a look of, “What can we lose, Mom?”
“The Curragh is really worth the trip, Mrs. Teasey. I’d be obliged if you came. Think of me outnumbered by,
three
teenagers!”
He was a guileful soul, was Shamus Kerrigan. I’d half a mind to say no thank you, but both children were so intense suddenly that I stammered out an acceptance. No sooner had I done so than I saw the gleam of what could only be triumph in his eyes, and regretted my capitulation. I might have stymied him from talking business at dinner tonight, but he’d neatly manuevered me into a more vulnerable position.
Then he and Simon got into a discussion about motorbikes until the headwaiter announced that our table was ready.
“Are your children too young for bike races?” I asked him after we were settled.
Kerrigan gave me a stunned look before he smiled. “I’m not married yet, Mrs. Teasey.” His smile became self-mocking. “You’ll find that Irishmen tend to marry fairly late, sometimes not till they’re forty, forty-five.”
“They should be old enough to know better, then,” said Simon with unexpected bitterness. He’d started making such remarks even before I’d given the twins any idea that I was thinking of divorce. They’d always seemed fond of their father, which was one reason I’d hesitated long after I knew our marriage had turned into a sham. But suddenly their affections for Teddie had suffered quite a change. Ever since the night of the Harrisons’ party …
“I shan’t marry until I’m at least thirty,” said Snow loftily. “And only if I’ve known the man a long, long time and can assess his weaknesses.”
Simon snorted, but Shay Kerrigan, to my surprise, took Snow’s comment seriously and agreed that it was very wise to look for weaknesses. If you loved someone in spite of such flaws, the affection must be secure.
“Of course, you have to be able to
admit
you can make mistakes, which is a mature attitude,” she went on, while Simon rolled his eyes in exasperation at her present role. “Oh, cut it out,” she said to him irritably.
My feelings were rather mixed. I wished she hadn’t come out with such statements in front of a complete stranger; she was using phrases with which I had explained my divorce plans to my children, and Shamus Kerrigan was regarding her with a good deal of interest.
“They don’t have divorce here in Ireland, do they?” she went on to Kerrigan. “Say, Mother, is your divorce legal in Ireland?”
“Shut up, Snow,” said Simon. “Mother?” He appealed to me to assert maternal authority.
“I could ask, if you’d like,” Shamus said, studiously avoiding my eyes.
“If she isn’t, then if Daddy came to Ireland with that gushy woman he married, he’d be a bigamist and could be arrested, couldn’t he?” And she gave a funny little laugh, not at all the sound of a fourteen-year-old girl. I got the feeling that Snow would very much like to see her father in jail!
“Here’s the food,” said Simon. “Stop jabbering and eat. This is too good to waste.”
As though to prevent any more shock waves in the social situation, Shamus Kerrigan initiated other conversational gambits. He was good at it without being heavy-handed in directing the talk. If only I hadn’t been bothered by the fact that he was doing the pretty only to get me to give him access up the lane, I’d’ve thoroughly enjoyed myself. To give him his due, not once did a hint of the matter arise during dinner. Nor on the drive home. I mean, to the hotel.
The twins and I were properly appreciative of the evening, and he confirmed the Saturday date. Then, as he tooled the big Jag slowly out of the parking lot, we swept into the hotel just as if we ought to. When I figured he must be clear of the intersection, we ducked back out and into the parking lot for the Renault.
I DON’T SLEEP WELL in strange houses on unfamiliar beds. At least, that’s what I told myself when I was still wide awake at three. I was damned well lying to myself. I disliked taking the sleeping pills which my doctor had sympathetically given me after I’d innocently complained about insomnia. I’d been rather aghast when he’d obliquely advised me to “get around more,” meet new people, form new attachments, “however brief.” Mother’d suggested that, she was very broad-minded and this was a permissive society. I’d not been nearly as horrified at her tacit advice to take a lover as I had been at Dr. Grimeson’s. After that, however, I couldn’t chalk up my sleeplessness to nerves or not enough exercise: I had to admit it was the lack of sex.
Sex, or lack of it, had never been a problem while I was married to Teddie. He liked to exercise his rights and occasionally was rather brutal about exercising them, even after I tumbled to the fact that he was having affairs and in no pain. I’m not a prude—well, not for
other people
—but I wasn’t going to play the suburban game, particularly after I’d decided to divorce him. I certainly wouldn’t give him a chance to get custody of the twins because of any indiscretion he could lay on me. So I sweated it out. Then—and now.
I’d about dulled my sex drive before coming to Ireland, so it was heartily discouraging to find a resurgence after just a few hours in the company of an attractive man. It just wasn’t fair.
While I was prowling about the first floor of the house, trying to wear out my restlessness, I noticed two other patches of light in the darkness: one at Thornton’s cottage and the other at Ann Purdee’s. I also heard the thin wail of a sick child. That brought back other memories: of me desperately trying to cope with two screaming, teething infants while Teddie snored on in oblivion and then berated me the next day for looking haggard.
I forced myself away from such reminiscences. “Remember the good times,” I’d been advised by another divorced friend. Hating him, or the if-I-had-he-might-not-have routine, is a waste of think-energy,” Betty had told me. “You loved him enough once to marry him, so you must have seen something good in the man—remember that! And let the trivia decay. Otherwise, you end up with a fine case of soul-pollution. Which, honey, is a good way to scare off
any
decent chance at remarriage.”
“I don’t want to get married again, Betty,” I’d told her vehemently.
She’d given me a sideways glance and ostentatiously fingered her new wedding band. “Oh yeah? Convince me!”
Betty’d had a singularly dirty divorce (and given me tips on how not to have one), picked herself up, joined a singles club in Westfield, and married a widower with five children. She had four of her own, and they bought a huge house and all got on extremely well.
“Oh, you’re at the I-hate-all-men stage right now,” she’d said. “Can’t blame you. But it passes, lassie, it passes. And then everything and anything in pants stimulates the old sex appeal.” She caught my astonished look and laughed. She was tall and rather gangly, inclined to wear old tweed skirts or blue jeans. “Even this old mare! At least you’re not one of those I-can’t-cope-alone wailers! Soon enough you’ll begin to wish you did have a male around. It’s awfully nice to have a shoulder to cry on when you damned well know you’ve been stupid.”
“Teddie was never cried on.”
“I don’t doubt it,” and she rolled her eyes, for she’d known Teddie rather well. “Which is to your advantage right now. You’ve been used to coping.”
“That doesn’t mean I make the right decisions,” I said, thinking glumly of the horror of an apartment I’d taken. The walls were paper-thin. The next-door neighbors had whining kids and played their stereo so loud that we didn’t need to turn ours on except when their choice of music left a lot to be desired. The apartment had been the best of a bad selection, but I’d been so obsessed with the desire to leave the “matrimonial home” and all its associations that I’d taken the first available accommodation. The twins had been very tolerant, and we’d moved as soon as possible into an old, thick-walled house, newly converted into apartments.
“That doesn’t mean a man will decide right the first time either,” Betty had said in her droll way. “Say, why don’t you join a singles club?”
“Betty!” and I gave her a warning look.
“Honey, you don’t have to
marry
the first man. You’d be a fool if you did. That’s how mistakes get compounded. No, you need to get back into circulation, and by that I mean just seeing a lot of different people, women and men.” Then she regarded me thoughtfully. ‘Your big problem, Rene, will be pleasing yourself for a change.”
“I don’t understand.”
“I mean, don’t try to be what you
think
the guy wants in a woman. Just be yourself.”
“I still don’t understand you.”
She gave me another long, searching look. “What-your-best-friend-had-better-tell-you department,” she said with a sigh. “Now, look, I’m not the only one who thought you were getting the bad end of the stick from Teddie-boy. I
don’t
mean the fact that he was sleeping around. I wanted to bash him in the teeth for the way he’d speak to you. My God, who did he think he was? The Pasha of Persia? And you were too well-mannered to retaliate.” Betty’s breath started to get rough with suppressed anger. “And I
am
taking you to the next meeting at the singles club!”
Betty would have—if it’d meant dragging me all the way—but news of the legacy arrived, and she was jubilant for my sake—and aligned herself with my kids to see that I didn’t back out at the last moment.
“Irishmen are gorgeous.” she told me enthusiastically. “Just what you need to get back into practice.”
In the dead of night, I wondered if she had foreseen someone like Shay Kerrigan. I’d have to write her. She’d be highly entertained. And at this distance she couldn’t match-make very actively. But such thoughts were not soothing me to sleep.
I went back to the kitchen and started the kettle. A hot toddy might help. Damn! No whiskey. Well, hot milk would be okay.
The pots fell out of the cupboard with a clatter. I nearly joined them when I heard a tap at the back door.
“Whoooo … who is it?”
“Kieron T’ornton, Mrs. Teasey.”
“Oh, good grief! Come in.”
As he entered, he looked down at the door latch. “You’d best be locking that door at night, Mrs. Teasey. We’ve a lot of tinkers on the long acre, and you could lose the best things in the house for sleeping.”
I stood there, pot in hand, staring at him because he’d a brown bottle, unmistakably the kind which held spirits, in his hand. He noticed my gaze and grinned.
“The bahbee’s teething, and a little of this helps.”
“I’m not teething, but if you could spare a thimbleful…”
He strode into the room, looking blockier and shaggier than ever in the small space.
“If you’ll permit me to drink with you? A pretty woman shouldn’t ever have to drink alone.” Then he chuckled. “That’s what I’d tell your aunt.”
“My aunt drank?”
He threw back his head to roar with laughter, but I made hushing noises and pointed up to indicate he shouldn’t wake my kids. He covered his mouth until the laughter subsided. “Sure and she did!”
“Hmm. I didn’t mean to imply that she was prudish … but somehow one doesn’t think of old-lady aunts as drinkers.”