Page 45 of An Irish Summer

Only it didn’t feel quite the way I thought it would. It must have been reverse culture shock or whatever happened when people

were gone for long periods of time. Or maybe it was just dehydration and exhaustion from the flight. Either way, I was sure

a Falk and Rosen’s babka would sort me out.

We stood around the kitchen island piling lox onto bagels and peeling flaking, chocolaty pieces of babka from the loaf. I’d

been decent at keeping in touch with my parents via email while I was away, so they were mostly up to speed with the past

two months of my life, barring specifics that would send a Jewish mother over the edge.

“You must be exhausted,” my dad said as we cleaned, noting my head slipping lower into my hands on the counter. “Why don’t

you go up and get some rest for tomorrow’s interview?”

I was so excited at the prospect of getting into bed and being done with this day I could have cried all over again.

“Do you know what you’re wearing?” my mother asked. “It’s obviously too late to have it dry-cleaned but I’ll steam it for

you if you bring it down to me.”

“Thank you,” I said, equally grateful for her affection and annoyed at her prying. “This was a really nice afternoon. I’m

glad to be home.”

“We’re glad to have you back,” my dad said, flashing the same knowing smile he did at the airport. Only this time, it felt less like a comfort and more like a challenge: Was I really glad to be home?

I had just enough energy to change my clothes and brush my teeth before collapsing into bed, promising myself I’d get up extra

early to wash my hair before the interview. After a few minutes of scrolling my phone, I texted Ada to confirm that we’d meet

for drinks after the interview tomorrow, like I’d never left.

The lobby of Hotel Blue was even more gorgeous in person than it was in photos. Eclectic wallpaper stretched behind the reception

desk, which had gold flecks in the marble countertops that reflected rainbows of light from the massive windows making up

the opposite wall. A few guests mingled in a lounge off the lobby, turning in my direction at the sound of my heels clicking

across the floor. I tried to appear powerful and confident before I stepped into what might have been the most important interview

of my life so far.

With every step, I reminded myself how much I wanted this. I repeated it like a mantra. This is exactly what I want. This is the dream job. This is exactly what I want. The voice in my head was so loud I wondered if onlookers could hear.

“Welcome to Hotel Blue,” said the receptionist when I approached the desk. “I hope you’ve had an easy journey here. How can

we help you today?” Her name tag told me her name was Iris, and for a second I was so distracted by her cropped curly hair

and deep golden skin that I didn’t respond. She could have been Flo in another lifetime. I almost laughed.

I almost laughed again when I thought about anyone describing my journey as “easy.” If she only knew what it had taken me

to get here.

“Hi, sorry,” I said when I realized I’d been silent for a moment too long. “I’m Chelsea Gold. I’m here for an interview with Bridgette Gantz.”

“Ah, yes, from Ireland, right?” She picked up the phone and dialed a few numbers, wedging the phone between her ear and her

shoulder.

“I mean, directly, yes, but really from Boston.”

She offered a polite smile, and I wondered if she also heard the strange note of disappointment in my tone.

“Bridgette, hi. Ms. Gold is here for your meeting,” she said into the receiver, still smiling at me. She hung up a second

later, clapping her manicured hands together. “She’s ready for you. Right this way.”

Iris came around the front of the desk and motioned for me to follow, and together we walked the length of a hallway off the

lobby. I tried to sneak peeks at everything we passed along the way: a cozy bar with wingback chairs, an indoor pool with

a smattering of fake palm trees, and the entrance to a sort of garden. The wallpaper from the lobby changed twice on our walk,

splashing deep green leaves and faded lilac petals across the hallway.

“Just in here,” Iris said, opening a door and gesturing inside. “Good luck.”

I thanked her and followed the direction of her arm, letting the door close behind me. The conference room was neutral in

comparison to the rest of the hotel, but there was still an eclectic gallery wall coloring one side and mismatched, colorful

chairs surrounding the table. Bridgette sat at the far end but stood to greet me as soon as I was inside.

“Ms. Gold, welcome. Thank you for making this work on such short notice. I’m glad you were able to come in.” We shook hands, and I hoped my smile looked genuine and approachable and not at all insane.

Bridgette wore a linen tent dress with buttons down the front of varying colors and sizes. Her hair was wrapped in a patterned

scarf not unlike the wallpaper. She looked nothing like anyone on any other hiring committee I’d seen all summer, which I

took as a good sign.

“It’s so nice to meet you,” I said. “Thank you for making the time to meet with me.”

“Oh, please,” she said, pulling out a chair, “the pleasure is mine. Have a seat.”

She had a casual air about her that made me relax instantly, and I tried to channel her confidence for my benefit. As she

shuffled a few papers, my résumé included, I watched a few employees pass by the window. They wore blazers of assorted colors

with shimmering gold ID badges pinned to the lapels and laughed over clipboards and tumblers of iced coffee.

I tried to imagine myself as one of them. What color would I wear? Would I be the one making people laugh or the one laughing

in the background? Who would I be here? Who would I become here?

“So, Ms. Gold,” Bridgette said, pulling me from my reverie. “Tell me a bit about yourself. Who are you? Beyond what’s on the

résumé.” She laced her fingers in her lap and leaned back in her chair, giving me the floor.

When I had prepared for this interview, I practiced talking about my time at O’Shea’s. I planned to spin my move to Ireland

as adventurous and impressive. I even was primed to talk about some of the work I did at the Wanderer. But after all that,

I didn’t know exactly who I was. Or, at least, who was the version of myself she wanted to meet.

That question hung between us like a rain cloud, and I had to take a few deep breaths before I responded.

“Well,” I said, “I’m a Boston native, so after a summer away I’m looking forward to getting back to my roots. I’m also from

a tight-knit Jewish family, so it’s a priority of mine to bring that close family feel to my clients and their events.” That

much was easy. Those were facts. And they made me seem like a good candidate for the job. I was on solid ground, and I was

determined to resist sliding into I have no idea who I am territory, no matter how open her face was.

“Yes, yes.” Bridgette nodded. “And what brings you to Hotel Blue? After a bed-and-breakfast and a hostel, I imagine this is

a bit of a change.”

“That’s exactly what brings me here,” I said. “I’m ready for the next step of my career. I’m looking to bring what I’ve learned

during my time at those places to a higher-end location. I think there’s value in synthesizing the culture of different styles

of accommodation. It’ll allow me to plan events for different types of guests looking for different kinds of experiences.”

The longer I spoke, the more I wanted to throw up. I sounded like a robot. If I wanted this so badly, couldn’t I talk about

it organically? Could she tell how much I had to rehearse for this?

“Tell me about the Wanderer,” she said, once again interrupting an inward spiral.

I spun the claddagh around on my finger, a gesture I’d been doing absentmindedly all summer, only now it transported me back to Galway so fiercely I had to remind myself I was actually in Boston.

I had to convince myself this was still what I wanted, despite my composure slipping away at an alarming rate.

Thankfully, if Bridgette knew I was struggling, she wasn’t showing it.

“Your portfolio is quite impressive,” she continued.

“The Wanderer was— I’m sorry, my portfolio?” Surely there had been a mistake. I didn’t submit a portfolio. Had she confused

me with someone else?

She shuffled through her stack once more, presenting me with a stack of papers bound together with a gold clip. “This one,”

she said. “I received it late last night. The email address didn’t match that on your résumé, but I assumed you knew it was

sent over on your behalf. Has there been a mistake?”

I flipped through the papers, only half listening. Sure enough, it was a packet of events I’d planned at the Wanderer. Photos,

descriptions, testimonies. The movie night, the cooking classes, the high tea in period dress. A group of guests headed to

a ceilidh.

“No, no mistake,” I said, still flipping the pages and trying to make sense of what I was seeing. “This is definitely my work.

I just... I’m sorry, who did you say sent this over?”

“I have the email correspondence right here,” she said, thumbing through her stack and producing a sheet of paper. “Have a

look.”

I took the paper, scanning frantically for the email address. When I found it, I had to stop an audible gasp from escaping

my lips: [email protected]. I willed the room to stop spinning so I could read the rest of the email.

To whom it may concern,