Page 11 of The Wandering Season

By late morning Niall collected me from the library for our excursion. I’d made the decision to text Mom when the hour was more reasonable in Estes. Maybe the best path back to normal would be pretending nothing had changed. Eventually we’d move past the awkward and reclaim something like we used to have, but that was more or less a variation on what I’d been doing for more than ten years now. We’d have to face the uncomfortable conversations at some point.

I pulled myself back to the present, with Niall, which was far more pleasant to contemplate. “So where to?”

He seemed intent on keeping the outing a surprise, but I couldn’t help but press out of curiosity.

He playfully tapped his fingers on the steering wheel. “I’m taking you to a corner of Ireland you might not expect. I want you to get a taste of something different.”

I cocked my head. “I’m intrigued.”

“Something tells me you’ll enjoy this particular excursion.”

His lips curled into a feline grin, and I knew he was probably telling the truth, and that I’d end up well fed by the end of it. We chatted easily as his SUV zipped through the Irish countryside at terrifying speed despite the narrowness of the roads. Pauses in the conversation were rare and never awkward.

We approached a small town, not a picturesque coastal or river town like Westport, but more of an inland working-class town with modest, well-kept homes and a population that was in the midst of a workday like any other. The Main Street was lined with the expected sort of businesses: pharmacies, corner markets, and antique shops. There were a few typical Irish pubs that seemed to be the quaintest buildings the town had to offer. Chances were, they did a dependable trade and could afford a nice fa?ade, regular paint, and little flower boxes for the windows, which were currently draped with evergreens until it grew warm enough for spring flowers.

“Ballyhaunis?”

I deduced from the names of several businesses.

“Indeed, Miss Stratton. And I am going to take you for some of the best Polish and Pakistani food of your life.”

I looked over at him. “Really? That seems an odd combination.”

“Less odd than you think. You are standing in the town with the highest percentage of immigrants in all of Ireland. Your ancestors may have fled almost two hundred years ago, but it seems we’ve become a land of opportunity once again while our American cousins were busy making their livelihoods overseas. Pakistani, Indian, Polish, Portuguese—all come to work and to share their culture in the meantime.”

“And their food,” I mused.

“Right you are. It’s generally the best gateway to any culture in my experience. Polish first, I think.”

We crossed to a stone building, typical of the region, with Irish and Polish flags flying from the roof. The name in the window read Alesky’s. Simple, avoiding the kitsch and cliché, which was often the first sign of a good restaurateur. The interior was cozy and uncluttered. A massive fireplace was the centerpiece and required little in the way of fuss to create an ambiance. The tables were bare wood, eschewing the formality of white linens, and it suited the place.

There wasn’t a host, so Niall directed us to a table a bit off to the side, but in a central enough location that we could get a sense of the place’s energy. A tall, blond waiter who appeared to be in his early twenties smiled in recognition when he saw Niall. The two shook hands with the warmth of long-lost friends.

“Veronica, I want you to meet a good mate of mine, Marek. His da, Alesky, is the chef, and Marek here runs the place along with his sister Zofia. Their mother, Maria, keeps them in line. I find any excuse I can to come get some of Alesky’s pierogis and potato pancakes.”

Niall’s eyes shifted to the waiter, and he gestured in my direction. “Marek, this is our charming guest from America.”

Marek and I shook hands, his grip warm and self-assured. “Welcome, friend. I hope you came hungry.”

His accent was Irish, with only the barest hint of Polish, so his family either immigrated when he was young or he’d been born in Ireland and acquired the music of his parents’ intonation from living and working together in such a tight-knit family.

“Always.”

I couldn’t help but smile at the pride in his voice.

He handed us menus and whisked back to the kitchen to let us browse in peace. There were several kinds of pierogi, go??bki—cabbage rolls—and pyzy—dumplings. In addition, there were more familiar options like burgers, chicken, and fries. A staggering variety of fries with any number of sauces and spices.

“The Irish do seem to like their chips.”

I gestured to the French fry section of the menu.

He rolled his eyes. “It’s the equivalent of putting chicken nuggets and grilled cheese on the menu in America. Something to placate the picky eaters. Alesky couldn’t bear to run a chippy, even if he probably makes more money from them than he does for the rest of his dishes.”

“Profit margins for chips, especially the ‘fancy’ ones, are probably off the charts.”

“We’ll steer clear of those for now. Do you mind if I order?”

There was something of a dare in his voice, but I was not the one to be intimidated by a culinary challenge.

“Please do. You know what Alesky does best.”

Rather than wait for Marek to reappear, Niall stood and poked his head into the kitchen. Clearly these weren’t just casual acquaintances of his. I couldn’t make out the words, but they were met with approving sounds from the disembodied voices in the kitchen.

“You’re in for a treat.”

Niall reclaimed his seat. “Alesky’s been bored.”

I smiled knowingly. “There is nothing like a bored chef with willing guests and a kitchen full of promise.”

“No indeed. I wonder that you didn’t go into the restaurant business as much as you love it.”

“So unpredictable. So hard to compete in a crowded market. A lot of the great restaurants fold because the profit margins are too thin. Or worse—”

“They become chip shops.”

“Precisely. One of the best chefs I ever met ended up tossing out his entire book—great Mediterranean food—and converting his place into a pizzeria. A really good one. Wood-fire ovens, authentic Italian recipes, extensive wine list and everything. He ended up closing after a few years because he grew disenchanted, offering people the world and having them order cheap beer and pies night after night with so many discordant toppings you can’t taste the actual pizza. I’m pretty sure he went back to school for a degree in some tech field because he was so discouraged by having to compromise on his vision.”

His face grew somber. “It’d be heartbreaking for sure. It’s a shame when people don’t know what they’re missing out on.”

I found my arms clutching over my chest. “Horses to water and all that. I just couldn’t bear the idea of opening a restaurant and watching it die, you know? More than half of all restaurants go out that way.”

He leaned back in his chair. “You don’t strike me as the sort to let odds get in your way.”

I stiffened just a bit, reflexively defensive. It wasn’t the first time I’d heard this argument, and even if it had been a while, it wasn’t any easier to defend my choices. And Niall didn’t know me . . . not really. “Maybe I am indeed that sort. Especially when something so important is on the line.”

He held up his hands in mock surrender. “Peace, Veronica. I was just curious. It just seems to me the field you’ve chosen isn’t all that much easier. Niche food broker isn’t exactly a recession-proof job.”

“Maybe not, but it doesn’t all ride on the fate of one restaurant or one farm. Sure, I have a fancy client on the hook who could be the making of my business, but if he doesn’t come through, I’m not without options.”

“Fair point, but when one restaurant suffers, it’s often a trend.”

“Don’t I know it,”

I agreed. “But it’s a way of being in the food business without keeping all my organic free-range nonantibiotic-laced eggs in one basket.”

He tilted his head as if conceding the point but didn’t seem truly convinced. “I think I came close to hitting a nerve.”

He looked at me, assessing how close to that nerve he was tap-dancing.

“Yeah.”

The heat rose in my cheeks as I realized how transparent I was—something I was usually careful to avoid. “I can’t tell you the number of times I’ve heard, ‘Why don’t you just open your own restaurant?’ in the past seven years or so. As if it’s just that easy. Securing the loans to open a place is an Everest-level hurdle all by itself. Get into the logistics of finding a good location, getting permits, finding reliable staff, and it begins to seem impossible.”

Niall crossed his arms. “It is that easy to do. You just have the sense to know it’s not easy to do well.”

“That’s a distinction without a difference. Why do something if you can’t do it well?”

My father’s words spilled out of my mouth and I almost smiled. Biology or no, I really was his kid.

“You can’t do anything well if you’re not willing to do it badly first. Isn’t that how the expression goes?”

I was about to accuse him of sounding far too much like Avery or Stephanie for my own liking when Malek rescued me with an impressive platter of food. It was an assortment of everything on the menu plus a few off-book items. Every bit was fit for the cover of a glossy foodie magazine.

“Tuck in.”

There was genuine enthusiasm in his voice, and the question of my would-be restaurant was mercifully forgotten for the moment.

“For better Polish food, you’d have to go to Warsaw. Even then, the best of it probably doesn’t outstrip it by much. Not enough to make the trip worthwhile.”

“I wonder why they didn’t stay in Poland so they could make proper Polish food in a town that would appreciate it.”

I mused aloud, not fully realizing I’d spoken my thoughts.

“For the same reason the Chinese came to America and morphed their own dishes into things like chop suey. Better opportunities for their kids, more prosperity. Your people left Ireland to chase a brighter future and now others are emigrating here to do the same.”

I sat thoughtful a moment. The sensation of what I saw was creeping back into the crevasse of my memory. “I think Aoife would have liked that. She felt so trapped, but she loved her home.”

Niall blinked. “The echo was that strong for you?”

“It wasn’t just that I could see what was going on, like in a movie or a dream . . . I could feel her. Not read her thoughts exactly, but her emotions—as clearly as feeling rain on my face.”

I bowed my head. How ridiculous that must’ve sounded. Maybe this was some sort of trauma response to the fallout from Avery’s DNA kit. Maybe it was all an especially vivid dream, but I remembered too much to reject it as such. I wished I could.

“Your ties to Aoife and Blackthorn must run deep. And I think you’re probably right . . . She’d be glad to see how Ireland has changed and grown, mostly for the better. Her father would think we’ve all gone soft, but I’ve never put too much stock in his opinions.”

I felt my lungs expand enough to accommodate a proper breath. “You’re talking like what I saw was completely normal. Like I haven’t gone off the deep end.”

“Because I don’t think you have. I mean, maybe—but not because of Aoife. There is some connection between you, whether it’s family ties or because she sees something of the kindred in you. I’m not sure it matters much which it is, but she chose to show herself to you.”

“So have you seen her?”

He paused and my stomach fluttered. I wasn’t sure which I wanted more: to know I wasn’t alone in my visions or to cling to the idea that they were somehow unique and meant for me.

“I’ve been living in or at least adjacent to Blackthorn my whole life. I’ve seen whispers of the former residents. A wee prickle on the skin here and there. But never a real echo. My family has been there for generations, but somehow your roots go deeper.”

“I don’t see how. My sister and Stephanie chose the castle because it was the coolest-sounding vacation rental near where the DNA company said my ancestry was from. It’s got to be a coincidence.”

He shook his head. “That’s the pragmatic American in you. Maybe this doesn’t have to have a reasonable explanation. Maybe it’s okay not knowing how, why, or even if what you saw was true.”

That sort of thinking was so contrary to the hyperrationalism I’d grown up with that I had to pause to consider. “Maybe I should just roll with it, but that will take some getting used to.”

“I’m sure you’ll adjust in time. You just have to give the Old Country time to seep into your bones.”

“You make it sound like gout.”

Neither of us could suppress a laugh.

“You wound me, Veronica.”

Veronica. The way he said my name was imbued with more gravitas than I was accustomed to. I was “Vero”

to so many people, the sound of my full name was almost foreign to me.

There was something in his face I couldn’t read, and the sudden wing flutters in my midsection made it too uncomfortable to try.

I glanced down at the platter of rapidly disappearing dumplings, cabbage rolls, and other delights Alesky had prepared for us. “You weren’t kidding about this food though. Totally worth the drive. How did you discover the place?”

It hardly seemed the sort of restaurant that would get the coverage in the culinary media and was far enough from Blackthorn that he wouldn’t have stumbled across it by chance.

“Car trouble a few years back and a mate recommended a repair shop here. I had time to kill and found Alesky’s. You can piece together the rest. I try to get back every month or two when I can and spread the word in Westport, but there aren’t too many willing to come all the way out here, even if Alesky makes the best pierogi west of Krakow.”

I could tell he cared about Alesky and his family. About the restaurant and their livelihood. And he was doing what he could to help them along. “You’re a good friend, Niall.”

“Bah, a fair neighbor when I can be is all. No more than that.”

It was false modesty, but there wasn’t much sense in arguing the point.

“I think we’ve had a fair sampling of Alesky’s handiwork. Shall we get a move on, then?”

My eyes widened. We’d eaten so much I couldn’t imagine packing away any more food, but he had warned me to be prepared with my appetite.

He tossed some bills on the table, stood, and reached a hand out to mine. I stood and took it, trying not to think about the warmth of his palm pressed against mine, and we walked back out into the biting winds of January.