Page 12 of The Wandering Season

For the rest of the day, we sampled food in any number of villages between Ballyhaunis and Westport. He insisted I try a Pakistani chicken curry dish from one of the local shops before we headed out. It was less creamy than its Indian counterpart, at least the versions I’d tried in Denver, and I loved the blend of spices they used to draw out the flavor in the chicken.

We then drove back in the direction of Westport, taking a winding route along the craggy hillsides, stopping for smoked salmon in Knock, mussels in Claremorris, duck confit in Balla, coffee and porter cake in Castlebar. By the time the glistening lights of Westport came into view, dark was beginning to fall despite the early hour.

He pulled in front of a pub, and I groaned involuntarily. “No. I’m crying ‘uncle.’ No more food. You’ve found my limit, and that’s saying something.”

“No, no more food. But you can’t leave Ireland without a pint in a proper pub, can you?”

“I suppose not.”

The sign read Padraig O’Shea’s and appeared to be the very picture of a quaint Irish pub, exactly as Hollywood would have depicted it with scarred, heavy wooden tables and mismatched chairs, a cheerful hum of activity from patrons who were just off from their shifts for the day, and a crackling fire to brace us all against the fanged chill in the January air.

Niall directed us to a table tucked away in the back corner, away from the din of the bar but close to the warmth of the fire. A sturdy-looking waitress well into her forties greeted Niall by name and smiled politely to me when she took our order. I passed up the inky-black stout, despite it being the pride of Ireland. The thought of an entire pint of the heavy beer caused the discordant array of foods we’d consumed that day to roil my gut. I chose a local craft cider, aged in whiskey barrels for months instead. It wasn’t light, but at least it lacked the oppressive creaminess of the stout. The golden-red liquid was cold and soothing, and I felt the muscle knots in my neck, which I didn’t know I possessed, begin to unwind a bit further with each sip until I was sure my shoulders were resting a number of inches lower than they had been.

Niall raised his glass, filled with the traditional stout, and clinked it gently against mine. “To charming guests from America who know the difference between a mutton stew and a pork chop.”

I chuckled. “I can drink to that.”

“Do you come here very often?”

Heat prickled at my cheeks as I recognized the clichéd undertones of the question just a beat too late. “Um, I mean, is this your regular pub, or do you visit a few? Is that considered bad form?”

He swallowed his grin, bless him. “Yes, this is my regular pub, and I admit to being a creature of habit. But no, it wouldn’t offend O’Shea if I took my Friday pint at The Rusty Anchor or Jim Malloy’s on occasion. There aren’t any feuds between the pub owners, thank the stars, and they all know how important business is, especially in the offseason.”

I nodded. January tended to be when restaurants folded in Denver, after they’d tabulated their December receipts. I always dreaded the emails of client restaurants letting me know they were liquidating stock and terminating leases. In those situations, I did my best to help the restaurateur recoup some money by seeking out buyers for their equipment and other assets. In turn, I helped their vendors, often my clients as well, to find new markers for their product to make up for the lost revenue. I was a shoulder to cry on when needed, and it was the most heartbreaking part of my job.

“What’s this about Malloy’s?”

A tall man with a thatch of auburn-red curls took the seat on the other side of Niall.

“Just discussing the local haunts with our American guest.”

Niall gestured to me. “Veronica, I have the unfortunate duty of introducing you to my best mate and the biggest lout in all of Ireland, Ciaran Walsh.”

Ciaran rolled his mischievous brown eyes. “Some friend you are, Callahan.”

He extended his hand to me, his grip firm. “So you’re taking advantage of our fine January weather for some sightseeing in Ireland?”

The corners of my lips turned up in a smile. “I’ll take drizzle and cold over tourists.”

Ciaran’s head tilted. “I can’t say I disagree with you.”

He turned to Niall. “She’s not half bad, this one. Better than most of the lot you play host to.”

Niall raised his glass in my direction. “I hate to admit it, but you have a point. Our Miss Stratton is far more pleasant than the common tourist.”

Ciaran’s eyes locked with Niall’s for a moment. The silent communication possible between those closely acquainted for decades. I felt like I was intruding on a conversation in a foreign language I didn’t speak, and I looked away.

“So what plans do you have for your stay? A lot of the tours and sites aren’t open this time of year.”

I opened my mouth to answer, but Niall responded for me. “I’ve been showing her around the less visited parts of our fair county. And I thought to bring her to meet the family for tea tomorrow afternoon. My mother just sent a text to invite us.”

Ciaran’s eyebrows raised, but he didn’t comment. Clearly it wasn’t something he did with most of his guests, who would be busy with ferry rides and horseback tours when the weather was fair.

Niall’s eyes met mine. “If you’d like to, of course.”

I cleared my throat. “Oh, sure. I mean . . . I’d love to. I’m sure they’re amazing.”

“Kinder people you’ll never meet,”

Ciaran vouched. “But I don’t think you’ll have to wait that long to introduce her to Caitlin. She was at the bar ten minutes ago.”

Niall heaved a theatrical sigh. “I apologize in advance for the antics of my younger sister.”

I snorted a laugh. “No need. I have one of those. I know how much of a pain they can be.”

“Lucky for Niall I’m delightful.”

A woman with a thick crop of red hair and skin so pale she looked to be made of porcelain seemed to materialize out of the mist and took the final seat at our table without further preamble. She was as mischievous as a pixie freed from her cage and twice as cunning.

“Speak of the devil,”

Niall muttered. He introduced us with a tone of mock annoyance that betrayed he actually adored his younger sibling. It wasn’t unlike the tone I took when Avery was in earshot. He introduced us and we exchanged the usual niceties.

Caitlin assumed a relaxed pose, but her dark eyes were laser-focused on me. She had a gift for steering the conversation—usually in ways that allowed her to ask me probing questions without sounding like the bad cop in an interrogation. The men had no idea what she was doing, but she knew I was fully aware that she was masterfully handling the flow of conversation. But because I was willing to play along and answer her questions, I met with her preliminary approval. Why I, as a very temporary visitor to the area, would need it, I wasn’t sure, but I supposed it was better to have it than not.

It didn’t take her long to home in on the question she’d been maneuvering toward. “So you’re traveling alone, then? No special fella to come along?”

I went to take another sip of my cider to stall my answer, only to find I’d downed my first pint already. As if reading my thoughts, the waitress appeared with another round for the table and a motherly pat for Niall’s shoulder. By the time she’d replaced our drinks and cleared away the empty glasses, I hoped Caitlin would have forgotten her query, but she peered at me with expectant eyes as soon as the waitress walked away. Little sisters really were a pain.

“As Facebook says, ‘it’s complicated.’”

It was a glib nonanswer, but I didn’t think I needed to provide a full rundown of my breakup just then.

“It’s also none of your business, Cait.”

Niall said, his expression growing somber, which she promptly ignored.

She fixed me with her pointed stare. “If you don’t know if you have a fella, the answer is no.”

I knocked back more of the cider. I’d been in Caitlin’s company for less than half an hour, and she’d already managed to find my vulnerable underbelly. She was far too perceptive for her own good.

“A breakup a couple months back. Nothing all that earth-shattering.”

I shrugged in a vain attempt at nonchalance.

“Best to get past it and move on to better things, don’t you think?”

Her tone wasn’t insistent or pressing, but more matter-of-fact.

“My god, Caitlin. Can you keep from meddling in other people’s lives for the space of one evening?”

Niall shot her a warning look to which she seemed impervious, like raindrops on a yellow slicker coat.

“What? She’s a guest in Westport. I won’t have too many more opportunities for meddling, will I? I have to provide my valuable services while I can.”

“Like I said, my apologies for this.”

Niall rubbed his eyes, both in consternation and amusement.

“If only she’d focus this energy toward climate change or the national debt, she’d be an international hero.”

Despite the words, Ciaran fairly beamed at his best friend’s younger sister. Admiring her for the force of nature she was.

“Oh, I’ll get to that when I’ve run out of more amusing pursuits. Plenty of time for all that serious stuff when I’m old and boring.”

Niall chuckled at her. She glanced down at her watch and downed the last of her drink.

“Shoot. I’ve gotta run. Seamus is picking me up for dinner and a movie. Do bring this one back to the house tomorrow. I like her better than most of the lot you cavort with.”

“Off with you, and behave yourself, brat.”

Niall leaned over to kiss her forehead before she popped out of her seat like a human jack-in-the-box.

Niall shook his head. “She’s a whirling dervish that one.”

Just like Hurricane Avery. I remembered Dad’s remark at Christmas. Caitlin wasn’t elegant or statuesque like Avery, but they both seemed to have harnessed the energy of the sun somehow and not let me in on their secret. Stephanie too. I was the moon to their sun, seemingly built only to reflect the light of others.

Ciaran’s eyes tracked her to the doorway. I sensed he wasn’t happy to see her go, nor did he seem pleased that she was going out with this Seamus fellow. Such was small-town life, however. And while Denver felt a bit impersonal at times, I wondered if I’d find the limited social circles stifling or charming after a few months.

I felt a buzz in my pocket and instinctively reached for my phone, imagining Mom had finally broken her radio silence. Instead, it was Stephanie. Niall and Ciaran had fallen into conversation about football, a subject about which I knew nothing, so I didn’t feel too bad about firing off a few texts.

Stephanie: Having fun?

Me: In a pub as we speak.

Stephanie: Good for you. Do you have a fresh round?

I felt a flitter in my gut. She had news that required booze. I had most of my second cider left, which was plenty, as I made a point to keep my alcohol consumption in check.

Me: More or less. Why?

Stephanie: I was out to dinner last night. Fairbanks’ place. I saw Jonathan. With another woman.

The flitter dissipated as quickly as it arrived.

Me: I’m sure it’s a colleague. They go out to talk shop all the time.

Stephanie: Not this time, hon.

She sent a picture, which took longer than usual to load given the less-than-optimal signal in the bar. When it finally popped up, sitting at Fairbanks’ best table was a man who was unmistakably Jonathan with an attractive, dark-haired woman in a tight Kelly-green dress that clung in all the right places. She was alluring but was classy enough not to stoop to something as cliché as a red dress. Perfect for Jonathan who bemoaned my adherence to the code of Colorado casual attire, where The North Face and Patagonia were considered formal wear.

He had pleaded with me to wear more dresses and skirts, and I resisted. Despite having a number of dresses and fashion-forward pieces from Avery in my wardrobe . . . I let them linger in the back of the closet. His arm was around her, and they were just an inch or two away from kissing.

Me: Oh.

Stephanie: I debated about telling you now or when I saw you in Italy, but if it were me, I’d want to know sooner rather than later. Don’t hate me.

Me: Never. You’re not the jerk here.

Who was? Jonathan? Maybe. He had just broken up with me a couple of months before . . . Did I mean so little to him? But we were broken up and I had no claims to him anymore. Maybe the jerk was me for not being a better partner to Jonathan when we were together. But all the same, a few months of mourning the four-year relationship would have been a nice gesture on his part.

Stephanie: Don’t let this ruin Ireland for you. Promise me. He isn’t worth it.

Me: I’ll be fine. Promise.

Niall, having noticed my head buried in my phone, turned to me. “Everything okay back home?”

I scrolled up in the text chain to see the picture of the beautiful woman in green who seemed to have ensnared Jonathan. She was beautiful in ways I would never be. Sophisticated and worldly in ways I could never claim. They were a good match, and I hoped I’d be a big enough person—someday—to wish them well if things worked out for them.

But today was not that day.

“What do you all say to another round, gents? On me.”

It was answer enough to the query.

“I knew I liked this one,”

Ciaran pronounced, waving over the waitress.

Niall didn’t smile. He shot me a glance of concern I chose to ignore.

I might tell him later, but for tonight I wanted nothing more than to chase my sorrows to the bottom of a cider glass.