Celtic Sister (22 page)

“Looks like a stagnant pond,” Amy said. “It’s so quiet.” She peered into the well, examined the canal, and could clearly see the water flowing. When she stopped for a moment and ignored the sounds of insects and the other couple talking, she could hear water pouring out of the other side from some unseen waterfall.

“It’s moving,” Sam said. “Just enough.”

The other couple passed them on their way out of the holy site. They stopped to take a picture of the Saint Patrick statue before ascending the stairs.

Now alone on the property, Sam and Amy headed toward the roofless stone building.

“This was once a church,” Sam explained. “Maybe sixteenth century.”

“You’re kidding. It’s tiny.”

Sam raised his eyebrows. “Big enough for a traveler to stop and pray.”

They walked into the church. Nooks and shelves on the interior walls probably once held statues. A tomb lay near the center. Everything was covered with moss and white lichen.

They returned to the water’s edge. Now they were on the opposite side of the pond with a very nice view of the old cross. The sun was low in the sky behind them, but it would not set for another hour and a half.

“What do you know about the cross?” Amy asked.

“Depends upon who you ask. Many believe it was erected during Saint Patrick’s life, fifth century, but some say it dates back to the eighth century.”

“Either way, quite old. It is amazing you can still make out that it’s a Celtic-Christian cross.”

“Barely.”

“But that actually makes it all the more, I don’t know, spirit moving to me.”

“Your spirit is moved?” Sam asked slyly.

“Isn’t yours?” Amy retorted.

He reached out for her hand, a mischievous twinkle in his eyes. “In more ways than one.”

They stood there hand in hand, staring at the cross, until they heard a family laughing boisterously while descending the stairway. Sam took a hasty photo with his flip phone, which he knew wouldn’t turn out to be anything. He frowned when he looked at it on the tiny screen.

“We have it in here.” Amy touched his chest. Then they wandered off the property, fully refreshed and ready to seek out persons who might know something about Emma. But it was nearly nine o’clock, so they decided to pop into a pub, have some dinner, and get a fresh start in the morning.

Chapter Twenty-Three

They stopped at a pub on their way back to the hotel.

Amy first visited the restroom, discarded the empty bottle of whiskey, and drank half of one of the remaining two bottles in her purse. Then she stopped by the bar and ordered another shot. Sam had settled at a table in the corner by a window. He raised an eyebrow when Amy approached, glass of whiskey in hand.

“There’s a menu on a chalkboard near the bar,” she said.

“Okay. Do you know what you want?”

She tilted her head and smiled sweetly. “The shepherd’s pie sounds good.”

“Of course.”

Sam jostled his way through the crowd and leaned over the bar. Amy watched as he spoke with a pretty petite woman who was listening intently. The woman jotted down a note with her right hand while shaking a cocktail mixer in her left hand.

Sam returned with a glass of ale.

Most people appeared to be finishing up dinner, but the place was lively and the noise level increased steadily as the sun slipped below the horizon and a beautiful twilight settled in.

Sam and Amy laughed and talked, telling stories and sharing wisdom. Amy was surprised to find that the experience at Saint Patrick’s Well had unearthed some happy memories of her childhood. A day at the beach by the Chatfield Reservoir, building sand castles and watching the sailboats. A hike in the mountains on a warm evening in September. An early Easter mass when the light through the stained glass danced across the altar. It was as if those memories were waiting patiently for a massive layer of anger to dissipate and allow them to surface.

“Two shepherd’s pies,” the bartender-turned-waitress announced as she placed the plates on the table.

“Oh,” Sam said, flustered. “I was supposed to pick that up, wasn’t I? It’s our first day in Ireland. Still trying to beat the jetlag.”

“I’ll take care of you folks.” She grinned. “My name’s Katie. Just let me know if you need anything.”

“Thank you, Katie.”

She looked over her shoulder toward the bar and returned her attention to Sam and Amy. “First day, huh? You’re lucky. It’s been dreary and misty all week. Bucketing down this time yesterday. First sunny afternoon we’ve had since…” She looked up at the ceiling. “Since last Thursday.”

Sam grinned. “Well that explains all the green, Amy.”

Katie nodded, considering the idea. “True. If you put it that way, we’re blessed.” She looked at Sam’s still full beer and Amy’s empty glass. “Can I get you another?” she asked Amy.

Amy wanted to say yes, but she shook her head no. She resolved to talk Sam into opening the bottle of wine when they got back to the hotel room.

Katie slipped away.

“You know what’s weird?” Amy said. “They don’t seem to hate Americans.”

Sam tipped his head and gave her a bemused smile.

“I mean,” she continued, “I had this stereotype that all Europeans hated Americans, that’s all. I feel kind of stupid. Clearly, I’m the one making assumptions about other people.”

“Aye, my lady, but remember that both the Irish and the Americans fought the same oppressor, the British Imperialists.” Sam said the last two words in a barely audible whisper, as if a couple of redcoats might be sitting behind him.

Amy thought about this for a minute.

“Just kidding,” Sam said, grinning.

“Maybe because a lot of people here have ancestors in America.”

Sam burst out laughing and slapped his hand on the table. “Amy, if someone’s ancestor went to America, then that person would have been born in America.”

Amy blushed. Alcohol had made mush out of her brain, and she tried to dig her way out of the blunder. “I mean like ancestral cousins. You know, my uncle’s father went to America.”

Sam looked at the ceiling. “I think that would still be your grandfather. Does he give birth to your father in Ireland and your uncle in America?”

“Oh, never mind.”

“Shall we ask Katie?” Sam proposed.

“No. That would be embarrassing.”

“Why not?” Sam seemed emboldened by the beer he had not yet consumed. He casually waved at Katie who was wiping down an abandoned section of the bar counter.

She nodded, spoke with another customer, poured the man a drink, and wandered over to their table.

“You don’t seem to hate Americans, Katie,” Sam declared when she appeared. “Is that an Irish trend or are you just nice?”

Katie suddenly became serious. She glanced from Sam to Amy and back again. “Are you worried someone is going to make fun of you? Just be yourself, pet. Honestly. You’re easy enough to get on with. People will like you.” She winked.

Encouraged by her flirting, Sam continued. “It’s really Amy who’s concerned. Well, actually, she’s not concerned. She’s delighted you don’t hate her. And she’s wondering about your ancestral cousins—”

“Sam, stop it,” Amy said. She glanced up at Katie, mortified. At that point Amy figured
to hell with it
, and she ordered another drink.

Katie touched her lightly on the shoulder. “He adores you.” Then she hustled back to the bar.

Amy gazed at Sam. “Is that so?”

He smirked. “What do you think?”

“I don’t know.”

He shrugged. “Let’s get out of here.”

Sam headed over to the bar, canceled Amy’s drink order, and paid for their meal. Then they made their way back to the hotel.

In such a situation, Amy might have experienced the thrill of a kind, handsome man’s attention. Instead, she was annoyed and preoccupied with the drink he’d denied her when he decided it was time to leave.

Once back in the room, Amy immediately locked herself in the bathroom and finished the half bottle of whiskey in her purse. Only one full bottle remained, but the availability of that one bottle quieted her anxiety.

When she emerged, Sam had already opened the wine. He offered her a glass. Amy became progressively more oblivious as she consumed two – or was it three – glasses of wine. She also made a few trips to the restroom for a swig from the bottle in her purse.

She flirted with Sam more and more aggressively as one hour turned into another. She remembered kissing him, wildly violent with her tongue, and tumbling into the bed.

And then nothing, the rest of the evening swallowed up by an alcohol-induced blackout.

Chapter Twenty-Four

When Amy awoke, the room was quiet and the bed was empty. She had a headache but was surprisingly otherwise unaffected by yesterday’s heavy drinking. The sheet felt cool against her bare skin. She realized she was naked, and her heartbeat quickened. Amy maneuvered herself into a sitting position, adjusted the sheet to cover her chest, and looked around.

Sam sat in a chair in the corner, scowling. It was reminiscent of the first day she met him, when he sat near the bed clutching a yearbook. This time he held a near-empty bottle of whiskey.

The third bottle,
Amy thought, wondering where she had left it. Surely, Sam hadn’t been rummaging through her purse. Otherwise, he’d be brandishing two bottles.

She stared at him for a long time. His expression did not change. Eventually, he spoke.

“You don’t remember anything about last night, do you?”

Amy swallowed, her throat dry. Glancing away, she searched for a memory that would not materialize. She shook her head
no
, unable to look Sam in the eye.

He advanced to the bed and threw down the bottle. It barely missed her leg. Then he pulled his hands through his hair a few times and began pacing.

“I’m sorry,” Amy whispered.

“You’re sorry? That’s nice,” he spat, his words dripping with anger.

“Really, I got carried away.”

“A shot at the restaurant… a half bottle of wine, and a fifth of whiskey. What the hell, Amy?”

“I—”

“Where did you get this?” He pointed at the bottle. “And don’t tell me you found it here. I discovered it lying in the shower this morning. I think I would have noticed that yesterday when I took a shower.”

Shit.
She vaguely remembered leaving it there.

“I bought it when I went to the market.”

“Is that why you were so keen to get out of here? So you could stock up?”

If you only knew.
Amy said a silent prayer of gratitude he didn’t know about the other two bottles she had consumed over the course of the day. Her peace was quickly interrupted by the notion that there was one remaining empty bottle in her purse. She’d have to find a way to dispose of it without getting caught.

Sam stopped pacing. He stared at her, his expression a mix of disdain and heartache. “I am a nice-looking, charming guy. I don’t need to get a girl shit-faced in order to have sex with her.”

“Oh, Sam—”

He started pacing again and refused to look at her. “It’s been difficult to find someone interesting since I came out of the fog and started believing in life again. The type of women who used to turn me on seem like wisps of tissue paper to me now.”

The sheet slipped, and Amy pulled it up.

“So finally,” he continued, “I meet someone who challenges me, who makes me laugh. Someone I can really connect with.” He turned sharply and glared at her. “Crap, someone who can sit in the passenger seat yelling
left
and it doesn’t even piss me off.” He sat down in the chair. “I thought we had an insanely intense chemistry, you know?” He looked at the door and grimaced. “And now I find out she feels it necessary to load up on liquor so she can tolerate being with me.”

“That’s not true.”

“Alcohol on the plane, which I’m now sure you didn’t sneak past security, the supposed half bottle from home. You bought a full bottle at the airport. Let’s see, that was supposed to be for your inability to sleep. So I can only imagine your desire to have whiskey on hand last night. You couldn’t bear the thought of being with me, but for some godforsaken reason you thought you were obligated to sleep with me.”

“No.”

“No? Do you have an alcohol problem then?”

Yes,
an inner voice said. “No.”

“Then what is it?”

“It’s—”

“Why are you even here, Amy?”

She withdrew, offended. “Because you asked me.”

“You didn’t have to kiss me. You didn’t have to have pity sex with the loony guy looking for his sister.”

“Come on.”

He looked at the ceiling and groaned. “If I had known… If I had known you were that drunk, I would have never…”

The silence lingered like a shamefaced dog cowering between them.

“It’s humiliating, Amy. Humiliating.” The last word came out as a half whisper.

“I’m sorry, Sam. I truly am.”

He popped up unexpectedly and grabbed his wallet and keys off the dresser. “I’m going to go look for Emma.”

“Wait.”

“Alone,” he emphasized.

“No, Sam. Please. Wait. Don’t punish me.”

He laughed, a stilted mocking sound.

“No, really,” Amy pleaded. “Please. I want to help you.”

“Why don’t you sleep off your hangover? I’ll drive you to the airport tonight.”

“No,” Amy shouted. Then she became desperate, hyperventilating. “Please don’t make me leave. I want to help you. I want to find Emma.” She gasped. “I want to be part of this.”

He stared at her as if she were some alien creature speaking gibberish. Then he turned and walked out the door.

Amy leaned over and started pounding her fists into the mattress over and over again, screaming.

Sam appeared suddenly, and she pulled the sheet up to cover herself.

“I’ve already seen it,” he grumbled.

She wrestled with the idea of dropping the sheet and coming on to him. Some more intelligent part of her brain convinced her that such a juvenile gesture would be a seriously bad idea at the moment.

“Listen,” Sam said. He turned away to give her some privacy. “Get dressed. You’re coming with me.”