Mismatched (13 page)

“A fair few.”

“What kind?” My arm brushes up against his when I lose my balance a little and he puts his hand on my lower back to help me. When he pulls it away a few seconds later, I feel bereft. There’s a hand-shaped hot spot on my skin now, and I want it to stay there all night.

“A few horses. Two cows, two calves, and a steer. A few sheep. Two goats.” He pauses. “And some chickens for laying. Got rid o’ the pigs last year.”

“Wow. You weren’t kidding. That’s a real farm.”

“Aye. It’s a real farm.” His voice has pride in it. And maybe fatigue. I guess that’s what farmers are … proud and tired. I can dig it. It’s totally hot, actually. I wonder if he’ll let me watch him drive a tractor.

Looking at his profile, I can tell he spends a lot of time outside by the lines and the deep color of his skin. “You’re the first farmer I’ve ever met. Do you like it? Having a farm, I mean?”

A ghost of a smile turns up the corners of his mouth. His face morphs into a thing of beauty. “Aye, I like it fine enough. It’s hard work, but I like using me hands. Workin’ with me hands, that is…”

Oh. My. God. His hands.
They’re huge. I look again, and yep, they’re like catcher’s mitts. He said he likes to use his hands. It gives me a thrill just to imagine it. I can picture him wielding big, heavy, mean-looking tools, his muscles bulging and stretching with every movement … and then those same hands holding the tiny soft lamb babies with amazing gentleness. My inner romantic has taken over my brain. I’m falling in love with an image cooked up during one of my historical romance phases when I wouldn’t read anything that wasn’t based in the eighteenth century. I really need to never drink Guinness again.

I blurt out my next question. “Are you married?” Where did that question come from?
Oh. Yeah. The rational, reasonable part of my brain.
The smallest part of my brain that is surprisingly still functioning, thank God. Flirting with a married man is so not part of my plan for Ireland.

“Nope. I was close once, but it didn’t … work out.”

“Oh. I’m sorry to hear that.” Now that’s a complete lie; I’ll admit it. Selfish, I know, but it is what it is. If he were married, we wouldn’t be here right now and I wouldn’t be fantasizing about seeing those big old hands covering my …

“Thank you. That’s very kind of you.”

“I can be kind.” I roll my eyes at my sad attempts at conversation. Talk about awkward. But if I say what’s really on my mind, he’ll probably abandon me here in the dark, and I have no idea where we are. It never crosses my mind to be worried about that, though. Not while this giant of a man is next to me.

“Perhaps you’d like to pay a visit to the farm. That is, if you have enough time.” He glances at me, but by the time I sense it and look directly at him, he’s turned away again. Is he embarrassed? Shy? Socially inept? Nervous like I am?

“I think I’d like that.” I chew my lip. Would I? Would I like to visit a real farm where this man lives and works? Yesterday I would have said
hell no
. Tonight, I’m thinking all things are possible.

“Think about it before you decide. Be sure it’s somethin’ ye want to do.”

His caution seems fraught with deeper meaning, but I’m too buzzed to figure it out. “How can I know when I have no experience with it?”

“What’s that?”

“I mean, I’ve never been to a farm, so how do I know if I want to go to one?”

“You’re not being asked if you like going to farms, just whether you have the desire to learn a bit more about one in particular. Mine.” He pushes his hands into his front pockets. “You can decide after whether you like farms or not.”

He surprises me with how he’s split those hairs for me. It’s like inside that farmer exterior lies the heart of a lawyer. I love a man who can debate a point with me. My blood rushes a little faster through my veins. “You’re a very rational person, Donal.”

“When it’s called for. Some might say I’m irrational though, I should warn ye.”

“Oh, really?” I’m very intrigued. “Do tell, Donal. Who calls you irrational and why?”

He takes a while to answer. I can tell from the rounding-in of his shoulders that he’d rather not elaborate. “Ah, it’s nothing, really. Forget I said anythin’.”

I really, really don’t want to forget what he said, so I won’t. But I’m not going to press him on it, because I get the sense that he’s a shy guy and pushing would put him off. And for some really stupid reason I haven’t quite determined, I don’t want to do that.

“So how much farther to the B&B?” I ask.

He points up the road. “See that street lamp there? The one glowing a bit blue? That’s the spot for your turn. The house is just three doors down on the left. You can’t miss it.” He stops walking.

I stop too, looking back at him. “Aren’t you going to walk the whole way with me?”

“Do ye want me to?”

“Of course? Who else is going to protect me from all the bad guys?”

He smiles a little. “Och, there aren’t any bad guys in this town, except for George Reilly and he’s only bad because he’ll drive you looney with talk of his lost dog.”

“Lost dog?”

“Lost his hound in the Great Blizzard of 1982. Never got over it. If you’re here longer than a day, you’ll meet him.”

“Can’t wait.” I pause and then hold out my hand kind of backwards, trying to look casual about it. “Are you coming or not? I’m a little tipsy. I could possibly get lost between here and there.”

“Wouldn’t want that to happen, would we?” he asks, taking my hand and stepping up next to me.

This should be no big deal. I’ve held hands with tons of guys. Maybe over a hundred guys. Erin and I hold hands, for crapssake. So why does it feel like such a big deal that I’m holding hands with Donal the farmer?

His fingers are so long and thick, they go completely around my much smaller hand and overlap. This is what a child must feel like when she holds her father’s hand.
Ugh
, now my palms are starting to sweat. Is there no end to the confusion tonight? Why am I being such a freak? Maybe those old codgers were right. Maybe a witch has been working some magic around here. Maybe she zinged me for talking about the hag.

I search my memory banks desperately for something to talk about. An earlier half-conversation jumps to mind. “So what’s up with the Cliffs of Moher?”

His hand drops from mine in an instant. “Come again?” He stops walking, forcing me to stop too.

I shrug. “When you listed all the famous sites to see in Ireland, you left that one out. Isn’t that one of the biggest ones? And it’s really close too, right?”

“Indeed it is.” He drops his head to stare at the ground and runs his fingers through his hair. “Listen, I … mmm … need to stop here. I’ve me animals to care for an’ all. Perhaps I’ll see you around town before you leave.”

He turns and begins walking down the sidewalk in the opposite direction without another word.

I watch him go, my jaw dropped open. “What the fuck?” I whisper under my breath. Then in a louder voice I yell, “Do I still get my tour of the farm?!”

“If ye like,” he yells back. And then he’s gone, swallowed up into the inky black dark.

I turn and make my way back to the B&B, following the left-turn-at-the-lamp directions given earlier. The wonky picket fence and ghostly outlines of fucked up gnomes come into view and I know I’m safely home. Now I can go lie in bed and wonder what the hell I said to make Donal take off in such a hurry. I find I care way more about that answer than I should.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

ERIN

I TIPTOE BACK UP THE GARDEN PATH TO THE B&B and look for a key to let myself in as quietly as I can. Surely one must be hidden somewhere around here. The dawn chorus is in full swing, and there’s already enough light to see the foggy dew that clings to the grass in Mrs. O'Grady’s front garden.

The door is locked and none of her cheeky gnomes are giving up the goods. “Bollox,” I mutter, looking around for an alternative. I search in my bag for my phone and send a text to Ridlee. The ping of the text registering ricochets back to me from the open window directly above my head.

“Riiiddddd-leeee!” I hiss. I am pretty good at the whisper-yell, even if I do say so myself.

No answer.

I immediately get a vision of my friend, prostrate on the bed, her face buried in the feather-down pillow, completely out of it. She probably still has her boots on. That girl has taken to the Guinness like she suckled on it as a child. There’ll be no getting any sense out of her until at least lunchtime if previous hangovers are anything to go by.

I walk round the side of the house looking for another way in. Every window and door is bolted shut. “Whatever happened to trust?” I mutter, crossly. “Jesus Christ, it’s Doolin, not downtown LA.” I wiggle each window I pass like the expert burglar I clearly am not.

Bingo!
One of the windows gives as I wiggle it. It is a small frosted glass at the side of the house. But the opening is too small. I peer through and can make out a handle about half way down the rest of the window. Another window. And one that I might possibly fit through. It’s high, so I search around for a ladder, but there’s nothing.

Then, I spy an old bicycle leaning against the wall.
That’ll do.
Everything is going well — the latch on the bigger window surrenders without much trouble¸ and the bike feels pretty stable — until I try to haul myself through. I am in all the way to my waist when I hear the bike collapse noisily to the ground. I squeeze my eyes shut tight and wait for the clamor of old Mrs. O'Grady coming to investigate.

Silence.

Great
.

My legs are hanging out the window and my torso is all but in. I look down to see that the ground is a good five feet below me and there is absolutely nothing for me to use as leverage as I climb in. It’s a bathroom, and all that lies below me is a peach porcelain bath. I look around helplessly.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck,” I mutter darkly. Giving one last push with my hands I let go and tumble into the bathtub below, hoping that by some miracle I won’t break my neck.

I’m moving way too fast. Instinctively, my hand reaches out for the peach shower curtain. That, along with the rail it’s attached to, and a whole host of shampoos and soaps comes down with me with an almighty thud as I land on my side. Remarkably, I am unhurt. Or is it that I’m just still too drunk to feel anything?

“Hello, dear. Are you alright in there?”

Shit
. It’s Mrs. O'Grady.

I scramble to my feet and reattach the shower rail. Demonstrating some rather lightening-quick thinking, I wrap a towel around my head and open the door just a crack.

“Oh, there you are, dear. I thought I heard a noise. Are you in difficulty?”

“Mrs. O'Grady! Good morning. I’m so sorry, I dropped the shampoo bottle. I hope I didn’t wake you.”

“Not at all, dear. Sure, I’m an early riser like yourself. I’ll put the kettle on and start the breakfast. In fact it’ll be great for me to have it all out of the way before six-thirty. That way I can get to seven o’clock mass. Will your friend be joining us?”

Fabulous
. There goes any chance of sleep. “That would be great. And, sure, of course Ridlee should join us. She wouldn’t miss a full Irish breakfast for the world. She just loves black pudding.”

She smiles at me, genuinely pleased. “Aren’t you great — up and showered, make-up on, and all before six in the morning? You’ve great energy, so ye do. Well, I’ll see you in the kitchen in a bit.” And with that she trundles off.

Closing the door, I lean back against it and almost weep with exhaustion. But then I remember what, or rather who, kept me out till all hours, and I smile.

Micheál was amazing. Who needs sleep?

I put the bathroom back in order and slip past the kitchen where Mrs. O'Grady is cooking sausages on the ancient stove. Sure enough, when I get up to our room, I find Ridlee face down on the bed, still fully dressed, and surprise, surprise, boots on.

“Ridlee.” I try to shake her awake. Nothing.

“Ridlee!” Still nothing.

“
Ridlee!
”

“God, there’s no need to yell,” she mumbles. “What’s all the fuss about?” She lifts her face a couple of millimeters out of the pillow. After a split second, she face-plants again. Silence. She has gone back to sleep.

Fabulous
. There is an alarm clock on the small table between our twin beds. It’s one of those really old fashioned ones with the bell on top. I reach for it and reset the time, then set it to go off in a minute. Carefully, I put it in the nest of hair that is my friend. Sitting back on my own bed, I wait.

BRRRRRRRRIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIGGGGGGG !!!!!!!!!!

“I’m up, I’m up!” Ridlee goes from prostrate to sitting in the blink of an eye. “What the fuck?”

“Morning.” I smile sweetly.

“Already?”

“Well, more or less. Almost lunchtime, really. Mrs. O'Grady is just cooking our breakfast. It’s your favourite. Get dressed.”

Ridlee juts out her bottom lip, remorsefully. “What time is it?”

I nod in the direction of the alarm clock. “Almost ten. Mrs. O'Grady will stop serving breakfast soon.”

“Who cares about breakfast!” exclaims Ridlee flopping back on her bed. “I feel like I’ve barely slept at all.”

“Now, come on, Rid. That’s just the jet-lag talking. You love breakfast. Chop, chop. Big day today.”

Ridlee seems to remember something and reluctantly gets to her feet. “Do I have time for a shower?”

“A quick one,” I answer magnanimously. I have to try hard not to smile. If my sleep-deprived friend knew what time it really was, she’d kill me.

Ridlee looks like death warmed up when she arrives at our table in a small sitting room just off the kitchen. She is wearing an enormous pair of sunglasses, and I almost feel guilty as she flops into the chair opposite me.

“Come on, Rid, it can’t be that bad.”

She pulls the glasses down her nose to reveal bloodshot eyes.

“Oh,” is all I can say.

“Thanks, Erin. So, I look as bad as I feel then, huh?”

“You must have had a bad pint, Sweetie,” I say in an attempt to mollify her.