The Cork Contingency (3 page)

Margaret pulled her tickets out and checked the layover time. Her wristwatch read four AM. She factored in the five hour time difference and twisted the dial. She stretched her arms above her head and let out a yawn. Sleeping upright against the back of her chair reminded her of the long shifts during nursing school. Back then, she could power nap through her coffee break and feel refreshed. The kink in her back announced those days were long gone.

She stood and pressed her fingers against the sore muscles in her back.

A deep, earthy scent wafted through the air.

For coffee, Margaret would face giants, gargoyles, and grumpy doctors. She stopped short of the cabin and scanned the remaining people for Donnell.
The last thing I need is to bump into him while holding a hot beverage.

The few passengers remaining stretched their limbs and chatted.

She didn’t see Donnell anywhere.

3

She tapped the flight attendant on the shoulder. “Excuse me. Can I trouble you for a cup of coffee? It smells wonderful.”

“Of course, ma’am, would you like cream and sugar?”

Margaret glanced at the woman’s name tag, and then took the cup. “Thanks so much A-slin.”

The corners of the attendant’s smile drooped.

“I’m sorry, how do you pronounce…” Mortified, Margaret wobbled the paper cup.

“The Irish have a way of spelling things and saying them that is better suited to the Irish.”

The stewardess held out a cup to the person behind Margaret.

He stepped forward and lifted it from her hand. “And, how are you, Donnell?” the woman asked.

“Oh, fine, Ash-lin. I’m just coming home for a visit.”

The attendant’s face lit up and a slight tinge of color washed into her cheeks.

“Thanks, again.” Margaret turned to go, tamping down the embarrassment.

“You know, mispronouncing Irish names is very common.”

She kept walking.
I don’t care how good he looks or how pleasant his voice is. I will not flirt with him.
She felt a tap at the edge of her sleeve. She turned to him, daring to study his face. “Look…Donnell, right? I haven’t had much sleep in the past ten hours and I’m not really up for conversation.” She swept the cabin looking for something interesting, anything to get away.

“Can I at least know your name?”

“It’s Margaret Smith.” Out of habit, she held out her hand to shake. He took it, but instead of shaking it, he just held her hand.

Heat surged to her cheeks and she tugged her fingers away.

“Please return to your seats as we will begin boarding and take off procedures, shortly.”

Margaret marched down the aisle.

“It was nice to meet you, Meggy,” he called.

Margaret halted and pressed the back of her hand against her cheek.
Mom used to call me that.
She took the last few paces to her seat. “What is wrong with me, lately? A handsome guy starts a conversation with me and what do I do? Freak out and walk off.”

“Did you say something to me, ma’am?” A woman asked as she lifted her carryon to the above compartment.

“No, just…I’m just thinking out loud.”

“Oh.” The woman scooted her bag in and walked to an open seat a few rows ahead.

Get a hold of yourself.
Margaret stood up and fished her Bible out of her carry-on. She thumbed through the well-worn pages. She’d discovered it while moving boxes to the attic in her father’s home. He’d begun collecting junk after the death of her mother, and the three bedroom house felt crowded because of it.

Margaret toiled for close to a month after her father’s stroke just to see the carpet again. Several garage sales and “free piles” later, the house bore some resemblance to what it had looked like during her childhood. Fresh cut flowers replaced the funk of musty boxes, windows once shut tight now opened to fresh air, and even though Margaret missed hospital work, she’d enjoyed organizing her dad’s household.

She’d found the Bible at the top of the last box bound for the attic. Its pages were etched with outlines and markings and tucked between were tiny keepsakes—pressed flowers and memory verse cards. Her mother must have put it away when she filled it up and started another. Margaret couldn’t think of a better gift than the chance to know her mother through the word of God.

She finished reading, placed the Bible back in her carry-on, and snagged the packet Janet had assembled. The brochure on Blarney Castle boasted several different kinds of gardens including one called the “poison garden.” She turned the glossy paper over to see a woman lying on her back and kissing the famous Blarney Stone. Margaret stared at the picture. It seemed like the woman had to lean out over an edge to reach the famous stone. Goose bumps prickled across her arms. She refolded the paper and put it back in the packet.

The jet took a lazy turn in the air as it circled the airport and descended into the thick fog hanging over Cork.

Her stomach did a flip.

The plane touched down with a bump and taxied to the gate.

“You may now unbuckle your seatbelts and gather your things,”

Margaret stuffed her remaining snacks into her purse, pulled her carry-on from the upper compartment, and waited as the line crept forward.

“I hope you have a nice visit to Ireland, Meggy.”

Donnell was standing behind her.

“I hope you do, too. I mean, I hope you have a nice time, not a nice visit…no, I want you to have a nice visit, it’s just...” Margaret stopped herself. “It was nice to meet you, Donnell.” She gave him a smile, and then glued her hands to her carry-on.
No way am I stepping off this plane blushing like a ripe tomato in the sun.

“To be sure. Maybe we’ll bump into each other while you’re visiting Cork? I am staying with my family in Blarney. Here’s my number.” He held out his card.

She plucked at the card, making sure not to touch his fingers, and tossed it into her purse.

The line had moved without her.

“Goodbye,” She said striding to the exit. Her heel snagged on the uneven surface of the walking portal and she stumbled, catching herself with the handle of her carry-on.

“Are you OK?” Donnell asked.

Margaret waved her hand in the air without turning and continued forward. “Burgundy pumps are NOT ideal traveling shoes,” Margaret said aloud, not caring who heard this time. The fall loosened a few strands of unruly dark hair from her tight bun. She approached the frosted sliding glass doors and pulled out her passport.
No repeats of yesterday.
She held the papers and passport in a death grip.

The guard said something to Margaret that she couldn’t understand. She scooted her passport and tickets toward the man.

The guard repeated himself.

This time Margaret caught more words but still lost the meaning. “Could you please repeat that again?” She leaned in to catch each word.

He turned the volume up on his brogue and stated each word deliberate and slow. “What brings ya to Cork, Ireland, miss, and how long are ya staying?”

“I plan on staying for a week. Do I need a special pass?” she asked.

The man muttered something.

“What?”

“No.” He held up her passport, studied it, and then tapped his stamp down on the paper.

Margaret started to thank him, but he waved her on through.

The speckled flooring reflected the light coming through the large vaulted skylights built into the ceiling. The airport felt empty compared to her flight out.

The rollers on her carry-on thumped as she pulled it across the marble tiles. She yawned twice against the back of her hand. “What I need is a good cup of…” She stopped herself.
Maybe
Janet hadn’t exaggerated about me talking to myself.
She yawned again, dismissing the thought.

The Blarney Bed And Breakfast sat outside the city of Cork. From the online map Margaret guessed it to be a twenty minute drive. She stood with the other passengers awaiting their luggage. The machine hummed to life. Not even the vision impaired could miss her hot pink and zebra-striped monstrosity. Seeing the glowing neon against a backdrop of brown and black suitcases did prove Janet right about it being unique. She snatched the luggage from the belt. Pulling out her pre-made arrival list, she slashed a check mark next to “get baggage.”
Now I need to rent a car.
Four different companies, four different choices and no one at any of the desks, Margaret sighed and regarded a backlit sign advertising Blarney Castle.

“Can I help you, ma’am?” A man appeared at the closest desk.

“Yes.” She stepped up to the cold granite and metal counter. “I need to rent a car. The one I liked online was a…” she glanced down at her checklist. “Mini two door model.”

A hailstorm of clacking computer keys ensued. “We have one of those available or for a slight price increase we can upgrade you to a sedan with an onboard GPS.”

Margaret studied the printout he pushed toward her and crunched numbers. The four door sedan with GPS would cost her double the price of the two door model.
They must have to charge per door.
“I’ll take the mini and a road map. The kind that folds up and you put in the glove compartment.” She made a folding motion with her hands.

“Driver’s license, passport, and credit card, please.”

Margaret placed all three on the counter.

“Would you like to purchase insurance for the vehicle? It would cover flat tires, accidents, and equipment malfunctions.”

“How much is that?”

He turned his screen so she could see the price.

“Yes.”
It’s good to be on the safe side.

A printer hummed to life in the back of the booth. “Here is your receipt, cards, and passport. Please sign right here.” He circled two portions with a glowing highlighter. “And here. I will call my associate to bring the car around front. If you have any issues please don’t hesitate to call.”

Margaret pulled her things out the sliding doors and waited. An earthy rain smell drifted on the wind. She leaned against a cold cement pillar contemplating the lone pine tree across the road.
It must be some sort of afterthought, as if a gardener decided to plant a seedling at the bottom of the grassy knoll.

A car horn beeped. Her rental car thumped against the curb and a young man vaulted out. “Look at that, not a scratch! You won’t tell my boss will ya?”

“The car looks fine.” She reassured him.

“Can I get your bags for you?” he asked.

Before she could say no, the youth grabbed her things and hauled them to the back of the car.

“Come back, I don’t want my purse stuffed into the trunk.” Margaret leapt forward, caught the heel of her shoe on the gap in the cement pavers, and fell, sprawling onto the ground.

The youth had his back to her, still preoccupied with stuffing Margaret’s zebra-print bag into the tiny trunk.

Margaret hoisted her bruised body from the cement, feeling the trickle of water seeping though her jacket and skirt. “Wear burgundy heels,” Margaret parroted her sister’s words, un-strapping and pulling the shoes from her feet. “Ha!” She tossed them into the nearby trash bin, wiped her hands together, and turned back toward the car.

4

“Yer bag…” he paused and stared hard at Margaret. “Yer bag is in the back of the car.” He shuffled toward her and narrowed his eyes. “It’s like a doppelganger came and snatched yer body.” he whispered, holding the keys out to her.

Margaret snatched the keys from his hand. “I am not a ghost. My heel caught and, oh never mind. Wait here. I’ll get you a tip.” She opened the trunk, grabbed her purse, and dug through to find a loose euro. Margaret turned back.
Where did he go?
She shook her head. “Doppelganger! I don’t look that bad.” She plopped into the driver’s seat and ignored her frizzy-haired reflection in the rear view mirror. Turning on the heat, she pulled out onto the road.

The stale smell of cigarettes blew from the air vents.

She flipped it back off. A long stretch gave her time to acclimate to driving on the opposite side.

The red bicycle lane along the left side of the road helped, too.

Margaret reached into her purse for the print-out directions to the Blarney B and B inn, just in case. The rouge square at the top of the page claimed the drive took twenty minutes.

Precipitation drizzled from the sky.

Margaret squinted at the road signs, pushed the wipers to high, and slowed the vehicle down, searching for a green sign that said “Blarney.”

A loud horn sounded from behind.

Margaret glanced into the rearview mirror at the truck barreling down on her. Her heart twisted as she stomped the accelerator to the floor.
Get yourself to Blarney, and then worry about the directions.

The windshield wiper struggled to keep up with a sudden downpour.

Cars kept speeding past, honking and swerving.

“Apparently the speed limit in Cork is a suggestion,” Margaret said out loud, uncaring that she was talking to herself again. She pushed the little car up to speed. She drove into Cork and took note of a laundromat, some small restaurants, and interesting looking shops.

The rain decided to lighten up, as did the traffic.

Did I just make a wrong turn?
That last street looked exactly like the one before. Haven’t I seen that rock wall next to the pink house before?

Each row of houses boasted a fenced yard, a cement walkway to the road, and a strip of green lawn. The buildings pressed against each other as if they’d been constructed in one long line.

Margaret looped around the block to get going the right direction on the one way. She turned down an unmarked lane. “This can’t be right, either.” She slowed the car in search of a shoulder to pull into.

The country lane didn’t even have a line down the center. A mass of green bushes started at the edge of the pavement and went on for miles.

Margaret pressed the emergency flashers and glanced into the rearview mirror.
Good, no cars.
She shoved the shifter into park and let the car idle while she searched for her position on the map.