“They’re so fluffy,” I say, all starry-eyed. “What’s not to love?” I look up at his impossibly green eyes, a shade exactly the same as the grass surrounding us, and fall a little in lust.
“Aye,” he says, his eyes never leaving mine. “We’re of a like mind.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
ERIN
I GLANCE IN THE REARVIEW MIRROR and see Ridlee mounting…Is that a chair? Okay, whatever. I really have to get my bag from the B&B. I have a horrible feeling that I left it on the kitchen table, possibly open. I’d been looking through the before and after photos of the pub and got distracted. I know how small these small towns can be and everybody wants to know everybody else's business.
I wouldn’t put it past Mrs. O’Grady to go through my shit. Then it’ll be round the town in no time that I am the owner of a newly renovated pub in Boston and not — as I mean to make any interested parties believe — the unfortunate heiress to a piece of shit bar in Boston that is hemorrhaging money. If Padraig Flanagan gets wind of that little fact, my great plan will be well and truly scuppered.
I park the car a smidge too close to the front lawn, murdering a gnome holding a fishing pole. Quickly, I bury the gnome behind a large, leafy bush and run inside.
“Helloooo?” No sign of old Ma O’Grady, thankfully. My bag is on the table, just as I left it, the photos peeking out from the unzipped opening. Relief floods through me and I vow to be more careful. I shake off the idea that I’m being too paranoid by not trusting this nice little old lady. I know that in small towns in the west of Ireland gossiping is a bone fide past-time, enjoyed by all. To be fair, that’s probably true of the entire country. I also know that what Ma O’Grady doesn’t know about the inhabitants of this town and the next one over too, is nobody’s business.
I clutch my handbag to my chest and breathe deeply. The cat appears and starts to meow at me twisting its way through my legs continuously until I become dizzy watching it.
“Scat cat!” I hiss, just as Mrs. O’Grady walks through the door from the garden, a basket of vegetables in hand. “Ahhhh…” I bend down and rub the cat enthusiastically. “Such a lovely cat,” I purr. “Oh, hello there, Mrs. O’Grady. I didn’t see you there. I was just enjoying stroking your lovely pussy.”
“You found your bag then?”
“Yes, thanks.”
“You left it on the table for anyone to see.”
Did she see? Has she been going through my stuff? The photos? Oh shit!
“Mmm, yes, well I didn’t mean to. Anyway, I’m sure that no-one around here would go through my personal belongings.” I figure I can shame her into respect for my privacy.
“I wouldn’t count on that, missy,” she says in a clipped voice.
What’s this, and admission of some kind?
“I can’t control the comings and goings of this house. It’s a Bed and Breakfast after all. There are people, strangers, in and out all the time. Your belongings cannot be the responsibility of the establishment.” She deposits her basket on the table in front of me.
“Oh, right, of course.” Somehow I’m to blame if my privacy is invaded. “Can I help at all?” I ask in an effort to curry favour.
“Well…,” she glances around the kitchen. Her eyes fall on a giant bag of potatoes in the corner. “You could peel a few spuds for the dinner.”
“Sure!” I say, way too brightly.
“I’ll get you the peeler,” she says shuffling off toward the kitchen sink. “Oh, and an apron. We don’t want you getting your fancy American clothes all dirty, do we?”
Is she being snide with me?
Two and a half hours later, I extract myself from Mrs. O’Grady’s kitchen, my hands blistered and bloody. Okay, well, blistered anyway. I have peeled countless potatoes, carrots, parsnips, turnips, shucked a squillion peas, or is it shelled? Who gives a schuck? And all of this was done to the drone of a priest saying Mass on the radio in Irish! Did we not drop that woman to mass this morning? What is she doing, overtime? Probably to make up for the sins she committed taking advantage of my kindness and turning me into her indentured bitch for the afternoon, I think rather un-Christianly.
“Wait, Dear!” she commands, and I turn around obediently. I am Ma O’Grady’s indentured bitch. I pause in the doorway, my bag possessively under my arm.
“I have a little something for you.” She starts rooting through her handbag, one of those old fashioned ones that Jackie O’ used to carry in the sixties, except this one is brown and not at all fashionable. Used tissues, rosary beads and prayer misselets are piled onto the table. At last she pulls out her purse. She’s going to pay me. I start to feel a bit brighter.
“I do have something in here for you…” She snuffles around in her purse and I shift from one foot to the other. “Aha! I knew it was there!”
I smile. Fancy that—money in the purse…
“Here you are, Dear.” She hands me a piece of paper that has been folded to within an inch of its life. It takes me a long time to open it up, but I manage it eventually. It’s a flyer.
I read aloud. “Henry O’Henry, the true matchmaker of Lisdoonvarna. Come and find love. You know you want to.” I look up at Ma O’Grady, confused.
“It’s for you. For helping me with the veg.” She shuffles closer to me and points at the flyer. “One free pass. Henry will help you find love. He introduced me to Mr. O’Grady. He’s dead now.” She beams.
I continue to stare blankly at the paper.
“Not Henry! No, he’s very much alive. Go over to Lisdoonvarna this evening. He’s expecting you. I saw him at mass and mentioned I had a lonely little wanna-be Yank that needed to find love.”
“That’s very kind of you, Mrs. O’Grady, but I actually have a boyfriend.” I say, somewhat stiffly.
“Really, that’s not what your friend, Ridlee, told me. She said that you’ve been celibate for a really, really, long time. She said that you were lookin’ for love, or at least a date.”
“Thanks, Rid,” I mutter under my breath. “No, really, Mrs. O’Grady, you’d be better off giving this lovely gift to someone else, I have a boyfriend.”
“Aragh, away with ye! Ye do not, and I won’t take no for an answer. Don’t be too proud to accept a gift. He’s expectin’ ye and I’ll be offended if ye don’t go. Sure, ye never know, ye might find yourself a nice Irish farmer and settle down here. There are worse things than being a farmer’s wife ye know?”
“Indeed, I just can’t think of any right now,” I mutter.
“What’s that?” She cups her hand over her ear. “Speak up!”
“And he might even have a few cows!” I yell in her general direction.
“That’s the spirit, Erin. Now, off ye go and get yourself ready. Ye look a fright. No one would have ye the state ye’re in now.”
She closes my hand around the flyer and steers me out the door into the hall. I glance in the mirror and almost recoil in horror. My hair is all over the place, and I have a potato mud smudge across my forehead. My fingernails look as though I’ve just recently buried a body. Guiltily, I recall the gnome. Serves her right. She’s had her blood-money. Still, I guess she’s trying to be nice giving me the appointment with the matchmaker.