Chapter Fourteen
I wake the next morning to the sound of a dove crooning outside my window, a soft, hypnotic who-who, who-who, that gently lures me from my dreams. I stay snug under my covers, still wrapped in the downy warmth of slumber, my eyes closed, listening to the sounds of the world beyond my room stirring, stretching, greeting the new dawn. I am happy. Cozy and warm and happy in my sleep-induced amnesia.
Then, I hear it—like Lady Margaret’s strangled breath coming out of the darkness—I hear two haunting words in my head: bumping uglies. The memories of the previous evening flood my brain in a horrifying wave. Aidan’s mocking laughter playing over and over again like a broken record.
I could have died. I could have just curled up like a tired old tabby cat who has worn out all nine of her lives, when I realized Aidan overheard my conversation with Callie.
Sweet baby Jesus and all the saints in heaven! Aidan heard me describe him as having eyes as blue as the sea. I feel hot all over despite the chilly morning air. Why? Why did I have to tell Callie about his eyes and his messy hair and his tattoos? No wonder he thinks I like him. Arrogant Irish ass. That’s sure enough what he is: an Irish ass with an ego as big as all get out.
My plan to charm and finagle the castle away from Aidan Gallagher and Rhys Burroughes is proving more difficult than I imagined. Aidan is too grouchy to charm and Rhys is too clever to finagle.
Yesterday I said I wouldn’t mind sharing Tásúildun with Sin, but that was only my lust talking. This morning, in the bright, cool light of a new day, I see things clearly. I couldn’t possibly share my castle with someone who would give sweet old Mrs. McGregor the boot. Besides, if my aunt really wanted Sin or Aidan to inherit her castle she would have named them as full beneficiaries, wouldn’t she? Sure, both men have compelling reasons for wanting to inherit Tásúildun, but sentimentality alone is hardly a reason to give someone a valuable estate. I felt sentimental about Black Ash, as did my sisters, but our attachment to our family home meant very little to the IRS.
I need. I need to know I belong somewhere, to something, now more than ever. I need this big old pile of rocks and all of the people who work to keep it standing.
I lost Black Ash, but I won’t lose Tásúildun.
The terms of my aunt’s will are clear: I, Tara Maxwell (hereafter referred to as Executor and Trustee), must cohabitate with Aidan Gallagher and Rhys Burroughes for ninety consecutive calendar days. Upon successful completion of the requisite cohabitation, Executor and Trustee must name either potential beneficiary two (Aidan Gallagher) or potential beneficiary three (Rhys Burroughes) as her co-Executor and Trustee. What wasn’t clear? Who inherits Tásúildun if both Aidan and Rhys forfeit their claim.
Fortunately, I still have two months and twenty-nine days to convince Aidan and Sin that Tásúildun, with its creaky floors, drafty rooms, expensive gutters, and tortured ghosts, isn’t worth their efforts to keep.
* * *
Mrs. McGregor is kneading a ball of bread dough when I walk into the kitchen an hour later, showered and dressed in black tights, my new flannel shirtdress, and my battered Doc Martens, a sweater tied around my waist. The warm air is heavy with the scents of simmering broth, onions and garlic, and carrots.
“Good Morning, Mrs. McGregor,” I say, perching on a wooden stool. “You’re making your famous lamb stew, aren’t you? I would know that scent anywhere.” I close my eyes and inhale. “Mmmm. You should bottle it and sell it as an air freshener.”
She chuckles.
“Go on with ya, then.”
“I am serious,” I say, opening my eyes. “A pot of your lamb stew simmering on the stove is one of the best scents in the world. It makes me feel warm inside before I have even taken a bite.”
“What a grand t’ing to say, luv.” Mrs. McGregor smiles at me. “It does me old heart good to hear ya say such a lovely t’ing about me cookin’.”
“You’re welcome.”
“Now, are ya hungry? Will ya be wantin’ a full breakfast, then? Rashers, black pudding, eggs, veg, and potatoes or just oatmeal?”
“What I want and what I should have are two very different things, Mrs. McGregor,” I say, patting my stomach. “I want the works, but since I wasn’t able to fit my treadmill in my suitcase, I will stick with the oatmeal and a pot of Barry’s.”
“What do ya need an exercise machine for when ya have hills to climb and miles of beaches to walk?” She stops kneading the bread dough, wipes her hands off on her apron, and walks over to the window, pulling the lace curtains back. “Have the full breakfast, why don’t ya, then go hike the pilgrim trail.”
“Keep talking, Mrs. McGregor, and you just might persuade me.”
“Ya know what I always say, don’t ya? Eat breakfast like a queen, lunch like a princess, and dinner—”
“—like a pauper,” I say, laughing. “You have mystical powers of persuasion. Aunt Pattycake always said you descended from druids.”
“Herself liked to tell guests me ancestors were the Bandrúi, the druid women who lived thousands of years ago”—Mrs. McGregor chuckles and shakes her head—“she had a load of blarney in her, that one.”
We slip into a companionable silence as Mrs. McGregor prepares my breakfast and I set a place at the old wooden work island in the middle of the kitchen.
“Would you like me to finish kneading your dough?”
“T’at would be grand,” Mrs. McGregor says. “T’anks a million.”
I wash my hands and dry them on a dishtowel, then begin kneading the dough that will eventually form a loaf of brown bread. I push the dough down and out, stretching it flat with the heels of my hands, until it is smooth, then I form it into a boule.
“Don’t forget to cross the top”—Mrs. McGregor hands me a sharp knife for slashing the dough—“or the devil and the wee fairies will be trapped inside.”
I slash a big X in the dough and cover it with a large copper bowl and then sit back down on my stool to wait for my breakfast.
“Did Sin eat already?” I ask.
“Who? I don’t know anyone by that name.” Mrs. McGregor made her feelings about Rhys’s new name known during dinner yesterday. She told him she thought it was blasphemous and warned him to stop knocking on the devil’s door or he would be invited in. Then, she made the sign of the cross and left Sin sitting there laughing. “Do ya mean Rhys?”
“Yes,” I say, flushing.
“He drove out of here in that fancy car of his early this morning, in a rush to his funeral, that one.” She carries a plate laden with fried eggs, potatoes, sausages, and tomatoes and sets it down in front of me. “Here ya are, my dear. Don’t ya know a full Irish breakfast is the cure for jetlag?”
“I thought it was the cure for a hangover?”
“That too.”
I laugh. “Would you keep me company, Mrs. McGregor, please?”
“Ah, sure,” she says, sitting across from me. “I could go for a cuppa.”
I pour her a cup of strong Irish tea, set the cup on a saucer, and slide it across the island to her.
“Thanks, luv.”
I inhale the curlicues of steam twisting up from the plate, savoring the scent of fresh sausage, before cutting my egg in half and forking it into my mouth.
“Herself told me about your important television job. Proud of ya, she was.”
“Really?”
“Sure.”
I know my aunt was proud of me, but it feels good to hear it again. A part of me needs to hear it again, the part of me that is still a chubby little girl who feels like she doesn’t fit in at home or at school. Doesn’t every person have a fat/skinny/lonely/shy child living inside of them?
“Are ya going to miss being on the television?”
Will I miss being on TV? Will I miss waking up before the sun to film cooking segments with other chefs? Will I miss standing in ninety-degree heat and being bled dry by mosquitos while I interview the president of the Carolina Women’s League about their jam festival?
“No, ma’am,” I say, dabbing my lips with a napkin. “I never felt fulfilled in that job. I never felt like it was my calling.”
“What will you do with your days?”
Mrs. McGregor has spent her whole life within a fifteen-mile radius of Tásúildun. Her parents worked at the castle, her husband worked at the castle until he died. How can I explain to a woman who has such deep roots what it feels like to be suddenly rootless?
“I don’t know. I feel adrift.”
“What does your heart want to do? Answer with your heart, child, not your head.”
“I would like to bake,” I instinctively answer. “Maybe even write a cookbook or start a blog about baking. I am tired of talking about food and tasting other people’s food, I want to get in the kitchen and create, lose myself in the art of it. Baking makes me happy because I take pleasure in knowing what I am creating will bring joy to others. There is too much pain and suffering in this world. I just want to spread joy, one cookie at a time. Does that sound silly?”
“I have been cooking and baking for other people most of my life. I wouldn’t be in this kitchen if it didn’t fill me with joy.” She takes a sip of her tea. “You’re welcome to join me here anytime ya want.”
“You wouldn’t mind?”
“Tásúildun is yours now, Tara, love.” She smiles sadly over the rim of her teacup. “Besides, I welcome the company. I’ve been a wee bit lonely since . . .”
“Thank you.”
I gather our dishes and rinse them in the sink.
“Thank you for a delicious breakfast,” I say, giving her a hug. “It’s just what I needed.”
“Where are ya off to then?”
“I thought I would work up a glow on Donegal’s treadmill,” I say, walking toward the door. “I am going to take a hike.”
Mrs. McGregor frowns.
“In this weather?”
I open the door and look up at the blue sky. There are only a few, wispy clouds ringing the top of the distant hills.
“What do you mean? It’s beautiful.”
“Mark me words, it’s going to rain.”
“I won’t be gone long.”
“Here, take a brolly,” she says, pulling an umbrella off a wooden hook on the back of the door. “It will be lashing outside before you get back or me bones are lying.”