Lynn Hulsman - Summer at Castle Stone

“Would you mind if I just closed my eyes?” I asked. If I took a little nap, there’d be nothing to worry about. No point stirring the pot, I wouldn’t even be here long enough to start trouble.

“Not at all,” he replied amiably. “You must be knackered from the journey.”

I closed my eyes, and before I knew it, the car pulled into a short, paved drive alongside a neat little modern suburban house. Maggie’s Auntie Fiona immediately appeared at the front door. She must have been listening for the car.

“Get her bags inside, Des, and show her where to wash her hands. I’ve a smoked cod pie warm in the oven for your tea.”

“You didn’t have to cook for me,” I protested. I realized, too late, that I hadn’t packed a hostess gift. Maggie had shoved me out of the country with practically only the clothes on my back. I was utterly unprepared.

“Nonsense! It’s not a bit of trouble. Come through, Shayla, you’re very welcome.”

I could smell the sea. We had to be close. The high-pitched, plaintive, womanly cries of the gulls confirmed it. The salt air and the light chill snapped me awake, and my appetite along with me. I was ravenous. I’d never had smoked cod pie, but I was willing to give it a try.

With clean hands and brushed hair, I stood by the table. Normally, I would have touched up my makeup and changed into something unrumpled, but it didn’t seem called for. “There she is! Fresh as a daisy,” Des waved me toward a chair next to him at a tidy little kitchen table. “Doesn’t she look gorgeous, Mam?”

“Sure Des is a keen one for the ladies, Shayla,” Auntie Fiona (as she instructed me to call her) said, pulling a box of tea down from the pantry. “’Course she’s gorgeous, but don’t embarrass the poor girl. She’s only just arrived, she can do without your charms, I’d say. Go on, darlin’, sit down and make yourself comfortable.”

“Seat’s open here,” Des said. He checked to see that his mother’s back was turned and patted his lap. I sat on the chair next to him, surprised to feel a smile creeping onto my lips. I didn’t dare look him in the face. I could feel him smiling at me. That made me smile harder.

“Tuck in,” Maggie’s aunt said setting a plate bearing a giant slab of savory pie in front of me, then scooped a steaming, crispy pile of thick-cut French fries alongside it.

“I never have pie without chips,” she said.

From that moment on, I hoped I never would, either. The potatoes were golden-brown and crispy on the outside, and steaming and fluffy on the inside. Des pushed a bottle of malt vinegar toward me. Why not? I thought. The combination of the saltiness and the tang made my taste buds sing. I took my first tentative bite of the pie. I’d had some sketchy smoked mackerel in the past, and the fishy, oily memory was lodged in my brain. This pie was the farthest thing from it. The flaky chunks of white fish had just enough smokiness to make it interesting, but the wholesome flavor of the ocean was the star taste. The truth is, I’ll eat about anything you put in a flaky piecrust and surround with creamy white sauce, onions, and peas, but the fish was a standout.

Maggie’s aunt excused herself to go hang the laundry. On a clothesline? I wondered. I made a mental note to take a look at that later. Even Grandma had used a giant tumble dryer, and in Manhattan the closest thing we had to clotheslines were the metal fire escapes on tenement buildings.

Des and I chatted about this and that, but the real conversation took place beneath our words. A glance from beneath the lashes here, a lick of the lips there. This was more like a date than my date with Jordan in 54 Below had been. I wondered if my chances of scoring would be higher. Realizing this line of thinking was reckless, I willed myself to sit up straight and to stop speaking from below my waist.

Des told me about ten times that he’d have to eat quickly and rush off. He said this between charged stares and brushed of his knee against my thigh. I encouraged him to go, pointing out the time. The longer he stayed, the more I wanted him to. I couldn’t believe myself. I usually went for the nerdy intellectuals, the ones whose flaws you had to overlook to get to the good stuff. The ones you had to fix and coax. No subtlety slowed down the slam of my attraction to Des. Sex sat right on the surface of our every interaction.

“I wish I hadn’t promised the fellas I’d meet up, so,” Des told me over his second cup of tea. “I’d rather pass the night here.” Late-shift work turned his sleep schedule upside-down, he explained, and he’d made a plan ages ago to meet his mates in an after-hours club tonight. He’d never live it down if he bagged on them. It was just as well because I didn’t trust myself. I’d think of him lying awake down the hall while I was trying to sleep.

I couldn’t remember the last time I’d just had sex for sex’s sake. Probably the break-up sex with my last boyfriend Noah. By the time we broke up, I hated him so much that he was like a stranger. It had been like role-playing; me taking all of my anger and aggression on him in bed. Too bad the only hot sex happened the last time I ever saw him. And before that, it was Josh. Sweet, reliable Josh. Our sex together had all the heat of a firm handshake. I’m not sure which of us liked it less, but neither of us ever mentioned the embarrassing fact that zero sex was had the last three months of our time together.

I thought of Maggie constantly telling me that I just needed to get laid. For the first time, it dawned on me that she was right. And I wasn’t even drunk! Out of my comfort zone, away from my New York structure, I was seeing everything in a new light. Even a stranger like Jordan told me I needed to break my own rules.

I stole a sneaky look at Des’s long, jean-clad thighs. His legs splayed open in a deep triangle as he reclined on his kitchen chair, luring my eye up to the bulge under his zipper. Bad girl, Shayla. Even though Maggie told me to get laid, she’d strictly forbidden doing it with her cousin because of his reputation. The thought made it even hotter.

Des finally peeled himself away from the table. From the door to the kitchen, he said, “I’m going for a bath.” I could swear the next words he whispered were, “Come along if you’re dirty” but it was hard to hear with Auntie Fiona bellowing “On the Rocky Road to Dublin”, as she carried her wicker basket through the hall.

Sitting down with her own cup of tea, Fiona asked me about where I was born and where I grew up, and how I passed my time. I complimented her house and was told it was technically a bungalow and less than a kilometer from the water. It had been passed down, she explained, and they were lucky to have it. Property prices had skyrocketed in recent years, she explained. She asked about my family, and did I follow sports or politics or pop stars. Not once did she ask me where I went to university, or what I did for a living. When I mentioned I was a writer she said that was grand, and asked if I didn’t come to interview that young chef from Castle Stone and left it at that.

Bringing a fresh pot to the table, Auntie Fiona asked, “Is the tea all right with ya, or would you care for something stronger?”

The scalding hot, milky tea was exactly what the doctor ordered. And something stronger might impair my judgment in the Des department. No, tea aired with the simple, filling pie and potatoes was fine. It left me with the effect of being wrapped in a soft quilt. “The tea is good. Everything is good.” With Des out of the picture, I relaxed in the unhurried atmosphere. Everything was nice and simple. Until my brain shot out signal flares. Tom O’Grady. I remembered why I was here in the first place. I had to get a win. If I didn’t, what else did I have?