Summer at Castle Stone

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“Shayla?” I nodded. He swooped in and loaded my suitcase into the back. “Hiya! I’m Des.” He was tall and had a sexy, sporty look to him. “Ready for an almost two-hour trip? Lovely night for it.” It was a lovely night. Ireland was downright balmy compared with New York. The air was moist and fresh.

Two hours. Now I’d owe him big-time. Running people from midtown to LaGuardia was a pain, but this was above and beyond. He didn’t even know me.

“I didn’t realize it was so far. I should have taken a bus or something,” I said, opening the car door and sliding in. “You have to let me pay you,” I offered, my stomach squeezing because I had no idea what a fair price might be. Probably more than I had.

“Not at all,” he brushed off my concern.

“Well, I want to give you something.”

“It all works out in the end, doesn’t it?” He stood looking at me. “Are you driving?”

Startled, I looked around and saw that I was sitting in front of the steering wheel. “Oh!” I scrambled out, and got in the other side. I’d travelled to Italy, Spain, Mexico, and The Netherlands, but I had found traveling to London by far the hardest transition. In the other, very foreign, places, I expected up to be down, and black to be white. In England, however, everyone spoke English, and we shared a lot of common culture — the United States having been a colony of theirs and all — so I got a false sense of security. Then, I’d get in a phone booth and be all thumbs or I’d have to take a freezing shower because I couldn’t figure out the buttons and knobs. It unsettled me. I suspected I’d feel similarly off-balance in Ireland.

“Buckle up,” he commanded. “Safety first. I drive a hotel limo, that’s why I work nights. I could do this drive in my sleep. It’s not often I have such a pretty passenger, though.”

I remembered Maggie’s warnings about her cousin being a ladies’ man, but he didn’t seem so bad to me. As he chattered on about his job, and how he liked to play football (the kind where you use your feet, I was schooled), I stole a sideways glance at him. Red hair, high cheekbones, full lips. He reminded me a bit of the ginger one from the Harry Potter films, all grown up. Not bad at all. My mind wandered to what he’d look like with his shirt off. And maybe his jeans. He looked to be the long and lean type, with a torso like a runner. And working down from there…Wow! I hadn’t had those thoughts in a while. Maybe it was the saltiness in the air, blowing in from the sea.

Shut it down, I told myself. His mother graciously offered you a bed to sleep in, she didn’t offer to fill it. There was no doubt that he was a piece of eye-candy, but one-night stands weren’t me, typically. I wasn’t above them, far from it. It’s just that it had been so long since I’d been with a man, you could call me a reborn virgin. There was a part of me that wanted my next time to be special. Or at least a great story.

“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?

“How far away is Castle Stone from here? Does the train or bus go there directly? Do you have wifi? Would you mind if I jumped on it?”

“Easy now. Tomorrow’s another day. Have yourself a bath, why don’t you?”

Was Des gone? I wondered. A flash of my lowering my naked self onto his body in the tub sizzled through my brain.

“Help yourself to anything you fancy in there,” she said.

Oh dear God.

“We’ve all sorts of lotions and potions,” she continued. I let out my breath. “Now that our eldest has moved out, we let that room here and there during the high season. Make yourself at home. Sure, you’ve flown over the Atlantic, for heaven’s sake! You deserve a long lie-down.”

I hesitated.

“Work’ll keep,” she insisted.

I pushed past my normal tendencies and took her advice. I gathered my pajamas and toothbrush from my case. The house sat quiet. Des must have left. I felt a twinge of regret in my nether parts, but told myself that it was for the best. One less thing to think about.

Upstairs in the bathroom I filled the tub with steaming water and threw in a liberal handful of seaweed bath salts. I lay all the way back, submerging my head so that only my mouth and nose protruded from the water. It sounded the way a large conch shell does when you press your ear to its side. We used to call it, “listening to the ocean.” It sounded like a woman’s voice, and as if I just listened that little bit harder, I might be able to make out what she was saying. The tone was beckoning, I just couldn’t make out the message. I lay there trying until the water went cold, then pulled myself back out into the world. Back in my room, I was asleep before my head hit the pillow.

I awakened at 5:30 a.m. and the house was still. There was no danger of Des getting up soon, and surely Auntie Fiona slept past dawn. I padded quietly into the kitchen and looked for a coffee maker. No luck. I couldn’t remember a day since I was fifteen that I hadn’t started my morning with a cup of coffee. There was, however, an electric tea kettle. I’d always considered these a waste of space. Funny how everyone in Ireland has one and no one in America does. Who couldn’t heat water on the stove? Why bother with a kettle? When the water boiled before I could even put a teabag in a mug, I had my answer. I went for the milk in the fridge, even though I never drank milk in tea at home. It was like I was on autopilot, being called by the song of the lost souls of the Irish people who’d always put milk in their tea. It felt weird, but I had to admit that the tiny pint-sized plastic jug, and the unapologetic way it called whole milk “full fat” charmed me.

Not only did I not start my day with my usual cup of coffee, I couldn’t check my phone or email because I wasn’t set up for that yet. It dawned on me that I had no idea what to do about phone service. If I just tried to use my phone, each call might cost a mint, and I couldn’t afford to throw money around. I’d left so fast and without a thought about practical matters. Worse yet, my brilliant brain couldn’t figure things out because it wasn’t my playing field. I was not the master of my universe. But then, had I ever been?

It wasn’t quite six o’clock and I had nothing to do. I was itching to call Tom O’Grady, but I didn’t know how to use the phone. I felt vulnerable; like if there was a disaster, I wouldn’t know the drill. “No, Shayla!” I told myself, nipping it in the bud. Go out and get some fresh air and this idea will seem better when the sun comes up. I crept up the stairs, still in my pajamas, and quietly brushed my teeth. I heard the front door open and some jingling keys being put on a hook. I heard Des clear his throat and I slipped through the bathroom door, intending to race back to my room before he saw me. Which would have been the best possible thing. Obviously. Instead, what happened was this: With Des’s high energy and long stride, he was up the staircase, and standing in front of me before I could think. His blue eyes lit up the dark like a couple of headlights and I was frozen. I couldn’t look away.

Before I could take a breath, his mouth was on mine, and my arms were wrapped around his neck, me standing on tippy-toe, gasping for air. His lips were firm and insistent. I tried to whisper “no,” but the thought of waking Auntie Fiona quieted my voice. I signaled with my body that we should stop, that it was too risky, we’d get caught. He met every bend of my neck and every jolt of my hips like a tango master. Every touch, every push and grind made me forget why I wanted to stop.

He tasted like fresh beer and spearmint gum; it was the taste of being wild with a boy at a club. I was only wearing a thin t-shirt and no bra. His hand kneaded my breast and I leaned into it. He picked me up at the waist, me straddling his long frame sloppily, and he dragged me into his room, the closest one to the bathroom.

“Oh,” he moaned, “Shayla, I am going to give it to you like you have never had it before.” Just like that. No discussion. No request for permission. My mind was sizzling and my body melted. No man had ever talked to me like that before. All my other lovers had gone out of their way to be chivalrous, real 21st-century men, determined to prove how sensitive they were. It was clear that Des planned to take what he wanted. His attitude electrified me and I was right behind him. I couldn’t stop now if I wanted to. I wasn’t leaving this tangle till my tension got relieved.

He lay me back on the bed and peeled my shirt up. He scraped the stubble of his beard up my belly and covered my nipple with his mouth, circling his tongue and humming with pleasure. It lit me on fire. Then, pulling his head up and panting into his mouth, I reached down to undo the snap on his jeans. I popped it open and tugged at the zipper, all the while wrapping my legs around his pelvis, trying to grind into his hardness.

He untangled my greedy fingers from his hair and pulled my shirt up over my head, only stopping our hungry kiss long enough to pull the collar past our mouths. With the skill of a magician, he used one of his hands and his knee to strip off my jogging pants and panties while keeping me drunk with kisses and teasing my aching breasts. I didn’t recognize myself, I was so out of control. When he shifted to wriggle his jeans past his slim hips, I actually pouted and humphed. A second was too long to wait for contact. I was long past having manners. What we had here was a matter of need, not want. Slowing down would be like trying to turn a cruise ship around.

The feeling of his hot skin pressed against me from my ankles to my cheek set off something primal. I grabbed the length of him with my whole hand and stroked it to the tip. Uncircumsized. The newness of it drove me wild.

“Now,” I demanded, forgetting to whisper.

“Oh, God, Shayla, yes, yes,” he chanted again and again as he ripped open a condom packet with his teeth and reached down to roll it on. I swung up on top of him, balancing myself by digging the heels of my hands into his pubic bone like it was the horn of a saddle. I loved that part of a man. Especially a tall, skinny one like Des.

I lowered myself down, taking him in all at once, not bothering to tease. By the way he used his fingers, I could tell Des had been around the block a time or two, and with women, not just girls. I slid up and down, taking full advantage of the fact that I’d claimed the top position, and ground into that bone, taking him deeper and deeper. “Oh dear fuck, Shayla,” he whispered. “That is delicious.”

At that point, I closed my eyes, and went into a kind of trance, nearly forgetting that Des was there. Up to this point in my life, I had never, never taken what I wanted so aggressively. I was Super Woman, capable of anything. From that point forward, it was all hands, and mouth, and pounding. I worked hard and got what I came for. I changed my movement to near stillness, and was rewarded by electric pulsing from where I was sitting.

“Shayla,” he moaned.

“Shh!” I warned him. “Ah-ah-ah-ah!” I cried out, forgetting utterly about keeping this secret from Auntie Fiona. I couldn’t have stayed quiet if I’d tried.

Oh. My. God. I felt so loose, so calm. I flopped over onto his chest, and listened to my own heartbeat for a few seconds. He didn’t say a thing. Like I said, he was good at this. Way better at it than I would have given him credit for. I rewarded him with a firm kiss on the mouth. He was still inside me, “Lie back,” I told him, “here comes yours.”

I left Des sleeping, washed up, and quietly pulled on some clothes. There was no hairdryer to be found, let alone a curling iron or a pair of straightening tongs. God, I hated dealing with all this hair. What happened to the days of wash-and-wear? Deep down, I knew Maggie was right about how a 20-something’s coiffure was supposed to look in the city, but I didn’t have the time nor the patience to maintain an amazing style that was meant to look effortless. I ran a comb through it, but it was not interested in being tamed. The clock said 7 a.m. I threw my wallet and new journal and pen into a tote. There were keys on the hooks by the door. I had to lock the door behind myself. I found the right one on the third try and set out walking in the pre-dawn glow, hoping that this was a safe neighborhood. I could smell salt water, so I tried to use my lizard brain to find the seafront. Auntie Fiona had said it was about a kilometer away. “About a mile,” I thought. Then I questioned myself. The half-assed attempts to teach us the metric system in school hadn’t really stuck. I walked blindly on, hoping I’d get where I wanted to go sooner or later.

I sat down on a flat rock and gazed out at the horizon. Breathtaking was the only fitting word for it. I pulled out my journal and wrote:

Dear Mags, It’s hard to believe I’m in Ireland sitting on a seawall, watching the sun rise. The blazing orange and pink of the sun is illuminating everything, but leaving the edges soft. I wish I could show it to you. Sunrises, like dreams and falling in love, mean so much to the person they’re happening to, and always pale in the description. There are plumes of smoke rising from the chimneys of the clean-lined houses, scenting the air. It doesn’t smell like the smoke from houses upstate. It’s earthier than woodsmoke, and mixed with the sea breeze, it calls to mind both dried blood and babies being born. It’s not unpleasant, though. The only word I can think of to describe it is organic.

I think the air here is giving me superpowers. With each breath I take, I feel like I’m connecting. To the rock I’m sitting on, to the calling birds, to the tall grasses waving in the breeze. It all looks so foreign and unfamiliar. The rugged landscape, the quirky rusted red and brown tug moving along next to the wooden fishing boats. I wonder if this actually is the prettiest view I’ve ever experienced, or if it’s simply the post-coital buzz talking. Oh, right. I suppose I have to tell you: I had sex with Des. I know, I know! It just happened. I’m glad, though. I wouldn’t have wanted to break my dry spell with someone real, if you know what I mean. I got it out of my system. There. Done. Weeeeeelll, maybe it’s not quite out of my system. Don’t get me wrong. I’m not in love with him or anything, but you know that expression, “A taste of honey’s worse than none at all?” I have to admit, it was pretty good for a desperate quickie. And look, I know Des didn’t go to college or write a book, or cure polio, but that’s OK. Am I a snob for saying he’s not husband material? On the other hand, maybe marriage could be pretty sweet if you got a dose of that every night. Whatever, he’s pretty cute and it was super-fun for what it was. I’d die of embarrassment if your aunt found out, but if I had the chance to do it again, I feel like I might. The truth is, I don’t feel like myself. But in a good way. Have you ever sat quietly, and said your name over and over, and asked yourself, who am I, really? What does it mean to be me? Well, you probably haven’t. You’re so much more grounded than I am. When I was a little girl, I felt ethereal and unformed, like I hadn’t landed in my body yet. I thought that when I grew up, it would click into place and I’d feel whole. I’m still waiting, I guess. But today, I don’t know…I feel more like I’m in here, you know? I think I’m getting a glimpse of what it would be like to land in…well…me

All right, the sun’s completely up now, and I see what looks to be a touristy coffee shop by the waterfront. I don’t even have any Irish currency yet. Cross your fingers that they take plastic, because I think a cappuccino is in order before I pick up the phone to call Tom O’Grady. I’ll let you know how it goes! Love, Shay.

Walking back to Auntie Fiona’s with my large takeaway latte, I unzipped my fleece a few inches so I could soak up the maximum amount of sun. After the early morning sex and the caffeine boost, the only thing that could make me feel better would be sealing the deal with Tom O’Grady. I walked up the drive and turned the key in the lock as quietly as I could. As I was fiddling with it, the door swung open and I stood face-to-face with a girl with shiny dark hair, pulled into a high ponytail. She had on a full face of evening makeup.

“Hiya,” she said. “Come through.”

I peered behind her to make sure I was in the right house. I saw the back of Auntie Fiona’s head at the kitchen table, where she was sipping tea. I combed back through the stories Maggie had told me. Her uncle had passed away at a young age, and I thought Fiona only had the two boys, Des, and Michael, who was married and out of the house.