An Irish Love Story Page 4

  We spent the night in each other’s arms. No words were needed. Our hearts said it all.

  Chapter 10

  REALIZATION

  I was sitting at the desk in the hotel room, working on the communications plan, when I glanced at my calendar. That was when it hit me with the force of a physical blow. I realized with a shock that my time in Ireland was coming to an end. In less than two weeks, I would board a plane at Dublin to return to Philadelphia.

  “What am I going to do about Maggie?” I asked the silent walls but there was no answer. My mind refused to accept what I knew was the truth. I loved her. I had fallen in love with the brash Green Hat I had met only….what was it? three weeks ago?

  Closing my eyes, I leaned back in the chair. Why had I let it happen? My head told me love couldn’t happen that quickly, but my heart said it could and had.

  Pacing about the room, I pondered the situation. I couldn’t abandon my wife and family for a passing infatuation. It couldn’t be real. Each beat of my heart whispered to me, “It is, it is, it is.” I argued with myself, “No, no, things like this only happen in stories, not in real life.”

  Then I remembered my first glimpse of my wife—the soft yellow curls shaking, as she giggled, when we were introduced. I gulped and stammered and didn’t know what to say. That produced the mischievous sparkle in her blue eyes. “Yes,” I said to myself, “It happened just that quickly when we were kids. We fell in love with each other at first sight.”

  So what is this “thing” with Maggie? A mid-life fling? An early male menopause crisis?

  Mentally, I started toting up the pros and cons for each woman. “Stop it!” I scolded. “That’s not fair to Kerri and it’s not fair to Maggie.” I needed to talk to someone.

  * * *

  “Sean, thanks for working me into your schedule today.”

  “Not at all, Patrick. It’s always good to see you.” Sean Linehan, a native of Cork, was a consultant based in Dublin who was assisting the company in dealing with the IDA and the myriad of regulations the Republic of Ireland expects foreign companies to meet. In the two months I had been working with him, he had become a friend, almost like an older brother.

  Sean poured some tea for both of us and leaned back in his chair. “Now, what can I do for you?”

  “It’s something of a personal and confidential nature, Sean.” I paused, not sure how to begin. “If I were to move to Ireland, what would I have to do to work here and establish a residence?”

  Sean pulled out his pipe, opened a canister and filled the bowl with a fragrant tobacco blend. Once the pipe was glowing and smoke circling his head, he gave me a direct look.

  “And why would ye be asking me that question, now?” he asked in his best West Cork brogue, his eyes twinkling. “Would this have anything to do with Margaret Frances O’Callahan?”

  “You know about her?”

  “Of course,” was his reply. “One has very few secrets in Ireland.” Taking his pipe from his mouth, he used the stem as a pointer. “Pat, me boy, you’re not thinking of leaving your wife and coming here to live with Maggie?” His cultured voice took on more of the Cork accent.

  “The thought has crossed my mind.”

  Linehan was silent for a moment, then sighed. “Well, Maggie is a fine young woman. I have known her and her family for many years. But, Patrick, is this what you really want to do?”

  I sat in silence, not looking at him. “I don’t know, Sean. I know I love her.” I paused, and then added, “But I love my wife and my kids, too. I can’t give up my family, but…I don’t want to give up Maggie either. I don’t know what to do. I need some advice.”

  “Patrick, take some more time to think this through. If you do this, it will mean one of two things. Either you give up the life that you have always known and start over here. Or, you take Maggie back to the states with you.”

  Looking over the top of his glasses, he added, “That last option might be a lot tougher than you think.”

  “Why?”

  “Well, she may not want to go. She’s a strong willed woman, she is. Her roots are here, as are her brothers and sisters and their families.” Pipe in mouth, Linehan puffed furiously. “Patrick, either way you choose, it won’t be easy for her, for you or for your family.” Linehan shook his head and pointed his pipe stem at me. “Any way you go, there is going to be a lot of heartache for everyone.”

  I left the office feeling more confused than ever.

  * * *

  Taking the train from Dublin to Cork, I reviewed in my mind all that had transpired since I met Maggie in the bar at Jury’s.

  Before talking to Linehan, I had talked with a local farmer near Kinsale with whom I had become acquainted. He had been telling me about his plans to develop some of his unused farm land that was ideal for building. There was one small plot of land near a tiny cove that was ideal for a cottage and the farmer was willing to sell. Land was cheap and I was intrigued by the idea of having my own little cottage in Ireland.

  But what could I do if I lived there? Mulling over the possibilities, I decided I could go back to writing for a living. After leaving the Bulletin, and before going corporate, I had been a free-lance writer, and a good one, I might add. Regularly, I had articles and stories appearing in Esquire, The New Yorker, and The Saturday Evening Post. In Ireland, I knew that writers and people who made their living in the arts paid no income taxes.

  As I rode the train, my mind turned over all the pros and cons of what to do. It felt as if a cold hand was squeezing my heart.

  When I thought of Kerri and Jonathan and Elizabeth, I knew I could not possibly give them up. I loved them. How could I bear being separated from them? No! That was impossible! But the thought of having to leave Maggie tore at my heart.

  Let’s face it. I was in love with two women. I didn’t want to let either of them go. But keeping both was impossible and selfish.

  Growing up as I had in a middle class home in Philadelphia, I had been given decent values by my parents, who themselves had been married for more than 40 years. It was a given in our family, when you married someone, it was for…well, you know, for better or worse…forever! Oh, I know that seems old fashioned these days with many people changing partners almost as often as they change their cars. But solid family values were what I learned growing up. And even though I was not particularly religious, I had lingering thoughts that abandoning my family was wrong—evil, in fact—and that no good could come of it.

  Cheating on your spouse was wrong, I had been taught. The problem for me was that my love for Maggie didn’t feel wrong. On the contrary, it felt very right!

  The struggle between heart and head, as Maggie had once put it, was too much. Sighing, I leaned my head against the seat and closed my eyes. I slept.

  Chapter 11

  A COOL NIGHT

  Youghal was a quaint little port town that had served as the backdrop for a number of sailing movies. Anchored in the harbor was a full-sized replica of the whaling ship used in the movie Moby Dick. It was a picturesque scene. Maggie explained that she often came to Youghal to visit one of her sisters who lived with her family in Ballymacoda, which I assumed was near the town.

  Maggie had a favorite potter in the town that she visited frequently. I had to admit that his skill was remarkable and his pottery was unique and instantly recognizable. The patterns of blue, mixed with the browns and creams, in his creations were distinctive and appealing. We bought two footed goblets, two bowls and two plates.

  The sun was warm and we spent a pleasant day sight seeing and shopping, making small talk with no real substance. It was as if we were avoiding anything with serious consequences.

  As we left the quaint village, we stopped for a bit of pub grub at a place called the Thatched Cottage. As the remains of the day dwindled into evening, Maggie directed me through a maze of back roads to a long empty beach.

  “Over there is the bog,” she waved her hand in the direction of the tall gra
ss near a sand dune. “If it were day, I would take you on some of the paths. It is beautiful, but dangerous at night.”

  We walked in silence, but there was not the feeling of companionship that we earlier had enjoyed. In fact, Maggie seemed more withdrawn than usual. The only sounds were the waves rolling onto the beach and crashing on distant rocks. Moonlight made a rippling silver path on the water.

  Suddenly, she stopped, looking at the quiet ocean. As I stepped near her, she waved me away. “Walk,” she commanded. “I need to be alone.” Puzzled, I sauntered down the beach. Looking back, I could see her sitting, facing the water. When I finally stopped, she was a small dark spot on the silver sand.

  Not sure what she wanted of me, I just stood and shared her view of the endlessly rolling waves. Time seemed…slow. Somewhere behind me I could hear a night bird calling from the bog. I looked over my shoulder, but all was black and slightly forbidding.

  Finally, glancing at my watch by moonlight, I was surprised to see that it had been more than an hour since we separated. I started toward her, hands in pockets and feet shuffling through the sand. At her side, I knelt and stroked her hair.

  She grasped my hand and put it over her heart where I could feel the rapid beating, almost as if a bird was trying to escape its cage.

  “Oh, the bog!” she exclaimed. “Oh, the moral bog we’re in. We are caught between heaven and hell. You should not love me, but you do. And I should not love you, but, God help me, I do.” She turned her face to me, and streams of tears caught the moonlight. “I do so much love you, mo gra.”

  Putting my arms around her, I held her for a long time. She leaned against me and sobbed as if her heart were breaking. The dampness of the night gradually seeped into our bodies and chilled us. Rising, I drew her up and kissed her forehead. Hand in hand we walked back to the car.

  She was silent on the return trip to Cork. As I switched the engine off in front of her home, I reached for the door handle but she stopped me.

  “Padraig, my love, would it hurt you too much to leave me tonight?” The green eyes were smoky, pleading. “So much has happened so fast, I just need some time alone.”

  I swallowed and nodded, turning my head away so she couldn’t read my feelings. She quickly kissed my cheek and fled to her house.

  Chapter 12

  A SUDDEN CHANGE

  Deadlines were approaching and I needed to have a plan ready to present soon. But try as I might in my hotel room, I could not concentrate on the task at hand. My thoughts kept going to the freckled, red-headed lass who had turned my carefully ordered world upside down.

  What did her behavior last night mean? Would she even answer if I called? Throwing my pen and paper down, I paced the room. Then, grabbing my jacket, I dashed to the car and drove to her house.

  The door opened almost before I had let go of the knocker. “I sort of expected you,” she said, smiling. “But I have no time now; I must feed my boarders. Call back for me at half-seven?”

  I nodded. The door closed and I was left standing on her step, feeling a bit foolish.

  Promptly, at seven-thirty I knocked. Again, the door opened instantly. She gestured for me to enter. I turned as she closed the door and found her leaping into my arms and kissing me with an unexpected passion. It was as if we were celebrating a return from a long absence.

  She pulled me into her sitting room, kicking the door shut and pushing me onto the couch. “Oh, my dearest, make love to me…NOW!” I hastened to obey her command.

  The turf fire had all but burned itself out and the room was growing cold. We were cozily warm, bundled in a large wool blanket, but chill was beginning to seep in around the edges. I rose, barefooted quickly across the cold floor, and tossed a small bit of wood into the fireplace, stirred the embers, coaxing forth a small flame. A quick dash back to the warmth of the blanket and her arms, and we were as before. We lay in a dreamy state, neither awake nor asleep.

  As we lay there, she lifted her head and began twisting the hair on my chest around her finger. Looking into my eyes, she said, “I went to confession!”

  “Oh?” Odd conversation for our present situation.

  “Today?”

  “No, yesterday.”

  “Ah.” That explained her behavior last night.

  “Yes, and can you guess what the Father told me?”

  “Let’s see.” I gave her my best judicial look and replied, “Well, I suspect he told you in no uncertain terms to give me up because our relationship is sinful, and that you should say three Hail Mary’s.”

  “That’s exactly what he said,” she cried as she jumped up, “except that I had to say six Hail Mary’s and make a novena.” I was having a hard time concentrating on her words and her eyes instead of other parts of her body, now exposed as the blanket slipped away.

  “So, what did you do?”

  She stuck out her little chin, looking defiant and declared, “I told him that I would say the Hail Mary’s but I did not feel sinful. Your love was the most wonderful thing that had ever happened to me, and I would cherish it forever.” She crossed her arms over her exposed chest and dared me to disagree.

  I laughed.

  “Oh, you beast,” she cried, pounding my chest with her little fists. “You great hairy Yank! How can you laugh at me at a time like this?”

  By this time, tears were streaming down my face. “I’m not laughing AT YOU but at the thought of the scene. What did the good Father do then?”

  “I don’t know. I left.” She slid off, and wrapped herself in the blanket, leaving me to shiver on the sofa. I grabbed at the edge of the blanket and stepped inside, wrapping it around both of us.

  She grinned her crooked little grin and said, “I guess it was pretty funny.” Her green eyes grew serious. “I meant every word I said, Padraig. Every word.”

  I kissed her, and could feel the fire start within us. Then, her stomach grumbled loudly and quenched the rising flame we felt. “Uh oh, sounds as if someone is hungry.”

  “Yes, I am, Yank! Let’s eat.” And she walked away with the blanket, leaving me exposed to the chill room.

  We had dinner that night at Black Rock Castle, seated near the windows that overlooked the river. I’ll say this for her. She could pack away the food for such a tiny person. And I didn’t do too badly myself.

  Chapter 13

  GROWING CLOSER

  I had more or less wrapped up my communications plan, leaving only a few minor details undone. Most of my time over the next few days was spent in Maggie’s company. She had arranged for Fionna, the unmarried one of her sisters, to come and care for her boarders. Fionna was sleeping in a small bedroom at the rear of Maggie’s apartment.

  “So, Maggie, what did you tell Fionna you were doing?” I asked.

  “The truth, Yank,” she answered.

  Surprised, I asked, “Was she upset or shocked?”

  “Why would she be now? There aren’t enough men for the women here. Besides, there are few secrets in Ireland. She and my other sisters have known about you almost from the beginning.”

  Yes, I thought, I can believe that after my visit to Sean Linehan.

  “What about your brothers?” I asked with one eyebrow raised. I knew she had two rather sizeable older brothers.

  “Well, there are some things they don’t need to know,” she replied archly.

  I laughed and concentrated on my driving as the inevitable rain began to lash the car and tax the wipers. Our plans to walk the beach at Crosshaven to watch the sailing ships were washed out, so we ended up at a small inn on the hill above the ocean.

  Cozily seated on a comfortable couch near the windows overlooking the ocean, we shared tea, biscuits, and poetry.

  Always prepared, Maggie had brought along a little blue book of W.B. Yeats selected poems. Yeats, I knew, was her favorite Irish poet. In her low voice, she began reading aloud, but quietly, with “The White Swans at Coole.” As I listened, I stretched my legs out and laid my head against the
pillows. Her voice was soothing music as she worked her way through the book, picking out all her favorites.

  “Padraig, you are going to sleep!” Her voice broke into my reverie as she punched my arm.

  “No, my dear, just resting my eyes.”

  “Humph. Well, just for that, Padraig, you can read this one to me.”

  She pointed to a page with the corner turned down. Tucking her legs beneath her on the couch, she settled against me. Glancing around and seeing no one else nearby, I cleared my throat and began.

  “I would that we were, my beloved, white birds on the foam of the sea! We tire of the flame of the meteor, before it can fade and flee; And the flame of the blue star of twilight, hung low on the rim of the sky, Has awakened in our hearts, my beloved, a sadness that may not die.”

  I paused and looked at her. Those green eyes were tightly shut, but a single tear had escaped and slowly made its way down her cheek. But she nodded her head for me to continue.

  “A weariness comes from those dreamers, dew-dabbled, the lily and rose…”

  She clasped my hand tighter as I continued to read the timeless words. Silently she mouthed the words long ago committed to memory.

  “….where Time would surely forget us, and Sorrow come near us no more…”

  As I finished, a small sigh escaped her lips and we sat in silence.

  “That was lovely, mo chara. Thank you.”

  The rain had turned to solid sheets of dark grey that nearly obscured the ocean from our view.

  “Would you like another pot of tea and more biscuits?” inquired the inn’s hostess.

  “Thanks, no,” I replied. “We will be leaving soon.”

  Our next days were spent in similar fashion as we grew deeper in our knowledge of, and love for, each other. One warm afternoon we were walking a path she knew through the woods along the River Lee.

  “Look at that beautiful swan swimming ahead,” she whispered.

  “I wonder why there is only one. Usually, the swans are in pairs.”