Summer at Castle Stone

Chapter Five

There is nothing so bad that it couldn’t be worse.

Maggie opened the door to the apartment like she was entering a hospital room.

“Hello?” she said, softly knocking on the half-open door, even though she lives here.

“No point tap-dancing around it; I got fired.” I was sitting at the kitchen table in my pajamas and bathrobe, my hair pulled back into the scrunchie I used when I washed my face. I had the stolen cashmere pashmina from my agent’s office wrapped around my shoulders like a shawl. Spread out in front of me was an open bottle of sauvignon blanc, a glass, and Tom O’Grady’s bio materials.

“I know. I heard.”

“At least you didn’t have to see it.” I’d had to leave the Javits Center and report to HPC security in order to clear out my desk. It was just like the movies. Two armed guards gave me an empty cardboard box with a lid and escorted me to my desk, watching carefully to make sure I didn’t make off with any staplers or hand sanitizer. Like a prisoner leaving the penitentiary, I was led to the front door and launched out onto the world without a roadmap for the future. I wanted to take a cab, but I lugged my box to the bus stop instead. The unemployed didn’t take cabs.

“Want a glass?”

“Yes, please,” she said taking off her coat, and setting her computer bag aside. I grabbed a glass from the cabinet and poured in what was left of the bottle. It was a scant half inch. “Oops.”

She went to the fridge and pulled out another. “You’ve been drinking a lot lately, Shayla.”

“I just got fired!” I defended myself. She had a point, though. Historically speaking, I was not a big lush or partier.

“Right, and tonight’s understandable. But it’s not like you to go overboard so many nights in any given week.” She kicked off her shoes and poured herself a drink. “Is something wrong?”

“Everything’s wrong right now,” I said. I felt guilty. I didn’t want to put Maggie on the spot for being happy. She deserved her boyfriend and her book deal, and even her shitty job at HPC, where she’d be promoted in no time flat, if she didn’t quit to be a full-time writer. “Hey, don’t worry about me. I just need a night to process all of this. Tomorrow, I’ll see the bright side.” I wasn’t sure that was strictly true, but I didn’t want to be a complete downer.

“I know you’re putting on a brave face, but there is always a bright side. If you really feel like everything’s wrong, you have to make a radical change. When I was in college, I got dumped and I moped around the dorm with dirty hair, playing Duncan Sheik albums for a month. Finally, my hall monitor sat me down and said, “Look, you have to do something. It doesn’t matter what it is, but do something. You’re annoying.”

“Are you saying I’m annoying?”

“Not yet, but you will be soon enough if you don’t take action. Annoying and an alcoholic.”

“I’m not an alcoholic! I’m just drinking to take the edge off. Matty said everyone in New York is on anti-anxiety meds and tranquilizers.”

“If your nerves are strung that tight, then maybe you need to move to Arizona and join a sweat lodge, or a go to a Buddhist monastery or something. I mean it, Shay, sometimes a really radical change is called for. Look at Oprah. She wakes up one day and decides to stop doing Jerry Springer-like TV and be uplifting instead. Next thing you know, she’s queen of the world.” Maggie pulled a photo out of my pile of papers and spun it around to face her. “Hell-o! Who’s this hottie?”

“That’s right! I haven’t seen you all day. He’s the guy whose book I don’t get to write.”

She held up one of him in formal chef’s whites and a tall hat. “Nice,” she declared. She held up another of him posing stiffly in a tux, in mid-handshake with the president. “Handsome,” she declared. Pulling an action shot of him shearing a sheep while wearing a waffled thermal shirt pulled tight across his chest, and a pair of torn cords, she yelled, “Yes, please!”

“I know, right?”

She rifled through more photos and tear sheets. “He looks good dressed up, and all, but the sweet spot for me is that farm-boy thing. Sweaty and dirty with muscles rippling. Mm-mm-mm! Hey look, this restaurant is just a town or two over from Wicklow, where Gran’s sister and the rest of that side of the family live over in Ireland. Did Brenda give you this stuff? And by the way, is that a new pashmina?”

I ignored the pashmina question and gave Maggie the blow-by-blow beginning with breakfast with Matty, to my meeting with Brenda, to getting shot down trans-Atlantically by Tom O’Grady, to my near-arrest and, finally, my firing.

I finished my tale of woe and she sat silent for a minute. Then she poured herself another glass and declared, “You have to go there.”

“Where?”

“To Ireland, of course.”

“You’re out of your mind. For what?”

“To write his book.”

“He said no.”

“So. Go over there and make him say yes. Do something.”

Images flashed through my head: Me, stepping off the plane and into a waiting limo to be whisked to Tom O’Grady’s world-class restaurant, where we’d drink champagne while he told his life story into a recorder; Me, yawning awake in silk pajamas between high-thread-count sheets in one of Castle Stone’s master bedroom-range guest rooms; Me, posing for photos at The Guild of Food Writer’s Awards, Hank in the front row, clapping with satisfaction.

Maybe it was the wine, but it dawned on me that this idea was the best and only possible answer. “Yeah, that’s something I could do. It’s better than sitting around being annoying, right?”

There was a light in Maggie’s eyes and I could see her wheels turning. “Get me my laptop,” she ordered. “And open another bottle of wine.”

While I uncorked our last bottle, she got to work pricing airfares, and emailing and Facebooking relatives. “Give me your credit card,” she demanded.

“Are you booking a flight? Right now?” Curling my legs under myself, I realized I felt gun-shy. “I just got fired. I’m still paying off my student loans and that credit card debt from right after college.”

“Good point.” She leaped up and fetched her purse. “I’ll put it on mine.” Before I could protest, she held up a warning hand. “Stop. You’ll pay me when Brenda cuts you that advance check.”

Weakly, I told her, “There’s no promise of an advance. I don’t even have a contract.”

“No matter,” she said. “You’re going to get that book written and then she’ll have to pay you. The money will come later rather than sooner. You have a verbal agreement and if she punks on it I’ll have Eric send letters from the firm. If we need to lawyer up, we’ll lawyer up.” I was alarmed. It must have shown on my face.

“It won’t come to that,” she assured me, typing in her credit card numbers. “Brenda needs that book done, she assigned it to you, and you are going to deliver.”

Warmth rose up in my chest. I stared at my friend, who was efficiently setting my life’s wheels in motion. How lucky was I to have someone so firmly in my corner. The way Maggie treated me was so different from the way Hank treated me.

“You really believe in me, don’t you Mags?”

“Damn straight, I do. And I’m never wrong.”

I couldn’t argue with that. Maggie has always bet on the right horse and come out a winner.

She continued, “Oh, look! My cousin Des is answering my PM. It’s late there…he usually works nights. Must be his day off. He’s typing…he says ‘Ah sure, I’ll pick her up at the airport’ and asks ‘Is she a ride?’” Maggie laughed. “He’s disgusting,” she said, typing back. “He says tomorrow morning he’ll ask my Auntie Fiona if you can stay with them. I’m sure she’ll say yes. She’s the one who helped me apply to that summer literature seminar at Trinity College. Then I stayed at her house in Wicklow. It’s close to where you need to be. Castle Stone is in Ballykelty. It’s a little village in County Wexford. The beach there is where they filmed Saving Private Ryan, but you’d never know it. There’s not a sign in sight. The locals don’t like to draw attention to themselves. You’re going to love it, Shay!”

Hearing Maggie rattle off the names of the foreign people, buildings, towns, and counties made me dizzy. Or maybe it was the wine. I’d forgotten to eat dinner again. “Starting tomorrow,” I vowed, “I’ll take better care of myself. I’ll start the day with herbal tea and eat balanced meals. I’ll start sending out resumés and get a lucrative day job somewhere where they’ll treat me with respect.”

I heard my phone ping. I glanced at it and struggled to focus. It was an e-ticket confirmation from Aer Lingus.

“Uh, Maggie. When is my flight?” I held the phone back from my face, trying to read the tiny, blurry words.

“Tomorrow morning.” She slammed her laptop shut. “The car service is coming at 4:30, so we’d better start packing. You’re welcome.”

Chapter Six

The future is not set, there is no fate but what we make for ourselves.

I was counting the seconds until the plane hit a comfortable cruising altitude. My hands shook. I had barely gotten three hours of sleep and I was pretty sure I was still drunk. I needed a coffee just to keep me upright. Sitting in the window seat almost at the back of the plane, I held hope that the middle seat in my row of three would stay empty. Just as the crew swung the cabin door closed, a cheerful red-faced guy pushed in, banging every person on the left-hand aisle in the head with his briefcase, apologizing to each. Of course, he wedged in next to me, where his hammy forearm was now hogging the armrest. I was freezing, but I didn’t dare push the call button for a blanket lest I draw attention to myself and give him a reason to speak to me.

What had Maggie been thinking, sending me to the ends of the earth to chase down a crabby chef who wanted no part of me? As I walked through the temporary hallway-on-wheels, I told myself to simply turn around and go home. I didn’t have the guts to defy Maggie, though. So here I sat, trapped next to Sunny McSausagefingers, being forced to inhale his fresh and grassy aftershave.

Contorting my body in the tiny space, I fished between my legs to root around for my (Brenda’s) pashmina. I felt a hard, rectangular something wrapped in crinkly paper. I wedged it out of my bag and into my lap. It was a present, with a card on the front.

Dear Shay — I was saving this for your birthday, but I want you to have it now to keep you company on this trip. I know you must be scared, but I have a feeling you’re going to get everything you ever wanted. Love, Mags. P.S. If you have the chance to leap into bed with a sexy aul Irishman (anyone but my cousin Des!) do it. What happens in Ireland, stays in Ireland.

What did Maggie know about being scared? She was a luck magnet and her future was being paved for her in gold, brick by brick. I knew Maggie loved me and that her goal was to reach down and pull me up with her. I knew how lucky I was to have her pushing me. And yet… and yet… why everyone else and not me? My guilt at thinking this about my best friend made my muscles tight. Was there any feeling worse than covetousness? I had to talk myself down off a ledge. As they say, “compare and despair.” I reminded myself that Maggie wasn’t born with a silver spoon in her mouth, and shifted my focus to the positive. After all, she’d set the wheels in motion to help me fix my life and she’d packed me a gift to boot.

I slid my present out of the wrapping paper. It was a beautiful journal, covered in nubby, sage green, handmade paper with yellow dried flowers pressed into it. It looked like a spring field. It was almost too pretty to write in. There was even a pen to go with it — just the kind I liked, with a clicker on top, a clip for attaching, and a nice heavy weight. It was a retro sunny yellow color. The words Kate’s Paperie appeared in demure typeface on the inside of the back cover of my new journal Maggie knew that was one of my favorite stores in all New York. I turned the book over in my hands. I admired it. Maggie intended to make me happy with this gift, pure and simple. I noticed a little sheet sticking out. It read,

This present is not for saving, it’s for using. Signed, Margaret Doyle, Queen of Everything.

I lay my head back against the seat, smiling about my new gift. Packing a neck pillow would have been a good idea. I was tired, but so tense at the same time. My shoulders were in knots. “I’ll just close my eyes for a minute, just until the beverage cart come by with some coffee,” I thought. I tried to rest, but my mind wouldn’t quiet.

Tracing my fingers lightly over the relief of the flowers on my new journal, I remembered the daffodils that pushed up at my grandparent’s house upstate, sometimes before it was really even warm outside. My mom grew up in that house, situated on the east bank of the Hudson River. I toured colleges up that way: Vassar, Bard, Concordia. Hank pushed for Columbia or NYU so I wouldn’t have to leave the city.

“New York is the capital of the world,” he told me. “It’s the place to grab life by the balls.” At the time, the idea of grabbing anyone or anything by the balls seemed out of my wheelhouse. I needed to proceed at a slower pace; to test the waters. We compromised on Sarah Lawrence. “Good for writers; close to urban life,” so Hank said. The scholarly and artistic atmosphere suited me. That, and the culture of accepting hairy legs and a wardrobe of sweat suits. My seminars required prep time. I didn’t have the time or energy to doll up for classes.

When I was a little kid, mom and I had spent summers with my grandparents in Rhinebeck. I could almost smell the tomatoes she grew; she loved them so much, sometimes we’d eat them straight from the vine, still warm from the sun. And Grandma had her wonderful black and white Border Collie, Pip. I was so sad when he had died. Poor old Pip. When his time came, he was so weak Grandma fed him baby formula from a dropper to keep his mouth moist. His breathing became more and more rattled with each hour. That last night, we curled up next to his fuzzy donut bed by the fireplace and laid our hands on him as his body shook in one last violent spasm before he lay quiet. She and I spooned together and cried. We didn’t bury his body till the next morning.

I pushed away my thoughts and lay my head back, trying to blank my mind.

“Focus on one breath in, one breath out, breathing in a circle,” the yoga teacher from the one class I’d ever taken tried to teach me. I didn’t want to think about Pip, or Grandma, or how scared I was to be going halfway around the world alone. I pictured the tension in my shoulders liquefying, draining away. My body craved sleep. Breathing in, breathing out. The buzz of the aircraft and the vibration of the seat lulled me. The voices of the other travelers, popping of the soda cans, the thump of tray tables all faded away.

I emerged from the nothingness walking the hallway of Hank’s Upper West Side apartment, or at least it seemed like Hank’s place. Vines adorned the ceilings. They crawled with hissing cockroaches and tiny birds that shrieked occasional high-pitched complaints. I didn’t want to walk underneath these creatures.