My Life in Shambles(35)

I can only imagine, so I leave it at that.

For the rest of the drive I go over our fictional engagement until it’s starting to sound real, though Padraig definitely has something on his mind as he gives me nods and grunts and one-word answers.

Finally, the road curves out of the rolling green countryside and a wide estuary appears in front of us. The sun seems to come out from behind the thick clouds for just that moment too and I smile at the way it glints off the water, feeling serendipitous.

“Welcome to County Cork,” Padraig says as we drive over a bridge and the road hugs the water on the opposite side. Soon, the town emerges, a narrow slip of stone buildings along the waterfront, interspersed with bright, candy-colored buildings. “And welcome to Shambles.”

“It’s so cute,” I say, staring at all the charming pubs and restaurants and stores selling wool and gnomes and clover souvenirs. With the narrow cobblestone roads and stone walls, it fits the quaint Irish town of my dreams.

Except, as we keep driving through and out of the town, a wide expanse of sandy beach runs alongside the road.

“A beach,” I remark. “For some dumb reason I didn’t picture Ireland having white sand beaches.”

“We have plenty of beaches like this. There are miles of them down the coast here. In the summer, you can go swimming. In the winter, you can always go for a polar bear dip.”

“That sounds like something a macho rugby player would do after a few beers.”

“Maybe,” he says with a small smile.

After a few minutes of driving along the sea, he takes a road that heads inland through green hills bordered with crumbling stone walls and low hedges. Piles of melting snow are dotted here and there. We slow near a sign that says Shambles Bed & Breakfast and he turns onto the long gravel driveaway flanked by a wide expanse of lawn.

“A B&B?” I ask, surprised he didn’t tell me about that.

“Best one in town,” he says, winking at me as he puts the car in park. “I have to say that or I’ll get the spoon.”

In front of us is a rather large two-story stone house done up in stark white with an undulating thatched roof. I’d heard about all the thatched roof cottages and houses in Ireland and desperately wanted to see one.

I get out of the car and take in a deep breath of air. Even though it’s the dead of winter, there’s a freshness here. The air is chilled but damp with the sea and it feels like I’m waking up for the first time. Either that or the jet lag is finally wearing off.

“She’s pretty in the spring and summer,” Padraig says, stopping beside me and staring at the house. “But my nan takes good care of it.”

“Your grandmother runs this place?”

“Yea,” he says and then looks over to the green-painted door that’s opening. “Now you can finally meet her.”

I’m not sure if he’s saying that because he’s already playing the role, but out of the front door steps who I assume is his grandmother.

And she’s not at all like I pictured.

For some reason my mind conjured up this tiny round woman wearing a perpetual apron and permanent scowl, her hair kept under a bonnet.

For one, she’s tall. Even though she’s got a hunch, she’s at least an inch taller than me (I can see why she’d be so formidable with a wooden spoon). Her face is pale and wrinkled, with deep folds around her mouth, yet her eyes are bright, curious, and shining. She’s bundled up in a big coat and I don’t think there’s an apron underneath. Her white hair is kept back under a scarf, though, like a young Queen Elizabeth.

“Padraig!” she cries out. “Yer late!”

I can barely understand her thick accent, or if she’s genuinely upset or not.

Padraig takes my hand and gives it a squeeze, his warm palm pressed against mine, contrasting the chill outside. In that squeeze, I feel everything that’s going through his head with what we’re about to undertake.

He’s home and I’m here with him and this isn’t going to be easy.

What have I gotten myself into?

“Nana,” he says, pulling me over to her where she waits by the front door, her coat pulled tightly around her. That’s when she really notices me, notices us holding hands, and her gaze becomes sharp as an axe.

We stop in front of her and her eyes run up and down me in inspection before looking back to Padraig.

“Where are yer manners, boy?” she says to him, jerking her head toward me. “First of all, ye haven’t introduced me to yer girl here, and second of all, ye never told me you were bringing company. I should have known. I could have cleaned up. The good lord knows this place could have been fully booked and there would’ve been no room for her.”

Padraig gives her a patient smile. “Are the rooms all booked up?”

“Ach, no,” she says almost angrily. “It’s January. There’s only the Major here.”

“The Major?” I ask.

“That’s what I call him,” Padraig says to me. “Ever seen Fawlty Towers?” I nod. “Well then, ye know the Major is the old man who lives at the hotel. We have a Major here.”

“He has a name,” his grandmother chides him, even though she’s the one who called him the Major first. “And speaking of names, what the devil is yer name, miss, since Padraig has lost his manners somewhere on a rugby pitch?”