My Life in Shambles(36)

I hold out my hand. “I’m Valerie Stephens.”

Her skin is rough and calloused and she gives my hand a bone-crushing shake. I try not to wince.

“You’re a Canadian,” she says to me.

“No, American,” I correct her. “I’m from Philadelphia. But I live in New York.” Or, I did.

Her eyes narrow at that. Very unimpressed. I’ve noticed a bit of hostility from people here when I tell them where I’m from.

“Yea,” she says carefully. She brings her sharp gaze to Padraig. “Where ye find this one then? Don’t think you’ve ever brought a girl home before, let alone some American. Ye snatching up tourists?”

Kind of.

“How about we make the introductions inside where it’s warm,” Padraig says. “And where’s my hug, anyway?” He gently pulls his grandmother into a big bear hug and my heart seems to grow a few more sizes.

“Oof,” she says, trying to get out of his embrace. “You trying to kill yer oul’ nana?” She manages to pull away and heads through the door. “Okay, come on, come on. I’ll get a pot of tea going.”

We step inside the front hall and I’m immediately met with a rush of warm air. The place is all white stone walls and wood floors and so many cozy earthy knickknacks and thick rugs all over the place.

“Hang up yer coats on them hooks. Take off yer shoes,” she says to me, pointing at my boots. “Put on those slippers, miss. You too, boy.”

I hang up my coat and quickly unzip my boots, picking out a pair of handmade wool slippers that are all lined up in various colors and sizes along a low bench. I put on a pair of dark green ones and to my surprise Padraig chooses hot pink.

I giggle, and he shrugs. “They’re the only ones big enough for my feet. I know my nan knitted these as a joke, she just won’t admit it.”

“What are ye blathering on about?” she says as she disappears around the corner. “Don’t think my hearing has gone. The devil has cursed me for having to listen to yer nonsense until the day I go.” She then mutters under her breath, “Won’t be a moment too soon.”

I look wide-eyed at Padraig. She’s both hilarious and intense in her grumpiness.

“You’ll get used to it,” Padraig says quietly, leading me over to the living area.

“I heard that!” his grandmother calls out from the kitchen.

The living area is beyond cozy, with a roaring fire at one end, a plush couch, and two doily-accented armchairs. In the middle is an old wooden coffee table littered with brochures and a guestbook. Even if the next few days end up being crazy, at least I can say I stayed in a genuine Irish house in the country.

“Where’s me oul’ man?” he asks. He’s only home for a few minutes and already his accent is deepening.

“He’s in the cottage taking a nap,” she answers from around the corner. “You’ll see him later.”

We sit down on the couch and Padraig puts his arm around me, and I settle into him like it’s second nature, and for a moment there, I really believe this could be real. It feels real, being with him like this. Just easy and casual and protected by his big burly mass in this quaint, cozy home.

Then his grandmother comes out, putting her hands on her hips and stopping in the kitchen doorway, eyeing us. “Now, do ye want a mineral before yer tea?”

A mineral?

“Just tea is fine,” Padraig says.

“Ah, go way outta that. She looks tired. She needs a wee mineral. I’ll get some for ye both.”

She disappears, and I look at Padraig. “A what?”

“Old folk like to force feed it on ye,” he whispers in my ear, causing very inappropriate shivers to cascade down my back. “It’s just 7-Up.”

“Oh.” I never drink soft drinks. My mother never had them in the house growing up, and if I ever indulged she told me I’d just get fatter. Which, in hindsight, was probably a healthy thing to do, even if it didn’t come from a health-conscious place.

Still, when his grandmother delivers us two glasses of 7-Up and says she’s going back to “wet the tea,” I end up drinking half of it in one go. Guess I was thirsty, or perhaps just deprived of corn-syrupy goodness.

By the time she comes out with the pot of tea, I’ve finished the glass. She looks mildly impressed and says to Padraig, “Yea, see, yer wan needed a good mineral. She looks the picture of health already.”

I watch as she pours us tea, her hands remarkably steady. “Now, please, one of ye explain what’s going on here. Padraig, ye never mentioned a lass when we talked and now here she is. This is like hen’s teeth, you know it.”

“Well,” Padraig says, sitting up straighter. He takes his arm out from around my shoulder and puts his hand on my knee. “I have something to tell ye and I’m glad you’re sitting down. I figured I would wait for Dad to wake up…”

“That would take donkey’s years,” she says. “Now, what’s the story, I ain’t getting younger.”

Padraig gives me an anxious smile, squeezing my hand before turning to his grandmother. Here we go. “Valerie isn’t just my girlfriend, Nan. She’s my fiancé. We’re getting married.”

A big, heavy pause fills the air while his grandmother frowns, scrutinizing us. Finally she leans back in her chair and gives us a dismissive wave, looking the other way. “Oh, away with ye. Yer codding me, aren’t ye?”