Chapter 37
37
Ben Mendoza’s home was a couple of kilometers outside town. In the half-light of dusk, I bounced around in Ike’s truck as we belted along the coast.
He’d been late to pick me up. But while I’d been hovering at the hotel door, Lyudmila had called from the desk, “Lorry overturn on Galway road. Traffic slow. Ike is late.”
“How do you know?”
“My partner, Yakiv, he work with Ike.”
“Does everyone know—?”
“That you go for date with Ike? Yes.”
So it was a date and not just a lift? Well, lovely .
Some minutes later, Lyudmila said, “Is here now. I know sound of truck.”
Right on cue, Ike came striding into the lobby of the Broderick. “A holdup on the Galway road,” he stated. “I’m usually reliable.”
“All grand!” My mood was upbeat. “I’ve no plans to marry you.”
The urge to grab life and wring out every last drop had me, once again, in its grip.
“You look…” Ike studied me. “…good.”
If only I’d known, while I’d been flinging things into a case in Margaret’s spare bedroom, that I’d be hooking up with a big, growly tree surgeon before the week was out! I’d have packed a dress, better underwear and proper lipstick. Instead, I’d had to make do with eyeliner and a clean T-shirt.
In the truck, I asked, “You’re friends with Ben?”
“Kind of. More friends with Vivian.”
“I’ve a question. Do you know who Local Hero actually is? Posts on Facebook.”
“Local Hero? Tuesday morning, ‘Russian subs are off the coast of Connemara,’ Tuesday afternoon, ‘Prices slashed on Galia melons’? Yeah? No idea. But he’s got it in for Kearney’s Farm.”
He certainly did. In January, out of nowhere, Local Hero had begun popping up on four local Facebooks, averaging two or three negative posts a week about Kearney’s Farm and one or two about local bargains. Despite their claims of “solid, verified information,” literally none of it was true. Except perhaps the details about cheap mops and kidney beans.
Should I message Joey about it? But he’d been so adamant that everything was okay and he was the boss.
I turned to Ike. “Who else will be here tonight?”
“Mmmm. Let’s see. Mary and Thornton Heffer, husband-and-wife writing team? Big hit with The Darkest Crime a few years back.”
It rang a vague bell.
“They’re part of the festival committee. Ziryan Barzani, he works in the hardware store in town.”
“I know Ziryan! He’s a dote.”
“He is. He’s also on the festival committee. Can charm the birds from the trees. Sara Dineen, the ceramicist, and her wife Trayna. Then there’s Simarjit Kaur, the Indian playwright? Just won an award. Vivian said Ben has three friends from LA staying with him, guess they’ll be there. Here we are.”
We were turning off the road.
Now, this was unexpected: Ben’s house wouldn’t be troubling Architectural Digest any time soon. A solid old foursquare, it could have once been the residence of the parish priest.
The front door was invitingly open. Ike led me through the entrance hall, towards the back of the house, down a few steps and—hold on! Suddenly we were in a sleek extension which stretched towards the sea.
The inviting space offered what interior magazines might call “indefinable, relaxed ease.” Deep rugs, attractive sofas and pools of flattering lighting.
Dotted about were discreet tables, which would materialize at the precise moment you needed to put a drink down. The artwork was unflashy and there was a welcome absence of talking-point objets , such as, “This cat-o’-nine-tails was a favorite of the Marquis de Sade’s.”
At an art deco cocktail cabinet, Ben was dragging a glass through a bucket of ice. “Anna! Ike! You made it.” He was a smiley delight, kissing me on the cheek and hugging Ike.
I passed over the orchid I’d panic-bought from Farrelly the Flowers. (Who had greeted me with almost-outrage. “Haven’t you enough flowers!” When I’d admitted my purchase wasn’t for me, he pinched his lips and said, “Let me guess. Ben Mendoza’s do? So that’s how it is. All I’ve left after the go-boy’s spree is orchids in pots. I’ve already sold two white ones for tonight. We’ll give you purple. Help you to stand out.”)
“Vivian’s upstairs, doing her thing,” Ben said. And I did not imagine the surge of strong emotion which emanated from Ike.
“She should be down soon,” Ben added.
“And maybe not.” Ike straightened his shoulders. “Vivian’s her own woman.”
Well, well, well. So that’s how things were around here? Should I have been stomping off, furious with Ike? I mean, maaaybe…? But all I was, was entertained. My only regret was that I had to leave on Monday—Vivian and her shenanigans were inspirational. I wouldn’t mind a couple of months living here, having commitment-free fun.
“Anna? To drink?” Ben asked.
I had an atypical craving for Sprite. “Although I might move to wine in a while.”
“Sure.” Then to Ike, “I’ve got that Jamaican porter you like.”
“You have not!” Ike brightened. “And I’ve a promising lead on Nigerian Guinness for you.”
Lord, that pair had so much in common.
A slight woman wearing a sober pinafore dress approached me with a smile. “I’m Mary Heffer.”
Aha! One half of the crime-writing spouses! “Lovely to meet you. I’m Anna Walsh—”
“Oh!” Mary stepped back.
Startled, I wondered what I’d done wrong.
“Excuse me, I just need to—” Hurrying away, she almost bumped into Ben who was back with my drink and a bowl of wasabi nuts. “So you’ve met Mary,” he said. “Let me introduce you to everyone else.”
I spotted Ziryan. He and I hugged like long-lost friends.
“This is Simarjit Kaur, Vasyl Shevshenko…” Ben introduced me to probably twelve people in total, everyone friendly. Except…“Where’s Thornton got to?” Ben wondered, looking around. “Mary’s husband? Maybe he’s outside having a smoke.” He went to check.
The adrenaline of being in Ben Mendoza’s house made me a little shaky. Nauseous, actually. There was a pain low down in my stomach.
My attention was caught by a collection of small, strange paintings, all of birds, each with a distinct personality.
“Ben? These paintings. I love them.”
“Oh. Okay. Why is that?”
“I feel I know what they’re thinking. Like this one, she’s all, ‘Can you believe those assholes clamped my car’! And this one is, ‘That fiiiirst Martini goes down like nectaaaar.’?”
“Wow.” He seemed surprised. “So, your work on Kearney’s Farm? Is that what you do?”
“I did PR back in New York. But right now, I’m…taking time out.” It was almost true.
“Waiting for the well to fill up again. I get it.”
“To be honest,” I admitted. “I might need a new well.”
He laughed. Now that felt good.
“I’ve spent the last, oh, coupla weeks just bird-watching,” he said. “Sometimes it’s good to take the foot off the gas.”
If you were an Oscar-winning director, that was a luxury you could enjoy. But a lowly PR burnout? Not so much.
“I hang a feeder out there.” He nodded towards the darkness. “They come in the morning. Chaffinches, robins, wrens. Word has gotten round. More have been coming every day. But yesterday a kestrel showed up. Wasn’t pretty.”
A kestrel? A bird of prey? “You mean?”
“Yeah.” He drew a line across his neck. “Nature. Keeping it real.”
For the hundredth time that day, I felt watery . And hungry, actually. When were we getting fed? These wasabi things weren’t cutting it, I wanted chocolate.
What was wrong with me?
Hold on—teariness, cravings, that pain in my abdomen. It couldn’t be…Surely not?
“Ben, which way is the bathroom? Thank you.”
I locked the door and took a look. Blood. Plenty of it. I was having a period.
I’d expected to never get one again and I was in shock. Even before I’d begun HRT, they’d been erratic, but once I’d started the meds, they’d stopped entirely. Tonight’s visitation must be because my body had finally run out of medical progesterone.
Well, thank you, Dr Lowry Riordan, you judgemental arse. Because of your “good conscience” I wouldn’t get to sleep with Ike Blakely tonight. I had no issue with period sex, but not with him. Not for our first time.
As soon as I knew they were real, the cramps felt worse. No way could I sit through this dinner. I needed to go to bed with a hot-water bottle and a card of Solpadeine.
I made my apologies to Ben Mendoza—and to Vivian in absentia —gave Ike a brief but factual explanation, and suddenly I was back in the pickup, being returned to town.
We didn’t speak until Ike parked outside the Broderick. “You need painkillers?” he asked. “Sweets?”
I was touched and surprised. “I’ll be okay.” I was sure I had some sort of tablets and Emilien would give me ice cream.
“You’re here until Monday?” Ike said. “Can I see you?”
“Tell me why you want to. Is it because of your conspiracy theories? Or…”
Silently, he unclipped his seatbelt, shifted his big body towards me, placed his thumb on the red catch of my seatbelt, looked me straight in the eye and slowly, deliberately, set me free. The belt slid its way up my body, then one giant hand was around my waist, while the other clasped the back of my head. Without hesitation, Ike moved his mouth to mine. It was a kiss. A proper one, full of heat and promise. Too soon he pulled away. “Conspiracy theories? No.”
Stretching across my body, he opened the truck door and said, “You’d better go. I’ll text.”