Chapter Eleven
Beckett
“You’ll never believe what happened to John McCandless down at the bookies last night,” Mam says between sips of her drink. Even over video, her eyes are shining with excitement, and her skin is a nice pink shade of almost-a-tan. She’s currently lying on a sun lounger on a beautiful beach in Greece, and I’m glad she’s having a good honeymoon.
Even if I have no foggy idea who John McCandless is.
“What happened to who?” I ask her as I move my phone to my other hand and push open the front door of The Serendipity. It’s sunny again today, and I slip on my sunglasses before I head down the steps, taking them two at a time.
I’m headed out this morning to do a food shop.
Or, as they say here, get groceries.
I’ve been in Serendipity Springs for a few days now, and so far, I’ve been living off the supply of basics Mr. Prenchenko kindly left in his fridge for me. But at this point, I’m out of bread, milk, and eggs—and I’m kind of missing having green things in my diet.
Not to mention I’m hoping that the supermarket will have some decent tea.
“Aye, you know John. Tall fella from Clogher, used to hurl with your uncle Packie back in the day.”
“Still don’t know him, Mam.”
“Wise up, Becks. You do know him, surely. Big John McCandless. He came to Conan Fogarty’s first communion?”
I pinch the bridge of my nose. “No, Mam. I have never met, nor heard of, this John McCandless you speak of.”
“Lawds a mercy.” She clicks her tongue—a habit my brother Callan inherited from her—and then launches into a long, secondhand-account story about a man I have only just learned existed and how he won some money last night betting on horses.
Real fascinating stuff.
Nonetheless, I listen patiently, the pitch of Mam’s voice soothingly familiar as I head towards the parkade. As I go, I greet a couple of fellow Serendipity residents with a nod—that sweet elderly couple who are always strolling around the building, and a young woman with dark brown hair who gives me a look of intrigue as she nods back, then whispers something to the guy clad in medical scrubs whose hand she’s holding.
Mam’s just getting to what I believe is the crux of the story—the moment John risked all his winnings on lucky number thirteen, Paddy’s Wagon—when the line beeps. She stops mid-sentence. “Ah look, Aoife’s on the line. Lovely, I’ll add her to this call.”
She presses a button, and Aoife’s pale, freckled face fills half the screen. I get the feeling that I never will find out if John McCandless’s gamble on Paddy’s Wagon paid off or not, as my sister starts rapid-firing questions without waiting for an answer. “How’s Crete, Mam? Did you hear about that robbery in Sligo last night? Dreadful, just dreadful. Oh, and I bumped into Roisin last night at the hairdresser’s, and it turns out she’s seeing Frank Doherty now. Remember Frank? Skinny fella. Had a bit of a lazy eye back in the day before he got those corrective glasses?”
“Nice lad, Frank,” Mam says, beaming. “Good for Roisin.”
Then, they both stare at me. I realize they’re waiting for my reaction.
“Yeah, good for her,” I say, and I mean it. I don’t think of Roisin much anymore, and I truly wish her well when I do.
I hope Keeley will feel the same in regards to Andrew someday, too. Seeing her face go pale when he came into the laundry room yesterday really irked me, especially when he acted like she was doing something wrong for simply talking to another man.
I know guys like that. Guys who play women for their own gain, who use women to make them feel bigger and better about themselves. And though I don’t know her well yet, I already want so much bigger and better for Keeley than that rat of a guy.
I’m judging him without knowing him, and I’m sure my Gran would have a saying about not doing such a thing. But then again, I don’t think she would have liked Andrew, either.
And on the subject of Gran, I haven’t been able to stop thinking about seeing her name on the laundry room wall yesterday. I don't think Noeleen is a super common name here in America and it seems too convenient. On top of every other convenient coincidence I’ve encountered lately.
“Mam, are you sure you don’t have any more info on Gran’s time here?” I ask when there’s a brief lull in the Frank Doherty conversation. “Like, she never mentioned where she might have lived or anything?”
“Becks, love, I’ve told you everything I know.” Mam lifts a shoulder. “She went to college there, came home, met your Grandpa, and they got married and had me a few years later. She never, ever spoke about her time there. In fact, I forgot all about it until you found that old student ID of hers.”
Ah, yes, that student ID card shocked us all. I came across it in a basket of Gran’s things when I was helping Mam clear out her bedroom. I’d had no idea that she’d ever even been abroad, never mind that she’d gone to school in America.
The twenty-year old Gran in the picture looked happy. Truly happy and glowing through the grainy black-and-white exposure.
I wondered why she never told me about going to America. Surely, out of the millions of stories she’d told us over the years, it would have come up.
My gran was a natural storyteller, through and through. What could have happened here to make her never speak of it?
“But Becks, don’t you be fretting about Gran, you hear me? Just take it easy over there, enjoy your holiday.” Mam’s beady eyes suddenly spark with interest. “Speaking of, have you met anyone nice yet? Made any friends?”
The question is reminiscent of the ones she asked me after my first day of “big school” oh-so-many years ago, and it makes me smile. “Yeah, I did.”
Keeley Roberts.
I love her name. It just sounds so… American. Like she’s one of those Dallas Cowboys Cheerleaders Aoife’s always on about.
Although the thought of Keeley with her eyeliner and dark nails and nose ring in a cheerleading outfit makes me want to laugh.
“That reminds me, Becks, Niamh’s wondering if you got her that autograph yet?” Aoife asks.
“I’ve only been here a few days, Aoife.”
She scoffs. “Only takes two seconds to sign a piece of paper, though.”
“Was Oprah being difficult about giving you her signature?” Mam pipes up indignantly.
“No. Mam. I have not seen, nor spoken to, Oprah just yet.”
She shakes her head like I’m a half-wit. “What are you waiting for?”
I swear these conversations are like literal roundabouts. With no exits.
Or traffic circles, as I believe they’re known on this side of the pond.
“You’re right, Mam. I’ll just track Oprah down once I’m done with my morning coffee.”
Coffee, again. Because I can’t seem to find any decent tea in this country.
“There’s the can-do attitude I like to see,” Mam says with a nod of approval, then covers the speaker on her phone as she turns her head towards Paul, who has just popped up behind her wearing a dashing neon pink and yellow Hawaiian shirt that really sets off his crisp sunburn. A moment later, she’s back. “Paul says hi and it’s time for us to get ready for our dinner reservations. We’re trying stuffed vine leaves tonight. And spanako-whatsit. Can’t remember what it’s called, but it’s something with pastry. Very exotic, don’t you think?”
I stifle a laugh. Mam thinks adding black pepper to her mashed potatoes is adventurous eating. I don’t think the woman even had Chinese food until about a year ago.
“Enjoy that,” I tell her.
Aoife tuts. “Hope you don’t get food poisoning. Emmett McGee told me his wife got a dreadful upset stomach on her holidays last year.”
“Ah, there’s a shame. Was she in Greece, too?”
“No, no. She went to Blackpool.”
“Blackpool, England? As in, nowhere near Greece in the slightest?” I question.
Aoife gives me a withering look. “Traveler’s diarrhea can strike anywhere, anytime, Beckett.”
“And on that note, I’ll be off,” I say firmly, having no wish to further discuss Maureen McGee’s bowel movements.
But of course, it’s never that easy. And after a lengthy course of goodbyes, about sixteen more remarks about food poisoning, and a quick (not) Google search from Aoife to inform me that if my own stomach starts to play up, I can find Imodium at a place called “CVS,” I finally hang up and jump into the truck.
The vehicle rumbles noisily to life, and I exit the parking garage and drive towards Spring Foods, which is apparently the local place to shop for food.
My GPS is on, and my eyes flicker between the suggested route and the road as I drive. I’m paying so much attention to not taking a wrong turn that I almost don't notice the woman with her familiar streak of black hair running down the sidewalk.
It’s Keeley. Dressed in sneakers, a tank top, and athletic shorts.
Without hesitation, I swerve to pull the truck over and wind the window down.
“Keeley! What are you doing?”
She halts in her tracks and a look of pure mortification dances over her delicate features, before her eyes flash with something akin to annoyance.
She’s covered in sweat, there’s a clump of damp hair stuck to her forehead, and her cheeks are glowing bright red beacons… And I find myself simultaneously wanting to laugh and wrap her in a hug. Neither of which are appropriate reactions to greeting your sweaty new friend, I’m sure.
“Wh-what does it”—she pants heavily—“look like I’m doing? I’m running.”
“But what are you running away from?” I ask with a teasing grin, still charmed by those red cheeks and flashing eyes.
“What? No! I’m running for…” She heaves another big breath. “Fitness.”
“Aquarobics wasn’t cutting it anymore, huh?”
“Shut it, McCarthy!” She glares at me before she leans forward and puts her hands on her thighs, still puffing hard.
“You doing okay over there?” I ask, enjoying myself thoroughly.
“I’m dandy. Just one mile to go.”
“You going to make it?”
She looks at the truck longingly for a few beats, before she looks back down at her sneakered feet. “I’m sure I could, but…” She pauses, looks at the sidewalk stretching out ahead of her, and seems to consider something. Then, her jaw sets. “Maybe you could give me a ride.”
“Excuse me?” I blink, wondering if too much cardio can deprive someone’s brain of vital oxygen or if she really just asked the question I think she did.
In response, she looks at me like I’m very, very slow. “Give me a ride. Like… I would get in the truck. With you. And you would drive me home.”
“Oh!” I say with a sputtered laugh. Wait until Callan and Eoin get wind of this one. “Wow. Well, let’s just say that particular sentence has a very different meaning where I come from. We’d call that a ‘lift home.’ And of course I can give you one of those.”
As Keeley grins at me in thanks and comes around to the passenger door, I find I’m delighted by the unexpected turn this morning has taken.
“Thanks, Beckett,” she breathes as she sinks into the seat. “Hope I’m not interrupting any plans.”
I wave a hand. “Not at all. I was actually just driving around looking for tired runners to collect.”
She smirks at me. “My Gramps always taught me not to get in cars with strangers in case I get murdered or whatnot, so I guess it’s lucky for me that we’re friends now, huh?”
“More like lucky for you, I’m not in a murderous mood today.” I gesture towards the pavement, which is currently radiating. “It’s too hot for gratuitous violence. I can’t believe you were out running in this insane heat.”
She pulls at the hair tie holding back her ponytail so her long hair cascades down her shoulders for a moment, before quickly pushing the stray hair off her face and beginning to retie it. “Me neither. I don’t know what I was thinking. I guess I hoped a run might help me clear my head.”
“Did it?”
A smile. “No.”
I smile back as I put the truck in drive again and steer onto the road. “Fasten your seatbelt. I’m still getting used to driving on the wrong side of the road.”
Keeley gasps theatrically and grabs the door handle. “Is it too late to change my mind about this?”
“Yes.”
“Okay, in that case, you do realize that you’re going the wrong way?” She jerks a thumb over her shoulder. “Our building is that way.”
“I know.” I look over at her and waggle my eyebrows. “I need your help with something quick before I take you home.”
“That sounds ominous.”
I nod at the GPS pulled up on my phone sitting on the dash. “Just a little trip to Spring Foods.”
She grins. “Oh, you can close that. I’ll direct you.”
“A true local.”
“Born and bred.”
“Right. You mentioned the other night that your family’s been here for generations.”
“Yup,” she says, then pauses. Frowns. “Well, specifically my dad’s family. The Roberts family.”
I glance at her hands, which still have chipped black polish and that silver Claddagh ring. “Does that mean your grandpa grew up here? Is he your dad’s dad?”
“Yes. Gramps was the mayor’s son, and then was also the mayor himself for a time. The Roberts side of the family are part of the furniture in this town.” Her smile falters a little. “I just visited him yesterday morning, at his retirement residence. He has dementia now, so he needs full-time care.”
“I’m so sorry,” I tell her sincerely. While I haven’t personally encountered dementia with any of my relatives—Gran was thankfully completely lucid until she passed—I’ve heard it’s an extremely tough condition on both the person afflicted and their loved ones.
A part of me had hoped to ask Keeley if her grandpa could have crossed paths with my gran. It was a stretch, sure—Serendipity Springs is a town of about a hundred thousand people. But the fact that Keeley has that ring from her grandpa seems like an odd coincidence.
Coincidences certainly seem to be a thing around here, though, and this seems hardly the time to dig around for such information. So I let the thought go for now.
“Were you close?” I ask her.
“Yeah. We were pretty close—still are pretty close.” She frowns. “But things are different now.”
“I get it.” My hand involuntarily goes to the ring around my neck. “I was close with my grandmother. She passed away last year.”
I’m not sure why I’m volunteering this information—it’s not something I talk about easily, especially not with people I’ve recently met. But something about Keeley, about her sharing with me, makes me want to open up, too.
“I’m sorry,” Keeley says quietly. She lifts a hand, and I get the sense she wants to place it on mine as a gesture of comfort, but she seems to change her mind and run it through her ponytail instead.
I look over at her and give her a half-smile. “Guess we’re a sorry pair.”
“A sorry pair of Spring Chickens, you mean.”
“I beg your finest pardon?”
Keeley laughs, and the sound echoes happily around the cab of the truck as she digs a key ring out of her shorts pocket. A little white tab on it proclaims: “I’m a Spring Chicken!”
“This explains nothing,” I tell her mock-solemnly.
“Springs Foods loyalty card, baby. Stick with me, and I can get you all the best shopping deals in town.”
It’s my turn to laugh. “How lucky I am to have taken up residence next to you.”
“Unfathomably lucky,” she declares.
We share a smile, and suddenly, my jokey words feel very true. I’m grateful that Keeley Roberts has become a part of my time here in Serendipity Springs.