Chapter 17 #2
Moments later, I’m in my car, heading to the restaurant where I’m meeting Richard, a little over the speed limit to try and make up for lost time with Vanessa’s interrogation.
In Ireland, driving over the speed limit is actually a little scary.
Back home, I was afraid to drive over the speed limit for fear of getting a ticket.
In Ireland, it’s not the threat of tickets that keeps me slow.
It’s the hedges.
On our girls’ trip, we toured Crossogue farms and Galtee Honey farm, so I know that they keep the hedges so local bees and bramble have a place as urban settlements encroach upon the wild more and more.
But having hedgerows beside every single road makes going the posted speed limit absolutely terrifying.
You can’t see what’s coming around the bendy roads, and there’s absolutely no shoulder.
The locals tear around the blind corners and bends with alacrity, as if they have absolutely no fear they’ll crash or plow into a slow-moving tractor that doesn’t fit on the tiny roads.
Usually I drive far below the posted limits.
But not today.
Today I’m flying around corners, praying there aren’t any sheep or an oversized lorry, thundering across a tiny, one-lane stone bridge.
When I finally make it to the expressway, and I’m zooming toward Waterford, I breathe a heavy sigh of relief.
I didn’t hit anyone or anything, and my GPS tells me that thanks to my dangerous driving, I should arrive just on time.
Until a car accident ahead of me causes me to be ten minutes late.
When I walk inside, Richard’s already there, hailing me from the corner.
My cheeks heat, and I want to cry, but instead I walk across the small but extremely tasteful restaurant with my head held high.
Horse shows have prepared me to brave difficult situations with some grace.
As I approach the table, Richard and his father both stand.
I’m struck again by how strong the family resemblance is.
Richard’s going to age pretty well, so that’s nice, but his father doesn’t look very happy to see me. I suppose an American who shows up late and rides young, idiotic horses with very little skill isn’t exactly a dream match for his son.
“Samantha,” he says, his voice surprisingly low. “Welcome. I’m so glad you could join us.”
“I’m delighted, too,” I say. “And this place looks amazing.”
Richard’s father scrunches his nose. “My son invested in that SpitJack place, so I figured I should at least invest in something decent. Have a family name to uphold.” He grins. “I’m glad you approve.”
“Wait, you invested in this place?” I look around again. “It looks like the food is amazing.”
“You can decide for yourself shortly,” Richard says, indicating a seat and sitting down himself.
“But the matter has already been decided by very refined palates,” his father says. “Only my restaurant has a Michelin star.”
Richard rolls his eyes.
His dad’s chuckling, so it seems to be in good fun. As I glance over the menu, I notice it’s quite short. “You know, it’s been an observation of mine that the shorter the menu, the better the food.”
“Oh?” Richard and his father exchange some kind of glance.
“Quite,” I say. “I call it the Cheesecake Factory effect.”
Richard’s father crinkles his nose. “The Cheesecake Factory?”
“It’s a restaurant in the United States, and it has excellent cheesecake, as you might expect, but the menu is otherwise five or six pages long.
TGIFridays and several other places in America have done the same thing, like being able to make a lot of things makes them fancy.
But in my experience, if what you make is very, very good, you don’t need a plethora of options. ”
His dad’s beaming now. “So Everett’s menu of just four items. . .” His father tapers off.
“The SpitJack menu is hardly long,” Richard says, looking a little ruffled.
“But one page is not the same as four items.” His father looks so smug, it makes me laugh.
Both men stare at me.
“I’m sorry, but it’s like I’m watching a carbon copy.” I can’t help my smile. “When you two bicker, it’s like hearing the same song in stereo.”
“I like her,” his father says, turning toward me. “You should call me Mark.”
“Mark,” I say. “Well, I’m glad we’re finally getting dinner, Mark.”
“As am I,” he says. “Did you know that in the past five years, my son has mentioned a woman to me four times, and three of those times, it was you?”
My cheeks heat again. “Well, either your son is very shy—”
“Or very discerning,” Mark says. “And I think it’s the latter. He had a very bad experience with his first marriage, and he’s been overly cautious ever since. But the fact that he’s still so keen on you, after months and months, is very, very promising.”
A waiter shows up then, holding a massive platter. “I brought two of each starter, as you requested.” He’s smiling.
“Let us take a look then,” Mark says. “And of course, the lady has first choice.”
The waiter sets the tray down on a stand, and then he points.
“This is the Seared Wexford scallops, with celeriac, and a light coral sauce. I think you’ll find it’s a very satisfying way to start a meal.
” He shifts his hand over. “Here we have the Garryhinch mushroom parfait, served on a toasted brioche slice, with beetroot and crisps.” They look much better than they sound, at least. “And my personal favorite is the Tuskar crab, grapefruit, and radish salad. It looks almost basic, but the flavor will explode in your mouth, and it’s light and fresh.
” He spins the tray a bit. “And the last option is the chef’s favorite—a chicken tortellini with Pedro Jimenez sauce.
It’s a rich, dark, and sweet reduction that will leave you wishing you’d taken both the plates for yourself and skipped the entree. ” He beams.
“Oh, wow,” I say. “I think I have to try the tortellini then, but I’m willing to share with Richard if you’d like it too.”
“I’ll take the crab and the mushroom,” Mark says.
“Dad’s obsessed with mushrooms. It’s the reason they keep that mushroom fluff on the menu,” Richard says.
“But I’ll take the other tortellini.” He leans closer.
“I’ll always share with you, but in this case, I’d hate to get a fork in the hand.
I’ve had the tortellini before, and I could see it happening. ”
“I’ll take the scallops too, then,” I say. “If you’re twisting my arm.”
There’s no twisting, but once we start eating, things with Mark and Richard only improve.
The food really is good, and that always helps.
And on top of that, Mark’s not nearly as bad as I thought he would be.
Sure, he’s a strong personality, but so am I.
So is Richard. I like people like I like cheese: strong, aged, and unique, and he’s all three.
Plus, it feels like he’s predisposed to like me.
In fact, after some amazing wild venison, and a few bites of Richard’s perfectly seared hake, which isn’t fishy at all, I’m ready to declare the lunch an absolute success. And that’s before the same waiter brings another enormous tray covered with desserts.
“For our grand finale,” he says, “we have a blood orange vanilla rice pudding, a hazelnut delice,” which looks like a regular flourless chocolate cake with a strawberry on top, and a fluffy blob next to it, not that I’m complaining, “an apple mousse in a puff pastry, with salted caramel ice cream made by Everett himself, and a selection of Irish cheeses.” He inclines his head.
“The errant French cheese was left off, per your request.”
“Dad, really?” Richard rolls his eyes.
“The French think their cheese is the best, but they don’t make better cheese than the Irish,” Mark says. “I’ll insist upon it until I die.”
I’m laughing as I choose the chocolate cake. “The mousse and the rice pudding look much better, but it’s hard to beat chocolate.”
“No cheese?” Mark asks. “Richard’s wrong, you know. The Irish cheese is the best in the world.”
“I’m sure you’re right,” I say.
“You’re sure I’m right? You’re my girlfriend. You have to side with me.” Richard takes my hand, glaring at his father.
Mark laughs. “She has too much sense for that.”
“But in this case, the argument will have to continue at a stalemate between the two of you. I’m too American to think of cheese as a dessert.”
“Ah, well, we’ll have plenty of time to train that out of you,” Mark says. “Or at least, so I hear.” He pulls something out of his pocket, and I’m thinking it’s a little early to be paying the check, but I’m not Irish, so who knows?
Only, it’s not a credit card. It’s a small box.
A velvet-covered box.
“You know, I didn’t really think I’d need this now, but one lunch was enough to convince me, and Richard asked me to bring it down before that joke of a horse show, so I figure I’ve made you wait long enough.”
My eyes bulge when he opens the box and reveals a massive stone set in a ring, nestled against blue velvet cushions.
He sets it next to my cake. “When Richard proposed to his first wife, he bought her a ring at the local jeweler. I knew he was serious about you when he called and asked me to bring this. It’s a family heirloom, his grandmother’s ring that was designed by the most famous and gifted jeweler in all of Europe when he came to stay with the family nearly a hundred years ago. ” He nudges it closer. “Take a look.”
I open my mouth, but no words come out.
“Dad, I told you this was a bad idea.”
“I like her,” Mark says, “and your family isn’t any family. You can’t drag her to Paris and drop down on one knee. We have a legacy to continue.”
“I asked you to bring the ring, but this isn’t the way any woman wants a man to propose.”
“It’s your own fault,” Mark says. “You’ve been ridiculous about her, protecting her from me like she’s some kind of national treasure.
You and I both know that you aren’t getting any younger, and our legacy is, well, it’s in crisis.
” He picks up the box and thrusts it at me.
“If you hate this, we have other rings that are just as nice, or you could have the stone reset, or we can go to a jeweler and pick anything you want, but Samantha, you should know the Cavendish men like you, and that’s not a small feat. ”
I take the ring—what choice do I have?—and the second I really look at it, I half-swoon.
It’s the prettiest ring I have ever seen.
There’s a massive, sparkly, light blue stone in the center, brilliant cut, and it’s huge.
Several carats at least. It’s surrounded by white sparkling stones, like a big and somehow still delicate flower.
And the band is carved, so that the delicate embellishments around it glint and sparkle. “It’s—who could dislike this?”
Mark beams. “See? I told you this was the way to go.”
“But I don’t think I can marry you,” I joke. “You’re just not my type.”
For a split second, his face falls, and then an enormous laugh bursts from his mouth. “Oh.” He slaps the table. “She’s funny, too.”
Richard looks a little terrified, like he’s forgotten how to breathe. “Dad, I told you I would handle this myself.”
“You can’t blame me for worrying that you’ll delay again, even though you asked me for the ring.
” Mark leans closer. “And as much as I like you now Samantha, I must confess that initially, I was worried. You’re not exactly young, and Richard says you don’t want children.
Surely, though, once he explains the reason we must have children, you’ll understand.
Our massive estate passes only to a blood relative, and it’s a lot to care for.
There’s a great deal of good the Cavendish family does in the world, and I’d love to meet my grandchildren while I can still teach them a little about why and how we do it.
. .” He coughs. “Well, that may be enough.” This time, the look he shoots his son is nearly apologetic.
“I really wanted to have two children, but I only managed to have one myself, and I hear they can stick things in a centrifuge these days and be sure that you have a boy—”
“Dad.” Richard slams his hand down on the table this time. “That’s enough.”
“Right.” He nods. “You two can talk about it further, but if you need anything—anything at all—please come to me. I’m happy to help in any way I possibly can.”
I can tell, as we leave the restaurant, that in Mark’s mind, this dinner just went as well as it possibly could have. But for me, I know we’re there.
My time is up.
I can’t keep up the lie any longer. Thanks to that gosh-darned beautiful ring, I’m going to have to tell Richard the truth.