Chapter 20
Vanessa
When I was in college, there was a girl who hated me.
With just three weeks to go before classes ended, I decided to launch a campaign to win her over. I started by taking her a latte. I knew it was her favorite.
She tossed it in the trash.
The next time, I took her a blueberry muffin and a latte, which I confirmed was her drink of choice, and she took one sip, looked me right in the eye and threw it in the trash.
At least she had panache.
The harder I had to work, the more devoted to the whole endeavor I became.
I started thinking of other little things to do.
When she missed a class, I had notes waiting for her.
I shared my study guide, which was a really good one.
I complimented her outfits, and by the final exam, she actually smiled at me.
It was long, and it was a little demoralizing, but my plan worked.
I’ve decided to do the very same thing with Jack’s mother. After all, I wanted to be friends with Leslie because I knew I’d probably run into her frequently on a relatively small campus over the next three and a half years. But I need Jack’s mom to like me, because I know I’ll be seeing her.
Unless she manages to break us up.
But what’s her plan? Is it really for Jack to never meet anyone?
Or does she think an independent, intelligent man like Jack is going to wake up one day and decide he wants his mother to pick his next girlfriend?
There’s no way that’s going to happen, so she needs to get over it already. I may as well help her along.
When it’s time to meet her for tea, I arrive fifteen minutes early, and I bring a small box with the best macarons I’ve ever had.
Natalie found them, or I suppose technically Cillian did.
His friend Gabriel made them, but his shop isn’t even open right now.
We only get them as a special treat for our guests, and he makes them to order, just for us.
My plan to arrive fifteen minutes early’s foiled, when I realize that Jack’s mother’s already there.
“Oh,” I say, glancing at my watch to make sure I had the time right. Yep, she was even more than fifteen minutes early. “I’m so sorry for making you wait.”
She sighs, looks upward, and says, “I expected it.”
I hate her.
She should’ve expected it, because she told me three o’clock and came far before that. She has no one but herself to blame, but I force a smile anyway. “To make it up to you, I brought a little something.”
She arches one eyebrow. “What is that?” Her lip curls.
“These are macarons from the—”
“Jack must not have told you.” She folds her arms. “I’m off sugar.”
She’s off. . . “But we’re here for afternoon tea, right?”
“I take my tea without sugar,” she says. “I forgot that Americans drink a little tea with their sugar.” Now her lip’s well and truly curled. “How cute.”
After that, she makes little digs about my children and their ‘issues,’ calls my little part-time job ‘neat,’ and asks how long I think my ‘lark’ here in Ireland will last. By the time we’re seated and they’ve brought us both tea, I’m ready to punch her in the nose.
Jack was right—he knows his own mother, I suppose.
Coming here was a huge mistake. I should’ve disengaged.
Now I may just have to order Jack that shirt as a warning to other women who come after me.
Because who would stay with someone whose mother is like this?
They’ve just brought the tea, and I’m literally calculating how long I have to sit here before I can make up an excuse and leave.
Ten more minutes, I decide, as I stir my small amount of tea into my sugar.
Seriously though, two small sugar packets in a teacup is not that much sugar. The Irish just have no tastebuds.
“You hate me, probably,” Mrs. Shanahan says, suddenly.
My head pops up, my eyes wide. “What?”
“I’m a difficult person, and in this case, for you, I’m basically impossible. I’ve been horrible to you, while you have been nothing but kind, and I do concede that my son seems happy with you.”
I drop my spoon, and it keeps going round and round three times before finally resting against the side of the cup. “Then, why are you. . .” I trail off, since I can’t really ask her why she’s so awful if she knows it already.
She smiles. “Why am I, what?”
I sigh. “Why are you giving me such a hard time when you think Jack’s happy with me? As a mother, that’s the part that confuses me the most. I want my kids to be happy, first and foremost.”
“You’ve never seen Jack as happy as he was when he first met Sloane.
” She looks sideways at the window to the outdoors.
“It was like he was walking on clouds, you know, but even then, she took him for granted. He catered to her every whim, and she always demanded more. That’s the thing, when your child’s a giver, you have to be so careful, or they’ll be taken advantage of. ”
“I’m nothing like Sloane,” I say.
“You’re not.” She turns back toward me, and her slow perusal is somehow the most insulting of all.
“Where she was flashy and stunning, you are plain. Where she was fiercely Irish, you’re a washed-out American.
Where she was fiery and young and full of life, you’re worn, tired, and dragging around quite a lot of baggage. ”
“Your son has two children,” I say. “Our baggage is pretty similar.”
“My darling grandchildren don’t have substance abuse problems.”
I really wish Jack hadn’t shared that, especially since he knows how his mother is, apparently. “Trace is doing great here. Ireland has been so good for him. Jack has been good for him.”
“I doubt many mothers are hoping their son will find a woman whose errant children their son will be good for,” she says, the distaste plain on her face. “But in this instance, that’s not even near the top of the list of my concerns.” She slowly sips her tea.
I want to say things, lots of things, but I just read an article on the power of silence, so I keep my mouth shut. If she has a list of concerns, she’ll have to go ahead and read it to me. I fold my arms, refusing to drink any more of my sugar water until she spits it out.
“At the top of that list is your age, as you must know.” She shakes her head, then sips her tea again. “Ten years older.” She clucks.
“Nine,” I say. “And women live longer than men, so from what I’ve seen, if he has no issues with it, why should you?”
Her nostrils flare. “Next up is the American sensibility.”
“What does that mean?” My eyes narrow. “Hard working? Scrappy? I thought those were things the Irish shared with us.”
“Flippant, outrageously rude, and willfully contentious.”
I breathe in and out, exercising the power of silence again. Then I half-smile, reminding myself something Sam told me. She’s the petitioner here. You’re her son’s girlfriend. She’s the one trying to change the status quo.
“You’re the kind of person who likes to care for those around you, at least—I can see that, even if you’re not capable of doing it properly.”
“What does that mean?” My hand trembles as I reach for my tea.
“Let’s take your son. Trace is struggling, has been for some time from what I hear, ever since your husband died. You can’t fill the role of father and mother, and your attempts were not enough. You want to help, but you lack the capacity. You’re letting your son down.”
“People have agency to make their own decisions, even teenagers.” I lift my chin, but her words hurt because she’s right. I have let him down. I’m not enough, not without Jason, and my son has suffered for what I can’t provide him with.
“Even teenagers have the right to choose their own path, it’s true, but it’s our job to make sure that they make good decisions, things that will bring them joy in the long run.
You didn’t choose Jason’s death, though I hear he had a heart attack at a young age, and as the person who did most of the family’s cooking, I assume, his health problems are probably attributable to your decisions. ”
That hits me like a dagger, but she doesn’t slow down.
“You didn’t intentionally choose your husband’s death or Trace’s poor decisions, but you are choosing to date a man who has already been through a lot.
You’re dating a generous, giving man, who’s nearly ten years your junior, and you will drag him down as well.
If you really care for him, you should walk away. ”
“Jack doesn’t think I’m dragging him down.”
She slams her hand down and the silver spoons and china on the table rattle.
“My son chose to marry a self-absorbed woman who wound up with a brain tumor. She ignored his existence for years, while keeping him and her abandoned children in Australia, far from their family and friends, isolated, and miserable.” She leans toward me.
“He chooses people who will drag him down, and then he fights tooth and nail to keep his head above water.”
I stand up, then. “I won’t thank you for the tea, because I didn’t enjoy it, nor the food or the company.
I may be older than Jack, and my children may struggle.
What kids don’t? But I won’t accept your projected assault.
I’m not dragging your son down. He and I are happy, and I care for him as much as he cares for me.
” When I turn on my heel and walk out, I’m shaking.
I call Jack on my way home and tell him it didn’t go well, but I keep things vague, because I don’t want to burst into tears.
But when I get back to Fortwilliam, he’s waiting there, dressed in slacks and a collared shirt with a tie.
He clearly drove straight from work to my place.
When I climb out of my car, he hugs me, and he presses a kiss to my forehead. “I’m sorry.”
“You shouldn’t have left work.”
“I’m good at my job, and it’ll be just fine,” he says. “But you matter so much more than any of that.” He smiles.
“You could have just come after work. I’m really fine.” As long as I keep gulping big old breaths so I don’t start crying.
“My dad, who’s not crazy by the way, is my boss, and he wouldn’t dare fire me.” He hugs me tightly again. “I told him Mum had tea with you and he sent me here himself.”
After that, we go inside and watch one of my favorite movies, Someone Like You.
It’s old, but it’s one of my favorite romantic comedies.
The kids come home and interrupt a few times, but it’s a really nice afternoon.
We order pizza for dinner, and after Jack picks his kids up, he brings them back here, and we all watch Veggie Tales, Lord of the Beans.
It should’ve been an ideal night.
It was an ideal night.
But something felt off to me almost the entire time. It’s not until Jack’s gone that I finally realize what. His mom was terrible, yes. Some of the things she said were rude, and all of them were calculated to hurt me, but. . .
They were also mostly true. She was right that I might drag Jack down. It’s precisely because I make him happy that he might stay with me even though he’d be better off with someone else, someone his age, someone Irish, like him. Tonight was nice, but it also felt sad.
It felt almost like a really lovely goodbye.