Chapter 41
ROSIE
Rosie and the twins rattled down the hill, the children hanging out of the windows of the Land Rover like sheepdogs. ‘I’m dying of heat,’ said Killian.
‘I’m worse,’ said Isabelle. ‘I’ve died of heat.’
‘I’ve died and been buried and risen from the dead,’ said Killian. ‘And then died again from heat.’
‘I know what the answer is,’ said Isabelle, giving him a look which he immediately understood.
‘Yes, because otherwise we would be dead,’ he said.
‘We need to cool down. Not from the outside, like swimming…’
‘Although that is a very important part.’
‘It’s cooling down on the inside.’
Killian nodded. ‘My gullet is really hot. And my stomach is like a furnace.’
‘The only cure is…’
‘Ice cream.’ They grinned at each other, and then began whispering as though plotting something.
The beach was thronged this morning, but Rosie managed to find a parking space a few streets away and they made their way through the crowds towards the Forty Foot and found a place to change among the bodies and the towels and the chattering groups.
The twins stayed near the steps, splashing in the shallows, while Rosie was in the water a couple of metres away, her head out of the sea, her eyes scrunched in the sunlight, her hair plastered back off her head, sculling around, letting the cold water soak up through her body, chilling her down from the outside in, until there wasn’t a blood vessel or pore or atom which wasn’t perfectly cool.
She thought about Patrick and what had happened last night.
She had been right to refuse him, she told herself.
It was insane. And yet the look in his eyes, the sound of his voice, it all betrayed an intensity which matched that she was keeping deep inside herself.
It was as though Patrick was willing to lay himself bare, while she could only stay completely covered up.
The sea was busy with other swimmers, some diving in, others floating, couples hanging off each other, the sun glinting off the sea, the seagulls circling.
Rosie scrunched her eyes to check on the twins, who had devised a game where they were filling up a bucket they had found and were pouring it from the top step to make a waterfall.
‘Oh, Patrick, it’s really awesome,’ she heard an American voice saying, cutting through all the other chatter. ‘It’s just so sweet.’
And then she saw Patrick, in his swim shorts, walking with Kerry-Anne in a bikini, looking tanned and toned, a goddess among the usual Forty Foot regulars who were usually in swimsuits which were decades old and tatty towelling dressing gowns.
It wasn’t a place to show off; as long as you were there, you were part of the club.
‘There’s Patrick again!’ Killian had spotted him. ‘Hi, Patrick!’
‘Hi, Patrick!’ Isabelle was waving to him and Patrick saw them but immediately looked around him, looking for someone, and then he found her, their eyes locked, her stomach leapt.
Oh God, she thought. I’m going to have to say goodbye to him again. I’m going to have to say goodbye for a second time and I don’t know if I can bear it. He’ll go back to Boston to his big life and I’ll stay here with my little one.
Patrick was now talking to Killian and Isabelle, calling over Kerry-Anne.
There was nothing for it but for Rosie to make her way to the steps and be sociable.
She swam to the water’s edge and plastered on her hotel smile, as she tried as elegantly as possible to pull herself up out of the water and up the steps.
‘Who are these lovely children?’ Kerry-Anne was saying.
‘We’re Killian and Isabelle,’ said Isabelle, pointing out Killian and then herself. ‘We live on the golf course.’
Kerry-Anne laughed. ‘Oh, I know some men who practically live on the golf course. Rarely leave the thing.’
Isabelle turned to look for Rosie, who was coming up the steps, the water draining off her body. ‘That’s our aunt Rosie, but we don’t call her Aunt Rosie. We call her Rosie.’
This was awkward, standing like a drowned rat next to one of those perfect women who look good even in a bikini. Especially in a bikini.
‘Good morning!’ Rosie said brightly.
‘Good morning.’ The woman was looking at her curiously.
‘We didn’t meet properly last night and I am so sorry for landing on you guys so late.
It took a while to take off from Paris and clearance always takes too long.
’ She smiled at Rosie. ‘That’s what I love about Europe.
Everything is next door. Paris. London. Rome.
Just a quick flight. It’s magical. You’re all so lucky in Europe.
Maybe I will move to Sandycove one day. A vacation isn’t enough. ’
‘You’re staying in the Sandycove Arms?’ Rosie tried to cover herself with her arms. ‘Isabelle, pass me my towel, please?’
‘Oh, yes, very comfortable. I had a gorgeous breakfast. Black pudding to die for. Irish tea with milk. Proper soda bread. Normally, I don’t eat bread, but this was so delicious.
And then I had a wander around the village, chatted to some of the shopkeepers.
Really, very nice.’ She smiled at Rosie again.
‘Well, what’s the water like? Hot enough for you? ’
‘It’s never hot,’ said Rosie, wrapping her towel around herself. ‘Just slightly less cold than it would be in the winter. But it’s very refreshing, especially in this heatwave.’
‘Yes, it’s hotter here than I remember. We came here years ago with my dad. My dad wanted us to feel Irish. And all we used to feel was cold.’
‘Boston’s colder,’ said Patrick.
‘Yes, but this was the summer. Boston’s cold in the winter and hot in the summer.
And Ireland seemed damp and cold all the time.
But charming, none the less. We liked the food because it tasted of food and we liked the cows in the fields.
There always seemed to be cows in fields. The black and white ones.’
‘Friesians,’ said Patrick. ‘Or Holsteins.’
Kerry-Anne laughed. ‘Is there no end to this man’s talents?’ She gazed at him for a moment. ‘Thank you, farmer boy.’
He grinned back at her. ‘I know all the breeds. Wait until I tell you how a milking machine works. I’ll bring you to a mart one of these days.’
‘A mart?’
‘A cattle market,’ explained Patrick.
‘Oh, I know those,’ said Kerry-Anne. ‘It’s called the Boston dating scene.
’ She turned back to Rosie. ‘Isn’t he all kinds of adorable?
Now, shall we swim because I expect Patrick needs to get back to the wedding soon enough.
But I’ve got to try this holy water. Patrick and I are going for a dip, as he calls it. Rosie, are you going back in?’
‘We definitely are,’ said Killian. ‘It’s boring on dry land.’
‘Very,’ agreed Isabelle. ‘Adults are more fun in the sea. Even the not very fun ones.’
They held on to Rosie’s hand as they followed Kerry-Anne down the steps. But instead of shrieking about the cold – which was the usual and expected way of entering the water – Kerry-Anne waded in as though it was no bother to her. Hardy stock, thought Rosie. Kerry-Anne Daly was no fool.
Patrick had dived in from one of the far rocks and then had swum back to the steps, where immediately the twins launched on top of him in the water, hanging on to parts of him – his arm, his earlobe, even his hair, as they floated around.
Kerry-Anne was swimming great, big powerful strokes out to the buoy, looking like a professional swimmer.
Her head lifting up, her arms reaching out, powering herself across the surface of the shimmering sea.
Rosie paddled around, wondering what to say to Patrick. This was her chance to explain herself, so he didn’t hate her and so they could remain friends. But he was too busy with the twins and didn’t seem in any hurry to talk to her alone.
Eventually, it was time to go. ‘Come on,’ called Rosie, aware that behind her Patrick was exiting the water, and that his bare chest was merely inches away from her.
It was only a matter of hours since she had been in his arms and he was whispering her name.
‘Depending on how fast you dry yourselves and get changed, we might be able to get another ice cream.’
The children immediately began drying themselves and changing as though it was an Olympic event, neither speaking, determined to get that ice cream. Rosie dried herself and wriggled out of her swimsuit and into her skirt and blouse.
She stood for a moment with the bags, waiting for the twins, when Patrick joined her.
‘Sorry about last night.’ He looked at her. ‘I shouldn’t have said anything. Jet lag… alcohol… you know how it is.’
‘That’s okay.’ She tried to smile at him, hoping he understood, wishing she could explain that it wasn’t that she didn’t want to go, it was because she lacked the courage. It wasn’t him, it was her. ‘I’m glad you did.’
He gave a snort. ‘I don’t know what’s wrong with me. Emoting. Expressing my feelings. I think I might have had a personality transplant. I don’t normally say what I’m feeling.’
‘Nor do I.’
He glanced at her. ‘But I’m glad I did. I would have been annoyed with myself if I didn’t. I’ve decided, I’m going to be more emotionally articulate from now on.’ He laughed to himself.
‘Why are you laughing?’ Rosie was thinking how much she liked being with him and hearing him speak. It wasn’t just his accent which was soft and mellifluous with that Cork cadence, it was the way he tried to explain himself, as though he was working things out in real time.
‘Oh, just someone accused me of being emotionally constipated. They were right. And I should have listened to them.’
‘It’s not a very nice phrase, is it? Emotionally constipated.’
He laughed again. ‘No, it’s a little too figurative.’
‘I prefer emotionally articulate.’
‘Me too.’
They smiled at each other.
‘When are you going back to Boston?’ She dreaded the answer. She wished she was as emotionally articulate as he was becoming.
‘Tomorrow evening… Kerry-Anne will take me…’
‘She’s got her own plane?’