Chapter 3
Three
“Hey Scotty!”
Ciaran shook his head ruefully and turned to watch his friend Cliff use his not inconsiderable bulk to push his way through the crowd to the bar where Ciaran perched on a stool in front of one of the TVs dotting the wall.
Cliff put the Jamison in Dougherty, Jamison & Russo Architects and was for all intents and purposes, Ciaran’s boss.
But he was also one of his closest friends.
Although he was in his early forties with a wife and young son, Cliff still kept his brown hair high and tight out of habit though gray was starting to appear at his temples.
He was built like a linebacker and smoked like a freight train.
“Hey, Cliff, you alright?”
His friend smiled at that, then scrunched up his face and spoke carefully. “I’m fine, you?”
Ciaran chuckled as he removed his jacket from the stool and hung it on a hook under the bar. He appreciated Cliff’s effort. For most Americans, the first response to that particularly Scottish way to say, “how are you?” was simply, “yes.”
Cliff settled into the saved seat, then pulled a pack of Marlboros out of his pocket, turning the open end Ciaran's way. It was a token gesture, since Ciaran always refused. Besides, Cliff knew full well that he couldn’t light it indoors anyway, but the man couldn’t go more than an hour without one in his hand, lit or not, and probably thought he could get some kind of a contact hit just by holding it.
“The usual?”
At Cliff’s nod, Ciaran ordered another round of Scotches, his neat and Cliff’s on the rocks. They sipped in silence and watched the ice hockey game on the TV. The team in blue and gold had just scored on the team wearing orange and white, but Ciaran had no idea which team was which.
Half a period went by with each team scoring a goal with only token celebrations from the patrons in the bar. Guess neither one is the home team.
Cliff said something to him, but his words didn’t register.
Ciaran looked up from the drink cradled in his hands. “Hmm?” he asked and looked over at Cliff. “What were you saying?”
His friend’s fidgeting with the cigarette had moved on to tapping the filter end on the bar. Give it a few minutes, and he’d either be spinning it around his fingers or elbowing his way back outside. Ciaran’s money was on the latter.
“I said you’re being quiet,” he repeated. “And it’s not just tonight either. The past few days you’ve huddled over the Johnson project without saying a word. What gives?”
“It’s nothin’,” Ciaran said and took a sip of his Scotch. It slid down his throat in a most pleasing way and kindled a fire in his stomach.
“It’s not nothin’.” Cliff said, in a horrific attempt at his accent. The man would forever be a New Yorker, linguistically speaking. He studied Ciaran for another few moments, then snapped his fingers and pointed a finger in Ciaran’s face. “It’s a woman, isn’t it?”
He batted Cliff’s hand away and tossed back his drink, suppressing a cough as it burned the whole way down. “Of course not.” It was always a woman with Cliff.
“Bullshit, Scotty.” Cliff said, calling his bluff. “Who is she? A stunning blond? A spunky brunette?”
“She’s not any of those.” he snapped, then lifted his glass to hide his wince, only to find it empty. He set it back on the bar with a thump.
“So, it is a girl!” Cliff crowed, elbowing Ciaran in the ribs. “Come on Scotty, fess up.”
Ciaran pushed him away, an act that only seemed to amuse Cliff more. “Shut it, Cliff.”
“Just one hint.”
“Give it a rest, Cliff.” Each word was punched through clenched teeth.
His friend continued to badger him, and Ciaran ignored it for as long as he could.
Before he gave into the urge to wrap his hands around Cliff’s thick throat, as if it would really have any effect, Ciaran planted his hands on the bar and pivoted to face his friend.
“Look, if I tell you that her hair is dark like ebony will you shut the hell up already?”
Cliff let out a hearty laugh and smacked his hand on the bar. “I knew it!” he cried. “She really got into your shorts to have you so worked up.” When Ciaran remained silent, he hit the bar again. “Or maybe it’s that she hasn’t yet?”
“I shouldn’t have said anything.”
Cliff’s eyes sparkled with amusement. “You need to find yourself a girl, man.” He took a sip of his whisky and bit down hard on a piece of ice he’d slurped in with it, chewing contentedly for a moment.
“You’ve been here what, six years? I bet you can count the number of dates you’ve had in that time on one hand. ”
Ciaran smiled tightly. “It would take both hands, fuck you very much.” he replied and turned to the screen when a few cheers went up from behind him.
Cliff guffawed and clapped him on the back.
“You should give it another go, as you Scots would say.” He reached in his pocket and pulled out a pair of tickets.
“Look, I’ve got the company seats to the game tomorrow night.
It’ll take your mind off this goddess with the ebony hair that shot you down. ”
“She didn’t—” Ciaran started, then clenched his teeth together hard enough to make his molars groan. What else was there to call what she had done?
“Sure, fine, whatever,” he said finally. “You can explain the game to me.”
Cliff’s jaw dropped. “Are you serious? You’ve never been to a hockey game?”
“Most hockey in Scotland is played on a field with a much shorter stick.” he answered with a shrug. “I’m more of a rugby or football man.”
Cliff laughed. “Then you should have no problem. Hockey is rugby on ice. All the hitting, checking, fighting… you’ll love it.”
Ciaran sighed and tossed back the last of his whisky. “Sure, fine,” he replied as he stood and retrieve his jacket. “It’s late, Cliff, and I’m off to my bed.”
It was only nine o’clock, but his friend didn’t argue as Ciaran patted his shoulder and started weaving through the crowd.
Instead of going directly home, Ciaran drove by Jal’s apartment, noting as he pulled into an empty spot across the street that many of the windows were lit, but not hers. He considered waiting until she got home, but then she’d probably think he was stalking her or something.
He still had so many questions after their encounter at the restaurant, not least of all what had driven her from the table.
Questions he hadn’t been able to ask that night since she’d emerged from the bathroom, took one step in his direction, her eyes only slightly less alarmed, and without warning, bolted for the exit.
It was that expression that had pinned him to his seat at the table, rather than run after her.
Hell, it still did.
Regardless, she didn’t owe him any kind of explanation. She had her money back and the transaction was complete. What more did he want from her?
What more, indeed?
Ciaran gripped the steering wheel until the leather groaned under his fingers.
She intrigued him. There, he admitted it.
More than any woman had since coming to America, since Annie had left him for a Cambridge man with a Bentley.
Sure, he’d dated, but hadn’t met anyone that he’d consider more than a few dates with, only a couple stretching out a month or two of casual dating.
Even in the few encounters they had, he knew she was different. Jal didn’t fawn over his accent, or that he stayed fit enough to run right out onto the pitch if his hometown team ever came calling.
She had a fire in her that drew him as if he were a moth. At least when she was in control, anyway. The speed with which that fire had fizzled out still gave him whiplash. And it had only taken the slightest pressure on her wrist.
He shoved both hands through his hair and glanced once more at the string of darkened windows.
He yawned wide enough that his jaw cracked.
The honest truth was, even if she was home and deigned to let him inside, the only thing that he would probably do was fall asleep on the couch.
Too many late nights this week working on that godforsaken design proposal. So, Ciaran drove home.
He made himself a cup of tea and grabbed a slice of cold pizza from the fridge then flopped down on the couch, remote control in hand. A few minutes later, he switched it off. American late-night television was worse than the British variety, if that was even possible.
Before he could drift off on the couch, he took a quick shower to rinse away the stale smoke clinging to his skin.
It had been decades since New York instituted an indoor smoking ban, yet the walls of the bar still seemed to exhale an invisible cloud over its patrons.
As he dressed for bed, he found that the fatigue that had him nearly crawling away from the TV had buggered off to somewhere he wasn’t likely to find it any time soon.
He ground his teeth. Knowing that laying down in bed and waiting for sleep was the last thing that would actually invite sleep, Ciaran returned to the living room and grabbed his briefcase from the couch where he had thrown it.
He set it on the coffee table and pulled out the folder for a new downtown office building that he was supposed to design and began to study photographs of the current location and the written prospectus for the dozenth time.
He let his mind wander, imagining himself standing in front of a shadowy outline of a skyscraper. Should the building be a modern tower of glass, or should it reflect the style of the surrounding buildings?
Much of that part of Manhattan was dominated by gently-aging office buildings no more than fifteen or twenty stories high.
It reminded him a bit of the city center in Glasgow, and no wonder, since so many Scottish architects had contributed to rebuilding the city of New York after it was ravaged by the British in the early nineteenth century.
The pencil in his hand began to move, transferring the building as it sharpened in his mind's eye almost without any conscious thought.
Drawing was something that had come to him almost as easy as breathing.
It was something that had stayed with him throughout his life no matter how challenging everything else became.
When he finally looked up from the page and glanced at the clock, he winced. Lost in his work, which always happened once the ideas began to flow, whole hours had passed. Even though there was more to do, Ciaran forced himself to put the pencil down, and pack everything away.
There was no way that he could pull an all-nighter and be completely conscious for Cliff’s hockey game. Hopefully, the handful of hours left in the night would be enough. As he crawled under the covers and set the alarm on his phone, he had a feeling that tomorrow was going to be a long day.