Chapter 13
Aidan
A terrifyingly intense middle-aged woman stomps down the ornately woven runner in the hallway. From the arch of her brows to her determined gait, the family resemblance is clear. Cielo’s mother, Tracy, I realize, just before she bangs on the door to Lo’s room.
My heart sank when she asked me not to mention our relationship to her mom.
What hurt more was the realization that she’d never told her about us before.
But apparently even back then, Lo had suspected we wouldn’t go the distance.
No wonder she didn’t try to hold on to me when my career started to take off.
I pause at the banister and watch her mother slip inside the room.
Lo’s parents always exerted so much pressure on her, expecting her to be the perfect daughter and student. I may not be able to repair their relationship, but I’ll make this weekend easier on her in any way I can, even if it means pretending that we’re nothing more than friends.
Before I reach the banquet hall, my phone buzzes in my pocket. My manager’s contact photo lights up the screen. I step into the garden, where dahlias the size of dinner plates sway under rust-colored trees.
“Great news!” Martin says. “I have a last-minute gig for you.”
He knows this weekend is blocked off my schedule for the wedding.
“Don’t worry, it’s in a couple weeks,” he assures me before I can remind him. “The Harvest in the Park.”
Indie legends and the hottest new acts flock to the annual festival in New York’s Central Park.
In fact, Nigel Culpepper will be performing for the first time in years.
He still hasn’t returned Martin’s calls, so we’re continuing to shop for a suitable producer, but simply hearing the man perform live would be a dream come true for me.
“Yeah! I’d love to play it.” Dry leaves crunch against the stone under my feet.
“Did you listen to the demo I sent? A few more weeks in Galway and you might actually get a decent album out of me,” I joke, though it’s not funny this close to the deadline and with the label ready to force me to make an album I’d rather quit than create.
Thankfully between flashes of lyrical inspiration in Lo’s company and getting back to basics practicing with Callum, Saoirse, and Fionn, I’m starting to think that I can do it.
“Don’t bother, the label’s heard enough,” Martin says dismissively. “The stuff you sent earlier this year will sound good once it’s properly produced.”
“But that’s all rubbish and this song is already better—”
“Look, maybe you impress Nigel Culpeper enough at this festival that we get him on board and then the label will reconsider. But for now, we’ve got to pivot genre a bit.
Which leads me to my next bit of good news: Neon Joy agreed to produce.
With any luck, we’ll get that sad bastard music listenable by the end of October. ”
Did I hear him wrong? Neon Joy, as in the auto-tuned duo that just happens to be Martin’s other management client?
Martin does know what he’s doing, but he’s making moves without me.
I wasn’t even aware he’d asked Neon Joy to collaborate or that he’d been speaking to the label behind my back.
The executives lost confidence in me as a singer-songwriter after the half-hearted crap I sent them this spring, but if they only gave the new demo a chance, they’d see that I was just in a temporary funk.
“Trust me, the new demo isn’t sad bastard music,” I tell Martin. “If I play something fresh for Nigel during the festival, maybe he’d take notice.”
“It isn’t the best time to debut new material. Better to wait until the first single is decided.” Decided for me, not by me.
“So the label would let me record the songs I want if they have his stamp of approval?”
Martin sighs. “With that kind of endorsement, you’d earn their trust back.”
“Sign me up for the festival, then.”
“Already done,” Martin admits. “Forwarding you the contract now. It’s a great slot. Both nights. Second stage. Not too early.”
While I appreciate his efficiency, it would’ve been nice to agree to the performance first. I push down a flare of frustration and reroute the conversation. “How did you get me a spot so late, anyway? This show has been booked for months.”
“Bayou Diamond broke up and canceled all their tour dates. I called the moment their very public meltdown popped up on TMZ.”
“The devil works hard, but you work harder.” What kind of unholy pact had Martin made to be able to secure these deals?
We schedule another call to discuss the festival’s logistics and prepare the band for travel. He still doesn’t approve of performing unreleased new material at the festival, but I know this new song is special. And what is he gonna do, unplug my mic?
Stuffing my phone back into my pocket, I finally enter the banquet hall for lunch. Vibrant sunflower arrangements blanket the traditionally elegant space, suspended from the chandeliers and covering nearly every surface. Saoirse has outdone herself.
I scan the area, looking for anyone I know. Lark is across the room, intently listening to a story told by her colleagues. Her female relatives surround Callum in the buffet line. He looks petrified despite towering over them.
“That’s adorable,” Lark’s mother drawls. “He can’t say the ‘th’ sound.”
“Say it again!” another pleads.
His eyes are wide when I approach and clap a hand onto his shoulder. If these Yanks want to hear an Irishman, I’ll give them one.
“Top o’ the mornin’, ladies!” I say, exaggerating my accent with a shite-eating grin. I hate myself for it, but I’ll do anything for Callum, who is obviously in distress.
Immediately, their faces turn toward me. These ladies aren’t malicious. Just clueless. They might not realize they’ve cornered a man with a speech impediment.
Lark’s mother, Sharon, claps in delight. The wide sleeves of her caftan flap with each movement. “Oh my lord, they really say that here!”
“We d-d-d-don’t,” Callum says.
I cast a look over my shoulder that says, Relax, I’m on your side . “We most certainly do in County Cork!” I gleefully lie.
Just like that, their attention is redirected. They crowd around, speaking over one another, asking me to pronounce a battery of words so they can hear my accent. I oblige as they fill their plates. After a couple minutes, they head toward the tables.
Callum ladles gravy over the mountain of mash on his plate. “One of them asked me what time it was, and when I said ‘twelve-thirty,’ she called another one over and had me repeat myself. Suddenly I was surrounded.”
Cielo appears behind us at the buffet line wearing a jumpsuit that perfectly accentuates her hips.
I want to tell her about the festival. She said we were “friends,” though my instinct to share good news with her stems from something more.
Now isn’t the right time, but I wonder if it will ever be the right time to share news that reminds her of my career and how far it takes me, if I truly want her to give me a second chance.
“I apologize for the unprecedented levels of paddywackery,” Lo says to Callum, then directs her attention at me. “That was sweet, rescuing Callum from my family.”
She examines the buffet’s food options with all the gravity of studying to pass the medical licensure exam but doesn’t reach for anything.
My brow furrows. “Are you okay?”
Lo’s nod is unconvincing. She glances over her shoulder to where her mother is sitting before seizing a plain chicken breast with a set of tongs. “I’ll see you later, Aidan.”
Something is up. Cielo once insisted we try an Indian takeaway because she read a review that said, “I couldn’t feel my face, but I couldn’t stop eating.”
Her spine stiffens when her mother waves her over to the table where she, her aunt, and Lark are already seated.
It’s subtle. Chin up, shoulders back, she’s poised and battle-ready.
Is her mother’s judgment the reason why unseasoned poultry and steamed broccoli are the only things on her plate?
My hand tightens into a fist at my side.
She’s perfect just as she is. Powerful, soft, and incredibly sexy.
“I’ve no idea how to talk to Lark’s family,” Callum says. “I just stuff bread into my mouth, hoping they get caught up in their own conversation and forget I’m there. This morning when we had b-b-breakfast with her mam, I ate four pieces of toast. Consecutively.”
“You’ve already made a good impression.” I transfer an emergency piece of boxty from my plate to his. “Lo told me they loved you when you went to Texas for Christmas.”
Some of Callum’s wariness lifts. “Really?”
“It’s obvious that you’re good for each other. They’re happy for Lark.”
Cielo’s parents are pickier about her relationships. What would her family think of me if they knew the true extent of our history?
“If it makes you feel any better, I have no idea how to talk to Lo anymore,” I admit. “It feels like I’m in the second grade, tugging on her pigtails to get her attention.”
“Can you believe there was ever a time where I saw you as some sort of ladies’ man?” Callum asks.
“I resent that.”
Before I know it, the bubble of this weekend will have popped, and Cielo and I will go our separate ways. I need to make the most of our time together before she disappears back into rotations and pretends that I don’t exist for another two years.
Callum pulls a gray velvet ring box from his pocket and puts it in my hand. “This belonged to my grandmam. Would you mind holding on to it?”
I open the hinged lid to find a gold claddagh shining inside. He’s trusting me with something irreplaceable. I swallow hard and tuck the ring box into my back pocket. “Of course. I’ll guard it with my life.”
“No need to be dramatic.”
“Go on, talk to your mother-in-law and stuff yourself with gluten.”
I scan the impressive arrangements of sunflowers, wildflowers, and baby’s breath piled on the tables, and quickly locate Saoirse, Anvi, and Rory.