Chapter 11
ROSIE
Laptop closed, Rosie had slipped on her navy blazer and walked out into reception, greeting Mary behind the desk and then out into the hotel’s lounge.
A light breeze filtered through the reception, the front door was wide open to the porch, and then the double doors were propped open onto the terrace where the wooden steamer chairs and tables and chairs were arranged for a view of the sea.
In reception, the wedding group were in deep conversation. Niamh had her arms around one of the men, Seán the groom, obviously. Grace was standing beside them smiling and Bertie was in mid-conversation with another man, his back to Rosie.
‘Beautiful evening out here,’ Seán was saying. ‘Hot on the motorway, but so calm and cool here.’
‘We pride ourselves on being calm and cool,’ said Grace smoothly, giving Rosie a quick wink.
She opened her mouth to introduce her. ‘May I just…?’ she began, but the other man had turned around and had stopped still, his eyes locked on Rosie’s.
He wasn’t smiling, his brow furrowed, his face scowling. It was him.
Oh God.
The last time she had seen him was through the glass in Dublin Airport, watching him go through security to board that Aer Lingus plane to Boston.
And just when she thought she had forgotten him, here he was.
She hesitated to hold out her hand and he seemed equally awkward, just staring at her. As she was about to speak, Grace stepped in.
‘This is Rosie, the hotel owner,’ she introduced.
She remembered now, his brother was called Seán.
It was all coming back to her. Patrick used to talk about Seán all the time and their childhood on that Cork dairy farm.
About their mother and not very much about their father.
Whenever he came up in conversation, Patrick had little to say, nothing like the effusive words he had for his mother and Seán, who was doing his Leaving Cert at the time.
Seán stepped towards her. ‘Lovely to meet you, Rosie. Thank you for so much for hosting us this weekend.’
Rosie was smiling now, shaking Seán’s hand.
Shorter than Patrick, not quite as handsome but the same bright eyes and easy smile.
Well, the way Patrick used to look, not this scowling, furious version.
He looked so angry at her. And shouldn’t it be her who was angry at him?
But he had quickly rearranged his face and was nodding blandly as Seán talked away.
‘Rosie, this is my big brother, Patrick,’ Seán was saying. ‘Flew in this morning.’
And then his hand was around hers, the feel of him, the warmth of him, the exact softness of him. He looked at her then, neither of them revealing anything of their past, the flickering memories, the remnants of those hand-holds, those kisses, the laughing, the nights together.
‘You’re all very welcome,’ she said, turning to Seán and now, with the relief of dropping Patrick’s hand, managing to smile. ‘I hope you have a lovely weekend.’ She stepped away, removing herself from the group, thinking she needed air, to get outside, back to her cottage and recover herself.
‘Patrick,’ Kate was saying, ‘you need to settle something for us about Seán. He reckons he once won Midleton Rear of the Year…’ She laid a hand on Patrick’s arm, as they all hooted with laughter, glancing at Rosie, as though she’d noticed something between them.
Rosie smiled, hoping her face wasn’t red.
‘It was a farmers’ thing,’ Seán protested. ‘I didn’t enter it. I was nominated.’
Patrick was laughing as well. ‘He didn’t even win it,’ he was saying. ‘He lost out to this old fella, Francis Brady, had rope holding up his trousers and a cap on his head that was so old that it was given to the local museum when he died.’
‘I was nominated for Rear of the Year, though,’ said Seán. ‘More than you were.’
‘He should have won,’ said Niamh. ‘I demand a recount.’
Patrick was smiling broadly, but his eyes moved back to Rosie and for a moment they absorbed each other, taking everything in. And then it was over.
Rosie managed to turn to Grace. ‘Everything okay?’ she said, quietly.
Grace smiled back. ‘Grand. All good.’ She peered at Rosie. ‘Are you okay?’
‘I’m just going to… I’m just going to…’ Run away, she thought. Down a bottle of vodka. Have a cold shower. Or scream on the top of my lungs. Something to calm her heart which was flapping inside her like a panicked and trapped bird. ‘Just sort something out. Back soon.’
And that was it. Rosie left the hotel, outside into the fading dusk, the birds roosting, the starlings flocking onto the elm trees, the solar lights illuminating her path as she hurried along. She could barely breathe. Him. Patrick. How on earth was she going to get through the next few days?