Aisling Gayle (44 page)

She looked out of the car window, noticing that the sun was properly shining for the first time in days.

“Aisling?” Jameson said, his voice sounding hoarse. “There’s something wrong . . . I know it.” He paused. “Can we sort it out before we get to Mom and Dad’s?
Please
?”

Aisling kept staring out of the window, unable to find the words to describe her feelings.

“Aisling?” he repeated. “Please tell me what’s wrong.”

She took a deep breath. “Verity told me things,” she said, “about your family and about you and her . . . I just wish you’d told me yourself. I feel hurt that you didn’t explain things . . . and that I’m all alone down here in a strange situation.”

Jameson put his foot on the car brake, and skidded to a halt at the side of the highway. He turned in his seat and gently pulled Aisling around until she was facing him. “What the hell did Verity say?”

“She told me about the house . . . how big and grand it is, and about your family business.”

“What else?” he asked, waiting.

“She said . . . she said that you were difficult,” Aisling whispered, “that you could be very temperamental and awkward.”

“My
artistic
temperament?” he asked. He gave a deep sigh, and then his face broke out into a relieved grin. “Is that
all
?” He shook his head. “I thought you were going to say something shit-awful!”

“Jameson!” Aisling hissed. “I don’t find it at all funny. There have been times recently when you have been awkward and difficult . . . and it makes me feel very uncomfortable.”

“Oh, Aisling,” he said, his face now serious. “I’m real sorry I’ve made you feel like that.” He pushed his hand through his hair. “I guess at times I get a little hot-headed, but it doesn’t mean anything. It’s just frustration . . . a feeling of not having control over things. Important things like you and me.” He turned towards her. “Most of the time I don’t feel like that –
honestly
. Back at Lake Savannah before all this shit happened, I’d never felt happier and more content in the whole of my life. Just doing the simple, ordinary things with you – it’s all I really want. It’s just the pressure of things at the moment . . .” He stroked her hair now. “I’m real, real sorry for hurting you – I don’t mean to. And I promise I will keep my stupid temper under control.”

“OK,” Aisling said, “but there was another thing Verity went on about, and it’s something that really concerns me – our financial differences.”

“How many times,” he said, gently tilting her head so that she was looking into his eyes, “do I have to tell you, that there is
no
difference between us? I haven’t made a big deal about the business and my folks’ place because those things are not important to you and me.”

“I’m not too sure about that,” Aisling replied.

“Look,” he said, “we haven’t enough time to discuss the really
big
things, without wasting time on details that can wait. And the way things have turned out, we’ve spent most of the time talking about Thomas – and that’s because he’s one of the really big things.”

Aisling looked at him, tears welling up in her eyes.

“Everything else can wait, Aisling,” he said gently. “There’s lots of things I don’t know about your life. You haven’t described your own home or your parents’ home back in Ireland. And I don’t know too much about your brother and sister . . . but I know that eventually we’ll have the time for all of these things.”

Aisling looked at him from lowered eyelids and then, despite herself, a little smile started on her lips. “A very ordinary old farmhouse does not take a lot of describing, Jameson.”

“Well,” he said, laughing with relief, “there you are. That’s another really important detail that I know about you now. I might just have changed my mind about you, if you said you lived in a very modern farmhouse.”

“You are unbelievable!” Aisling said, laughing along with him now, all her tension lifted. And as they drove along the last leg of their journey, she made a decision to put Verity’s poisonous words out of her mind, and concentrate on enjoying their last few days together.

Jameson had pulled off the main highway, and headed on down a smaller, quieter road. The further he drove, the bigger the houses became and the larger the grounds surrounding them. He slowed down as they reached a corner and then, straight in front of them, Aisling could see two high gates with a large wall on either side of them. It was like something from the American movies that Aisling saw back in the cinema in Tullamore.

She held her breath as the car drove in through the gates and on up the winding driveway. Tall trees flanked either side of the drive like soldiers on guard, and the flower-beds were square and uniform. Where the garden back at Lake Savannah was a riot of random colour from trees, shrubs and flowers – there was nothing left to chance in the grounds of this house.

When they pulled up in front of the imposing stone house, Aisling glimpsed the tennis courts at the side of the building, and behind them, a large wooden summerhouse. If possible, the house was actually bigger and grander than she had imagined it. Aisling could feel her throat and chest tighten with nerves as she got out of the car.

Then, before the feelings of inadequacy completely enveloped her, she heard a voice calling from the front of the house.

“Welcome! Welcome!” Sam Carroll was coming down the front steps, as quickly as his no-longer sprightly legs and his breathing would allow. He came across to kiss Aisling on the cheek, and then insisted on carrying her bag into the house.

“I’ll do that, Dad,” Jameson said, making to take the bag from him.

“Like hell you will,” his father said, his eyes twinkling. “There’s life in this old dog yet – and a light bag ain’t gonna kill me.”

Jameson’s mother was waiting at the door to greet them, and her welcome was as warm as her husband’s. “I see you’ve brought the sunshine with you on your first visit, Aisling,” she said, smiling warmly and hugging her. She hugged her son, then asked: “And how was dear Thomas this afternoon?”

“Much, much better,” Jameson said, “and eating everything in sight. He was even planning what he would have to eat later this evening.”

Sam put the bag down in the hallway, and threw his arms up in the air. “Thank God!” he said. “Our prayers have been answered.” He looked at Aisling. “I never prayed so hard for anything in my life as I prayed for that boy’s recovery.”

Jameson put a hand on each of his parents’ shoulders. “Well, I guess your prayers were answered, and we can all stop worrying. Thomas is well on the road to getting back to his old self again.”

“Good, good, good,” Frances Carroll said, her voice quivery with emotion. She clapped her hands together. “Now, I’ll show Aisling up to her room.” She turned to Jameson. “You come, too . . . I’ve given you adjoining rooms with a bathroom in between, so you don’t have to come out into the corridor if you want to talk.”

Aisling lowered her head and avoided meeting Jameson’s eyes. It was obvious that the situation was not causing embarrassment to anyone else, so that was at least one thing she could stop worrying about.

As she followed the older woman upstairs, Aisling took in the ornate hallway with the Persian rug, the huge Chinese vases full of fresh flowers, and the countless paintings a
nd sculptures that adorned the perfectly painted walls.

“When you’ve freshened up,” Frances said, throwing open the door of a huge, airy bedroom, filled with creamy-coloured, very feminine furniture, “we’ll all have a drink and then we’ll eat.” She opened the bathroom door, and showed Aisling where the towels and toiletries were. “I’ll leave you both now to get settled, and then we’ll see you downstairs when you’re ready.”

“My mom would make a great diplomat,” Jameson said, when the door closed after her. “She’s given us complete privacy without actually asking if we wanted to share a bedroom or not.”

“She’s a lovely person,” Aisling said, “and this house is just out of this world . . . I can’t find the words to describe how beautiful it is.” She paused. “Verity said that . . .”

But before she could utter another word, Jameson swept her in his arms and covered her mouth with his. When they came up for air, he looked into Aisling’s eyes. “I don’t want to hear that damned woman’s name mentioned for the rest of your stay in America.”

“She knows I’m married, Jameson,” Aisling whispered. “Do you think your parents might know, too?”

“They already know the situation,” Jameson said firmly, “and they won’t ask you anything.” He stroked her hair. “I’m a fully grown man, Aisling, and what I decide to do with my life is my own business. Mom and Dad accepted that a long time ago. We respect each other’s choices in life. It’s as simple as that.”

Aisling looked up at him. “Have you – have you brought other women back to this house?”

“No.” His reply was instant. “Apart from Verity, I haven’t brought any other women here.” He shrugged. “For God knows how many years it’s been just me and Thomas. So,” he said, touching a finger under her chin, “Mom and Dad will know how important
you
are to me. OK?”

Aisling looked into his eyes. “OK.”

When they went back downstairs, Aisling was surprised to see lots of lacework on the walls of the sitting room – similar to the type that Jameson had framed in the house back at Lake Savannah. “This is beautiful,” she said, gesturing to an intricate creamy piece in a black frame.

“That lacework is real old,” Jameson told her. “My grandmother and my great-grandmother did a mountain of it. They used to make collars and cuffs for some of the big shops in New York.”

“Your
grandmother?”
Aisling said, suddenly smiling. “I thought it was Verity . . .”

Jameson rolled his eyes to the ceiling. “Are you kidding? Verity hasn’t a creative bone in her body. She spends any talent she has matching up her lipsticks to her outfits.” He looked at Aisling, raising an eyebrow and nodding like he did when Thomas was in trouble. “I thought we weren’t gonna mention
her
name again?”

“Sorry,” Aisling said, covering her mouth like a scolded child.

“When we moved upstate,” Jameson explained now, “I had my mom come up and sort out drapes and that kind of thing.” He shrugged. “I wasn’t too sure about some things apart from the paintings and stuff like that, but I knew that I didn’t want it looking like the place I lived in with . . .” he laughed, “
you-know-who
.” He touched one of the picture frames. “I think all this lace stuff is beautiful, and I like having it around. It reminds me of my grandmother and when I was growing up.”

Frances came into the room now, and came over to rest her arm on Jameson’s shoulder. “Your grandmother would have loved to have seen her hard work decorating two beautiful homes.” She smiled at Aisling. “Sam’s mother and grandmother made their living from the lace and the tatting.” She pointed to the frames that held the smaller, circular pieces. “When Sam’s grandfather died, his grandmother brought up the family on her own, and she supported them all on the little bit of money she got from the lacework. She taught all of them – even the boys – how to do this work.”

Aisling moved around the walls, studying each piece carefully. “They
are lovely,” she said, “and worked in such intricate patterns. My mother would love them – she crochets and knits, but I don’t think she’s ever tackled lace.”

“I think it’s one of these things that you have to learn early,” Frances said. “My own family never learned any kind of handcrafts – but all I know is, Sam treasures those little old bits of lace more than anything else in this house.” She moved across the room to a beautifully carved cabinet and opened the doors to reveal an array of drinks. “What are you having?”

Aisling flushed, not quite sure what would be the right thing to ask for. “I really don’t mind . . .”

“Dry Martinis?” Frances suggested. “Gin? Champagne?”

“How about some champagne?” Jameson said, smiling at Aisling.

“Wonderful!” Frances said. “And perfect for celebrating
Thomas’s quick recovery!” Even as she spoke, tears started to glisten in the corner of her eyes. She cleared her throat, and gave an embarrassed little smile. “I’ll go get a chilled bottle from the fridge.”

“This is good,” Jameson said, squeezing Aisling’s hand. “We can relax now . . . things are getting better.”

Frances came back with the bottle of champagne, and Sam followed behind with four crystal champagne flutes. They all toasted Thomas’s health and then Frances touched Jameson’s hand. “Sam and I want to go back and spend the evening with Thomas, so that you two can have an evening on your own.”

Jameson looked at Aisling.

“Please, honey,” Frances said in a gentle but firm tone. “We really want to go back in. I have a new game and two new books that my friend Alice bought for him, and I’d like to take them in to him.”

“Besides,” Sam chipped in, “when Thomas goes back home we won’t see him for some time.” He smiled. “You have him all to yourself the rest of the time – it’ll give us a little while with him. Like we’d planned.”

Jameson looked at Aisling and smiled. “Hell, we’re only thirty minutes drive away . . . we’ll ring the hospital and speak to Thomas after dinner. If he’s OK, then maybe Aisling and I will go out and catch a movie – or maybe just watch TV here.”