Rosewater and Soda Bread (8 page)

“Why? You said you'd think about it.”

“And I have. But I just haven't made up my mind yet. You have to respect that.”

“But you said I should come to you with stuff like this.” Layla's voice took on a slight whine.

“Like I said at the train station—just because you came to me doesn't mean I have to agree with what you ask. Like it or not, I am the eldest. Sometimes I have to make decisions that might not make you happy. All right?”

“You don't have to tell me that,” Layla replied. She sank into her chair, her long legs flopping open before her. “I live with you, remember?”

Marjan let out another sigh and rubbed her neck. She placed the lid over the simmering nuts and fruit and walked over to Layla. “We need to set some time aside and talk about this properly,
” she said, placing a hand gently on her sister's shoulder. “We'll go through everything, why you think you're ready, what Malachy really thinks, and then …”

“And then?”

“And then, I'll decide whether to write to Gloria or send you away to a convent,” she said, patting her sister's dark head.

“Ha, ha,” Layla said, narrowing her eyes. She stuck out her lower lip and stared at her roll, appearing suddenly to have lost all her appetite.

“A BOWL OF
ABGUSHT
for Father Mahoney lamb kebab for Mrs. Boylan,” Bahar said, backpedaling into the kitchen with the dregs of what had been a Persian chicken salad. She placed the empty bowl next to the chopping block and stuck the order to the carousel.

“And that Englishman's back,” she said. “Takeout order for the morning.”

Marjan looked up from the stove, her heart pounding.

“He asked for you again,” Bahar added, her eyebrows raised.

Marjan wiped her hands on her apron and walked to the double doors. She could see Julian Winthrop Muir standing at the Donnelly twins' table, his fists in the pockets of his tawny jacket. All three were laughing at something he had just said.

Bahar sniffed as she set out two bowls on an empty tray. “Between you and Layla, I'm surprised this place is running at all.” She scowled and took off her polka-dot apron.

Marjan wiped her hands on a tea towel and patted her ponytail. “Is it three o'clock already?”

“Nearly. I need a few more minutes today.” Bahar slipped into
her coat and turned to her older sister, who was still staring out the kitchen doors. “What are you doing?”

“Nothing,” Marjan replied as casually as possible, giving a slight shrug. She returned to the stove and lifted the lid of the eggplant stew, adding a pinch of black pepper. She made an effort to keep her hand steady but didn't quite pull it off.

Bahar came around to the stove, making sure not to get too close to the burners. She tilted her head, a sign of an oncoming interrogation.

“Who is this guy anyway?”

“I don't know. A visitor, I think.”

Bahar sniffed. “I heard he's some rich landlord's son, thinks really highly of himself and all.”

Marjan stirred the eggplant stew, placed the lid back on the stockpot. “And where did you get this piece of news?”

“Fadden's. Danny said his family used to own most of the land around Ballinacroagh. He's probably looking to own it all again.”

“Honestly, why do you always look at the dark side of things first?”

“What do you mean, ‘dark side’?” Bahar said, looking thoroughly offended. “Why am I suddenly the bad guy?”

Marjan sighed. “I didn't mean it that way.” Bahar stared at her. “Look, forget I said it. It's just that sometimes you have to give people a chance. They might surprise you with their goodness.”

Bahar snorted. “I don't know what fairy tale you're coming from, but that's not how the real world works. You know that as well as I do, Marjan.”

Point taken, thought Marjan. She fell silent as she watched her sister open the back door and step into the garden. It was not until she was fully over the threshold that Bahar opened her large plaid umbrella against the falling rain.

Superstitious as always, thought Marjan, shaking her head. She patted her tidy ponytail again. Reaching for the strings on her apron, she tightened them to give her waist nice definition. Her heart leapt again as she swung through the double doors. Passing Father Mahoney and Mrs. Boylan's table, she paused for the priest's assessment of the day's special (“I'll be having the barberry hen for my last supper, you can count on it!”) before making her way to the Donnelly twins and Julian. The three men were still laughing but quieted down as soon as they saw her.

“Top of the mornin' to ya,” Julian said, tweaking an imaginary cap at her. His blond hair was combed back, Marjan noticed, revealing his strong, clean-cut jaw. “Or should I say afternoon.”

“Hello there,” she replied with a smile. “Are you staying for tea?”

“Just stopping to place a breakfast order. The lads on site can't get enough of those marvelous pastries, the baklava you've got there.” Julian indicated the glass cabinet, where platters of baklava, sugary fritters, and almond delights sat in honeyed rows.

He turned back, giving her an appreciative look. “Have to say, it's been quite a while since I've seen an apron worn so right.”

“Oh …” Marjan looked down, smoothing the skirt of red toile against her jeans. “Thank you.” She could feel her cheeks warming.

“I brought you something,” Julian said, motioning her to a quieter corner near the door. He handed her a fat paperback he took from his jacket pocket. “My latest.”

Marjan turned the book over to read the black-and-white cover:
Dominions of Clay: A Novel
. “By Julian Winthrop Muir III.” She looked up, impressed. “That's quite an achievement.”

“Well, I wouldn't go that far. According to my publisher, you'd be the third person to attempt to get past the first chapter—that is, if you do read it.”

“Of course I'll read it. I'm sure it's great.” Marjan glanced behind her. She could see Siobhan Kelly from the shoe shop leaning dangerously over her seat for a spy. Julian seemed to take no notice of the curious faces in the dining room.

“I thoroughly enjoyed our conversation last night.”

Marjan smiled at the memory. “Yes, it was nice.” Why was her heart suddenly pounding so hard?

“Perhaps we could do it again? This evening, at Paddy's?”

Marjan looked to her right. The Donnelly twins winked at her, giving her their customary cheeky smiles.

She looked down at the paperback in her hand. The embossed name stood out to her: Julian Winthrop Muir III. He was asking her for a date.

She wasn't ready for this. Was she?

“Do you always leave men hanging, or is it just with me particularly?”

Marjan looked up again, met his gaze. “I'm sorry, it's just that—” She took a deep breath.

“You have previous engagements?”

Marjan nodded apologetically. “I'm just very busy for the next while.”

“I understand. Well, sometime soon, then,” Julian said. He started to lift his hand to touch her arm but dropped it to his side when she moved slightly to the right. “Another rain check.”

“A rain check. Yes.”

Julian chuckled. “I'll look forward to it.” Bidding the twins good-bye, he tipped his imaginary cap at her and walked out of the café, closing the door behind him.

Marjan watched him hunker into his jacket and disappear up the drizzly street, along with most of the lunchtime diners, who had suddenly found the topic of their day's gossip.

STANDING IN THE BRIGHT VESTRY
of Saint Barnabas Roman Catholic Church, Father Fergal Mahoney took a few moments to study the airmail cartons piled precariously to the corniced ceiling. They had arrived earlier in the day his trusty housekeeper Mrs. Boylan had notified him, just as he was about to celebrate what he liked to refer to as his
Matinee
Mass and Eucharist.

He had ordered the boxes from a reputable dealer in Akron, USA, whose seasonal catalog featured other marvels of human ingenuity, among them a talking sundial and a set of nunchucks that sprang plastic flowers when swung in a full circle.

The nunchucks were a waste of money, thought the priest. No practical use for them whatsoever. He would never stoop so low as to buy himself a pair. He had, though, been tempted by another item: an autographed section of track from the set of
The General
, that silent-era film starring the wunderkind of comedic timing, Buster Keaton. The train track was particularly poignant
as it was featured in the climax of the film, when the hero has to save his beloved from a deadly oncoming steam engine.

Buster Keaton was a hero unparalleled, in Father Mahoney's opinion, who had perfected the marriage of absurdity and pacifism on-screen like no one else. No matter what tragedies befell him in his cinematic escapades, be they man-made or natural disasters, he always kept his cool, preferring to neither laugh nor cry at destiny's whims. Such stoicism had earned Buster Keaton the title the Great Stone Face; a nickname the priest felt did not encompass the tender empathy Keaton showed for the weaknesses in his adversaries, or the kindness in his dark, drooping eyes.

In the end, Father Mahoney had decided against the autographed piece of train track, opting instead for what he found on page 26 of the color catalog, a product that promised him freedom, if only temporarily, from his daily collar:

As a special introductory bonus to its pirate radio kit, Penzance Productions was throwing in two cassette tapes of sample clips from some of radio's most piquant programmers, including those legends of the disc jockey arena Casey Kasem and Wolf-man Jack, as well as an hour tutorial called “The Art of Segways” by no other than Dick Clark himself.

Father Mahoney felt utterly powerless against such a bargain; he placed his order that very day.

Reaching into the vestry's scroll desk, the priest grabbed a butter knife perched on a crumby tea plate. He turned back to the boxes before him, boxes of infinite possibilities, and tore voraciously through the first silvery cross, the masking tape coming deliciously undone. An excited guffaw escaped his lips as he gave a little hop.

Fergal Mahoney, of one-parish Ballinacroagh, former warm-up man of comedic revues large and small, was ready to launch on the waves. The Irish airwaves. Ahoy and away!

“YOU'RE NOT TO BLAME A BIT, now, Joan. I never thought that Evie Watson was much to look at, to be honest,” Antonia Nolan opined, reaching for another digestive biscuit, which crumbled duly upon entry into her mouth. “Far too like a foundling, like something they pulled out of the bottom of a well, if you ask me.”