Semi-Sweet (12 page)

The best thing you could say about Clongarvin, Nora Paluzzi decided, was that it wasn’t as cold as New York in February. On
the other hand, it was a whole lot wetter. It hadn’t stopped raining since she’d arrived, and thirty-six hours of nonstop
driving rain were every bit as bad, in her opinion, as cold that cut right through to your bones.

But at least it wasn’t Dunmallon, where her parents had dragged her and Adam every summer, back to the farm where her father
had grown up. Dunmallon with its single petrol pump, sub–post office, pathetically stocked supermarket, and scatter of pubs,
all equally dreary. God, what a hole, everyone knowing everyone else’s business, or letting on they did. Everyone looked for
you at Mass on Sunday, and woe betide you if you were missing without good reason. Ma and Da delighted to be back there now,
God help them.

At least Clongarvin had some semblance of life about it, however parochial. The clothes in the few boutiques weren’t bad,
there was a halfway decent deli—although the prices had shocked her; had Ireland always been so horrendously expensive?—and
the two-screen cinema (two whole screens!) was actually showing movies that she’d seen in New York just a few months ago.

Not that she intended to make Clongarvin her home for any length of time—perish the thought. But it would do while she caught
her breath and planned her next move. And it might be fun to look up some of the old gang from school—Francine, Jojo, Leah,
Dee. She assumed at least one or two were still living here.

She walked into Adam’s tiny kitchen, which smelt of dog. The whole damn place smelt of dog—what had possessed him to get a
huge Lab in this tiny apartment? She took the box of Cheerios from the shelf above the refrigerator—the fridge, the fridge—and
shook out a handful. She shouldn’t eat, with dinner at Hannah’s just over an hour away, but her body clock was still all screwed
up from the trip, so mealtimes were either forgotten or totally confused, and she was starving right now.

As she crunched, the calendar on the wall caught her eye. Valentine’s Day coming up—big freaking deal. She was finished with
love and romance: been there, done that, got the divorces to prove it.

Mind you, she was a damn sight better off now than before she’d met her exes, neither of whom could live with the knowledge
that everyone fooled around in New York. Nora only wanted a bit of fun on the side; where was the harm in that? But the professor
had run for the hills before the ink was dry on the marriage license, and Dr. Paluzzi couldn’t hack it either, couldn’t turn
a blind eye, more fool him. At least she’d had the sense to marry men with lots of cash—and Nora had enjoyed her share from
the first divorce, and was looking forward to the next.

She wondered about the men of Clongarvin. She wondered if she’d find what she wanted among them while she was here. Just because
she was done with love didn’t mean she was done with men—far from it.

She closed the Cheerios box and replaced it on the shelf. She left the kitchen and went into the doggy-smelling bedroom to
make herself pretty for dinner.

“Does he look like you?”

Patrick shook his head. “Not in the least. He’s shorter and balder, and his eyes are blue.”

“And you said he’s younger.”

“Yeah, by three years.”

Leah’s hand rested on his thigh as he drove, her fingers stroking absently. He enjoyed how tactile she was—presumably from
force of habit, since her job involved so much physical interaction.

“I’m dying to meet this brother of yours,” she said. “The first of your family to check me out.”

“That’s right.”

The surprise trip had been more awkward to arrange than last year’s. Getting time off for Hannah had been easy—a phone call
to Joseph Finnegan at the bakery, and it had been sorted. With Leah he’d had to plan his strategy more carefully.

The reason for his brother’s imaginary visit home from London became a cousin’s imaginary fortieth-birthday celebration in
County Offaly the following day, Saturday, to which he and Leah had also been invited. “They want us there by lunchtime,”
Patrick had told her, “so you’ll have to take the whole day off. I’ve booked us into the local hotel for the Saturday night.”

“And what about Valentine’s Day?” she’d demanded. “Am I spending that in Offaly too?”

He’d assured her that he’d made plans for Sunday. What she didn’t know was that his plans were due to begin that very evening.
He was assuming that the discovery that they were headed to Paris as opposed to Offaly would cancel out any annoyance Leah
might feel at having been duped into thinking she was going to meet some of Patrick’s family. She’d met none of them so far,
since Patrick’s father had left for his Greek Islands cruise just before Patrick and Leah had become an official couple, and
now she wasn’t meeting his brother either.

He hoped she’d be pleased with the hotel he’d found for them on the Internet, which had better live up to its impressive description.
No way could he risk ending up in a dump like last year’s—Hannah might overlook faulty plumbing and erratic heating, but Leah
liked her comforts. Patrick had paid considerably more this time around, and he expected to be well rewarded.

“What time did you say his plane is in?”

“Ten to eight.”

Interesting how easily both women believed his lies. Hannah, of course, had had no reason to doubt him—until Leah, he’d covered
his tracks well, been discreet on the few occasions he’d wandered. But Leah, who’d been party to his deceiving Hannah, who
had seen him covering his tracks and telling his half-truths, still happily trusted him. Interesting how easy it was.

Interesting, too, how intoxicating deceit could be. Until Leah had managed to get pregnant and Patrick’s cover had been forcibly
blown, the excitement of having both women, each so different from the other, had been wonderful. Sex, regardless of whom
he was with, had been amazing.

And if Leah hadn’t gotten pregnant, who knew how long the situation might have gone on, despite her constant urging him to
tell Hannah, to leave Hannah?
Soon,
he’d said,
when the time is right,
knowing, even as he spoke, that he was repeating the mantra of so many men—and indeed women—before him. Knowing that he would
happily have lived with the situation long-term. What man wouldn’t, for Christ’s sake? And was it really so bad, trying to
keep them both happy for as long as he could?

He couldn’t believe it when Leah had dropped her bombshell.
I’m sorry, darling,
she’d whispered, clinging to him.
Don’t be angry, it was nobody’s fault.
Naturally, after that everything had changed, and Hannah, unfortunately, had suffered in the fallout—something Patrick had
never intended to happen.

He couldn’t imagine being a father. He’d never envied friends with children, never wondered when his turn would come. Hannah
had hinted gently now and again—inevitable, maybe, when they were living together, and she’d been in her thirties by the time
they’d become a couple—but Patrick had managed each time to postpone what he’d regarded as the inevitable.
Someday,
he’d said,
when we’re both ready. When the time is right.

He pulled in by the arrivals building. “Why don’t you go in,” he said, “and I’ll find a parking space. Won’t be long.” Ignoring,
as he spoke, the faint echo of his identical words a year ago.

He watched Leah walk toward the automatic doors. Her waist had begun to thicken—and didn’t her hips seem slightly wider? She’d
also started to develop the tiniest suggestion of a double chin, and her ankles weren’t quite as slender as before. She was
still beautiful, of course. He wondered what other changes were in store, what pregnancy would do to her body as the months
went on.

He found a parking space and unloaded the case he’d packed the previous night while Leah was in the bath. The thought occurred
to him as he made his way back to the arrivals building that maybe he should have chosen another destination: Leah might not
be too pleased if she ever discovered that she was following so closely in Hannah’s footsteps. But it had to be Paris for
Valentine’s Day, didn’t it? Women expected Paris.

And technically, of course, Hannah’s trip had been for her birthday rather than for Valentine’s Day; it was just a happy coincidence
that the two dates were so close together. But Leah might not see it like that.

The doors to the arrivals hall slid open, and he walked through. Too late to change anything now—and anyway, the past was
in the past. He watched Leah’s expression as he approached her, smiling.

“Tell you what,” he said. “Let’s go to Paris instead.”

“Another slice?”

Nora shook her head. “Not for me, thanks.” One slice of decidedly unexciting shop-bought quiche was more than enough. Her
brother seemed to be in charge of the cooking this evening, worse luck. She picked up an oven-baked french fry—talk about
ruining a potato—and slid her glass toward Adam. “I’ll have a top-up, though.” Eighteen euro she’d paid for the wine, and
it was just about drinkable. Eight dollars would get you a decent Chablis in New York.

Adam filled her glass. “So how’re you settling in? Anything you can’t find in the apartment?”

“Just the Jacuzzi,” she told him. “And the pool. But I’m sure they’re there somewhere.”

He grinned. “You’re not in Amerikay now. None of that posh rubbish in Clongarvin.”

“Don’t I know it.” She smiled so they’d think she was joking. “I’d forgotten how much it rains here too.”

“So what d’you think you’ll do?” Hannah asked. “Are you moving back to Ireland?”

“Not sure yet,” Nora replied. Better be diplomatic, since they both still lived here and presumably liked it. “I’m considering
my options.”

It still amused her, how her brother and Hannah Robinson had hung around together for as long as she could remember and had
never, as far as she knew—and she was pretty sure she’d know—had any kind of a romantic fling with each other, never even
a wham-bam-thank-you-ma’am night after a couple of drinks too many.

And now here was Adam, moving in with Hannah right after her big relationship bust-up. Was he secretly hoping to be her rebound
guy? Had the thought of getting together really never occurred to either of them? Weird. Definitely weird.

And then there was the whole cupcake-shop business. It might work in New York—it
did
work in New York—but who opened a shop that sold nothing except cupcakes in a small Irish town in the middle of a serious
recession? And Hannah baking everything herself, getting up in the middle of the night, according to Adam—was she nuts? Nobody
could keep that up for long.

She and Hannah had never hung around together at school. For one thing, they were a year apart—but even if the two of them
had sat beside each other for five solid years of secondary school, Nora was willing to bet that they’d hardly have known
each other’s last name at the end of it. They were programmed differently, your original chalk-and-cheese combo.

Nora wondered idly what Hannah’s ex was like. She’d never met Patrick Dunne; their paths hadn’t crossed before she’d left
for the States. Adam had said something about his being involved with the local newspaper, but she knew nothing else about
the man, apart from the fact that he’d apparently done the dirty on Hannah.

Of course, neither of their breakups, hers or Hannah’s, had been mentioned over the quiche. Nora certainly didn’t feel like
talking about Jackson Paluzzi, and Hannah was probably just as anxious to put the newspaperman behind her.

Nora looked without appetite at the cheese selection Adam was putting on the table—insipid white cheddar, blue that wasn’t
half blue enough, Camembert that looked too firm to have been out of the fridge for very long—and thought with yearning of
chunks of Monterey Jack scattered with toasted pecans, melting slices of Swiss draped over prosciutto, Neufchâtel spread thickly
on a warm bagel, scamorza drizzled with olive oil and sprinkled with black pepper.

Hannah cut into the cheddar. “D’you see a big change in Clongarvin?”