Semi-Sweet (14 page)

Alice bundled the envelopes together and brought them into the kitchen. Two for Tom, the gas bill and a bank statement. Three
for her—a Visa bill, a postcard from Sheila Barrett, home from the Canaries for the past week, and one with a catering-company
logo in the top corner that she vaguely recognized.

She laid the envelopes on the table before fishing Tom’s boiled egg out of the simmering water and setting it into one of
the yellow pottery eggcups with chicken feet that Ellen had given them years ago as an anniversary present.

She put the butter dish into the microwave and cut two slices of brown bread. She dropped three tea bags into the teapot,
waited for the kettle to click off, and made the tea. She took marmalade and milk from the fridge and went to the kitchen
door and called “Tom?”

She sat at the table and turned the postcard over.
“Having a lovely time,”
Sheila had written.
“Very warm.
Bit of a trek to the beach, so we’re staying put by the pool. See you soon.”
The picture was of a platter of seafood on a blue-and-white-checked tablecloth.

She opened the envelope from the catering company. Its director turned out to be a woman she knew slightly from meetings of
local businesswomen that took place each month, which Alice attended sporadically. She was invited to purchase tickets to
a dinner-dance that was being organized to raise funds for a dialysis machine for Clongarvin’s hospital.
“I’m sure you’ll want to support this very worthy cause,”
the director had written,
“and if you can rally your friends, too, so much the better.”
The event was scheduled for a date in late March and would be held in a local hotel.
“Sponsorship is generously being provided by various local businesses, which means that all proceeds on the night will go
directly toward the cost of this vital machine.”
The letter went on to mention a champagne reception before the meal and spot prizes throughout the evening.

A champagne reception—and no doubt plenty of sponsored wine with the dinner, and more alcohol available at the bar afterward.
Alice heard Tom’s footsteps on the stairs and pushed letter and envelope under the others.

“Morning, love,” she said. He’d never been at his best in the first few hours of the day—that was nothing new.

“Morning.” He sat and topped his egg. He didn’t normally shave till after breakfast. She hated the stubble: it made his face
look dirty.

“It’s nice out today,” she said. They had to chat a bit at the table; she couldn’t sit there in silence, even if Tom’s end
of the conversation was mostly grunts. “The forecast says no rain, so I’m going to chance putting out the clothes before we
head off.”

She wouldn’t say anything about the dinner-dance. She’d have to support it—she’d buy two tickets and ask Geraldine if she
and Stephen would go instead. She’d say Tom wasn’t feeling his best, a bit run-down at the moment. She’d be quite happy to
pay: She’d call it an early Easter present.

He eyed the saltcellar on her side of the table, and she passed it over to him. A bottle of wine every night, par for the
course now. And more often than not, a gin and tonic before dinner for him too. The other evening when he’d gone to answer
the phone, she’d taken a sip of the gin and tonic. It had been hard to taste the tonic.

And he snored every night—when had that started? He snored, and his breath was sour in the morning.

“You’re not eating,” he said, and she picked up her knife and began to butter her toast.

“Miles away,” she said, smiling at him.

You wouldn’t call the trip a disaster, exactly, but it hadn’t gone quite as Patrick had hoped. It had begun on the flight
to Paris, when Leah’s asthma had acted up slightly.

“Did you pack an inhaler?” she’d asked him, and of course he hadn’t. It hadn’t occurred to him, because she hadn’t had an
attack in months, not since shortly after they’d met. So their first hour in Paris had been spent finding an all-night pharmacy
and trying to explain about the pregnancy and about the medication her doctor had recommended in the event of an attack. Hardly
the most romantic of starts.

The hotel was a disappointment too. Farther from the city center than Patrick had understood and distinctly lacking in friendliness.
They’d made the best of it, of course. They’d taken advantage of the large Jacuzzi bath, and they’d ordered breakfast in bed
from the unsmiling concierge, and Leah had bought horrendously overpriced but wonderfully saucy underwear in the small, dangerous
gift shop.

The weather was very cold, which he’d been expecting from the previous year. He’d packed plenty of woolens, and they made
frequent stops for
chocolat chaud
during the day, but Leah still shivered violently after just a few minutes outdoors. Patrick made a mental note to go south
for any future winter breaks.

The restaurant they picked for dinner on Valentine’s night was unremarkable. Leah’s pot-au-feu was fatty and Patrick counted
three mussels in his bouillabaisse. The violinist who wandered among the tables stared openly at Leah’s breasts as he played,
making her uncomfortable. Patrick consoled himself with the thought that only he was aware of the silk-and-lace confections
that lay underneath the black wool dress, and only he would have the pleasure of removing them later.

In the plane on the way home, her hand stole under his blanket, but for once her touch had no effect. “Never mind,” she said,
taking out her magazine, but Patrick did mind. He minded that he’d spent far too much on a mediocre few days. He minded that
her mother despised him. He minded how terrifying he found the notion that in four months or so he’d be a father.

“I’m just tired,” he told her, and closed his eyes.

“Hello again.”

He wore a pale blue denim shirt under a rust-colored V-necked sweater. Hannah decided that the almost-shaved head suited him.
His eyes were halfway between blue and green. She was glad her mother wasn’t there to see him turn up again, to put two and
two together and come up with eighteen.

“I called to say thank you,” he said. “I got a phone call yesterday from someone who’d picked up one of my leaflets here.”

“That’s good. I’ve seen a few people taking them. Well, I’m glad to have been of assistance.” She still thought she’d seen
him somewhere else, and she still couldn’t remember where.

“You certainly
were
of assistance. And while I’m here,” he said, scanning the samples on the stand, “let me take some more of these delicious
cupcakes off your hands.”

“You mustn’t feel obliged to keep buying them,” she said. “Really, you don’t have to.” If her mother could hear her.

“Not at all. They’re a lot cheaper than taking out an ad.”

“I suppose they are.” She liked the dimple in his left cheek when he smiled. “In that case, what can I get you?”

He selected three and watched as she arranged them in a box. “Do you really make them all yourself?”

“I certainly do, in the small hours. I have it down to a fine art.”

“I’ll say—you must have tons of energy.”

She laughed. “More like gallons of coffee—and the knowledge that if I don’t bake them, I’ll have nothing to sell.”

“Aye, that would do it.” He took his wallet from his jeans pocket. “I see you don’t have your trusty assistant with you today.”

Hannah made a wry face. “My mother—sorry about that. You were lucky to escape alive.”

He grinned. “Ah, no, she was fine.”

“She doesn’t work here. She has her own job. She just happened to drop in that day. But I am going to take on someone part-time,
when I can get around to it.” She handed him the box and took the bill he held out. “Whereabouts in Scotland are you from?”

“A wee island called Bute, off the west coast,” he told her. “I daresay you’ll not have heard of it.”

“No.”

She wondered what had brought him to Ireland. He’d mentioned that his mother was Irish—maybe he was simply exploring his roots.
Or maybe he’d met an Irish girl in Scotland and followed her back here. She counted out his change. “Thanks a lot. Enjoy them,
now.”

“I will.” He tucked his wallet away and put out his hand. “We’ve not been properly introduced. You know I’m John Wyatt, and
I think your mum mentioned your name, but I’m afraid I’ve forgotten it.”

“Hannah Robinson,” she said. His hand was warm. “Nice to meet you.”

When he’d gone, she checked the time. Ten past four—still most of an hour to go. She must get some music for the shop. Even
a little radio would do to kill the awful silence between customers.

And she must definitely take on a part-timer. Now that Adam was sharing the house and helping out financially, she could manage
to pay someone for a couple of hours, two or three mornings a week. The bliss of being able to walk out at ten and just sit
somewhere with a coffee, or wander through the shops or down by the river. A chance to do nothing—that was all she wanted.
And she thought she had found someone who might make a good assistant.

The shop door opened.

“I don’t believe it,” Hannah said. “I was just thinking about you.”

Una Connolly smiled. “Were you really?”

“Good news,” Geraldine said. “We’re going to a dinner-dance.”

“A dinner-dance?” Stephen eyed her over his glasses. “How exactly is that good news?”

“Well, for one thing it’s to benefit a very worthy cause—a dialysis machine for the hospital.”

“Which is good news for dialysis patients.” He poured sauce over his chicken breast. “I’m waiting to hear how it’s good for
me.”

Geraldine spooned cabbage onto their plates. “It’s good because we got the tickets for free.”

“I see. So we personally are not, in fact, helping to provide the hospital with a dialysis machine.”

“Well, no—but that’s beside the point. Have you enough mash?”

“Yes, thanks. So who’s giving us this wonderful treat?”

“Don’t be sarcastic. Alice bought the tickets. She got a letter about it and felt obliged to buy some, but apparently Tom
isn’t feeling up to it, so she asked if we’d go instead.”

Stephen frowned. “Tom isn’t feeling up to it? Since when?” He reached for the butter dish.

“I’ve already added butter to those potatoes. Well, that’s what Alice told me. Apparently he’s run-down. She’s going to put
him on a tonic.”

“He didn’t look run-down to me today. He hasn’t been off sick for as long as I can remember. He’s as healthy as I am.”

“Well, that’s what I thought too, but I didn’t like to contradict her. Maybe he’s just putting on a brave front.” She sprinkled
black pepper on her chicken.

“Maybe he just doesn’t want to go, more like it. When’s it on?”

“Not for ages, the end of March. The last Thursday, I think.” She refilled their water glasses. “I’ll drop your dinner jacket
into the cleaner’s tomorrow.” She set down the jug. “Stephen, don’t say anything to Tom—there might be another reason that
Alice isn’t telling me.”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know—maybe they’re going through a bad patch or something. I just think it might be better if you said nothing.”

Stephen sighed heavily and added a wedge of butter to his mash, and Geraldine decided that it might be wise to let it pass.