Aisling Gayle (8 page)

“Is he here?” Aisling asked anxiously.

“Don’t worry,” he said, and his voice had an almost soothing tone to it. “I promise you I’ll handle this.”

And in that moment, Aisling suddenly knew that she was safe with this tall, quiet American man.

“Did you say he was wearing a multicoloured shirt?” he asked.

“Yes, yellow and purple,” she whispered. “Is he near?”

“I think so . . . I think he just sat down at a table behind us.”

“Oh, God!” Suddenly realising he was so close, Aisling forgot all determination about keeping calm.

“You’re OK, you’re OK,” Jameson said, “but I need you to just turn round a little . . . and look at the table behind you.”

Then Aisling felt a large, warm, comforting hand on hers. And it wasn’t Thomas’s this time. It was Jameson Carroll’s. And it felt so good and strong, and reassuring, holding hers.

“It’s just that I don’t want to make a mistake, and get the wrong poor bastard,” he said, his mouth in a sort of lopsided grin.

Then, with his hand growing tighter around hers, Aisling dared to look back.

And there, sitting behind her was the loud, colourful shirt. And the guy wearing it, with the dark hair and moustache, was casually lighting a cigarette. He inhaled on it, and then he slowly turned his gaze to meet hers. Aisling’s stomach turned as he leaned forward and raised his eyebrows in a familiar manner.

“It’s him – it’s him!” she whispered urgently, panic rising now.

That was all Jameson needed to hear. In an instant, he was out of his chair and moving towards the other table, where the weird man was lounging in his chair in a deliberately casual manner.

Aisling couldn’t bear to look. Both hands were up now, shielding her face. Eventually, she got the courage up to peep through her fingers and she saw that the man in the gaudy shirt was now up on his feet, and matched Jameson Carroll inch for inch in height.

Jameson stepped forward now and, his jaw thrust forward, began to talk right in the man’s face.

Oh God, Aisling suddenly thought again, what if the man has a gun? If anything happened to Jameson Carroll it would be all her fault!

Aisling Gayle’s fault. And her, a complete stranger who had only known his handicapped son for a couple of days. Her heart turned over. What about Thomas? She looked now up towards the counter, and could see him laughing and joking with one of the women there who was making the milkshakes

What if something terrible happened to Jameson and Thomas saw it? A gun or even a knife? Her heart thumped so hard in her throat, that she felt as though she was going to choke. As she watched the weird guy squaring up to Jameson, she knew the possibility of some kind of violence was very real . . . and so near.

Her eyes darted over in Thomas’s direction again. He was still chatting, making his diving gestures now, oblivious to the situation that was going on only yards away. Should she rush over to him and push him behind the counter, safely out of harm’s way?

Then, when she looked back again, there was only one man standing there. And it was Jameson Carroll.

He headed back to the table.

“He’s gone,” he said simply, sitting down in Thomas’s chair.

Aisling looked along the street and she could see a flash of purple and yellow disappearing into the distance.

“Relax,” he told her, his hand coming over to cover hers again. “He’s gone, and I promise you he won’t trouble you again.”

“What was it all about?” Aisling asked. “What did he want?”

Jameson’s eyebrows lifted. “You, apparently,” he said in a low voice. “He thought you might be interested in him.”

“But I didn’t – “ Aisling spluttered. “I did nothing to give him that impression. I was really rude and horrible to him . . .”

“Don’t let it rattle you any more,” Jameson said, shrugging. “He’s obviously got some kind of communication
problem – picks people up wrongly. I’ve warned him off real strongly, so you’ve nothing more to worry about.”

Without thinking about it, Aisling put her other hand on top of his and held it tightly. “I am so, so grateful,” she told
him, and he just nodded and smiled in response.

They were still sitting, hands entwined, when Thomas returned to the table with the fork that nobody wanted.

Later, Thomas reminded Aisling once again of her promise to come and see his swimming medals.

Aisling looked over at Jameson without any apprehension this time. “I would really love to see Thomas’s swimming medals. Earlier on . . . when I met you in the shop, that awful man was outside. He’d been following me from shop to shop . . .” She halted, reliving the horrible incident. “That’s the reason I was so distracted when Thomas was talking to me . . . I was absolutely terrified.”

“It’s OK.” His face was much lighter now, and the brown eyes soft and understanding. “You don’t have to explain. I get the picture . . . and it sounds as if I’m the one who should be apologising to you.” He looked at Thomas, who was happily finishing off the remains of the buns that nobody else could eat. “I was rude and abrupt with you. I thought you were just being polite because . . .” he nodded over at his son, “you know . . . the way Thomas is.”

Aisling shook her head. “No . . . not at all. It’s understandable – I can see how it looked.” She smiled over in Thomas’s direction and lowered her voice to a whisper.. “I would never treat him like that.”

Jameson slowly nodded. “I guess I’m over-sensitive . . .
but I’m used to it being the other way.” He sighed now,
and ran his hands through his hair. Then he leaned towar
ds Aisling. “Hell . . . I’m so damned rude! I didn’t even catch your name properly . . .”

“It’s Aisling,” she said, blushing. “Aisling Gayle.”

“Aisling Gayle,” he repeated. “That’s a real nice name . . .
unusual. And it’s all the way from . . .” He raised his eyebrow
s in question. “Wales? No – don’t tell me . . . Ireland?”

“Right, second time,” she laughed. “I’m Irish. I’ve come
over for the wedding. Jean’s daughter.”

“Jean – of course,” he said, jokily slapping his forehead. “I should have thought of the Irish connection. A bit obtuse of me. Did you travel alone? Or did you have company?”

Aisling looked away, knowing that he meant a husband or boyfriend. The last thing she wanted reminding of was Oliver. “I came with my parents,” she said, turning the mug and saucer round in a circle. “Jean is my mother’s sister.”

“I see,” he said, a broad smiling coming over his face. He reached out now, and took her hand in his. “Well, Aisling Gayle – I sincerely hope you don’t run into any more maniacs during the rest of your stay in America.”

“I think I might stay put out at Lake Savannah for the rest of the holiday,” she said, catching his eye and laughing now. “I’d rather take my chances with the bears than go through the experience I had today again.”

It was funny, she suddenly thought, how she now felt comfortable and relaxed with this man – the man who earlier on had made her feel so clumsy and silly. As she looked at him now, she could see that all the hostility and distrust had vanished from his eyes. Just as the fear and embarrassment must have vanished from her own.

They ordered more coffee, and sat chatting for a little longer, Aisling telling him all about the part of Ireland she came from and her work in the school, and Jameson telling her about Lake Savannah. He made no mention of a wife, alive or dead, and Aisling avoided the subject.

When it was time to go, he asked her if she’d like to go back to the Town Bookstore with him and Thomas. “It’s just that – I’m sure he’s gone – but I wouldn’t like you to bump into him again when you’re alone.”

“I’d be happy to go to the bookshop,” Aisling said. “And I’d be happier being with you two, than wandering about on my own.”

“This –” Thomas said, motioning to the empty mugs and plates, “is my treat!” He reached into the back pocket of his jeans, and took out his wallet.

“No, no,” Aisling protested, lifting her bag.

“Let him,” Jameson said, as Thomas made for the counter. “I’ve taught him to cope socially, and he needs to know how to do these things. Besides, he doesn’t spend much on himself and he enjoys paying for little things like this.”

“Okay,” Aisling agreed, “but really it should be me paying – to thank you for all you’ve done.”

“After my initial rudeness, let’s call it quits,” he said, laughing. He got to his feet now, lifting Aisling’s bags. “Look, I’ll just check Thomas is managing the money okay. Sometimes he mixes up the notes. We’ll catch you at the door.”

Aisling walked outside into the warm sunshine, once again relaxed and happy to be having a holiday in America. Then, she heard a voice calling her name.

“So this is where you’ve got to,” her mother called jovially from across the street. “We were getting worried – thinking that a strange man might have run off with you!”

Aisling turned towards them with a big smile. “You don’t know how close you are to the truth, Mother!” she said laughing.

“Why? Did something happen to you?” Maggie demanded, as the others gathered around.

Aisling then related the story of the man in the purple and yellow shirt, and how Jean’s neighbours had come to her rescue.

“Oh, my God!” Jean had exclaimed. “We’re not going to let you out of our sight for the rest of the holiday.”

“I only wish it was me who had met him,” Maggie said, “I’d have soon sorted him out.”

Declan came to put a protective arm around his daughter. “Are you all right, Aisling – did he do you any harm?”

“No, Daddy,” she reassured him, “I’m grand . . . honestly.”

Jean suddenly let a whoop of delight out as Thomas and Jameson Carroll came out of the restaurant door now. “Here come the heroes!” she said, rushing over to put her arms around Thomas.

Declan stepped forward to shake Jameson’s hand. “I thank you heartily for looking after my daughter. Both you and your son,” he said. “In a strange country anything could have happened to her.”

Jameson gave an embarrassed smile. “It was nothing, sir – and I can assure you that most of the guys over here are pretty harmless. Isn’t that right, Bruce?”

“It sure is,” Bruce agreed, nodding gravely, “but the bad guys can spoil it for the rest of us at times.”

Jameson turned to Aisling, holding out the bags of shopping. “You might miss these later,” he said, handing them to her.

“Thank you,” Aisling said, colouring up as she thought of the contents of the lingerie bag, “and thanks again for the coffee and everything . . .” She looked up at him and his deep brown eyes met hers once again.

It was only for a few moments. But in that short time, Aisling Gayle felt something stir inside her, that she had not felt for a long, long time.

Chapter 8

The following morning Aisling woke up to the sound of her mother knocking on the bedroom door. “Come on, lazybones,” she joked, coming into the room with a cup of tea for Aisling. “We’re eating outside this morning . . . you wouldn’t believe the heat already. Jean said we might find it too hot later on, so we thought we might make the best of the morning while the heat is still comfortable.”

Aisling sat up in bed, delighted to see her mother in such good form. “Who’s the chef this morning?” she joked.

“Me,” Maggie said, sitting down on the bottom of the bed. “I’m trying my hand at the pancakes this morning – just to keep Jean happy. You know the Yanks. They like to make a big issue out of nothing. Anyway . . .” she absentmindedly ran a hand over the blanket, checking what material it was made out of, “there’s no harm in learning how to cook different things.”

“The change is good for us all,” Aisling said carefully. She took a sip of the hot tea.

“Are you okay, Aisling?” Maggie suddenly asked, her face creased in concern. “Did you get an awful fright yesterday?”

Aisling shrugged, and tucked one wing of her blonde hair behind her ear. “I’m grand now,” she said quietly, putting the cup of tea down on the little bedside locker, “but I was really frightened by the time I met up with Thomas . . . and his father.” For some reason, Aisling found herself self-conscious about calling Jameson Carroll by his name.

Maggie nodded. “Thanks be to God you did meet them,” she said, her voice croaky.

Then, she suddenly moved up on the bed, and, in a most uncustomary gesture of affection, she gently put her arms around Aisling’s neck. “Thank God you’re safe, Aisling . . . I’d die if anything happened to you . . . and so would Oliver Gayle.” Then, she lowered her head and kissed Aisling on the cheek.

“Honestly, Mammy, I’m fine.” Aisling was almost breathless with shock.

Maggie sat back on the bed now, and took Aisling by the hand. “I know he has his faults,” she said, “but he’s not the worst – he doesn’t keep you short of anything. And though you might not think it,” she rushed on now, “I’m sure underneath it all, that he worships the ground you walk on.”

Aisling picked her teacup up again and said nothing. What was there to say? What man – who supposedly worshipped the ground his wife walked on – would behave like an old tom-cat?