Loving Irish Page 2

  “I…can’t. Not yet.”

  “Huh,” murmured Tierney. “Does that mean it’s serious?”

  “Yeah, Tier,” he said softly. “It does.”

  She didn’t press him further as they walked silently to the row of cabins and changed out the used towels for new.

  It was something that Ian dearly loved about his sister—that she would keep his confidence, even though she didn’t have details. She knew that whomever Ian was seeing, the girl was important to her brother, and that was enough for her.

  Halcyon Gilbert had been on Ian’s radar for years—her bright smile free of any machinations. She was genuine and deep, authentic in a sea of girls who often seemed shallow and self-serving. He’d always liked her, but he hadn’t been attracted to her until she stepped off the bus from Boston in June. And then? Holy Lord, his whole world had come to a screeching stop.

  Now the girl who he’d always considered a cut above her peers in personality was scorching hot to boot, and he couldn’t tear his eyes away or stop his body from wanting her on the spot. That said, Hallie wasn’t the type of girl with whom he could have a summer fling. The way her eyes held his, the careful way she chose her words and the earnest way she delivered them, even the sassy way she called him “Irish”—everything about her was girlfriend material, and for the first time in Ian’s life, he loved the idea of being someone’s boyfriend. He didn’t want to be a conquest or a bit of summer fun. He wanted something far deeper altogether. He wanted to belong to her.

  “Ian, whatever you’re doing,” said Tierney as they placed the last of the clean towels in the final cottage, “be careful, huh?”

  “Yeah. Yeah, of course.”

  Tierney’s green eyes, identical to his own, searched his with worry. “I mean it.”

  “I know you do,” he said, looking away, putting his hands on his hips.

  He felt a little defensive, which was unusual for Ian. His personality didn’t lend itself to high-strung traits—he was too laid-back to let most things raise his dander. But this was different. This was Hallie. And he loved her madly.

  “Okay,” his sister whispered, her voice filled with uncertainty.

  Ian watched her walk away, an unfamiliar—and wholly unlikable—feeling of anxiety leeching into his heart as he thought about his plans for later: tomorrow was Hallie’s seventeenth birthday, but they would be celebrating tonight. All night long.

  In an old picnic basket hidden on the upper level of the barn, he’d already stashed two bottles of white wine from his parent’s stock, wineglasses, her favorite cookies, a couple of soft, fleece blankets, candles, condoms, and his gift for Hallie in a little white box. It had cost him half of his summer allowance, but it was worth every penny. She deserved such a fine gift, and he couldn’t wait to see her blue eyes sparkle when she opened it. He’d pick her some wild flowers from the east side of camp on his way to the barn and arrange them when he got there.

  It wouldn’t be Ian’s first time tonight, but it would be hers, and he wanted it to be as perfect as possible, in part, because Ian though of this summer—of every moment he spent with Hallie—as a beginning of something much bigger. He wasn’t given to feelings as serious as the ones he had for Hallie, but he also couldn’t deny them. He wanted their relationship to last beyond Summerhaven, beyond New Hampshire, strong enough to withstand their separation in September when she left for Stanford and he’d be starting at Boston University. Ian wasn’t delusional. He knew that it would take effort to turn a summer love into a forever love, but he couldn’t even picture a girl he’d want or love—ever want, ever love—as much as he wanted and loved Halcyon Gilbert.

  One day, she’ll be Halcyon Gilbert Haven.

  He gazed at the lake as he repeated the words over and over again in his head, promising them to himself with every throbbing beat of his seventeen-year-old heart and hoping that tonight was another step toward making that dream come true.

  CHAPTER 1

  Present Day

  “Mr. Haven? Darn it all, is this thing working? Mr., um, Haven? Are you somewhere out there? Over?”

  Ian smiled at the familiar voice of Miranda Toffle, the longtime receptionist of the Summerhaven Conference and Event Center, as he reached for the walkie-talkie sitting on the sunny dock.

  He pressed down on the side button with wet fingers. “Here, Ms. T. Whassup?”

  “Oh! There you are. Mr. Haven, your cousin has arrived. Over.”

  “Fin’s here? Damn! He’s early!”

  “Yes. A full day early. He flew space-available from Shannon this morning and called an Oobuh to get here from Manchester. Over.”

  Ian chuckled, wondering if Mrs. Toffle had any idea what an “Uber” was and guessing the answer was probably no.

  The lake water swirled around his waist, not as cold as the air, but quickly getting there with each passing day. By the end of October, it would be too cold for these kinds of jobs, and with Rory spending more and more time in Boston and on the road, Ian and his assistant manager, Doug, just weren’t able to handle everything. His cousin, Finian, arriving on a six-month work visa from Ireland, would be welcome help.

  “Tell him to cool his jets, Ms. T.…or better yet, tell him to get his jetlagged ass—er, um, butt down here and help me get this dam—um, dang dock out of the lake.”

  “I will relay your message. Over.” After a pause, she spoke again, but not to Ian. “Hmm. Come again, Mr. Kelley? I didn’t get that. Once more?” Finian’s accent was strong, and Ian imagined Mrs. Toffle squinting her eyes at Fin as she tried to make out what he was saying. “Yes. Yes, I understand. Mr. Haven? Mr. Kelley says to tell you, póg mo thóin. Over.”

  Ian guffawed with laughter. Somehow, his cousin had just gotten straight-laced Miranda Toffle to say “kiss my ass” in Irish. Damnú!

  “Tell him I’ll be up in a little bit,” he said, choking back more laughter.

  “Very good. Over and out.”

  Placing his hands flat on the boards of the dock, Ian lifted his body from the lake—all two-hundred-and-twenty-five pounds of muscled flesh, tanned from a summer of working outside. As the water sluiced down his body, pooling beside the walkie-talkie, he pushed it gently away, reaching for the towel he’d brought along.

  It was sixty-six degrees in the bright afternoon sun, but it was supposed to go down to fifty flat tonight, and before the lake started to freeze, he needed to get the last of the docks hauled onto land.

  This was precisely the sort of job that Finian could give Ian a hand with tomorrow.

  “Fuck it fer now,” he muttered, rubbing the water from his legs, stomach, chest, and arms. His bathing suit trunks would dry quickly as he walked back up to the office, and he threw a sun-warmed Summerhaven polo over his head, sighing with pleasure at the heat against his cool skin.

  Because today was a Wednesday, he and Fin would head over to Tierney’s place for dinner tonight. Hopefully Tierney and Burr wouldn’t mind hanging out with their young cousin while Ian attended his weekly AA meeting at eight o’clock in Sandwich.

  It was six months and two weeks since Ian had arrived on Tierney’s doorstep on April 1st, tearing her place apart after she’d poured out the vodka he’d brought with him. With the help and support of his siblings, Ian had made a fateful decision that night: to pursue sobriety. In two more days, Ian would meet the two-hundred-day mark—the longest he’d been sober since he started drinking ten years ago, the summer he was seventeen years old.

  He was grateful for the love and encouragement of his siblings, but even more, he was proud of himself. The road to sobriety was a perilous journey, a day by day—sometimes even hour by hour or, when cravings hit, minute by minute—challenge that many a recovering addict couldn’t walk. But through the grace of God, Ian was walking. One foot in front of the other. One day. Five. Fifty. One hundred. Two hundred. Almost there.

  “I’ll never go back,” he said softly, watching the way the sunlight danced like diamonds on the surface
of the lake. “Never.”

  Balling up the damp towel in his mitt-like hands, he reached for the walkie-talkie and clipped it to the waistband of his wet trunks, then headed up the path to greet Fin.

  ***

  “When’ll Rory be back, now?” asked Finian, sitting across from Ian at Tierney’s kitchen table.

  Ian looked to his right, raising an eyebrow at Tierney, who had gotten into the habit of talking to Rory’s fiancée, Brittany, almost every day.

  “On Saturday. And they plan to stay local ’til the wedding.”

  “Saturday,” said Fin. “That’s grand. Haven’t seen Rory in ages.”

  “Not that they’ll come up for air for a day or two,” said Ian, giving Finian a look. “There’s a lot of love going on in that old chapel apartment. I like to bang pots and pans as I arrive so I don’t walk in on anything.”

  “You’re so gross,” said Tierney to Ian. Then she turned to Finian with a cringe. “But Ian’s right. To be safe, always assume they’re…busy. And never, ever walk in without knocking. You’re liable to get an eyeful.”

  Tierney’s boyfriend, Burr, who was a police officer in nearby Center Harbor, chuckled as he winked at her from across the table. “Same rule should be followed here, boys.”

  Ian snickered as his sister’s cheeks flared with heat, two bright spots of red coloring her milky skin.

  “Is minic a gheibhean beal oscailt diog dunta,” she warned her boyfriend in sharp-tongued Irish, which only made him smile wider. Be careful your open mouth doesn’t catch my fist.

  “Ha!” said Burr, raising his glass to Tierney with an adoring smile, which was totally at odds with the fierceness of his tattoo, which peeked out of the neckline of his white T-shirt and read Destroyer. “What a woman.”

  “Ya’ let her talk t’ ya’ like that?” asked Finian, who, at twenty-four, was a few years younger than the twenty-seven-year-old Haven siblings.

  “Boyo, she can talk to me however the hell she pleases,” answered Burr, still holding Tierney’s eyes across the table. “I belong to her.”

  “Ugh!” cried Ian, gagging. “First, Rory and Britt, and now you two. I’m surrounded by saps. Will you two get a room already?”

  “Great idea,” said Burr, pushing away from the table.

  “I was kidding,” said Ian. “Actually, I have to get to my meeting. I was hoping one of you could give Fin a ride back to camp when he’s ready.”

  “’Course we can give him a ride,” said Tierney. She turned to Ian, her green eyes the same shade and color as his. She reached out and took his hand, squeezing his fingers. “Proud of you, Ian. So proud.”

  That was Tierney.

  Always supportive.

  No matter what. No matter how many times Ian had fucked up over the years, his sister had always been there for him, and he’d go to his grave wondering how someone as good as Tierney had ended up in the same womb as him. But he’d also be on his knees in thanks that it was so.

  He kissed her cheek, high-fived Burr and told Fin he’d seen him back at camp, then headed to his truck.

  Ian rolled down his window on the way to Sandwich, familiar with the route he’d taken every Wednesday night since he’d started attending Alcoholics Anonymous meetings back in April. He attended a meeting in Moultonborough on Monday night, Tuesdays and Thursday nights in Laconia before hockey practice in Gilford, Wednesdays in Sandwich, and the Wolfeboro meeting on Friday. In the beginning, he’d also attended meetings on Saturday and Sunday nights, but after six months, he’d allowed himself to drop weekend meetings, and so far, so good. If he ever felt the inclination to backslide, he’d add those meetings back into his schedule.

  Many recovering alcoholics, upon joining AA, were surprised to learn that the organization suggested “a meeting a day” for the first ninety days of recovery, which led to the sort of habit-making that created a lifelong attendee. For Ian, the meetings were nonnegotiable. His siblings were amazing, but it was the people he met in AA—at all stages of their recovery—that most strongly impacted his sobriety and will to continue.

  In part, his co-survivors acted as a reminder of what lay in wait, should he resume his alcoholic lifestyle. They were people like Ian, who had lost their jobs and found themselves living on the streets. Or others, who’d lost spouses or children because of destructive behavior. Some had driven while drunk and hurt someone. Some had been arrested multiple times for drunken disorderly behavior, disturbing the peace, public urination, or worse.

  The life Ian had rebuilt for himself in New Hampshire was clean and neat—he had a good job managing Summerhaven, a nice apartment, and biweekly family dinners with his brother and sister. He fostered dogs for a local shelter when needed and played goalie on a hockey team he loved. It would be easy to trick himself into believing that the sweet life he had now had always been his; but if he did that, one day, after a winning game, he might have a beer with his teammates. Why not? Just one. Just one beer like a normal guy with a normal life couldn’t hurt.

  Except it would.

  It would ruin his life all over again. It would undo all the work he’d done in achieving and maintaining his sobriety. Meetings reminded him that he was only one sip from relapse. Did it suck to have to remind himself daily? On one hand, yeah, it did. Sometimes he was in a great mood around seven forty-five, and he didn’t want to go to an overlit church basement for an hour and listen to someone talk about their upcoming divorce, or the fact that they couldn’t see their kids anymore, or that the bank had just repossessed their house, or that they’d been fired for coming in late one too many times.

  It was depressing as hell—and just plain sad. There were many, many nights he’d prefer to skip a meeting and just linger at Tierney’s table or sack out in front of the TV at his apartment.

  But he was also certain that skipping meetings would be the beginning of the end for his sobriety. He needed to remember his drunk life, his addict life. He needed to remember sleeping on sidewalks, being kicked in the gut by passing college kids for fun, and throwing up in the gutter. He needed to remember the worried looks in Rory and Tierney’s eyes and that when his mother had had her stoke several years ago, they hadn’t been able to find him for days. He needed to remember the way his principal looked when he fired Ian from his coaching job—sorry as hell but left with no options after Ian had arrived drunk to a high school match.

  Sure, Ian was in recovery now. But he needed to remember then.

  And meetings helped him to remember.

  He parked his car in the church parking lot and headed down the now-familiar stairs to the basement, waving hello to familiar faces and pouring himself a cup of coffee before taking a seat.

  “Hey, Ian,” greeted his friend, Shandie, with whom he’d gone to high school. “How was your week?”

  “Real good,” he said. “You?”

  “Okay,” she said, but he could tell from the way she averted her eyes that it wasn’t.

  He patted the empty seat beside him. “Tell me what happened.”

  She sighed, sitting down and twisting the wedding ring on her left hand. “Dale got a new job.”

  “That sounds like good news, actually.”

  She looked up, her eyes bleak. “His new boss sent a bottle of champagne to the house.”

  “Oh,” said Ian, grimacing at his friend. “So…what did you do?”

  “I brought it inside, and I stared at it. I mean, I stared at the shiny, red-and-white Bollinger box. My mouth was watering. My hands started to shake.”

  Ian nodded with understanding and empathy.

  Shandie had stopped drinking six months ago after her husband, Dale, had threatened to take away their toddler, Lucy, and start divorce proceedings. The saddest thing about her story was that she’d started drinking after having her daughter. She’d been lonesome at home, with only her baby for company.

  Once she started making friends with other at-home moms, cocktail hour had figured prominently into their gatherings. At f
irst, it was harmless. A glass of bubbly to celebrate getting through another tough day of motherhood. Maybe two. But over time, Shandie found herself opening three bottles, four, five, and finishing most of them on her own. She found herself driving home intoxicated with Lucy in the back seat. As she made dinner, she’d drink more, slurring her words by the time Dale got home from work.

  Little by little, she’d lost the few friends she’d made—embarrassing them with her behavior. They stopped inviting her to playdates and “cocktail hour,” but that didn’t stop Shandie from drinking at home, alone. One day, Dale came home to find her on the kitchen floor—a pool of blood around her head. She’d started drinking in the morning and had probably fallen around ten, hitting her head on the kitchen counter and passing out with a concussion. Lucy had screamed from her crib for hours, hungry and dirty, but Shandie hadn’t heard her daughter’s cries.

  Two days later, with a bandage on her forehead, she’d walked into the basement of the Moultonborough Methodist Church.

  Six months later, she was sober, but gifts—like an unexpected bottle of champagne—could ruin all the progress she’d made, and Ian was worried for her.

  “What next?” Ian prompted her, bracing himself for the worst.

  She gulped. “I took it out of the box, you know? I put the bottle on the living room table, and I sat down on the couch and I stared at it. I touched it. Like, I caressed it—the glass, which is fucking nuts.”

  “No, it’s not.”

  “It was cold. The—the, um, glass bottle. It was so cool under my fingertips, I guess because they’d delivered it to the front door, which is in the shade. Anyway, my mouth started to water because I remember how good it was—I mean, I didn’t want to, but…”

  “Shandie, did you—?”

  “No!” she said, shaking her head. “I picked it up, took it out to the garage and put it in the garbage. I took Lucy to the park, called Dale, and told him to get rid of it.”