Fighting Irish Page 3

“This is she. Mr. Haven?”

  “Yes. Just checking in.”

  “I’m on my way. Should be there on time for our appointment,” she said, wondering how much Mr. Haven had changed over the past decade since she was last at Summerhaven.

  The Haven family, who owned and ran the camp, had seemed omnipresent at Summerhaven—everywhere and yet nowhere at the same time. They would be in the dining room when meals began but slip out as the campers took their assigned seats. They would drive a van of campers to the local historic center but wait outside in the parking lot while the campers took a tour. They would slip out of a cabin holding an armful of dirty linens and disappear down an unmarked path that led to the laundry. Mostly, they blended in, as much a part of the camp as the woods or the lake, intrinsic to the experience itself.

  Except…

  Except Rory.

  Rory Haven wouldn’t really “blend in” anywhere.

  Brittany remembered how hard her heart would flutter when she caught sight of handsome Rory. She couldn’t ever remember him smiling at her, but that hadn’t kept her from developing a wild crush on him for four consecutive summers, always vying for a glimpse of him and savoring the infrequent moments when she could quietly observe him.

  He had felt utterly off-limits to her, which only added to his allure. With muscles that none of her own peers boasted, cheeks carved from marble, and shaggy dark-brown hair that flopped sinfully over his forehead to cover his emerald eyes, she had often wondered, in later years, if she’d dreamed him or embellished him. He couldn’t have possibly been that beautiful, could he?

  Sighing over her memories, she shifted her thoughts back to Rory’s father, Mr. Haven, remembering his warm, friendly smile and how he’d gently admonish the teenage girls when they’d gotten into mischief. His wife, Mrs. Haven, on the other hand, was a holy terror with a razor-sharp tongue who had no problem sending wayward children back to their parents if they didn’t behave at Summerhaven. You didn’t want to get on her bad side, but Mr. Haven? Brittany remembered him as a big bearded teddy bear, and she looked forward to renewing his acquaintance now, as an adult woman, and thanking him for his hospitality over several memorable summers.

  Pushing her recollections aside, she tuned back into their conversation.

  “…would be nice,” Mr. Haven was saying, “if you’d join me for lunch. We have a large group coming in this afternoon around four o’clock, and the smells coming out of the kitchen are…well, frankly, mouth-watering.”

  “Oh.” She hesitated a moment, wondering if Mrs. Haven, with her inscrutable, hawklike stare, would be joining them too. “Um, I hadn’t planned on—”

  “It really would be a great opportunity for you to test out Chef Jamie’s skills,” he added.

  “Will Mrs. Haven be joining us as well?”

  “Mrs.—oh, um, no.” He paused for a moment, then added, “There is no Mrs. Haven.”

  “Oh, dear,” she said, cringing at this news. Poor Mr. Haven. Despite his wife’s cool disposition, Brittany had seen them walking down the main path in the evening, hand in hand, more than once. He had always seemed genuinely fond of her, and Brittany imagined her passing had been very painful for him. “I’m so sorry.”

  Mr. Haven chuckled softly. “Well, I’m not ruling out a Mrs. Haven…someday.”

  Well, you’ve gotten over the loss of your first wife mighty fast, she thought, feeling a little bit disappointed in Mr. Haven, and in herself, for misjudging their devotion to one another.

  “So…lunch?” he asked.

  Brittany reminded herself that Mr. Haven’s marital status, or lack thereof, wasn’t her concern, and her stomach growled to let her know that his invitation was both timely and welcome.

  “Right. Well, sure. Yes. Lunch sounds lovely. Thank you. Any chance Chef Jamie is whipping up a wedding cake I can sample?” she joked.

  “No, I’m afraid not. But if you do end up booking your event with us, we’ll have you and your fiancé back up for a complete tasting based on your preferences and choices.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Of course. We aim to offer complete luxury in a rustic setting. Drive safely. See you soon, Miss Mathison.”

  Ms., she thought, though she didn’t correct his innocent mistake. However, she did remind herself—for the hundredth time—that she needed to send in the paperwork to have Mathison dropped from her legal name so she could officially be Brittany Manion Parker in the very near future.

  “See you soon, Mr. Haven.”

  The line went quiet, and a moment later Peter Sallett’s voice filled the car again with the words, I’m through with waiting…and hesitating. I want you taking this heart…of…mine.

  And Brittany stepped on the gas, ever closer to the place of her best memories that would host the wedding of her dreams.

  CHAPTER 3

  Rory hung up the phone, then grimaced. “Shit!”

  He’d forgotten to ask Miss Mathison how she’d heard about Summerhaven. Oh, well. He’d be certain to ask her when she arrived. No doubt he owed an ex-camper a debt of gratitude for mentioning it to her, and Havens paid their debts.

  He grinned as he walked back toward the dining room to prepare a table for their luncheon. He didn’t know how old she was, but he’d bet she was over forty. She seemed very formal, calling him Mr. Haven in her cultured, but almost obsolete, Brahmin accent.

  He’d heard that accent enough in his childhood to know it meant money.

  Hmm, he thought, swinging open the door to the dining room, maybe I should Google her before she arrives and see if she’s someone who should already be on my radar?

  He’d barely had a free moment to do anything but prepare for this weekend’s conference, but he was free for a little while before she arrived. Taking out his phone, he tapped on the Chrome app just as it rang.

  Tierney.

  “Tierney? What’s up?”

  She sighed, long and hard. “Ian. That’s what.”

  “Shiiiite,” he murmured, their mother’s favorite curse word coming back effortlessly, as it always did when he was speaking with his brother or sister. “Tell me.”

  “He showed up at my place last night. After midnight. Scared me to death banging on the back door of the cottage.”

  Warring feelings of relief and anger flooded Rory. He was glad that his brother had finally turned up, but not too thrilled that he’d terrified Tierney by waking her up in the middle of the night.

  “Where the hell’s he been since November?”

  “Who knows?” she said. “He was barely coherent when he got here. An Uber dropped him off and I had to help him inside. He’s still sleeping it off in the guest room.”

  Rory didn’t need to ask what “it” was. Ian’s drinking habits since college had only worsened. Over the last six years, he’d spent two more stints in rehab and been arrested several times in Boston for drunken disorderly conduct. And last fall, he’d finally lost his job as a high school ice hockey coach after showing up intoxicated to a game and shoving a ref. Soon after, he’d become homeless, and since then, it had been incoherent, rambling voice mail messages on his and Tierney’s phones, with very little rhyme or reason.

  “Did you go through his bag?”

  “Of course.”

  “And?”

  “Half a full-sized bottle of vodka and a bunch of airplane-sized bottles of—”

  “Doesn’t matter.”

  “I poured it all down the sink.”

  “Good girl.” He took a deep breath and ran his fingers through his hair. “What have you got there?”

  “You know me better than that,” said his sister. “Even the cough syrup I had went to the dump this morning.”

  Rory nodded. Both he and Tierney knew the drill. Ian had even been known to drink red wine vinegar when he was desperate. It all had to go in the trash the moment he landed at one of their homes.

  Rory looked at his watch. Miss Mathison would be here in about forty-five minutes, but Ti
erney only lived ten minutes away, in the caretaker’s cottage at Moonstone Manor, a historic landmark in neighboring Moultonborough, New Hampshire. She was the caretaker and curator of the estate museum, which was located on five thousand semi-isolated acres owned by the state.

  “Need me to come over?”

  “Yes,” she said without hesitation. “But not right this minute. He’s dead to the world. Later. When he’s up. How about six? You could bring dinner?”

  Tonight wasn’t terrific, frankly. Forty conference attendees would be arriving between four and five o’clock, and Rory needed to be at Summerhaven to greet them and help settle them in.

  But family came first for the Haven triplets. Always had. Always would. No matter what.

  “Can we make it seven, Tier? I have a group coming in—”

  “Damnú,” she cursed in Gaelic. “I forgot about that! I can handle Ian. Don’t worry about—”

  “Stop. I’ll be there at seven. I promise.”

  “Okay then, Rory. Tá grá agam ort.”

  “Love you too,” he answered, ending the call before shoving his phone in the back pocket of his jeans with a long sigh. “Damnú, Ian.”

  When was this going to stop? When would Ian finally get well? Get his life back on track? Make something of himself? Rory loved Ian—loved his brother like his own arm or leg or heart. But loving someone as destructive as Ian was exhausting.

  But there would be enough time to focus on Ian when he got to Tierney’s place tonight. For now, he needed to set an elegant table for Miss Mathison and put his best foot forward. If he didn’t, he could kiss his own dreams farewell.

  ***

  Brittany turned into the parking lot marked “Visitors,” enjoying the crunch of her wheels over the uneven dirt and pebbles. Exiting her car, she raised her arms over her head and stretched, shrugging out of her red cashmere cardigan and tying it around her waist.

  Underneath, she wore a pair of Balmain skinny jeans, and on top, a Brooks Brothers button-down shirt in dress Stewart plaid. Traditional Bass penny loafers without socks rounded out her preppy outfit. Reaching back, she gathered her honey-blonde hair at the base of her neck and wound it into a loose bun, then reached back into the car for her purse and slung it over her shoulder.

  “Please Check In at the Office” advised a dark-brown sign with bright white letters and an arrow pointing to the large administrative building that Brittany recognized.

  Breathing deeply, she grinned as she walked from the parking lot to the main office. Despite the fact that the sign outside the camp now read “Summerhaven Conference and Event Center” instead of “Summerhaven Camp for Children,” as it used to, it still smelled the same. Fir trees and fresh air, the lumber used to build the cabins, and the leftover smoke from a thousand magical campfires—it made Brittany inexplicably happy.

  As she pulled open the screen door to the office, it squeaked cheerfully on decades-old hinges, conjuring more happy memories. Awash in nostalgia, Brittany smiled at the white-haired receptionist who looked up from her desk.

  “Hi, there,” she said. “I’m—”

  “Brittany Mathison, I should think,” said the older woman, standing up and extending her hand over the polished pine counter. “I’m Miranda Toffle. We spoke on the phone.”

  “Of course! I remember you, Mrs. Toffle! You were here when I was a camper.”

  “Hold on, now. Were you a camper here, dear?”

  “Yes,” said Brittany, squeezing Mrs. Toffle’s hand once more before letting it go. “For four years when I was a teenager.”

  “And here I thought I had an elephant’s memory. I don’t remember any Mathison girl camping here. Just a family of, uh, six brothers who came up for a few years. Hmm. Wait, now. Was it five or—? Nope. Six. It was six. I’m sure of it.”

  “So am I,” said Brittany, leaning forward just a little and lowering her voice conspiratorially. “I was married to one of them.”

  “You don’t say!”

  “I do,” she said, giggling softly at Mrs. Toffle’s surprised face. “My maiden name was Manion.”

  “Oh!” Mrs. Toffle gasped. “Manion. Brittany Manion! Of course! You were here for—let me see—2004 through 2007, right?”

  “Exactly right! My goodness, you do have an elephant’s memory!”

  “I pride myself on it,” said Mrs. Toffle. “Welcome back to Summerhaven, Brittany Manion!”

  “It’s changed.”

  “From a camp to a conference center? My, land! Yes.”

  “Do you mind my asking why?”

  “I suppose Mr. Haven could answer you better than I,” said Mrs. Toffle, gracefully sidestepping an explanation. “Speaking of…he said that you should be directed to the north dining room when you get here. Do you remember how to…?”

  “Down the main path about a tenth of a mile, and it’ll be down the hill on the right.”

  “Now who’s the elephant?” asked Mrs. Toffle with a twinkle in her eye.

  Brittany chuckled softly. “Should I check in again before I leave?”

  “No need,” she said, turning to sit back down at her desk. “I expect Mr. Haven will walk you back to your car.”

  “Well, then, I’ll just…” She gestured loosely to the door with her sunglasses as Mrs. Toffle sat back down at her desk, feeding a piece of crisp white paper into an old typewriter.

  Turning away, Brittany let herself back out of the office door and hopped down the steps that led to the path. It was a bright, warm April day, and as she walked, she remembered the first time her father had dropped her off at Summerhaven.

  “But Daddy, I don’t want to stay here,” she’d lamented, sitting beside him in the backseat of their Rolls Royce. “Please let me go to Paris with you. I won’t be a bit of trouble.”

  “I came to Summerhaven when I was fourteen and had the time of my life. So will you.”

  “But I don’t know anyone here.”

  “Nonsense! Chet Mathison sends his sons here.”

  “The Mathison boys are hellions.”

  “Humph.” He grumbled softly. “Well, I believe Kip Holt sends his girls here too. You know them, don’t you?”

  Missy, Kitty, and Posy Holt? Sure, they took tennis lessons together. A chill went down her spine, but she didn’t say any more. Her father disliked expressions of weakness. Telling him that she was completely and totally terrified of the Holt sisters wouldn’t do anything except raise his ire.

  “Yes, Daddy.”

  “There it is, then. People you know.”

  She’d been scared. Oh, Lord, she’d been so scared after he’d dropped her off and one of the counsellors from the main office had walked her to her cabin, which was named “Lady Margaret” after one of the colleges at Oxford University.

  But it turned out that her fears were unfounded and unnecessary.

  First of all, the Holt sisters already had their circle of friends at Summerhaven and had mostly ignored Brittany.

  Second of all, the Mathison boys in attendance—Archie, Jasper, and Travis—had been kind to her whenever she ran into them.

  And third of all, her bunkmates—Hallie from Boston, Chelsea from Greenwich, and Tate from Quogue—were all first-time attendees like Brittany, who’d been called “Britt” at Summerhaven, though never before or since. They became fast friends over that summer, and Lady Margaret rang with their laughter for three years following.

  While Brittany still saw Hallie in Boston from time to time, she’d lost touch with Chelsea and Tate over the years. Maybe, she mused, turning right down the path that led to the lakeside north dining hall, she should look them up. Being back at Summerhaven even for a few minutes was already making her miss them.

  Glancing ahead, she realized that the old dining hall had been modernized. Yes, it still fit in with the unfinished pine, New England camp-style architecture that defined Summerhaven, but if one looked closely, you could easily tell that it was far more modern. Gone was the mossy roof and crumbling ston
e chimney of yore. The building before her now was stunning.

  “Miss Mathison?”

  Her gaze slid from the shiny copper roof to find a man propping open the dining room door. Even backlit by the sun as he was, she could see that he was young, tall, and muscular—not at all the way she remembered old Mr. Haven.

  Drawing her sunglasses from her eyes to the top of her head, she stepped forward into the shade and looked up again—straight into the dazzling green eyes of Rory Haven.

  ***

  Miss Mathison blinked at him, gasped, and then blinked again.

  “Miss Mathison?” he repeated, scanning her face for signs of distress. “Are you well?”

  “You’re not Mr. Haven,” she whispered.

  “Yes, I am. I’m Rory Haven,” he said, tucking his clipboard under his arm and offering her his hand. “Welcome to Summerhaven.”

  “Rory,” she said, nodding at him as her pink lips spread into a grin. “Thank you.”

  Looking up at him, with her warm-brown eyes locked on his, he suddenly got the feeling that he’d met her before, but he couldn’t place where. They hadn’t had any female campers named Mathison. Perhaps she was a sister of the Mathison brothers and had come for Family Day one year? Or for drop-off weekend? She was too lovely to forget.

  “Do we know each other?” he blurted out.

  “Not really,” she said mysteriously, stepping forward through the dining room door that he still held open.

  Following her inside and letting the door slam shut behind him, he waited for her to turn around and face him. When she did, he was struck by the feeling of familiarity again, only it was ten times stronger now that he could see her clearly. He knew this woman. They’d definitely met before.

  “You look really familiar,” he said.

  “I thought I was meeting your father for lunch,” she said, reaching up for her sunglasses. She pulled them from her head, folded them closed, and slipped them into the leather bag on her shoulder.

  “Do you know my father?”

  “I’ve met him, yes. Several times.”

  “When? You couldn’t have been a camper here. I would have remembered your name, but—”