Top O' the Mournin' Page 12

  “We was afraid once we climbed down, we wouldn’t be able to climb back up again. Imagine how bad that woulda thrown our schedule off.”

  “Some people saw it,” said Tilly. “That young honeymoon couple. And George Farkas.”

  “George climbed those stairs with only one good leg?”

  Nana lowered her voice and spoke close to my ear. “I never realized before what a stud George is, Emily. He can do things on one leg that most men can’t do on two. Makes you wonder what else he can do, don’t it?”

  She waggled her eyebrows. Oh, no. My seventy-eight-year-old grandmother was entertaining lusty thoughts about George Farkas. My mother would have a bird.

  “This is the last snapshot,” Nana said, handing me a glossy print of a blonde woman splayed facedown on the crooked stairs above the bridge.

  “Oh, my God!” I recognized the flowing bleached hair, the mauve sweater, the skirt that was the size of a head-band. “That’s Ashley! What happened to her?”

  “She thought the newlyweds were spendin’too long wanderin’ around that island on the other side a the bridge, so she went over to fetch ’em. On her way back up the stairs, she tripped on somethin’ and took an awful spill. I guess she’d a been better off not wearin’ them spike heels today.”

  “Where is she?” I searched the crowd. “Is she all right?”

  “Somebody’s helping her back,” said Bernice.

  “She hit her head fairly hard when she went down,” Tilly added. “I’d venture she may have suffered a concussion.”

  “From the way she was screamin’, I bet she broke a bone or two,” said Nana.

  “She probably suffered massive internal injuries and is as good as dead,” said Bernice. “And we all know what that means. It means the person next in line to take over the tour is Emily.”

  Chapter 7

  “No-no. Nuh-uh.” I waved off Bernice’s suggestion as if I were undoing a curse. “I’m sure Ashley is fine. She probably just stubbed her toe or something.”

  “I believe that’s her now,” said Tilly, gesturing toward the entrance.

  I looked in that direction. I saw a horde of people milling around the gate, frantically brandishing cameras. Ernie Minch was waving people out of the way so he could get an unobstructed shot of Tom Thum bookended by Gladys Kuppelman and Ethel. George Farkas looked to be snapping multiple pictures of the same group using each of the four or five cameras he had draped around his neck. Alice Tjarks was shooting a picture of George Farkas shooting pictures. Cute. Kind of like one of those infinity things. I looked left. I looked right. I didn’t see Ashley.

  “Where do you see her?” I asked Tilly.

  She elevated her walking stick and stabbed the air like a pointer. “There,” she said, holding it at an unwavering angle.

  The crowd shifted. Heads turned. Shoulders swayed. A slight path opened up and out squirted Jackie, red-faced and breathless, lumbering sluggishly with a body that was hoisted over her shoulder like a sack of potatoes. “Coming through!” she gasped, while Ashley whined hysterically, arms and legs flopping around like fish out of water. Oh, this was nice. I loved the way Jackie had mastered the art of keeping a low profile. This wasn’t going to attract any attention at all.

  “Looks like we better call an ambulance,” Nana advised.

  From far off we heard a soft whirr of sirens that erupted into a deafening blare as a fire truck roared into the parking lot, followed by an ambulance with lettering on the door that identified it as “999 RESCUE UNIT.”

  “My stars.” For once, Bernice was dumbfounded. “It’s a miracle.”

  “Like I always say—” Nana lifted her eyes to heaven and blessed herself with a solemn sign of the cross. “‘Ask and you shall receive.’”

  I smiled brightly. Gee. That had worked out well.

  The rescue squad worked to stabilize Ashley for a half hour before they could finally transport her. I stood beside Jackie in the parking lot watching the ambulance speed onto the road, siren blasting.

  “I wouldn’t have given her painkiller for that injured foot of hers,” said Jackie. “I would have given her a muzzle. Did you ever hear so much whining in all your life? Well, other than when Nancy Kerrigan lost the gold medal to Oksana Baiul in the ’94 Olympics.”

  “She was in pain.”

  “She is a pain.”

  “So how come you’re the one who ended up carrying her back?”

  “I couldn’t just leave her there, could I?” She gave me a tormented look. “Oh, shit, I hope that wasn’t an option.”

  I indicated we should start walking back to the bus. “You were very nice to take on the burden yourself, but—wouldn’t it have been better if you’d let Tom carry her back? I mean, Ashley is an Amazon. Tom is more physically equipped to do the Tarzan thing, don’t you think?”

  Jackie inhaled sharply. “That is such a sexist remark! Women are every bit as capable as men. I ran track in high school and college. I lift weights three times a week.” Then in a more conversational tone, she added, “I figure it’s never too early to take measures to ward off osteoporosis. But Tom couldn’t have done it, anyway. He has rotator cuff problems. No heavy lifting. Occupational hazard.”

  The only people I knew to suffer consistent shoulder injuries were athletes and circus performers. Since Tom didn’t strike me as a trapeze artist or clown, that left only one practical choice. “Does Tom play professional baseball? Has he thrown too many fastballs?”

  “Too much snipping, clipping, and curling. He’s a hair designer. He runs a very upscale salon in Binghamton. Headhunters. Isn’t that adorable? He serves champagne and caviar even if you’re only having a cut and blow-dry. His prices are outrageous, but women like the soft lighting, the New Age music, the fountains, the aromatherapy candles. He does a land-office business. That’s how we met.”

  I got my hair cut at Midge’s Beauty Palace in Windsor City. The palace was located in Midge’s house and occupied a back room that had once served as her children’s playroom. It smelled of Play-Doh and Crayola crayons, but her rates were reasonable and in the summer she sometimes served iced tea to compensate for the fact that the place wasn’t air-conditioned. “You married your beautician? No wonder your hair looks so great. You’ll save a fortune on weaves over the years. I’m so jealous!”

  “Tom isn’t a beautician,” Jackie corrected. “He’s a color artist, not to mention a master razor cutter.”

  My dad got his hair cut by a master razor cutter too. His name was Hugo. He ran the local barbershop on Main Street.

  “Should I ask Tom to have a look at your hair?” Jackie asked as we rounded the corner of the bus. “He does free consultations.”

  I stopped in my tracks to finger my windblown locks. “You think I should do something different with it?”

  “You’ve been wearing it the same way since we were married, Emily. Don’t you think it’s time for a change?”

  I followed Jackie onto the bus. She’d obviously forgotten. I was cursed with hair that only knew how to do one thing. Frizz. But I was a sport. If Tom thought he could do something with it, maybe I should let him try. Who knew? Maybe it would help us establish some kind of bond.

  The bus burst into applause as we climbed aboard. “There she is!” someone shouted. “The woman of the hour!” I thought they were referring to me until people started popping up to slap Jackie on the back and shake her hand.

  “If I’m ever in trouble, you’re the one I’m calling on to help!” yelled the furniture polish man from the back. “JA-CKIE. JA-CKIE,” he began to chant.

  “JA-CKIE. JA-CKIE,” chanted the rest of the bus. Feet stomped. Hands clapped. Someone in the front even started the wave.

  Nope. She hadn’t drawn any attention to herself at all.

  After Jackie took her seat and everyone finished having their picture taken with her, I addressed them over the microphone. “You’d probably like an update on Ashley’s condition, so I’ll tell you what I know.
She appears to have racked up her foot pretty badly, so the ambulance is taking her to the nearest hospital to have it looked at. Until she rejoins us, she’s asked me to take over her responsibilities with the group and make sure the rest of your day isn’t disrupted.”

  “How about we stop at a rest room!” Ira Kuppelman called out.

  “Can we eat soon?” Ethel Minch’s voice. “We’re starving back here.”

  “I’d like to stop someplace to do some shopping,” Jackie shouted.

  “You need to find a cash machine!” Bernice squawked.

  I looked down the length of the bus, a little daunted at the prospect of taking the reins, but feeling suddenly energized by an inexplicable surge of power. I was woman. I could do this. Either that or I was being electrocuted by the microphone and didn’t realize it yet.

  Osmond Chelsvig raised his hand. “What are we supposed to see this afternoon, anyway?”

  “Hold on.” I rummaged through Ashley’s Golden Irish Vacations bag. Road maps. Guest rosters. Yellow highlighter pens. A pack of Virginia Slims cigarettes. Ashley smoked? Hunh. Obviously not in front of the guests. A glossy brochure of the rope bridge. A small-caliber gun.

  My hand froze. A gun? I stood paralyzed…until I saw the curious hole at the rear of the barrel that housed a little striker wheel that would produce a flame. I rolled my eyes. A novelty lighter. Cute. But didn’t she know that smoking caused wrinkles? I shuffled some more things out of the way. A finely detailed room map of the castle. Gee, I should look at that. I’d like to know how to find my way into some of the towers. A folder marked “Bushmills.” Bingo.

  I scanned the first page, eyeing all the pertinent facts. “This afternoon we’re scheduled to take a tour of the Old Bushmills Distillery, which, it says here, is the oldest distillery not only in Ireland, but in the world. Famous for its single-malt, single-grain Irish whiskey. You can use the rest room facilities in the visitors’ center before the tour. After the tour we’ll have lunch at the Postill Bar, where we’ll be treated to a sampling session of the distillery’s many whiskeys. There’s also a gift shop on the premises for shopping. And we’ll stop at a bank somewhere along the way so that those of you who need money can get some. That should take care of everything. Any questions?”

  I looked up to find everyone nodding their heads in approval. No questions. No complaints. All right! There was a trick to this tour guide business. Act like you know what you’re doing and you’ll keep everyone happy. Now all we had to do was get there. I stepped back to speak to Michael. “Do you know the way to the distillery?”

  “It’s down the road somewhere. I’ll find it.”

  I had no doubt he would, but I was concerned about when. We needed to find it today. I caught George Farkas’s eye and motioned him to the front of the bus. “I bet you’ve never been lost a day in your life, have you, George?”

  His cheeks flushed in embarrassment. “Folks shouldn’t tell you that. Makes me sound like a blowhard.”

  “Are you good with maps?”

  “Don’t have much use for maps. All I need is the general direction of a place and a sunny day.”

  I handed him Ashley’s map of Northern Ireland and pointed to a tiny black dot superimposed on a thin red line. “This is the town of Bushmills. Can you get us there?”

  He squinted at the dot at the tip of my finger. “You bet. You mind if I sit in the front seat with you so I can give directions?”

  “Be my guest.” I scooted by him to claim the window seat. He removed his reading glasses from his pocket and slid them onto his nose, then, after a glance at the map and a peek at the sky, settled down to business.

  “When you come out of the parking lot, you’ll want to head west,” he instructed Michael, who threw him an irritated look over his shoulder.

  “You’d best be telling me whether it’s left or right I’m turning. None of this east or west malarkey.”

  “Make a right turn,” said George. “And don’t turn again until I tell you.”

  Oh, yeah. George would get us there.

  We pulled into the parking lot of Ballybantry Castle at precisely six thirty that afternoon, a full fifteen minutes ahead of schedule. “Remember, people!” I announced as Michael cut the engine. “If you didn’t get a chance to show your passport to the front desk clerk this morning, do it now.” I assumed a post outside the front door of the bus, helping people off the stairs while exchanging pleasantries and smiles. I had to admit, I kind of liked being in charge. And what was even better, I was realizing I was pretty good at it.

  “Good job, Emily,” said Alice Tjarks as I assisted her to the ground. “I really enjoyed that tour. And look at the time. You even got us back early.”

  “An interesting place,” said Osmond Chelsvig. “I think I got a little drunk on the fumes though. Any chance we could go back and tour it again?”

  The tour had gone off like clockwork. No one tumbled down any stairs or fell off any of the many catwalks in the plant. Everyone appeared satisfied with their luncheon fare. No one got loud, drunk, or obnoxious after sampling shots of the original Bushmills, Black Bush, and Bushmills Malt. People wandered the gift shop after lunch and picked up a few souvenirs. We even stopped at the First Trust Bank in Limavady on the way back so I could withdraw money from their automatic teller for Bernice and myself. And we didn’t get lost. Not even once. The whole afternoon played back like a Disney movie—a little too good to be true.

  Nana and Tilly were the last people off, followed by George, who looked immensely pleased that his navigational prowess had come in handy. “We couldn’t have done it without you, George.” I gave his arm an enthusiastic rub. “How can I thank you?”

  “Shucks. That was nothing. Anyone in the group could have done it. But you better stop thanking me else you’ll have me blushing in front of your gramma.”

  Nana’s eyes sparkled at the recognition. Her mouth slid into a coy smile. “George, would you like to join Tilly and me at our table for dinner tonight? We wanna hear what it was like crossin’ that bridge and what you saw when you was over there. Don’t we, Tilly?”

  “I’d like that,” said George, leaping at the opportunity before Tilly could answer. “And if you want, I could have my photos duplicated so the two of you can see what you missed. Pills Etcetera runs a special deal on photo developing on Tuesdays.”

  “How very kind of you,” said Tilly in an uncharacteristically girlish voice, her studious eyes twinkling at the same wattage as Nana’s. “We’d like that, wouldn’t we, Marion?”

  Uh-oh. I hoped Tilly and Nana didn’t have their romantic sights set on the same target, but let’s face it, George Farkas possessed the kind of modest charm that women find irresistible. It didn’t seem to matter that he’d lost his youth, his hair, his muscle tone, and one of his legs. He was still a babe magnet. Guys had it so good. Then again, given the disparity in life expectancy between the sexes, women were probably delirious that he was simply alive.

  “Would you ladies allow me to escort you back to the hotel?” asked George, offering an arm to each of them. I hoped a ménage à trois wasn’t in the offing, but I was pretty sure that wouldn’t happen. Nana didn’t speak a word of French.

  I scurried back onto the bus to collect my belongings, grabbed Ashley’s Irish Vacations bag, and thanked Michael for his services. He drilled me with a curious look, his expression that of a man who had never been thanked for anything before in his life and was therefore unaccustomed to saying “You’re welcome.”

  “That old gent there,” he said, nodding toward George. “He’s not a local.”

  “Nope. He’s a tourist.”

  “Then how did he know his way around so well?”

  “He’s from Iowa.”

  Michael frowned his confusion. “So?”

  “So don’t be too impressed. They can all do stuff like that.”

  I meandered across the parking lot studying the granite exterior of Ballybantry Castle with a leisurely eye,
thinking it looked like something whipped up in a bakery. It was as solid and dense as a pound cake but divided into angles and tiers as asymmetrical as a half-eaten wedding cake. Turrets and towers shot up like birthday candles, and along the roofline the stonework formed a border that was chiseled into shapes as delicate as decorative icing. Ivy had found a toehold in some places, framing itself around bay windows as it crept upward toward the battlements, adding a splash of green to the cold gray wash of granite.

  As I crossed the drawbridge, I peered over the railing into the moat. It was a murky green-brown that looked incapable of sustaining any kind of aquatic life. I wondered if they’d ever drained the water from it, and what they might have found lying at the bottom. I thought of the poor Irish boy who had been floating dead in it four hundred years ago, and I shivered at what a grisly sight it must have been. It seemed so unfair. He’d been guilty of nothing more than falling in love with the wrong woman, and for that sin, his punishment had been death. It made me want to cry, but more than that, it made me want to find Etienne so he could enfold me in his arms and tell me he loved me.