Page 34 of Beside Golden Irish Fields
Part of her had hated to wrap up her hair the way she had in Baltimore. In the small mirror in the bathroom, she’d faced her old nemesis: her dumpy self. Carrick’s compliments had been stark in her mind as she’d changed out of her morning painting clothes and donned her tan slacks and a simple brown top. He’d said she was pretty and spirited and looked like a real woman was supposed to.
God, that’s how she wished she could see herself. But they needed to trust her as a teacher, didn’t they? Her paint-splattered jeans wouldn’t convey authority. She’d met tons of art professors and teachers through Randall, and he’d been right about one thing—everyone in that world, or at least the Baltimore subset of that world, favored a professional look, even in a paint smock. No “wild” jeans or coats with patches, that was for sure.
Except her old clothes didn’t feel right against her skin. In fact, every stitch of clothing she’d brought, save her throwback painting attire, looked unappealing in her dresser drawers.
“I like what you had on before,” her nephew said as if reading her thoughts. “You looked like you did in that picture Granny has of you at the state fair with my mom when you were my age.”
She did her best to smile at him and stop counting the cars they passed. “You love that photo because we’re eating funnel cakes. Your mom and I had a powdered sugar war that day.” Those were the days when she and Megan had felt like girlhood friends, something that still felt out of her grasp. Megan was making breakfast and going walking with her, and on the beach by herself. All of those things were improvements, but she still eyed Angie’s paint clothes with a frown when Angie came into the kitchen every morning.
“Powdered sugar wars are the best,” he said, “but I mostly like it because you and Mom look so happy.”
“We’re working on being that happy again. That’s why we’re here.”
“Yeah, I guess.” He kicked a rock on the driveway. “How many people are in your class, Aunt Angie?”
She eyed the endless lines of cars packed in the driveway in front of the house. “Not this many.”
“Well, it’s herself at last!” a thin older man called, waving and running toward them like a small bird. “The turnout is better than could be expected. Even Bets’ busybody sister-in-law has come, although I expect it was a chance to see the state of her roses up close and personal.”
“Mary is here?” she asked.
“With her nose in the air like usual. It’s an event not to be missed, even by the disapproving likes of her. We had a few from the next town come in.”
“From the next town? I’m sorry. Are you in my class?”
“No, I’m Cormac O’Sullivan,” he said, holding out a thin hand, leathery with age. “I’ll be keeping the book today. On the betting. You’d best get up to the studio, girl. Nothing will happen until class starts. Do you fancy a bet yourself?”
“On what?” Dear God. This is what Carrick had tried to warn her about. Well, whatever it was, she’d best send her nephew away until she could get a handle on things. “Ollie, why don’t you head back to the cottage?”
“Probably for the best,” Cormac said, giving a trill of a laugh. “If you change your mind about the betting, I’ll be outside the studio door waiting for ye.”
But Ollie stayed put as the older man hurried off in that strange walk. What now? She couldn’t just march up there with her nephew. She eyed her watch. She could walk him back to the cottage and still make it.
“Angie!” Liam came running across the lawn toward her. “I hope you have a good sense of humor, cousin. Like you Yanks say, ‘Shit is about to get real.’ Sorry, Ollie. Even my aunt is here, and she and Mum donotget along.”
“I’ve heard people say shit,” her nephew said, frowning. “Aunt Angie, I want to stay.”
“I suddenly want to leave,” she said, making a scary face designed to make her nephew laugh. “Liam, wouldyoulike to teach today?”
“I could lead everyone in yoga or meditation or a discussion of philosophy, but I’m all thumbs with drawing. This isn’t painting houses, cousin.”
“No, it’s not. Ollie, go back to the cottage, please.”
He stuck out his chin, showing signs of resistance. Usually Angie would welcome the sight—anger was better than no emotion, after all—just not right now.
“That’s my best offer, Ollie.”
“You’d best go,” Liam said with a hand to the boy’s shoulder. “Trust me on this one, from one man to another.”
He kicked another rock. “Fine!”
She watched as he jammed his hands in his pockets and started to storm off in a tiff. Later. She would make it up to him later.
“Liam, do you want to tell me what’s going on?”
“Mum said to keep an eye out for you.” He put an arm around her shoulders and started to lead her toward the studio. “We had no idea so many people would come out. Don’t even ask me how mad she is about Aunt Mary using this as an excuse to check out her roses.”
Which still wasn’t an answer. She stopped and faced him. “Liam! Why are they here?”
