“I’ve never wanted anything more in my entire life,” he told her.
* * *
Later that morning over breakfast, Jameson turned to Aisling. “There’s something I want to ask you – something real personal.”
“Ask me anything you like.”
“I don’t mean to pry . . . but how come you haven’t had children? It’s just that you’re obviously so good with them . . .”
“It’s OK,” Aisling said. “People ask me that all the time. Back at home, everyone’s supposed to have half a dozen children at least – so I’m a bit of a curiosity with none.”
“And?” he prompted.
“And,” Aisling shrugged, “nothing ever happened. I d
on’t know whose fault it is, because we’ve never really got around to doing anything about it.” She looked down at her hands. “I’ve a feeling the problem might be mine . . .
I’ve
always had difficulties with . . .” She stopped, embarrassed at talking this way with a man. “It’s just that . . . m
y monthly cycle has always been a bit wonky. Either too often, or disappearing for months.”
“What about your husband?”
“Oh,” Aisling said, “he went through a phase of talking about babies a few years ago . . . but when it came to the stage of seeing a specialist, he backed out.” She sighed. “He said he’d rather leave it and see what happened . . . but I’m sure he just couldn’t face finding out that he might have a problem.”
“And you?” Jameson asked.
“When I first got married,” Aisling said, with a little quiver in her voice, “I used to pray for a baby first thing in the morning and last thing before going to sleep. I thought it was the one thing that might make things better between me and Oliver.” She swept one wing of her hair back behind her ear. “It’s all water under the bridge . . . I can see it was all for the best. And anyway,” she said, giving a little smile, “if I’d had children, I’d never have been able to come to America.”
“And,” Jameson said, “we would never have met.”
* * *
The painting class revealed another side of Jameson. Having met Thomas first, Aisling supposed now that she had taken for granted the relationship father and son had. Jameson was just the way that any good father should be, although Aisling knew that it was an unusual arrangement. Even by American standards, it was not usual for a father to have sole responsibility of a child. Especially a child like Thomas.
Even taking all that into account, she was not prepared for the way he connected with the other kids in his class. From the moment the small coach had pulled into the drive – and the kids all poured out – Aisling saw a depth to the man she had never seen in any other.
There were three boys and three girls, ranging from around twelve to sixteen. Each one came up to Thomas in turn and demanded that he ‘gimme five’ – a high hand-slap – by way of greeting. Then they repeated the performance with Jameson.
“He sure is marvellous with them,” the stout, middle-aged lady driver said, getting out of the coach. She held her ha
nd out to Aisling. “I’m Melanie, by the way.” She pointed to a dark-haired boy in the group. “David’s mom.”
“I’m pleased to meet you,” Aisling said, shaking her hand warmly. She smiled to herself – this was the woman who she’d thought was Jameson’s girlfriend.
“I’m real pleased to meet you,” Melanie said. “It’s nice to meet a friend of Jameson’s. He doesn’t have other folks up here too often.”
Jameson clapped his hands. “OK, kids,” he said in an easy drawl. “Before we start, I want to introduce a very special lady this morning.” Thomas stood up to attention for the important announcement, holding a finger to his lips to warn the others to be quiet.
“This is Aisling,” Jameson said, bowing in her direction
, “and she’s a teacher who’s come all the way from Ireland.”
“Ash-leen!” Thomas emphasised loudly in his slow, deliberate way.
Aisling felt herself blushing.
“And,” Jameson said, “she’s going to join in with the session this morning.”
When they’d all finished cheering, Aisling turned to Melanie and said, “I’m not too sure if this is a good idea – painting is one of the talents I definitely do not have.”
The bus driver raised her eyebrows
and smiled. “Mr Jameson Carroll will tell you painting is a talent you just haven’t discovered yet. That’s what he tells all the kids anyway.” She climbed back into the coach and started up the engine. Then, as she pulled out of the driveway, she called back to Aisling. “I look forward to seeing your masterpiece when I collect the kids!”
The group all trooped around to the back of the house, led by an important-looking Thomas. As Aisling turned to speak to Jameson, she saw him scoop up a tiny girl who had difficulty walking. He carried her high up until they caught up with the others, and made her laugh out loud when he made several joking attempts to fit in through the door in the studio without touching her head on the frame.
The other kids all gave a noisy applause when he and the girl eventually came through the door, and were delighted when Jameson carefully dropped to his knees to allow her to climb down.
Then it was down to business. Jameson ushered them to their various tables and easels, and then did a quick check on the paintbrushes that Thomas had selected for them, and the session went into action.
“Since it’s our last meeting for the summer,” Jameson said, “I thought we’d make a little present to take home to your folks.” A delighted cheer rose from the group. “Hold on,” he laughed, “you don’t know what it is yet. I’ll show you how to do it first.” He held up a piece of card with the outline of a swan on one half of it. He folded the card in two and then cut around the swan shape, which resulted in a double image of the swan joined at the bottom. “We’ll glue this into a basket shape,” he said, deftly showing th
em, “and after you’ve all painted and decorated it nicely, we’ll fill them with some nice things.” He held up a bowl of bath-oil pearls that looked like small eggs, and a box of round, foil-covered chocolates. Again, claps of appreciatio
n resounded around the room.
By the time the coach arrived back to collect them, each of the group had a recognisable present to take back home, mainly thanks to the deft touches of a paintbrush or glue from Jameson, just where it was needed.
After clearing up all the paints and glue and sparkly bits, Jameson, Aisling and Thomas had a sandwich lunch outside in the sun.
Then Aisling prepared to head back across to her aunt’s.
“I’ll be back sometime later,” she promised, brushing her lips on Jameson’s forehead. “This’ll be our last night together,” she reminded him quietly. “My parents are due back tomorrow.”
His face creased in a mixture of defeat and anger. “Goddamnit, Aisling!” he said. “We shouldn’t be parted – it’s so wrong. We’re adults, and shouldn’t have to answer to anyone.”
Aisling looked back at him, her eyes full of embarrassment and hurt. “You’re right,” she said slowly. “In an ideal world we shouldn’t have to answer to anyone else.” She paused. “But the world I’m used to back in Ireland is far from ideal – and it doesn’t operate in such a simple way.”
Chapter 28
Aisling’s last night before her parents’ return was spent playing games with Thomas and having a final trip around the lake and then, when the boy was in bed, she and Jameson settled down in the large sitting-room. In the last hour or so, the temperature had suddenly dropped, and a bit of a drizzly wind had whipped up, so Jameson set about organising a log fire in the huge grate. Then they had pottered around in the kitchen fixing a supper of cheese and cold meats and fruit.
Jameson carried a huge wooden tray into the room, laden with the food and a chilled bottle of wine. Aisling sorted out glasses and napkins as Jameson moved around drawing curtains to keep out the growing wind and rain, which Aisling had not yet experienced since coming to America.
Her eyes followed Jameson as he moved around – the denim jeans and casual checked shirt, and the tan suede waistcoat, and the chunky suede boots in the exact same shade. By the time she had worked her way up to his unruly hair and face, she felt a lump forming in her throat.
God,
she thought,
he is so attractive . . . and yet so different
. What on earth would the people back home make of someone like him? An
American beatnik,
would be the first impression. With his clothing and odd American ways, they would see him almost as a creature from another planet. And suddenly she, Aisling Gayle, schoolteacher and conventional to the last – would be seen in the same way.
“A dime for your thoughts,” Jameson said, leaning across the table to pour the wine.
Aisling stared into the flames for a few moments before answering. “I feel as though I’m one of the characters from a romantic novel . . . I can’t believe that something this beautiful could happen to me.”
“It’s your choice, Aisling,” he said. “You could live like this every day of your life.”
She looked up into his dark brown eyes.
“You know that I – that Thomas and me – want you here,” he said. “You just have to make that decision when you’re ready.”
She nodded very slowly.
He reached out and crushed her tightly against him. Then he kissed her long and deeply.
“I have never,” Aisling whispered, “felt as happy or safe as I feel when I’m in your arms.”
He held her at arm’s length, and looked at her. Really looked at her. “The fact I’m happy goes without saying . . .
but you make me feel very safe, in a different kind of way.” He paused, searching for the right words. “I know I can trust you, like I’ve never been able to trust anyone else in my whole life.”
And the evening passed into night. Talking and eating and drinking. And later, when the fire had dimmed into a pale grey and orange glow – they once again made beautiful, passionate love on the rug in front of it. Oblivious to the wind and the rain – and the rest of the world outside.
* * *
The following morning the telephone rang early. Jameson answered and then passed it across to Aisling’s side of the bed. It was Jean.
“Hi, honey,” she said brightly. “Sorry to spoil your fun, but I’ve had a call from your mom to say that they’re arriving in town this afternoon.” She paused. “Do you want to join me for the ride . . . or do you want me to give your excuses?”
At the mention of her parents, Aisling’s throat and stomach tightened. There was a short pause. “I’ll come with you,” she said in a low, flat voice. “I’ll be across in a few hours.”
“There’s no rush,” Jean said. “I just wanted to warn you. I thought if we left around twelve, then we could stop for lunch on the way there. Does that sound okay to you?”
“Grand,” Aisling said, “ and Jean . . . I’ll never be able to thank you for being so understanding.”
“Oh, hush now,” Jean said, “what’s there to thank for? I’ll see you when you’re ready, okay?”
“Okay,” Aisling replied softly. After she hung up the phone, she lay back in the bed, staring out towards the window.
“Anything wrong?” Jameson asked.
She closed her eyes against the tears that had suddenly welled up. “The time’s come,” she managed to struggle out. “The time to go back to reality and my parents . . . and I just don’t want to go back to it all. I want to stay here.”
He looked at her, words tumbling through his brain, the words of a man who saw things fairly simply, in black and white. Just telling people how it was. But he held the words back. They would only make her feel worse. “Have you time for breakfast?” he asked instead.
“I have a couple of hours,” she said, feeling grateful that he hadn’t made her feel like the stupid teenage schoolgirl he must undoubtedly think she was.
“It’ll have to do,” he said, reaching for her.
“Did you have something in mind?” she asked, curiously.
He hugged her tightly. “Just the same old thing I have in mind all the time you’re near to me.” Then, he moved until he was on top of her, his hard, toned body pressing against the warm, pliable softness of hers. He covered her mouth with his, and once again they moved into that special world that Aisling had only discovered in the last few days.
* * *
Later, as they sat chatting over what was probably to be their last breakfast together, for the foreseeable future, Jameson said, “You know I have to go up to New York later this week?”
Aisling nodded. “Your exhibition.”
“And Thomas,” he said. “I have to drop him up to my parents for a few weeks. He goes every summer.”
“Will you be gone long?” she said quietly.
“I’ll be back as quick as I can.” Then he looked at her for a moment without speaking. “Why don’t you come with us? It would let you see a bit more of the country, and it would give us a bit more time together.” He leaned across the table and touched her hair, still damp from the shower. “You could meet my folks, too . . . I’d really like that. I just know they’ll love you.”
“Oh, Jameson,” she whispered, “I couldn’t . . .”
He shrugged. “Why not? You could make some excuse.”
“Because,” she said in an unsteady voice, “there’s no way I could explain my going to New York to my mother and father. And how could I meet your parents? Have you forgotten that I’m actually a married woman?”