Unfixable

Chapter Twelve

“I can’t believe it. Dead, he is?” Kitty wails. “Who’s going to make the cod and chips now?”
I’m halfway down the stairs the next day when Kitty’s question reaches me, slowing me to a stop. I let my laundry plop down on the stair I’m standing on. It’s eight o’clock in the morning, the latest I’ve slept since arriving in Dublin. A horrifying fact. I suspect the only reason I didn’t wake up earlier is because Kitty didn’t knock on my door with ice-cold tea and charred toast. Oddly, I kind of missed the damn wake-up call. Now it seems like there might be a reason besides Kitty’s scatterbrain.
“We’ll manage.” It’s Shane’s deep voice, rolling up the stairs like smoke to reach me. Something hot and sticky invades my belly, in a way that demands I press a hand to the area above my zipper. Having no choice, I’m wearing the same jeans as yesterday, although I’ve tucked my Chicago PD sleep shirt into them so no skin is showing. I’ve thrown a jacket on over everything, even though it looks to be another day of great weather. Laundry must be done today, or I’ll be forced to walk around Dublin naked.
“How can I manage when people keep keeling over and dying on me?” Kitty’s voice has reached a hysterical pitch. I hear a chair scraping back and Faith speaking in a calming tone, but it doesn’t seem to be having much effect. “First your father, now Martin. He made such a lovely cod and chips, Martin did. It’s an absolute shame. I’d hoped to have it for my lunch today.”
Ah. The cook died. I guess I waited too long to try the cod after all. Not wanting to get in the middle of a family discussion, especially one involving the mourning of a friend, I turn with the intention of going back to my room, but my boot catches on the laundry bag, sending it hurtling down the stairs. It’s louder than it should be thanks to the rickety railing and dead spots in the wood. I cringe when conversation ceases below me.
Just when I’d forgotten my luck is f*cked.
“The American must be up.” Another chair scraping along the wooden floor. “You better let me be the one to tell her about our Martin.”
“Her name is Willa, Ma,” Faith says. “And she doesn’t know Martin from a hole in the ground.”
“She’ll read about it in the papers, I suspect,” Kitty continues as if Faith hadn’t spoken. “Better to get it out of the way now.”
I’m still frozen on the steps, as if they might forget about the falling laundry bag and go back to their conversation. Or chalk it up to another guest. With a frown, I eyeball the row of doors above me. I’m starting to wonder if I’m the only guest at the Claymore Inn.
“Willa,” Shane calls. “We know you’re there.”
I heave a sigh and make my way down to the empty pub. Kitty is standing closest to me with her hands behind her back, chin raised toward the ceiling. She looks like a military commander getting ready to address the troops. When I feel a tingle in my spine, my gaze immediately seeks out Shane, the tingle graduating to a full-body flush. Looking fresh from the shower, he’s leaning back in a chair like a lazy tiger, one booted foot propped on his knee. We nod at each other. Faith snorts.
“Bad news, American,” Kitty starts.
I wait, doing my best to look solemn.
Her brow furrows. “Damn, it’s gone and slipped through the cracks.”
Faith gets up from her sprawled position on the booth and lays a comforting hand on her mother’s arm. “Its fine, Ma.” She transfers her attention to me. “Martin, our cook, died.”
“He was more than a cook, really. His cod and chips was a work of art.” Kitty’s frail hand presses to her breast. “Tell me how he died again, Shane.”
Shane shifts in his chair, uncrossing his legs and leaning forward. When he speaks, he’s addressing Kitty, but looking at me. The shadow passing over his face makes something hard stick in my throat. “In his sleep, Kitty. No pain.”
His final words sound offhanded, but they seem to clear most of the fear from Kitty’s face, telling me he’d said them for a reason. Her body deflates a little. “Poor old Martin. A lovely man, he was. He even tried to kiss me once.”
Faith nose wrinkles. “What?”
“It’s not what you think. He didn’t have his glasses on.” She stares off into the distance, looking very dramatic. “He thought I was his wife, Lorraine, come to collect him. Still and all, it was quite a nice kiss.” Her hands begin to rummage in her pockets. “Has someone called over to tell Lorraine her Martin is dead?”
“I suspect she has an inkling, since she woke up next to him,” Shane deadpans.
Kitty pulls a piece of toast from her apron and offers it to me. When I shake my head, she starts to nibble on it. “Who’s going to make the cod and chips, then? Martin always brought it in fresh from Beshoffs in Howth. Beautiful, it was.”
“Not to worry,” Faith assures her with a brisk nod. “I’ll figure it out, Ma. There’s a fish market not far from here—”
“No.” Kitty shakes her head. “It has to be Beshoffs. Our customers expect a certain quality. We can’t just change the fish. What will people say?”
“Beshoffs is twice the distance.” Shane stands. “Neither one of us has time to take you. I have to set up the pub. It’s still a wreck from last night.”
“And if I’m going to run the kitchen today, I need to start prepping.”
“I don’t need to be taken anywhere,” Kitty scoffs, but I notice her hand is shaking. When she begins to untie her apron, Shane and Faith exchange an uneasy glance. Something is happening under the surface here. More than the obvious. I can’t put a finger on what it might be, but two things are certain. One, Kitty can’t go out into the city by herself, using public transportation no less. Two, she’s determined as hell to go.
I look around at the pub, noting Shane is right. Bottle caps, dirty napkins, and—is that a blond hair extension?—litter the barroom floor. Empty glasses and bottles are stacked in bus trays on the bar. All the liquor bottles behind the bar are practically empty. They’ll have their work cut out for them to get the bar ready by eleven when the doors open.
This is when I should say, “sorry for your loss,” and beat feet to the Laundromat. By befriending Faith and helping out behind the bar last night, I’ve already become too much of a fixture with this family. Every time I glimpse a little more of their behind-the-scenes issues, my resolve to stay away slips a little more. My family issues might have been vastly different, but I still get them. Truth is, I like Kitty and I don’t want her to do something reckless. The stress on Faith’s face—and okay, Shane’s—makes my decision for me. I eye my bag of laundry wistfully. Apparently basic hygiene is taking a backseat to my conscience.
“I’ll take her,” I say. Shane’s eyebrows shoot up and I shrug. “I’ve been meaning to check out Howth anyway. I hear it’s a good picture spot.”
Kitty claps her hands together. “Grand.” Again, I get the feeling she’s putting on a brave face. It seems like the trip to Beshoffs has completely removed Martin’s death from her mind, given her something new to focus on.
“Are you sure?” Faith appears to be trying to communicate something to me with her eyes, but I’m not computing. What do these people want from me? It’s eight in the morning, and this heap of bricks doesn’t even have a coffeemaker. “You don’t have to do this, Willa.”
“I’m sure,” I say slowly, trying my best to make light of the situation. Honestly, you’d think somebody had died. “It’ll be my little apology to Martin for never trying his cod and chips.” Wanting to escape Shane and Faith’s scrutiny, I hook my arm through Kitty’s. “Let’s pilgrimage in Martin’s memory, shall we?”
Her face falls. “Martin is dead?”
…
Kitty reaches over and clutches my hand as the bus begins to move. My first reaction is to yank it away, because it feels so unnatural. But damn if she’s not squeezing my fingers so tight, I couldn’t extricate my hand if I tried. Her eyes are wide as silver dollars, staring straight out the front windshield of the double-decker bus. With her other hand, she worries rosary beads in her lap, lips moving in her second Hail Mary.
I’m not alarmed yet, but now that I’ve woken up a little, I’m starting to realize Faith had a good reason for giving me an out back at the pub. Kitty travels about as well as potato salad. She looks terrified. Saying a quick prayer she doesn’t forget who I am or why we’re on a bus, I rack my brain for something to distract her, but small talk isn’t exactly my strong suit.
“My sister just had a baby.”
Kitty looks at me blankly. “What?”
“As of a Monday morning, I’m an aunt.” Trying to hold a casual conversation while holding a near stranger’s hand is harder than it sounds. “Her name is Dolly.”
“After Dolly Parton?”
I laugh in surprise, appreciating how she phrased the question. As if it were a reasonable assumption. “Yes. I need to buy a gift for her while I’m here. Any ideas?”
“Everyone needs a tea service.”
“She might be a little young for tea.”
“You’re never too young for tea.” I notice her fingers have slowed their furious rubbing of the rosary beads. “Shane and Faith both drank it straight from their bottles, they did. Of course, I had to let it cool first.”
“Sure.” Fleetingly, I wonder if it’s the reason Kitty continues to serve cold tea. The bus takes a bumpy turn and she gasps, grasping my hand so hard, I bite my bottom lip. “Maybe I’ll try that—”
“Now my husband liked his tea scalding hot, with only a single drop of milk and no sugar. Piping hot.” Her words are very precise. “I could never figure out how he didn’t burn his tongue. He didn’t even blow on it. Sometimes I would just sit and watch him read the paper, sipping his tea. Made of ice. Just made of ice.”
She seems to have gone off to a faraway place, her eyes slightly glazed. Since her grip on my hand has loosened, I don’t say anything. I should change the subject, too, but I don’t do that either. As much as I try not to be, I’m interested in finding out more about Mr. Claymore. This man Faith accused Shane of becoming.
“He didn’t mean it,” she murmurs. “He never meant it.”
“Meant what?”
She jolts a little in her seat. “When he said he didn’t like my tea, he didn’t mean it.”
“Oh.”
“Or when he made my son leave.” Her fingers begin to work the rosary beads again. “He didn’t mean it. Deep down, he wanted him to stay. I truly believe that.”
I swallow hard, thinking of Shane’s face the night he argued with Faith. “I’m sure he did, too, Kitty.”
“No, he didn’t.”
“Okay.” I squeeze her hand, fighting the sudden urge to cry. “Okay.”
We don’t talk the rest of the way to Howth, but Kitty is noticeably less stressed. She’s actually kind of subdued, but after what she revealed about Shane and his father, I am, too. When we arrive in Howth and walk the short distance to Beshoffs, I’m surprised to find a small indoor market, selling not only food, but serving coffee. The smell makes me think I’ve died and gone to Chicago. Keeping a close eye on Kitty as she reads her handwritten list to the fishmonger, I order a large cup and doctor it with cream and sugar.
The first sip is orgasmic. That gem of a thought leads me to memories of Shane and what happened in the stock room last night. Underneath my clothes, goose bumps raise along every inch of my skin. My cheeks feel burning hot. Clearly, my body is sending the signal that it wants more. Before last night, I’d been full of pent-up sexual tension, but somehow the releasing of it hasn’t lessened this twisty hankering for Shane. If anything, it has only grown in intensity. I think of his hand sliding down the front of my underwear, him licking my belly before going lower, the size of him in my hand.
Shit. I’m starting to wish this coffee was ice water so I could dump it over my head. At this rate, it’s only a matter of time before me and Shane have sex. Crazy, loud, sweaty, dirty…no-strings-attached sex. That’s all it would be. Just two people scratching an itch. A really itchy itch. No entanglements.
My problem with those rules is they are doing little to comfort me. I don’t know what that means, but it adds a layer of anxiety to the restless need for more. My coffee cup pauses halfway to my mouth when I realize I haven’t thought of Evan once this entire morning. The realization washes over me, more effective than dousing myself in ice water. I came here to get over Evan, to resuscitate myself, but I never expected it to happen so soon. Is it Shane? Is he speeding along this whole unfamiliar process? If so, that’s definitely not going to fly. I didn’t come here to become consumed with another guy, even temporarily.
I’ve never performed this circus act of separating physical attraction from emotional connection. How do I know if I’m doing it right? In two weeks’ time, when I board the plane back to Chicago, I can’t be in worse shape than when I arrived. On top of losing Evan, I can’t be confused over whatever feelings seem to be evolving for Shane. I can’t let it happen.
The trouble with that, of course, is that I want to rip Shane’s pants off.
“All set, then,” Kitty says, entering my line of vision. Excellent timing, since now I can do nothing but envision her son in his birthday suit. “I think I have everything we need.”
I glance down and see Kitty is holding a giant bag of red apples. “What about the fish?”
“Fish?”
Over the Kitty’s shoulder, the fishmonger catches my eye, holding up Kitty’s order in his hand, wrapped in white wax paper, telling me she must have made the order and wandered off before it could be completed. Making sure to keep an eye on Kitty, I dig my wallet out of my messenger bag and pay the man. When I walk back over, she is watching me closely.
“Martin usually picks up the fish.”
“He’s sick today,” I explain, certain whoever is listening and judging me will forgive that one tiny lie. Kitty holds out her hand and after a beat, I take it and walk back toward the bus.
“Did I ever tell you Martin kissed me once?”
“No,” I lie again. It’s a slippery slope. “How was it?”
“Lovely.”