Keep You (17 page)

             
Tam stood, blinking stupidly at the spot where she’d been standing, before disbelieving laughter bubbled up his throat. Holy shit.

16

Now

             
The flight from Dublin to Galway Airport was cramped and precarious, the plane shaking and rattling. Jo was convinced her window was coming loose and that she might get sucked out at any moment. Jordan sat beside her with his eyes shut the whole time, head resting against the seat back in front of him, chanting
I will not hurl
over and over. Delta was sitting in the front row and kept saying “It’s so hot in here!” the entire hop from one coast of Ireland to the other, her bridesmaids chorusing along with her, complaining of stomach aches and light headedness.

             
But despite all that, Jo had a window seat, and below her, Ireland was a patchwork of emerald, jade and azure, criss-crossed with black and tan ribbons of roads, rivers and streams shining like blue flame when the sun managed to pierce the surreal, patchy swaths of fog that were like cotton hugging the earth.

             
Atlanta looked green from the air too, but the tones and shades here were different: more green, the woods deeper and darker and softer to look at. Crumbling stone walls segmented pastures full of white pinpricks: sheep, maybe cattle and horses. Roads carved their way around hills that punched up from the moss-colored grass like fists. Even this far above it, Ireland looked ancient, a place lost in time, where knights still galloped chargers across the fields; a secret place shrouded in fog, untouched by the rest of the world. It looked like a place full of magic. Full of possibility.

             
For the first time in a very long time, Jo felt a bright, pure tingle of excitement in her belly. It was like a silver thread sliding through her stomach, elusive, she was afraid that if she thought about it too hard, it might disappear. So she pressed her nose to the glass and watched Galway Airport come into view as the plane circled around and prepared to descend. She’d been so fixated on Delta and Mike’s pompous nuptials that she’d overlooked the sheer wonder of being in this place.

             
There was a car service waiting to take them to the castle and it took nearly an hour to sort all the humans and luggage into the fleet of vans that would take them to Billingsly. Jo heaved a sigh of relief when she slid into a seat beside her mother, her hobo bag on her lap.

             
“Isn’t it gorgeous?” she asked, leaning over her mom so she could watch the dazzlingly green hills begin to slide away from them as the van headed out of the parking lot.

             
“It’s awful green,” Randy said from the seat in front of them.

             
Gwen and the boys were across the aisle. “I feel like I ought to be wearing a dress,” she said dreamily. “One of those medieval ones with the big sleeves and the headdress.”

             
“With what this is costing us,” Walt said from the seat in front of her where he was sitting with Jordan, “you’ll be lucky if you ever wear any kind of dress again.”

             
“Oh, stop.” She thumped the seat with a grin.

             
Gwen and Walt had been high school sweethearts. She was soft in all ways: soft brown hair, soft smile, soft voice that should have been recorded and mass produced on CDs for people who had trouble falling asleep. She was tall and solid, big-boned, not at all overweight, but her hands and feet and wrists and ankles made Jo look like she was made of twigs. Her sons looked like her.

             
She brushed a hand over the top of Logan’s brown head and continued to stare wistfully out the window. “It’s so romantic.”

             
The scenery, yes, even if not the wedding.

             
It was thirty some odd miles north to the city of Cong, in whose district the castle was encompassed. Their trek took them through breathtaking countryside: fields of wind-ruffled wheat and grass so blue it put Kentucky to shame. Great, shaggy emerald trees overlapped the road and threw shade over cottages and farm houses. Wire and board fence corralled more sheep than Jo would have thought existed. There were horses everywhere: some sleek-limbed and dappled, some draft crosses with heavy, feathered legs. And all throughout, the road flirted with the edge of a lake that shone like a mirror, small waves lapping at its stony shore.

             
“Lough Corrib,” their driver announced in a brogue so thick Jo couldn’t help but smile. He pointed through the passenger window of the van to the lake beyond. “We turn off here to get to Billingsly,” he told them, “it’s right on the lough.”

             
He left
–ing
off of Billingsly, turning it into a slurred rolling of L sounds. It was fantastic.

             
The van slowed and followed the one in front of it to the left, onto a paved side street that was marked by a tall wooden sign that indicated direction. Cong ahead to the north. Billingsly down into the thick shade of the forest. Jo’s heart gave a little leap of excitement. They were almost there.

             
“I still say we should have stayed at a Holiday Inn,” Randy grumbled as they passed between an open pair of wrought iron gates affixed to stone posts, glass-paned lamps topping them.

             
“No Holiday Inns around here, Dad,” Jo said, rolling her eyes.

             
“That’s not what Jordie said!”

             
“I said I was sure there were, not that there for sure were any,” Jordan said and Jo could imagine their father’s perplexed frown.

             
“Don’t act like that, Randall,” Beth said. “You’ve known all along we were staying here, so don’t play games just to embarrass me! Not in front of these people!”

             
“Embarrass you?” Randy twisted around and popped his indignant face over the back of the seat. “You think that’s what I’m trying to do? I - ”

             
Jo shook her head at him. He scowled at her, but dropped back down, grumbling to himself. “It’s fine, Mom.” She laid a hand on the trembling one in Beth’s lap. Beth’s other hand gripped the strand of pearls around her throat like they were a lifeline: her claim to wealth and class.

             
She had dressed up – the black skirt she wore to work, a new magenta shell and matching sweater with pearl buttons. She’d spent an hour on her hair and makeup, fretting and mumbling, near tears. Now she looked exhausted and stressed. Jo hated it for her.

             
“You look beautiful, Mom,” she said with a smile. “No one thinks you don’t belong here.”

             
Beth pursed her lips and tipped her head to the side, thankful for the compliment, but not convinced.

             
“The Brooks are only half of this wedding,” Jo pressed. “There’s a whole Walker side to things too, and we don’t have to try and be like them. We’re not them and frankly, I’m glad I’m not. Aren’t you?”

             
Beth let go of the pearls so she could double check that her Burberry purse was still tucked away at her feet. “Yes,” she said, then sighed. She gave Jo a pleading look. “Yes,” she repeated. “I’m not ashamed of my family, Jo.”

             
“Then don’t let them think you are.” Jo patted her mother’s hand. “This is going to be fine.”

             
“Oh, boys, look! Look!” Gwen said, half rising in her seat.

             
Jo put her hands on the seat back and stood just a little, looking through the windshield.

             
The castle was just coming into view.

             
Spires and turrets thrust up from the trees ahead of them, tickling the blue belly of the sky. Pennants that looked the size of ribbons from this distance snapped in the breeze. The sun glinted off slate tiles and copper flashing.

             
The van plunged into a glade of trees, the interior of the vehicle becoming suddenly dark as night, and then they burst through on the other side, right on the side lawn of Billingsly Castle.

             
“Holy fucking shit,” Jordan breathed. Someone whistled.

             
A behemoth of gray, lichen-covered stone sprawled across the vivid grass before them. Jo pulled up her research in her mind, assigning histories to the architectural components in front of her. The original keep was the big four-story box in the foreground, a turret at each corner, merlons spanning the roof between the towers. Jo knew there were murder holes and arrow slits up there, vantage points from which plate and mail soldiers had once defended their castle.

             
The curtain walls had been torn down a century ago, but the moat was a gleaming ring of brightness that circled the perimeter and over which spanned a stone bridge the vans would carry them across.

             
A long, rectangular wing studded with mullioned windows and shimmering with the sunlight they reflected connected the main keep to the elaborate gothic addition on the far side of the lawn. There were gargoyles on the walkways and spires as sharp and ferocious as fangs jutting up from the arches and peaks of the roofline and all its stained glass windows.

             
Jo watched, rapturous, as the vans trundled over the bridge and looped around the circular drive that rounded a massive, three-tiered fountain. A shallow, stone staircase at least fifty feet wide and bordered by stone planters bursting with flowers tumbled down from the great, oak and iron main doors like a waterfall, ending at the edge of the drive. She could see a woman and a man in black suits holding clipboards, waiting for their party to arrive she assumed.

             
When the van halted, Jo found herself crushed in the press of bodies anxious to be finished with the final leg of their journey, and, undoubtedly, anxious to take away the last barrier of steel and glass between them and this fairytale come to life.

             
The first taste of air that passed her lips as she emerged into the sunlight was crisp, much cooler than an Atlanta summer, and it smelled sweet, clean. Like sky and mountains and lake water. She breathed deep and stretched, grateful for the freedom of movement after all those hours confined. The sun was bright, but low, its last flares catching all the windows of the castle and setting them aflame. It would be dark before long. They’d lost a whole day travelling.

             
Jordan whistled as he stepped up beside her. “This is so
Game of Thrones.
You think Ned Stark lives here?”

             
“You wish, fanboy,” she fired back, unable to wipe the smile from her face. “God, why did I fight coming here?”

             
“Daddy, get the camera! I want you to take a picture of Michael and me as we’re arriving,” Delta’s voice sapped all the charm and wonder right out of the centuries-old structure in front of them. She was standing outside the first vehicle in the caravan, one manicured hand on her hip, the other pointing to the van that her father was climbing back inside. “And bring the invitation! I want the wedding invitation in the shot!”

17

Now

             
Of course he was sharing a room with Johnson. Of freaking course he was.

             
Even the most basic, standard room with two queen beds and one bath was opulent. Theirs was done in a powder blue and peach theme; the walls blue, the drapes peach with white sheers beneath. The beds had “Princess and the Pea” coverlets that looked deep as sponge cake, done in quilted peach satin, the blue sheets turned down at the top. A yellow rug detailed with acorns covered the area between the feet of the beds and the white maple armoire that housed the TV, DVD player and wifi router. White maple chairs with pale yellow upholstered seats and backs framed a white maple table between the two windows, the furniture looking like royal relics from a bygone era. The lampshades were beaded with crystals. The bathroom was all white subway tile and white, modern fixtures, chrome everywhere. Clearly, the plumbing and electronics had been retrofitted.

             
Tam saw all of this with a glance as he tossed his bag on the bed by the windows and went to peer out onto the lawn below, pushing the gauzy sheers aside with a hand. An elaborate patchwork of gardens unfurled at the foot of the structure, cobbled paths running through them filled with guests who pointed and smiled and stopped to cup blossoms carefully in their hands. Beyond, he saw several people on horseback on the opposite side of the moat. And beyond, butting up to a shore full of craggy, dark rocks, the lake yawned glassy and black, catching the last rays of sunlight as gold beams that danced across its surface. Electric old timey lamps were coming on in the yard, illuminating the drive and walkways. To the right, Tam could see light blazing through the windows of the more gothic wing of the castle.

             
“I’m gonna hop in the shower before dinner,” Johnson said and Tam heard rustling behind him as the guy dug for fresh clothes in his bag.

             
Whatever, dumbass
. “’Kay,” he muttered, not giving a shit. The jet lag was setting in, his body exhausted in an overpowering way. He wanted to peel back his peach coverlet, lie down and not get back up.

             
But he was expected at dinner, one of Mike and Delta’s little ducks all lined up the way he was supposed to be.

             
The shower cut on and Johnson started singing to himself: a robust, pitchy rendition of “Hotel California.” No way was Tam sticking around to clean up and change clothes. If anything, he thought a little protest was in order.

             
Remembering that there had been a bar in the brochure for this place, he double checked his wallet in his back pocket, slipped his leather jacket on over his t-shirt, and left the room, stepping into an equally opulent hallway carpeted in maroon crushed velvet. The walls were paneled in stained oak, paintings of long dead lords and ladies in gilt frames and flickering gas look-a-like torches set at intervals. He stood for a moment, raking his fingers through his un-gelled, crazy hair, trying to remember which direction to head down this never ending passage. He finally guessed right and moved toward the elevators, another retrofit he was thankful for.

             
The bar was on the first floor, down a short hall from the grand sweeping staircase in the entrance, and was a cross between a local pub and a wealthy man’s library. Two of its four walls were lined in book shelves and broken up by red-draped windows. The other two were dark paneled oak, framed photos of the grounds hung in collages. The floor was carpeted in a plush dark blue. The chairs were upholstered in yellow with red and blue stripes and spindly arms, all grouped around dark, polished tables. The bar itself was almost black with varnish, buffed to a sheen, with none of the usual wear and character of a true pub bar. Wine glasses and tumblers dripped from racks in the ceiling. Liquor bottles were arranged in artful pyramids. The bartender was in a tidy white shirt and gray waistcoat, a charcoal tie. Tam bet his shoes were as shiny as the bar.

             
He glanced around, disgusted at how bright and inviting the space was – it looked more appropriate for tea parties than drowning oneself in alcohol – and then his eyes came to rest on the couple sitting over by one of the windows, two of only a handful of guests present.

             
Jordan and his little sister had tall glasses of dark beer in front of them and both looked ready for a nap as they slumped in their chairs. Lamplight from outside crept into the window behind them, casting a soft, warm glow over Jo’s face, picking up the hints of gold in her hair and turquoise eyes. She had changed and now wore a pair of loose, tan linen pants that tied at the waist, brown moccasins, and a slouchy salmon colored, long sleeved shirt that clung to her breasts and slipped off one shoulder, a purple bra strap visible.

             
Tam started walking toward them before he could tell himself it was a bad idea, and was pulling up a chair across the table from them and sitting down before all the reasons why he shouldn’t could take hold in his brain.

             
Jordan gave him a lazy nod. “What up, bro?”

             
“Jet lag. That’s what up.”

             
Jordan nodded, eyes flagging. “Beer helps.”

             
He glanced at Jo and saw what he thought might have been a smile as her eyes passed over him. “Who’d you get stuck with on the rooms?” he asked her.

             
She tilted her head to the side toward her brother.

             
“Stuck with?” Jordan asked. “Try lucky enough to end up with more like.”

             
“Delta wanted to stick me with one of the eleven, but I think she realized I’d smother them in their sleep,” Jo said.

             
Tam lifted his brows. “The eleven?”

             
A waiter who might have been the bartender but who was dressed identically, so he had no idea if it was the same guy, materialized at his elbow. “Something to drink this evening, sir?” he asked, his brogue so light he almost sounded English.

             
“Guinness. Lots of Guinness,” Tam told him and watched him whisk away with a stiff little bow. “Not sure I’ve been called ‘sir’ in my life,” he said when he was gone.

             
“They assume if you’re staying here, you’re loaded,” Jordan said.

             
“They assumed wrong.” He glanced at Jo. “Eleven?”

             
“Bridesmaids one through eleven.” Her almost smile might have become a little bigger. “I can’t keep their names straight, so Jess and I numbered them.”

             
“Very efficient.” Tam bit back his own grin. In a matter of seconds, some of his fatigue had dissolved, his dissatisfaction lightening with each moment he looked at her. “But what about - ”

             
“Our lovely maid of honor?” she asked, teeth showing now as she fought her smile. “No one forgets Regina.”

             
“She came onto me once,” Jordan said and they both gave him disbelieving looks.

             
Tam’s beer arrived on a little white napkin with another bow. He picked it up, took a long swallow, and held onto it as he leaned back in his chair, trying to get comfy. “No she didn’t.”

             
“Did too.” Jordan’s eyes became wide and comically earnest. “It was at the engagement party. I was minding my own business, trying to get drunk over by that ugly-ass sculpture they had in their backyard.”

             
If Tam remembered correctly, it had been an abstract of a mother and child. Jordan had said it looked like dolphins mating.

             
“She was wearing that…” he made a face “…pink number, and she walked right up to me and said I had the most beautiful eyes she’d ever seen on a man.”

             
“They
are
stunning,” Tam deadpanned.

             
Jo covered a laugh with her fingertips.

             
“And then she reached out and –“ he walked his fingers up his own arm with a sour face, “and asked what my name was. She didn’t believe me when I said ‘Walker,’ said I was too pretty for that.”

             
“And?” Tam prodded.

             
“I told her that was okay, because she wasn’t too pretty for anything.”

             
Tam heard Jo’s laughter the same moment his own cracked through the room. It felt good to laugh, to find something truly funny. It was like a pressure valve was released inside him, a little bit of the steam that was building getting let loose. His eyes found Jo’s and in her amusement, she’d popped the lid on her other emotions. Under the laughter, there was hurt glimmering in her eyes. He could see it just as plain as if he had a window all the way through her brain.

             
It was hurt that he’d caused. His fault.

             
“I’m pretty sure she’s moved on,” Jordan said and directed a pointed look at Tam.

             
“What’s that supposed to mean?”

             
“I think she’s got her eye on a little after-dinner Wales.”

             
Jo stiffened in her chair, coming upright against its back. “Speaking of dinner, we should probably head that way,” she said, all traces of humor now gone from her face.

             
Swing and a miss
, Tam thought to himself.

**

              The dining room was aglow with the warm, muted light of pendulum chandeliers that hung above each of the fifty some odd tables. The linens were white, the chair backs delicate, carved cherry. White china, heavy crystal and far too many forks marked each place setting. Antique buffets and side boards loaded with crystal decanters lined the walls between the several sets of open French doors. There was a low wooden dais at one end and that was where Delta stood as they entered, sheathed in a pear-green dress with wide straps, her dark hair piled on her head, stacked stilettos showing off her pedicure. Mike stood beside her in fresh khakis and a Ralph Lauren shirt, the dutiful, though weary fiancé.

             
“Everyone!” Delta projected her voice across the room, tapping on a delicate piece of stemware with a fork. “Everyone, let’s all sit down. Michael and I have a few things to say. Be sure to mingle. I don’t expect to see any wallflowers here this weekend.”

             
Jo felt an arm ghost its way around the small of her back. A hand landed on her far hip. She allowed herself a moment, just one, fleeting moment, in which she imagined the arm belonged to Tam, and that in just a second, she’d feel his lips and nose touch her ear as he leaned down to whisper some snarky remark about Delta that would leave her giggling to herself.

             
But his scent was all wrong – an overpowering amount of aftershave that reminded her vaguely of her grandfather – and the jacket that brushed against her arm was expensive wool and not worn, well-loved leather. A glance proved that Ryan wanted to claim some ownership as her date as well as the fact that he was in a blazer and button-up, far more formal than her glorified lounge wear. Tam hadn’t even bothered to change clothes between their arrival and now, but Ryan had showered, shaved, and combed his hair neatly back off his tan forehead. Bridesmaids one through eleven, and Regina, would have given their left arms to be standing where Jo was now, but Jo wished she were anywhere else.

             
“Did you not get a chance to go up to your room?” Ryan asked with concern, a little frown drawing his brows together.

             
Jo would have been insulted if she didn’t find it so hilarious that here he was trying to get into her pants and couldn’t even manage to deliver a compliment. “Oh, I did,” she said with an innocent smile. “It was so nice to slip into something a little more…fancy.”

             
His eyes trekked up and down her off-the-shoulder top and linen pants, face blank. “Oh. Right.” He found a smile. “Well you look great.”

             
“Uh-huh.”

             
“Sit, sit, sit!” Delta chirped, still beating the hell out of an expensive glass with her fork.

             
Jo let Ryan guide her to a table and waited as he pulled her chair out, again finding humor in the little displays of courtesy a guy like this would show a girl, knowing he’d jump her bones and then drop her like a hot rock afterward. She scooted her chair into place and glanced up over the low, conversation-friendly centerpiece to find Tam staring back at her.

             
Of course she was sitting at his table. Of freaking course she was.

             
In her haste to break eye contact with him, she looked around at the table’s other inhabitants and found Jordan, Mitch Huddle and his wife – a willowy, red-eyed, sleepy thing with bottle blonde hair – and another groomsmen whose name she thought started with a J.