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Chapter Two
Orla
“Orla dear, will you go to the bakery and pick up my Irish Apple Cake?” I turn and give my seanmháthair a disapproving look before giggling when she shrugs her shoulders. My grandmother is not a woman who apologizes for anything. If she says it, she means it.
My grandmother is my favorite person in the whole world. For as long as I can remember, she has been the one person who has never tried to change me. She has been encouraging and loving, and without judgment. She is the mother of my father, who is an only child. He married my mother when they were both in graduate school. They waited years after to have me, and by then, I was convinced they were too old for children. Hence the reason I am an only child.
To my parents, I am a wanderer. Aimless with no purpose. Useless unless I find a passion that pays well. But to my seanmháthair, I am sweet, precious, and just trying to figure out my way. The truth is, I know what I want, but to voice it out loud feels…frivolous, like I am everything my parents think I am, so I just pretend I don’t know what I want. “Sweet Girl, where did your mind go?” she asks me. I realize I didn’t answer her.
“I am sorry seanmháthair. Of course, I will go get your cake, but we both know you should not be eating that.”
“Pish posh. I am an old lady. I have lived a life of plenty. If I can't have what I enjoy now, then why am I still here?” My eyes begin to water anytime she says that. Thinking of her not here makes my heart ache. If she leaves me, I will have no one. My parents are my parents, and nothing will change that, but we are not close, and they don’t understand me. I would truly be alone. I don't have friends. I was the awkward girl in school, walking around reading romance novels and always had my head in a book like Belle in Beauty and the Beast.
“Grandma,” I say, wiping the tears from my eyes.
“I don’t want you to be sad, sweet girl. But I am not going to be alive forever, and I want you settled and happy. We both know what you are searching for, but how hard are you looking for it?” I know she is right. I am either in the house with her watching Hallmark or old Clint Eastwood movies, or I am at the library with my face in a book, wishing for the kind of love found in them.
“I know, grandma. Alright. I will be back in a few.” I grab my keys and purse and begin the fifteen-minute walk from her house to the bakery. Walking through the neighborhood, I smile, seeing the same shop owners I have been seeing since I was a young girl. There is comfort in familiarity. Just as prevalent as nostalgia is the overwhelming feeling of never knowing anything outside of this neighborhood. I don’t want to move to a different state or something, no. I am simply saying, here, in the city, everything is well…everywhere. There is no room for a family to spread its wings and grow. I would love to settle in one of the burbs and have a house on an acre or two where I can watch my kids and their dog and play in the yard. That’s it. I am simple.
I am so lost in thought that I don't realize I have arrived at the bakery until I hear the door chime, and someone walks out. “So sorry,” I say, moving out of their way. I watch the lady and her two little kids walk down the sidewalk, and I can’t stop the pang in my stomach from reaching to my heart. Walking in, I see the back of Mr. O’Doyle and decide to wait for him to come back instead of ringing the bell. Plus, I am sure he heard the door chime.
“Welcome to the O’Doyle’s bakery where everything is like being…holy hell.” This deep, gravelly voice reaches me from the other side of the counter, and my head comes up only to be met with the most enticingly beautiful green eyes I have ever seen. “Aingeal.” I look behind me, certain he is not calling me an Angel. When I look back at him, his eyebrow is quirked up, challenging me to say something, but I am completely at a loss. Tongue-tied. Is it normal not to be able to speak in the presence of handsome men?
“Ah, Orla dear, here is your order. Please tell your seanmháthair hello for me.” Breaking the connection with Mister Green Eyes is harder than it should be, but I smile at Mr. O’Doyle, grab the order, and basically sprint out the door, but not before looking back one more time to find his eyes on mine as well. Well, shoot. Who the heck was that?
