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Before I have a chance for any more protest, another message follows.
I miss you to bursting.
The seagulls in Howth are the size of pterodactyls. A troupe of the screeching beasties perch atop multi-colored boxes as tall as my shoulder near the dock. With night falling, their white feathers reflect the streetlights in an eerily over-bright glow.
The smell of fish permeates every air molecule surrounding the piles of green netting and massive coils of rope lining the sidewalk. I make the mistake of peering through the slats on one of the boxes.
“Ugh.” I jump back after practically coming nose to nose with a pile of unidentifiable fish parts. The king of gulls lands right in front of me, flapping its wings to drive me away from his dragon’s hoard of nasty.
On one side of the street, rows of fishing boats rock on the evening tide. Across from the docks are a line of buildings made of stone, or whitewashed fronts with blue trim and awnings. The theme is definitely nautical. Like everywhere I’ve been in Ireland so far, Howth is postcard perfect.
Lobster Lee’s is hard to miss. A giant, red wooden lobster sits in the center of a big blue circle. A sign underneath the smug crustacean reads:If it swims, we’ll catch it.
I’ve got a good hour and a half to kill. I wish I’d snuck my clubs into Jack’s Renault since he’s driving me back to Waterville. Would sneaking have been necessary? Is there such a thing as too careful? We do both work on the show. Carpooling makes sense. I hoist the bag over my shoulder and stroll down the West Pier.
I’m alone when I reach the end. Mist swirls in a yellowish curtain around the lights. Across a small expanse of water, the Howth lighthouse’s beacon cuts through the thickening night. I whisper to the slender finger reaching to the sky. “Keep me from crashing onto the rocks.”
I raise my face to the wind. It’s crisp and clean, vanquishing the reek of fish from the dock. There’s texture to the air that slides across my skin with a refreshing caress. My heart, heavy with disappointment from being robbed of walking the golf course with Jack, lightens from this kiss of Irish breeze. A sense of renewal bubbles up inside, and with it, a flicker of hope.
“I want to find a way, Jack. I really do.”
An idea pops into my head. Maybe watching past interviews with Niks and Jack will desensitize me to the pretense of their couple act. Any hint at romance is a construct, a publicity check mark. I’ll flood my system with the sham to help me separate image from reality. Dropping onto a bench, I pull out my cell and Google them.
The first few interviews before the show premiered are banal. It’s all chit chat about the upcoming season. Niks and Jack come off like buddies heading off on an adventure, but nothing more. I’m not sure when the tone shifts, but it does. An intimacy of knowledge springs up between them.
One interview in particular uses the format of a contest for the twoChieftain’s Sonstars to answer personal questions about the other. It’s exquisite torture to watch. I know in my bones this happened after their initial flirtation. There’s a bond between them surrounding a secret.
The question about Jack’s middle name makes my stomach flip. I don’t even know his middle name.
On camera, Niks grins before she answers, giving Jack a poke in the ribs. “Dawson. Jack Dawson O’Leary. His mom had a sweet, little Titanic obsession.”
Jack turns as red as the lobster on the Lobster Lee’s sign. “Not correct. That movie came into the world long after I did.”
Niks scoots closer, gazing into his eyes. “Jack and Rose have nothing on Donal Cam and Nieve’s love story, do they?”
So much for desensitizing. Now, I’m just plain pissed off. Early or not, I head for Lobster Lee’s.
It’s easy to score a table in the narrow side room through an arch off the main dining area. The row of cramped booths designed to accommodate overflow are empty, plus there’s a convenient corner to stash my clubs.
“You look like you could use a hot whiskey there,” says my waiter.
I shouldn’t start drinking until Jack shows up. We’ve got important ground to cover, and I need to be clearheaded. The lure of whiskey, sugar, and lemon wins out. As I take the first sip, my phone buzzes.
Fifteen minutes out. Order up.
I order matching bowls of chowder and a Jameson neat for Jack. A thrill races up my body. Fifteen minutes until I feel those big warm hands on mine and lose myself in eyes as blue as the Irish Sea on a sunny day.
A thump on my table makes me look up with a start. “Well, look who busted out of Waterville.” Meg slides into the seat opposite me.
Oh, shit.
She’s working on a very full glass of red wine. Not her first of the evening, I’m guessing.
“Hey, Meg. This is a surprise.”
She waves me off. “I just finished interviewing a new assistant.”
New assistant? I never noticed an old assistant. I assumed Meg was a one-woman PR machine. “Promising?”
