Page 24 of My Life in Shambles


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“I know it’s soon,” I tell her sweetly, my stock answer from before. “But when it feels right, it feels right.”

“It’s like ye don’t even know,” she says, as if to herself.

“Know what?”

“That he’s Padraig McCarthy. He’s been one of the most unattainable bachelors in the whole country, maybe even the entire rugby world. You’re not even Irish.”

“I don’t see what that has to do with anything,” I say stiffly. I raise my chin defiantly but then realize I have a bit of baked bean sauce on my face.

Shit.

I wipe it off deftly and keep my composure. I guess I was right in how she felt about me. I’m not wanted. Not worthy. I have baked beans on my face.

But I keep her gaze with mine as she says, “I’m just saying, he’s had a whole big life before ye showed up.”

“So?” I ask pointedly, refusing to let her bait me.

“You didn’t even know about his sister. Maybe ye should learn a wee bit more about him before you take this step. I mean, taking his mam’s engagement ring. That’s serious.”

She’s right about that and I hate it.

She glances at the grandfather clock in the corner. “Well, I better get the kitchen cleaned up. Nice talking to ye. I don’t suppose I’ll be invited to the wedding since I’m an ex-girlfriend and all.”

And after that bomb explodes all over me, she gets up and goes back into the kitchen.

Whoa. We have a live one here.

The conversation makes me lose my appetite. I abandon my plate, not wanting to bring it into the kitchen lest she try to bite me, and get on my boots and my coat and head outside.

The cold, fresh air hits me in the face, and I close my eyes and breathe in until it hurts. Already it feels so much better being out here, with the endless lawn in front of me, sparkling with thick frost.

I make my way around to the back of the house, to the walled garden where I see Agnes with her back to me, bundled up like she’s in the Arctic, hanging her laundry out to dry.

Don’t say top of the mornin’ to ya, don’t say top of the mornin’ to ya.

“Top of the mornin’ to ya,” I say.

She jumps, surprised to see me. “Ooof. You made me heart go crossways.” Then she narrows her eyes at me. “You know we don’t say that here. Better to say, good mornin’ or nothing at all.” She turns her back to me, reaching for another peg.

Well, I definitely won’t be saying that again. Sheesh.

“Do you need any help?”

She cranes her neck to look at me. “With me washing? No, dear. I like doing the washing. The weather has been fierce the last few days, better to take the opportunity to be outside.” She gestures to the falconry mews. “Padraig’s over there with McGavin.”

Who the hell is McGavin?

I tell her thanks and head on over to find out for myself. With the white frost covering the garden walls, shrubs, and bare branches, and lumped in shimmering piles on top of dead flowers, it’s magically beautiful but I can imagine how stunning it would be in the summer.

There’s a pinch in my heart at that thought, knowing I won’t be here in the summer. But who knows, I might not even be here next week.

The birds are kept in the mews, and I only saw them in passing yesterday. Up close, it’s a row of four giant wood cages with metal bars to see out of, each about two hundred square feet. Beside them is a shed, and in front of each cage is a post.

Padraig is wearing a wool coat and standing among the empty posts with a big leather glove on his hand, and on top of his hand is a damn horned owl.

My fake fiancé looks like he’s just wandered off the moors, about to give Heathcliff a run for his money.

“Wow,” I say quietly, stopping where I am so I don’t get too close.

Padraig grins at me, that rare dimple appearing. “Valerie meet Hooter McGavin.”

The owl swivels its head to look at me and I’m met with intelligent yellow eyes.

“Hooter McGavin?” I repeat.

Padraig shrugs lightly and admires the bird. “His real name is McGavin. But when I was growing up, I loved that bloody Adam Sandler movie so much.”

“Happy Gilmore?”

“That’s the one. It reminded me of when my dad briefly made me try golf once. Anyway, there was a character in it…”

“Shooter McGavin,” I say. “I know.”

“Right. So ye know. And he’s an owl, so…”

I laugh. “I take it your dad doesn’t accept the name.”

“Oh no, he gets fully pissed off if I call him Hooter, but hey.” He gestures with his head. “Come on over. Get close. He doesn’t bite. As gentle as a mouse … unless you’re a mouse.”

I do love birds but seeing this one up close is something else. As I tepidly come forward, I can’t take my eyes off of the furry, thick claws that are digging into Padraig’s glove.

“So, birds of prey, huh?” I say. Up close, the owl’s grey feathers are intricately patterned. Beautiful. “Kind of a strange hobby.”

“It’s not uncommon here. A lot of people use them for sport, for hunting. My dad used to, anyway. You know he played rugby but got injured. He was in a bad place after that. My mam suggested he take up falconry since he loved birds so much. It was the best thing for him, really.” He pauses. “Didn’t make him any less of an arse, but it kept him busy. I took part in it from time to time, trying to please him but…” He trails off and shrugs.

“Well, it looks like you know what you’re doing,” I tell him. He’s so confident and comfortable with that owl on his arm. The owl looks as cool as a cucumber, albeit a little sleepy.

“I’m good at faking it,” he says with a wink. “Anyway, I can only handle ol’ Hooter here. The other”—he nods his head at the cages—“he doesn’t accept me as much. He’s a red-tailed hawk, named Clyde. Guess he’s a lot like my dad in that way.”

He frowns, a wash of agitation coming across his brow. “We used to have a kestrel and a barn owl too, but I suppose they got rid of them. I have to wonder what’s going to happen now. Back in the day, when the birds were part of the draw of staying here, both my dad and nan would take care of them, but with the way things are going…”

“If you wanted to show me the ropes, maybe I could help out,” I tell him.

He eyes me, amused. “You do know this isn’t something you can pick up right away. It takes a lot of training and reading.”

“I have nothing to do but train and read. I’m jobless, remember? Maybe I can write about it,” I add, even though writing has been the last thing on my mind since coming here. I had all these grand plans to write articles and freelance and, you know, be responsible, and it’s like the minute I met Padraig, all of that went out the window. He makes me brain dead.

“Well, if you’re that keen on it, I’ll see if I can get the books from Dad. Maybe if he’s feeling up to it, he can teach ye, too. Will do a better job than me, so long as ye don’t mind being called an eeijit every now and then.”

I smile. “I don’t mind if he doesn’t mind.” I rub my lips together for a moment. “Look, I didn’t get a chance to talk to you last night about how long I’m staying and I’m really sorry I just blurted it out like that without discussing it with you first.”

“It’s fine,” he says as the owl shifts slightly on his glove, his eyes starting to droop. “I’m glad ye said it.”

“Really? That didn’t freak you out?”

“Okay, it freaked me out for a moment, but the truth is … I want ye here, Val. I don’t think I can do this alone. Be here, see him like this, and…”

“And what?”

He shakes his head. “Nothing. But honestly, as long as ye want to stay, I’m happy to have ye. And whenever ye want to go, I’ll pay your flight home. And if ye need money while you’re here, I’ll cover ye, and if you’re too proud for me to cover ye, then this place always needs a helping hand.”

“Okay,” I say, hope rising in my chest. It’s in this moment that I realize I have nothing going for me back at home. Nothing at all. And yet I already seem to have everything.

Right in front of me.

Holding an owl.

“Is it weird that I find this both terrifying and sexy?” I ask him, quietly gesturing to Hooter McGavin.

His grin widens. “That’s something I haven’t heard before. Where were you when I was a teenager and hanging out with birds all day?”

My eyes dart over to the high hedge that runs between this property and the house next door, where Gail lives. “Didn’t you say you got into trouble with the neighbor’s daughter when you were a teenager? Was that Gail?”

“How did ye know it was Gail?”

I fold my arms. “She told me just now over breakfast that she’s an ex-girlfriend and doesn’t expect to be invited to our wedding. She also told me I don’t know you well enough and that we’re moving too fast.”

He doesn’t look impressed. “She said all that just now?”

“I don’t think she likes me much.”

He sighs and looks off toward the house, the breeze catching the tips of his dark hair. “It’s not you. She doesn’t like me.”

“She seems to think you’re a big deal.”

He rolls his eyes. “Right. For the wrong reasons. Anyway, we were messy teenagers and there was a lot of heartache, and I was an arse on many accounts. It was a long time ago but perhaps she carries a grudge. I dunno. But she’s nothing for ye to be worried about.”

“She’s no threat to our fake relationship?”

“No,” he says. He clears his throat and looks me over carefully. “I was going to ask if ye wanted to learn a few things about falconry, but perhaps we should head inside. It’s just about freezing.”

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