Chapter 11

There was a slight mist in the air later that evening as Jo got ready to set out for the pub. She was looking forward to it. Before she left Bridie’s house, she applied some lipstick and took one last look in the mirror. She loved going out at Christmastime; there was such a festive feeling in the air. She suspected it was probably the same way in Ireland. And she was hoping it would rub off on Ian. Or even a little of it.

The driving hadn’t gone as bad as she had feared. It wasn’t the driving itself that had worried her but being alone with Ian. Her experience so far was that he didn’t want her company and was a bit of a grump. She couldn’t blame him. But during the drive, he’d been okay. Almost friendly. More than once, she’d stolen a glance at him. That dark hair—she wondered if it was as soft as it looked. And she found herself fascinated by his beard. It worried Jo that she was having this kind of reaction to him. There were thousands of miles between them, and to harbor a crush on him would only lead to disappointment. Namely hers.

She shrugged on her coat and wrapped a green scarf around her neck.

In the kitchen, her grandmother huddled with Bridie over a springform pan. Something smelled good. The older women were whispering and giggling, unaware of her presence. Bridie was poking holes into the cake with a skewer.

“Don’t be mean with the whiskey, Bridie.” Gram laughed.

“I think you’re right, Mary,” Bridie said. She uncapped a bottle of Powers whiskey and poured some into each hole.

“What are you doing?” Jo asked, startling them, which resulted in more laughter.

“Making the Christmas cake,” Bridie said.

Jo walked up to them and inspected the brown cake filled with sultanas, raisins, and dried fruit. The smell of whiskey assailed her nostrils.

She waved her hand in front of her nose. “A little strong on the booze, don’t you think?”

Gram and Bridie exchanged a look and grinned.

“Do you add whiskey every day?” Jo asked, thinking her grandmother and Bridie would be bombed on fumes alone by the time Christmas rolled around.

Bridie’s eyes widened. “Good Lord, no. We add it every ten days.”

“How long ago did you make it?” Jo asked Bridie.

“I always make it six weeks ahead of Christmas,” Bridie answered.

“And the alcohol is a preservative, so the cake keeps!” Gram enthused.

“I bet it does,” Jo said wryly.

“Getting ready to head off?” Bridie asked.

“Yes, Ian said we’d go to the pub.”

“It’s a start,” Bridie said with a nod of approval. “Although Jo, I disagree with you not taking any money for this.”

Jo shook her head, relieved that Gram had spoken to Bridie. “I can’t. We’re just hanging out.”

Bridie went to protest but Jo said, “Besides, I really don’t mind.”

The grandmothers glanced at each other and smiled. Jo frowned.

“I knew all he needed was a bit of company.” Ian’s grandmother beamed. “He’s been so lonesome since the accident.”

“Well, it’s just a trip to the pub for a pint, so don’t get too excited,” Jo warned. She didn’t want them to get their hopes up. She hated letting people down.

“Mary, Jo is the image of you at that age. I look at her and it’s like I’m seeing you,” Bridie said, her eyes filling up.

“What are you two getting up to this evening?” Jo said. She hoped it was something that didn’t involve any more whiskey. She didn’t want them turning maudlin, or worse, goofy.

“We’re going to have some mince pies and watch the Late, Late Show tonight,” Bridie said.

“I haven’t seen the Late, Late Show since Gay Byrne hosted it,” Mary said.

“May he rest in peace,” Bridie added, making the sign of the cross.

Jo nodded. “That’s great.” She kissed her grandmother good-night and headed out into the mist.

She met Ian on the footpath just outside the house. She barely came up to his shoulder. His cologne was divine. Jo had to refrain from closing her eyes and drawing in a deep breath of it.

Ian seemed to study her for a moment before looking away quickly. He cleared his throat and asked, “Are you ready?”

She nodded.

“Would you mind carrying the umbrella?” he asked, holding it out to her.

“Nope,” she said. “How far is it?”

“Not far. It’s about a five-minute walk from here.”

“Is it too much of a distance on crutches?” she asked tentatively.

Ian shook his head. “I can handle it.”

“Or maybe I should drive,” Jo debated.

“Come on, Johanna, let’s go,” Ian said.

The sky was dark. There were no stars or moon evident, which indicated heavy cloud cover. Although mild, the air was damp.

The walk toward town center was taking a bit longer than five minutes, and there was still no sign of a pub. Jo worried about Ian on the crutches, but he seemed to be managing. At least she had on comfortable boots with her skirt.

Looking around, she noticed that almost every window in the houses they passed had an electric candle in it. “What’s that about? The candles in the windows?”

“That’s an old Irish tradition. It’s to light the way for the Holy Family or to let Joseph and Mary know that there’s room in the home.”

“That’s lovely,” Jo said. They went on in silence for a moment, and Jo studied all the houses and their varying Christmas decorations. It was just like back home, she thought. Festive and full of cheer. The color really helped with the dreary weather.

“Gram tells me you really don’t get snow in Ireland at Christmas. Is that the case?” she asked, hopeful he might disagree.

He nodded. “Yes. Sometimes we might get some in January. A few years back, we had a blizzard in March, practically shut down the country.”

Jo didn’t say anything. She liked the sound of Ian’s voice or more specifically, his lilt.

The sky opened up and a torrent of rain fell upon them. It was so unexpected that Jo burst out laughing. Quickly, she opened the umbrella and held it over the both of them.

“Johanna, you don’t have to hold the umbrella over my head, I don’t mind a little water.”

“A little water? It’s biblical,” she said.

Ian laughed. The rain battered the umbrella, cascading off the side of it. Jo could feel the rain soaking her leg. She noticed his arm was getting drenched.

“Oh no,” Jo said.

“It’ll pass,” Ian said.

Jo’s lower back was beginning to ache from the angle at which she had to hold the umbrella. “Should we go home?” she asked, not treasuring the thought of another night in.

“Not on your life.” He stopped, resting on his crutches, and looked down at her legs, clad in black tights. “Come in closer, so you don’t get soaked.”

Jo felt a flush spread to her cheeks. She moved in next to him, mindful not to knock him off his crutches. With one hand holding the umbrella high above their heads, she adjusted her stride to match his.

“I hope it’s quiet at the pub tonight. I really don’t want to run into anyone I know,” Ian said.

She wondered how realistic that was. He was a former rugby player who played for a national team. If Ireland was anything like the States, they’d know him as soon as he set foot in the pub.

She enjoyed the combination of his smell: soap, mint, and aftershave. It was heady.

“Are you all right?” he asked. “You have a strange look on your face.”

“Yes, I’m fine,” she said, keeping her eyes straight ahead.

“You’re a funny bird, Johanna,” Ian said.

When they reached the pub, Jo stared at Ian, who appeared not even to have broken a sweat covering the distance from his house to the pub on crutches, “Wow, your upper body strength is amazing.” She closed the umbrella.

Ian laughed and shook his head.

Jo felt her cheeks go scarlet.

The pub was located on a corner. Blinking lights decorated the windows of the white two-story building with orange trim, and green garland wrapped with blinking lights ran the length of the inside sill. On the side of the building, a sign painted in big, bold orange letters identified the place as “Keenan’s.” The door opened, and music and laughter spilled out. Two young men emerged. One of them, who looked to be in his early twenties, eyed Ian, nudged the other, and said, “It’s Ian Twomey!”

Jo held her breath and Ian regarded them warily.

One of the men leaned toward Ian and extended his hand. “Great to see you out and about, mate.”

“Thanks.” Ian shook the man’s hand and wished him a good night, and they headed down the street.

Ian paused at the now-closed pub door and appeared to hesitate. Before he could change his mind, Jo opened the door and held it for him.

Ian maneuvered the crutches up the step and nodded toward the umbrella stand.

“Just stick the brolly in there.”

Jo frowned at the collection of plain black umbrellas in the stand, each one indistinguishable from the other. “How will we tell which one is ours when we’re leaving?”

“We won’t be able to, but we’ll have an umbrella to go home. Come on, let’s get a pint,” he said. And then he muttered, “I might need one.”