her.”
“I
will
find her,” Marcy said forcefully.
“Absolutely, you will. No question about it. And if at any point you change your mind about wanting me to join you, if you need some help, or if you just want someone to hold your hand or scratch your back …”
She smiled as his fingers moved up her arm to the base of her neck, disappearing into her mop of wayward curls. “Oh, God. I must look awful. My hair—”
“Is fabulous.”
She shook her head, the curls bouncing lazily across her forehead.
“Is it really possible you don’t know how beautiful you are?” Vic asked.
“My mother always used to say I had way too much hair,” Marcy told him.
“My mother used to say I’d be six feet tall if only I’d stand up straight.”
“There’s nothing wrong with your posture.”
“There’s nothing wrong with your hair.”
Marcy laughed. “Mothers,” she said.
“You said yours died when she was forty-six? That must have been very hard for you.”
“Actually,” Marcy admitted, “in some ways it was a relief.”
“Had she been sick for long?”
“As long as I can remember.”
Vic tilted his head to one side, his eyes asking her to continue.
“She threw herself off the roof of a ten-story building when I was fifteen years old,” Marcy said.
“My God, I’m so sorry.”
“Can you do me a favor?” Marcy asked, crawling back into bed and drawing the covers up to her chin.
“Anything.”
“Can you just hold me?”
She felt his arms immediately surround her, his breath warm on the back of her neck as she pressed her backside into the concave curve of his stomach. They lay that way until eventually she felt his grip on her loosen and his breathing drift into the slower rhythms of sleep. She lay there in the dark, absorbing the reassurance of his gentle snores, then she gently extricated herself from his arms, slipped quietly out of bed, got dressed, and tiptoed from the room.
SIX
F IRST THING THE NEXT morning, Marcy checked out of her hotel.
“I notice you have a number of messages you haven’t retrieved,” the clerk behind the reception desk told her as she was settling up her account.
“You can just erase them.”
“As you wish. If there’s anything else I can help you with …”
“You can get me a taxi, please.” Some time after she’d returned to her own room, Marcy had decided against renting a car—Lynette was right: She was unfamiliar with the roads; she wasn’t used to driving on the left side of the street; she really wouldn’t need a car once she arrived. Hadn’t her former tour guide expressly stated that Cork was a city best experienced on foot?
“You’ll be able to find one right outside the main entrance. Do you need help with your suitcase?”
“No. I can manage. Thank you.”
A line of taxis waited just outside the front door. Marcy approached several before she found one willing to make the drive all the way to Cork, and even then the driver insisted on being compensated for gas and a round-trip fare. “Fine,” Marcy said, climbing into the backseat. “Just get me there as fast as you can.” And in one piece, she added silently as the man threw the cab into gear and the small car all but bounced away from the curb.
Luckily the driver was possibly the only man in Ireland who showed absolutely no interest in carrying on a conversation. Nor did he feel any need to show off his knowledge of Irish history and folklore. Guess he never kissed the Blarney Stone, Marcy found herself thinking as she tried to get comfortable in the cramped backseat.
It took a long time to get out of the city. For a while the taxi was stuck behind two huge dump trucks—“the new national symbol of Dublin,” her guide had grunted yesterday when the bus found itself similarly trapped—each toting tons of sand and gravel. Construction was everywhere: New roads were being built, old ones widened; new apartment complexes, many of them tall, gray concrete boxes devoid
“I
will
find her,” Marcy said forcefully.
“Absolutely, you will. No question about it. And if at any point you change your mind about wanting me to join you, if you need some help, or if you just want someone to hold your hand or scratch your back …”
She smiled as his fingers moved up her arm to the base of her neck, disappearing into her mop of wayward curls. “Oh, God. I must look awful. My hair—”
“Is fabulous.”
She shook her head, the curls bouncing lazily across her forehead.
“Is it really possible you don’t know how beautiful you are?” Vic asked.
“My mother always used to say I had way too much hair,” Marcy told him.
“My mother used to say I’d be six feet tall if only I’d stand up straight.”
“There’s nothing wrong with your posture.”
“There’s nothing wrong with your hair.”
Marcy laughed. “Mothers,” she said.
“You said yours died when she was forty-six? That must have been very hard for you.”
“Actually,” Marcy admitted, “in some ways it was a relief.”
“Had she been sick for long?”
“As long as I can remember.”
Vic tilted his head to one side, his eyes asking her to continue.
“She threw herself off the roof of a ten-story building when I was fifteen years old,” Marcy said.
“My God, I’m so sorry.”
“Can you do me a favor?” Marcy asked, crawling back into bed and drawing the covers up to her chin.
“Anything.”
“Can you just hold me?”
She felt his arms immediately surround her, his breath warm on the back of her neck as she pressed her backside into the concave curve of his stomach. They lay that way until eventually she felt his grip on her loosen and his breathing drift into the slower rhythms of sleep. She lay there in the dark, absorbing the reassurance of his gentle snores, then she gently extricated herself from his arms, slipped quietly out of bed, got dressed, and tiptoed from the room.
SIX
F IRST THING THE NEXT morning, Marcy checked out of her hotel.
“I notice you have a number of messages you haven’t retrieved,” the clerk behind the reception desk told her as she was settling up her account.
“You can just erase them.”
“As you wish. If there’s anything else I can help you with …”
“You can get me a taxi, please.” Some time after she’d returned to her own room, Marcy had decided against renting a car—Lynette was right: She was unfamiliar with the roads; she wasn’t used to driving on the left side of the street; she really wouldn’t need a car once she arrived. Hadn’t her former tour guide expressly stated that Cork was a city best experienced on foot?
“You’ll be able to find one right outside the main entrance. Do you need help with your suitcase?”
“No. I can manage. Thank you.”
A line of taxis waited just outside the front door. Marcy approached several before she found one willing to make the drive all the way to Cork, and even then the driver insisted on being compensated for gas and a round-trip fare. “Fine,” Marcy said, climbing into the backseat. “Just get me there as fast as you can.” And in one piece, she added silently as the man threw the cab into gear and the small car all but bounced away from the curb.
Luckily the driver was possibly the only man in Ireland who showed absolutely no interest in carrying on a conversation. Nor did he feel any need to show off his knowledge of Irish history and folklore. Guess he never kissed the Blarney Stone, Marcy found herself thinking as she tried to get comfortable in the cramped backseat.
It took a long time to get out of the city. For a while the taxi was stuck behind two huge dump trucks—“the new national symbol of Dublin,” her guide had grunted yesterday when the bus found itself similarly trapped—each toting tons of sand and gravel. Construction was everywhere: New roads were being built, old ones widened; new apartment complexes, many of them tall, gray concrete boxes devoid
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