Becoming the Whiskey Princess
Page 52
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Maybe I can find a room no one knows about so that I can have sex with my fiancé in peace.
I’m just kidding.
Kinda.
After spending two hours in the library, I find a whole stack of books that I want to reread. Putting them in a basket that is by the door, I walk out to head upstairs, but before I can go, someone stops me.
“Ms. Reilly, I’ll take those to your room.”
She reaches for the basket, but I hold on to it. “Oh no, you’re fine. I’ll do it.”
“It’s really no trouble,” she informs me. “It’s part of my job.”
Her name is Annabelle and is almost my staff, I guess. She is the one who was assigned to me, and it’s really weird to have someone who wants to wait on you hand and foot. She’s sweet and I enjoy her company, but I really don’t think I need someone to do things for me.
Plus, I truly don’t understand why she chose this as a job. Couldn’t she do something more? Go to school? Anything other than work for a family that is fully capable of taking care of themselves. But then, who am I to judge her? Declan told me once that the staff here are paid very well with full benefits. So she could be very happy, and I’m over here judging her. How very wrong of me.
Giving the basket to her, my grin grows. “Yes, of course. Thank you.”
“You are very welcome. Have a good day, ya hear? Let me know if ya need anything.”
“I will, thank you,” I say as she turns to head upstairs. I want to say that made me feel good, that I enjoyed that, but I didn’t. I hate it. Crossing my arms, I hold myself as I walk through the house, discovering each room and wandering around. The estate is very big, and every room is filled with all kinds of neat things to look at. Be it a book, a gorgeous painting, or beautiful pictures of Declan and his family, I find that I am fully entertained for a few hours.
That is, until I reach the sitting room on Mr. and Mrs. O’Callaghan’s floor.
Entering it, it seems just like Mrs. O’Callaghan, a very expensive and floral perfume. I figure this is her room to sit and get away from it all. There are books scattered everywhere, even a little spot for knitting. There is a desk with a computer and mounds of wedding books. This must be where she has been planning my wedding. Going to her desk, I look at each of the books and smile at all the Post-it notes and little notes on her desk about who to call. I wonder why she is doing this herself. Why doesn’t she just hire someone to do it all?
Sitting in the chair behind the desk, I reach for one of the books but pause when something catches my eyes.
It’s a picture.
A picture of my mom.
Reaching for it, I blink a few times, trying to figure out if I am really seeing what I am seeing. But it is. My mom in all her young glory. She couldn’t be over the age of sixteen, so fresh-faced and happy. Her arms are wrapped around a girl I know to be her best friend, Marla. She had died when my mom was twenty-one in a car accident, and I can still remember all the stories of trouble they had gotten into. I had even seen this picture. It was on the table by her chair where she knitted.
Why in the world does Mrs. O’Callaghan have it?
“Amberlyn?”
Looking up, I look across the room at Mrs. O’Callaghan through the tears that have gathered in my eyes.
Turning the picture, I stand and ask, “Why do you have a picture of my mom?”
She looks at the picture and then at me before running her hands down the front of her skirt. In the short time I’ve known her, I know that it’s a nervous tic of hers, but I’m not worried if she is nervous. I want to know why she has a picture of my mom.
Coming toward me, she reaches for the picture, taking it from me before gazing down at it. “You know what the great thing is about pictures, my dear?”
She doesn’t look at me or wait for me to answer before she continues, “Everything is standing still. Time hasn’t passed. It instantly takes ya back to that moment. This was taken, by me, over thirty years ago. I remember that after I took this, Ciara jumped into the lake and hit her head on a stone. Had to get three stitches, while Marla and I cried and cried.” A small smile comes over her face as she gazes at the picture. “We were so worried, ya see. She just passed out on us, and my goodness, her ma was so upset, and so was my ma because we weren’t supposed to be swimming in the O’Callaghan lake. We were supposed to be doing laundry, but we got bored and Ciara talked me into it.”
She runs her finger along the picture and lets out a sigh. “It’s funny ’cause Ciara said that, while she did get hurt, it was meant to be because if she wouldn’t have gotten hurt, then Mr. O’Callaghan wouldn’t have come up to the hospital with Ivor and we would have never fallen in love.
“We were the three musketeers back then. Everything we did was together, and we promised never to part. But when Ivor fell for me, he decided that I wasn’t going to be out of his sight. At first, it didn’t bother him that Ciara and Marla were there, but it was hard. When the three of us were together, it was us, no one else, and I tried to include Ivor, but he was so quiet, very stern, but man, did I love him.
“He told me to choose between them and him. I had every intention of picking Ciara and Marla, but my ma, she talked me out of it. We were poor, ya see, very poor, and a rich heir to a very profitable whiskey business wanted me. Ya don’t turn that down. So I chose Ivor. I broke their hearts when I told them. Marla hated me, but Ciara, she told me she understood. That I had to follow my heart. She always had such a good soul, one that you instantly loved.”
My lip had started to quiver as I sat there listening to her. Tears run down my cheeks because she is right. My mom was a beautiful soul, but I find it so hard to believe that she could be friends with someone like Noreen O’Callaghan.
“I tried to stay in contact with them. Marla, not so much, since she hated me for choosing a man over them, but I sent Ciara letters. But once Ivor and I got engaged, it became very difficult. There is so much that is expected of an O’Callaghan woman.”
“You can say that again,” I mutter and she finally meets my gaze.
With a small smile, she nods. “We are to be the one who lifts our man up, loves him, even in his darkest hour, have babies, and plan parties. We don’t get to go out with our friends, do what we want. It isn’t about us; it’s about them.”
I’m just kidding.
Kinda.
After spending two hours in the library, I find a whole stack of books that I want to reread. Putting them in a basket that is by the door, I walk out to head upstairs, but before I can go, someone stops me.
“Ms. Reilly, I’ll take those to your room.”
She reaches for the basket, but I hold on to it. “Oh no, you’re fine. I’ll do it.”
“It’s really no trouble,” she informs me. “It’s part of my job.”
Her name is Annabelle and is almost my staff, I guess. She is the one who was assigned to me, and it’s really weird to have someone who wants to wait on you hand and foot. She’s sweet and I enjoy her company, but I really don’t think I need someone to do things for me.
Plus, I truly don’t understand why she chose this as a job. Couldn’t she do something more? Go to school? Anything other than work for a family that is fully capable of taking care of themselves. But then, who am I to judge her? Declan told me once that the staff here are paid very well with full benefits. So she could be very happy, and I’m over here judging her. How very wrong of me.
Giving the basket to her, my grin grows. “Yes, of course. Thank you.”
“You are very welcome. Have a good day, ya hear? Let me know if ya need anything.”
“I will, thank you,” I say as she turns to head upstairs. I want to say that made me feel good, that I enjoyed that, but I didn’t. I hate it. Crossing my arms, I hold myself as I walk through the house, discovering each room and wandering around. The estate is very big, and every room is filled with all kinds of neat things to look at. Be it a book, a gorgeous painting, or beautiful pictures of Declan and his family, I find that I am fully entertained for a few hours.
That is, until I reach the sitting room on Mr. and Mrs. O’Callaghan’s floor.
Entering it, it seems just like Mrs. O’Callaghan, a very expensive and floral perfume. I figure this is her room to sit and get away from it all. There are books scattered everywhere, even a little spot for knitting. There is a desk with a computer and mounds of wedding books. This must be where she has been planning my wedding. Going to her desk, I look at each of the books and smile at all the Post-it notes and little notes on her desk about who to call. I wonder why she is doing this herself. Why doesn’t she just hire someone to do it all?
Sitting in the chair behind the desk, I reach for one of the books but pause when something catches my eyes.
It’s a picture.
A picture of my mom.
Reaching for it, I blink a few times, trying to figure out if I am really seeing what I am seeing. But it is. My mom in all her young glory. She couldn’t be over the age of sixteen, so fresh-faced and happy. Her arms are wrapped around a girl I know to be her best friend, Marla. She had died when my mom was twenty-one in a car accident, and I can still remember all the stories of trouble they had gotten into. I had even seen this picture. It was on the table by her chair where she knitted.
Why in the world does Mrs. O’Callaghan have it?
“Amberlyn?”
Looking up, I look across the room at Mrs. O’Callaghan through the tears that have gathered in my eyes.
Turning the picture, I stand and ask, “Why do you have a picture of my mom?”
She looks at the picture and then at me before running her hands down the front of her skirt. In the short time I’ve known her, I know that it’s a nervous tic of hers, but I’m not worried if she is nervous. I want to know why she has a picture of my mom.
Coming toward me, she reaches for the picture, taking it from me before gazing down at it. “You know what the great thing is about pictures, my dear?”
She doesn’t look at me or wait for me to answer before she continues, “Everything is standing still. Time hasn’t passed. It instantly takes ya back to that moment. This was taken, by me, over thirty years ago. I remember that after I took this, Ciara jumped into the lake and hit her head on a stone. Had to get three stitches, while Marla and I cried and cried.” A small smile comes over her face as she gazes at the picture. “We were so worried, ya see. She just passed out on us, and my goodness, her ma was so upset, and so was my ma because we weren’t supposed to be swimming in the O’Callaghan lake. We were supposed to be doing laundry, but we got bored and Ciara talked me into it.”
She runs her finger along the picture and lets out a sigh. “It’s funny ’cause Ciara said that, while she did get hurt, it was meant to be because if she wouldn’t have gotten hurt, then Mr. O’Callaghan wouldn’t have come up to the hospital with Ivor and we would have never fallen in love.
“We were the three musketeers back then. Everything we did was together, and we promised never to part. But when Ivor fell for me, he decided that I wasn’t going to be out of his sight. At first, it didn’t bother him that Ciara and Marla were there, but it was hard. When the three of us were together, it was us, no one else, and I tried to include Ivor, but he was so quiet, very stern, but man, did I love him.
“He told me to choose between them and him. I had every intention of picking Ciara and Marla, but my ma, she talked me out of it. We were poor, ya see, very poor, and a rich heir to a very profitable whiskey business wanted me. Ya don’t turn that down. So I chose Ivor. I broke their hearts when I told them. Marla hated me, but Ciara, she told me she understood. That I had to follow my heart. She always had such a good soul, one that you instantly loved.”
My lip had started to quiver as I sat there listening to her. Tears run down my cheeks because she is right. My mom was a beautiful soul, but I find it so hard to believe that she could be friends with someone like Noreen O’Callaghan.
“I tried to stay in contact with them. Marla, not so much, since she hated me for choosing a man over them, but I sent Ciara letters. But once Ivor and I got engaged, it became very difficult. There is so much that is expected of an O’Callaghan woman.”
“You can say that again,” I mutter and she finally meets my gaze.
With a small smile, she nods. “We are to be the one who lifts our man up, loves him, even in his darkest hour, have babies, and plan parties. We don’t get to go out with our friends, do what we want. It isn’t about us; it’s about them.”
