O’Grady, to my near-arrest and, finally, my firing.
I finished my tale of woe and she sat silent for a minute. Then she poured herself another glass and declared, “You have to go there.”
“Where?”
“To Ireland, of course.”
“You’re out of your mind. For what?”
“To write his book.”
“He said no.”
“So. Go over there and make him say yes. Do something.”
Images flashed through my head: Me, stepping off the plane and into a waiting limo to be whisked to Tom O’Grady’s world-class restaurant, where we’d drink champagne while he told his life story into a recorder; Me, yawning awake in silk pajamas between high-thread-count sheets in one of Castle Stone’s master bedroom-range guest rooms; Me, posing for photos at The Guild of Food Writer’s Awards, Hank in the front row, clapping with satisfaction.
Maybe it was the wine, but it dawned on me that this idea was the best and only possible answer. “Yeah, that’s something I could do. It’s better than sitting around being annoying, right?”
There was a light in Maggie’s eyes and I could see her wheels turning. “Get me my laptop,” she ordered. “And open another bottle of wine.”
While I uncorked our last bottle, she got to work pricing airfares, and emailing and Facebooking relatives. “Give me your credit card,” she demanded.
“Are you booking a flight? Right now?” Curling my legs under myself, I realized I felt gun-shy. “I just got fired. I’m still paying off my student loans and that credit card debt from right after college.”
“Good point.” She leaped up and fetched her purse. “I’ll put it on mine.” Before I could protest, she held up a warning hand. “Stop. You’ll pay me when Brenda cuts you that advance check.”
Weakly, I told her, “There’s no promise of an advance. I don’t even have a contract.”
“No matter,” she said. “You’re going to get that book written and then she’ll have to pay you. The money will come later rather than sooner. You have a verbal agreement and if she punks on it I’ll have Eric send letters from the firm. If we need to lawyer up, we’ll lawyer up.” I was alarmed. It must have shown on my face.
“It won’t come to that,” she assured me, typing in her credit card numbers. “Brenda needs that book done, she assigned it to you, and you are going to deliver.”
Warmth rose up in my chest. I stared at my friend, who was efficiently setting my life’s wheels in motion. How lucky was I to have someone so firmly in my corner. The way Maggie treated me was so different from the way Hank treated me.
“You really believe in me, don’t you Mags?”
“Damn straight, I do. And I’m never wrong.”
I couldn’t argue with that. Maggie has always bet on the right horse and come out a winner.
She continued, “Oh, look! My cousin Des is answering my PM. It’s late there…he usually works nights. Must be his day off. He’s typing…he says ‘Ah sure, I’ll pick her up at the airport’ and asks ‘Is she a ride?’” Maggie laughed. “He’s disgusting,” she said, typing back. “He says tomorrow morning he’ll ask my Auntie Fiona if you can stay with them. I’m sure she’ll say yes. She’s the one who helped me apply to that summer literature seminar at Trinity College. Then I stayed at her house in Wicklow. It’s close to where you need to be. Castle Stone is in Ballykelty. It’s a little village in County Wexford. The beach there is where they filmed Saving Private Ryan, but you’d never know it. There’s not a sign in sight. The locals don’t like to draw attention to themselves. You’re going to love it, Shay!”
Hearing Maggie rattle off the names of the foreign people, buildings, towns, and counties made me dizzy. Or maybe it was the wine. I’d forgotten to eat dinner again. “Starting tomorrow,” I vowed, “I’ll take better care of myself. I’ll start the day with herbal tea and eat balanced meals. I’ll start sending out resumés and get a lucrative day job somewhere where they’ll treat me with respect.”
I heard my phone ping. I glanced at it and struggled to focus. It was an e-ticket confirmation from Aer Lingus.
“Uh, Maggie. When is my flight?” I held the phone back from my face, trying to read the tiny, blurry words.
“Tomorrow morning.” She slammed her laptop shut. “The car service is coming at 4:30, so we’d better start packing. You’re welcome.”
The future is not set, there is no fate but what we make for ourselves.
I was counting the seconds until the plane hit a comfortable cruising altitude. My hands shook. I had barely gotten three hours of sleep and I was pretty sure I was still drunk. I needed a coffee just to keep me upright. Sitting in the window seat almost at the back of the plane, I held hope that the middle seat in my row of three would stay empty. Just as the crew swung the cabin door closed, a cheerful red-faced guy pushed in, banging every person on the left-hand aisle in the head with his briefcase, apologizing to each. Of course, he wedged in next to me, where his hammy forearm was now hogging the armrest. I was freezing, but I didn’t dare push the call button for a blanket lest I draw attention to myself and give him a reason to speak to me.
What had Maggie been thinking, sending me to the ends of the earth to chase down a crabby chef who wanted no part of me? As I walked through the temporary hallway-on-wheels, I told myself to simply turn around and go home. I didn’t have the guts to defy Maggie, though. So here I sat, trapped next to Sunny McSausagefingers, being forced to inhale his fresh and grassy aftershave.
Contorting my body in the tiny space, I fished between my legs to root around for my (Brenda’s) pashmina. I felt a hard, rectangular something wrapped in crinkly paper. I wedged it out of my bag and into my lap. It was a present, with a card on the front.
Dear Shay — I was saving this for your birthday, but I want you to have it now to keep you company on this trip. I know you must be scared, but I have a feeling you’re going to get everything you ever wanted. Love, Mags. P.S. If you have the chance to leap into bed with a sexy aul Irishman (anyone but my cousin Des!) do it. What happens in Ireland, stays in Ireland.
What did Maggie know about being scared? She was a luck magnet and her future was being paved for her in gold, brick by brick. I knew Maggie loved me and that her goal was to reach down and pull me up with her. I knew how lucky I was to have her pushing me. And yet… and yet… why everyone else and not me? My guilt at thinking this about my best friend made my muscles tight. Was there any feeling worse than covetousness? I had to talk myself down off a ledge. As they say, “compare and despair.” I reminded myself that Maggie wasn’t born with a silver spoon in her mouth, and shifted my focus to the positive. After all, she’d set the wheels in motion to help me fix my life and she’d packed me a gift to boot.
I slid my present out of the wrapping paper. It was a beautiful journal, covered in nubby, sage green, handmade
