dear, I’m sure you do it awfully well.”
Then took out his pocket watch,
a fucking pocket watch!
uttered,
“Gosh, is that the time? I must to my chamber,
we’re riding with the Athenry Hunt at seven.”
The country was submerged in water but these
barbarians insisted on hunting down and allowing
a pack of hounds to tear asunder a terrorized fox.
She’d jumped up, not quite startling him but
definitely getting his attention. His eyes met hers.
Usually he’d gaze at a spot just above her right
shoulder. She stomped to the drinks cabinet and
near shouted,
“Jesus Christ, you’ve every spirit on the planet
except Jameson.”
He said,
“There’s a rather fine claret I fetched from the
cellar.”
She glared at him, wanting to bury him in the
fucking cellar.
Grabbing a bottle of Glenfiddich, she poured it
into a large, beautiful, handcrafted crystal tumbler.
An heirloom from sweet old Mumsie!
Turned to him, drained the glass, tried not to
shudder when it hit her raw stomach, asked,
“Guess what I got in the post this morning?”
Paused.
“Darling?”
With that tolerant smile as outrider, he answered,
“Not the foggiest dear .”
Her head was awash in reptiles of
resentment,
rage,
confusion.
She bored into his eyes, said,
“A headstone.”
He was slightly bemused, tried,
“A silly prank, no doubt.”
Oh, Christ, she thought. She really needed to talk to
Jack. Anthony was waiting expectantly, geared for
some mildly verbal chess. Her anger drained
away. She finished the whiskey, turned on her heel,
and went to her room. When Anthony’s daughter
had been around, it had been easier. You could put
a Band-Aid on a seeping wound. But the girl was
at finishing school in yeah . . . Switzerland.
Ridge had barely finished any school.
To aid her recovery from the savage beating, to
vent and to try to restore her shattered confidence,
she’d enrolled in a grueling kickboxing class. She
was next to hopeless for a few weeks and the other
students sneered at her. Drove her on. Then one
day, it began to click. She took down the best
student, and the Master, who claimed to be from
Tibet, but was actually from Shantalla, actually
bowed to her.
Not only did it get her in shape, it emptied the
simmering anger. On days when her muscles ached
and her spirit cried,
“Stop!”
she’d mutter,
“By all that’s holy, no man is ever . . . ever going
to put his fucking hands on me again.”
After the encounter with Anthony, after a fierce day
of families in deep distress over the flooding, she
was exhausted. When she left work, her spirits
were as low as the final decade of the rosary. She
longed for intimacy and her car just took its own
self to Devon Park. She thought she’d just sit for an
hour, let misery wash over her. Seeing the two
regulars walking their dogs began the balm. She
thought of Jack and, God knows, he was no angel,
as maddening as Anthony, but he did listen to her,
attentively. Despite their long decade of bruised,
compromising, caring skirmishes, he remained an
enigma. As likely to give twenty euros to a
homeless person as bring his hurley to a bully. The
time a guy had been verbally abusing his young boy
in broad daylight, and Jack, oh sweet Jesus, Jack,
he’d put the guy through a plate glass window.
Or
Those awful days when she’d been terrorized by a
stalker, who’d she call?
Jack.
And he……..took care of business.
Or
His stricken face when his surrogate son took the
bullets meant for him.
Jesus.
How was he still getting out of bed in the morning?
Or
When Serena-May went out the window on Jack’s
watch, he’d gone to bits, even ended up in a mental
hospital. And, God knew, he was a hopeless drunk,
and, she suspected, addicted to every illegal
substance available but no matter, your back was
to the wall, it was this aging, hearing-aid, limping
wreck that you called.
And………………he showed up,
Then took out his pocket watch,
a fucking pocket watch!
uttered,
“Gosh, is that the time? I must to my chamber,
we’re riding with the Athenry Hunt at seven.”
The country was submerged in water but these
barbarians insisted on hunting down and allowing
a pack of hounds to tear asunder a terrorized fox.
She’d jumped up, not quite startling him but
definitely getting his attention. His eyes met hers.
Usually he’d gaze at a spot just above her right
shoulder. She stomped to the drinks cabinet and
near shouted,
“Jesus Christ, you’ve every spirit on the planet
except Jameson.”
He said,
“There’s a rather fine claret I fetched from the
cellar.”
She glared at him, wanting to bury him in the
fucking cellar.
Grabbing a bottle of Glenfiddich, she poured it
into a large, beautiful, handcrafted crystal tumbler.
An heirloom from sweet old Mumsie!
Turned to him, drained the glass, tried not to
shudder when it hit her raw stomach, asked,
“Guess what I got in the post this morning?”
Paused.
“Darling?”
With that tolerant smile as outrider, he answered,
“Not the foggiest dear .”
Her head was awash in reptiles of
resentment,
rage,
confusion.
She bored into his eyes, said,
“A headstone.”
He was slightly bemused, tried,
“A silly prank, no doubt.”
Oh, Christ, she thought. She really needed to talk to
Jack. Anthony was waiting expectantly, geared for
some mildly verbal chess. Her anger drained
away. She finished the whiskey, turned on her heel,
and went to her room. When Anthony’s daughter
had been around, it had been easier. You could put
a Band-Aid on a seeping wound. But the girl was
at finishing school in yeah . . . Switzerland.
Ridge had barely finished any school.
To aid her recovery from the savage beating, to
vent and to try to restore her shattered confidence,
she’d enrolled in a grueling kickboxing class. She
was next to hopeless for a few weeks and the other
students sneered at her. Drove her on. Then one
day, it began to click. She took down the best
student, and the Master, who claimed to be from
Tibet, but was actually from Shantalla, actually
bowed to her.
Not only did it get her in shape, it emptied the
simmering anger. On days when her muscles ached
and her spirit cried,
“Stop!”
she’d mutter,
“By all that’s holy, no man is ever . . . ever going
to put his fucking hands on me again.”
After the encounter with Anthony, after a fierce day
of families in deep distress over the flooding, she
was exhausted. When she left work, her spirits
were as low as the final decade of the rosary. She
longed for intimacy and her car just took its own
self to Devon Park. She thought she’d just sit for an
hour, let misery wash over her. Seeing the two
regulars walking their dogs began the balm. She
thought of Jack and, God knows, he was no angel,
as maddening as Anthony, but he did listen to her,
attentively. Despite their long decade of bruised,
compromising, caring skirmishes, he remained an
enigma. As likely to give twenty euros to a
homeless person as bring his hurley to a bully. The
time a guy had been verbally abusing his young boy
in broad daylight, and Jack, oh sweet Jesus, Jack,
he’d put the guy through a plate glass window.
Or
Those awful days when she’d been terrorized by a
stalker, who’d she call?
Jack.
And he……..took care of business.
Or
His stricken face when his surrogate son took the
bullets meant for him.
Jesus.
How was he still getting out of bed in the morning?
Or
When Serena-May went out the window on Jack’s
watch, he’d gone to bits, even ended up in a mental
hospital. And, God knew, he was a hopeless drunk,
and, she suspected, addicted to every illegal
substance available but no matter, your back was
to the wall, it was this aging, hearing-aid, limping
wreck that you called.
And………………he showed up,
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