“Are you an art student?” an old man asks, parking his walker next to me, his white-knuckled grip of the handles telling me he’d fall flat without that support. The age spots all over his arms put him somewhere in his nineties, likely.
“No.” I chuckle. “I finished school already. I’m just doing a little traveling and a friend told me I needed to come to the museums and experience some real Irish history.”
“You’re an American! Well, there’s surely a lot to learn about here.”
You’re telling me. I just spent four hours investigating the Collins Barracks Museum and the National Museum of Ireland, my head swimming in information on the famine, the many rebellions and civil wars fought, the animosity between English and Irish, Protestant and Catholic. The Irish Republic Army. It’s a lot to process, and all I really got out of it is that River was right and I am, indeed, an ignorant tourist.
“One of our most famous artists, Burton was,” the old man muses, jutting his chin toward the painting. “But The Meeting on the Turret Stairs is arguably his best. Such a beautiful image of such an ill-fated couple.”
I study the haunting watercolor painting that hangs before me in the long, narrow hallway of the National Gallery, and I immediately see what he means. The couple depicted is meeting secretly in a narrow stone staircase. The woman—royalty, in her vibrant blue dress, her long braid running down her back—both reaching for and pulling away from the knight who cradles her arm with a kiss. The description says that it’s a story of a princess and her bodyguard, whom the king does not approve of and orders to be killed. This painting is of their final goodbye.
“It’s tragically romantic,” I agree. “I mean, why would the king kill a man whose sole job was to protect his daughter, and whom she obviously loved?”
He chuckles, a soft sound that reminds me of my grandpa. “I was on me knees on the cobblestone streets of Galway in the early thirties, shining shoes like I did every day, when I found me princess. She traipsed past me, on her way to school. It took me two years to work up the courage to talk to her and when I did,” his face erupts into a mass of wrinkles as he smiles, “it was magic between us.” The smile slides off. “Of course her da didn’t think so. When I asked his permission to propose, he said he’d kill me with his bare hands if I didn’t leave her be. No shoe shiner could ever be good enough for his daughter.” He snorts. “How’s that for a God-fearing Catholic.”
Obviously the man didn’t kill him. “So what happened?” I ask, intrigued. I’m a sucker for stories like this.
“Well, I broke it off.” When he sees the disappointment settle on my face he quickly adds, “I liked me skin! But Darcy was stubborn and she refused to give me up. So we jumped on a boat headed for Scotland, settled in a small coastal village where I had friends, and eloped. Didn’t come back for years, with three wee ones in tow. What was her father going to do? Kill her daughter’s husband and the father of his grandchildren? Besides, I had me a good job by then. Could provide well for me family.”
I smile at the man. “I’m glad that story has a happy ending.”
“It does. God rest her soul, Darcy and I were together for sixty-four years before she left me,” he says wistfully, his eye wandering over the many paintings that line the wall. “She used to love it here. Sometimes I can feel her still roaming the halls . . .”
I’m guessing he spends a lot of time here.
There’s a long pause. “Why was I . . . oh, right! I was telling that story to prove a point. Her father was a doctor. He could have been a king, and he could have been a pauper, and he’d still be right about one thing: that I was never good enough for her. But luckily I was smart enough to realize that, and never stop trying to be the man she deserved.” He lets go of his walker long enough to pat my shoulder gently. “Ya remember that, pretty lass. And maybe give the shoe shiner a second look.”
I imagine what he must have been like, a young Irishman crouched on the streets so long ago, and what life was like back then. Even though times have changed, if I were to bring home a guy who shines shoes to meet my parents, I can’t say they’d be thrilled either.
But what about if I were to bring home an Irish bartender . . .?
I stifle the eye roll that those thoughts deserve. Is there anything that won’t make my mind segue into thoughts of River?
“Carpe diem, miss. Foolish youth is a strange and wondrous time that vanishes too quickly.” He shuffles over to the next painting with slow, easy movements, sparking a conversation with a young couple.
Seize the day.
If I wasn’t convinced before, that sweet old man surely helped sway me.
I’ll take the bait.
I’ll chase you, River.
I’m pretty desperate.
That’s the only way I can explain why I’m standing in front of this funky canary-yellow door—edged with chunky white columns and a half-moon window above, an aged brass lion’s-head knocker just begging to be used at eye level. I know I have the right place because the hand-painted sign above the door of this stone house on a narrow side street in northern Dublin says so. Still, it doesn’t look like any tattoo parlor I’ve ever passed by.
With my purse squeezed tight between my arm and my rib cage, I push through the door and step into a reception area, cramped with paisley wing chairs to my left and a counter to my right. The lack of windows only adds to the dingy atmosphere. Even the lights from a multitude of tracks above seem to get swallowed up, creating dark corners wherever I look.
Low murmurs and that irritating buzz of a tattoo machine carry from a narrow hallway lined with sconces made to look like candles. “Hello?” I call out, distracting my own awkwardness by focusing on the colorful canvases decorating the exposed stone walls. Some are of artfully displayed tattoos. Others look like graffiti you find on the sides of buildings—a kaleidoscope of bubbly lines and chaotic images.
Alex did say that this was Ivy’s cousin’s shop. I guess they have more in common than just tattoos.
I hear the shuffle of feet along the sand-colored wood floors—the only modern element of this place besides the lighting, from what I can see. At least it’s clean.
A guy with short jet-black hair styled in spikes appears, tattoos crawling up the back of his neck. “Sorry about that. Can I help you?” He reminds me of Ivy in that he’s obviously a mixture of Asian and something else, his eyes bigger and rounder, his lips fuller, his nose more prominent.
I catch myself staring at him and blurt out, “I’m here to see Ivy.”
He clicks the computer mouse a few times, checking the screen with a frown. “What time was your appointment?” He sounds American, but with hints of an Irish twang, suggesting he’s been here a while.
“Oh, I’m not here for a tattoo.” I’ve never had any desire to get one. I don’t understand anyone who does. Another way in which Ivy and I are glaringly different. “I just wanted to stop in and say hi. I went to school with her, back in Oregon.” That feels like a lie, even though it’s not. I did go to school with her, but I’m making it sound like we were friends. Something we’ve never been.
He scratches the back of his head in thought. “Well . . . she’ll be working on this guy for another couple hours.”
“Hours?” I check my watch. It’s close to five p.m. already. “Could you just tell her that Amber Welles is here?”
He shrugs and then nods, disappearing back down the hall. I take that time to flip through a binder sitting open on a claw-footed side table, full of pictures of tattoos on body parts, the skin pink and puffy. A hint of nerves touches me. Will dropping my name make Ivy more or less likely to come out here?
A few minutes later, the needle stops buzzing. Clunky footfalls sound in the hallway. I look up in time to see Ivy round the corner, surprise touching her almond-shaped black eyes before she hides it behind the cool mask of indifference that she wears so well. I haven’t seen her since last summer, but there’s been no miraculous transformation. Her long, arrow-straight raven hair has blue streaks running through it instead of pink. The full sleeve of ink up her slender right arm obviously hasn’t disappeared. It’s been added to, if anything. She’s wearing a classic Ivy outfit—Doc Martens, black jeans, a tank top with a flannel shirt tied around her waist—only the boots reach up to her knees, the jeans are more like leggings, and the tank top is made of black lace and has Diva written across it in sequins. That’s definitely something new.
“Alex told me you were in Dublin.” She crosses her arms over her chest, as if hiding the fact that she’s wearing something with a hint of femininity for once.
“Yeah, she gave me the name of this place, in case I wanted to come by.” My gaze roams over it. “It’s . . . not what I expected.”
She just stares at me, as if waiting for me to get on with why I’m here and then leave. I can’t tell if it’s just Ivy being Ivy, or if, even after all these years, she still holds a grudge.
“So . . .” I busy my hands by flipping a page in the tattoo binder. “How come you’re allowed to work in Ireland?”
“Why do you want to know? You gonna report me, Little Miss Sheriff?”
I roll my eyes at that.
She sighs and her tone changes to something less aggressive, but no more friendly. “I was born in Spain, so I can work anywhere in the EU.”
“Really?” My eyes drift over her again. Maybe that explains her exotic face. I’ve never quite been able to place it. She definitely has Chinese—or some kind of Asian—in her, but her skin is darker, her hair thicker, her eyes bigger and rounder. I always thought she’d be so pretty if she actually made an effort to look normal. “I didn’t know that.”
“How would you?”
I shrug. “You’re right. I wouldn’t.”
She frowns slightly, stepping forward. “What happened to your lip? And your arm?” She almost sounds concerned.
“Oh.” Shit. “It’s a long, boring story.” The last thing I need is Ivy telling Alex about this. I pull my cardigan on as I stand. “Listen, I was wondering what you were doing tonight.”
A second wave of surprise flashes across her face but she quickly covers it up. “Just working. I should be done by eight.” A pause, then a doubtful, “Why?”
“Why don’t we meet up somewhere after? I thought we could hang out. Get to know each other, seeing as you’re such good friends with Alex.”
She twists her mouth, as if debating her next words. “I guess, if you wanted to, you could come—”
“How about Delaney’s,” I blurt out, cutting her off.
“Delaney’s?” She frowns. “Are you sure?”
“Yeah.” I smile. “Meet me there at, say, nine?”
Another long moment and then she finally nods, easing a card from her back pocket with two fingers. “Here’s my number, just in case you need to get hold of me.”
I flip it within my fingers. Ivy Lee, Artist. “You actually have a business card?”
“I can read, too,” she mutters dryly and then disappears back down the hall.
Okay. So Ivy Lee is going to be my wing-woman. As far as bad ideas go, this could be as disastrous as running through that park the day of the pipe bomb.
Even so . . . A giddy grin finds its way to my mouth.
I’m going to see River again.
