Page 29 of Bracing The Storm

Duncan’s phrase jumps to mind. It must be that because there is no other explanation as to why Sinead eases me into my new job with a hot cup of delicious coffee and a big slice of pie, instructing me to take all the time I need to “familiarize” myself with everything while she’s busy serving the first customers of the day.

I sit at one of the tables and gulp down my coffee but barely touch the pie, then head into the small staff area marked as “private”. There’s no resemblance to the luxury communal recreation room I took for granted while working for Hathaway Investments. The place is so small, it barely fits a camping table and two chairs, a kitchen block with an old microwave, and a small fridge that makes a loud humming sound. I peer through the door to my right and find a small restroom in the retro design of the sixties. Clearly Sinead values cleanness and functionality over décor. The door to the left opens onto a staircase. Based on the fact that the café has an upper floor I assume that’s where Sinead lives. She seems to trust me enough not to lock the door. If she knew about the mess that’s waiting for me back in New York, she might feel differently.

“Everything good so far?” Her voice calls from the café a moment before her head pops in, startling me.

I press a hand over my racing heart to get rid of the sudden anxiety pouring through my body. “Yes. I’d love to get started.”

“Sounds good to me.”

I follow her to the serving area and force my attention on her chatter. Before I know it, hours have passed. My head’s swimming from so much talk and my feet are on fire from all the standing, but for the first time in months I feel happy, as though serving countless coffees while listening to old ladies talking about people I’ve never heard of is an achievement. Life here feels easy and simple, and the people seem so happy and content it’s almost contagious.

Sinead seems to be a fan of closing up on time because as soon as the clock strikes six, she’s basically ushering everyone out the door while smiling through what anywhere else would be considered bad customer service.

“How was your first day?” She locks up and turns to face me. Her skin is flushed, her hair is slightly in disarray, but even after a long shift and the sweat that comes with running a business, she looks radiant. I catch a glimpse of my reflection in the window and realize I can’t say the same thing about myself.

“I enjoyed it. Thanks for giving me the opportunity. I hope I proved myself.”

“Of course you did, like I knew you would. I wouldn’t have hired you if I had any doubts to begin with.” She heads over to the serving area to toss a few baked goodies into a bag, then hands it to me. “Enjoy your weekend. I’ll see you first thing Monday morning.”

By the time I leave the café, night has fallen. The air is crisp and pregnant with the scent of oncoming rain, but there’s also that salty scent of the ocean, which Sinead claims is only a “stone’s throw” away. I stop to look up for a moment.

The sky seems to hover low over my head. The heavy, dark clouds are parted in places, offering a stunning display of the crescent moon and countless sparkling stars. The view must be spectacular in the warmer months, when the sky is clear of clouds, a dark canvas dotted with millions of stars.

Too bad I’m not planning on being here long enough to see such a spectacle.

My chest tightens a little at the thought. I’m not going to get attached to this place, but even I have to admit it’s beautiful and serene. In spite of the chilly breeze, there’s a certain warmth about it.

Whatever’s in the bag smells delicious, reminding me I haven’t eaten much all day. If it weren’t so late I’d go in searchof a bench, preferably one on the shore, sit down and devour my dinner while enjoying the solitude. But the pain in my legs is slowly starting to feel unbearable. I can’t wait to get home and put my feet up, maybe soak in the hot tub for an hour, then watch some TV.

The placeisslowly growing on me. It’s starting to feel a bit like home, though I’m not sure that’s a good thing.

The climb up the steady incline is grueling and I make a mental note to ask Duncan whether the late Ms. Walsh had a car I can borrow. By the time I reach the driveway leading up the estate, a soft drizzle has started to fall, matting my hair to my forehead. The gravel is wet and the soles of my shoes sink in a little, reminding me of quicksand. The walk feels like I’m scaling a mountain, and the strong gust of wind that’s joined in the rain isn’t helping. When the front door finally comes into view, I hasten my steps, eager to escape the bad weather and physical torture.

A thumping noise registers somewhere at the back of my mind. I stop to listen for a moment, unable to place it at first. It can’t be the spattering rain or the whipping wind; it’s too loud for that. I take a few tentative steps, realizing it sounds like drums or bass, and it’s coming from the house. It vaguely resembles music, but there are no other instruments.

That’s when it dawns on me.

It must be Patrick. He’s probably playing his obnoxious music again. If he thinks he can keep me up all night, he has no idea what’s going to hit him.

The pain in my legs instantly forgotten, I dash for the door. It’s locked, but this time he can’t keep me out because I have a key.

Ha!

The moment I open the door, I’m immediately hit by the full blast of noise. That bass reminds me of a grenade goingoff over and over again, reverberating off the walls. The house is probably shaking in its foundation. It’s so loud I wouldn’t be surprised if my eardrums ruptured. I’m actually glad I’m not working tomorrow because I doubt Sinead would be happy if her customers were yelling down the café so I could hear their orders.

I drop my handbag onto the floor, and head down the corridor, following the trail of the ear-splitting noise. It’s coming from the basement. I haven’t been down there yet. Basements are usually reserved for either clutter or man caves. Somehow, the Walsh residence didn’t strike me as the kind of house that would have one of the latter. Now I realize I was wrong. It comes with its own hot, grumpy guy so it makes sense that he would have his own cave.

I mentally prepare myself for yet another locked door and possibly having to kick it in, but to my surprise it’s wide open. There’s also an open window, which explains why I could hear whatever this monstrosity is all the way around the house and down the long driveway.

Not only does the guy not have good taste in music, he also has no regard for the safety of other people’s hearing.

I don’t bother knocking; it would be futile anyway. I barge in, one hand balled into a fist, the other still clutching Sinead’s goody bag. In all the frenzy, I must have forgotten I was carrying it.

Patrick’s sitting on a stool, with what looks like drums arranged in front of him. He’s beating on them with two sticks like his life depends on it. He’s also wearing headphones, which I assume is the reason why he can’t hear how bad he actually is at the whole thing.

“Turn down the bass!” I yell.

His gaze lifts to brush over me, then turns back to the metal cauldrons he apparently deems in dire need of more beating.

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