Page 2 of An Irish Summer

I wondered if I’d ever get so lucky again. Or if my current circumstance was karma for how easy it had been in the first place.

Before I could get my pity party off the ground, I opened every job searching website I could think of and vowed to have a few viable options saved before I finished my latte. I typed in phrases like “hospitality + general manager” and “event planner” and even “concierge,” hoping to increase my chances of finding something. I scrolled through pages and pages of jobs with entry-level salaries, overnight hours, unrealistic qualifications, and intentionally vague descriptions. I also scrolled through pages of jobs in dangerous parts of the city, jobs too far outside the city, and jobs posted years ago that might never have even been in the city in the first place.

And by the time my latte was little more than an empty glass in a puddle of condensation, I hadn’t saved a single posting.

This was going to be harder than I thought.

I closed my laptop, promising myself I’d try again first thing tomorrow with a clearer head. Maybe I just couldn’t weed out good jobs because I was still reeling from the news. Still clouded with the heartbreak of losing the job I loved, and still trying to accept that I had to move on, even if I didn’t know what I was moving on to.

What I did know, however, was that no matter what that next step was, it definitely wasn’t going to be Ireland.

When I left the coffee shop, it didn’t feel right to go back to my apartment just yet, especially since it wasn’t going to be my apartment for much longer, so I followed the invisible thread to my parents’ house. No matter how old I got, or how insane they sometimes made me, there was no denying the sense of comfort in my childhood home. And the more time the news had to settle in, the more I needed that comfort.

It was a fifteen-minute walk, which meant I only had to holdmyself together for that much longer. Only had to put one foot in front of the other, slow and steady. I knew how to do slow and steady. Hell, until an hour ago I’d been building my entire future on slow and steady.

The sun was setting as I climbed the stairs to the front door, casting the brick house in an orange glow. My parents’ cars were both in the driveway, so I skipped fumbling in my bag for the keys and knocked on the door instead.

“Chelsea, girl,” my dad said, swinging the door open and studying me on the steps. “Did we have plans tonight?” He ushered me inside, taking my bag from my shoulder and hanging it on the hook in the foyer. “Wendy, did you know Chels was coming over tonight?” he called to my mother up the stairs before I could answer his question.

“No, we didn’t, sorry. I just got some news, so I figured I’d come by,” I said, shedding my denim jacket and hooking it over my bag. “I hope that’s okay. You didn’t have plans tonight or anything, did you?”

“Who, us?” My mother joined the conversation as she wound down the steps, kissing me on the cheek when she reached the foyer. “Plans? Don’t be silly. What news? Are you okay?” She held my face in her hands. The speed with which she could become gravely concerned came with the territory of being a Jewish mother, and I should have expected this as soon as I opened my mouth.

“Yes, I’m fine, everything’s fine,” I lied, if only to settle her nerves for a minute.

By the time we settled around the kitchen table with glasses of wine, I had hardly braced myself to repeat the conversation I’d just had with Jack and Helen.

After a deep breath, I dove in. My voice wavered somewherearound the part about having to find a new job, and the tears were flowing freely by the time I got to the part about having to move out of my apartment.

“Oh, baby,” my mother said once I finished, reaching for my hand. “We’re so sorry.” I tried to wave her off, pretending it would be fine, but we both knew I didn’t believe that.

“You know, Chels,” my dad said, “finding a new job in hospitality isn’t your only option for the future.”

I knew exactly where he was going with this. “Dad, please—” I started.

“I’m just saying, you know you could always join us at the office.” He nodded toward my mom, who clucked her tongue back in his direction.

“For the millionth time, I’m not a podiatrist,” I said, hating how much I sounded like a whiny teenager.

“And for the millionth time,” my mother said, “we aren’t looking for a podiatrist. But our receptionist is going on maternity leave in a few months, so you could always fill in while she’s away. And the benefits are fantastic, Chelsea. Really, the health insurance is the best you’re going to get out here at your age.”

“Oh, wow,” I said. “Great health insurance. A job as a receptionist at my parents’ office. Just what every woman is looking for in her late twenties.”

“These things are a privilege, honey,” my mother said, leaning closer to me. “Health insurance. A family. Job opportunities. I know you’re upset, but that isn’t an excuse to be ungrateful.”

Even though I was an adult, my mom didn’t let up. She was never a woman to let anything slide, especially disrespect, and I knew I was out of line.

“You’re right,” I said, turning the stem of the glass in my fingers.

“I know.”

“And thank you.” She nodded but said nothing. “I’m just not sure that’s what I want for my future.”

“Why not?” my dad asked. “You were a receptionist at O’Shea’s, weren’t you? I thought you liked that kind of stuff.”

“Hospitality and podiatry aren’t exactly the same,” I said. “And I wasn’t just a receptionist, you know. I was planning events, organizing functions, that sort of thing. It’s going to be hard work to find something similar, but that’s still the plan.” Anxiety crept into my voice when I thought back to my failed search not even an hour ago. “And then there’s the issue of where I’m supposed to live.” I raked a hand through my hair, letting a few curls obscure my face when they fell back down. “I could only afford the apartment above the inn because Jack and Helen cut me a deal. I could never find another place that cheap, and even if one did exist, I couldn’t find it in a month.”

“Not with that attitude.”

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