Page 22 of An Irish Summer

The rest of the afternoon passed as slowly as the clouds, and I fought to stay focused. To pay attention to how the gravel felt under my feet or how the sun felt on my back instead of how the stress felt in my chest that I wasn’t yet any closer to getting my life back on track. I was surprised to find myself trying to focus on Ireland to distract myself from my life at home. And I was even more surprised it was working.

I watched the sun set as we drove back west, trying to match my breath to the rhythm of the road. It was the only way I could avoid thinking about my conversation with Collin on the picnic blanket.Life can look like more than one thing, you know.His accent got stuck in my head like a song from the radio, and I was determined to do everything I could to get it out.

I turned up the dial, letting the actual song on the radio permeate the sound of the wind. It was an Irish tune, which shouldn’t have been surprising, with fiddles and bagpipes and other indistinguishable sounds. I focused on trying to understand what they were singing about, turning the volume louder as the song reached the chorus.

“Aye, Chelsea,” Collin said, leaning his head back against the seat. “You are going to be just fine.”

I wasn’t sure exactly what made him say that, but I hoped he was right. Even if I’d never admit it.

Chapter 8

Wednesdays, I was beginning to learn from other staff members, and my own brief time manning the reception desk, were the quietest. It seemed the people who called in advance had already booked their weekend trips, and the people who didn’t weren’t yet close enough to the weekend to panic. The phones rang off and on, most of our guests were out and about, and I had a second or two to myself to do what I came here to do.

I’d been combing every job site searching for something in event planning or general management for days, but was coming up empty.

Had I known Helen and Jack were going to sell O’Shea’s when they retired, I would have been more diligent about networking, or joining LinkedIn, or whatever else my corporate friends were doing. I would have made connections or leveraged my inner circle or contacted alumni or whatever else they tell you to do before you graduate and move into the job market. I wouldn’t have been so complacent.

This Wednesday morning, however, I scrolled long enough to find a posting for a senior events coordinator at a boutique hotel called Hotel Blue just outside Boston.

It is near the water, and the website features a series of linksthat look like neon signs, only much classier than the ones in the Wanderer. From the photos, it appears the lobby is cluttered with monstera plants and velour furniture, and there is a bar armed with colored glassware and a bartender with a mustache just beyond the reception desk.

Senior Events Coordinator sounded far more legitimate than any side work I’d done in event planning before, and I wondered if I was even qualified for a job like this. If I had the experience necessary to be a “senior” or a “coordinator” of anything.

But there was a reason I opened the link in the first place, and a reason my heart was hammering in my chest, so I owed it to myself to at least apply.

Just as I was conjuring every corporate buzzword imaginable to write a cover letter that made me sound qualified, Flo stuck her head into the lobby.

“Ciao, tesoro,” she said.

“Ciao, Flo.”

“Do you have a minute? My sous chef cut his hand, and I really need to get this buffet out.”

I looked from my computer screen to her pleading eyes, knowing well enough the answer around here was always yes. I closed the document but bookmarked the job posting, promising myself I’d return to it later.

“Happy to help,” I said as she thanked me profusely in Italian and dragged me to the kitchen.

It wasn’t long before we were in a rhythm, scooping ground beef into heated buffet trays, chopping tomatoes, shredding lettuce, and preparing other various fixings for a taco night.

“This is such a huge help,” Flo said later in the day as we laid out the buffet just in time for some stragglers to wanderin for dinner. “I hope I didn’t pull you away from anything too important this morning.”

“To tell you the truth, I was job hunting,” I whispered, though no one in charge was around to hear me.

“Ooh,” she mused. “Any luck?”

“I found something just outside Boston,” I said, “but I’m not exactly qualified.”

“That’s not even a thing anymore,” she said, waving her hand like she was swatting a bug. “What’s the job?”

“It’s a boutique hotel looking for a senior events coordinator,” I said. “But I’ve only ever done event planning on the side, and even that has been on a small scale, so I’m not sure I could do it full-time.”

“Where’s your confidence, huh? You’re an American woman with no confidence?”

“Is that a stereotype?” I laughed. “If so, I don’t think I got the memo.”

“Either way,” she said, ignoring my question, “if you can’t even convince me you’re qualified, how are you supposed to convince them?”

She had a point. All I could do was groan in response and make a mental note to stop thinking of excuses not to apply. Ididhave event planning experience, and didn’t everyone start small? The posting didn’t say they were looking for someone with extensive experience. It only said they were looking for someone creative, dedicated, passionate. Someone with exceptional interpersonal skills and a sharp eye for trends. Someone detail-oriented and ambitious. Eager.

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