Page 99 of An Irish Summer

“Chelsea, girl!” My dad called across traffic, holding his arms open and waiting for me to step into them. I was overcome by a wave of emotion and instantly felt like a kid again, wanting them to protect me from the troubles of the world. “Welcome home,” he said as I approached, pulling me into his embrace.

“Hi,” I said, but it came out muffled from my face being pressed into his shoulder. When I pulled away to hug my mother, she held me the same way Lori had the night before.

“Look at you,” she said. “My baby is home. Have you been crying? Your face is puffy, but you look thin. What’s that about?”

“Nice to see you too,” I said, letting her pull me into a hug. “I’m just tired, that’s all. Been a long day.”

“We’ve got a whole spread at home,” she said, leading me toward the car. “Bagels, lox, the whole nine. Even that babka you like from Falk and Rosen’s. Maybe that’ll put a little meat back on your bones.”

“Don’t listen to her,” my dad whispered as he loaded my luggage into the trunk. “You look lovely.”

We shared a knowing smile before getting into the car, and it made me feel good to be home. I stared out the window on the ride, basking in the familiarity of the roads. In no time at all our neighborhood came into view, brick colonial after brick colonial, welcoming me home like soldiers at attention.

“Did you miss it?” my dad asked as he pulled into the driveway.

“Of course I missed it,” I said. “But I got used to missing it, so I didn’t think much about it after a while.”

“Good,” he said. “That’s how it should be.”

“How long do you think you’ll be living at home now that you’re back?”

“Wendy,” my dad scolded, “she’s hardly through the door. Let her get her bearings for a minute, will you? Chelsea girl, you can be home as long as you need.”

“I wasn’t saying you couldn’t,” my mother added. “I was just asking. Of course you’re always welcome here. You know we love having you at home, don’t you?”

I smiled, already making a mental note to start looking for apartments no later than the minute I walked through the door.

Unsurprisingly, nothing had changed since I’d been gone. Their house had the same smell, the same spotless entryway leading to the same full kitchen, with the same pile of clean linens on the bottom of the stairs for the next person to take up with them. It was the same old life I’d always known.

Only it didn’t feel quite the way I thought it would. It must have been reverse culture shock or whatever happened when people were gone for long periods of time. Or maybe it was just dehydration and exhaustion from the flight. Either way, I was sure a Falk and Rosen’s babka would sort me out.

We stood around the kitchen island piling lox onto bagels and peeling flaking, chocolaty pieces of babka from the loaf. I’d been decent at keeping in touch with my parents via email while I was away, so they were mostly up to speed with the past two months of my life, barring specifics that would send a Jewish mother over the edge.

“You must be exhausted,” my dad said as we cleaned, noting my head slipping lower into my hands on the counter. “Why don’t you go up and get some rest for tomorrow’s interview?”

I was so excited at the prospect of getting into bed and being done with this day I could have cried all over again.

“Do you know what you’re wearing?” my mother asked. “It’s obviously too late to have it dry-cleaned but I’ll steam it for you if you bring it down to me.”

“Thank you,” I said, equally grateful for her affection and annoyed at her prying. “This was a really nice afternoon. I’m glad to be home.”

“We’re glad to have you back,” my dad said, flashing thesame knowing smile he did at the airport. Only this time, it felt less like a comfort and more like a challenge: Was I really glad to be home?

I had just enough energy to change my clothes and brush my teeth before collapsing into bed, promising myself I’d get up extra early to wash my hair before the interview. After a few minutes of scrolling my phone, I texted Ada to confirm that we’d meet for drinks after the interview tomorrow, like I’d never left.

The lobby of Hotel Blue was even more gorgeous in person than it was in photos. Eclectic wallpaper stretched behind the reception desk, which had gold flecks in the marble countertops that reflected rainbows of light from the massive windows making up the opposite wall. A few guests mingled in a lounge off the lobby, turning in my direction at the sound of my heels clicking across the floor. I tried to appear powerful and confident before I stepped into what might have been the most important interview of my life so far.

With every step, I reminded myself how much I wanted this. I repeated it like a mantra.This is exactly what I want. This is the dream job. This is exactly what I want.The voice in my head was so loud I wondered if onlookers could hear.

“Welcome to Hotel Blue,” said the receptionist when I approached the desk. “I hope you’ve had an easy journey here. How can we help you today?” Her name tag told me her name was Iris, and for a second I was so distracted by her cropped curly hair and deep golden skin that I didn’t respond. She could have been Flo in another lifetime. I almost laughed.

I almost laughed again when I thought about anyone describing my journey as “easy.” If she only knew what it had taken me to get here.

“Hi, sorry,” I said when I realized I’d been silent for a moment too long. “I’m Chelsea Gold. I’m here for an interview with Bridgette Gantz.”

“Ah, yes, from Ireland, right?” She picked up the phone and dialed a few numbers, wedging the phone between her ear and her shoulder.

“I mean, directly, yes, but really from Boston.”

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