Page 25 of One Night Only
She still looks unsure, so I draw her to the side, away from the others.
“Annie,” I say under my breath. “I am jet-lagged and so hungover I could cry. It’s a miracle I’ve lasted this long and if I put one foot on that bus, I guarantee I will spew all over your future mother-in-law.”
“You’re so dramatic.”
“You want a bet?”
She sighs. “Okay. But don’t take too long. Paul says it’s going to rain later.”
“I can handle a bit of rain.”
“I just hope Connor’s not too disappointed.”
She dodges my attempted shoulder whack and hurries over to join the others.
The bus beeps at me as it drives past and I wave, relieved as it hits a particularly vicious pot hole. I wouldn’t have lasted five seconds.
Walking will help. Or at least that’s what I tell myself as I follow the downhill slope back to the village. I stick to the side for the few cars that do pass but otherwise meet no one on the way back.
I don’t notice the change in the weather until it’s too late.
After about twenty minutes the blue sky above me is half hidden by an encroaching dark-gray cloud that stretches menacingly toward the hotel. I watch it warily as I reach the outskirts of the village. The scattered drops begin at the first church and turn steady by the second. I quicken my steps as I pass the pub. It can’t be more than ten minutes to the hotel and if I can make it to the gate, then—
I shriek as the downpour begins, hailstones pummeling from the sky, and I break into a run, heading for the nearest building. I barely notice the large poster of Annie and Paul in the window as I barrel through the door.
Once inside, I catch my breath, shaking the hail from my hair as I gaze around the store.
It’s the kind of place that should have shut years ago. The kind of place where you’re glad it didn’t. Shelves full of everything from canned goods to beachballs cram what little space there is on either side of the main aisle. At the back of the store is a tall wooden counter with a cash register that looks like it’s been there since the sixties.
A bell had rung when I entered and a moment later an elderly man shuffles out of the back room, folding a newspaper.
“Raining, is it?” he asks by way of greeting.
“Yep.”
“American?”
I nod and then, because it feels like I should, add, “Sorry.”
He laughs and gestures me farther inside.
“I’m going to drip all over your floor,” I say apologetically.
“That’s alright. You’re here for the wedding?”
“I’m the maid of honor.”
“You’re Sarah,” he says, pointing a finger at me.
I smile in surprise. “I am.”
“Mick Delaney,” he says. “You’re very welcome to Kilgorm.”
“Thank you. Is it okay to wait for the rain to stop? I promise to buy something.”
“Take your time,” he says. “I’ve got some magazines over there if you like. Women like magazines.”
“We do,” I say. “Thanks again.”
