Jacey, her face contorted with shock and rage, bashed at the steering wheel with both hands. “Fuck you!” she screamed, shaking her head in fury. “Fuck you to hell! Go get my fucking car keys, you fucking asshole!”
“You might not be sorry, Jacey,” he said quietly, “but I am. I am really sorry.”
“I’m going for half of everything you have, you fucking bastard, don’t think I won’t,” Jacey shrieked at him, her features ugly in their bitterness.
“You’re welcome to half of everything I have,” Kit said, “you deserve it,” and he threw his bag over his shoulder and started to walk back down the lane. He didn’t care how long it took, he was going back to Coolarney House—if Coolarney House would have him.
“You can’t do this to me,” Jacey screamed at his back. “What am I going to do?”
“Hitch to the airport,” Kit called over his shoulder. “Go home, Jace. Good luck.”
Her insults became fainter and fainter as he walked away from her and back to the best thing that had happened to him in his whole entire life. As the road rose up to meet him, his shoulders squared and the emptiness that had swallowed him since Jacey came back into his life was replaced by excitement over his future.
He strode to the brow of a hill and again caught a glimpse of the sea that had earlier seemed so listless and dull. Now, although the light was fading and the sun was hanging lower in the sky, the blue water glimmered and twinkled, the green pastures shimmying at its edge. Kit was not a man to kiss away a marriage lightly, to kiss away anything lightly, but as he walked the winding country lanes of West Cork he knew without a shadow of a doubt that he and Jacey were not meant to be. It had been wrong to run away from her, from their marriage, from the truth, but it would be worse to go back—because he didn’t love Jacey. He didn’t even like her. He’d been bewitched by her and maybe he did like the way people looked at him when she was on his arm, but the man he was when he was with Jacey was not the man he wanted to be. He’d been tormented by guilt and anguish that his marriage had failed, he realized that now, yet with every step that brought him closer to Coolarney House and all it held, the torment became less consuming. There was room in his heart for strength and clarity and hope.
Jacey would be all right. He knew that. She would find what she needed with someone else. Someone who wanted what she did. Money. And to be noticed. Kit? He cared for neither of those. He wanted love and honesty and for the people he loved to trust him. He wanted Abbey to trust him. He wanted Abbey.
The steady chug-chug of a slow approaching motor intruded into his thoughts, getting louder and louder as he approached a bend in the road. Not a single car had passed him since he left Jacey at the side of the road and the only sound had been that of his own steady footsteps and, far away, the sea, splintered now and then by the caw of a seagull. The chug-chug got louder again as he reached the corner. As he rounded it, the road turned into a corridor of trees that met above the lane to form a canopy that cut out the light and made it hard for him to see. He could hear all right, though, and the chug-chug sounded an awful lot, he thought now that it was closer, like Avis’s tractor.
“Jaysus feck,” a familiar voice called above the clamor of the familiar old engine. “Don’t tell me I’m late.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
“In that fantastic explosive moment when you realize just how feckin’ good it is, you know it’s all been worth it.”
JOSEPH FEEHAN, from The Cheese Diaries, RTE Radio Archives
Old Fart Arse was playing the maggot, knowing full well it was Kit and Abbey’s first solo effort in the cheese factory. Baffled, the pair stood side by side and looked at the pasteurizer. They’d followed exactly the same procedure as they’d seen Fee do every single morning yet still the festering machine coughed and spluttered but refused to roar into life.
Abbey gawked uselessly at the wretched contraption, but it wasn’t Old Fart Arse she was thinking about. It was the way her heart had jumped out of her chest and into her mouth when she had seen Kit lounging at the factory door as she’d arrived, bleary with spent tears and sleep, ten minutes earlier.
He had looked up when he heard her footsteps. She had caught his eye and in that moment, with the early morning sun dark and golden, he didn’t look real. As she got closer, however, she realized that she wasn’t dreaming, that it was him, that he’d come back, that perhaps all was not lost. And under his watchful gaze she had felt so naked she could barely breathe; not bereft of clothes, but of skin and flesh and bone as well, as though nothing but a weightless essence of Abbey wafted in the summer air.
“We were meant for each other, you know,” he said softly as soon as she was close enough to hear. “I realize that now.”
Abbey had looked at him uncomprehendingly and walked straight past, opening the factory door, pulling on her overalls and Wellingtons, dipping her feet in the bath, and patting Old Fart Arse in the rump like a faithful horse as she switched him on and checked the temperature gauge. Suddenly, Fee’s irritating cheerfulness at the breakfast table made sense. Knowing that he knew Kit was back, his offer of cold cucumber slices to bring down the swelling in her raw red eyes didn’t seem quite so unsympathetic. Her grandfather too had been smiling over his marmalade toast, but his good humor had not been quite as convincing. She could tell he was worried for her and she worried back, but had loved knowing how much he cared for her.
Now, here she was, eyes puffy and puce, her hair looking like a wig some wag would wear to a bad-taste party, and her heart beating so loudly in her chest she was thankful to Old Fart Arse for making such a commotion—otherwise Kit would have been deafened by her. She thought of the glorious weightlessness of just minutes ago and realized, with a slow understanding that gave her galloping goosebumps when it eventually registered, that without her usual accessories of fear and doubt and regret that was how she might feel all the time.
“Who is meant for each other?” she asked, turning to look at Kit.
He snapped out of his own reverie, confused. He’d been thinking that perhaps “We were meant for each other” hadn’t been the right thing to say. That he should have said “Sorry,” or “Please forgive me,” or “About the whole wife thing . . .”
“We were meant for each other,” he said again, spreading his hands out in a helpless gesture. It was what he meant. He’d never been so sure of the meaning of anything ever before.
Abbey seemed upsettingly unconvinced. “Do you mean you and your not-quite-as-dead-as-we-thought gorgeous blond supermodel wife were meant for each other, or do you mean you and . . . you and . . . ?” Her bluster blew. She was so scared of losing him that she had prepared a lot of anger just in case it was needed, and any hope she had been saving was battling inside her for space. “Because with all the being-quite-alive and the high heels and the going-away-without-even-saying-good-bye and then sneaking back for who knows how long, a person could get quite confused unless it was made perfectly clear to her,” Abbey jabbered, her face blushing to match her eyes, which were now locked on the belching pasteurizer.
Kit nearly collapsed with relief as he reached out and took Abbey’s face in both his hands, turning her toward him and stepping as close to her as he could, so he could feel her sweet breath on his neck, and smell her fresh citrusy smell. He tilted her glowing red eyes up to face him.
He’d been trying all night to rationalize what had happened, was happening, how he felt, but somehow words just didn’t fit the picture. There were loose ends. There were problems. There were unlikelihoods. If it had been a Wall Street deal, he would have advised his clients against investing. But it wasn’t. He didn’t know what it was. But about four o’clock in the morning when his bones had finally stopped feeling the aftershock of Fee’s tractor he came to the conclusion that it didn’t matter. All he knew was that he wanted to be with Abbey and he wanted to be a cheesemaker. Simple as that. No argument.
“I just have this feeling,” he said, “that if we could let
it all go and just find ourselves somehow, I don’t know, magically, in just the right place at just the right time, everything would work out. Do you know what I mean?”
“But your wife—” Abbey started to protest.
“If you could let that go,” Kit said, his eyes not leaving hers.
“But a wife, a living wife, is a pretty big thing to let go,” Abbey answered, with feeling. “You lied about her and then you ran off with her. You just abandoned me the instant she turned up. I felt invisible. I felt worse than invisible. Should I just forget about that?”
“I made a mistake with my wife,” Kit said, his gaze so unswervingly sure that Abbey felt jealous, momentarily, of his certainty. “I made a lot of mistakes with my wife and when we’ve got time I will tell you all about them. I will tell you everything you want to know, Abbey. But the guy who deluded himself that his wife was dead? The guy who climbed into her car and drove off with her yesterday? That wasn’t me, Abbey, you have to believe me. This is me, here with you, and this is where I want to be.”
“How can I be sure?” Abbey whispered.
“Because I am telling you, Abbey, and I promise you, as sure as I am standing here now in front of this clapped-out excuse for a pasteurizer that we don’t even need because we only pretend to use it, that I will never lie to you ever again as long as we both shall live. I will love you. I will look after you. I will help you make the best goddamned cheese in the universe. I will do anything for you if you will just let me.”
“I’m scared,” Abbey said, realizing that she was. “People loving me hasn’t worked out the way I’d hoped so far.”
“But you’re here, Abbey, in this place, with me. That’s the hard part done. All you have to do now is stand back and let the farm, the air, the rain, the moon, the room we’re feckin’ standing in, make its mark, and that’s the magic of Coolarney.” He smiled as the words of clever old Fee tripped off his tongue like they belonged there.
“Who are you?” Abbey breathed, her body feeling lighter and lighter with each passing moment.
“I’m just an ordinary guy from Burlington, Vermont, who for some reason I’ll probably never know or understand ended up in this particular place at this particular moment with you, Abbey, you. You and I were meant for each other,” he said. “You and I. Is that clear enough?” And he leaned down and kissed her with the long, languid, slow-burning passion of a man who knew he had a lifetime of this woman ahead of him.
Across in the kitchen, Fee was helping himself to another cup of tea and a fourth crumpet. “At fecking last,” he sighed, raising his eyes to the heaven.
“At fecking last what?” Corrie said, looking up from the Irish Times.
“At fecking last that granddaughter of yours and the boy from New York City are getting on with things.”
“What things?” Corrie said suspiciously, putting down the paper and eyeing his friend.
“All the things,” Fee smiled, tipping his head in the direction of the factory and taking an enthusiastic bite of his crumpet. “And I mean all,” he said, with his mouth full, spraying gobs of butter and honey across the table.
Corrie’s face creased with worry. “Are you sure he’s the right one?” he asked again. “Are you one hundred percent sure?”
“Joseph, I was sure the moment I laid eyes on him. And after spending three and a half hours on a tractor with him, I’m doubly, triply, quadruply—what comes after quadruply?” he asked, not waiting for an answer, “I am as sure as I ever have been. He is the one.”
“What happened out there?” Corrie wanted to know.
“His wife has a touch of the Maggie about her, Joseph; the pull, you know, the pull. But it only took him thirty miles to work out she was messing with his head and on the booze as well so he got her to stop the car, threw away the keys and turned back home to Coolarney.”
“What sort of man leaves his wife in the middle of the countryside though?” Corrie worried.
“That’s exactly where some wives should be left,” Fee answered, “and twice as many husbands. It takes more strength to walk away from the wrong person than it does to stay, Joseph, and I’m not talking about you, I am talking about young Kit Stephens. But having said that, there’s a lot of you in the boy and for that we can truly be thankful.”
“But what makes you so sure they’re right for each other?” Corrie asked.
Fee rolled his eyes. “What am I always telling you?” he demanded.
Corrie flailed about for an answer. Fee was always telling him so many things, after all, and half of them never made a jot of sense.
“I’m always telling you to trust me,” Fee continued. “I’m always telling you not to worry, that everything will be all right.”
Corrie must have looked doubtful because Fee sighed and put on his serious look, the impact of which was dented considerably by a large blob of honey on his chin. “You worry too much, Joseph, did you know that?” he said. “And I wish you would stop it because you’ve absolutely nothing to worry about.”
“There’s you,” said Corrie, “and Abbey and—”
“Worrying about myself and Abbey will get you nowhere,” Fee said, his eyes gleaming, “and besides, as I say, there is absolutely nothing to worry about. You’d save yourself an awful lot of bother if you listened to me for once. That girl of yours and that boy over there with her are going to make the most beautiful cheese in the world, Joseph, and they are going to make a grand pair, a couple, into the bargain. It’s not often two such good and honest souls meet, you know that. The last time was you and me, Joseph. There are not that many of us but as of right now there are two more. This is no ordinary day, my friend, and certainly no day to be sitting there with a face on you like a wet weekend.”
“Is it any wonder I can’t remember what you’re always telling me when you’re always telling me so much?” Corrie grumbled, but Fee’s words had soothed his troubled heart. “You think she’s going to stay then?”
“Forever and a day,” Fee beamed, leaning across the table. “Do yourself a favor, Joseph. Trust me.”
Corrie, tired of his doubts and worries, did himself a favor and trusted him. And as he watched his old friend find the blob of honey on his chin and proceed to lick it off, he even allowed himself the luxury of believing that all was right with the world. He felt better than he had all week.
Old Fart Arse lurched into action with such a thundering crack Kit and Abbey sprang away from each other in panic.
“That infernal machine!” Avis laughed as she popped her head around the door. “You’d swear it has eyes. Milk’s in. Abbey, I don’t know what you did to Lucy but she’s a different girl this morning. She rang her mammy in Dublin last night, can you believe it? And she got up early and made tea and toast for the girls this morning. If it weren’t for the dreadlocks and the earring on her tongue, I’d swear it was an imposter.”
Abbey laughed. “Oh, it was nothing,” she said. “Just girl talk. I don’t think she realized what a thing it is to have a mother and a father both in the same family at the same time. She seems so grown up but she’s only as clueless as most nineteen-year-olds.”
Avis walked over and gripped Abbey on the arm. “You could have done with someone like you when you were nineteen,” she said.
Embarrassed, Abbey shook her head. “I had Rose,” she said.
Avis gave her a maternal squeeze. “Someone like you would have been better.”
They worked side by side unloading the milk and then, after Avis had gone, Kit and Abbey beavered inside the factory getting the molds and counters ready for the curd, while the milk heated to the right temperature. After an hour, Kit flicked open the valve and the milk whooshed up and around Old Fart Arse and into the cheese vat. The noise made Abbey’s blood bubble as she looked at Kit across the vat and wondered how it was possible to feel so happy, so at home, so how she had always imagined the lucky people felt. Kit was standing across from her with a huge grin on his face, mesmerized by t
he force of the milk as it shot into the vat, dancing droplets shimmying in a last solo appearance before they plunged into the chorus of milk below. When the time was right Kit added the starter, a funny secret smile playing across his lips as he did so.
“Did you ever wonder,” he asked sometime later as he was stirring the rennet into the vat, “how Corrie and Fee make their money?”
“From the cheese, you eejit,” Abbey laughed.
“Think about it,” Kit said. “They make about a hundred and twenty kilos a day, five days a week. If they were selling that at a fiver a kilo, they would be making about £3,000 a week, all up, before tax and overheads—probably leaving them about £1,500 to play around with. They pay £750 to the Pregnasaurs, which leaves them another £750 to run the farm and the house and pay themselves and Ruby and Marie.”
Abbey thought about it. When he put it like that, it didn’t add up. “Please don’t tell me they’re drug runners,” she pleaded. “I couldn’t bear it.”
Kit laughed. “They’re not.”
“Then what are they?”
“Two very canny old men, that’s what they are. Lars and Peder Nielsen. The Nielsen brothers.”
Abbey was confused. “I don’t follow,” she said.
Kit held up the rennet packet. Brødrene Nielsen Mejeri, it had stamped on the side. Denmark.
“Nielsen Brothers Dairy,” Kit translated for her with a smile. “When Corrie and Fee realized commercial starters and rennets were the way of the future, they invested back in the sixties. Big time. Those guys are sitting on a gold mine over in Denmark. Fee told me they can’t even keep track of the money that pours in. It’s an international multimillion-dollar business—I remember when they listed it on the New York Stock Exchange. It went ballistic. And they own some Dutch vat-making company, too. They don’t even need to make cheese, Abbey. How about that? Coolarney Gold is just a labor of love.”
Abbey seemed stunned by the revelation. She stood there silently, fiddling with the well-worn handle of her paddle, and Kit was suddenly fearful he had exploded some childhood dream or something.