Aisling's Summer Diary

Chapter 4 | The Current Economic Climate

I hate to say it, but it looks as if our fab summer at Trá Álainn’s “premier” hotel is doomed.  For starters, the hotel isn’t actually at hotel—it’s a creepy, broke-down nursing home!  No one in their right mind would PAY to stay here!  And Problem #2: uncle Ciaran is a devious hack!  Well, he’s not the suave high-roller Siobhan thinks he is, anyway.  I smell a rat.  Literally AND figuratively.

7:25 p.m.

When we got to the top of the landing, I asked Siobhan if everything was alright.  I mean, was uncle Ciaran in some kind of trouble or something?  She shrugged and said it was probably just some uber-persistent journalist gunning for an interview—that sort of thing happened all the time.  And Ciaran HATES interviews.  The three of us peeked down the stairwell: Ciaran was looking at himself in the hall mirror.  He smoothed his thin, wet hair. 

Siobhan wandered down the first floor landing—exploring she said.  Maybe Ali and I should have gone with her, but we didn’t.  We were glued to the stairwell, trying not to blink!  Ciaran stared blankly at the door handle.  The man outside yelled through the door: if “Mr. Kelly” did not open up, he’d call the GARDS!  Oh great—the police!  If I thought I was in trouble last year...

Ciaran hollered back “just a second” and hopped frantically around the hall, trying to kick off his wetsuit.  He opened a wardrobe and pulled out a shirt and pants, then tried again to wriggle out of the suit.  It wasn’t budging.  “I’m calling the Gards, so!” the man outside barked.  “WAIT!” Ciaran shoved himself into his clothes, wetsuit and all, and flung the door open.  A stocky, youngish man in a blazer and designer glasses stood in the doorway, briefcase in one hand, a stack of forms in the other.  “Mr. Kelly, we’ve had a bit of trouble getting a hold of you regarding your...various accounts.”  His voice funneled up the stairwell, a big, stagey voice for such a serious looking man.  Uncle Ciaran dipped his head and did an odd little curtsy, then said, “When I see Mr. Kelly, I’ll be sure to tell him.”  The bank man paused, then craned a look over Ciaran’s shoulder at the reception desk.  There was 100% Business and Ciaran Kelly’s big smiling head on the back cover.  “You’re not Mr. Kelly?”  Ciaran tried to make himself bigger, blot out the bank man’s line of sight, as he shook his head NO. 

The bank man wasn’t convinced.  He marched up to uncle Ciaran who took one step back, then another, then realized he was headed right for the reception desk and stopped abruptly.  The bank man very nearly collided with him, and Ciaran put a hand on his shoulder and sort of patted him while holding him off.  “MR. Kelly you said—with your accent I thought you’d said something completely different.”  The banker gives him a sour look and hands over a letter.  “Sign here,” he said.  “DELIVERED.” 

The bank man strode to the door, Ciaran following at his heels.  Then he turned sharply at the threshold.  “If you don’t, the bank has the right to repossess this place,” he said.  “Yeah, yeah,” Ciaran said and kicked at the door.  It slammed closed, almost clipping the man’s nose.  He stood in front of the door, just staring, for ages.  I thought I could hear the sea water dripping off his wet clothes.  Ali nudged me, a panicked look on his face.  What are we going to tell Siobhan?!  Should we tell Siobhan?  Her uncle—Irish Business Brain of the Year—is BROKE! 

7:35 p.m.

Ciaran flung the letter into the bin and stalked off just as Siobhan made her way across the landing.  “You guys have to check this out!”  She held out an old photo of a laughing little Siobhan hoisted on her favorite uncle’s shoulders.  “There’s a load of stuff to see up there.  Come on!”  Ali jutted his head over the banister.  “There’s a load to see down here too,” he said, and I kneed him.  Ciaran must’ve heard.  He trundled up the stairs, taking them two at a time, his face lit up with a game-showy smile.  “She’s gorgeous, isn’t she?” he said when he reached the top of the landing.  He out-stretched his arms and turned round slowly; we followed his gaze up to the vaulted ceiling.  “This was going to be the Great Hall—IS going to be.  And this,” he strode over to the row of windows, “is the breakfast room.  We could have our toast right here.  Overlooking the sea.” 

I looked out at the pink fading sky, the darkening waves, and the tiny far-off lights in the village.  “But Trá Álainn is so small,” I said.  “Does it really need two hotels?”  Ciaran smiled at me, then turned to Siobhan.  “Caution.  A good policy in business.” He paused dramatically.  “Unless you know your competition.”  Good God, was Siobhan actually BUYING this?  She skipped over to the window: “Just think!” she gushed.  “In ten years—when this place is THE place—we’ll be able to say we had a part in it!”  Oh yeah.  She’s bought it. 

Ciaran grimaced and pretended to check his phone messages.  “You did know we were coming, right?” Siobhan asked.  Ciaran cleared his throat and smoothed his hair, “Oh yeah, ‘course.  I talked to your Mum.  I just didn’t know the exact dates is all.”  Siobhan stared up at him, not quite sure.  “Don’t worry,” he said, smiling.  “We’re going to make this THE BEST hotel in Ireland!”  Siobhan beamed back at him.  “Only the best,” she said.  The two of them walked off with their heads together.  “The first thing we’ll need,” Siobhan said as they disappeared into a side room, “is a serious vacuum!” 

Ali rolled his eyes.  Cleaning up uncle Ciaran’s mess is definitely NOT what we signed up for.  And Siobhan!  Little does she know, it’s going to take a lot more than a hoover to save the Sea Crest.

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