Eyre goes to find her heart in Ireland, what she doesn't realize is she will be leaving it there.
Eyre decides she's had enough and jumps on the first appealing flight, landing her in the heart of Ireland. As she looks out from the Cliffs of Moher...
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The Cliffs of Moher were weeping with extra vengeance today, mocking the beautiful woman standing all alone on the edge. Teetering dangerously close to the rocky brink. So close that I was beginning to worry the steep chasm would reach up, consume, and swallow her whole. From my vantage point, it looked as if that might not only be a real possibility but judging from the look in her sad eyes, a preferred choice. Her sorrowful eyes were going to haunt me from this day forward, no matter the outcome.
As I stared mesmerized at the woman, another blasted tourist was rambling on in my ear. I swear these tourists were like herding cats. I didn't get paid enough for this job. I honestly didn't know how I even kept this job. My surly attitude and lackluster demeanor should have gotten me fired by now. Maybe it was because the owner had known me since I was a wee lad. Maybe it was because the tourists thought I was absolutely adorable. They seemed to think surliness was part of my "Irish charm," which only aggravated me more. I can tell you quite frankly that there is nothing charming about me. Take away the Irish accent and you're left with a cynical curmudgeon. But for some reason these ladies found it especially appealing.
Right now, I just wanted them to leave me alone. I had been completely drawn into the world of this stranger. I needed to know what she was thinking. I'd give anything for a glimpse into the labyrinth of her mind . . . just give me a tiny opening. A high window, a vent, even a crack in an old wall. Anything, I'd make it work. Believe me, it was unusual for me to be this interested in . . . well, anything. But from the moment I'd seen her, I'd been captivated and I'd steadily moved closer and closer to her.
An older woman was using her cane to tap on my stupid–cockeyed–leprechaun hat. Yes, provided by the company. No, I didn't provide it myself. I wouldn't even wear it for extra tips. And yes, that was something that my co-workers did. They had no dignity apparently. They were more than happy to lean into the Irish stereotype. I had standards. Seriously, when did this leprechaun thing get started? And when was it going to end? Has any tourist yet to see one of those ridiculous green buggers? I didn't think so.
Great, now they were tag teaming me. The lady's friend was tugging on my obnoxiously bright green Irish tour guide shirt. Also provided. The leprechaun body was printed on the front of the shirt in all of its glorious form, forever commemorated in ink. The words "Ask me anything, I'm Irish your service" plastered on the back. No, I'm not making this up. I promise you, I couldn't. Or at least I sure hope I couldn't.
But the harder the ladies tapped and tugged at my shirt–skillfully hanging on to their umbrellas at the same time–the firmer my eyes stayed fixed on the mysterious woman. She appeared to be inching her way to the edge. And my imagination amplified the heartache in her eyes. She had turned so that her sight line was devoid of people. She was completely alone now and I hated it. At least earlier, she had been turned enough for me to see the expressions on her face. But now–being unable to see her eyes–this was agony.
What I wanted to know was why no one else seemed to notice her, why only I seemed to see her and sense her distress. And I wasn't usually a particularly observant guy. As the women continued to chatter in my ear, the last thing that seemed of importance at this moment was answering questions about the height of the cliffs or some other query I had already answered a zillion times. Oh, how I hated this job. The feedback from the cursed employee evaluation survey was right in politely suggesting that I needed to work on my people skills. Well, now seemed as good a time as any to start.
I turned toward the group of ladies and quickly said, "Excuse me, ladies. I'm sorry, but there is some extremely important and urgent Irish tour guide business I must attend to. You all are the best of the group. I leave you in charge. It's a great responsibility, but I know you can handle it. I temporarily deputize you . . . Irish." They beamed so brightly that you would have thought they had found the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. Tourists, I thought sarcastically, you gotta love 'em.
As I turned, I rolled my eyes in relief–glad they hadn't sensed my sarcasm–and I started moving quickly toward her. I couldn't stand not being near her any longer. And I couldn't handle not knowing what had brought her so much heartbreak.
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