Deborah Bainbridge
Sitting in a small grey cubicle, Ronan stared at a client’s spreadsheet. His eyes glazed over, then slid closed, his nose tilting toward the buzzing fluorescent bulbs.
“David’s Jig” blasted and his head jerked forward. He fumbled for his phone. “Gran? Is everything okay?”
“It most certainly is not,” she scolded, her brogue thick. “Leaving to attend that fancy business school in America is one thing, Ronan Flynn—”
He flinched hearing his middle name.
“—but you, my dear grandson, haven’t been home to Ireland to visit me for three years. You’ve dreamed of running your own firm in Dublin since you were a wee lad.” Her voice softened. “What happened, Ronan?”
“I’ve been working so hard since graduation. I’m sorry, Gran.”
“Come for a visit, Ronan,” Gran pleaded. “Make an old woman happy.”
She was right. It was past time for a visit.
“I have some vacation coming and I do miss home.” He double-clicked on his schedule. “I suppose I could shift a few things—”
“Grand,” she interrupted, “because I wasn’t taking no for an answer. And, I already bought your ticket.”
“You what?” Ronan bolted upright, knocking his keyboard to the floor.
“On that new-fangled airline, Skyfall.” She continued as if nothing was shocking in her announcement. “The anchorman said your pod parachutes directly to your destination and one of the pilots is Irish. Ireland is leading the world in aviation you know.”
He could imagine the wise nod of her head. “That hardly qualifies, Gran.”
“Three of the engineers are also Irish.”
“I guess that settles it.” Ronan chuckled, raising his hands in surrender.
“Good. Just check in with Skyfall Aviation at six p.m. your time next Tuesday.”
“The ticket must have been expensive.”
“Your Granda, rest his soul, was a great businessman. Money I have. It’s grandchildren I want. Speaking of which, when are you going to settle down with a nice Irish girl and give me a great-grandchild?” He could hear the mischief in her voice.
Ronan’s chair groaned as he slumped into it. “I’m not sure there’s someone out there for me.”
“Oh, she’s out there.”
*****
At the airport, Ronan handed his passport to the steely ticket agent extending her fingers. “One-way to Killarney?”
“Killarney? One-way?”
The disgruntled woman peered over her glasses. “Did you read the pre-flight materials?”
He nodded, worried Gran was going senile.
The ticket agent waved him through to a conveyor belt and into a pod with his luggage. Skyfall took self-check-in literally. He’d have a robotic steward to help with amenities and safety instructions. He settled into his pod and buckled up before the larger craft thrust into the air.
A blaring siren jarred Ronan and a calm female voice announced, “Prepare for launch.” His eyes flicked to the flashing white light above the hatch, assuring him the pod was safe to deploy.
“Ten, nine…”
He swallowed hard, death-gripping his safety harness.
“Three, two, one.”
Ronan’s pod shot out of the aircraft, and he forgot to breathe. His stomach lurched, and a dull pain throbbed in his skull as he dropped altitude. He was about to pass out when…he started floating. The parachute must have deployed. His body pushed forward against the harness and the ground rose up outside the porthole window.
The hatch opened after touchdown and Ronan breathed in the Irish countryside air. A woman in coveralls, a puffy jacket, and red hair haphazardly tucked into a wool beanie approached. “Cara Flannigan. Pod Retrieval. Good flight?”
“Yup.”
“Staying in Killarney?”
“No. With my Gran in Kilkenny.”
“That’s three hours away!”
Ronan shrugged. “Gran booked my ticket.”
Cara’s eyebrows lifted, a twinkle in her eyes. “You’re gonna blame your Gran for this?”
“I meant that I hope she’s not forgetting things.”
She craned the pod onto the lorry. “We’ll drop this off, then I’ll give you a ride.”
*****
Cara shared stories as they laughed the entire drive to Kilkenny. “What Makes You Beautiful” drifted through the radio, and she grabbed the dial, cranking it up. “I love these lads!” She belted out the chorus but made up the rest. Cara was a terrible singer, but her smile was intoxicating.
Gran hobbled outside and hugged them both. “Two people shorten the road you know.”
Cara giggled. “I thought only my Grandma said that.”
“I’m Shannon. You must stay for dinner, dear. And I insist you take the guest room or people will wonder about my hospitality.”
Cara hesitated, smoothing her coveralls. “I am off tomorrow.”
“You can clean up before dinner,” Gran offered, and the two disappeared upstairs.
The aroma of roast lamb made Ronan’s mouth water. He recounted his trip as Gran set the table with carrots and potatoes.
“Cara’s funny and confident. She has a natural beauty.” He shifted in his seat. “Being with her feels like…being home.”
“Shannon, I have a dress like this at my Grandma’s for when I stay.” Ronan turned toward Cara’s voice. She descended the stairs in a blue dress, her messy curls flowing to her waist. She looked up, and her captivating green eyes held Ronan in place.
He jumped out of his seat and pulled out a chair. Cara smiled as she sat down next to Gran, which allowed him to keep watching her across the table. Ronan asked God’s blessing for their meal and then began slicing the lamb.
“I met your Granda on a three-hour train ride, you know, Ronan,” Gran shared. “We were seated next to one another. He was charming. We were in love by the time we reached Dublin.”
“How romantic!” Cara said. “You remind me of my Grandma. I think you two would be thick as thieves.”
“Oh, we are.” Gran quickly scooped some potatoes into her mouth, trying to hide her grin.
“Wait a minute!” Cara’s eyes narrowed as she glanced toward Ronan.
Ronan’s jaw dropped. “You’re not forgetting anything. You’re playing matchmaker.”
Gran winked. “On the eighth day, God created Irish grandmas. And the devil trembled.”
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Spark Flash Fiction 