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The Connemara Coast Hotel looks like a motel, long and sleek and strung out along the very edge of the land. I got inside and felt grateful for the warmth. Located the lounge, and there were Ridge and Margaret. I approached and said,
“Happy birthday.”
Ridge grimaced, said to Margaret,
“This is him.”
Not the most effusive welcome. Margaret put out her hand, said,
“I’m Margaret, nice to meet you.”
I don’t know what I’d expected. A bull dyke if I was honest. She was in her late forties, with ash blond hair, cut in a pageboy. Brown wide eyes, a too large nose and great mouth: those lips that you want to reach out and touch. Dressed in a black polo and jeans, her body seemed strong, in shape. I was conscious of my cane, my age, and straightened my back. Ridge, observing me, smiled. Ma
