The Taster
Page 34
She had only met a few people who lived north of the River Liffey, but she knew life was different there. “You shouldn’t be. You’ve done well for yourself.”
He tilted his head. “I’ve learned you can’t erase the past no matter how hard you try.” He looked at her with a softness she hadn’t expected.
She lowered her gaze.
“You have beautiful hair,” he said. “It’s almost blond, special in Ireland.”
Teagan fought back a blush. “My grandmother on my mother’s side was German. I don’t remember her. She died shortly after I was born—”
“Teagan . . . Teagan?” Their conversation was interrupted by the slurred speech of her father. He called her name successively, each “Teagan” louder than the next.
“Well, it’s been a pleasure, Miss Tiernan. I suppose we’d better go up.” Father Mark pulled the string hanging from the lamp and the cellar plunged into darkness.
Her father’s calls came in violent outbursts, sending a shiver through her.
“Let me go up first.” He brushed past her, the wine bottle in his hand. Teagan followed. The priest stopped in front of her father, who stood surrounded by his friends.
Her father’s eyes shone red in a drunken rage. He reached past the priest and grabbed her arm. The room grew quiet.
“I’ve been lookin’ for yeh,” her father said, his words slurred. She knew he was angry when his accent burst forth from too much drink.
Her mother put a hand on his shoulder. “Stop it, Cormac. Don’t make a scene.”
“A scene? I was looking for me daughter.” He knocked her mother’s hand away and bellowed, “What’s to be done when you can’t find your own flesh and blood?”
Father Mark put the bottle on the table and extended his hand to Cormac, but the friendly gesture wasn’t returned. Her father glared at the priest.
Father Mark lowered his hand. “I’m afraid I’m to blame, Mr. Tiernan. I asked Teagan to read the titles on some of the holy books in the cellar. I’m not much good without my glasses.”
Her father shook as the priest smiled at him. He pointed a finger at Teagan. “She’s good at reading, but slow at other things, such as learnin’ about life.”
“Da, please,” Teagan said. She used the only term of affection she knew that might cool her father’s anger.
“Yes, daughter, please your ‘da.’” He spit out the words and then slumped against the table.
Father Mark caught him before he could knock over the punch bowl and the wine.
“Get your hands—” Her father shook the priest off and grabbed the edge of the table. Father Mark backed away.
Shavon clutched her purse and stared at her husband. “I think we should go.”
“It’s been a pleasure to meet you,” the young priest said to her mother. Father Matthew, who had been entertaining a group of older parishioners across the room, walked with wide eyes toward the new priest.
“Yes, let’s go,” her father said. “But not before I’ve had another spot of whiskey.” He held up his thumb and forefinger in a pinch.
Father Matthew’s cheeks turned a bright red. “I think you’ve had enough for one afternoon, Cormac.”
“All right, then.” He hiccupped and his feet shifted unsteadily beneath him.
“I’m sorry,” Teagan whispered to Father Mark. “Sometimes he drinks too much.”
“No, I must apologize,” he replied. “Get home safely.”
Her father muttered incoherently and leaned on her mother as they trudged toward the door.
Her mother offered to drive, but her father would have none of it, declaring that he was “sober as a church during Mass.” The ride home was quiet except for a sniffle now and then from Teagan’s mother. Every time she blew her nose, her father pounded the steering wheel with his fist. He did seem remarkably sober despite the number of drinks he’d had. She had heard one of her friends talk about “functioning drunks.” He was one, on many occasions.
When they arrived home, her father exploded. “How dare you embarrass us like that—disappearing with a priest! In the name of all that is holy, what were you thinking?” He swaggered, red-faced and sputtering, toward her. The sour whiskey smell on his breath burned her nostrils and she wished she was anywhere but home. Why couldn’t she be with Cullen walking along the river? Her father was so angry she felt as if she would never get out of the house again.
His hand came up, as if he was going to strike her. He had spanked her when she was a child, but had never threatened anything as brutal as a slap.
Her mother shivered on the couch.
“It wasn’t my fault, Da,” Teagan pleaded. “It was like Father Mark said.” But she knew the priest had lied about the holy books and wondered why. Perhaps he didn’t want her father to know they had gone to the cellar to pick out wine; after all, she wasn’t old enough to drink. She suspected he was covering for her so she wouldn’t get in trouble.
Her father leaned toward her, the saliva from his angry words splashing across her cheek. “Don’t lie to me. I know what you were thinking. Your slutty behavior will get you into trouble, mark my words. Do you hear me?”
She nodded her head in shame, and tears welled in her eyes. “I didn’t do anything wrong. Ma, tell him!”
He raised his hand again.
Her mother screamed, “Stop!”
The shrill sound startled her father. Teagan raced up the stairs to her bedroom.
“And don’t come down until you can apologize,” he shouted after her. “For Christ’s sake, me own daughter tempting a man of God.”
She collapsed on her bed, crushed a pillow against her, and cried until she gasped for breath. The room, hot from the sun, swam around her. She hadn’t done anything but be nice to a priest. What was so wrong about that? She threw the pillow across the room, sat up, and looked out the window. If only she were with Cullen, instead of banished to her room. The floral curtains barely moved in the heat.
After about an hour of thinking about what she should do, she decided an apology to her father was in order—not because she was wrong, but to keep peace in the family. To give in was easier than fighting. His drinking seemed to be getting worse each year, his thinking more irrational under the influence of alcohol. She knew how much there was to lose. A few vague memories came back to her—ones she didn’t care to remember—shouting matches that ended with her mother in tears. She had been aware of it when she was young, but had managed to shove the hurt aside. Her mother had never been able to stand up to her father when he was drunk. At least today she had screamed rather than sit like a lump on the couch. Her mother was as frightened as she was that a confrontation might tear the family apart.
She also thought about Father Mark. Was he thinking about her?
She got up and looked in the mirror. Her eyes were red and puffy, her coiffed hair a frazzled mess. The rose had withered, the stem broken. She reached behind her neck to unclasp the hooks of her white dress and then sank again on the bed. Her jumper! She had left it in Father Matthew’s cellar. Her mother would be furious about her carelessness, not to mention the expense of replacing it. How could she get it back? She’d have to ask Father Mark to return it, and that would require a phone call. She would have to be cautious about approaching the priest. But she wanted to see him again, if only to find out why he had lied to her father.