The Emerald Isle

by Angela Elwell Hunt

  I gave Maddie a twisted smile. “I’m sorry to leave this little party, but my ankle is throbbing. I think I’ll excuse myself for a bit of reading.” I slid to the end of the bench and balanced on my good ankle. “Thanks for the dinner, Mrs. O’Neil.” My eyes moved into Patrick’s, and I stiffened when I saw him squint with amusement. “And thanks for your help, Patrick. Good night, everyone.”

  As I hobbled from the room, I noticed that no one protested my departure.

  Taking care to favor my ankle, I limped upstairs to my room and sat on the edge of the bed, wondering if I could sleep. Though the sky outside my window was black and icy with a wash of brilliant stars, the afternoon was only just beginning to wane in New York. My biological clock, still set on Eastern daylight-saving time, wasn’t ready to wind down.

  A heaviness centered in my chest as laughter from downstairs seeped through the floorboards. Defying my own melancholy, I picked up a library book on Irish history, then decided to hobble back down to the sitting room. My room, bare as it was, seemed unsuitable for anything but sleeping and dressing; the sitting room would be infinitely more comfortable. This afternoon I had noticed logs stacked in the fireplace, so perhaps the O’Neils wouldn’t mind if I lit a fire and settled into one of the easy chairs. From the look of that cozy tableau in the kitchen, I suspected they might sit around the table and talk for hours.

  I found the sitting room deserted, so I dropped my book on the sofa and shuffled to the fireplace. A log and a pile of kindling lay ready for lighting, and it only took a moment to find the box of matches on the mantel. I knelt by the fireplace, lit a match, and held it to the pile of kindling…then watched the flame disappear.

  “You’ll be needing a bit of paper.”

  The deep voice startled me, and my hand shook as I dropped the dead match and glanced up. I expected to see Mr. O’Neil, but Patrick himself stood behind me, an amused expression on his face.

  My nervousness shifted to irritation. “Well—do you have a scrap of paper?”

  “Right so.” He bent and took a section of newspaper from a stack near the easy chair, then crumpled the top sheet and leaned forward to place it between the log and the kindling. Uncomfortably conscious of the fact that our shoulders were practically touching, my fingers trembled in earnest when I took another match from the box and struck it. Fortunately, the paper caught instantly and flamed to life, and within a moment I heard the snap and crackle of burning kindling.

  Patrick rose and dropped his tall frame into the easy chair, then extended his arm toward the sofa, wordlessly inviting me to take a seat. I picked up my book, displaying it rather obviously as I sank into a corner of the sofa. I didn’t want him to think I wanted company or that I was alone and feeling sorry for myself, though both were truer than I wanted to admit.

  “The light is much better here than in my room.” I reached out and switched on a lamp, just to prove the point. “And I have so much reading to do.”

  Patrick didn’t speak but fastened his gaze to the fire. So—maybe he was the one feeling melancholy, though I couldn’t think of a single reason he should feel anything but content. I opened my book and began to read but couldn’t concentrate on the text before my eyes. My rebellious thoughts kept circling around the man sitting across the room.

  I shifted my position, propped my book on a pillow, and studied him above the book’s edge. His blue eyes were wide and blank as windowpanes, as though the soul they mirrored had long since ceased to care.

  Where were his thoughts? They weren’t with me, and I doubted they were with the joyfully noisy group in the kitchen. The expression in his eyes seemed as remote as the ocean depths.

  “Did Erin go home?” I asked, daring to break the silence. He lifted his gaze from the fire and turned to me. “What?”

  “Erin. Did she go home?”

  “I expect she’s still in the kitchen.”

  He stared at me, probably wondering what had prompted such a comment, and I lifted one shoulder in a shrug. “Then I would guess she’s wondering where you went. She seems quite fond of you.”

  One corner of his mouth pulled into a slight smile. “She’s like a little sister.”

  I laughed, amazed that such an intelligent man could be so blind when it came to understanding the feminine heart. “I’d say she’s in love with you. And she’s plenty old enough to know how she feels.”

  His thick brows nearly shot up to his hairline. “Love? She fancies me perhaps, but that’s all. She’s not old enough to know her own mind on the matter.”

  I remained silent, turning his words over in my mind. She fancies me. I liked the word fancy. It implied a feeling stronger than like but not as strong as love. We Americans needed an intermediate word because I knew too many people who married because they more than liked a person, then bailed out when it became clear their feelings had nothing to do with love.

  “My sister thinks you fancy Taylor, you know.”

  This time he caught me by surprise. Shock caused words to wedge in my throat, and I had to force a light cough before I could speak. “Me, fancy Taylor? I might have once, but I don’t now. We’re friends, that’s all.”

  “’Tis a bit extraordinary, a man having a woman for his best friend.”

  I shrugged. “Taylor’s not an ordinary guy, and we’re a lot alike. But that’s it. We’re just friends.”

  “So tell me”—he leaned back into the chair cushions and folded his hands across his chest—“are you happy about the marriage? I know my sister, but I don’t know this Yank. I want to be sure Maddie’s marrying a good man.”

  “This Yank, as you call him, is as Irish as you are—genetically, at least. He can trace his ancestors all the way back to Rory O’Connor, Ireland’s last high king.”

  Images of the firelight smoldered in his gold-flecked eyes. “Lass, half the people in Ireland can trace their lineage back to the O’Connors. I was more concerned about his character than his roots.”

  “Taylor is a good man.” My voice softened. “I know him and Maddie, and I believe it will be a good marriage. I didn’t think so at first, but I do now.”

  Patrick’s glance sharpened. “Whom did you doubt? Taylor or Maddie?”

  “Neither. I just thought they were too different. But now I see that differences can be good. They will complement each other.”

  He sat there for a moment, just smiling at me, then he said: “True enough. Maddie is stubborn, like Dad. So I’m really surprised she invited you here, especially if she knows how you once felt about Taylor.”

  I felt an unwelcome blush creep onto my cheeks. “I offered to go home, but Maddie wants me to stay. For Taylor’s sake.” I laughed softly. “But I can’t help but feel a bit in the way here. Maddie and Taylor are trying to prepare for a wedding and plan their lives together, and here I am, stuck in the middle of everything like a useless fifth wheel.”

  “I don’t think you could ever be useless. You’ve already made it clear you might be useful if——how did you say it? If a ‘creep’ comes calling.”

  Patrick’s eyes twinkled at me, and something warmed in the depths of my spirit. Why, when this man wasn’t shouting about American tourists, he could be quite charming! And he might be willing—if I made it clear I merely wanted to stay out of Maddie’s way—to take me around to some of the Connacht sites I wanted to incorporate in my Cahira story. I had seen a good-sized suitcase in the back of his car, so perhaps he intended to stay awhile.

  “How long will you be home?” I began, trying not to seem too obvious or desperate. “Are you visiting just through the weekend? Or for longer?”

  A spark of some indefinable emotion filled his eyes, then he looked toward the fire and rubbed his stubbled jaw.

  “If all goes well, I expect I’ll be here until the wedding.” His voice flattened out. “Maddie wants me around, and Dad needs the help, though he won’t admit it.”

  “If it’s not too much trouble”—I looked away as another blush burne
d my cheek—“perhaps you could tell me about some places I ought to visit for my project on the O’Connors. I don’t know how much Maddie told you about my work, but I’d like to explore some of the old castles and ruins in County Roscommon.”

  “So you’re looking for a tour guide?”

  I glanced toward him, expecting to encounter a hostile glare, but his eyes were dark and smiling. I felt myself relax. “I don’t want to put you to any trouble, but I have a feeling Maddie wouldn’t mind me making myself a little scarce. She’d like to have Taylor’s full attention as they plan the wedding.”

  “As luck would have it”—he placed his hands on the arm of his chair and began to push himself up—“Dad wouldn’t mind me becoming invisible either. Sure, I’d be glad to take you around after I see to the milking. I promised Mum I’d do that much for her as long as I’m home.”

  “And how many times a week do you milk the cows?” I leaned forward as he stood and moved toward the doorway. “Is tomorrow a milking day?”

  “Every day is a milking day.” He turned and smiled at me as if I were a small child. “The cows are milked every morning and every night without fail. So we’ll do a bit of sightseeing, but the tourin’ will have to work around the cows.”

  He left me then, and I sank back into the sofa cushions, amazed that I had effortlessly acquired a handsome escort and a little perplexed that I would play second fiddle to a cow.

  Not wanting to push myself on Patrick, offend Maddie, or embarrass Taylor, I walked on eggshells for the next week. Mrs. O’Neil treated me with the practiced deference I suppose she extended to all her B’B guests, but she did invite me to eat my meals in the kitchen with Maddie and Taylor. A few B’B guests came and went, leaving a pile of laundry and dirty dishes in their wake.

  I moved my laptop, library books, and note cards into the little building outside the main house and gradually overcame my embarrassment at reading and writing in the room Patrick slept in every night. Taylor told me the entire story of this arrangement one morning when Mrs. O’Neil stepped outside. That first night after Patrick’s return, he had gone into the family quarters and sought out his old room, only to find that Mrs. O’Neil had given it to Taylor. Patrick didn’t make a scene, Taylor told me, but Maddie seemed to realize that Patrick might feel that he’d been forced out of his own family by a Yankee husband-to-be. Though he could have taken one of the guest bedrooms at the front of the house, Maddie thought that arrangement might make me uncomfortable.

  “Yes, I’m sure she was worried about me,” I remarked at this point in Taylor’s retelling. Maddie was not a particularly bright girl, but she was intuitive, and I wondered if she had any sense that something had begun to develop between Patrick and me. I wasn’t certain that something had, but Maddie knew her brother better than I did.

  “Anyway,” Taylor continued, “Fiona suggested that Patrick sleep out in the little house, as long as you don’t mind. So it’s yours to use during the day and Patrick’s to sleep in at night. And he’s an early riser, so you don’t have to worry about waking him up in the morning.”

  So Patrick and I were now co-tenants of the little house. I discovered that no matter how early I rapped on the wooden door, I never caught him asleep. Though the bed was usually strewn with his sweaters and socks and jeans, he never touched my computer, my papers, or my books. After a day or two, I saw that he had set up his own laptop at the end of the long desk, and though his living quarters looked as though a hurricane had blown through them, he kept his work area as neat as a GI’s footlocker.

  Now that Patrick was helping with the farm work, Mr. O’Neil spent most of his time in his room or the kitchen. For the first time, I recognized signs of the illness that was sapping his strength. I often saw him wince as he lowered himself into a chair, and I realized he must have been an incredibly strong man if he had been able to maintain his schedule for months without help. I was certain his wife and daughter noticed the difference in the man he had become compared to the man he used to be, but I saw only a quiet man who enjoyed crossword puzzles, his pipe, and Irish pub songs.

  Erin Kelly usually managed to pop by every day at lunchtime when Patrick came in from the fields, and no matter what the weather or what she’d been doing, she always looked eager and freshly scrubbed. Her clothing—whether a sweater and skirt or jeans—always emphasized a body so curvaceous a teenaged boy might have sketched it, and I couldn’t help wondering how Patrick remained unaware of her silent entreaties. She was woman enough to advertise her availability and girl enough not to give a fig about her pride. But each time Patrick saw her, he simply gave her a friendly smile or rumpled her hair, then asked for the potato salad or bread or whatever his mother had set out for lunch. Patrick O’Neil, it seemed, kept his mind on food when he came to the table.

  On Thursday, however, just before Patrick headed back out to the barn, I caught his sleeve. “Patrick”—I lowered my voice so none of the others would hear—“Maddie is planning a luncheon for her bridesmaids tomorrow. If I’m around, they’ll be forced to invite me, but if I have plans…”

  His eyes narrowed as they looked into mine. “So you’d like to do a bit of sightseeing then?”

  I nodded. “If that’d be okay with you.”

  He lifted a brow. “Sure. In the morning then. We’ll be out before you have a chance to get under Maddie’s feet.” He gave me a devilish grin. “I’ve seen her all of a dither, and ’tis best to stay out of her way. We’ll be off right after the milking’.”

  I wasn’t sure what time the milking was usually done, but I rose early and dressed, then went down to breakfast. The clock on the wall said seven-thirty, and Mrs. O’Neil seemed quiet and tired as she sipped her tea. A big bowl, covered with a plate to keep its contents warm, sat in the middle of the table.

  I lifted the edge of the plate and saw a mound of scrambled eggs and several strips of bacon in the bowl. “Shall I serve myself?” I asked quietly.

  “Aye.” Mrs. O’Neil lifted her hands and rubbed her temples. “Please do. I’m not much in the mood for cooking this morning. Thank the Lord there are no guests coming today.”

  I took a plate from the cupboard and spooned out a helping of the eggs, then took a single strip of bacon, leaving lots for the others. There was no sign of Patrick, Maddie, or Taylor, and I knew they’d be hungry.

  I slipped into my usual place on the bench, said a silent prayer, and lifted my gaze to find Mrs. O’Neil watching me.

  One of her auburn brows lifted slightly. “Are you a religious person?”

  “I’m a Christian, yes.” I lifted the piece of bacon and took a small bite, then nodded toward the statue of the Virgin Mary atop the microwave. “I see you and your family are Catholic.”

  “Sure.” Mrs. O’Neil nodded, then took a sip of her tea. “And Taylor’s going to see the priest today. He’ll have to be confirmed in the Church before the wedding.”

  I stared at the statue of Mary and said nothing. Taylor and I had never talked much about his religious beliefs, and I hadn’t even considered the possibility that he’d be asked to join the Catholic Church. Would it make a difference to him? I honestly didn’t know. If he even had a personal relationship with God, it was covered by so many activities and studies and concerns and relationships that I’d never seen it.

  I smiled at Mrs. O’Neil and mentally chalked up a potential obstacle in this marriage. If I’d known about this church situation in June, I certainly would have brought it up, but I couldn’t say anything now. I had promised to keep my mouth shut and to wish the happy couple well. If Taylor had qualms about Maddie’s church, he’d have to raise his own objections.

  I scooped up my eggs and ate quickly. Mr. O’Neil must have been restless with pain in the night, for deep lines of strain bracketed Mrs. O’Neil’s mouth, and blue half-moons of exhaustion lay beneath her eyes.

  “Is Mr. O’Neil feeling okay?” I asked, knowing the question sounded inane.

  “He’s asleep fina
lly.”

  After placing my knife and fork across my plate, I stood. “I hope he rests well today. Having Patrick home to help with the work must be a tremendous comfort to him.”

  Mrs. O’Neil snorted, and the unladylike sound was so unlike her I nearly dropped my plate. “A help? A thorn in the flesh is more like it. Paddy and James don’t get along, and ’tis only because of the sickness that James accepts him home at all. I’ve been praying for years that Paddy would come home, and here he is. But if the Lord’s to work a miracle, he’d better start soon.”

  She rose suddenly, her chair scraping across the linoleum, and dashed a tear from her eye. I hesitated for a moment, giving her time to calm her emotions, then carried my plate to the sink. I didn’t know how to comfort her, but I thought I should try.

  Finding an obscure peace in the ordinary act of cleaning up, I began to rinse my plate. “Sometimes God answers in ways we don’t expect,” I said, running the hot water over my dish. “When my parents died, I prayed for lots of things—revenge mostly. The drunk driver who killed them got five years in jail, but I wanted him to rot in prison. I was so upset I couldn’t go back to school for two years. I couldn’t do anything but work and pray and call the courthouse to see if that guy had been put away yet. Finally he was, and then something happened.”

  Mrs. O’Neil didn’t speak, but she lifted a brow as she put out her hand for my plate.

  I handed her the dripping dish. “The guy wrote me a letter. A man had visited him in prison and shared the story of Jesus Christ. He became a Christian and is now planning to become a chaplain when he’s released. He’s already led twenty of his fellow inmates to Christ.” Something bubbled up from deep within me, a raw emotion I thought I’d buried long ago. My voice bobbled when I added, “He asked me to forgive him.”

  Mrs. O’Neil bent to slide the plate into the bottom rack of the dishwasher, then straightened and met my gaze. “Did you?”

  I felt my flesh color. “I know it should have been easy. I should have been delighted. I should have understood that this was the good thing God was going to bring out of my parents’ deaths. But it took me a long time before I could see things that way. Sometimes I have a hard time tracing the rainbow in the rain.”