What Matters Most

by Luanne Rice

  The summer air had turned chilly, and fall was sweeping in. August’s constellations had given way to September’s, and the stars hung low in the dark blue sky. Bats flew over the vineyard, catching the last bugs. Soon everything would change. The temperature would continue to fall. Ducks and stripers would migrate south, by air and sea. The grapes would be picked, and the vines would die.

  “What did your stubborn boy do?” John asked.

  “He fell in love,” Tom said in a low voice.

  “We both know how that feels.”

  “Yep.”

  “Kathleen Murphy?”

  “Of Newport, Rhode Island. I gave him a postcard she sent to Sister Anastasia at the Children’s Home, and you would have thought I was handing him the Holy Grail. Then I bled all over it, so he couldn’t read her writing.”

  “Damn those doors.”

  “I didn’t walk into a door, as you surmised earlier.”

  “What did you do—open a vein right then and there?”

  Tom shook his head. “We scuffled a little,” he said. “Something to do with his not being too thrilled about his mother and me showing up, him making the point he’d be happier if we left him alone.”

  “I thought your nose looked more crooked than the last time you broke it,” John said, peering through the darkness. “Plus, your eye is a mess. The kid landed some good ones.”

  Tom nodded. “He’s done some street fighting, that’s obvious.”

  “Takes one to know one,” John said.

  “Yeah, there’s some of that,” Tom said. “He hasn’t done things the easy way.”

  “Like father like son, there again,” John said.

  “He’s slept on the streets,” Tom said.

  “I know it’s not the same thing,” John said, “but so have you.”

  Tom nodded, knowing that John had watched him rebel against the Kelly stronghold—the boarding-school life, and debutante manners, and cotillion nights, and country club ways. He’d hitchhiked away from that, and it hadn’t always been pretty. There’d been more than one bar fight along the way.

  “What does Bernie think of it all?” John asked.

  The question was a punch in the stomach. Just hearing her name—after that flight home, and just now seeing her sit at the family table, looking for all the world like a woman about to fall apart—but knowing she never would—made Tom feel like he might go crazy.

  “You wouldn’t have recognized Bernie,” Tom said. “For one thing, she helped me break into a secret drawer in a locked room in the convent over there. Then she threw her veil on the floor.”

  “Really? My sister did that?”

  “Which part surprises you more? The fact she’d commit B and E, or the thought of her removing her veil?”

  “Both, honestly,” John said. “Although, in a way, I don’t know…all these years I’ve half expected her to walk away from the convent. I know about her vision, how she chose the religious life. But I also see how she is with my kids. And with the students. She was a great older sister. I’d have said she’d be a great mother. And then there’s you.”

  “What about me?”

  John shrugged. Tom looked out over the long stretch of black water, shimmering under the bright autumn stars. It was slow moving and mysterious, and something about it made Tom shiver, and know that whatever his friend was about to say would just make everything harder, just cement the decision he’d made on the plane.

  “I’ve never understood it,” John said quietly, staring in the same direction. “Why God did that to her.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “She’s such a good person,” John said. “So full of love. She would have been great at either thing—being a nun, or having a family. Why the hell did God test her this way?” He turned toward Tom, tried to smile. “You, too. Why’d He test you with all this?”

  “You’d better ask a theologian,” Tom said. “I can’t figure it out. I have to stop trying.”

  He took a few steps away—not toward the Sullivans’ house, where dinner was still going on, but in the opposite direction, toward the river, where his own cottage was located.

  “Do me a favor?” he asked. “Tell everyone I had to fix those broken pipes. I’m heading home.”

  “Come on,” John said. “The girls are so glad to see you. Brendan, too. He’s so happy you’ve asked him to work with you here. Watch it, or he’ll change his mind about going to medical school and go into landscaping instead.”

  “I think maybe Brendan would be better off finding another role model,” Tom said. “I’m leaving.”

  “Skipping dinner? Fine, then. But—”

  “Nope,” Tom said. “I’m leaving Star of the Sea.”

  “Tom!”

  “Brendan will be fine—you know Bernie will do everything she can for him.”

  “I’m not talking about Brendan—I’m talking about you.”

  Tom just shook his head and started walking away. He knew John wouldn’t follow—there’d be time for a better explanation later, along with a request for help. Tom had a few plans about what he wanted to do next, but he couldn’t really depart without knowing Brendan and the Academy were in good hands.

  And Bernie. He couldn’t leave without knowing her brother would look after her. She’d say she was in the care of God, and that was fine and true. But Tom was a man, and he thought in human terms, and he knew he had to make sure Bernie had John to turn to once he left this place. Not for her peace of mind; for his.

  The Greencastle concierge desk was bustling with people wanting restaurant reservations and tickets to the Abbey and Gate theaters, but Seamus wedged his way to the back counter and quickly logged on to one of the computers. The hotel never minded him checking his e-mail or doing a quick Internet search, and he’d been burning to do this ever since Tom Kelly had left his apartment.

  “Seamus, what happened to your hand?” Matthew Killian, the head concierge asked, during a short lull between customers.

  “I slammed it in a door,” he said. He’d been ready with the story ever since he’d been to the clinic.

  “Not getting into any fights, I hope,” Matthew said kiddingly.

  “No, not at all! Just a close call with the Mercedes.”

  “Well, take care of it,” Matthew said. “You’re my best driver. I don’t want to lose you to carelessness or those heavy German doors.”

  Seamus flushed. He never wanted to seem ungrateful or disloyal, for the Greencastle had been so generous with him. But staring at the computer screen, typing slowly with his good hand, Seamus knew that lose him they would. And soon.

  Tom Kelly couldn’t give him much, but he’d passed on that postcard. Seamus Googled “Newport,” “the Cliff Walk,” and “Kathleen Murphy,” and got hundreds of hits. When he looked at Google Earth, an image of Newport came up. He homed into it on the computer screen, the picture zooming into focus.

  It was as if he were a spaceman, circling the globe. He watched the earth get closer, moving from Ireland, across the Atlantic Ocean. There was Rhode Island, the smallest state in the union, way up in the Northeast between New York and Boston.

  Lots of Irish lived in those two cities; plenty of older friends had gone over, taking jobs as gardeners or domestics. Now, with the Irish economy what it was, there was more money to spare, and they were applying to college or graduate school. The cities were filled with Hibernian transplants.

  Maybe Newport was, too. As Google Earth got clearer and closer, he saw the ocean spreading out before him, the points of land as rocky and craggy as those in Kerry, as if the two places had been torn apart by the Ice Age. The picture got smaller, and Newport slid into sharp focus: there, right on the computer screen, was nearly an identical view of the town as on Kathleen’s postcard.

  “What’s that you’re looking at?” Matthew asked, leaning to see.

  “Newport, Rhode Island,” Seamus said.

  “Ah,” Matthew said. “Lots of money there.”


  “Do you think they have a Greencastle?”

  “No. But there are other fine hotels, I’m sure. Why, Seamus? Are you thinking of moving to America?”

  “There’s a girl I know there,” Seamus said, not wanting to lie or say more.

  “Ah. A girl,” Matthew said.

  Just then Kevin came in, to tell Seamus his car was clean and ready to go pick up his passenger at the airport. Seamus quickly logged off, thanked Matthew for letting him use the computer. Kevin had heard the exchange, and he grinned as they walked through the hotel’s front doors toward the line of cars.

  “What are you smiling about?” Seamus asked, scowling.

  “Eily’s bet me you’ll meet back up with Kathleen before the wedding,” Kevin said.

  “It would be a long shot,” Seamus said.

  “Well, that couple gave you her postcard,” Kevin said. “Even if you did have to go and bleed on it.”

  “He bled, not me.”

  “He seemed nice,” Kevin said. “They both did. When I told them you’d left them a note, they looked so happy. Overjoyed. You’d have thought you offered them the seats to Randi-Lu O’Byrne instead of me.”

  “Yeah, well,” Seamus said. His hand was throbbing. It bothered him to think of Tom Kelly and Bernadette Sullivan looking so happy, overjoyed, before reading his letter. They hadn’t had any idea what was inside. They’d been filled with hope. He had dashed that, all right. And he didn’t even feel bad about it.

  Or not very bad, anyway. They had brought it on themselves, coming to see him. What had they expected, after all? Jesus, how could they have thought he’d be happy? It was difficult, at best. That’s what it was. The nun—he couldn’t call her his mother—Sister Bernadette—had left him a note on her way out of town. It had been in Seamus’s cubbyhole here, and he’d read it quickly. “Dear Seamus,” it said. “Be well. Know that you are loved. Always, Bernadette.” Loved. He’d stuck the note in his wallet, although he should have thrown it out.

  He reached into his pocket with his good hand, felt the edge of Kathleen’s postcard. This was something worth reading. Tom Kelly had given it to him. He was grateful for that, at least. It made him feel he owed them something. Not a lot—not anything like affection, or wanting to get to know each other, or get together at that place in Connecticut he’d mentioned—Star of the Sea? That was it, the name of the Academy where his mother—Jaysus!—where his mother was a nun.

  “You okay to drive with that hand?” Kevin asked.

  “Sure. It’s not a problem at all.”

  “Thanks again for those tickets,” Kevin said. “Eily loved the show. Now she wants to go to Nashville for our honeymoon, see Randi-Lu again. She can’t believe she was staying here at the hotel, and you got to drive her.”

  “She was pretty nice,” Seamus said, thinking of that song on her CD. “Big Love”…

  “Well, see you later,” Kevin said. “End of shift, maybe we can grab a pint.”

  “Maybe,” Seamus said, heading for his car.

  He climbed into the Mercedes, stuck Randi-Lu’s CD into the player. He skipped the first two tracks, went straight to “Big Love.” As he started out of the parking lot, he noticed Sixtus and Billy Kelly driving in.

  His father’s cousins. Seeing them nearly made Seamus drive off the road. His heart was beating so fast, he had to pull himself together. What was it Tom had said? That if Seamus wanted to get a passport, Sixtus would be willing to help him, that he’d be waiting for Seamus’s call.

  Newport, Rhode Island, Seamus thought, driving away, watching the Kellys in his rearview mirror. That’s where Kathleen lived.

  It might be half a world away, but as Tom had said, all he had to do was get on a plane. “Big Love” played on the stereo, and Seamus’s heart began to pound.

  Eighteen

  The granite buildings, Gothic in architectural style and stature, were clustered at one end of a long gravel road running straight in from Route 156, through two imposing stone posts, one bearing the sign Star of the Sea Academy.

  Francis X. Kelly had donated his estate to the Sisters of Notre Dame des Victoires, so what had once been his family dining room was now the nuns’ refectory; the children’s bedrooms were used for boarding students; the wing that had once been the site of so many family parties and gatherings was now the cloister, where the contemplatives lived. Devoutly Catholic, Francis X. Kelly had had a chapel built for his family. It was small and intimate, filled with rows of oak benches, and very dark. The only light came through blue stained-glass windows, created by a master of the craft in Rouen, France. A cross topped the austere spire; the chapel was now used for daily mass and prayers, by the nuns and all the girls who attended the school.

  The campus was nestled at the very foot of the Connecticut River Valley, where the great river opened into Long Island Sound. On the river side, there were golden marshes, a haven for waterfowl. Along the Sound was a pristine white sand beach, lapped by gentle waves and scoured by the sea wind.

  The land was covered with grapevines. Twenty acres were devoted to chardonnay, five to merlot, and three to pinot noir. The nuns taught school, but they also worked the vineyard. During the spring, they would train the vines onto trellis wires. Buds would form, tiny clusters emerge. Summer was devoted to repositioning the vines along the wire, cutting and pruning to optimize growth, and making sure they got enough water. By late September, the scent of ripe grapes spiced the air, and the nuns prepared for the harvest.

  The Academy’s gentle hills were crisscrossed by beautiful, intricate stone walls built by workers the Kellys had brought over from Ireland in the late eighteen hundreds. Among them was Cormac Sullivan, great-grandfather of Sister Bernadette Ignatius—head of the school for years.

  Today, an afternoon in late September, the hills of Star of the Sea were washed in butterscotch sunlight. It spread over the hayfields and vineyard, the marsh and tributaries; it made the stone walls glisten. The air was crisp, with a sharp breeze off the Sound. Girls in their navy blue blazers and plaid skirts ran back and forth between buildings, on their way to class or sports.

  Sister Bernadette Ignatius stepped out of her office, into the bright light. She blinked, looking around. Two fourth-grade girls flew past, waving. “Hi, Sister!” they called. One of her nieces, Cecilia Sullivan, hurried to catch up with them.

  Bernie waved to all three girls, heading across the courtyard toward the beach. Running this place took all her attention; in fact, she needed twice as many hours in the day just to keep from going backwards. With students in grades K through 12 to oversee, novices to observe, teachers to supervise, grades to review, seniors to advise, and the entire physical plant that was Star of the Sea Academy, she had her hands full. Even now, something had come up, and she needed an answer right away.

  If she were the art teacher, where would she be? Honor Sullivan, her best friend and sister-in-law, was also in charge of the school’s art department. Bernie knew Honor’s favorite painting spot, so she made for it now. On the way, she saw hedges that needed trimming, stones that had tumbled from walls, weeds that had sprung up along the edge of the path. She swallowed hard, trying not to get upset.

  Cresting one low hill, she saw Honor and her students halfway up the next. Bernie followed the stone wall down. She hurried along, her veil blowing out behind her. Honor hadn’t yet seen her; she was walking slowly among her students, bending over to admire their watercolors, offer suggestions. Bernie watched how the girls focused on their work, dipping their brushes in small bottles of water, trying to capture the scene.

  “Excellent work, girls,” Honor called. “Now’s a good time to notice the quality of light we have here at Star of the Sea…isn’t it amazing? Well, if you think so, you’re in good company. Back around the turn of the last century, when the Black Hall art colony came into being, many artists were attracted to these hills for the light.”

  “The American Impressionists?” Megan Bailey asked, sitting cross-legg
ed, leaning against the wall.

  “And the Tonalists?” Heather McDonough called from up the hill.

  “Yes,” Honor replied. “Both groups. Very good…the Tonalists, the Barbizon School, believed the light we have in Black Hall was very like the light they’d found near Fontainebleau and Barbizon in France. It’s very special and elusive…wonderful for artists. Can you tell me why?”

  “It makes the landscape come alive,” Agnes Sullivan said. Bernie hung back, waiting to hear her niece say more. Honor and John’s middle daughter was shy and spiritual, as talented an artist as both her parents. A student in her mother’s class, Agnes liked to stick close to home, Bernie knew, embracing her deeply felt kinship to the shoreline community.

  “Alive? What do you mean?” Jenny Kilcoman asked. “I see rocks and grass and grapevines.”

  Agnes hesitated, always shy about speaking. But because her love for art was so great, and because she was a teenaged mystic who saw the Spirit everywhere, she couldn’t hold it back. “The light moves,” she said. “It changes every second—depending on the time of day, and whether there are clouds or not. It’s different at every time of year. So what it touches changes right along with it. Like that stone wall.” She pointed. “It glimmers like silver when the sun is bright, but it’s black and grave when the sun goes behind a cloud.”

  Turning toward her own easel, Honor spotted Bernie standing on the path. Honor wore camel hair pants and sweater, with one of John’s old shirts thrown on as a painting smock. The sleeves were rolled up, the front streaked with paint. Her light brown hair was tied back in a ponytail, and she wore a ball cap.

  “Hello,” Honor said, smiling and walking over.

  “Painting en plein air today?” Bernie asked.

  “Yes,” Honor said, looking happily around. “This day is too beautiful to stay in the studio. I’m so glad you found the chance to get outside, too. I know how busy you’ve been.”

  Bernie nodded. “Yes…start of term, harvest ready to start, and the whole place falling apart.”

  “Falling apart?” Honor asked, keeping her expression neutral.