What Matters Most

by Luanne Rice

  Twenty-Two

  The girls parked at Bannister’s Wharf, and Tom pulled in just a few cars behind them. His head was spinning—he needed to find Regis and find out what she’d been doing in that car coming out of Oakhurst. He pulled into the lot, had to run to catch up with Bernie’s niece and her friends on their way to the Black Pearl.

  “Regis!” he called.

  “Uncle Tom,” she said, spinning around. “I thought that was you. What are you doing here?”

  “I’m here on…family business,” he said.

  She gave him a funny look. How much did she know about why he had left the Academy? He remembered back to that dinner, his and Bernie’s first night back at Star of the Sea. All three girls had been so enthusiastic, so eager to hear about Seamus.

  “Aunt Bernie?” she asked.

  “Yes, indirectly,” he said.

  Regis introduced him to Mirande, Juliana, and Monica.

  “Nice to meet you,” he said. “I was driving along Bellevue Avenue, and I noticed you pulling out of Oakhurst. Does one of you live there?”

  Juliana laughed. “We wish! What a fancy house…”

  “My sister works there,” Mirande said. “She’s the downstairs maid, and so much more! Little do the Wellses know, they have a world-class artisan in their midst. Beth is hell on wheels with our mother’s loom.”

  “That’s why I love her so much,” Regis said, putting her arm around Mirande’s shoulders, pulling her beret down over her green eyes. “She’s from a crazy artistic family like ours.” Tom smiled with affection for Regis, whom he’d always loved like his own niece.

  “Thank God Beth isn’t going with that family to Florida,” Mirande said.

  “Florida?”

  “Yes. They summer here, and winter in Palm Beach.”

  “La-di-da!” Monica said.

  Tom’s stomach fell. “When are they leaving?”

  “They fly south on Sunday,” Mirande said. “Beth has been counting the days until she’s free….”

  “Does Beth know Kathleen Murphy?” Tom asked. “The family’s cook?”

  “Oh, is she the Irish girl?” Mirande asked. “Beth said she’s really quiet. Very nice, but shy. She pretty much keeps to herself. Except…” Mirande paused. “Well, Beth said she thought maybe something was going on between her and one of the Wells boys.”

  “Maybe she’ll marry him and live happily ever after, like a princess,” Juliana said. “Someone will cook for her, instead of the other way around.”

  “I don’t think she’s in love with him,” Regis said.

  “How do you know?” Tom asked intently.

  Regis hesitated. She stared out into space for a few seconds. “I think I saw her, up in the attic window. She was looking at the sky, and I thought…”

  Tom held his breath; he had seen the same thing, and had thoughts of his own. In Kathleen’s far-off gaze he’d seen himself, longing for Bernie. He’d watched the young woman staring with sorrow at nothing, and felt a kinship with her. She was longing for his son, and he was longing for his son’s mother.

  “I thought she looked like me,” Regis said. “Last summer, when I was trying to fit into something that wasn’t real. I was engaged to Peter, wishing that could make me whole again, so I wouldn’t have to think about Ballincastle.”

  “You saw all that, looking up at an attic window?” Monica asked skeptically.

  Regis nodded. Tom didn’t speak, but he knew Regis. He believed her, that she had seen all that; she had her aunt’s gift for compassion and insight. Tom’s stomach jumped, and he suddenly knew there wasn’t time.

  “When did you say they’re leaving?” he asked. “For Palm Beach?”

  “They fly on Sunday morning,” Mirande said. “But they leave Newport tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow?” Tom asked, shocked. “What time?”

  “I don’t know. Beth said something about a brunch. I guess they’re going to that first, then Beth and Kathleen will finish packing for them, and then they’ll drive down to New York. Spend the night there, and fly out on Sunday. At least, that’s what my sister said….”

  “Uncle Tom, will you come back to Star of the Sea with us?” Regis asked, her eyes wide and pleading. “For the grape harvest? I know how much Aunt Bernie would love for you to be there…. It would mean so much to her.”

  In spite of Tom’s anxiety over this new information, he fixed Regis with a gentle gaze. She was Bernie’s godchild, and that made her almost a daughter. He was so glad she’d made it through this last rocky time; he knew that John and Honor were still worried about her, knew that she’d been emotionally fragile.

  Tom hoped that she’d be able to handle what he was about to ask of her. His chest ached, as if he had an anvil sitting on it. His head was spinning, figuring out schedules and trying to factor this new information in. It could still work….

  “Come on, Uncle Tom. The harvest?”

  “No, Regis,” he said. “There’s something I have to do in Newport. And I wonder if I can get you to help me….”

  “Help you, of course. What is it?”

  “I’ll explain everything. We’ll have to work fast, though; we only have one day. It all has to happen tomorrow….”

  As Regis and her friends gathered around to listen, Tom began to talk.

  Saturday—the next morning—dawned clear and bright, with golden October light spreading over the hills and fields. Sunrise was Sister Bernadette’s most peaceful time of the day, and she always tried to greet it with prayer and gratitude while walking the Academy grounds.

  The sun rose straight out of Long Island Sound, illuminating its rippling waves, the beach, and the stone wall climbing into the vineyard. Bernie stood on the hill’s crest, gazing out at the water. She had so much to pray for today and always. She called for the strong white light of the Spirit, all she could summon, straight from her heart, wishing the Savior’s light and peace for everyone she loved, for the whole world. And, especially, for Tom and Seamus.

  As she stared out at the water, she watched the surface change from orange to bright blue. Fall weather was here, and she felt a sharpness to the air. A chill by the sea put her in mind of that walk on the cliffs in May, when she and Tom had conceived their son.

  As she held Tom and Seamus close to her heart in prayer, she thought of the love she and Tom had always shared. She knew that their trip to Dublin had opened old wounds, and that he was suffering now. She prayed that his decision to leave Star of the Sea was a movement toward healing, that wherever he was, he was moving ever deeper in that direction.

  She sighed, made the sign of the cross, started back toward the convent to get ready for the harvest. This land was so blessed. Knowing that she had once met Mary here, realizing what a miracle that was, how could she ever doubt or complain? Star of the Sea was a sanctuary for the weary, a haven for the lonely, a home for the lost. God’s love and presence were always present, and today’s harvest was a perfect symbol for the abundance in all of their lives.

  So walking along this beautiful morning, Bernie felt guilty for the feelings she had swirling around inside. These last few days had been hard. Knowing that Tom was gone, that there wasn’t any chance of seeing him with his wheelbarrow, on the hillside or in one of the valleys, filled her with sorrow. As much as she understood his need to leave, she felt herself screaming against it. He belonged here—this was his home as much as hers.

  The very un-nun-like truth was, she didn’t know how she could go on here without him. She had been a nun for twenty-three years; she had gone straight to the convent the day after giving her son up for adoption. She had been a novice in Dublin and then right here, at Star of the Sea. She’d spent her first year cloistered, and in the course of the next year, as a postulant, decided that she wanted to emerge from behind the enclosure and join the larger community.

  Sister Bernadette Ignatius had professed her solemn vows six years later, right here in the Star of the Sea Chapel. Blue stained-g
lass windows, dark oiled woods, and marble altar were a solemn backdrop to the ceremony. The archbishop had presided as seven women became Sisters of Notre Dame des Victoires. Each woman received a silver blessed-profession ring, symbolizing chastity, the seal of the Holy Spirit. And through the ring, each Sister was espoused to Jesus Christ.

  Bernie’s entire family had been present, and so had Tom. He had long since given up trying to convince her she was making a mistake. Giving birth to their son, leaving him in Ireland, had been the hardest thing Bernie had ever done. The second hardest, she admitted to herself now, was walking down the aisle after professing her vows, seeing Honor and John with Regis and Agnes, Cece having not yet been born, all smiling; and Tom sitting in the row behind them, his cheeks wet.

  The finality of what she’d just done had hit him in that moment. So that after Communion, when the organ finished playing and the chapel doors were thrown open, she knew that Tom’s heart had felt torn. Her own joy, at finally professing her vows, was so great; but in that moment, seeing the tears on Tom’s face, she’d nearly stumbled.

  She didn’t see him for days after that. Although he had been working on the Academy grounds for many years, since long before she’d decided to join the order, he made himself scarce. Then one day, when she went to the Blue Grotto to pray, she found him there. Not working—just sitting still, before the statue of Mary.

  “Excuse me,” she’d said, backing up, not wanting to interrupt if he was praying. “I’ll leave you alone.”

  “That’s okay,” he’d said. “Sister.”

  She’d heard the delay, followed by soft sarcasm.

  “How’ve you been, Tom?” she’d asked. “I haven’t seen you around at all.”

  “There’s a lot of land here,” he said. “Tunnels, aqueducts, marshlands…it’s not that hard to get lost.”

  “Where have you been getting lost?”

  He’d stood up at that question. She remembered seeing him unfold himself from the bench slowly, stretching to his full height. His shoulders were so broad, and he nearly filled the small space. Although he was still young, his face was craggy and weathered, and a shock of wavy brown hair fell across his blue eyes. Even in the grotto’s dim light, she’d seen the burning in his eyes, and she’d remembered their time on the Cliffs of Moher.

  How they’d lain on the grass behind the path, high above the Atlantic. How she’d looked across at him, reaching over to push the hair from his eyes, and how he’d grabbed her wrist, kissed her hard, told her he loved her.

  “Where’ve you been getting lost?” she’d whispered again.

  “What do you care?”

  “I’ll never stop caring,” she’d said.

  “I’m staying out of your way,” he’d said, his voice low and dangerous even as he’d taken a step closer to her. “Isn’t that what you want?”

  “I don’t know,” she’d whispered.

  He’d been standing so close, she could smell the scent of sweat and newly cut grass. Leaning over, he’d brushed the veil back from her face, caressing her cheek with his knuckles. Bernie’s eyes had closed; she’d felt him bending close, brushing her lips with his. A cool breeze had swept through, just like the one that had touched them that early May day on Ireland’s west coast. And then he’d left.

  Bernie had stood there, her knees weak. There they were, in the Blue Grotto, where the Virgin Mary had consoled her eight years earlier. The walls were dark and damp with moss. Bernie had lowered herself onto the bench where Tom had been sitting. Her lips tingled with his kiss.

  Now, the morning of the harvest, Bernie turned off one path, onto the one that led into the hollow behind the vineyard, hurrying toward the Blue Grotto. She started off walking, but began to run. Tom had been gone for days now, but part of her couldn’t believe he’d really left. She’d go to the spot where it had all begun and ended, and he’d be there.

  But he wasn’t. She was alone in the cool sanctuary. The words she had written seemed stark in the stonework: I was sleeping, but my heart kept vigil, and Set me as a seal on your heart, as a seal on your arm; for as stern as death is love. But the lettering was softened by moss, the constant growth that covered every surface of rock in the grotto’s damp shadows. Tom hadn’t scrubbed it down before they’d left for Ireland, and no one else had since. Bernie looked around, felt his absence here as much as anywhere else, in that sinister, relentless moss.

  As she brushed off the stone bench and started to sit down, she raised her eyes to the Madonna. And she gasped.

  The statue of Mary was perfectly clean, gleaming in a shaft of sunlight. The sun slanted in from a crack in the eastern wall—facing dawn, the sea, and Ireland. Bernie walked closer, noticing that not an inch of moss grew anywhere on the statue. Had it always been this way? Had Tom treated the surface with some chemical? Or had Brendan or one of the other groundskeepers scrubbed the statue but not the rest of the grotto?

  The rays of sunlight grew brighter, blindingly so. The rays seemed alive, darting around the small, enclosed space like tiny white hummingbirds. Bernie shielded her eyes, blinking into the sunbeams. Suddenly the sun’s position must have moved ever so slightly, because the light seemed normal again. Bernie caught her breath, looking at the statue.

  It gleamed so brightly, alabaster in morning light. Bernie had always loved all images of Mary, but this one was her favorite. Francis X. Kelly had acquired it from a monastery near Clontarf. She knew that it had linked him to his family in Ireland; Bernie felt it connected her to hers as well: Tom and Seamus.

  She stared at the delicate statue, the folds in the draped robe, the serpent beneath her bare feet, the outstretched arms—as if Mary wanted to embrace Bernie, Star of the Sea, the whole world. As Bernie raised her eyes even higher, to Mary’s face, the sunlight came back, stronger than ever. It flooded the grotto with scalding white light, and Bernie heard herself cry out.

  “Blessed Mother…”

  Even though the light burned her eyes, she couldn’t look away from Mary’s face. As she stared, Bernie saw Mary’s lips begin to move, and she heard the words, more kind, gentle, and loving than anything she had ever heard in her life:

  “My child…”

  Bernie fell to her knees, hands clasped at her breast, and began to pray.

  Bees drawn to the ripe grapes, literally drunk on nectar, wove in and out of the vines, but no one got stung. The vineyard buzzed with other activity as well: every nun from the convent, each girl from the Academy, John, Honor, Agnes, and Cece, all the groundskeepers, including Brendan, some of his friends from his other job at the hospital, volunteers from Black Hall, and the winemaker—a man highly recommended by the Benedictines, for his knowledge and ability to coax the best out of the grapes—worked steadily.

  They spread out, marking off their turf, dividing each row of vines into three or four sections, seeing who could fill their baskets fastest. Honor stuck close to John, thrilled to be so near him. This was his first harvest in six years, and he seemed to be having the best time—picking grapes by hand, snapping off their dry stems, holding huge, lush bunches over Honor’s mouth as she ate one after another.

  “Regis doesn’t know what she’s missing,” he said, moving along the trellis to the next vine.

  “I know,” Honor said. “She sounded so excited to be bringing her friends, but I guess they got sidetracked in Newport.”

  “It’s nice of Mirande’s mother to let them stay the weekend.”

  “Yes, it is,” Honor said. She’d felt uneasy last night, when Regis had called to say they’d had a change of plans. For although Regis had sounded happy, even excited, Honor thought she’d heard something furtive in her voice. Six months ago, she’d have been worried that Regis was planning to do something daring and dangerous—climbing Tuckerman’s Ravine, or trying to kayak out to Martha’s Vineyard, or something equally intense—to forget about Ballincastle and the breakup with Peter.

  But now, she didn’t know what to think. Regis had seemed
much more timid since the summer. As if her memories about Ballincastle had given her a new awareness of life and death, of her own mortality. But that morning there had been hints of the old Regis, of her capacity for secrets and surprises. Honor had asked if everything was okay. Regis had said yes. But Honor just wasn’t sure….

  “Where’s Bernie, anyway?” John asked, looking around.

  “I don’t know,” Honor said. “I wonder if maybe it’s too hard for her.”

  “Because Tom’s not here?”

  “Yes,” Honor said.

  “I know that she’s the Mother Superior and he’s the caretaker, but they’re like an old married couple. I honestly can’t imagine them without each other,” John said.

  “Maybe he’ll come back,” Honor said. But something in her husband’s eyes made her think that Tom had told him otherwise. “Do you know where he is?”

  “He told me he had some business in Rhode Island. Newport, as a matter of fact. He called Chris Kelly, to help him track down some Irish girl.”

  “Do you think it has to do with his and Bernie’s trip to Dublin? With Seamus?”

  “He wouldn’t say,” John said, clipping off more bunches of grapes, dropping them in the wicker basket. “But I think so. He told me she was an Irish national, and he wanted someone from Chris’s law office to look up her green card, find out where she was working.”

  “Kathleen,” Honor whispered, dropping the basket.

  “Who?”

  “Don’t you remember, their first night back? They said Seamus was in love with a girl who’d moved to the States. Didn’t he even say it was Newport?”

  “He did,” John said, holding her shoulders, looking into her eyes. Honor blinked into the sun; she knew how tender Tom Kelly’s heart was. If he couldn’t have Bernie, he would help his son find Kathleen.

  “Oh God,” Honor said. “Regis…”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “That’s why she stayed in Newport,” Honor whispered. “Don’t ask me how I know, or what she’s doing, but it has to do with Kathleen and Seamus. Tom must have bumped into her there….”