Home is a Long Time Ago

by William F Lee

  Holli's, or now Grace's, stomach is tied in knots. Her eyes beginning to mist, but not allowing tears to form. Her lip quivers, not noticeably, but to her it feels like hummingbird wings in hovering flight.

  Sean whispers hoarsely, "My God, Grace. Grace. Wha . . . what are you doing here? How did you . . . Grace?"

  "Just as sure as the sun and moon exists, Sean Gallagher." Now her voice does tremble. "Grace Holli O'Reilly, in the flesh."

  "Yeah. I mean . . . My God, Grace. It's been so . . . how did you . . .I've never stopped wondering . . . where you . . . my God, what brought you here? Oh, hell, Grace," and he steps toward her, then stops in a wink. Unsure, not knowing what to expect.

  She takes a wobbly step. Stops. Steadies herself with a hand on a chair back. Both continue to stand, motionless. He, frowning, unsure and staring. She fearful and mentally blank, watching. Both sets of eyes searching for hints, thoughts, answers. Finally, his arms rise slowly from his side, outward, reaching. No words from either. Their eyes probing for an expression that explains all, but of course there can be no one expression, thought, or word that can perform that phenomenal quest.

  In a rush of long ago anger, Grace slaps him hard on his cheek and says with a smile of a proud Irish lass, "That's for leaving me high and dry, Laddie." Then she steps into his arms. Murmurs, "Sean. Oh, Sean."

  "Grace, I don't know what to say. I'm dumbfounded. But, you still pack a heckeva punch."

  "I do, don't I? But for a moment, don't say anything. Just hold me. Please?"

  They hold each other. Tightly at first. Then snugly. Rocking back and forth gaining comfort. Tears streaming down Grace's face. Sean's eyes more than misty. Her soul trembling, but for now externally she is merely clinging to his frame, his strength.

  Sean whispers, "Grace, Good Lord. I'm sorry. What have I done?"

  She sobs, "What have we done. We let it happen, Sean. We did."

  "No. No. It's me. My fault. Was me. I never should have . . . I never should have assumed I wouldn't . . . I should have . . . done something other than what I did. Come. . . ," the last of the word fading, he can't finish.

  They separate, look into each other's eyes.

  Sean mutters, "I thought I wouldn't . . . get back. I never dreamed I would see you again. I thought you would just go on. Somewhere. With someone." His reputation of being the Ice Man is stripped to the water line. Perhaps, the inhumanity that rests beyond deep in his soul has been released, and per chance he is whole again, or will be again one day. Oh, God. What have I done?

  They slip into each other's arms again, hug, not as tight, more cautious, perhaps guarded. Nonetheless, the Ice Man continues to melt. The ice floe halted; its relentless power lost momentarily. He releases her, says, "Grace, let's go topside. Let me get you something. If you're like me, your mouth must be as dry as a Santa Ana wind. What would you like?"

  She dabs at her tears with her fingers. Wipes the remaining droplets away, smudging some mascara. Murmurs, "How about a glass of ice water? I'm bone dry." She wavers. "I feel warm, woozy. Faint. Have lost all my strength." Her hand goes to her forehead. She wobbles.

  He reaches for her, steadying her. She helps by placing an open hand on the table top.

  After several moments, she says, "I'm fine. I think." Manufactures a grin. "May I take off these heels? I shouldn't have worn them, but I wanted my legs to look their best." She reaches down, slips off first one, then the other. Sean quickly takes them from her. Puts them on the table, then snatches them away. Holding them, one in each hand. Then makes the transfer so he has both in his left hand. Lost for what to do with them, he lets his arm drop to his side, shoes still in hand. Okay, I've got to get a grip on myself.

  Finally he says, "Holy smokes, Grace, you look absolutely fantastic. Stunning. Gorgeous. And, oh yeah, the legs. Jesus, what legs."

  She smiles, eyes regaining the misty sparkle. Tears gone. Steady on her feet. "Don't go overboard."

  "No. Oh, no. I'm not. I wouldn't. I mean . . . damn, they are . . . I mean you just are . . ." He pauses, lets out a breath. It was long overdue. Shakes his head in bewilderment saying, "My God, you have hardly changed. Have become more beautiful. Your eyes, they're . . . they're still like a mist covering a field of heather in the Irish highlands."

  "You remember. You told me that the first night we met. I remember it just like . . ." She doesn't finish. Takes a slight breath. Regains her composure. Shrugs.

  He releases her arm as she takes her hand from the table. He says, "C'mon. Let's go topside. Sit. I'll get some ice water for you. For us. My God, I have a million questions." He deliberately pauses. Shakes his head warily. "And no answers, certainly no good ones . . . for your questions. And you probably have some lined up for me." He takes her arm again and leads her out of the galley and up to the master suite and salon area.

  As she steps into the suite she gasps, "My Lord, Sean. What is this? For shame, Laddie."

  "It's . . . well, actually it's my home. At least for the present."

  "Just kidding. It's all so beautiful; the whole boat." They stroll into the salon area. He leads her to the large leather couch. She sits. He places her shoes on the coffee table. She murmurs, "Thanks," and snatches them onto her lap. Then, looking around, puts them down on the carpet beneath her legs, under the coffee table in front of her.

  Sweeping her eyes around the room she takes in the salon, cranes her neck to see out and onto the dining deck while Sean is getting the water. He returns, hands her a glass and places a coaster on the table in front of her. She murmurs thanks. He steps away, then back again with his glass and coaster. Sets them down. He goes across the room, pulls one of the leather lounge chairs away from the windowed bulkhead, and up close to the coffee table, facing Grace. Standing behind the chair, he glances around, then looks down to her, sweeping his arm about, says, "Nice, huh? Want to sit out on the deck instead? It's beautiful, and still cool outside. Nice breeze, I think. At least I can see some flags fluttering."

  "No, this is fine. I think for the moment it's better in here." She takes a sip of her water, "Hmmm, good. The Santa Ana's gone but the fires are still burning."

  "Right. Right. Inside is good. This is fine." He pauses. Then fumbles with the seat back. Takes in a breath and says, "Yeah. Fires. What does that mean? Oh, yeah, of course. You have every right to be angry."

  Grace takes in a deep, audible breath, says, "Anyway, where do we start?"

  He starts to speak as he steps around from the back of his chair. She raises her hand, whispers, "Ssshh." He nods agreement, although bewildered at what did not seem like a rhetorical question.

  Grace gulps, then softly but louder than a whisper, says, "Well, if you haven't already suspected or guessed, I'm Colt's mother."

  Half-way into sitting, Sean drops the remaining several inches with a muffled splat on the plush leather chair. It rocks back slightly, and when it comes forward he reaches for his water. Dazed. He's like a fighter in his corner trying to recover from a knockdown at the bell.

  CHAPTER 30

  Grace sits on the edge of the couch leaning forward. After her remark and because of her aggressively sliding forward on her seat, Sean has slumped back in his chair. His head tilted back so it's resting on the chair-back's top edge as he stares at the ceiling. His mind attempting to assimilate facts before Grace drops another grenade in this pulse beat of a paused breath. His expression goes from one of stunned awareness, to one of deep thought, and then surprised enlightenment at the moment she drops the third grenade of the morning. One rarely survives one grenade in the lap, much less three.

  "Sean, we have a son. Colton. You and I, and he doesn't know that. He believes his father was a pilot who died in the Korean War. Hence the name, Callahan. I thought it was a way to protect him."

  Sean raises his hands, palm out. "Whoa. Please. Wait a minute. Let me re-engage my brain-housing group." He pulls himself erect in the chair, stands, and begins pacing around the salon deck thinking not quite alou
d. Lips moving, however he's mute. His left hand moving as if making a point, or recounting time, be it minutes, hours, days or years. He stops, looks down at Grace who is no longer leaning forward, instead sitting erect on the edge of the couch. Her eyes have followed each step he's taken around the room and every move of his hand. Their eyes meet, lock, and focus on each other. Not glaring, noticeably soft but yet intense.

  He continues softly. "That night at your uncle's home. Before I left. My last weekend. My God, Grace, what have I done?"

  "We've done. It takes two, Sean." She says this with no humor; no sarcasm.

  "I know. I know, but what have I done to the boy? I have a son . . .I mean, we have a son. A son!"

  "Yes, we do. And a fine young man he is. However, I've--"

  As he sits next to Grace he interrupts, "My God, what have I done. I... I'm at a loss for words. No, I know what I must do."

  She shifts her position to face him, says, "Sssh. Stop. Don't torture yourself like this. Let me tell you what happened. What I did. Then we'll talk about the path we need to hike. Okay?"

  "I guess. But I never should have left the way I did. Panicked. Immature."

  "Sean. Just listen for a few minutes." She doesn't have to describe the events at her uncle's and aunt's home all those many years ago. He was there. How could he not remember that torrid evening? She describes the aftermath. Her pregnancy; the split up of her aunt and uncle; the uncle's disappearance, the aunt's death; and why she, Grace, is here and what happened since. She finishes by saying, "I made up the story about me having a husband, Colton a dad, so there would be no questions about Colt, or to him. And, there was a Callahan that died in a plane crash. Navy man. I used it. I came here because of my Uncle George, and because I knew no one here, and consequently no one would know me or have any reason to doubt me. And," she pauses collecting her thoughts. "You never told me where you were from. Just said it didn't matter . . . it only mattered where we were. Remember? All I knew was that my only relative lived here. I came."

  "Yes, I remember. And I remember I was enormously in love with you, and afraid I wouldn't make it back and didn't want to hurt anyone. But, my actions were inexcusable. Flat-ass inexcusable."

  "Sean, you were young. We were young. I made just as many, no, more, inexcusable mistakes than you. I could have found you. I should have tried, if for no other reason than to hold you accountable. But, I was young. In love with you. Thought you didn't love me and certainly not want a child." Grace pauses again, sighs, then says dejectedly, "And I panicked. Then the Irish in me, my temper, my stubborn streak kicked in, and I moved ahead at a full gallop. Into the valley, as Tennyson wrote."

  Sean slides closer, clasps her hand that rests on her lap. "You did what you thought best. What you had to do to protect yourself and the boy. And by all accounts, it looks as if you made a good decision. You're successful. Strong. Colton is a fine young man; intelligent; on the high road; has good direction; solid ethics; and he looks--"

  "Just like you. Hair, body, eyes and he's left-handed. Have you noticed?"

  "Well, I sure noticed the similarities. Hadn't noticed he's also left-handed. To be honest, nothing registered. Just thought it was strange. A freakish resemblance. Grace, where do we go from here? I think I know what I would like to do."

  She squeezes his hand. Then pulls hers away slowly, clasps her hands together in front of her lips, pausing. Wanting to be sure. Takes a deep breath. Releases it, takes his hand in hers. "Sean, first I believe we must, no, I must, tell Colt the truth. He deserves to know, and he deserves his father, not a myth, not a lie." Sean starts to say something, but Grace raises her hand to quiet him. He honors it. "He deserves to have a father, and share his life, and vice versa. And I hope he'll understand my reasons for doing what I did."

  Before she can quiet him, Sean says, "Don't you think we should tell him together?"

  "No. It's my responsibility to do so, at least initially. Then he should have an opportunity to hear you out, if he chooses to do so. Knowing him, he's going to be angry with me, but he's level-headed. I'll trust his character."

  "Okay, I'll go along with that. But--"

  "Good, then--"

  "Dadgumit, Grace. You don't let me get a word in edgewise."

  "I know. But, please hear me out."

  "Okay. Shoot."

  "I should, but then to be fair I'd have to shoot myself as well." Both emit a soft chuckle. She goes on. "I still have strong feelings for you, Sean. I always have. I've suppressed them all these years. At times that was difficult, but I was so busy making a career, raising and supporting my . . . our son, you were gone from my mind most of the time. When you arrived here, my feelings rose to the surface. I began to panic again. Then I decided the truth is the way. Important to Colt, and my feelings are important to me. I didn't, don't, want to panic again. I think I still love you. And, I need to know how you feel. And what we intend to do about this."

  "Okay, is it my turn?"

  "Yes, of course. I'm sorry."

  He smiles. "Don't be sorry. First and foremost, you did what you thought was right. I did nothing right. As I said, I agree, you should tell him. Then, if he wants, I'll talk with him. As for your feelings, I don't know where I am right now. I do know that I want to find out. Where they are . . . my feelings. You know I've been seeing Rachael. I need to know where her mind is . . . I don't believe she and I are moving in the same direction at this moment. Something is stirring inside her. This may complicate it, or complement what she seems to be dancing around."

  "It's strange and possibly not proper, but I have to say this. It might be important. When talking with Rachael I've sensed in our few brief conversations that she knew something or suspected something. I believe she sees the resemblance between you and Colt and believes it's more than a mere coincidence. A woman's intuition type of thing."

  "Ahhhh. Okay. Things are beginning to fit together. Geez, I truly am a fool. She's made some comments to me as well. Anyway, as I was saying, this is my home. I started anew here, and I'm loving every minute of it. I want to continue down that path . . . and see where it leads. Regardless, I also need to be a father to Colt, if he'll have me. If not, I need to do what I can or what he permits. Do you agree?"

  "Well, yes. I want to see you again. Just the two of us, in a more relaxed mode than this has been. So we can recoup the years we've lost and see where we are. I did love you so. Rachael is your business. As far as I'm concerned, she's competition, and any Irish gal worth her salt wouldn't back off . . . nor will I."

  "Grace, don't run over her for Pete's sake." He laughs. "She and I have had a good time, but I believe it was heading for a crash landing before this. It's probably not an issue. You and I are. The boy is. We need to find out where we are, and where Colt is going to be. He's important. Vitally so. Agree?"

  "Yes, especially so. But, so are we." She leans over, arms reaching out. They grasp each other, and hold tight. For minutes. Grace begins to weep, trembling, all that has been stored for years, capped, sealed, now flooding out. They continue to hold one another, saying nothing. Minutes pass in reality; in thought, years.

  Grace releases her grip. He does as well. She says, "Here's what I think we should do next. Let's have dinner. Tonight. Here, if you don't mind. Not out in public. I'll not say anything to Colt until we talk again. Have a firmer grasp on myself. Thought it out. Rehearsed even. I'll tell him later tonight, possibly tomorrow morning. Is that okay with you? Do you agree?"

  "Yes, but no later. And you're right, it'll give you more time, and me as well, as to think what to say, and how. It's important to get this right. What time tonight, and what do you like?"

  "Just about everything. But no boiled potatoes and cabbage. That part of my heritage I left far behind." They laugh. It feels good to both. The air seems lighter, the breeze calmer, and the sun brighter. Then a thought flashes across her mind. Her expression changes rapidly. The old man. He knows and hasn't said a word. Oh, my God.

&nb
sp; "Sean, there is something else you need to know. It's not good perhaps but not a disaster. "

  "Oh, Lord. There's more?"

  "Afraid so. The old man. Ponzio. He knows. My Uncle George told him, or told him enough years ago, that he has surmised that I'm not Holli Callahan, but Grace. The Grace. Your Grace. He admitted as much to me just weeks ago but swore he had told no one. Not even you. He said he'd given my Uncle George his word he wouldn't."

  Sean flushes a dark red, not bright, more scarlet. Jaws clamped shut with the wing nuts screwed tighter than a miser's pockets. Then calms slowly, his color pales to his normal tan, and he lets out a breath. Blows it bit by bit over his lips. "Ol' Mister Pete. I once told someone that he knew just about everyone and everything about the Cedars. It seems he does. But he told you the truth. He never has said one single word to me. Ever. Not a hint, although I'll need to think about that. It would be unlike him to not drop a hint of some type. Anyway, I'll handle that with him. It sure does explain his behavior around and towards, Rachael. Oh, well, like I say. I'll handle it . . . this evening."

  "Okay. I'm sorry. But, be easy on him. He cares for you so. And don't do anything to upset his and Anna's plans . . . do you think he might have told her?"

  "Hmmmm. Maybe. Yeah, he probably has. Well, I'll be easy as I can be on him, but he should have said something to me. As soon as he knew or suspected, or whatever. Now then. Dinner?"

  "I'll be here at eight, and I would bet, hungry . . . perhaps a splash of scotch on the rocks beforehand. A lot of ice; dash of scotch."

  "You've got it. Eight it is. I'll put something together. What are you going to tell Colt?"

  She laughs. Then more and louder. When she gets it under control, she sees that Sean is bewildered. She gasps, "You're going to love this. Colt has told me on at least two occasions that I should make a move on you."

  "What?"

  "That's a fact. So, I'll tell him the truth. I'm making a move on you. Hell, that might make the remaining chore easier . . . for him. Not for me. Anyway, that's it. He'll be pleased, at least for the short term."