Sandcastles

by Luanne Rice

“But she wanted to dig the ship timbers out of the sand,” Cece giggled.

  “Yes, she did,” John said. “So we all tried to—your mother, Aunt Bernie, Tom, and I. We made it our project, and we met there the next day, and the day after that.”

  “And you took a lot of pictures,” Agnes said. She gestured, and Honor looked—two were framed, hanging over the sideboard. No one captured lost possibilities like John: jagged timbers sticking out of the sand, dark against the moonlit sea. Honor stared at the pictures, tears scalding her eyes.

  “We had lots of projects over the years,” John said. “That was just the first one.”

  “You worked together so much,” Agnes said. “Mom would set up her easel in the fields where you were building your installations. You inspired each other.”

  “We did,” John said. “At least, she inspired me.”

  The girls looked at Honor, but she couldn’t speak. She stared at John’s pictures of the shipwreck. They inspired her even now; she felt alive, energized. These last weeks she had rediscovered the fire in her art, the only thing on earth that allowed her to express the wild emotions inside.

  “The point is, your father and I knew each other well,” Honor finally said. “We gave ourselves lots of time before we got engaged. And even then, we waited for a year before we got married.”

  “And you’re still together,” Regis said, sounding slightly manic. Had she drunk too much wine? “Let’s have another toast! Everyone, come on…wow, I wish Peter were here for this…”

  “Regis,” Honor said warningly.

  “Here’s to us all being together,” Regis said, raising her glass, clinking with everyone.

  “Together,” her sisters said; John and Honor looked into each other’s eyes, but were silent.

  “Why won’t you say it?” Regis asked, looking directly at Honor.

  “Regis, stop,” Honor said.

  “It’s my fault, isn’t it?” she asked. “He went to prison because of me, and now you can’t let him back in…I ruined everything.”

  “That’s not true,” John said quickly. “I went to prison because of my own actions. I’ve been away for a long time, Regis. Things don’t just get back to normal overnight.”

  “But why not?” Regis asked. “We’re a family, aren’t we? I want you to come home. Haven’t you been punished enough?”

  “My punishment had nothing to do with you or your mother or sisters,” he said. “Do you hear me? Nothing at all. Figuring things out will take time. Now let’s have dinner, Regis. It’s a beautiful night, and I’m so glad to be here. Please, let’s just eat, okay?”

  “I’m not hungry,” Regis said, standing up, running out of the room in tears.

  Honor struggled to stay calm. She stood up and went after Regis, leaving everyone silent at the table. Walking down the hall, she could hear muffled sobs coming from the girls’ room. She knocked and went in. Regis lay facedown on the bed, crying into her pillow.

  “You heard your father,” she said. “We have to give him time.”

  “There’s already been too much time,” Regis cried.

  “Honey…”

  “You don’t want him back,” Regis said. “I can tell. You only had him for dinner tonight because of us…because we wanted it so badly.”

  Honor sat on the edge of the bed, knowing that Regis was partly right. The letter Bernie had given her was the other reason she had agreed to this night. Her body ached with disappointment and grief. This wasn’t how she had thought her life would be—welcoming John home from prison, trying to console her daughter about things none of them really understood.

  Car tires crunched on the gravel outside, and headlights raked the ceiling. Honor craned her neck to see.

  “It’s Peter,” she said.

  “Tell him I’ll be right out,” Regis said.

  Honor leaned down, hugged her. Regis’s body was tense, her arms wrapped around the pillow.

  There was something about having John home that made all his years away seem like forever—they’d never get back what was lost. And Honor had turned so far away from him—she didn’t know whether she could let him in again. She kissed the back of Regis’s head, then left the room and walked down the hall.

  Back in the kitchen, with candlelight illuminating the girls’ banners and streamers, Honor swallowed hard. She saw Peter approaching the screen door, and walked over to open it for him.

  “Hi, Peter,” she said.

  “I came to see Regis,” he said.

  “She’ll be out in a minute,” Honor said, gesturing toward the table. “Come sit with us, and meet her father. John, this is Regis’s fiancé, Peter Drake.”

  “I’m glad to meet you, Peter,” John said, shaking the young man’s hand.

  “You too,” he said. His gaze slid down the hall, toward Regis’s door. Then he looked at Agnes and Cece, and they both smiled.

  “So,” John said, regarding Peter with an admirably open gaze. Whatever his private feelings about meeting the betrothed of his twenty-year-old daughter after the last scene, he was revealing nothing.

  Peter smiled confidently. He pulled out the chair beside the one where Regis had been sitting, and sat down. Honor passed him a plate, and he helped himself to fish and corn. “Isn’t Regis eating?” he asked, looking around.

  “I guess not,” Agnes said. And no one else did, either—except Peter, who spread butter on his corn and ate it. Probably to be polite, Agnes and Cece took a few small bites. John and Honor sat still, unable to touch anything.

  Honor stared at John, and he tried to smile. It didn’t work. They were doing this for the girls. Her heart was beating so hard, she was sure everyone could hear. Facing her husband down the table, she saw the questions in his eyes. He wasn’t looking for reassurance; she saw him wondering whether he should leave.

  Honor wanted to tell him to stay. She mouthed the word. He nodded slightly.

  “Aren’t you having any?” Peter asked John, indicating the platter of corn.

  “Not right now,” John said.

  “Too bad; it’s good,” Peter said. “Butter-and-sugar is the best. Connecticut really does corn right.”

  “I’ve always thought so,” John said.

  “Guess you missed it while you were away.”

  Agnes actually gasped, and Cece just frowned. To Honor, it felt like a slap across the face—and she was surprised by the powerful urge she felt to leap to John’s defense. But John just seemed to take the statement in, roll it around his mind, and feel no particular need to react. Still, Honor knew him well enough to see that Peter’s words had done their work; she saw the dangerous glint in his eyes.

  “Peter,” John said, “what are your intentions?”

  “About what?”

  “My daughter Regis.”

  “Well, to marry her,” Peter said confidently.

  “You’re in college, right?”

  “Yes,” he said. “I go to Tufts. Well, I have to finish my education—we both do. We’re not going to drop out or anything.”

  “That’s good. But what will you do for work?” John asked.

  “I work some afternoons at the golf course.”

  “That’s a summer job. Who’s going to pay the rent?”

  Honor watched Peter’s gaze falter, and she felt a delicious rush of vindication. Hearing John confront him so matter-of-factly sent shivers down her spine.

  “The rent?” Peter asked. “Our parents.” He tried a laugh on for size, but when he caught John’s reaction—pure seriousness—he stopped.

  “That’s how it works?” John asked.

  “My parents give me a hard time, but they’ll come through,” Peter said. “I just assumed you and Mrs. Sullivan would want to help out…”

  “Where I come from,” John said, “when you ask someone to marry you, you’re old enough to plan for your future, and take responsibility. It’s just one measure of how much you love each other.”

  “Hmm,” Peter said, as if he
had already judged John’s way of loving someone, found it wanting. He used his napkin to wipe his mouth, glanced at his watch, and then down the hall toward Regis’s closed door.

  “Do you have plans for tonight, Peter?” Honor asked.

  “Actually, yes. We’re going to movies on the beach. We should head out soon—they start at dark…”

  “Well, you might be out of luck,” Agnes said. “I have the feeling she’s in for the night.”

  “No, I’m sure she’ll want to come,” Peter said, pushing back his chair, looking at Honor and not at John. “Could you tell her I’m here?”

  “She knows,” Honor said.

  “I’ll get her,” Cece said, but Agnes was already on the way to their room.

  “I’ll wait outside,” Peter said.

  With Peter standing just outside the door, waiting, Honor was alone with John at the table. His eyes were still sparkling with mischief.

  “You never would have gotten away with talking to him like that,” she said in a near whisper, “if Regis had been there.”

  “I am completely aware of that,” John said. “Is she okay?”

  “She’s upset.”

  He got up and moved down the table to sit next to her, in the chair Regis had abandoned. “I know…is there anything I can do?”

  “She’s very upset that you and I aren’t ‘together’ the way she wishes we were.”

  “Do you want me to leave?”

  Honor shook her head. She could see how wounded he was, by all of it. “I’m sorry,” she said.

  “You don’t have to be sorry,” he said, taking her hand. She let him hold it, afraid to look into his eyes, afraid he’d see something in hers she didn’t want him to know.

  “John,” she said.

  “This is driving me crazy,” he said. “To be in this house again, with you and the girls—but to know we’re not together. I’m their father, and I feel I barely know them anymore. They’ve grown up while I was gone!”

  “I know,” she said, aching and empty.

  “And to be sitting here with you,” he said. “If only you knew how I’ve dreamed of this, every single night—I thought if I could look you in the eye, sit beside you and hold your hand…Jesus, Honor, I thought our love would still be there.”

  Honor just sat there, staring at their two hands. She wanted to grab him, and she wanted to push him away.

  “Let’s not do this now,” she said. “I wanted tonight to be nice for the girls—and for you.”

  “I swear, I don’t know if I can take it,” he said. “Waiting for you to make up your mind about me. It’s going to happen, though.”

  “What?” she whispered as he squeezed her hand.

  “Regis will get her wish. We’re going to be together.”

  “John,” Honor said, trying to pull her hand away. He wouldn’t let her, and when she looked up, she saw fire in his eyes.

  “I promise you, Honor. We are.”

  Honor couldn’t reply. She didn’t know what she hoped for. Her heart felt pulled in so many directions, and she felt both exhausted and exhilarated.

  “I’m actually glad he stopped by,” John said, lowering his voice. “Now I know what we’re up against. Why didn’t you tell me he’s an asshole?”

  “She’s so in love with him…”

  “He’s a complete…” John began, but just then Regis rushed past, head down, and banged out the screen door, into Peter’s arms. She had stopped crying, but cleaved against his body and rocked with him back and forth, Peter saying something into her ear while glaring at John triumphantly through the screen, across the top of her head.

  “I don’t think I can go tonight,” they heard Regis say. “Next time, though…”

  “C’mon,” Peter said clearly. “You’ll feel better if you get out of here.”

  Honor felt her blood boiling, but watched John stay calm and if not serene, at least not explosive. She saw the heat in his eyes—where it always was. Anger, rage, sorrow, joy, passion—he could never hide any of it if you knew where to look. But when Regis and Peter stepped back inside, all they saw was John smiling.

  “So, you met,” Regis said, looking from Peter to her father.

  “We did indeed,” John said.

  “It was good to meet you,” Peter said.

  “Likewise, Peter.”

  Peter stared at John, still holding Regis’s hand. “You know, I would have asked you for her hand in marriage,” he said. “If you’d been here.”

  “Peter!” Regis exclaimed.

  “It’s never too late,” John said.

  “Well, I already asked Mrs. Sullivan,” Peter said. “And she gave us her blessing.”

  “Then consider it done,” John said.

  “Thanks, Dad,” Regis said, throwing her arms around his neck. Honor locked gazes with him. She saw the fighting spirit that she had always loved so much, that prison hadn’t quenched, and that Peter Drake had just reignited. “Maybe I’ll go to movies on the beach with Peter after all.”

  “Hubbard’s Point beach movies,” John said, looking at Honor.

  “Your father and I used to go,” Honor said, remembering.

  “You will again,” Regis said dangerously.

  And she left with her fiancé, leaving John and Honor standing together, watching them go. As Peter’s car drove out the driveway Honor stared at John. They didn’t move. They were frozen in the moment, and if Honor closed her eyes, for just that second, she could swear John had never been gone, had been there all this time.

  Nineteen

  Honor was in her studio, painting with white heat. This new phase had started three nights ago, after John left the house, and hadn’t let up since. Her studio was a wreck, filled with discarded sketches, palettes covered with mixed colors, canvases leaning against the wall. Having completed the painting of John carrying his daughter, she had started something new.

  She pulled out a box of photos long stowed away. John had never been able to take the final photos he usually made of his sculptures; but here were pictures he had taken of the land in Ballincastle, steps he’d taken before starting to build his installation there. She also found her sketchbook from that trip, and leafed through studies she’d made that first day, trying to capture the dangerous atmosphere—the ruined castle with the sculpture balancing on the cliff’s edge.

  Going through the box, she’d found the newspaper clippings from the West Cork papers. She had had plenty of time to read them, waiting at St. Finan’s Hospital for Regis to get better. Regis had been in complete shock—unable to speak or feed herself. By then John had been taken into custody, and Honor had read the news accounts for details of what had actually happened.

  The nurses had brought her tea, oozing sympathy for the woman whose husband had done such a thing. The papers said John had delivered a terrible beating; the evidence showed that the fight had moved across the cliff edge, with White losing a large amount of blood in two distinct spots. Honor overheard the nurses whispering, “Her husband beat his brains out.”

  Honor had felt sick. They didn’t know the whole story. Why wouldn’t John let his lawyers mount a case? Yes, he had admitted to killing Greg White, but wasn’t he justified in defending himself, defending Regis? He refused to say a word about it, entering a guilty plea at Criminal Court in Cork City.

  By the time Regis was well enough for Honor to leave the hospital, it was all over. Honor rushed to Cork, found out that John was facing six years in prison. “Think about the girls!” she’d cried, and he had just shaken his head, hardly able to look at her, saying, “That’s who I am thinking of, Honor. This way Regis won’t have to testify.”

  She had wept at his iron gaze, at his stubborness and passion and anger now turned into something immovable and terrible that would bludgeon their family to death just as it had killed the man who had dared to attack it. She watched the guards lead him back to his cell, knowing that life as they’d known it was over. She would never forgive him for thr
owing it all away. All those emotions were swirling around her now as she slashed at the canvas, painting the scene of her family’s destruction: Ballincastle, Ireland. As Honor painted the ruined castle, she thought of her ruined family, her unbending husband, as hard in his way as the rocks that were his art, and the tears rolled down her cheeks.

  Sleeves rolled up, covered with sweat and paint, she felt as if she were purging something deep inside. She had rediscovered painting as her greatest release, and she needed it now more than ever. Drained from the summer heat, she cleaned her brushes, went into the kitchen for a glass of iced tea.

  Sipping the cool drink, she sat at the kitchen table. The girls were all off, busy doing their things. Regis was working in the library, Agnes was on cleanup duty in the convent, and Cece was taking a bike ride.

  John’s flowers stood in a vase in the middle of the table; a few blue petals had fallen, along with a shower of golden pollen. She stared at the circle of gold dust radiating from the glass and couldn’t bring herself to wipe it up—it seemed as beautiful as the flowers themselves. Sometimes what lasted in life was no more resonant than the parts that fell away. The thought made her reach into her writing desk drawer for the letter Bernie had brought her.

  Bernie had been wise, doing so. She was throwing Honor’s own words right back at her; for Honor had written the letter to Bernie years ago, back when her best friend, the sister of the man she loved, was in a place of sorrow every bit as painful as the one in which Honor found herself now. The picture on the envelope, however, had been drawn by Bernie, sometime after receiving the letter. It showed a sea monster, the Kelly family crest. Staring at it, Honor knew that Bernie had drawn it to claim the connection they all had to each other.

  In Honor’s family, the past wasn’t talked about much. Her grandparents and parents had stressed how lucky they all were that their forebears had come to America.

  “Don’t look back” had been her father’s motto. Whatever suffering had led their ancestors to leave Ireland was better left unexamined.

  So when Honor had met John, Bernie, and Tom, it had felt like a true awakening—the way they roamed these hills, letting history be part of their lives.

  “I’m going to go to Ireland. And I’m taking you with me, Bernie,” Tom had said one day about a year after they had found the box, as they all walked along the wall.