by Luanne Rice
“Which would make you his mother.”
Bernie couldn’t answer. Her throat caught, remembering the shock of red hair on her son’s head, the sleepy softness of his blue eyes. She had had him at Gethsemani Hospital, staffed by Sisters of Notre Dame des Victoires, the order of nuns that she would soon join.
“I never knew why you used to cry at Christmas,” Regis said. “When we’d set up the crèche, and place the infant in his crib. Now I do.”
“Now you do,” Bernie whispered.
“People make mistakes,” Regis said. “And entire lives can change forever.”
Bernadette held her breath as Regis looked over at her.
“Aunt Bernie, help me,” Regis said, starting to sob.
“I’ll do anything,” Bernie said, reaching for her. “Tell me, my dearest girl…”
“I did something terrible,” Regis cried. “And, oh, Aunt Bernie, my father took the blame for it.”
Twenty-seven
Three men in a Pagani Zonda was a very tight fit, but Chris Kelly managed to drive himself and his two clients—for he had also agreed to represent Brendan McCarthy during questioning—the mile and a half from the Black Hall police station to Star of the Sea Academy.
John sat in the front seat, and Brendan was squeezed next to him, trying to avoid the gearshift. Chris’s driving was fast and painless. He was used to getting quickly from one courthouse to the next, and then back to his office, to maximize his potential. Today he had a late-afternoon golf game up in Avon, and he wanted to make his tee time.
“So,” Chris said, Persol sunglasses giving him more the look of a movie star in the South of France than a defense lawyer driving two clients along the sleepy Shore Road. “They’re not going to file charges.”
“That’s good,” John said. “Considering we didn’t do anything worth charging us for.”
Brendan’s silence made him wonder whether that was true; had the boy vandalized the Blue Grotto?
“The police aren’t taking your daughter’s disappearance seriously,” Chris said. “They say she’s ‘of age,’ and she left a note that seems very sound and well thought out. Does that worry you?”
“It’s better this way,” John said. “Her mother and I will find her ourselves.”
“Well, the way they were talking at first,” Chris said, “I was afraid the cops were going to give you grief about her disappearance. But the important thing is that you get her straightened out. You go the shrink route here, and I’ll make discreet inquiries across the way.”
“No, Chris,” John said.
“Shut up, Sullivan. I’m not ‘Chrysanthemum’ anymore, and you’re an idiot who knows shit about the law. If you’d called me when you should have, we wouldn’t be doing this now. I’m your lawyer, got it?”
John stared out the window, feeling so tense he might kick out the windshield. Only the presence of Brendan McCarthy, looking painfully uncomfortable to hear the lawyer talking this way, kept John in line.
“Cops love to throw their weight around,” Chris said. “I remember it from childhood, don’t you, Johnny? When Uncle Frank would show us his nightstick and blackjack, tell us how many skulls he’d cracked?”
“The Black Hall police were hardly rough on us,” John said.
“No,” Chris said. “But they wanted to draw a line in the sand. They have your court papers from Dublin, thanks to Ralph Drake. I’ve known him since law school, and he’s a jerk. Anyway, the cops know you went to prison for manslaughter, and they’re letting you know they know. That’s what this was all about, you realize.”
“And Brendan?” John asked, worried about the idea of another young person dragged into a police inquiry.
“Brendan has nothing to worry about,” Chris said confidently. “They call you again, Brendan, you tell them to call your lawyer.”
“I can’t really afford a lawyer,” Brendan said. “But thank you for what you did today. I’ll pay you when I can….”
“Hah,” Chris said, turning off onto Old Shore Road. “No need. You’re practically family.”
“Family? We’ve never even met,” Brendan said, his eyes shining.
Chris glanced over. “True, but when John called me, he said you’re a friend of Agnes’s. That makes you family in my book.”
“I thought maybe…well, that you meant that you think we could be related,” Brendan said.
John could feel nervousness pouring off the young man—he was surprised Chris hadn’t sensed it. Brendan was practically shaking.
“Well,” Chris said, “it’s true that you have a lot of Kelly to you—those killer blue eyes, and a fighting spirit. And it’s also true that if you’re an Irish Catholic Democrat in this state, the chances are good we’re related.”
“That’s all?” Brendan asked, letting the question hang.
Chris chuckled. “That’s all, kid. Of course, anything’s possible.”
He downshifted, and the car’s roar turned into a throaty purr. Turning in through the stone gates of Star of the Sea, John felt a jolt. He was coming home, to go away. His experience at the police station had convinced him, more than ever, that he had to leave.
The police had drawn a line in the sand, but that was nothing compared to the one John had drawn for himself. He no longer knew what the borders of his life should be. He loved Honor and the girls with the force of his soul, but every move he made seemed to hurt them. He had taught his daughters long ago that the way to escape the boundaries of life was to go as far out on the edge as you could. And Regis, his firstborn, of all the girls had made that philosophy her own.
He just hoped she wasn’t so far out that she couldn’t be found and brought back. He’d find her. He’d go to Devil’s Hole, climb the cliff, and see if she was hiding out there. He’d go anywhere it took to find her. And then, once she was safely back at home, he’d leave. He never wanted to see pain in Honor’s face again—not like he’d seen last night. He had caused enough of that to last a lifetime.
“Well, well,” Chris said, driving through the vineyard. “This sure brings back memories. Remember when we were kids down here, John?”
“I could never forget,” John said quietly, gazing out the car window at every inch of this land that he held so dear.
“Brendan, John’s great-grandfather built all these walls that you see. He was a stonemason, straight off the boat from Ireland, an incredibly strong and gifted man,” Chris said.
“And Chris’s great-grandfather owned the house and the land,” John said. “He was a true philanthropist; generous to everyone he came into contact with.”
“My great-great grandfather,” Brendan said quietly.
John heard him, but Chris wasn’t sure.
“What did you say?” Chris asked, laughing.
“Here we are,” Brendan said as the car purred to a stop in front of the main Academy building, the stone mansion that had once belonged to Francis X. Kelly, right in front of Sister Bernadette Ignatius—standing on the sidewalk, arm around her eldest niece. Agnes and Cece were pressed close, and Sisela was sitting at their feet.
“Regis!” John said, jumping out of the car.
“Dad!” she cried out, leaving Bernie’s side.
“Sweetheart!” he managed to get out, folding her in his arms. “Are you all right?”
“Dad, I am,” she said. “For the first time in a long time…”
“Where were you?” he asked, holding her out at arm’s length. “Why did you run away?”
“She didn’t run too far, as it turns out,” Bernie said. “She was waiting for me in the library.”
“Is that true?” John asked.
Regis nodded. “I couldn’t go too far,” she said. “Because I had to talk to you. Mom, too, but you first.”
“Should I stick around?” Chris asked John. “I’ll cancel my golf game,” the lawyer said.
John shot him a grateful look and nodded.
“Hello, Chris,” Bernie said. “Make yourself at home. You know y
our way around.”
“I do indeed, Sister.”
“Let’s talk,” John said to Regis. Brendan had gone to hug Agnes, whisper a few words to her. Agnes listened, kissed his cheek, and grabbed Cece’s hand. They gave their sister a quick hug and went off toward the beach.
Then John saw Brendan turn his gaze toward Bernie. As John walked away with his daughter, he left them standing together. His heart went out to them both, but for now, all his attention was on Regis. She needed him more than ever. And whatever she had to tell him, he had a few things to say to her, too.
Regis’s heart soared, and her stomach sank. Talking with her father, really talking—this was what she had dreamed of and dreaded all these last nights. They walked across the grounds, through the vineyard, already spicy with the fragrance of late-summer grapes.
Someday soon she would take him to Devil’s Hole, the scariest place she’d ever been before Ballincastle. She’d show him how brave she was, how close she could stand to the edge—how she had learned from him how to trust her instincts and strengths. But right now there was somewhere closer that seemed an even better place to have this talk, and they both knew what it was.
They started up the hill, toward the long stone wall. From here it looked almost like a backbone, the spine of the Academy property, strong and structural, as if the land couldn’t exist without it. Regis ran her hand along the top stones of the wall as they walked beside it; she remembered doing that when she was very small, maybe five years old. The stones felt warm from the sun’s heat.
When they reached the spot where he had found the box, they both stopped at the same time.
“Dad, I have something to tell you.”
“I know,” he said. “So have I.”
“It’s about Ballincastle, Dad.”
“Regis…”
“You have to listen to me.”
“There’s nothing left to say.”
The look on his face was so profoundly troubled, for a minute she wanted to back down, let the whole thing rest. But she had done that for too long, and she knew she had to tell him what she knew.
“I remember, Dad,” she said.
“What do you think you remember now,” he asked carefully, “that could possibly be new? It’s over, Regis.”
“That’s the thing,” she said. “I thought memories were solid—that once you had them, they lasted forever. But ever since that day on the cliff, I haven’t trusted my memories.” Blinking into the late-day sun, she looked up at him.
He just stared down at her with the saddest eyes, as if he wished he could prevent her from going through this. But she had started, and she knew she had to continue.
“At first there was nothing.” She paused, staring across the fields to the calm and sparkling water. “Just blackness. That’s all I could see, just as if it were a curtain. Thick and dark. For such a long time, that was all I remembered from that day.”
“Let it be, Regis,” John said, begging her.
She shook her head. “Dad, listen. After a while, I remembered hearing him yelling for you to pay him more money, and to tell him where the gold was buried—pirate gold. You and he were fighting, and you told him you’d already paid him what you owed him, you’d warned him about this…. I heard myself screaming, and I tried to pull him off you. He cracked me with his elbow—it hurt so much, and I went flying. Dad, you went crazy when you saw that. You were punching him so hard—I could hear your fists pounding his head. And then he was down on the ground, bleeding, and you were hugging me, telling me everything would be okay.”
“That’s what happened,” her father said, resolute.
“But not all,” Regis said.
“Sweetheart, let it stay there.”
“No, Dad. Listen. I remember more now…” She closed her eyes tight. What was a memory, what was a fear, what was a scrap of nightmare? Voices, feelings, a shove, stepping away…
“None of it changes what happened,” her father said. “I crossed paths with the wrong person. I did that too often back then…I never should have hired him. I paid him once, and then I couldn’t get rid of him. Then I made the mistake of threatening him in a crowded bar.”
“I know.”
“People say things they don’t mean,” John said. “I was just so angry at what he’d already done to my sculpture. I should have let it go, called the police. But I didn’t, and I paid for it.”
Regis closed her eyes tight again—tighter. A flash of conversation between her parents, just before her father had left the house in the storm. Her father talking about the strange man who had helped him with his sculpture for a few days, but that he’d fired him. The man had sounded scary, and Regis had wanted to go after her father, to help him.
She pictured Gregory White that day in the rain, when he’d attacked her—tall, thin, with curly, shaggy brown hair and piercing green eyes. And then, after her father had fought him, the man lying on the wet ground, blood pouring from his head.
Memories were like rocks at low tide: they were there, visible, obvious. But the first wave came in, sliding over them, making the rockweed swish in the rising water, undulating and advancing and receding, and then the second wave, a little higher, and then the third: until you weren’t sure there were rocks underneath the water at all.
Her father was staring at her now, his eyes full of fear for what she would say next.
“I killed him, Dad,” she said.
“Regis, no…”
Her father sat on the wall, shaking his head, as if he could make the past go away, send her memories back into the blackness. She welled up, hating what had happened, feeling the dread all over again.
“It was after you hit him,” she said. “And he was down on the ground.”
“Honey,” her father said, pleading now. “All this time. You’ve kept it buried, and for a good reason. Please, Regis…”
“Your sculpture was in pieces. You thought you’d knocked him out, and after you saw I was okay, you turned to look at what he’d done. Rocks, driftwood, everything had been dislodged, just lying there on the ground.”
“God, Regis,” John said. “Why did I even care about that right then? I should have just gotten you out of there.”
“You were stunned at what he’d done. All your work, torn down. You were standing right at the edge of the cliff, gathering up the stuff he’d kicked over there. I guess he’d planned to pitch it off.”
“I should have taken you right home,” John said.
“But Greg White wasn’t knocked out—you had your back turned, he stood up, and picked up a rock—one of the big ones he had pulled down from your sculpture. He was going to hit you with it,” Regis said, feeling as frantic as if it were happening all over. “And I couldn’t let him. He was too big for me to fight, or to pull back from you—and you were right at the edge of the cliff, and I thought he was going to hit you and push you off.”
She stared down at the stone wall, could nearly see the rock in Greg White’s hands. He’d lifted it high over his head, ready to smash it down on her father’s skull.
“And I started screaming, ‘Don’t hurt my father!’ The rain was just pouring, and the wind howling—I felt as if the words were caught in my throat. I was trying to warn you, and stop him, but he just kept going…”
“Sweetheart, no.”
“So I picked up a piece of driftwood…”
She felt as if she was in a trance. Her father held her hand, and she knew she was safe now, and didn’t pull away. She wondered if this was what it was like to be hypnotized. The breeze blew softly, the opposite of the wind howling at Ballincastle; she felt it in her hair. She felt so alive now, so alert to everything around them. Her father’s breath sounded steady and tense, and tears ran down his cheeks.
“I saw him start to turn around,” she said. “He was between me and you. I looked down, and the cliff just dropped away.”
“Regis,” her father said, and his eyes looked scared. Regis’s heart
opened up; if only he knew how she needed this.
“You still didn’t hear. That screaming wind…It was louder than my voice. I couldn’t stop him any other way, Dad.”
Regis took a breath, then looked her father straight in the eye.
“He had this look on his face,” Regis said. “He glanced at me, then back at you. He didn’t think I’d do it. He raised the rock, to smash it down on your—”
Her father listened, right there with her.
“And I raised the driftwood branch. I screamed, ‘Don’t hurt my father,’” Regis said, the memory flooding back. “I hit him as hard as I could. Dad, the way it felt in my hand when it smashed…his skull.”
“Regis,” he said, reaching for her, but she wouldn’t let him hold her yet.
“We all went over,” she said. “I’d charged him so hard. If there hadn’t been that little ledge beneath the cliff, we’d all have died. Instead…Oh, Dad. When I looked at his face, and he was still alive. Blood just pouring out of his head; running into his eyes, and he looked at me, so shocked. And then he died!”
Her mind was suddenly so clear, and she started to cry. She remembered how scared she had been—not for herself, but because she had thought someone was about to kill her father.
“Sweetheart,” her father broke down, holding her. “You saved my life.”
“Why couldn’t you have told the gardai?” Regis asked, weeping. “Why did you have to take the blame for something I did?”
“Because I had threatened to kill him,” John said. “People heard me. White and I had history with each other.”
“But if you said I was just trying to protect you!”
“Regis, you’re my daughter. All I could think of was keeping you out of it. I had gotten us into the situation. When the gardai first arrived, I told them I was trying to protect you—my little daughter. Do you think they would have believed me if I’d said it was the other way around?”
“But you must have thought,” Regis cried, gulping air, “that I let you go to jail!”
“I didn’t think that at all,” her father said.
“Then why didn’t you let me testify?” she asked.
“Regis, you didn’t remember. Your mother told me, and I was so grateful. I didn’t want you to have these memories….”