Spellbound

by Jeanette Baker

  “Ward and I consulted attorneys who told us that our case would be difficult because, legally, by leaving Ireland, I’d abandoned my son. After several sessions I started to decline again. Ward got me to let go of that part of my life and concentrate on what I had. I won’t pretend I was the best mother in the world, Mollie. I don’t think a mother ever recovers after the loss of a child. But I tried.” Tears welled up and spilled over onto her cheeks. “I must have done something right because you certainly turned out beautifully.”

  “Oh, Mom.” Mollie’s eyes filled. She sat up and gathered her mother into her arms. “You were a great mother. You’ve always been there for me. You still are. I don’t know what I’d do without you. I need you.”

  Emma laughed tearfully, shifted out of Mollie’s embrace, and reached for a tissue. “You’re the most independent person I know. You never really need anyone. Still, it’s nice to hear you say it.” She blew her nose. “What do you have in mind for these grandchildren of mine?”

  Mollie settled back on the bed. “I’m not sure. How long do chicken pox last?”

  “About two weeks.”

  “School will be out in a few days. Together we can manage. That will relieve Sean. At least he won’t have the children to worry about.”

  Emma picked at the threads in the comforter. “You’ve grown fond of Sean, haven’t you?”

  Was it a trick of the light, or was Mollie’s face warmer than it had been a minute ago?

  “I’m not sure fond is the right word.”

  “What is the right word?”

  “Intrigued, maybe even fascinated.”

  “That can be dangerous.”

  “Maybe. I’d like to know him better, but he holds himself back. He doesn’t trust me, probably because of the children. I don’t think he believes that I would have come here anyway, even if Danny and Kerry were alive.”

  Emma sighed. “If we’re assigning blame, I’m more at fault than you are.”

  Mollie didn’t argue.

  “Not that it matters,” her mother continued. “If Sean O’Malley can’t see that you’re not a deceiver, he’s a very poor judge of character.” Emma clutched the comforter tightly. “Tell me you aren’t doing all of this because of some distorted sense of obligation.”

  A line formed between Mollie’s eyebrows. “Doing all of what?”

  Emma plowed ahead. “Becoming Kerry’s replacement, Patrick’s daughter, the children’s mother—” She stopped, her bottom lip caught between her teeth, not daring to go any farther.

  “Go on.”

  Emma had never heard that tone in Mollie’s voice before. “Just tell me it isn’t so.”

  “If you’re suggesting that my feelings for my nieces and nephew and my father stem from guilt, you’re wrong.”

  “Am I?”

  Mollie rubbed her elbows. “I’ve wanted to come here for years. You know that. I’ve always wanted to know my father.”

  “What happens at the end of the year?”

  “What has that got to do with anything?”

  “I think you already know, Mollie, but I’ll make it very clear. If you continue this way, how will they ever manage without you?”

  Stricken, Mollie stared at her mother.

  Emma relented. Taking her daughter’s hands in her own, she leaned forward and kissed her cheek. “Don’t worry, darling. I know you mean well. It’s not that bad. We’ll worry about it when it happens.”

  “I didn’t think,” Mollie said slowly. “What should I have done?”

  “People have a way of solving their own problems if you let them,” explained Emma. “Just as they learn to rely on those who step in to save them.”

  “I only wanted to help.”

  “And you have. The children love you.”

  “Is that so bad?”

  “Of course not. But you’re not their mother, Mollie.” Emma drew a deep breath. “You can’t make up for their lost parents. This isn’t your home. Your future lies elsewhere.”

  “I never wanted to replace Kerry. I wanted—” She stopped. How could she explain the sense of purpose she felt for the first time?

  “Yes?”

  Mollie shook her head. “Never mind. I don’t know what I wanted. I’m too tired to think.” She scooted off the bed. “Good night, Mom. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  Emma stared at the door long after Mollie had walked through it. Not so very long ago she’d been where Mollie was, young and lovely and more than a little fascinated with a blue-eyed, black-haired Irishman. She knew her daughter well enough to finish her sentences for her. Mollie, ever the perfectionist, wanted to do a great deal more than replace Kerry. She wanted to eclipse her. What Emma didn’t know was how far Mollie would go to do it.

  Sean O’Malley didn’t appear as Mollie claimed. In Emma’s experience, men with chins like his were rarely at a loss. She’d watched him carefully. He was unusual for an Irishman in that he didn’t gravitate to a pub when his world stood on end. Times had changed. Ireland had changed. Maybe the tradition of “a pint all around” was a thing of the past, even on Inishmore.

  But Sean was still an islander, even though he’d gone and come back again, even though his heart wasn’t set on the island. His ties were strong, strong like Patrick’s, strong enough to suck the life from a marriage, especially marriage to an outlander. She didn’t want that for Mollie.

  Emma reached for the light switch, blanketing the room in comfortable darkness. The island was a wonderful place to raise children but not so wonderful for children who would someday be adults. Her head spun. Maybe her fears were groundless. Mollie was sensible. It was only a year. Surely, after a year, she would see that she didn’t belong here.

  CHAPTER 16

  Alice Duncan shifted the load of books she carried higher on her hip and smiled at Mollie seated at the large desk in front of the classroom, if one could call it a classroom anymore. It looked nothing like the room where Mary Ryan had taught for so many years. Slowly, over the weeks, the young American had converted what had once been an austere environment into a cozy room adorned with children’s writing and artwork. The desks were arranged in groupings of four around an overhead projector, and in the corner, surrounded by well-stacked bookshelves, sat a rocking chair, huge overstuffed pillows and a carpet remnant, a “reading corner,” she called it. “Don’t look so distraught, Mollie. We’ve the chicken pox every year.”

  Mollie leaned her chin on her hand, a worried crease between her brows. “What if everyone gets them?”

  “Most likely we’ll have an outbreak in the lower levels. Many of the older children have already had them. I’ve heard it’s better to get them when you’re young.” Alice changed the subject. “How is Sean holding up?”

  “I don’t know. I haven’t seen him much. He comes to see the children and goes back again. Most of his time is spent at the beach.”

  Alice nodded. “In an emergency like this, every man is necessary, especially islanders like Sean. He knows the way of things. Is your mother watching the wee ones, then?”

  Mollie nodded.

  Alice sat down at a student desk. “How is Emma?”

  “Tired.”

  “With three children to manage, I would expect that.”

  “My mother is the only one who appears to be benefiting from the chicken pox,” Mollie observed.

  “How so?”

  “She’s busy and has no time to dwell on what she didn’t do for Danny.”

  Alice lowered her eyes. “And Patrick?” she asked casually. “Is he well?”

  “I suppose so. He keeps to himself.”

  Alice absently drummed her fingers on the desk. Her thoughts were no longer in the present. Mollie continued to speak, and Alice nodded but she wasn’t listening. She’d perfected the pretense long ago when the island women, missing their men and with too many dark hours ahead, would draw out their conversation long beyond what was necessary to explain their purpose.

  She was recalli
ng the day she first met the black-haired, clear-eyed Irishman called Patrick Tierney. Thirty-five years ago no would describe him as a man who kept to himself. A storyteller perhaps, a man fond of books and quoting the great ones, a hardworking man with a wry wit, a ready wink, and a way about him that drew people in. He’d certainly drawn her in.

  Alice had never considered herself impulsive or impressionable. She was sent to Inishmore because of her facility for the Irish language. Five teachers before her, young women from Dublin and Cork, had requested a transfer back home after only a year. The islanders wanted their children educated but maintained a suspicion of strangers and kept their distance. Loneliness and weather sent the teachers scurrying back to the mainland.

  Alice was different. In every season Inishmore spoke to her. She loved the power of winter, the slanting, needle-sharp rain, the howling wind, the soft gray days of autumn, and the crisp, cold nights when the mist rolled in, blurring edges and lights until the island looked like something out of a fairy tale. Spring was not to be missed with its burst of flowers, sea lions frolicking on the beaches, white sheets flapping in gentle winds, the smell of a different current, the flocks of birds resting on stained rocks. Fall was lovely as well. A season of silence was fall.

  The only season Alice could do without was summer. Summer, with its flocks of tourists, glutted roads, strange accents, crowds in the Superquinn, the restaurants, the lighthouse, strangers climbing the paths to the forts. Summer was the season Emma had first come to Inishmore. She was only a tourist, Alice told herself in the beginning, an American who would go home with the bellowing sound of the ferry’s final call. But she hadn’t. She’d stayed and married Patrick, bore him two children, and gave up to go home, leaving behind a man so changed no one recognized him.

  No, Alice would not soon forgive Emma Tierney, not even for Mollie. When she first learned that Emma’s daughter was coming to teach on Inishmore, she had been prepared to tolerate her, to help out as needed, and then to have as little to do with her as was possible for the only two teachers sharing a school on a small island.

  But Mollie had surprised her. Her sweetness was deceptive. She had her share of spirit and more than a hint of steel in that spine she unconsciously straightened when approached with a new challenge. Her voice was clear and lovely. Even from across the room it was pitched so everyone could hear, not at all loud but deliberate, with an emphasis on the sibilants. Everyone around her, including her students, was caught in its rhythms.

  She was amazingly wise for a young girl, innocent, shamelessly happy over small pleasures, nothing like her mother, who’d never smiled and rarely left her yard to meet her neighbors. Emma Tierney had lived on the island for nearly ten years and never really known anyone. Alice knew that islanders could be hard on strangers, especially those with contempt for their island, and Emma had that to spare. They never forgave her.

  Mollie was her own person, neither like Patrick nor like Emma. She was beautiful like her mother in that classic way that made a person stop on the street and surreptitiously stare after her, hoping to have an excuse to look her straight in the face. Alice had never coveted that kind of beauty. It created unnatural expectations and prevented kinship with other women. Classic beauty got in the way and had to be overcome, or others would never really see the woman beneath the face. She suspected that Emma and Mollie had come from a long line of classic beauties. But, with Mollie, one was left with more than the image of her face.

  Mollie was looking at her curiously. Alice nodded and smiled as if she’d been attending all along. She gathered her books together and stood. I’ll be leaving now. Don’t stay too late. I imagine your mother could use a bit of a breather with the children. If there’s anything I can do, let me know.”

  “Good night, Alice.” Mollie’s clear voice followed her out of the classroom into the bitter cold of the winter night.

  Alice trudged up the long gradual incline toward her cottage. At the fork in the road, she found herself hesitating. Finally she turned to the one on the left, the one leading away from home. The ascent was steeper than she was accustomed to, and at the end of nearly two miles she stood in front of Patrick’s red door, drawing in deep, restoring breaths. What was she thinking? Her stomach twisted. But she was here. Alice shifted the books back into her other arm and knocked. Minutes passed. She knocked again. Light glowed through the window curtains. She heard movement behind the door. Suddenly it opened, and Patrick filled the space of her vision. He looked surprised.

  “Alice.”

  “Good evening, Patrick.”

  He stared at her, a puzzled expression on his face. “Is anything wrong?”

  “No. May I come in?”

  “Of course.” He stepped aside, waited for her to walk past him into the kitchen, and closed the door behind her. “Please, sit down.” He pulled out a chair and relieved her of her load of books. “Do you have time for tea?” he asked politely. “I’ve lamb stew and a bit of salad.”

  “As a matter of fact, I do have time if you’re in the mood for company.”

  He set the books on the telephone stand near the door, straightened, and stared at her curiously. “Would you care for a glass of something?”

  She shook her head. “No, thank you.”

  His mouth twisted. “I won’t be having any if that’s what’s worrying you.”

  Her eyes, brown and honest, were level on his face. “I’ve never been one for spirits, Patrick. Surely you remember that.”

  The crease in his brow deepened. “Should I be remembering that, Alice?”

  The wave of red began at her chest and moved upward. She was a fool. She’d always been a fool when it came to Patrick Tierney. Even before Emma, he’d never noticed her, not the way she’d wanted him to. She was plain and he was not. He belonged with a woman like Emma. Like gravitated toward like. Patrick would never see her the way he’d seen Emma.

  Ironically it wasn’t Patrick Tierney’s handsome face that appealed to her, although she couldn’t imagine him any other way. Indeed, she would have preferred a package far less attractive. It would have fueled her hope. It was his rough edges that called out to her, along with his unusual compassion and that fragile vulnerability he carried close to the surface at all times.

  Alice was a nurturer, and never had there been a man so in need of nurturing. Emma’s defection had nearly destroyed him. Alice would have liked to have been the one to pick up the pieces. But as far as she knew, Patrick had shown no signs of needing another woman.

  She’d come to that conclusion long before Mollie came to the island. But now Emma had returned. Emma, lovely, confident Emma, a woman who’d never had an awkward moment in her life, who walked with a languid, slow-moving grace, a woman who conjured up images of tea-length gowns with cut-in sleeves, of sun-bronzed, flawless skin and golden hair falling across her shoulders, of crystal flutes, icy champagne and caviar. Emma, middle-aged and still beautiful. Emma, the mother of his children. Did a man ever get past the woman who’d given him children?

  She swallowed and smiled. “Normally I don’t mind being alone, but tonight I needed company. I’ll go if it’s an inconvenience. We’ve known each other for a long time.” She left out the unspoken words, that they were the only two single adults of an age on the island, that once, before Emma, they’d shared long conversations and other lonely evenings, sympathetic in their love for books and Irish writers.

  “It’s a pleasure to have you, Alice,” Patrick said formally. “I’m sorry I didn’t think of it myself.” He moved toward the bubbling pot on the stove, ladled out two servings, and carried them back to the table. He waited for her to take her first cautious bite. “How is my daughter?”

  Alice relaxed. “Mollie is lovely. Her only flaw is that she does too much.”

  Patrick nodded. “She puts me in mind of Marni.”

  Alice thought a minute. “In some ways,” she agreed, “but Marni’s circumstances are different. Her life is not at all as Moll
ie’s was.”

  She saw his mouth tighten and hurried to explain, “Mollie would have been the same no matter where she grew up, Patrick, and Marni, too. Some are born to the breed. Would you change either of them?”

  “It’s Danny’s life I would have changed.”

  His hand lay on the table. She reached out and covered it with her own. “I’m so sorry.”

  “I should have let him go with Emma.”

  “You thought you were doing the right thing at the time.”

  He shook his head. “I wanted to punish Emma. I thought she would come home after a time. In the end it was Danny I punished, and myself.”

  The tender lamb felt like steel wool in her mouth. She forced herself to chew and swallow.

  He smiled crookedly. “I’m blathering on tonight, Alice. I don’t know why. Perhaps because you’re here and I don’t often have the chance. Forgive me.”

  She would say it once and then move on. “Danny was another one who was born to the breed, Patrick. There was nothing you could have done to change that. Had Emma taken him, she would have had her share of difficulties as well.”

  “Danny would have been spared a father who closed down the pubs.”

  “I won’t defend you, but Danny wasn’t the only one. Many of my students have parents addled with the drink, but they go on, leave the island, find jobs. More than a few are successful. Danny did none of those things. He found Kerry and settled in to the life he wanted. She could have coped without him but not he without her. The children are more fortunate than most would have been.”

  Patrick lifted his head. “Sean?”

  Alice nodded. “And Mollie. I don’t know how they would have managed without Mollie.”

  He sighed. “I haven’t been much help to them, have I?”

  Warmed with stew and tea, Alice spoke her mind. “Not really.”

  She thought she’d offended him, but when she looked up from her plate, his eyes were on her and there was a definite twinkle in them.