Nan suppressed a grin. “If you don’t need me—”
“Why would I be needing you? You bring lives into this world, not escort them into the next. That’s my job.”
“Yes, Father. I suppose that’s true.”
“There is no supposing,” Father Albert said. “You and I play our God-given roles, but the start of life and its end is not up to us.”
Ah, but wasn’t that the worst thing Father Albert could have said? “What if it’s not up to Him? What if someone takes another’s life? Or their own?”
“A mortal sin, but that’s a discussion for another time, Nan O’Neil. Now, be on your way. And God bless you, child.”
“Thanks, Father.”
She began down the brick walkway.
“And Nan,” Father Albert called.
“Yes?” she answered, looking back.
“You haven’t been to Mass the last two Sundays, nor have I heard your confession in a month.”
“Sorry, Father. Duties have called me elsewhere.”
“See that you come to church this Sunday. If you don’t, I fear for your immortal soul.”
“I will.” She, too, feared for her soul.
She raced home, trying to beat the sunrise. The moonlight had succumbed to storm clouds that scurried in from the sea. When she rounded the lane to her house, the cottage stood a black shadow against the dull morning light.
Inside, it was cold; the turf fire had died.
She discarded her coat and medical bag before peeking into the bedroom. Dutch wasn’t there, but he’d made the bed. The bathroom door was open, the room empty.
Her heart pounded. Had he left without saying good-bye? Or maybe Finn had captured him? Could Dutch have decided to take his chances on foot?
Her last hope was the loft.
Last hope? She must be daft. It’d be better if he’d hightailed it out of there, as he had promised six nights ago that he would.
She climbed the stairs, an oil lamp casting a yellow glow of light. At the top, she froze, from both relief and dread. Dutch lay on the twin bed. His heavy breathing spoke of a deep sleep.
He was still here. But he should have stayed downstairs, close to the hiding place. She’d take it up with him tomorrow. Or rather, later this morning.
The floor creaked. She turned toward the noise and held the lantern high. The light cascaded over Teddy’s desk. The unfinished manuscript sat in the exact spot Teddy had placed it the day he died.
She stepped lightly toward the desk and ran a finger over the typed words as she set the lamp next to the stack of papers. Slumping onto the chair, she stared at the stack of poems. His poems. Why had his work careered into dark, hateful places? She knew his daggers were aimed at her. Teddy must have really come to despise her, but to this day, she didn’t understand why. She had been a good, obedient wife. She’d never betrayed him. Tears stung behind her eyes. These days, she realized, there always seemed to be a flood waiting to burst forth.
She felt sorrow for Teddy, and worry for Kelly, whom she’d also failed. Sadness for Mr. Carlow.
She looked across to the bed. Anxiety for Dutch.
She could no longer bear the load. She tried to stifle the sobs, but then she surrendered, burying her face in her hands.
CHAPTER 20
Dutch woke to the sound of Nan’s sobbing. She was so sad and beautiful in the lamplight, sitting at the writing desk. The whitewashed walls, pink and shadowy, faded into corners of darkness. Her reflection in the window seemed almost ghostlike.
He watched as she wiped her cheeks and combed her fingers through her hair, tears on her face glistening in the subdued light. She straightened the stack of papers on the desk, then slowed until she stopped moving. Her sobs wafted softly through the room and seemed to be absorbed into the thatched ceiling.
His heart ached for her. Those awful poems her late husband had penned would make anyone cry. She ought to burn them.
He sat up. “Are you okay?”
She swiveled around in the chair to face him. “Did I wake you?”
“No. I mean, yes.” He threw off the heavy blanket he’d lain under, and it fell to the wide-planked wood floor. Mr. Dee jumped from the end of the bed and pranced toward Nan, then leapt onto her lap.
“I’m fine. It’s been a rough night.” She wiped the corners of her eyes. “You ought to be downstairs, closer to the hiding place.”
He thought about telling her some story or another but instead admitted, “I was looking for my gun.”
“You won’t find it up here.”
“I figured that out.” He put on his shoes and approached her, his footsteps sounding like thunder on the bare wood floor.
“I’m good to my word. You’ll get it when you’re on your way. You might as well stop looking.”
“I’m sure you’re right. I have a feeling you’re a woman who knows how to hide things.”
“Things? Like yourself?”
“Yeah. I guess.”
“Sorry I woke you.” The cat jumped from her lap and strutted down the stairs.
“It’s okay.” He pulled up a cane-back chair and sat beside her. “How is Kelly? The baby?”
“She’s in the hands of the Lord.” Her voice reached deep inside him. Again, death, hand in glove with life.
He touched her knee. “I’m sorry. She died?”
Nan rested her hand on his, and heat radiated up his arm. There was a tingling sensation across his jaw. “No. I didn’t mean that. She’s at hospital with Dr. Mann, but she’s in a bad way.”
“What happened?”
Her hand slid away from his, but the sensation of her touch lingered.
“I’m not sure. I’ve asked myself that question a hundred times. Gone over every detail. Everything was fine after the birth, but last night she started bleeding and I couldn’t stop it. I pray Dr. Mann can save her.”
“This must be very difficult for you. How’s the baby? Her husband?”
“The baby is grand. Paul Halpin’s heart is breaking. Worse than the first time.”
“First time?”
“His first wife died suddenly. One minute she was making tea; the next, she was gone.”
“A double dose of hard.”
“There’s more. Mr. Carlow, a local farmer, I found him dead in his cart tonight.”
“Oh, Nan. I’m sorry.” No wonder she was crying. It wasn’t merely her husband’s morbid poetry. “Does his family know?”
“Mr. Carlow has no family. He’s the last of his tribe. A bachelor.”
The thought stung. Dutch had family, but Nan seemed to be alone.
“Who’s with the baby?”
“Mrs. Norman, although I hope she doesn’t feed the child whiskey again.”
“What? Are you joking?”
“An old folk remedy I don’t approve of.” She crossed her legs. “This is what happens when you dare to love again. Paul should have left well enough alone.”
Dutch frowned. “You really feel that way?”
“Yes.” The word was a sharp rebuke.
He sat back. “He chose to go on. He made his life fuller by loving again. It’s sad that he faces another loss, but he has a daughter now. A new love.”
“She might grow up without a mother.”
“She has a father.”
“She has a broken home.”
He shifted his weight, and the chair creaked. “Their home isn’t broken. She has a loving parent.”
“It’s not enough.”
“It’s never going to be perfect.”
“It can be.” Her statement came out more of a question.
“Life is messy. It doesn’t make sense.” He thought about Teddy’s sordid pile of excessive gloom. His self-proclaimed “dissipated Irish shame.” He would not mention it to Nan.
But she must have sensed his thoughts. She glanced at the manuscript. “I suppose you rifled through Teddy’s desk for the gun?”
“Yep.”
“Did
you read his poems?”
“I did.”
“And?”
He was a pinhead who didn’t deserve you. “A little gloomy for my tastes. Not my cup of tea. Speaking of which, how about I make you a cup? And then you ought to get into bed.” He rose, offered his hand. “Technically, I guess it’s morning, though it looks more like night to me.”
To his surprise, she slid her palm into his. They stood together in the dim light. The energy between them was thick, tangible, tingling. The rain was tapping at the window like a Mozart fugue, orchestrating the moment. It was a sound he would remember all his days. He longed to kiss her again.
“Ah, but I am tired.” She let go of his hand, took the lamp, and headed toward the stairway. “I’ll make the tea.”
“No. I will,” he said.
She moved ahead of him down the steep stairs. The light illuminated her figure, her brown sweater skirting her hips, their sway stirring his imagination.
“Are you sure you know how to boil the kettle?”
“I can fly a Wellington bomber. I think I can handle a teapot.”
“Don’t be so sure. It’s an Irish teapot.”
The main room downstairs was dark and cold. Nan set the lamp on the mantel. She bowed her head to the picture of Jesus and muttered a prayer that Dutch couldn’t quite make out. “I’ll start the fire,” she said, reaching down into the basket for turf bricks.
“You’ll do no such thing. Sit.” He led her to the overstuffed chair and pulled up a stool for her feet. Arranging a blanket over her, he said, “Rest. It’ll be toasty in here in no time.”
“You know how to build a fire?”
“I’ll manage. I used to take my nephews camping every summer.”
“Tell me about camping.”
“It was fun. The kids were troupers, hauling up the mountain with heavy backpacks. Not a word of complaint. I used to take them because my brother has a bum leg. Couldn’t manage jumping the streams.”
The turf bricks smelled like autumn leaves. He stacked them under the grate, upright like dominoes.
“What’s wanting with his leg?”
Dutch shrugged. “Birth defect. His left leg is shorter than his right, and it barely moves. He walks lopsided, but he gets around. Didn’t stop him from excelling at school. Top of every class.” He stacked the turf bricks in a circle, found a few twigs, and lit the fuel. Then he fanned it with a rolled-up Irish Times until the flames licked the turf.
“See?” This was the first turf fire he’d ever built. Proud of the job he’d done, he turned and smiled.
She was asleep. Her snore made him grin.
Once the tea was made, the bread sliced, and the jam ready, he sat across from her, wondering if he ought to wake her before the tea got cold or just let her sleep.
She woke to his stare, blinked several times, and then the sweetest smile he’d ever seen crossed her lips. It was innocent and childlike. She blinked several times, and the weight of reality darkened her features.
“Hey,” he said. “You hungry?”
“Starved.” She started to rise.
“No, you stay. I’ve already made the tea. I’ll pour. Milk, no sugar, right?”
“Yes. You noticed. What else have you noticed?”
Pouring the tea into a cup, he hesitated. “A lot of things.”
“Like what?” Her gaze nearly stopped his heart, the sadness that lay inside those eyes.
He gave her a cup of tea. “You prefer a thin layer of jam on your bread. When you’re mad, the left side of your mouth darts downward.”
“Ah, you’ve seen that now, haven’t you?”
He grinned. “A few times. You sometimes favor your right foot when you walk. Did you injure it?”
She glanced down. “No. Can’t say that I have.”
“And you’re fierce. Gutsy. Brave.”
“You have to be, in my line of work. Babies and mothers are tough.” She sipped her tea. “Delicious. Maybe after the war you can run a café.”
The mischievous sparkle in her eyes made his stomach do loops. “Only if the café is on an airplane.”
“Ah. Makes sense.”
For a while, they sipped their tea and ate their bread, the plates balanced on their knees. They exchanged fleeting glances at each other, then looked away quickly to the blazing turf fire. The cabin had turned from darkness to gray. Only occasional raindrops tapped on the windows.
He took their empty plates to the kitchen sink, poured two more cups of tea, then set the full cups on the tables beside their chairs. He returned to his seat. She was staring into the fire, lost in her thoughts.
It was dangerous ground, but he had to open the conversation with her. “Tell me. How long since your husband passed on?”
He heard her breath catch. “Three years.”
“Why, after three years, haven’t you moved on?”
“From here? And where would I go?”
“I don’t mean ‘here.’ I mean”—he placed his hand over his heart—“from here.”
“What are you talking about?” She wouldn’t meet his eyes.
“It’s been three years. Why haven’t you moved on from your grief?”
“I just can’t. That’s why.”
“Can’t what?”
“Forget.”
“You don’t have to forget. No one forgets their loved ones. But the living start to live again.”
“Isn’t that a strange thing for you to say? What do you know about losing a spouse?”
“True, I’ve never been married, but I’ve lost people I’ve loved. And I know one must start living again.”
“It’s not that simple.”
“Yes, it is.”
“Not for me.” She still would not look at him.
“Why? What makes your grief different?”
“I can’t forgive myself.”
“Forgive yourself? For what? Did you push Teddy off the cliff?”
She blinked. “Maybe.”
“Really? Gave him a shove?”
“No. Of course not. But . . .”
“What?”
“I couldn’t stop him. It’s what I couldn’t do that matters. And what I didn’t do.”
“How could you stop an accident?”
She placed the cup on the side table. “I really don’t want to talk about this.”
“Maybe you should. If not with me, then with someone else. Tuda, perhaps?”
“She knows. Suspects.”
“What?”
“It wasn’t.”
“Wasn’t an accident?”
She shook her head. “I can’t talk to you about this.”
They were silent. He flicked his gaze to the picture of her dead husband, and his anger grew. He’d love to wring Teddy’s skinny neck.
“Nan.”
She jerked a shoulder back but wouldn’t look at him. “No. I’m not discussing this.”
“Whatever happened, give yourself a break. You’re not responsible for his actions.”
“You don’t understand. He slipped into a dark place, and there was nothing I could do to reach him. I failed to save him.”
“Yeah. Really dark. I read his poems. He made Edgar Allan Poe seem like an optimist. No one could have dragged him from a pit that deep. I bet you tried, though.”
Her frown confirmed it.
“You have to let him go, Nan. He’s dead, you’re not.”
“How could you say such a thing?” She finally looked at him.
“Because it’s true. You’ll never love another man if you don’t let Teddy go and allow yourself to get on with your life.”
“I couldn’t bear to love another. Look what Paul is going through. He’ll have to cope with losing a second spouse. I just couldn’t. I don’t want to have another grave to visit.”
“What’s that expression you use? Don’t be daft. Teddy isn’t worth throwing your life away over.”
“Throwing my life away? By mourning my husband’s pass
ing? You’re a coldhearted man.”
“Not by any stretch of the imagination. Grief takes as long as it takes, but you’ve decided to jump into the grave with him.”
Nan’s jaw moved as though words might come out, but for a second or two, none did. Finally, she said, “You don’t know anything about me. About my life.”
“Maybe, but I know this. Mourning Teddy the way you do is unhealthy. His death had nothing to do with you. He was mental.”
“How could you say such a horrid thing? You don’t know that.”
She looked as if she might jump from her seat in outrage, but he had to keep going. “As an outsider reading that rubbish . . . his poems.” He paused, pointed upward. “Yes. I can tell you he was off his rocker.”
“He was brilliant,” she said. Her voice was high-pitched, and her eyes were edged with tears.
“Stop making excuses for him. He was off his head.” Dutch was relentless. “Until you put him to rest, love will never come your way again.”
“I’m okay with that.”
“Because it’s safe?”
“Yes.”
“So you’ll have a safe, lonely journey to your grave? Is that what you imagined for your life?”
“None of your business.”
“You’re a comfort to so many, Nan.” He softened his voice. “Allow someone to be a comfort to you.”
She shook her head. “No one can take Teddy’s place.”
Let’s hope not. “Look around the room. On every wall you have a portrait of Jesus or Mary or some saint. Don’t you get it?”
“Get what?”
“You need faith. Faith that there’s life after Teddy’s death, no matter how awful you feel about what happened. We all despair; we all have regrets. We all lose someone we love. That’s when we need our faith in God to bring us through.”
Nan scanned the room, stopping at each religious relic until her gaze settled on the portrait of Jesus, above the mantel. Tears were pouring out of her eyes. “I’m tired of grieving for him, I am. Of always thinking of him. I loathe this unending grief. I hate myself for indulging in it.” She tried to wipe away her tears. “I don’t know how to stop.”
“That’s the devil coming against you, robbing you of peace.”
Her gaze lifted to his. “The devil? Yes, you’re right. He knows how to pick at our wounds.”
“He infests us with condemnation. Makes us hate ourselves. Sometimes I struggle, too.” He didn’t want to share this. Didn’t want to dig up the regret and the hurt.
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