by BJ Hoff
Susanna sat totally still, tugging at her hands, unable to breathe as she watched Paul, now hunched over, his hands gripping his knees.
His harsh words sliced through the silence. “She was going to another man that night. She told Michael so. She often did that, tormented him about the other men—”
He broke off, shaking his head. “Michael tried to stop her, but he couldn’t. He could never stop her when she was like that. No one could stop her…”
His words drifted off. Susanna was seized by a peculiar sense of unreality, as if she’d been caught up in the middle of someone else’s nightmare.
Paul straightened, leaned toward her a little. He seemed calmer now, quieter. “Michael tried many times to help Deirdre. He took her once to a…a sanitarium. But she refused to stay. He also brought doctors to her, at Bantry Hill. But she defied them. Michael did everything he could think to do. But Deirdre—it was as if she did not want to be helped. Perhaps Michael was right, after all. Perhaps she was sick in her mind. I never understood. None of it. The drinking, the affairs, the…craziness. And all the time he never so much as lifted a hand to her. Some men—” He looked at Susanna. “Some men would have killed her!”
There was a question Susanna had to ask, although she thought she already knew the answer. “Did Michael…did he love her? Ever?”
Paul turned to look at her, his gaze steady—and exceedingly sad. “Sì, of course he loved her. Even at the end, he loved her, although perhaps, it was a different kind of love by then. One of pity, no? But without love, how could he suffer such abuse, such disgrace, and still stay with her, even try to help her? But his love, his attempts to help—nothing was enough. Nothing was ever enough for Deirdre.”
When Susanna made no reply, he added, “I’m sorry, Susanna. So very sorry you had to learn these things about your sister. I can only imagine how painful it is for you.”
“Well,” Susanna said, her voice thick, “at least I finally know…the truth.”
For a time she sat, unmoving, unable to speak. She glanced away, too dazed to think, too numb to even try to absorb everything he had told her. Yet a grim certainty ran through her. He had spoken the truth.
Paul leaned toward her, his gaze seeking hers as if searching for evidence of further doubt on her part. “Susanna, what I have told you is the truth. I have exaggerated nothing. It is all true.”
Slowly, Susanna raised her head. She saw reflected in his dark eyes his concern for her, as well as the fundamental honesty she had always recognized, and in spite of her reluctance to accept the terrible burden he had just shared with her, she knew she had no choice but to believe him. He wasn’t lying. More than likely, Paul Santi wasn’t even capable of deception.
“It’s all right, Paul. I…need to thank you for telling me. I had to know.”
Still, it was simply too much to take in, all at once. There was so much she couldn’t grasp, so much she couldn’t comprehend. She wondered if she would ever be able to understand what had actually happened to Deirdre, what had gone wrong, in her marriage…her life.
Did she even want to understand? Could she bear it?
“I will take you home now,” said Paul, his tone gentle. He hesitated. “Are you all right, Susanna?”
Susanna looked at him, then managed a nod. But she wondered if indeed she would ever be all right again.
32
AT THE CROSSROADS
Still heavy is thy heart?
Still sink thy spirits down?
Cast off the weight, let fear depart,
And every care be gone.
PAUL GERHARDT (TRANSLATED BY JOHN WESLEY)
They pulled up to the front of the house, but although the wind had turned much cooler, neither made any attempt to get out of the buggy.
Susanna glanced at the porch, then looked away. She was utterly exhausted, weary to the point of weakness, yet reluctant to go inside and face Michael.
“So,” she said quietly, turning to Paul, “what made you finally decide to tell me?”
“I realized that Michael would not…could not,” he replied.
Susanna slowly shook her head. “I still don’t understand why.”
“Michael meant only to shield you, Susanna,” he answered. “To protect your memories of Deirdre and spare you pain. And I think, perhaps, without realizing it, he meant to protect himself as well.”
Susanna frowned. “What do you mean?”
His expression became thoughtful as he studied her. “Have you not seen, Susanna, that Michael is coming to have much affection for you?”
Susanna tensed. At the moment, the last thing she wanted to hear was how Michael might feel about her. She had yet to get past his turbulent relationship with Deirdre. Even so, something stirred inside her at Paul’s words.
She diverted her gaze, saying nothing.
“Perhaps,” Paul went on in spite of her silence, “Michael has been blind in more ways than one.”
She stared at him, surprised that he would refer to Michael’s blindness in such a way.
“I believe you are becoming very important to Michael,” he went on, his expression solemn. “And when I see the two of you together, I wonder if he is not becoming important to you.”
Susanna suddenly felt as if she were suffocating. “Don’t, Paul. Not now. I can’t deal with anything more right now. Surely, you understand that.”
He held up a hand, palm outward, shaking his head. “Wait—please, Susanna. I do not mean to cause you further distress. Naturally, any feelings between you and Michael are none of my business. I am merely trying to answer your question. I know, because Michael told me so, that he was determined not to damage your memory of Deirdre. But I think it is also possible that he was afraid—afraid the truth might turn you against him.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“Is it?” He searched her eyes. “Michael knew that Deirdre was writing often to you. Don’t you think he at least suspected what she was writing? He sensed almost from the time of your arrival that you distrusted him. Perhaps he thought that if you knew the truth, you would find it unforgivable, that he could not somehow help Deirdre, that he could not save his own wife.”
As Susanna considered his words, uneasiness began to snake through her. What he was driving at seemed uncomfortably close to something she was reluctant to admit, to Paul, perhaps even to herself. “But his evasion only made me more suspicious,” she said, not quite meeting his eyes.
“Sì, I understand that, and you understand it. But Michael did not. I think he might have been afraid you would even blame him for Deirdre’s death. That you might think him somehow responsible.”
“I never—”
The denial died on her lips. In truth, because of Deirdre’s letters and Michael’s entrenched silence, she had suspected Michael of deception at the very least, had even wondered if somehow he might not have played a part in Deirdre’s death.
She framed her face with her hands, trying to knead away the pain drilling at her temples.
“Susanna, I have never gone against Michael,” Paul said, his voice low. “Not until today. But when I realized that by withholding the truth from you, he was only fostering more and more doubt on your part, I felt I had to do something.”
She sensed him watching her, waiting, and she finally looked up.
“I had seen that he was coming to care for you,” he went on. “Yet I also saw that his silence was erecting a barrier, allowing you to think the worst of him. In time, I feared it would create even more grief for him, and he has had enough grief for any man, enough for a lifetime. I simply could not watch him continue to wound you—or himself—any longer.”
His searching gaze unnerved Susanna. She turned from him and sat staring at the stone front of Bantry Hill. But she heard every word he spoke as he continued.
“Michael is a man of God, not a man of deceit, Susanna. I think somehow you know this. It is true, he is a very complex man, difficult to understand. But m
ore than anything else, he is a good man, a godly man who wants nothing more than what is best for the people he loves. Michael is a man who lives for God, for his family, and for his music.”
A question occurred to Susanna, and she turned back to him. “You said that Deirdre used Michael to advance her own career, that she took it as a personal betrayal when he left the opera. Was Deirdre the reason he left? Was she responsible for that, too?”
He shook his head. “No. She resented him for it, of course. When he gave up his own career, it took much away from Deirdre as well, for it meant Michael would no longer be in a position to exert influence in her behalf. But, no, that is something apart from Deirdre, something I can’t explain.”
“More secrets?” The words were out before Susanna could call them back, and she cringed at the bitterness she heard in her own voice.
Paul impaled her with an indicting look of great sadness. “No, Susanna. Michael makes no secret of that part of his life, but it is very complicated. Even now, I am not certain I understand it myself. But I’m sure Michael would tell you about it if you were to ask.”
He continued to watch her, his expression gentle but measuring. “I wish you could allow yourself to know Michael as he really is, Susanna. Could you not give him this much grace, to begin again, and at least accept the friendship he would like to offer you?”
Could she? Now that she knew the truth, could she bring herself to start over, this time without the preconceptions, the suspicions that had very nearly poisoned her judgment of Michael, her feelings about him, even her life at Bantry Hill?
Susanna looked at Paul and saw the intensity behind his words, the depth of emotion in his appeal—not for himself, but for Michael, whom he loved. She wished she could answer as he obviously wanted her to. Instead, she could manage only the weakest reassurance.
“I don’t know, Paul. I need time. There’s so much I need to think about. I feel—”
She broke off. How did she feel? Apart from the hurt and the confusion, the anger and shock engendered by Paul’s accounting of Deirdre’s lies and the immorality that had spilled over to bring pain to everyone who loved her—apart from all that, how did she feel?
The acid of self-pity threatened to eat through her soul. For the moment she could think of nothing except the losses she had suffered in such a brief time. Her sister. Her parents. Her home. Even her country.
And as of today, she had lost Deirdre twice: once to death, and then again to truth.
While they had never been truly close, they had always been tied by the bonds of blood and memory that made them sisters. Not only had death broken those bonds, it had also destroyed any chance for reconciliation, any hope for developing a real relationship. Even when Deirdre had finally reached out to her, confided in her, it had all been a lie, making the pain of her loss doubly bitter.
Suddenly, as if he had sensed her thoughts, Paul touched her hand, saying, “You have lost a great deal, Susanna. It must be a terrible grief, to lose your family as you have, to leave your home for a life among strangers, and now this. I cannot tell you how much I wish I could make things easier for you.”
Susanna looked at him, seeing the genuine kindness, the desire to help, even to heal, that brimmed in his eyes. But Paul could not help, could not heal, could not make things easier. She was the only one who could begin to move beyond the loss and the lies, the hurt and the disillusionment, and eventually forge her way toward something better.
At that instant, Susanna knew that she stood at a crossroads. She could choose to hold on to yesterday, to what might have been, with all its heartache. She could barricade herself behind a past that could never be restored, allowing that past to overshadow the present and consume any hope for the future. Or she could move forward, slowly but deliberately, committing one step at a time to God and whatever plan He might hold for her life.
In short, she could retreat or she could go forward. And she recognized with piercing clarity the sacrifices, the responsibilities, inherent to either choice.
“We have been gone a long time,” Paul said. “Michael will be worried by now.”
Susanna turned to see the massive front doors of the house swing open to reveal Michael, standing there, tall and dark and solemn, his face lifted slightly as if he was listening for something. She watched him for another moment, then shifted her attention back to Paul.
“He needn’t know you’ve told me,” she said.
Paul had been about to step out of the buggy, but now swung around to look at her. “What?”
“You’re worried that Michael will be upset when he learns you told me about Deirdre.” She put a hand to his arm. “But it’s all right. Michael doesn’t need to know just yet.”
“Susanna, he will have to know—”
“But not today,” she said firmly. “And you needn’t be the one to tell him. I’ll tell him myself. When the time is right, I’ll explain.”
Paul’s face creased in a smile of unmistakable relief. “Grazie! Thank you, Susanna.”
She closed her eyes for a second or two, then opened them and drew in a deep, bracing breath of the cool air coming up off the river. Again she turned toward the house and saw that Caterina had come to the door and was now at Michael’s side, waving and bouncing from one foot to the other. Michael, too, lifted a hand in greeting.
Susanna sat staring for a long time at the man and the little girl framed in the doorway, waiting.
Waiting for Paul.
Waiting for her.
And in that moment, though her heart was still heavy, her spirit still wounded, she stepped away from the crossroads. She made a decision.
Summoning all her courage, Susanna lifted her face and prepared to take the first step on the road that pointed to the future. The road that led to Bantry Hill, and whatever waited beyond.
Epilogue
A TIME FOR SINGING
But should the surges rise,
And rest delay to come,
Blest be the tempest, kind the storm,
Which drives us nearer home.
AUGUSTUS M. TOPLADY
November
Thanksgiving was still two days away, but for over a week now Caterina had been urging Susanna to help her learn some “new piano pieces for Christmas.” The suggestion that they might at least wait until the calendar was turned to December was invariably met with such a patent look of disappointment that Susanna could hardly refuse.
So on this snowy November evening they were ensconced in the music room, Caterina at the piano keyboard with Susanna on a chair beside her. The girl had not as yet progressed beyond a basic treble melody line, but with the confidence of youth she had assured Susanna that by Christmas she would be playing “parts.”
Given her niece’s stubborn bent and obvious musical aptitude, Susanna had no reason to doubt that declaration. Nor was she surprised when Caterina showed no particular preference for the simpler music of the season. She had already detected in her somewhat precocious niece a distinct taste for challenge, so when the child insisted on adding “Angels from the Realms of Glory” to her limited repertoire—in part because its composer, Henry Smart, had been “blind like Papa”—Susanna merely resigned herself to the task at hand.
Near the end of their practice time, her pupil turned to Susanna, her piquant features set in a decisive expression. “On Christmas Eve,” she announced, “I’m going to play my new hymn for Papa and tell him all about it. Or do you think he already knows its—‘history’?” she asked, imitating Susanna’s earlier use of the word.
“Well, your papa does know a great deal about music, alannah. But I’m quite certain he would be pleased to learn more about whatever you choose to play for him.”
At that moment Michael walked into the room, the wolfhound at his side. “What is this about Papa being pleased?”
Caterina put a finger to her lips as if to warn Susanna to silence. “We can’t tell you, Papa. It’s a surprise!”
�
��Ah—a surprise!” Michael said, smiling as he came to stand by the piano. “And when shall I find out what this surprise is, hmm? Tomorrow?”
“Not tomorrow,” Caterina said, cupping her chin in her hands, clearly prepared to play out this exchange as long as possible.
“The next day then?”
“No, not the next day either!”
Michael feigned a frown. “Why do you tease your papa so? You know I am impatient when it comes to surprises.”
Caterina giggled. “You will have to wait a long time for this surprise, Papa! Maybe as long as Christmas!”
“Christmas?” Michael reared back a little and drew a hand over his forehead with great dramatic flair. “Impossibile! I think you must tell me now! This very minute! Else, I will have to squeeze it out of you!”
With that, he made a lunge for her. She squealed, but went willingly. Susanna, by now accustomed to these evening roughhouse matches, quickly got out of their way and went to sit by the fire. The wolfhound, never one to be left out, charged directly into the middle of the fracas, and for the next ten minutes pandemonium reigned, with much shrieking and barking and laughter.
Michael was the first to give over. Lumbering to his feet, he lifted both hands in a mock plea for mercy. “Enough! I am too old for this!”
“Then let’s sing,” Caterina said agreeably.
“How can I sing when you have exhausted me?” But even as he teased, Michael felt for the piano stool and lowered himself onto it.
“Play carols, Papa,” Caterina instructed.
“Christmas carols? Cati, it is not yet Thanksgiving!”
“That doesn’t matter,” she said firmly. “It’s snowing, so it looks like Christmas. I don’t see why we can’t sing Christmas carols all the time. Christmas doesn’t last long enough to hold all the songs I like.”
Michael turned in Susanna’s direction and smiled. “A good point, no?” He then launched into a rousing version of “O Come, All Ye Faithful,” and Caterina immediately piped in. Soon they were both singing, though Michael obviously kept his voice restrained so he wouldn’t overwhelm Caterina’s childish efforts.