When Light Breaks

by Patti Callahan Henry

  “Yeah, it does if you qualified.”

  “What happened?” The last time Peyton hadn’t qualified for the final round, I’d had to half carry him out of a bar in Boston back to his hotel room, then listen to him throw up for hours. The start of a beautiful relationship, indeed.

  “I had a lousy day. Couldn’t find the damn green no matter what I did. It absolutely sucked. Chad scumbag Scarborough qualified. He’s never beat me, ever, in ten years.”

  “I’m sorry.” I scrunched my face into a scowl. “Really I am. And I’m even sorrier I wasn’t there.”

  He scooped me into his arms. “Me too. I probably would’ve done a lot better if you had been. But it was a smaller tournament.”

  I nodded. “How did Caroline do?” I had sent her to help with this tournament, a chance for her to gain experience for the Palmetto Pointe Open.

  “Kara, I have no idea. I don’t keep up with the event planners.”

  I held up my hand. “Whoa, sorry.”

  “No, I’m sorry. Just in a foul mood. Everything seemed to be going smoothly . . . I’m sure she’s doing a great job. I was just a little focused on the course, not the parties.”

  “Well, that would be a first.” I laughed.

  “I just wanted to come give my beautiful fiancée a kiss . . . I promised Mom I’d go straight to her house.”

  “What?”

  He shrugged. “Something about needing my help in the garage apartment.”

  “Oh . . . okay. See you tonight?”

  “Well, I promised Ray I’d meet him to discuss this investment idea he has. . . .”

  “Tomorrow?” I pouted.

  He wrinkled his nose. “Kara, I’m sorry. I’ve got to fly to Miami to check out this new golf course the tour wants to use. I’m on that committee.”

  “I know, I know. . . .” I leaned against his chest. “When will I see you?”

  “Saturday. Promise. You didn’t think you’d see me until then anyway. We’ll hide away all weekend. Deal?”

  “Perfect. It’s been . . . weeks since we’ve been alone.” I kissed him, touched the side of his face. He reached up and took my hand.

  “Where did you get that?” He touched the ring on my small finger.

  “I found it in an old jewelry box. It’s a Claddagh ring.”

  “I know what it is.” He tapped his finger on top of my engagement ring. “Can’t touch this, though, can it?”

  “No, it can’t.” I kissed him. “An old friend gave it to me—God, all the way back in middle school,” I said.

  “Wishing you were back in middle school?”

  “No.” I lifted my hand to the sun. “Just found it and thought it was . . . nice.”

  “Isn’t it supposed to be like the Irish wedding ring?”

  “Yes, but it can be given friend to friend, sister to sister, mother to daughter. . . .” I lifted it up. “It means love, loyalty and friendship.”

  “It’s dented.” He touched the side of the ring.

  “I know. That’s where Deirdre slammed my finger in the car door.” I hadn’t even realized I remembered that.

  “You know what? It is weird the things you remember.” He kissed me before he drove off.

  “Yes,” I whispered to the empty driveway. “It is weird the things I remember.”

  Peyton’s car turned the corner. I couldn’t say other women on the tour hadn’t warned me—it was terrible being married to or in love with these players who traveled all the time. I pulled out my cell phone and dialed Charlotte’s number as I climbed the front stairs, then sat down on the porch swing.

  “Hey . . .” She sounded winded.

  “You in the mood for a road trip tomorrow?” I could barely believe I was asking.

  “Why?”

  “Thought I’d check out a band for the tournament.” I pushed my feet against the floorboards to set the swing in motion, as if trying to convince myself that this was a perfectly normal day, a perfectly normal request.

  “Kara? Are you sure?”

  “Ah, forget it. . . . Where are you?”

  “The gym,” Charlotte said. “Let me call you back, okay?”

  “Okay.” I hung up the phone, leaned back in the swing, then clicked the phone to off.

  The rain awakened me—soft and light, but the air full of humidity, as if it were pregnant and overdue. My head was heavy and I wanted to roll over and go back to sleep. And, as I did every morning, I mentally scanned what I had to do that day. I had a PGA TOUR meeting at eight a.m., where I would, once again, have to admit I didn’t have a band. Then there was a full blank space—Savannah. Of course I hadn’t typed it in, barely admitting to myself that if the day opened up, I would go.

  Peyton was in Miami, and Charlotte had a full day, since her freelance article for the local paper was late. And I did need a band, didn’t I? I got out of bed, stretched and stared at myself in the full-length mirror across the room. Had I changed much since I was fourteen years old? Since the last time I saw Jack? Completely. Where a scrawny girl once stood, with scabs on her arms and legs from believing she could keep up with the boys while running or riding her bike, now there was a woman with long wavy chestnut hair, rounded knees and elbows, a manicure and pedicure: all the rough edges smoothed.

  I walked to the closet and stared at my outfits until I chose a pair of wide-leg, black Donna Karan pants with a fitted white linen button-down top. I’d wear my full-length black toile coat if the weather turned. I slipped the Claddagh ring off my pinkie finger and tucked it back into the jewelry box.

  Before I walked out the door I stood in front of the computer with an overwhelming need to see, clearly see, what 1920 Galway Bay would’ve looked like, what Maeve once saw. I searched the Internet until I found an antique postcard on eBay with the inscription The Claddagh, Galway etched on the bottom. It was an old black-and-white photo that had been hand colored. The whitewashed houses with thatched roofs squatted behind a bay wall that was full to overflowing with hookers. The boats had been painted green and red, the sails folded down like children tucked in for the night.

  I tried to imagine Maeve living in one of those houses at the edge of the sea, watching out the window for Richard, waiting and waiting. I looked at the postcard again and then clicked on “bid now.” I upped the bid by five dollars, closed down the computer and grabbed a Tiffany-blue cashmere scarf and tossed it around my neck.

  By the time I’d left my PGA TOUR meeting, my plans for Savannah were confirmed. When the planning committee had asked me what I’d done about securing a band, I’d told them I was on my way to Savannah to follow up with the Unknown Souls. The committee had been relieved.

  Rain hit the windshield in intermittent bursts. I popped the Unknown Souls CD into the player, and sped south on I-95 toward Savannah. The information inside the cover stated that all twelve songs were original. The music coming out of my speakers was haunting, conveying a lovely but lonely ache through both the music and words. The lyrics were written by a man who knew sadness, who understood want.

  A raucous, fun song called “Without You” came toward the end of the CD, yet even this song, with its primal drumbeat and guitar solo, offered an exquisite sadness in its comedic take on all the things the singer could do without his lover. I attempted to remember this voice, Jimmy’s voice, in song—but I had never heard him sing. What I did remember about Jimmy was his laughter.

  Jack’s lyrics spoke of dreaming and flying, of loss and love. My breath caught in the edges of my chest; tears rose. These beautiful songs were written by this beautiful boy I had once known and loved. An hour and a half later, I pulled off the exit to River Street, hit the REPLAY button, and parked in a metered spot to hear the song “Flying” one more time. I closed my eyes and leaned my head back on the headrest. A pan flute played in the background with a lyrical sound as delicate as engraved crystal.

  When the song was over, the rain had dissipated. I reached behind the seat and grabbed my purse, tossed it over
my shoulder. There were three hours remaining until the concert, and the headache forming around my temples was hunger’s signal.

  My boots clicked in a staccato sound down the cobblestone sidewalk of River Street. I rounded the corner to an antique garden store, walked in and found myself asking about garden angels—did they have any?

  A sweet woman, as round and red as a strawberry, escorted me to the back area, where garden statues of every variety stood at odd angles, reminding me of every bad movie I’d seen where children who were hoping to be adopted stood in a room with pleading eyes, facing prospective parents. There wasn’t a small angel in sight. I turned away and walked back into the store, browsing the garden accessories.

  “Where would I find the closest café?” I asked the shop owner.

  “Two doors down to the right.” She waved out the door. “Best brie and apple sandwich I’ve ever eaten. And trust me”—she patted her abdomen—“I’ve eaten in a lot of places.” She smiled and I smiled back at her.

  Outside I glanced at the sky. A thin veil resembling a screen ripped from a porch door advanced toward me: a wall of rain. The café was two doors up, the car two blocks down. I ducked my head just as the downpour hit me with its full force. I ran toward the café, my scarf pulled up in a futile attempt to shield my hair.

  I burst through the door of the café and wiped the dripping rain from my eyes. Several faces in the room turned to me and smiled. It was a French-style café, with open sides and covered roof, where the tables were set far enough back to stay dry. A girl wearing all black, who appeared to be no more than eighteen, walked toward me. She had an earring in her nose and at least six in each earlobe. I smiled and attempted to wipe the hair off my face.

  She laughed. “Wet out there?”

  “Just a little, not so much.” I shook water off my hands.

  She laughed loudly, and more patrons turned to us. There was a table directly in front of us seating six people: four men, two women. I turned away, as I’d been taught better than to stare.

  The girl lifted a menu. “Only one at your table?”

  “Yes.” I held my purse with both hands over my chest. “Only one.”

  She motioned for me to follow her and I did, but I couldn’t help glancing toward that table of six. They all had large, dark beers with heads at least an inch thick. All of them were laughing. Their table looked like a fun, safe place to be. I sighed and caught a glimpse of myself in the passing mirror. My hair was stuck in wet strands against my face, and mascara had pooled under my eyes. I looked away. I was such a fool for leaving my umbrella in the car, and I hadn’t brought a change of clothes or more makeup.

  As we scooted past the table, I wiped mascara from below my eyes. One of the men seated there, his eyes dark and gold, glanced at me. His hair hung in thick waves, stubble on his chin and cheeks. My chest opened as if someone had blown a breath of luxurious coastal air into me; my stomach sank.

  I meant to turn away from his stare, but couldn’t. He raised his hand to push the hair out of his eyes. A leather bracelet encircled his wrist, braided and intricate in a Celtic design. I noted each detail: his hair, his goatee, his eyes, his bracelet. It wasn’t until I turned away and saw his reflection behind me in the mirror that I could see the whole of him, not just the pieces.

  Jack Sullivan.

  Surely I was imagining him. Maeve had said something about thinking of things and they come, they happen; about following your feet to your heart. I stopped, turned. The whole table came into focus: three other men, an older woman, another woman—beautiful, exotic, with her arm draped over Jack’s shoulders, a beer raised in her other hand.

  Jack mouthed my name, “Kara?” in a question.

  I stood transfixed, motionless on the outside while everything inside moved or quivered. My throat constricted, my heart quickened, my held breath escaped.

  “Jack?” My voice shook.

  He nodded and stood from the table, and the other five people stopped talking. The girl watched him, her arm in the air as if his shoulder were still there. He came next to me, and his mouth broke open into a familiar smile.

  “Hi, there,” I said, my arms wanting to move to hug him, yet stuck at my sides. The hostess tapped my shoulder, pointed to a single table in the corner. “There’s your table when you’re ready.”

  “Thank you. . . .”

  “Kara Larson. My God.” He touched the tips of my hair.

  I reached up to my hair, my face. “I’m soaked, aren’t I?”

  “Yes, you are.” He laughed, and the sound was resonant with memories of innocence and childhood.

  I tried to smile. My white linen shirt was see-through, my bra clearly visible. I looked up at Jack, crossed my arms over my body. He smiled and pulled me into a hug.

  He released me just enough that I was still against his chest, and I looked into his face.

  “What are you doing here? Do you live here?” He pushed a strand of wet hair off my cheek. I shivered.

  “No . . . no. I’m here on business and . . . got caught in the rain. I still live in Palmetto Pointe.”

  Jack glanced over his shoulder, nodded at his friends. “Join us. I only have a million questions to ask you. How have you been? How is your family? The old house? And how’s Charlotte?”

  I laughed. “All well. All good. You?”

  “Now that is a much longer story. Sit, please sit with us.”

  I backed away. “No, no, I wouldn’t want to interrupt, and I have a table and . . .”

  “Nice table.” He pointed to the corner. “Should be some good conversation over there.” He grinned that grin Daddy hated.

  I pulled my shirt away from my skin. “Funny, Jack Sullivan.”

  “Come on, come meet everyone.”

  “The band?” The words slipped from my mouth.

  “Yes.” He smiled. “The band. You know about them?”

  “A little,” I said. “I read about them. . . .”

  He pulled a chair from a neighboring table, set it between his seat and another man’s, put his arm around my damp shoulder and walked me to the table. “Hey, guys, I want you to meet an old friend. She used to live next door.”

  The man across the table stood. He wasn’t as tall as Jack, but broader, his hair short with curls moving in all directions. He had the appearance—with his softer, half-mast eyes and tousled hair—of having just woken up. “Mary and Joseph, is that you, Kara Larson?”

  Jack’s older brother, Jimmy. I walked around the table. He met me halfway, hugged me, picked me up off the ground. “We wonder about you . . . don’t we, Jacky? We say—I wonder what happened to that adorable Kara Larson? And lookee here—you’re past adorable and into gorgeous.”

  I blushed; I felt it all the way to my wet roots. “Oh . . . I’m soaking wet.”

  “And quite sexy, I might add.” Jimmy threw his head back. He was the same as I remembered him at seventeen—he filled the room with his boisterous laughter.

  His spirit had always seemed to shine just a little bit brighter and louder than anyone around him. Jimmy pulled me to his side with one arm. “So what has happened to you?”

  “I never left Palmetto Pointe . . . I’m still there, same house and all.” It sounded so boring, so mundane that I had the urge to tell him everything in between. But he had already lifted my left hand into the air. “My God, woman, I could skate on that diamond. . . . Who’d you marry?”

  “I’m . . . not married. Well, not yet. I’m engaged. . . .”

  “Well, that’s nice.” Jimmy squeezed me. “Since my brother seems too stunned to speak, I’ll introduce you. This here”—he slapped the head of the man in front of us with an open palm; the man turned, looked up at me over his shoulder and smiled—“is Harry Makin, our drummer. Over here”—he waved at a tall, thin man slumped in his chair, who looked like he should have a cigarette dangling from his mouth—“that there is Bobby, he’s our bass guitar.”

  Jimmy loosened his hold. “And thes
e two gorgeous dolls”—he waved his hand toward the two women—“are Isabelle and Anna. They’re our backup singers and lifesavers.”

  The blonde he had called Anna threw a wadded-up napkin toward him. “You call me doll again, you’ll be singing my soprano part.”

  Isabelle, the woman who had had her arm draped over Jack, waved with one finger. She looked like an Isabelle: dark and intimidating. Her cheekbones appeared to have been carved from plaster, her features so chiseled that I had to force myself not to stare.

  “Hi, nice to meet all of you. I’m so sorry to interrupt your meal.” I scooted out from under Jimmy’s arm. I did not belong here with these fun-loving and obviously very close people. What had I been thinking?

  “Sit down now.” Jimmy laughed and steered me by my shoulders to take the chair between Jack and Harry. I sat; my knee brushed up against Jack’s, and he looked at me, smiled.

  And then it happened. I was fourteen—almost fifteen, thankyouverymuch—and I was waiting, waiting, waiting for Jack, for his touch, for his kiss.

  He tousled my wet hair. “So good to see you. You’ll have to tell us everything you’ve been doing.”

  I nodded and looked around the table. What would it possibly be like to belong to such a group of people? I felt as though I was in the wrong boutique store, trying on the wrong style clothes for my personality and body type. “You’ve had a much more interesting life . . . you first,” I said.

  “Interesting is one word for it.” Jimmy took a long swallow of his dark beer, slammed the glass down and laughed.

  The waitress approached the table. “You don’t need your table?” She pointed to the small round table in the corner.

  I looked directly at Jack.

  “No, she’ll stay with us,” Jimmy said. “And could you please bring her one of these?”

  “You want a Guinness?” Jack tapped the side of his glass.

  “Absolutely,” I said, although I’d never had one.

  Jack unrolled the napkin-wrapped silverware. “You still talk the same. Still. . . .” All five people around the table raised their eyebrows, as if waiting for him to finish his thought. When he lifted his beer, conversation flowed again.