“Jesus, that’s blasphemy!” one of the other nuns, Sister Francis, had blurted. Brigid had been so gobsmacked she’d been rendered speechless.
“Stop it, Pius,” the Almoner, Mother Veronica, ordered sternly.
“Well, it’s true. Don’t tell me you wouldn’t wish for it. I’m sick of this place. Sick of pretending to be holy. I didn’t want to be a nun. My father made me become one because I’ve a squinty eye and he said no man would marry me and he couldn’t afford to keep me.” Pius was howling by this time, snorting and sniffling, and Francis had looked over at Brigid and thrown her eyes up to heaven and said, “We’d better get her to bed.”
They had led their truculent, weeping colleague to her Spartan room, with much hushings and “don’t wake the children” from Francis.
“Lord save us,” the other nun said later, when Pius was tucked up in bed, weeping inconsolably into her hard pillow. “She’s having a fierce hard menopause. I’m at my wits’ end with her.” Francis was from the west of Ireland, too, and still had her Connemara twang. “I hate Christmas Eve here, too. It’s too hot, and sad and lonely. Goodnight, Sister Brigid.”
Now all these years later, when she’d gone through such longings and utter loneliness herself, she was glad she’d crossed the turbulent seas of life and was almost in safe harbour.
But next week she would return to Ireland, and retirement. Her sister nuns at home had suggested a small celebratory tea in the Four Winds, knowing how much she loved the sturdy old house by the sea, and she was touched by their thoughtfulness.
The opalescent lights shining in the windows of the large stone chateau were warm and inviting as the icy fingers of a northerly wind reddened her nose. Brigid shivered. Soon she would smell the salty, sea-tanged air of Ireland. Going home was always bittersweet.
So many memories. Now that she was almost eighty she might give herself some leeway. Brigid smiled wryly, knowing it was only her immense discipline and steely will that had kept her on the straight and narrow all these years as a nun. She should be proud of herself, but pride was a sin. Her younger sibling Imelda would tell her that quick enough.
Imelda, bitter and resentful still, after all these years. Holding a grudge that she couldn’t let go of. So many grudges.
Did I say I was looking forward to going home? Brigid thought, amused. Perhaps I should make the most of the peace and calm silence of the Mother House while I still can, she decided, turning to walk back along the rose-wrapped wall, the thorny branches harsh and unforgiving without the glory of their blossoms. A thorny branch. A bitter briar. Her sister, Imelda.
Reverend Mother Brigid sighed. She would pray for Imelda during Vespers and Compline tonight. It was all she could do.
Chapter Four
Imelda
“Will I make the stuffing for you, Mrs. O’Brien?”
“You will not, thank you. I’ll make my own stuffing,” Imelda O’Brien rebuffed her daughter-in-law’s kind offer sharply. What did they think, that she was incapable?
“No worries,” Felicity said drily, and Imelda knew that the younger woman was struggling to bite back a sharp answer.
“You can make a pot of tea,” she said, offering an olive branch. “Everyone likes my stuffing. I’ve a secret ingredient,” she added in a more placatory tone. “I want to make enough to freeze some.”
She couldn’t afford to go alienating her daughter-in-law, Imelda reflected. Felicity and Cormac, Imelda’s son, lived down the road and were very good to her.
The best of all her children, Cormac was. The most easygoing. He didn’t get that from her. No one would ever call her easygoing, Imelda admitted with a rare spark of dry humour.
She wanted to make her own stuffing this Christmas Eve because she wanted to have plenty put by for when Keelin and Armand, her daughter and son-in-law, came home from France for their Christmas holiday. She supposed Reverend Mother would deign to visit as well.
Imelda’s nostrils flared and her eyes hardened like wizened olives. There was going to be a big do for her older sister’s eightieth. A “surprise” party. And they were all going to have to trek to that draughty, creaky old house by the sea in the first week of January to pay homage.
She could plead illness, she supposed, but she was rarely sick, and Keelin and Marie-Claire wouldn’t be impressed with that behaviour. There was nothing for it but to go and pretend she was enjoying the daft shenanigans that in her opinion were thoroughly unnecessary.
Imelda’s lips tightened as she got her big mixing bowl and began to crumble breadcrumbs from the batch loaf she’d bought. She couldn’t be doing with shop-bought breadcrumbs. They had no substance. She’d use proper bread and make her stuffing the way her mother and grandmother before her had made it, she thought crossly, feeling quite vexed at the prospect of the forthcoming party.
The way everyone went on about Brigid, as though she were a bloody saint! Well, the Reverend Mother was no saint, and she, Imelda, knew that better than anyone. Oh, she could tell everyone a thing or two about Sister, who had abandoned Imelda to… to… slavery—that was the best word for it.
The way people had gone on when Brigid had left to join the convent had been sickening. “You’ll get to heaven quicker, having a nun in the family,” Aunt Lorna approved when she heard the news. That had pleased their father enormously.
“God always takes the good ones,” their grandmother declared, casting a sour eye over at Imelda, who had given her cheek earlier in the day. That was pointed and it had stung. Even now, all these decades later, this was what Imelda remembered of Brigid’s decision to enter the religious life.
The tang of fresh herbs and onion wafting around the kitchen, mingling with the fruity aroma of Christmas pudding boiling on the cooker, soothed her agitation somewhat, so that when Felicity handed her the mug of tea, Imelda was able to accept it with a modicum of graciousness. Tea was the cure for everything, even the difficulties that came with having a saint for a sister and a party to attend in the depths of winter, when she’d rather be under the snug comfort of her own roof, minding her own business.
Chapter Five
Marie-Claire
Marie-Claire sat at the table Marc had reserved by the window. Outside, the snow frolicked in silent merriment. Inside, the hum of laughter and chat, the clinking of glassware and cutlery on china, the delicious aromas from the kitchen, all seemed to mock her unhappiness. This was no place for the low of heart on such a night when the gods and goddesses of Gaiety and Seasonal Cheer insisted on participation. To her, it all seemed very surreal, as though she were living in a parallel universe.
None of the other diners knew, or cared, that she was in a state of utter wretchedness—and neither would Marc. Marie-Claire had to swallow hard to compose herself as a lump rose to her throat. She was in shock. Soon to be jobless, homeless, manless, and all because Marc Bouchard didn’t think that a relationship with her was enough for him. Well, he could have Miss Butter-Wouldn’t-Melt and her fey, cloying obsequiousness, if that was what he wanted, but he damn well couldn’t have them both.
Come on now! Chin up. Take control. Don’t be a wimp, Marie-Claire told herself sternly, tensing when she saw Marc exiting his taxi. She took a sip of water, impressed that her hand was so steady. She would get through this meal knowing that the choice to play victim or victor was hers alone. And victorious she would be, she vowed, pasting a smile on as she saw her erstwhile partner’s face light up when he joined her.
“Chérie, you look stunning,” he gushed, kissing her lightly on the lips, his mouth and nose cold from the biting air outside. He looked tired, but his gaze was admiring as it slid over her, taking in every aspect of her appearance.
She’d swept her auburn tresses up in a topknot, and taken extra care with her make-up, contouring her cheekbones, using smoky eyeliner to give her eyes extra depth. Her black off-the-shoulder dress clung to every curve. She’d nearly slipped a disc struggling into a pair of Spanx. Her feet were already ach
ing in their skyscraper heels. It was as well she wasn’t hungry, because she was too trussed up to eat.
“Thank you, sweetie,” she said, lightly returning his kiss. “Sit down and tell me all about your day. You must be exhausted.” How easily the faux sympathy dripped from her. She should be in Hollywood. She cupped her face in her hands and gazed at him expectantly across the table. The more talking he did, the easier it would be to get the meal over and done with and scarper.
“Oh, Marie-Claire, what a day,” he sighed. “Families are such a nightmare. But let’s order first—I’m starving.” He reached across the table and took her hand before catching a waiter’s eye. Feeling her hand in his was a wrench. She’d always liked holding hands with Marc. He had big hands and long, tanned fingers, and hers always seemed so dainty in his, though she was far from dainty, she thought wryly.
“Good idea,” she agreed, withdrawing her hand so she could peruse the menu. Her sight was blurred. She couldn’t concentrate on the two set menus, with their seven courses of gourmet offerings.
As she’d predicted, Marc ordered the caviar and champagne. When these arrived, he took out his phone, placed the two glasses of sparkling golden alcohol side by side and the caviar in front, framing the photo just so, before uploading it to his social media accounts. He was an avid social media user, justifying it by saying it helped business.
In Edulis, sharing caviar & champagne with my sexy, stunning girlfriend. Seven courses of epicurean delights to follow. #HappyChristmasToAll.
“Let’s take a selfie,” he suggested, raising his glass to her.
“Stop showing off,” she said lightly, clinking her glass to his.
“Why not? This is a go-to restaurant. One of the Diners Club ‘World’s 50 Best.’ Why not show everyone how far we’ve come? And we’re going much further, too. Next stop Noo Yark!” He grinned at her, and in spite of her misery Marie-Claire laughed, because that was one of the things she’d loved about him. He could always make her laugh.
She leaned sideways across the small table, champagne flute in hand, and he did likewise, their heads touching. Marie-Claire smiled. Suck this up, bioch, she thought, beaming for the camera. She hoped Amelia would choke on her supper when she saw Marc’s tweets and photos.
“So tell me about the funeral,” she said, nibbling on the caviar, once the waiter had taken their order.
“It was incredibly difficult.” Marc scowled. “You know there’s bad feeling between the families because my aunt was divorced and had a second family? Francine got cranky with me because I offered condolences to Raimondi, and…”
She listened to him describe what sounded like the funeral from hell and wondered what he would do if she suddenly said, I couldn’t give a flying fuck about your crappy family and I know all about you shagging Amelia and giving her Tiffany love hearts and planning a trip to Niagara.
Don’t play the victim, she warned herself silently, taking care not to glug her champagne and loosen her inhibitions and resolve.
Marie-Claire ate the food that was set in front of her, the grilled scallops, the bass with porcini mushrooms and Brussels sprout leaves, and might as well have been eating sawdust. Marc wolfed his grilled prawns and milk-fed lamb, telling her that the offerings served after the funeral wouldn’t have filled a gnat. He didn’t even notice that she was toying with her food and not matching his drinking.
“I’m so glad we did this. What a fabulous meal!” he enthused as they sipped a postprandial brandy—which had also been photographed and sent off into social media ether.
“It was delicious, Marc. One of the best meals I’ve ever eaten,” she lied. “What a great idea of yours to come and have this lovely Christmas Eve treat, à deux,” she added with a sarcasm that passed right over him, knowing he had shared every moment of their evening with Amelia and his other social media followers.
“That’s not all we’ll be doing à deux.” He rubbed his thumb along the side of her hand, his eyes glittering from wine and desire. “Here, let me give you part of my Christmas present,” he said, taking a small duck-egg-blue box out of his jacket pocket.
Her heart skipped a beat as she recognized the iconic Tiffany colour.
Was Marc going to give her love hearts, too, she wondered, disgusted. But the box was small for a chain and pendant, she registered. Was he going to propose?
For one mad moment Marie-Claire thought she could pretend that she’d never overheard the phone conversation with Amelia. Pretend that she could live with Marc’s fling—if she made it very clear that it was to end—and secure her future along the lines that it had been moving.
She had two choices, yay or nay. Depending on her answer, her life would be directed along one of two very different paths.
“Excuse me, Marc, I need to pee—all the champagne and wine,” she said. “Back in a sec.”
“Don’t be long; I’ve two surprises for you,” he said, taking out his phone to photograph the elegant box.
And I’ve a surprise for you, too, she thought grimly, wishing she could see Amelia’s face when this photo appeared on Instagram.
Chapter Six
Her heart was thumping as she struggled with her unyielding underwear in the small toilet cubicle, listening to two women laughing heartily as they reapplied their make-up in the restroom. She banged her elbow off the side of the stall, and the pain of it nearly brought tears to her eyes. What was it her Irish grandmother used to say? “If you bang your elbow, bang the other one to even it out.” She wanted to bang her elbow in Marc’s solar plexus. If he was going to propose, how dare he think it was acceptable to ask her to marry him when he was shagging someone else? She sighed with relief as she escaped the confines of her detested Spanx. She was damned if she was pulling them back up, she decided, stepping out of them and rolling them up and shoving them in her handbag.
She washed up and retouched her bronzer and lippy. Time to make up her mind. Which path to take? The one with Marc? Or the one alone? She looked at herself in the mirror and saw a pair of troubled green eyes reflected back at her. The eyes—mirror of the soul, or so they said. Her soul was spectacularly unhappy, just like she was. She was in a no-win situation. To leave Marc would make her as miserable as to stay with him. Whatever decision she made, her life would now be full of “if onlys.”
“Woman up, Durand. Don’t be a wuss,” she muttered, spraying 212 on her wrist and neck. The door to the restroom opened and a middle-aged woman with a lobster-red face came in, flapping her hand up and down to cool herself.
“Oh my gosh, it’s so warm out there, when you’re a woman of a certain age. Damn these flashes!” She grimaced, turning on a tap and dabbing her napkin in the water flow, before patting her face and neck with it.
“Not easy being a woman,” Marie-Claire remarked, tugging at her dress to stop it from clinging to her bare ass.
“You can say that again,” came the gloomy rejoinder to Marie-Claire’s retreating back.
“Are you ready for your surprises?” Marc asked eagerly when she sat down at the table. His eyes were over-bright in the flickering candlelight. He was a tad inebriated. She was as sober as a judge. He waved a brochure at her and picked up the Tiffany box and handed it to her.
“Happy Christmas, mon amour, with all my love,” he said huskily.
It was as though time stood still for a moment. Marie-Claire gazed into his heavy-lidded amber eyes, speckled with flecks of gold, ringed by thick black lashes, now slightly glazed from all the alcohol he’d imbibed. His face was tanned from skiing. His nose slightly crooked from a break. His mouth, with a sensual lower lip, the top lip just the slightest bit too narrow, which could make him look mean sometimes if he was angry. The sharp cheekbones a woman would envy. Lean, tanned, and taut. She knew the contours of that face so well. So does Amelia, a little voice taunted.
Marie-Claire cleared her throat.
“I have something for you first. And I need to say something,” she said, putting the box down
and calmly opening her handbag to find his keys. Unfortunately, her handbag being its usual messy chaos, she had to rummage, and as her rolled-up Spanx fell into her lap she cursed herself for not being organized and having the keys in the small side pocket.
“You dirty girl, are you going commando!” Marc’s eyes lit up and he laughed as she stuffed them back into the evening bag. “I can’t wait to get you in the taxi home!”
She was so annoyed with herself that when she found his keys, caught in the folds of her wallet, she grabbed them and handed them to him. “Here. I’m giving you back your keys,” she said brusquely.
“What are you giving me these for? We’re not moving yet.” He looked at them in surprise. “Did you know I’ve put a deposit on a two-bed condo?”
“You did what?” Was she hearing right?
“This is part of the surprise.” He handed her a glossy brochure. “I want you to move in with me. But we have to move fast. It’s five floors up from mine. It’s fantastic. Wait until you see—”
“Hold on a second and let me get this straight: You’ve put a deposit on a condo that you want me to move into with you, without me even seeing it?” How typical of Marc, she thought, to make a unilateral decision like that.
“I told you, Marie-Claire, I had to move fast. Half of Toronto wants one of those condos. And I know your rent is due for renewal the first of January, so you won’t lose any money by not renewing. It’s perfect timing.” He grinned impishly.
“Actually, it’s not, Marc,” she said slowly. “I’m leaving Canada. I’m going home to Ireland. Here are your keys. I’ve already moved my stuff out of your place. And I can’t take your present. It wouldn’t be fair.” She handed him back the Tiffany box.
The Liberation of Brigid Dunne Page 2