Irish Meadows (31 page)

S
HIMMERS
OF
GREEN
CRISSCROSSED
the meadows that spread out to each side of the country road as Rylan hiked toward the tiny village in Cork where he'd grown up. The familiar scent of fresh-cut grass and sea air infused him with a sense of peace and homecoming. He'd purposely gotten off the bus a mile away from home so he could walk the last way alone, enjoying the peace of the countryside he'd so missed.

Nostalgia for the happy childhood he'd spent here crashed over him like the waves that had barraged the ship on his sea voyage. The tall tree he and his brothers used to climb still reached its gnarled branches to the sky. The old wooden fence bordering Mr. Foster's property sagged in exactly the same spot, and several fat cattle grazed in a shady pasture near the road. Rylan took out a handkerchief and wiped the beads of sweat from his brow. The sun was unusually warm today. That, coupled with the mile-long hike in his tweed jacket, made Rylan feel like he would soon be a grease puddle on the side of the road.

He paused before the low stone fence that surrounded his mother's property, drinking in the sight of his boyhood home. A lump of raw emotion rose in his throat. Nothing had changed since he'd left five years earlier. The same thatched roof sheltered the stone walls, the same green door still had patches of missing paint, and his mother's flower boxes overflowed with violets. He took a moment to prepare himself for what he might find inside—his mother bedridden, possibly near death.

Please, Lord, let me be in time to see her
again
.

He pushed open the wooden gate and strode up to the entrance. Hesitating on the welcome mat, he opted to knock on his own front door, mainly because no one was expecting him, and he didn't want to frighten his mother.

The door opened almost immediately. A lovely young woman in a simple dress and apron stood with an inquiring look on her face. He was about to ask if Mrs. Montgomery was home when the woman's eyes widened.

“Rylan? Is it you?”

He frowned. “Aye.”

The woman launched herself into his arms, laughing and crying at the same time. “It's me—Maggie.”

Wee Maggie? Could this really be his baby sister? He squeezed her hard, then pulled her back to get a better look at the raven hair and creamy complexion. “You've turned into a beauty while I was gone. Tommy, Paddy, and Gabe must be fighting the suitors off with a stick.”

She laughed, a blush staining her cheeks. “Come in, you. Why did you not write to tell us you were coming?”

Rylan dragged off his cap and entered the small living room of the cottage he'd grown up in. The same stuffed sofa and two rocking chairs flanked the stone hearth. The familiar smells of peat moss and homemade soup lingered in the air—smells that cried
home
.

“It was a last-minute decision once I got Mum's letter.” He turned his attention back to Maggie, whose dark hair matched his own. “Tell me the truth, how bad is she?” he asked quietly.

Maggie stared at him. “Mum's fine. Why?”

Rylan frowned. “Her letter said she was too ill to travel. It sounded serious.”

Understanding lit his sister's features. “Ah, the pneumonia. Mum had a bad bout of it in the spring. Lasted well into the summer, but she's picking up now. Still tires easily, though, and the doctor said the sea voyage wouldn't be good for her.”

Relief made his muscles weak. “So she's not dying?”

Maggie laid a sympathetic hand on his arm. “No.”

Rylan scanned the room. “Then where is she?”

“Resting. She takes a nap every afternoon. Come into the kitchen, and I'll make you some tea. You can tell me all about America.”

He'd just finished his second cup of tea when the sound of his mother's voice snapped his head up.

“Maggie? Whose voice do I hear?”

Maggie jumped up from the wooden table. “I'd better warn her you're home. Don't want to risk her heart with such a grand surprise.” She dashed out of the room and down the hall to the bedrooms.

Seconds later, he heard footsteps. His mother appeared in the door to the kitchen, her eyes brimming with tears. “The saints be praised. Is it really my Rylan?”

“It's me, Mum.” He stepped forward and caught the frail woman in a tight hug. Her stooped shoulders shook as she wept. Her auburn hair had turned mostly gray now, still worn in a tidy bun at the back of her neck. Gray eyes that matched Maggie's shone with happiness. “I feared I'd never see you again. I thought once the ordination was over you'd be too busy to come back for a visit.” She straightened and scanned him from head to toe. “Where is your priest's collar?”

“I haven't been ordained yet, Mum. Come, let's sit in the parlor and we'll talk.”

She frowned, her sharp eyes boring a hole through him with a flash of her Irish stubbornness. “We most certainly will talk.”

He settled his mother in her favorite chair with an afghan covering her knees. As he tucked the blanket around her, he took note of how much she'd aged in his absence. Though only in her early sixties, Beatrice Montgomery's hard life had begun to catch up with her. Sorrow gripped Rylan's heart as he held her hand, the crippled fingers giving her the appearance of a much older woman.

“How have you been keeping? Your last letter had me worried.”

“I'm much better now that the pneumonia is finally gone. But my rheumatism keeps me close to home, I'm afraid.”

Maggie bustled into the room with a tray of tea and biscuits for their mother, then discreetly left them alone.

“And how are my brothers?”

“They're all doing fine. Tommy and Eileen are expecting their fourth babe around Christmas. Paddy and Claire are busy with the twins. And Gabe works hard at the fire station. No time for a wife yet, I'm afraid. I thank God every day that my boys stayed close to home. They take good care of me and Maggie.” She reached out a hand to pat Rylan's knee. “And my other son, who traveled across the globe, will be doing God's work.”

Rylan's gaze faltered under her admiration. He hung his head and studied the braided rug at his feet.

“Don't tell me you've got yourself banished from the seminary with that tongue of yours.”

“Not quite,” he murmured.

“Something's wrong. I can tell by your face.”

“I've been home fifteen minutes, Mum. Let's catch up first.
There'll be plenty of time tomorrow to talk about my problems.”

His mother straightened in her chair. “So there is a problem. I knew there was more to this visit than my health.”

Her words startled him. Had he really used his mother's ill health as an excuse to come home—to gauge her reaction to the decision he faced? A rush of air left his lungs. Perhaps on some unconscious level he couldn't make his final decision without her blessing. Perhaps that was the real reason holding him back.

Mum set down her teacup on the table beside her. “Come now. Tell me your troubles, and I'll do my best to give you an honest opinion.”

Rylan pushed to his feet and paced to the window overlooking his mother's back garden. A profusion of wildflowers coated the yard with color.

“Do you know why I went into the priesthood, Mum?” he asked, his back to her.

“Because you had the calling.”

He stuffed his hands into his pockets. “Not exactly.” He paused to watch a butterfly flit from bloom to bloom. “I made a bargain with God when you were so sick years ago. That if He cured you, I'd give my life to His service.” Rylan turned from the window with a smile. “A price I was more than happy to pay.”

“Oh, Rylan.” Moisture rimmed her pale eyes.

“Once I made my decision, I never looked back. I was happy in the seminary, happy to devote myself to shepherding God's people.”

“What happened to change that?”

Mum always could see right through him. He came to sit on the lumpy sofa again, his hands clasped over his knees as though he were praying. “I met a woman . . . one of Cousin Kathleen's daughters, and without meaning to . . .” He inhaled deeply and released a long breath. “I fell in love with her.”

His mother reached over to grip his hands as silent tears coursed down her thin cheeks. She said nothing—only squeezed his fingers in gentle understanding.

“I don't know what to do. I've been on a retreat for a month trying to determine God's will for my life, but nothing is clear. No matter how hard I pray, no answers are forthcoming.” He choked back the emotion rising in his throat and looked to his mother, the fountain of his strength. “Why is God silent, Mum? Why am I not hearing His answer?”

She patted his knee. “Perhaps you're trying too hard. What does your heart tell you?”

The simple answer reverberated in his soul. “My heart aches . . . for Colleen. I love her so much it hurts.”

His mother's features softened, and a smile trembled on her lips. “I think you have your answer, lad.”

“But how can I go back on the promise I made to God?”

His mother placed a gnarled hand on his cheek. “God would never hold you to such a promise if it's the wrong thing for you. There are many ways to serve God without being a priest.”

“But what about you?” he asked sadly. “Won't you be terribly disappointed?” Guilt and fear squeezed his lungs. After everything his mother had done for him, he couldn't bear to let her down.

“The only thing I've ever wanted for my children is for them to find joy in whatever they do. If this woman makes you happy, then that's good enough for me.”

He slumped back against the cushions of the sofa. “But what will I do with my life if I leave the seminary? How will I make a living? I have nothing to offer her.”

His mother chuckled. “One step at a time, my boy. While you're here, use the time to get back to your roots and discover the things you love. Talk to your brothers. Talk to Father Reginald. And we'll all pray for you.”

Rylan smiled a true smile for the first time in weeks. He felt
lighter, more certain he was coming close to the right decision. He leaned over to kiss his mother's cheek. “Thank you, Mum. With your connection to the Almighty, I know I'll get an answer at last.”

Colleen stepped onto the back porch, letting the cool breeze fan her face. She'd finished reading Deirdre a bedtime story and now found herself at loose ends. Not tired enough to go to bed, where endless thoughts of Rylan would chase around her head like squirrels in a tree, she hoped the quiet sounds of the farm at night would soothe her soul.

She descended the stairs and wandered down the path toward the barn, noting how the bright moon illuminated the meadows in the distance. The flare of a match drew her attention to the fence where Gil stood, inhaling a thin cigar—the same type Daddy sometimes smoked.

“Hello, Gil.” She came to stand beside him. “Is it okay to share the fence with you? I don't want to cause any more trouble with my sister.”

His jaw hardened. “Your sister had better learn not to jump to conclusions every time I speak to a woman.”

The evening breeze ruffled her skirts about her ankles and blew some strands of hair across her face. How she wished Rylan were here to share this moment with her. She watched Gil blow out a long puff of smoke. “Since you rarely smoke except when you're upset, I'd say something's on your mind.”

“You could say that.”

“Business or Brianna?”

He shot a glance at her. “A bit of both, but mostly Brianna.”

“She didn't apologize to you?” It had been more than a week since their conversation, and Colleen assumed Bree had taken her advice.

“She did. I'm just not sure I've accepted it.” He poked a
boot in the dirt. “Until she gets over her insecurities, she'll never be able to fully trust me. And without trust, we can't build a future.”