The Emerald Isle (24 page)

Not wanting to push myself on Patrick, offend Maddie, or embarrass Taylor, I walked on eggshells for the next week. Mrs. O’Neil treated me with the practiced deference I suppose she extended to all her B’B guests, but she did invite me to eat my meals in the kitchen with Maddie and Taylor. A few B’B guests came and went, leaving a pile of laundry and dirty dishes in their wake.

I moved my laptop, library books, and note cards into the little building outside the main house and gradually overcame my embarrassment at reading and writing in the room Patrick slept in every night. Taylor told me the entire story of this arrangement one morning when Mrs. O’Neil stepped outside. That first night after Patrick’s return, he had gone into the family quarters and sought out his old room, only to find that Mrs. O’Neil had given it to Taylor. Patrick didn’t make a scene, Taylor told me, but Maddie seemed to realize that Patrick might feel that he’d been forced out of his own family by a Yankee husband-to-be. Though he could have taken one of the guest bedrooms at the front of the house, Maddie thought that arrangement might make me uncomfortable.

“Yes, I’m sure she was worried about me,” I remarked at this point in Taylor’s retelling. Maddie was not a particularly bright girl, but she was intuitive, and I wondered if she had any sense that something had begun to develop between Patrick and me.
I
wasn’t certain that something had, but Maddie knew her brother better than I did.

“Anyway,” Taylor continued, “Fiona suggested that Patrick sleep out in the little house, as long as you don’t mind. So it’s yours to use during the day and Patrick’s to sleep in at night. And he’s an early riser, so you don’t have to worry about waking him up in the morning.”

So Patrick and I were now co-tenants of the little house. I discovered that no matter how early I rapped on the wooden door, I never caught him asleep. Though the bed was usually strewn with his sweaters and socks and jeans, he never touched my computer, my papers, or my books. After a day or two, I saw that he had set up his own laptop at the end of the long desk, and though his living quarters
looked as though a hurricane had blown through them, he kept his work area as neat as a GI’s footlocker.

Now that Patrick was helping with the farm work, Mr. O’Neil spent most of his time in his room or the kitchen. For the first time, I recognized signs of the illness that was sapping his strength. I often saw him wince as he lowered himself into a chair, and I realized he must have been an incredibly strong man if he had been able to maintain his schedule for months without help. I was certain his wife and daughter noticed the difference in the man he had become compared to the man he used to be, but I saw only a quiet man who enjoyed crossword puzzles, his pipe, and Irish pub songs.

Erin Kelly usually managed to pop by every day at lunchtime when Patrick came in from the fields, and no matter what the weather or what she’d been doing, she always looked eager and freshly scrubbed. Her clothing—whether a sweater and skirt or jeans—always emphasized a body so curvaceous a teenaged boy might have sketched it, and I couldn’t help wondering how Patrick remained unaware of her silent entreaties. She was woman enough to advertise her availability and girl enough not to give a fig about her pride. But each time Patrick saw her, he simply gave her a friendly smile or rumpled her hair, then asked for the potato salad or bread or whatever his mother had set out for lunch. Patrick O’Neil, it seemed, kept his mind on food when he came to the table.

On Thursday, however, just before Patrick headed back out to the barn, I caught his sleeve. “Patrick”—I lowered my voice so none of the others would hear—“Maddie is planning a luncheon for her bridesmaids tomorrow. If I’m around, they’ll be forced to invite me, but if I have plans…”

His eyes narrowed as they looked into mine. “So you’d like to do a bit of sightseeing then?”

I nodded. “If that’d be okay with you.”

He lifted a brow. “Sure. In the morning then. We’ll be out before you have a chance to get under Maddie’s feet.” He gave me a
devilish grin. “I’ve seen her all of a dither, and ’tis best to stay out of her way. We’ll be off right after the milking’.”

I wasn’t sure what time the milking was usually done, but I rose early and dressed, then went down to breakfast. The clock on the wall said seven-thirty, and Mrs. O’Neil seemed quiet and tired as she sipped her tea. A big bowl, covered with a plate to keep its contents warm, sat in the middle of the table.

I lifted the edge of the plate and saw a mound of scrambled eggs and several strips of bacon in the bowl. “Shall I serve myself?” I asked quietly.

“Aye.” Mrs. O’Neil lifted her hands and rubbed her temples. “Please do. I’m not much in the mood for cooking this morning. Thank the Lord there are no guests coming today.”

I took a plate from the cupboard and spooned out a helping of the eggs, then took a single strip of bacon, leaving lots for the others. There was no sign of Patrick, Maddie, or Taylor, and I knew they’d be hungry.

I slipped into my usual place on the bench, said a silent prayer, and lifted my gaze to find Mrs. O’Neil watching me.

One of her auburn brows lifted slightly. “Are you a religious person?”

“I’m a Christian, yes.” I lifted the piece of bacon and took a small bite, then nodded toward the statue of the Virgin Mary atop the microwave. “I see you and your family are Catholic.”

“Sure.” Mrs. O’Neil nodded, then took a sip of her tea. “And Taylor’s going to see the priest today. He’ll have to be confirmed in the Church before the wedding.”

I stared at the statue of Mary and said nothing. Taylor and I had never talked much about his religious beliefs, and I hadn’t even considered the possibility that he’d be asked to join the Catholic Church. Would it make a difference to him? I honestly didn’t know. If he even had a personal relationship with God, it was covered by so many activities and studies and concerns and relationships that I’d never seen it.

I smiled at Mrs. O’Neil and mentally chalked up a potential
obstacle in this marriage. If I’d known about this church situation in June, I certainly would have brought it up, but I couldn’t say anything now. I had promised to keep my mouth shut and to wish the happy couple well. If Taylor had qualms about Maddie’s church, he’d have to raise his own objections.

I scooped up my eggs and ate quickly. Mr. O’Neil must have been restless with pain in the night, for deep lines of strain bracketed Mrs. O’Neil’s mouth, and blue half-moons of exhaustion lay beneath her eyes.

“Is Mr. O’Neil feeling okay?” I asked, knowing the question sounded inane.

“He’s asleep finally.”

After placing my knife and fork across my plate, I stood. “I hope he rests well today. Having Patrick home to help with the work must be a tremendous comfort to him.”

Mrs. O’Neil snorted, and the unladylike sound was so unlike her I nearly dropped my plate. “A help? A thorn in the flesh is more like it. Paddy and James don’t get along, and ’tis only because of the sickness that James accepts him home at all. I’ve been praying for years that Paddy would come home, and here he is. But if the Lord’s to work a miracle, he’d better start soon.”

She rose suddenly, her chair scraping across the linoleum, and dashed a tear from her eye. I hesitated for a moment, giving her time to calm her emotions, then carried my plate to the sink. I didn’t know how to comfort her, but I thought I should try.

Finding an obscure peace in the ordinary act of cleaning up, I began to rinse my plate. “Sometimes God answers in ways we don’t expect,” I said, running the hot water over my dish. “When my parents died, I prayed for lots of things—revenge mostly. The drunk driver who killed them got five years in jail, but I wanted him to rot in prison. I was so upset I couldn’t go back to school for two years. I couldn’t do anything but work and pray and call the courthouse to see if that guy had been put away yet. Finally he was, and then something happened.”

Mrs. O’Neil didn’t speak, but she lifted a brow as she put out her hand for my plate.

I handed her the dripping dish. “The guy wrote me a letter. A man had visited him in prison and shared the story of Jesus Christ. He became a Christian and is now planning to become a chaplain when he’s released. He’s already led twenty of his fellow inmates to Christ.” Something bubbled up from deep within me, a raw emotion I thought I’d buried long ago. My voice bobbled when I added, “He asked me to forgive him.”

Mrs. O’Neil bent to slide the plate into the bottom rack of the dishwasher, then straightened and met my gaze. “Did you?”

I felt my flesh color. “I know it should have been easy. I should have been delighted. I should have understood that this was the good thing God was going to bring out of my parents’ deaths. But it took me a long time before I could see things that way. Sometimes I have a hard time tracing the rainbow in the rain.”

“I will pray for you.” The words were spoken so softly I nearly missed them, but then I felt the light touch of her damp hands on my shoulders as she squeezed me from behind in a light embrace. The thought that
she
, burdened with so much, would offer to pray for me—well, the rising tide of emotion within me threatened to overflow. I lowered my hands back into the sink and looked for something else to rinse.

“I’ve been praying for Patrick and his father for a very long time,” she said, her voice soft as she moved to the table and began to gather the other breakfast dishes. “And I’m worried about Paddy. I don’t think he’s been going to church in Limerick, and it breaks my heart to think he could abandon his faith.”

When I could speak with a steady voice. I asked, “Did he ever really have it? Faith, I mean.”

“I don’t know.” She brought two empty plates, both clean, and stacked them on the counter. “He loved learning about God when he was a little boy, but then he seemed to lose interest. I don’t think he’s
ever come to the place…of surrender.” Her eyes clouded with sadness. “Neither has James. Oh, he’s a good church-going man who fears God, but he’s terrible set on doing things his own way.”

A moment of companionable silence fell between us, then I noticed the empty plates. Obviously Patrick and James had not eaten breakfast.

“Is Patrick awake yet?” I had not yet been downstairs this early and thought he might still be asleep. “He promised to take me for a drive today. We thought we might do a bit of exploring.”

“Paddy’s been up since sunrise. You’ll find him out in the barn.”

“Thanks, Mrs. O’Neil.” I shut off the water and wiped my hands on the dishtowel, resolutely turning my thoughts from past problems to future possibilities.

I found the metal gate that led to the enclosed area devoted to the real work of Ballyshannon, then lifted the latch and slipped through the opening. No one had ever told me guests weren’t allowed into the barn area, but the arrangement of the house made it clear that certain areas belonged to guests while others were reserved for family. Guests could take their ease in the sitting room and dining room, the front lawn and the garden. The kitchen seemed to be a neutral territory into which a brave guest
might
venture. But the back-wing bedrooms and the barnyard were definitely private property, so I felt a little like a trespasser as I walked toward the long rectangular building.

Three buildings occupied this area, four if you counted the roofed structure without walls. Under that aluminum roof I saw a tractor and other kinds of farm equipment I didn’t recognize, as well as dozens of bales of hay stacked at least ten feet high. Next to this shed stood a smaller building with padlocked double doors. Immediately behind the hay shed I could see another long and rectangular roofed structure.

The O’Neils’ little terrier, Shout, came running toward me, then stopped in my path, his hyperactive paws beating the ground in a
canine dance of delight. “You want someone to notice you?” I bent and scratched behind the dog’s ears. “Believe me, I know the feeling.”

Shout accepted my affection with delicate pleasure, then his ears pricked to attention as his eyes saw something in the distance. Without a warning, he was off and running again, leaving me alone. Just like every other male in my life.

Shoving my hands into my pockets, I walked toward a separate building at the edge of the pasture. Through a pair of yawning double doors the sound of contemporary music spilled out into the silent barnyard.

“Patrick?” I stood on the threshold and called his name but saw neither man nor cow in the small room beyond. A rectangular silver tank took up most of the available space, and a series of white plastic tubes ran along the ceiling and disappeared into a hole in the concrete wall. The lid to the container stood open, and as I walked forward, I saw an ocean of creamy milk stirring in the refrigerated tank.

I looked up at the tubing again and saw the pulse of liquid beneath the plastic. They weren’t white tubes, but clear, and filled with milk.

A cinderblock wall separated this refrigeration room from another, and the music poured through another doorway. I crossed the spotless cement floor, then stepped into the milking room.