The Emerald Isle (28 page)

I pulled underwear and socks from a dresser drawer, pulled a clean sweater and slacks from the wardrobe, then tiptoed into the bathroom. After showering and dressing, I arranged my notebooks, pens, and camera in my book bag, then hurried downstairs.

There were no B&B guests, so the usual bowl of eggs, bacon, and sausage sat in the center of the kitchen table. I lifted the lid, inhaled the heavy scents of fried foods, and found myself inexplicably longing for a Pop-Tart.

Taylor and Maddie had risen early too. They sat across from each other at the table, but neither was eating. Maddie had a pen in her hand and a legal pad before her; Taylor’s nose was buried in a book. I tilted my head to check the spine:
A Modern Criticism of Kiplings Kim and Other English Novels.

I smothered a smile as I sat down and buttered a piece of soda bread. If I had married Taylor, we’d probably both read at the breakfast table, so neither of us would make it out the door on time. Maddie might be flighty, but she possessed a drive Taylor sorely needed.

Determined to atone for all the gloom I’d caused, I gave Maddie a sunshiny smile. “What are you two doing today?”

Maddie’s lower lip edged forward in a pout. “Nothing very exciting, I’m afraid. Taylor’s reading for his thesis, and I’m working on the guestlist. But I’m nearly done, which means I’ll soon have nothing to do but watch Taylor read.”

She frowned and parked her chin on her fingertips, but suddenly her eyes brightened. “Hey! You and Paddy are driving up to Roscommon, right? I could go with you! It’s been ages since I’ve been up that way.”

The heavy bread seemed to cling to the roof of my mouth, and I stopped chewing. Maddie wanted to come with us? A dozen objections rose in my brain like a flock of suddenly startled birds. If she came along, she’d want to sit beside Patrick in the front seat, so I’d be stuck in the back, once again feeling like an outsider. She would occupy Patrick’s attention the entire time. They’d laugh at stories and people they had known for years, while I would hover on the fringe of every conversation, if they included me at all. It wasn’t fair that she should push me away from Taylor and keep me from the closest thing to a friend I’d made in Ireland. She was Patrick’s sister, after all, and had enjoyed his company most of her life. Why couldn’t she let me enjoy him for one day?

The weed of jealousy stung like the nettles I had brushed against on one of my walks through the pasture. The pain caught me by surprise, and surprise brought me back to reality.

Not one of my objections was legitimate. Of course Maddie could come. She was Patrick’s sister. They hadn’t spent much time together since his homecoming, and soon she’d be marrying an American and moving back to the United States. Patrick and I had no relationship to speak of, so there was nothing for her to intrude upon.

Grateful that I hadn’t said anything to reveal my foolish feelings, I lowered my head and hoped she wouldn’t notice my flushed cheeks.

My thoughts were interrupted by Patrick himself, who entered
the kitchen and stomped his feet on the rug inside the kitchen door. “Morning,” he told me, then smiled at his sister. “Glad to see you’re up early, Maddie. After singing half the night away, I didn’t expect to see you before noon.”

“Paddy, I have the most wonderful idea.” Maddie clapped her hands together and jauntily cocked her head to one side. “Taylor’s going to spend all day in his books, and that’s no need for me to waste a day. Why don’t I come with you to County Roscommon? We had hardly a minute to talk since you came home.”

Patrick moved slowly to the sink, then washed his hands under running water. “Sorry, but you can’t be going with me today,” he answered, intent upon his scrubbing. “I need you to stay behind in case we’re delayed. We should be back by six, but I want to know someone’s here to take care of the milking if Dad’s not feeling up to it.”

Maddie stared at him, astounded. “Me, milk the cows? Why, I haven’t been out to that milking shed in years! I wouldn’t know how to do it. Mum and Dad are the only ones who tend to the cattle these days.”

“Perhaps it’s time, then, that you are learning about the family business.” Patrick shut off the water and picked up a towel to dry his hands, then leaned back against the counter and fixed his sister in a stern glance. “Taylor can help you, and Mum can remind you of anything you’ve forgotten. But she’s exhausted with caring for Dad, and Dad’s not as well as he thinks. So stay here like a good lass and keep an eye on things, will you?”

Maddie stared at her brother, her face a mask of incredulity, then she turned and fixed her gaze on me.

For some reason I felt slightly guilty, but I brushed off the feeling and stood. “Let me get my things,” I told Patrick, eager to be away from the kitchen. “I’ll be down directly.”

Patrick was fairly quiet as we left Ballinderry and drove north, and I couldn’t help but wonder if he was suffering pangs of guilt for leaving
his sister at home. After a few minutes he switched on the radio, and we laughed together as a perky radio disc jockey regaled her listeners with delightful stories from her childhood.

I studied the scenery as we drove, thinking that the emerald hills of Ireland had to be one of the most beautiful spots on God’s earth. In places where the road climbed a hill and the hedgerows had been clipped, I could see an immense patchwork of gold and green fields stretching toward the horizon. Cattle and sheep dotted the pastures, and huge rolls of mown hay adorned others. Once we had to stop the car and wait for a farmer to herd his cattle across the street, and I smiled as I recalled a postcard I had seen in the airport. The postcard scene was much like this—a farmer stopping traffic to herd sheep, while the caption below proclaimed “Irish traffic jam.”

I decided I far preferred the Irish version to the New York variety.

“Tell me what you see,” Patrick said, gesturing toward the window when we began to drive again.

I craned my neck to study his face. Surely he was joking. “What do you mean?”

His dark blue eyes twinkled with merriment. “It’s not a difficult question. Just tell me what you see outside the car.”

“Grass and fields. Fences. Cows and sheep.”

“All right. Now tell me how many shades of green you see.”

I stared out the window, stumped by the question. How many shades? There had to be at least half a dozen. There was the deep emerald of the soft grass, the slight golden green of the sunlit hayfields, the darker green of the trailing ivy…

“You make me wish I had my thesaurus handy,” I grumbled, still staring out the window. “But I’ll take a wild guess. I think I see six different shades, give or take one or two.”

The glint of humor returned to his eyes. “Very good, for a Yank. Most tourists see four or five, but you’re ahead of the game.”

“How many do
you
see?”

His gaze shifted to the rearview mirror as he pulled around a
slow-moving tractor. “A true Irishman can count at least forty. I think I’ve identified forty-five.”

I grimaced in good humor. “You’re joking, aren’t you?”

“Not at all.”

We drove through Terryglass and Lorrha, sizable towns by Irish standards, but still quaint and provincial to my way of thinking. My stomach had begun to growl by the time we approached Birr, and I hoped Patrick would think about stopping for lunch. To my delight, he slowed the car as we approached the city limits, then glanced at the clock on the dashboard. “Ready for a bit of a stop?”

“I was hoping you’d think so. I’m getting hungry.”

He gave me an apologetic glance. “I’m not sure what we’ll find in the way of food, but there should be something. I was thinking of stopping at the town center. The American evangelist is here, you know.”

I stared out at the street as bits and pieces of information flew together in my brain. Maddie had mentioned the preacher last night at dinner, and while her family ridiculed the idea, Patrick remained silent. A far-fetched idea occurred to me, but still I had to wonder: Had he wanted to drive out with me today just to hear an American evangelist?

The town of Birr was a beautiful community with broad streets lined with the unruffled design of Georgian homes. A spacious square stood at the center of the town, and Patrick resolutely steered the car toward the town’s center.

I said nothing as Patrick maneuvered the car into a parking spot. Then we got out and studied the town square. Several shops stood on the main street, including a sandwich shop. Patrick noted it, then his gaze drifted toward a wooden sign pointing toward a park. Even from the street I could see that an amphitheater had been carved into a gently sloping hill.

“Will you come?” He looked at me then, and I was surprised to see naked entreaty in his eyes. “I’ve been wanting to hear this man,
and”—he shrugged as his voice faded away—“well, there’s no time like the present, right?”

“Of course I’ll come.” I stepped up onto the sidewalk, then waited for him to join me. He seemed so nervous and ill-at-ease that I instinctively reached out and took his hand. His palm was clammy, but his hand tightened around mine as we fell into a stream of pedestrians and made our way into the amphitheater.

There weren’t more than a hundred people seated on the benches, I thought, looking around as we found seats in the warm sunlight. What had appeared to be a decent crowd on the sidewalk turned out to be a horde of shopkeepers and bankers going to the square to eat lunch outdoors; few of them had actually come to hear the American Protestant preacher. But from where they sat on the grass they couldn’t help but hear his message, and as a woman stood in the center of the stage and sang a song about grace, I noticed that several of the picnickers turned to watch.

I leaned sideways and nudged Patrick with my shoulder. “Is this why you asked Maddie to stay home today? Are you embarrassed by your curiosity?”

I was about to add that he shouldn’t be, for without curiosity one never learned anything, but Patrick looked at me with a touch of sadness in his faint smile. “I’m not embarrassed…but Maddie wouldn’t understand this. Neither would my parents. They are content in the Church.”

“And you’re not?”

Something that looked almost like bitterness entered his face. “I’m not content in anything.”

I would have pressed him further, but the singer sat down, then a man stood and walked to the center of the stage. His name was Thomas Smithson, he told us, and God had called him to be a witness to Ireland and her people. He had not come to bring strife or division or trouble, but to teach the Word of God to those who wanted to hear it.

I’d been going to church all my life, but this guy’s approach was different from anything I’d ever heard. For one thing, he didn’t tell stories about people burning in hell or read pages and pages of Scripture. He read only one verse, John 3:16, then he explained that God loved the world so much that he provided a perfect sacrifice—his only Son—in order to reach out to every man and woman who would accept his gift.

“God created you perfect and complete,” Smithson said, his unamplified voice rising clearly from the stage, “but sin destroyed the fellowship we were meant to have with God. Now we suffer from an emptiness where we should enjoy communion with the One who created us in his image. If you feel empty and incomplete, God longs to fill you. This is the mystery of love, that the God who created you for a unique purpose desires to have you know him so much that he sacrificed his Son. Accept his provision today, trust his plan for your life, and you will never know emptiness again.”

Some observer from the grass called out a rude remark, but Smith-son only lifted his hand and bowed his head. “My blessed Father and God,” he prayed, apparently oblivious to the catcalls from the picnickers, “I thank you that we do not need a priest or sacrament or indulgence to approach your holy throne. Your Son is the bridge between man and God, and through Jesus alone we can know peace with you. Let your Spirit touch the hearts that are ready to be filled; give courage to those who are ready to make this decision. I lift this prayer in the blessed and holy name of Jesus, my Savior.”

I felt a slight shiver when he mentioned the name of Jesus. Not many American ministers dared to be so bold in a public arena. Most were eager to talk about God and faith and the spiritual life, but few these days actually spoke Jesus’ name. Fewer still would acknowledge him as “my Savior.”

My thoughts filtered back to my last dinner with Aunt Kizzie, and her words rippled through my brain:
I’m not worrying about you, love, but thinking of the people you’ll meet. Will you tell them about Jesus, or will you spend your time prattling about this Marcy Anne Wilkerson?
I didn’t need Kizzie to tell me that Marcy Anne Wilkerson wouldn’t be talking about Jesus if she were here.

As the prayer ended, I opened my eyes and glanced around at the circle of benches. An organist was playing soft strains of “Just as I Am,” but Thomas Smithson was no Billy Graham. The aisles remained clear; there were no hordes rushing down to speak to counselors and receive booklets about how to become a Christian. There was, in fact, no movement at all. Thomas Smithson had apparently misinterpreted his call to come to Birr.