The Emerald Isle (53 page)

“I’ve tried so many times.” He spoke in a wavering, tremulous whisper. “Everything I did, I did for him and Ballyshannon, but he never appreciated anything.” A dry, cynical laugh escaped him as he raked his hand through his hair. “Once, in school, I did a project on the results of inbreeding grade Holstein-Friesian cattle. The work took every spare minute of nine months, and I earned top marks for it. But was my father impressed? Not a bit! He just remarked that no bull would come near the quality of Graham Red, and only an eejit would waste his time studying such things.”

His chin wavered, and beneath his strong countenance I saw traces of the boy who’d been crushed by his father’s harsh and careless remark. Opening my arms, I drew him close, letting him spend the tears of a frustrated and anxious childhood. He clung to me like a drowning man clings to a buoy in the water, and something in me marveled at the strength in his shaking shoulders. My own childhood had been stable and happy, so I found it difficult to believe that mere words from a parent could so wound a child and haunt an intelligent adult.

But hadn’t Felim O’Connor wounded his daughter with words and prejudices? In the same way, something had turned James O’Neil against his son, and Patrick still struggled beneath the weight of that rejection. Yet he had only exacerbated the problem by pulling away.

Cold, clear reality swept over me in a terrible wave. Patrick’s anger and disappointment had burdened him long enough.

“It’s time to end this, Patrick,” I whispered. I pulled his head upright and gazed into his wet blue eyes. “Misery depends upon isolation, and you don’t need to be miserable anymore. Go upstairs and talk to your father. Don’t put it off another hour.”

He looked at me for a long moment, his eyes searching mine, then he nodded slowly and took my hand, lifting me with him.

We found Mr. O’Neil in a large, rectangular ward of eight beds. A nurse smiled at us as we came in, but her sober eyes flashed a silent warning:
Don’t upset my patient.

Mrs. O’Neil was sitting in a chair by the bedside, but she stood
as we approached and came forward to slip her arms around Patrick’s waist. “Maddie and Taylor were just here,” she whispered, patting Patrick’s back. “But they’ve gone now, and Taylor’s going to bring your car from the fairground. I thought you and Kathleen might want to head home soon.”

“I do, Mum, but first I have to speak to Dad.”

Mrs. O’Neil’s bright eyes searched his face, then she nodded and stepped away. I watched her retreat, certain that she, too, knew the time had come to settle old scores. I crossed one arm over my chest and watched her, wondering if she understood the barrier that stood between this father and son.

Patrick moved to the edge of his father’s bed and looked down.

“Dad?”

James O’Neil’s eyelids flickered, as if his eyes were moving behind the closed lids, then he opened his eyes and managed to give his son a tremulous smile. “Paddy.” He spoke the name with quiet emphasis. “I hoped you’d come. I wanted to thank you…for saving me miserable neck.”

“Somebody had to. Besides, you should be thanking our American guest. ’Twas Kathleen who got the terrible beast off your chest.” Patrick’s words and smile were playful, but his meaning was not, and James took the hint and turned toward me.

“’Tis true, I should thank you, lass. I’ll never be forgetting what you did for me out there.”

I gave him a smile that said
no big deal
, then looked at Patrick, silently urging him on. He met my gaze and seemed to take courage from something he saw in my eyes. Taking a seat in his mother’s empty chair, he leaned forward and braced his elbows upon his knees.

“Dad, I want to talk to you. There’s been something between us for years, and ’tis more than the fact that my ideas and your ideas don’t mix. I don’t think I’ve ever had an idea you liked, but let’s forget about that now. Truth to tell, I don’t want to be your enemy, Dad. I’d really like to be your son.”

Overcome by raw emotion, I glanced away and saw Mrs. O’Neil
standing in the ward doorway. Tears glistened in the wells of her eyes, and she held a handkerchief knotted in her hand.

I pressed my hand to my forehead, hoping to stifle the fountain rising inside me, then looked back to the man in the bed. His face had twisted at Patrick’s words, his eyes screwing tight as if to trap the sudden rush of tears, but they streamed down his temples and into his dark hair while his shoulders shook in silent sobs.

“Dad, I don’t want to upset you.” Patrick reached out to smooth the sheet over his father’s chest. “I’ve caused you enough pain over the years. I just wanted you to know I’m sorry for all that—just like I’m sorry ’twas little Mark that died instead of me. I know you doted on that baby something fierce.”

I heard Mrs. O’Neil’s quick intake of breath and realized that this revelation was as much a surprise to her as it was to me. James shook his head back and forth on the pillow, like a sick child refusing the medicine that would make him well.

“Ah, no, Paddy, you shouldn’t blame yourself for that.” Mr. O’Neil’s voice scraped terribly, as if he labored to produce it, but the words began to come faster and flow. “The troubles between us had nothing to do with the baby, nothing at all. ’Twas just that I didn’t know what to do wit’ you.” He paused, one hand rising to claw the air as a harsh keening sound rose in his throat, then he closed his eyes as a wall of resistance seemed to break inside him. He took a deep breath, pulled his mouth in at the corners, and brought his trembling hand to his lips. And then, though his face looked old and tired, a younger, more insecure man looked out from those blue eyes and stared at his son.

“Ah, Paddy, you should know the truth, I owe you that much. The teachers said you were bright, and you came home wit’ all sorts of ideas that made no sense at all. At first I let you go your way, prattling about this and that. But when you began to look about the farm, you talked of ideas I couldn’t follow, let alone put into practice. Sure, I wanted you to help me with Ballyshannon, but everything with you had to be more complicated, more economical, and more sensible. I
could never see any sense in any of it.” A note of wistfulness stole into his expression. “You were always so far ahead of me, Paddy. I had no idea how to keep up wit’ you.”

“I’m so sorry, Dad.” Patrick gulped hard, tears slipping down his own cheeks. “I didn’t mean to make you feel that way. You’re a good farmer, and no one knows cattle like you.”

“You wouldn’t have known that today, would you now?” James barked a short laugh, then grimaced in pain and pressed his hands to his ribs. “Och, I can’t be laughin’ for a while yet, my ribs pain me something fierce.” His gaze moved into his son’s, and his hand rose from the blanket and reached for Patrick’s. “But I want you to know that even though I didn’t know what to do wit’ you, I always knew you were special. Trouble was, I thought God gave you to the wrong man. You should have been the son of a doctor or a barrister.”

A dim flush raced like a fever across Patrick’s strong face. “I never wanted to be anything but your son, Dad. And if it’s all right, I’d like to stay on at the farm. I want you to rest and enjoy Maddie’s wedding.”

For a moment the older man’s expression darkened with a host of unreadable emotions, then he stretched out his arms. Rising from the chair, Patrick gently lowered himself into his father’s embrace. I stood at the foot of the bed, crying like a baby, and then felt Mrs. O’Neil’s solid arm slide around my waist.

“I don’t know what you’ve done to our Paddy,” she whispered, tilting her head toward my shoulder,“but bless you for it, love. I’ve been praying years for this miracle.”

The next month passed in a flurry of pre-wedding activity. The bed-and-breakfast officially closed, the“public” rooms becoming“family” rooms for all to enjoy. James came home and rested in a bed we moved to the sitting room so he could watch all the goings-on and enjoy the company that stopped by to deposit bridal gifts. Taylor wrapped up his Kipling studies and mailed a heavy manuscript to New York City College, along with a note to remind his depart
ment head that he’d be returning in time for the beginning of second semester.

A week after the cattle fair, a new bull, an ebony Scottish Angus, arrived to fill Graham Red’s bullpen. A day after the bull’s arrival, I sat outside on the picnic table and watched Patrick paint the weathered sign that had hung at the beginning of the drive. In bright red lettering, the sign now proclaimed,“Ballyshannon—Home of Graham Red II.”

After seeing to the new bull, Patrick took a few days and drove to Limerick to settle his affairs and vacate his apartment. He asked me to go with him, but by that time I was knee-deep in obligations to Maddie. She had recently changed her mind and decided that I should be maid of honor. Not a bad promotion—from unwanted houseguest to chief lady-in-waiting in a matter of days.

The night before the wedding, the other bridesmaids came to the house to escort Maddie to an impromptu hen party, this one at Dugan’s Pub, the center of Ballinderry social life. Thankfully, Maddie excused me from this little tradition.

Ordinarily the groom’s friends would have taken him to the pub for a stag party, but since Taylor had no Irish friends (and, truth be told, no desire to make any), he was perfectly content to sit in the front room and read while James and Fiona watched American movies from the video rental. Taylor’s mother was too involved with her new husband and his career to make the trip to Ireland, but if her absence bothered him, I couldn’t tell. Patrick hadn’t yet returned from Limerick, though his mother and sister had threatened him with certain bodily harm if he didn’t return by morning on the big day.

After dinner, I went to my room and began organizing my clothes, mentally preparing to pack for the trip home. Tomorrow I’d see Taylor and Maddie safely down the aisle and married, then I’d sincerely wish them well as they departed for their honeymoon. None of the O’Neils had mentioned my departure from Ballyshannon, and I had a feeling I would be welcome if I wanted to stay a few more days and finish my work on Cahira. Eventually, though, I’d have to sort
through my feelings and discard a few things—and a few
feelings—
as I readied myself for the long trip back to New York.

Might as well begin.

I picked up a photograph Patrick had given me. The photo, snapped in the moment before James fell, showed a confident, smiling Irishman with his hands braced in his vest pockets. The cow that nearly killed him filled the background.

I stuck the photo between the pages of my Bible so I’d see it often in the months and years ahead. I’d see it and remember to pray for the O’Neils, and then I’d think of Patrick.

I couldn’t deny that I had developed strong feelings for him. We had been through so much together—his acceptance of Christ, his struggle with his father, and that moving reconciliation scene in the hospital. My life had become entangled with his at several crisis points, so the sooner I got back to New York, the sooner I could
untangle
myself and pick up the strings of my blissfully ordinary life.

My life wouldn’t be the same though. Patrick probably didn’t realize how his insistent questions had forced me to reevaluate many of the things I’d been taught since childhood. I didn’t think I would ever again accept a preacher’s opinion without wanting to hear supporting evidence. My faith, after all, wasn’t blind. It was based upon the Word of God, upon the testimony of ancient witnesses, upon the evidence of God’s creation and the order I saw every time I looked across these rolling green hills.

The longer I stayed in Ireland, though, the more I realized that far too many people felt it was wrong to question established traditions. Patrick was an exception, but he was right. God couldn’t be afraid of honest questions. As the creator of curiosity and human intellect, how could he ever fear us? And if he is the Truth, as I believe he is, our curious questions certainly can’t upset him.

So I was going back to New York with a new outlook on my life. I had always thought I’d settle down and marry some academic type, but now I wasn’t so sure I wanted to get married at all. Maybe I could pursue a career in historical research after I published the Cahira
books—
if
I ever published the Cahira books. Or maybe I could take a job for the
Times
and win a Pulitzer. Anything was possible.