When Light Breaks (30 page)

I pulled my legs up under me and leaned back on the rocking chair. The screen door behind me slapped; I turned to Brian.

“Hey, bro. I didn’t know you were home.” I wiped my face, tried to sit up straighter.

“I just arrived a little while ago, but snuck in the back door when I saw Peyton.”

“Oh...”

He glanced down at my hand, my empty finger. “Over?”

I nodded. “There is something wrong with me, Brian. Why can’t I love enough to beg him to stay, to fight for him to stay? I’m sitting here—just sitting here like a fool.”

“Maybe because you don’t want it that badly, Kara. It is sad, but maybe not sad enough.”

I nodded. “No, it’s pretty damn sad.”

“Then get up and do something about it.”

I looked at Brian and spoke the truth. “I don’t
want
to.”

“Oh?” Then he laughed.

“It’s not funny.”

He sat in the chair next to me, leaned forward. “I know it’s not funny. I’m sorry.”

“Time to face the family music,” I said. “I’ve got to tell Daddy, Deirdre, Charlotte.” I groaned. “All that work, the dress, the damn flowers, the invitations.”

Brian reached his hand out, took mine in his. “You want me to tell them?”

“No, I have to do it myself. It seems there is a theme in my life—leaving.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” my brother said, and hugged me.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

T
he following weeks were filled with the mandatory calls to be made, reservations to be canceled, deposits lost, and family quagmire to wade through.

After I left Brian’s house that morning, I sat down in Daddy’s office to tell him and Deirdre about the broken engagement.

“Peyton and I are not getting married.” I took a long, deep breath and looked at my father, then my sister in the eye.

Deirdre jumped up, threw her arms wide in exasperation, then looked to Daddy. “This is why you should’ve never told us what Mama said about following your heart—she’s broken off an engagement to the best man she’ll ever catch.”

I laughed, the sound reaching my ears before I’d even realized I’d laughed out loud. “Catch? You think Peyton was a catch? For God’s sake, Deirdre.”

She turned back to me. “You never think rationally, Kara. You’re always chasing after the next thing . . . always thinking there is something better around the corner. You have no idea what you’ve done.”

“Deirdre.” I stood, touched her arm. “He broke it off with me.”

She stepped back, then held up her hand. “Oh.”

“It was probably my fault,” I said, “but he broke it off—he didn’t think I loved him enough.”

Deirdre sat in the leather wingback chair and looked up at me. “Did you?”

“Probably not.”

Daddy stood now, came over, hugged me. “I have to admit—I wanted this marriage for you, Kara. I did. But I’ve got to trust you.” He shook his head. “I just hope it wasn’t because of anything I told you . . . or did.”

“No, Daddy.”

“I have to believe that you know what you’re doing.”

Deirdre snorted. “Dad, you know you’ll lose all your deposits.”

“Better than losing Kara to a man she doesn’t love.”

I spoke to Deirdre. “I’m not really sure why you’re so angry.”

“Is this about Jack?” she asked.

When she spoke his name, I allowed the same question I’d held at bay to enter my heart. “I’m not sure, Deirdre. I’m confused and lost about a lot of things.”

“You are?” She walked toward me, and half of her face appeared as though her muscles could not decide whether to crumble in tears or clamp down in judgment. “You’re confused and lost? You were about to marry the greatest guy you have probably ever met and you’re confused?” Her voice rose higher and higher until I wanted to cover my ears.

I lifted my hand. “Yes, I’m confused. I know this has probably never happened to you.”

She narrowed her eyes at me, leaned toward me. “You have no idea what confusion is all about, Kara Larson. No idea whatsoever.” Then the muscles wanting to cry gave way, her face fell in on itself and she ran from the room, up the stairs. The slam of a door echoed down the stairs and into Daddy’s office.

I turned to him. “What in the . . . ?”

He shrugged. “Kara, I’m at a loss here. I don’t know how to help you. I don’t know how to help Deirdre.” He bit his lower lip in a gesture I’d never seen from him. “I need your mother right now.”

I reached for him and hugged him. “So do I. I’ve got so much to do to cancel all this, Daddy. Can we talk later?”

He turned back to me. “Yes, and let me know how I can help.” He pointed to a large envelope on the side table. “By the way, that small package arrived for you this morning.”

I walked over, opened it, and took a deep breath: it was the antique postcard of Galway Bay that I’d ordered on eBay. A hooker dominated the photo; it sailed sideways, cutting through water so blue it must have been hand colored. The water separated for the boat as it aimed directly for the side of the quay, and the docked boats, to the thatched-roof houses. The vessel was reaching, sailing, yearning for home: to dock. I imagined Maeve standing on that quay—waiting. Did she really want me to find this man who might not exist? I sighed and turned toward the stairs, took them two at a time to Deirdre’s room.

I pushed her door open without knocking and entered the room with my hands on my hips. “Tell me what in the hell is going on with you.”

She sat on the bed, curled over, staring in her hands. I walked to the bed. She stared at me. “What if we’re not who she wanted us to be? What if we’re a disappointment?” Deirdre choked on the words.

I sighed, sat on the edge of the mattress. “I don’t think that her last words had anything to do with being who
she
wanted us to be, but with being who . . . we were meant to be.”

Deirdre’s face hardened again. “Don’t you think that after Daddy told you what Mama said, you got confused?”

“No, if anything, I got clearer.”

She lifted her eyebrows. “Clearer? What do you mean?”

“You know how Mama said to listen for the hints? Well, I heard them in a story.”

“A story? You are not making any sense at all.”

“I think we all hear hints differently. The way I hear it, you won’t. I think the main thing is, Mama didn’t want us to shut off our hearts.”

Deirdre just stared at me; her face quivered.

“Are you okay?” I asked.

“I can’t stand to disappoint one more person in my life. Now I’m disappointing our dead mother because I’ve shut off my heart. I want to love . . . I swear I do.”

She spoke as though I had left the room and she was talking to the Spanish moss hanging in front of her window, as if it could catch her words in its net and carry them safely away. “I’ve guarded my heart in every way I know how. I have lost my friends, lost my husband. I’ve guarded my heart with duty, with busyness, with anger. . . .”

She turned to me now. “Do you think we both just don’t know how to love enough?”

“No,” I said, “I don’t believe that.” I paused in thought. “Do you remember when you woke me up in the middle of the night, and took me to see the turtles hatch?”

“What?”

“Do you remember that?”

“No, I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

I took her hand. “I was young; five, maybe six. You came into my room in the middle of the night and held my hand, led me over the lawn, across the footbridge and down to the beach to watch the turtles hatch, then crawl toward the water. We cried together because those babies had to do that alone, all alone. No one ever knew we sneaked out—it was our secret.”

Her chin rose slowly. “Yes, I remember. I knew Mama was sick then, and you didn’t.”

“Yes, I did.”

“No, we hadn’t told you yet. I was eleven and we hadn’t told you.”

“But I knew. I remember how I knew I would have to do the same thing . . . figure it all out without Mama.”

“Oh, Kara.” She dropped her face down. I went to her, wrapped my arms around her and allowed her to cry until the tears subsided, and the sunlight turned dusty pink in her room.

 

Charlotte and I stood in front of Mrs. Marshall’s Garden and Antique Store, where I’d bought the broken angel weeks before. I hadn’t visited Maeve in the hospital in the past few days—her family had come from Ireland, and they’d promised to call me to report any change in her condition.

I pushed open the doors; I needed to cancel the urns and palm trees I’d ordered for the reception. Charlotte lent her levity and brevity to every task necessary. She kept me laughing when I wanted to cry, and quickly severed conversations I tended to drag out with apologies and explanations.

The aroma of green plants and soil filled the air. I inhaled, then called out for Mrs. Marshall. She stood from where she’d been reaching down behind the counter. “Well, hello, darling.” She walked around the corner holding her cat, Azalea. “It is so weird that you stopped by today—I was set to call you in a little bit.”

“Oh? Well, if it’s about the palm trees . . .”

She shook her head. “No, those are all ordered and arranged.”

I grimaced. “I need to cancel them.”

“Oh, why?” Mrs. Marshall tapped her chest.

Charlotte petted the cat. “We don’t like palm trees anymore. We want large live oaks, real ones at least a hundred years old.”

I laughed, shook my head. “You know better than to listen to Charlotte. There just isn’t going to be a wedding.”

“Oh, dear.” She hugged me. “I do know these are the days you could use your mama. If there is anything I can do, please let me know.”

I nodded. “No, I have to do everything.”

“Ah, just like her. But you don’t need to, dear. There are so many people who love you in this town . . . we’re all here to help.”

“Oh, I’m sure I’ve disappointed all of you.” I reached over and rubbed behind Azalea’s ears.

“Disappointed them? No, Kara. We love you.”

I smiled and bit back tears. “Well, why were you about to call me?”

“You know that broken-winged angel you took?”

I nodded. “I love that angel.”

“You are not going to believe this . . . the match came in to me from a junker in Georgia, and this angel has both wings.”

“Oh, wow.”

She nodded. “Isn’t that just amazing? It seems the angels came from a garden in an old home in Savannah. They had markings on the bottom that stated they were a pair, and my junker remembered that he had given me the other one—incredible.”

I wanted to speak, but I couldn’t.

“A complete angel, she’s not broken anywhere,” Mrs. Marshall said.

“Can I see her?” I whispered.

Mrs. Marshall waved her hand. “Follow me.”

We wound our way among the orchids and ferns, around the clay and concrete pots, until we reached the storage room. “Here,” she said, and lifted the small concrete angel.

I took it from her, held it between my hands. “She’s perfect.” I looked up at Mrs. Marshall. “How do you think one of them got broken, and the other stayed whole?”

“It is the same as life. Some things break us and others keep us together.”

“How much is she?”

“I have a feeling you need her more than I need the money.” She touched my arm.

“I don’t know how to thank you. This is the miracle I needed right now.”

“That’s how it works, my dear. That’s what miracles are for—when you need them the most.”

 

I drove too fast toward the hospital, my nerve endings thrumming like the air before a storm. I ran through the front doors, up the escalator to room 214 in the extended care unit.

The door was shut; I knocked lightly. Caitlin’s face poked out of the crack, tear trails on her face. My heart sank; my hands almost slipped from the angel.

“Kara,” she said, and opened the door fully.

I nodded. “Is Maeve . . . ?”

Caitlin nodded. “She woke up this morning. My mother’s brother, Maeve’s son Seamus, was just about to call you.”

My hands gripped the angel. “Should I come back?”

She stepped out into the hall. “Let me tell you what the doctor said, then you can go in.”

We stood in a corner by the window at the end of the hall. “She’s awake, but they say she doesn’t have long at all. Her stroke didn’t affect her speech, but has caused decreased blood supply in the rest of her organs. The doctor says they often see patients become completely alert just before . . . before they die.”

I shook my head. “No.”

“I’m just telling you what they said, not what I believe. I think she’s waiting for my mother to come see her. . . .”

“She hasn’t come?”

“She will . . . my brother is bringing her now.”

I glanced toward the door; an older man stood in the hallway, his head tilted toward us. His white hair was like a shock of bleached straw on top of his head. His nose was red, bulbous, and his grin spread wide and kind.