A few hours later I make my way down the stairs. Jean is back at her laptop, but looks up as I come in. She watches me warily, then stands and moves to the oven.
“I’m nowhere near as good a cook as you,” she says. “But I manage.”
She pulls a plate from the oven, and I recognize my mom’s version of Shepherd Pie. At that moment I realize that it was never her version, but the version she’d been taught by Jean—a fact she’d never shared with me. Irritation fills me, but for once it’s directed at my own mom, and not at Jean.
I sit at the table, and she places it in front of me. I wouldn’t have thought I could eat, but as I take the first bite I’m suddenly ravenous. I finish it quickly as Jean sits silently across from me. When I finish, and make no move to leave, she leans forward.
“Did you read them all?” she asks. I nod. “Are you okay?”
I give a short laugh. Okay is not something I’ll be for some time. But I will be eventually, I suppose. Even I can recognize it’s my feelings of betrayal causing all of the hurt.
“Is that why you came?” I ask. “The last letter, I mean.”
Jean doesn’t answer for a moment, tracing the fleur-de-lis pattern on the tablecloth. Finally, she sighs and looks at me.
“Maybe. I don’t know. I’d like to think I would have come anyway, after she... ” She clears her throat. “But I just don’t know. I’ll be honest, I felt it was the least I could do for my daughter, after causing her so much pain.”
She watches me, as if waiting for the anger, but it doesn’t come. I respect her honesty, if nothing else.
“I’m going to bed,” I say, standing up. Jean stands also. “Thank you,” I murmur, turning away. I trudge up the stairs, wash my face and get ready for bed. I look outside once again at the softly falling snow, briefly frustrated at the shoveling that will be required in the morning. I slide between the cool sheets, turning on the bedside lamp as I read her last letter one final time.
My name is Elizabeth Marta Parker, wife of Jonas Parker, mother to Niahm Jona Parker. Should something happen to Jonas and myself, where we are taken from this earth, every effort should be made to find my mother, Niahm’s maternal grandmother, Jean Elizabeth Franza. She disappeared some years ago, but I believe she is still alive.
Please tell her I would like her to go to Niahm, and care for her in my place. Tell her I know she will love Niahm as I do, and she is now Niahm’s closest living relative. Tell her to raise Niahm to be the strong, independent woman Niahm has already begun to be.
Niahm will need you. Please go.
Her signature rested beneath. The last two sentences haunt me as none of the others have. She knew that Jean would find this, that Jean would read those lines. I think she also knew that eventually I would see them, that I would need them to forgive Jean as she was never able to.
Chapter 32
Sam
“Sam, what are you doing?”
I turn from my task of shoveling the snow from Niahm’s front walk. She’s standing there, bundled up in her coat, gloves, and snow boots—and looking drained.
“Isn’t that obvious?” I ask.
She stomps down the stairs, stopping right in front of me, leaning back to glare at me.
“I didn’t ask you to do this.” Her statement sounds like an accusation. I smile and lean down to kiss the tip of her cold, red nose.
“I’m aware of that,” I say, turning back to my task. She steps in front of me, nearly shoveled off her feet at the forward motion of the wide shovel. Her arms windmill, and I grasp the front of her jacket, steadying her. “Are you trying to crack your head open?” I demand, immediately sorry as she pales at my harsh tone. I yank her to me, throwing the shovel to the side and wrap my arms around her, stunned as she bursts into tears.
“Niahm, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean it. You just scared me.”
She continues to sob, shaking her head against me at my words. I’ve never claimed to know much about the female persuasion, but I’m aware that this type of crying from this particular girl probably isn’t about my words or my tone. Something else is going on. My mind immediately goes to her grandmother, and I’m hard pressed to not storm into the house and cause the woman some serious pain.
Instead, I sweep one arm under her knees, and carry her to the barn, the best place I can think of for some immediate privacy.
“I’m sorry,” Niahm says when I set her down on a hay bale and squat down in front of her. She wipes at her eyes and nose with her gloves, and my eyes go to those offending garments, wondering how I can get them off of her without raising suspicion why I want to hold her bare hand in the cold air, rather than with her gloves on. Her face is very pale and drawn, dark circles beneath her eyes. I rub a thumb across the smudges, as if I can wipe them away.
“I’m a mess, I know,” she says with a sad attempt at a smile.
“You’re not a mess,” I say.
“I am,” she refutes, “inside and out.”
I take her gloved hand in mine—and get a flicker. Fuzzy images of white squares, anger, hurt, betrayal... I’m stunned by the discovery, disturbed by the feelings I catch from her.
“What?” She sounds slightly alarmed at my expression. I quickly school my features.
“I’m worried about you. You’re upset.”
She’s silent, thinking, and finally pulls an item from her pocket. She hands it to me—a white square. An envelope. I look from the envelope to her and she gives it a little push toward me. I apprehend that she wishes me to read it.
My name is Elizabeth Marta Parker, wife of Jonas Parker, mother to Niahm Jona Parker. Should something happen to Jonas and myself...
I stop reading to look at Niahm again. Her face is creased with pain, as if she can hear the words. Considering the crumpled, worn look of the paper I assume she’s read it many times and probably has it memorized. I read the rest of it, understanding her drawn look. I can also understand the feeling of hurt I got from her and maybe even the anger, but the betrayal stumps me.
“Where did you find this?” I ask.
“Jean gave it to me. She found it in the tree.”
“The tree?”
Niahm tells me the story of the letters, both in the tree and the ones found in the closet. She keeps her gaze on her hands, which are twisting together nervously, during her entire recitation. I watch her face, emotions flitting across even though she tries to tell the story in monotone. She doesn’t succeed—her voice expresses her wounded heart, the depth that she feels betrayed by her parents leaving her home to search for someone who’d willingly left, searching for someone who may or may not be dead, rather than stay home with the very much alive daughter who longed for them.
I’m not just getting these impressions from her tone, I know them, can feel them coming from her. How is that possible? I move to sit next to her, an arm about her as she leans into me.
“I wish I knew what to say to make this better for you, Niahm.”
“I wish I knew why she preferred to search for a possible ghost than to be with me.” She sighs. “And yet, I do understand a little. I mean, if I thought my mom were alive, I don’t know that I’d ever stop searching for her.”
I recall Jean’s words about sitting with her daughter, waiting to make certain she wouldn’t come back. I can feel that Niahm is thinking about Beth’s search for Jean, which never bore fruit—and yet, Jean was alive. Beth had been right. Niahm is wondering about the possibility even now.
“Niahm,” I hesitate, reluctant to extinguish that time flame of hope. “Your parents... I saw them. At the funeral home.”
She shudders.
“I know.” Her words are firm, but beneath them the shard of optimism stays strong.
“I have to tell her.”
Shane finishes pounding the nail into the side of the barn before turning to me. He pulls the other two nails from his mouth.
“You j
ust gonna stand there jawing, or do you think you might do something constructive?” He’s been pushing to finish the barn, though he knows I don’t have any intention of moving the horse—at least not yet. “Tell who what?” he asks, turning back to the task, replacing both nails between his lips and taking a third from the belt around his waist that he places against the wood.
I pick up a large sheet of plywood, and place it against the side of the barn, placing the nail gun against it. Shane is firmly against anything as innovative as a nail gun, preferring the old fashioned hammer-to-nail. So I don’t feel exactly guilty about taking the occasional break. Even with long breaks, I still accomplish far more work than he does.
“Niahm,” I answer after shooting a couple of nails in. “I’m going to tell her ... what I am.”
Shane lets out a string of curses, partly as a result of my statement, partly as a result of slamming his thumb with the hammer at my words.
“Are you insane?” he yells. “There are rules about that for a reason, Samuel. If you tell her, you put us both in danger.”
“I know,” I say, but he overrides my words.
“You put her in danger. If the Sentinels found out...”
He doesn’t have to finish. I know exactly what would happen if they found out.
“I would never put you in danger if I could avoid it, Shane, you know that. So if you need to go or if you want me to go—”
Shane’s fist connects firmly with my jaw, sending me sprawling.
“You thick, fool eegit! Ye think you’re some kind of... hardchaw? That ye can handle them alone, and protect her? Ciach ort! Tá tú glan as do mheabhair! Go hlfreann leat. O mbeire an diabhal leis thú!”
I jump to my feet, my anger matching his, my carefully maintained American accent slipping in the face of his Gaeilge.
“He ‘as already ta’en me, Shane. Diabhal took me centuries ago. My soul ta th’ devil? ‘Tis long gone! Tá mé faoi chrann smola.”
Shane’s stance drops immediately from his aggressive position as my words register. It’s an old argument, and he knows he’s unintentionally just confirmed my side of the argument.
“Ye are no’ cursed, Samuel.” His words are still fierce, but in a protective way. He steps forward and gathers the front of my shirt in his fists, yanking me forward so that our faces are a hairsbreadth apart. “Do ye ‘ear me, Sorley? Ye are no’ cursed.”
I push away from him and take some calming breaths, turning away from him. The years apart from Shane are the hardest to take, the loneliest. I don’t want to alienate him, but I also won’t give in on this point.
“I’ll stay wi’ her, as long as she’ll ‘ave me,” I finally say. “I canna be wi’ her in the way I want ta ‘less she knows.”
He’s silent behind me for long minutes. The only sounds are the wind and Shane’s breathing. Finally, he takes a few steps toward me. I brace myself for whatever his decision is.
“I canna change yer mind, then?”
I turn to face him.
“No.”
His jaw clenches as he considers.
“I willna abandon ye, Sorley.”
It takes several heartbeats for his words to register. I blink, give my head a small shake, not sure I heard right.
“You...”
His smile is grim.
“I do’na like livin’ alone,” he explains. “Yer a eejit, true enough, but I’ll stick with ye.”
Relief floods through me. He’s right, this might be the most idiotic idea I’ve had. But I can no longer lie to her, hide who I am. If I want to be with her—truly be with her—it’s time to tell her.
“You called me Sorley,” I say, pulling my American accent back together. “You haven’t called me by my real name in over a century.” I grin at him. “You must be really mad at me.”
Shane throws the hammer toward my head, which I catch neatly before it meets its target.
“I do’na remember when I’ve e’er thought ye a bigger fool,” he says. “I also don’ remember when I’ve admired ye more.”
“Admired me?”
“Aye,” he confirms. “It takes a great deal o’ courage ta do wha’ ye propose. Be sure ye know wha’ yer doin’.”
He pulls me into a bear hug, then leaves the barn, done for today. I watch him go, fear suddenly taking up residence in my gut. I don’t know what I’m doing. All of my hope lays in Niahm’s love. What if I’m wrong?
Chapter 33
Niahm
I sit at the kitchen table, doing my homework. Normally, Sam would be with me, but he said he had some things Shane needed him for, so he’d see me in the morning when he picked me up for school. Besides the powerful wish to be with him every possible moment comes the realization that when he’s here, Jean makes herself scarce.
Tonight she sits at the desk with the laptop, too close for comfort. Since the discovery of the letters—of which I’ve read all by now, both Jeans and my mom’s—there’s been a sort of calm in the house. That doesn’t mean I’m ready to have a grandma. She’s still an unwelcome intruder.
The letters were a revelation. The correspondence between Jean and her daughter made it seem clear, to me at least, that she suspected it was her mother she was exchanging letters with. She’d asked for advice, which Jean gave. The letters my mom had written and kept were something else. In them, she poured out her anger, frustration, and betrayal. In them, I read her reasons for the constant searching. Yet, as frustrated and hurt as I was by being left behind by her searching quest, I couldn’t blame her.
Jean, whose back is to me, stretches and tips her head back. I literally do a double take at what I see—her roots are dark. I blink a couple of times as she returns to her upright position. That can’t be right. Roots are gray to one’s dark dyed hair, not the other way around.
I stand up and she turns my way, a small smile directed to me. I normally would just say goodnight and go upstairs, but I’ve got to know what’s going on with her hair. I don’t know what expression is on my face as I look at her, but her smile drops and she rises with some alarm.
“Everything okay, Niahm?” she asks warily.
“I don’t...” As I see her now, standing, her hair looking perfectly gray, I suddenly feel silly at my imagination. What am I going to say, Do you dye your hair gray? Are you a young imposter pretending to by my grandmother? It’s ridiculous, of course. To what end would she do that? The entire inheritance is irrevocably mine. Besides, I saw her grief—it was real.
“Um, nothing,” I finally say. “I just remembered... uh, I have this big test tomorrow. And, um, I should have been studying for it. So I guess I’ll go up to my room and do that now.”
Her eyes narrow suspiciously, but I hurry and gather my books, jogging up the stairs. It’s stupid to have imagined the dark roots. Why would I even think I had seen such a strange thing? I flop down on my bed, covering my eyes with my arm. I must be exhausted. I mean, of all things to hallucinate—dark roots? Definite lack of imagination, there. I laugh at myself, rolling toward the window, listening to the wind howl.
A tightness resides in my gut, no matter how silly I tell myself I’m being. Something isn’t right.
“How’s your arm?” I ask Sam as we throw hay. This is one of my least favorite activities during the summer, but during the cold winter, I don’t mind it at all.
“Good,” he says, not turning my way.
“Stitches out yet?”
“Uh...”
“Can I see?” I tease.
“No. It’s... I still have stitches.”
I stop moving, and tip my head at him. He barely glances at me, definitely acting strange.
“But it’s been a month. Shouldn’t they be out?”
“No. I mean, they were, but now...”
“Sam,” I say firmly, and he finally turns my way, refusing to meet my eyes. I suddenly have an idea of just what happened. I’ve watched him and Shane often enough to know how they are to
gether. “Did you reopen the wound?” He looks at me, but doesn’t answer.
“Let me guess,” I say. “You and Shane wrestling, right?” He shrugs, and I walk over to him. “You didn’t want to tell me? Thought I’d be mad?”
He swallows, looking slightly miserable. “I don’t want you to have to worry about me,” he says.
I rise up and kiss him, which he doesn’t seem to mind, throwing his rake to the side to put both arms around me.
“I always worry about you, silly,” I tell him. “You don’t have to be afraid to tell me things. I’m not that fragile, you know.”
Even as I say the words, I realize how true they are. The grief and pain are still lodged in my chest, as I suspect they will be for the rest of my life, but I’m learning to live around that. I’m dealing with what was left behind by my parents, including an unwanted grandma. I’m getting up each day, and if my first thoughts are of them and how much I miss them, at least I’m smiling and laughing—and not falsely.
He looks conflicted as he gazes down at me. I know he’s still worried about me, that I’m going to fall apart again at any moment. It’s kind of nice having someone besides Stacy worry so deeply about me.
“Christmas is next week,” he says, immediately derailing all my thoughts as the pain breaks loose and shafts through me.
“I know,” I murmur, tears rising in my eyes. “Think there’s any chance to avoid it?”
Sam squeezes me. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that to come out so abruptly. I wanted to talk to you about it, find out what your plans are.”
I grimace. Thanksgiving had been a lonely affair, even though Jean and I had spent the day at Stacy’s house. Like that wasn’t completely uncomfortable spending the day with a stranger who calls herself my grandma, and a family who was unnaturally subdued in order to try to spare my feelings. I haven’t even bothered to put a Christmas tree up this year. That’s an activity usually taken care of by my dad, and I have no desire to do it without him. Jean offered to get one, but I suppose my glare relayed to her my answer as she hadn’t brought one home.
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