He shook his head as his thoughts began to rapid fire. “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. I’ve tried. Believe me, I’ve tried to attain that dream. I’ve come so close.” Lost in his thoughts, he stared at the flickering flame of the kerosene lamp. “It just keeps slipping through my fingers.” The words tumbled from his mouth, freed from the prison of his brain. If they made a lick of sense, then that was grand. If not, then saints help him to pick up the pieces, for they’d been driving him mad. “When I arrived here, I had nigh to nothing. Mr. Hardt found me selling homemade whisky when all that existed of the town was mud, tents, and men who’d do anything—anything to claim their gold.”
Seamus rambled on, praying it’d make sense to his wife. “I thought working hard, sending you money, and keeping my head down would be enough. And that’s when I found your grand-da’s recipe…or what was left of it. Part of the recipe was torn away, so I substituted what I thought would work and sold it to the miners.” He chuckled quietly. “For men with no discernable palette, they loved it.” Seamus glanced up at Norah, who sat quietly, hands folded on the table, her gaze as good as any poker face he’d ever seen.
He blew out a breath and continued. “Now with my mining investments, I have the chance to go into partnership with Charlie Hardt with this very saloon. I want to expand, make it a showcase of Noelle hospitality. Renovate with more rooms, have musical entertainment every Saturday night—bring in quality acts that travel to the bigger towns and opera houses.” He let out a dry laugh. “Now, those plans are on hold because Mr. Hardt promised the reverend a church.” He looked at her.
Her expression was non-descript. “Please,” she said taking a sip of water. “Continue.”
Seamus couldn’t have been more thrilled to share his ideas with her. “I was thinking if you remembered your grand-da’s recipe, the one you said was well-known by many a pub back in Ireland?”
She nodded. “Aye, I helped him make it when I was a wee girl.”
He slammed his hand to the table causing her to startle. “That’s bloody grand, then. I can make more than enough if I can sell your grand-da’s recipe to the saloons in towns nearby and make connections with the bigger saloons in the bigger towns. I can show Charlie that I am a worthy partner—maybe I’ll buy the whole bloody place from him.” Seamus spread his arms wide and grinned. “Finally. I’d have everything I’ve dreamed of.”
When Seamus brought his head out of the clouds, he looked across the table and found her chair empty. He looked over his shoulder and saw her going up the stairs. “Wait, where are ye going?”
She tapped the railing softly and offered him a pensive smile. Her eyes held no sparkle, no joy. “If it’s the recipe that you’re needing. Seamus, or my grand-da’s name on a label to sell yer whisky, then it’s yours, with my blessing.”
Seamus frowned searching his mind. Where had this gone wrong? Had he just spilled his soul to her—his every dream?
Chapter Eight
Norah hadn’t slept. She kept trying to understand how man so seemingly enterprising in other ways couldn’t have figured out a way to come for her. What hurt more was wrestling with the fact that it seemed her husband’s greatest joy was getting his precious recipe. Too much had changed, or maybe success, stature, and notoriety had always been what he wanted most. They’d grown apart, that much seemed true. Different people, needing different things. Her heart felt anguished that the lovely dinner for two Mrs. Kinnison and Libby had put together had created more heartbreak, than good.
Pulling on her tattered old robe she picked up a candle, lit it and tip-toed downstairs. Maybe a glass of buttermilk would help her sleep. It had for years been the cure for her mother’s insomnia. She walked around the bar, and through the swinging doors that led to the small kitchen and storeroom at the back of the bar. Not watching her step, she ran into a massive human wall.
“You couldn’t sleep either?” Father O’Flanagan looked down at her and smiled.
“Buttermilk?” She eyed the glass in his hand.
“My mother swore by it,” he said with a soft chuckle. “Can I get you a glass?”
She nodded. “Please.”
“Go on out there and find us a place to sit. I’ll be right out,” he said.
Norah smiled thinking how she should feel awkward being dressed in her nightclothes sharing a late-night glass of buttermilk with the handsome priest. Yet she felt strangely at ease. No tension. No concern. She felt safe. And that was sadly, more than she could say about the time she’d spent with her husband.
She took the candle, and lighting a kerosene lamp, sat down the table nearest the kitchen in the empty saloon. Soon after, Father O’Flanagan appeared carrying two glasses of the remedy she hoped would aid in her sleep. He hadn’t yet changed from his day.
He sat across from her and lifted his glass to hers. “To the future.” Father O’ Flanagan said.
Norah offered an uncertain smile. She had no idea what the future held for her.
“What seems to be keeping you awake, Mrs. Malone?” His dark eyes, made more intense by the dim light, looked puzzled.
A short laugh escaped her. “Ye should perhaps call me Norah, Father. I’m not at all sure I’ll be Mrs. Malone much longer.” She raised a brow. “I’m not sure I’ve felt like Mrs. Malone in quite some time.”
A frown marred his handsome face. He searched her eyes. “After dinner at your aunt’s house that day, Monsignor Stephens may have mentioned a bit about your situation with your husband.”
Norah started to protest.
He held up his hand. “Nothing of a private nature, I assure you. Only asked I add you to my nightly prayers. He seemed concerned for your well-being. Maybe mentioned how your aunt had forced a wedding on the two of you?”
Embarrassed by his words, she looked at him. “Seamus and I were madly in love, to be sure, Father. Make no mistake about that.”
“I’ve no doubt, Norah. I just want you to know I think you’re very brave,” he said with a twinkle in his eye.
She looked at him in disbelief. “Brave? I dunna see myself in such a way.” She shook her head and chuckled. “An eejit, perhaps. That may well be true.”
He frowned. “Not at all. If I may speak freely?”
“Aye, say what it is on yer mind, Father.”
He leaned forward and spoke in an exaggerated whisper. “I was only a few hours in that house with your aunt. You are a very brave woman to have put up with her.” He grinned, looking upwards. “Forgive me, Lord.” He punctuated his confession with a theatrical shiver.
That made her laugh out loud and his deep laughter followed.
“A smile makes the heart glad,” he said with a nod and sat his glass on the table. He seemed to be collecting his thoughts.
Norah cocked her head. “What might be keepin’ you from sleep, Father?” He was an interesting man. Seasoned by life. A good man and obviously devoted to his faith. Norah wondered how he kept his emotions on an even keel. If he might have any advice for her on marriage.
He took a deep breath and rubbed his fingers over his eyes. He appeared tired. “Just the rigors of the day. I’m still not fully recovered from my travels and with the schedule they have me on, it doesn’t appear I’ll be resting anytime soon.”
“There ought to be time that is yours alone, don’t ye think?” she said. “Even a man of God needs time to commune with his Maker.”
She was perplexed to hear his soft chuckle. “You might find this strange, but in some ways, you remind me of my Beverly.” He glanced at her, then looked away and smiled as though lost in his memories. “She was forthright, like you.
Not afraid to question. A little stubborn at times.” He smiled. “She didn’t care so much what people thought. But she always seemed to know what she wanted.” He sighed quietly.
Norah, sensing that perhaps his past had been on his mind of late, waited for him to continue.
“You know, we didn’t have much when we first married. I had to work three
jobs and she took in laundry from the neighbors.” He paused and Norah sensed the part of him that maybe still held a margin of regret.
He looked at her, sadness filled his gaze. “I wasn’t always the model husband. Young and foolish. I made mistakes. But she loved me all the same. Looking back, I struggled with whether I deserved such a gift of a woman in my life—was that why God took her away from me?”
Norah shook her head, unable to believe this considerate man had ever caused his wife heartache. “You mustn’t say such things, Father. None of us understands God’s plan always.”
“When she found out about the baby she was”--he shook his head--“thrilled beyond measure. We were both changed by the news. I thought, this is what we needed—what I needed--to get me back on the right path. No more drinking with my workmates at the pub. I saw what I hoped was our future.” He paused, staring off into the void. “And then the day arrived. It was supposed to be joyous, a new beginning and in the span of a few hours—my world, my future, everything--was taken from me.”
Norah touched his shoulder. “You needn’t be tellin’ me this, Father, if it’s too painful.” She wasn’t certain where he was going with his story, but she sat quietly and listened, her admiration of his strength and integrity growing with each moment.
“Before she died, she made me promise to follow my dreams. It was she who believed that I was born to help others.” The words seemed to catch and he cleared his throat struggling to continue. “She wanted me to marry again. Have a family.” He sniffed and she covered his hand with her own.
“I dunna understand, Father. Your wife seems more of a saint, God rest her soul. I cannot see how I should remind you of her.”
He looked at her, eyes red from holding in his emotions. Unshed tears caused his dark eyes to glimmer, but he smiled at her comment. “To be fair, I’d have to agree with you. But your husband had dreams, I’m sure he shared them with you. And all this time, haven’t you been believing in them, keeping them safe inside you?”
Norah sighed and looked away. “Perhaps that was true at one time, but I fear those dreams have disappeared. Perhaps they were not but an illusion to begin with.”
“No.” His low-timbered voice was firm, just a bit frightening in its tone. Far different than his quiet, gentle way. He took her hand, holding it tight between his own. “No, Norah. Men like your husband are the dreamers. Their struggle to find a better life for their loved ones will be what defines this town’s future—this very country’s future, in my opinion.” He narrowed gaze was intent. “You must not give up. No man would have left you behind unless he was certain he would not fail. No matter how long it took.” He patted her hands. “You must hold tight to those dreams, Norah. Seamus is depending on it, I assure you. The rest—it will work itself out, you’ll see.”
Part of the wall she’d allowed to build around her heart shifted and for an instant she wanted desperately to believe him. “Father, I am not at all certain that I am as strong as you believe me to be,” she said with a wobbly smile.
“You are far stronger than you think, Norah Francis.” He squeezed her hands. “Remember what you’ve already endured.”
“So, this is why you’ve been so distant?” a familiar voice said.
Norah looked toward the stairs and saw Seamus walking toward them.
Father O’Flanagan released her hands and stood. The two men eyed each other.
“It’s not at all what yer thinkin’, Seamus,” she said quietly, praying her husband wouldn’t lose senses and take a swipe at the priest.
“Pride comes before the fall, Mr. Malone. You should listen to your wife.” The priest bid Norah goodnight with a nod.
“Fine, Father. I’ll do just that very thing, to be sure.” Seamus turned then and crossed his arms over his chest. He pinned her with a questioning look. “Tis a whole other kettle of fish when the shoe is on the other foot!”
“You bloody eejit,” Norah said shaking her head. She grabbed both glasses and brushed past him, unsure if her frustration was with her husband’s insinuation or the fact that if Timothy O’Flanagan had not been a man of the cloth, she might well be feeling much differently about him.
She pushed through the doors to the backroom not looking back to see if Seamus had followed her. Hearing the door slam hard against the wall was her answer.
“Then you tell me there’s nothing going on between the two of you,” he lashed out the accusingly. “I heard laughter and when I came downstairs I find my wife holding hands with another man.”
The small kitchen with barely enough room for the sink and a wood cookstove was made all the more with Seamus leaning against the wall. She pumped to get water to wash the glasses and didn’t look up from her task. “He’s a man of God, Seamus. You ought to be ashamed of what you’re insinuating.” She turned to leave only to find her way blocked.
“Now you know how it feels.”
Her gaze snapped to his. “Twice, Seamus Malone, I found you in the company of that trollop.”
“And twice you misread the situation,” he volleyed back.
She tossed his comment aside with a wave of her hand. It was late and it didn’t seem they could be in the same room for more than five minutes before they were at each other’s throat. “Fine, so it is you say. Now if you’ll excuse me.” She pushed him aside, relieved to be back in the empty saloon. She started toward the stairs.
“Norah,” the change in his voice caused her steps to slow, but she steeled herself against the heartache of his charm. Perhaps theirs had been a cursed marriage from its very inception. No wedding would have taken place had it been in Ireland. Twas bad luck to marry during Lent. Wasn’t all that had happened between her and Seamus proof of that? She looked back at him. “Dunna ye see, Seamus, how we are?” She shook her head. “Can’t ye see we aren’t good for each other?”
He skirted around the bar and caught her arm before she could leave. Pulling her against him, he searched her face. “Ye don’t believe that for a bloody minute. You know how good we are together.”
“Don’t I, now? Four years, Seamus, we’ve been apart, neither of us knowing what had become of the other—if we were alive or dead.”
“But,” he started.
She shook her head. “I didn’t know where to find you, how to find you. How could I?” Her heart twisted at the realization in his eyes. “The truth is, maybe we’ve changed too much to make things right.”
He narrowed his gaze, then dropped his hold. “Maybe so, and if it is, then there’s no more dreams worth having, is there?” He squeezed shut his eyes and took a deep breath. She could see his struggle.
He looked at her, his gaze pleading. “Give it one more day. Don’t think on all that’s happened. Think on what it is you want now.”
She backed away aware that he’d repeated what Genevieve Kinnison had asked her earlier. “A day then.” She started up the steps.
“Norah Francis?”
She stopped at the sound of her name washing over her life a calming summer breeze.
“I am going to make you fall in love with me. By tomorrow evening, you’ll be wanting to marry me,” he said with a grin. “Again.”
It was the first time since her arrival in Noelle that she’d sensed a familiar connection to the man she had once known. But was it enough?
She lay awake long into the night pondering all that had transpired these past three days, including Seamus’s challenge. As the first rays of dawn peeked over the mountains she thought again of her husband and how she wished things could be different.
Voices in the hallway captured her attention.
“I’m truly sorry that the dinner didn’t go well, Seamus. We all hoped that it would. Genevieve and her niece went to a lot of trouble.”
She recognized Reverend Hammond’s voice.
“Aye, Reverend, tis no one’s fault but my own. I’m afraid I’ve made quite the mess of things. I don’t know what more I can say or do to prove to her how I feel
.”
The dejection in her husband’s voice--and on this day of all day’s-- caused Norah’s heart to twist. Her emotions swirled inside, causing uncertainty and fear. Everything seemed a jumble of contradictions—her aunt’s deception, seeing Seamus with another woman, his taking the time and money to give her a beautiful room, and how the townspeople’s respect for him. She didn’t know which way to turn.
She studied the patterns forming from the sunlight on the wall and thought how at home he seemed here. Was she punishing him for carving out a place without her, for not finding somehow to get back to New York?
What is it you want now? The words niggled at her conscience.
Though she’d not acted out of malice, had she not used her friendship with Father O’Flanagan to try to make her husband jealous? Were the feelings she'd pondered if only briefly, any worse than her husband’s friendship with Felice? A woman who'd tried to explain, but Norah had refused to allow it, passing judgement instead without knowing the full story.
Norah turned her head, hearing footsteps descending the stairs. Below, the sound of music began to filter through the floorboards. It was the dawn of her fifth anniversary.
What is it you want now?
Still feeling dangerously uncertain but resolved to answer that question once and for all, Norah climbed from bed, packed her few possessions, and tidied her room.
Chapter Nine
“Make sure to line up the lanterns across the edge of the stage,” Seamus directed a few friends he’d called upon in return for free food and drink to help set up for the celebration set to begin at the noon hour.
Norah- A St. Patrick's Day Bride Page 8
