Sweet Caroline

by Micqui Miller

  the eldest son, Mick. After a closer look at the escorts, she realized they were the waiters, bussers, and other staff she'd seen scurrying around the Calla Lily the nights she dined there.

  The ribboned path led around the main house, past the swimming pool, which was covered, fenced and locked for the night, and into an orchard. In a clearing, with the mountains as backdrop, Caroline saw a huge altar made of weathered granite. Rows of chairs, fifty on each side of the aisle, stretched from the portal through the orchard and up to the altar.

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  On a summer's night like this, no bride could wish for more—a sky streaked with gorgeous pinks and lavenders—an inspirational setting for a wondrous occasion. Caroline saw that most of the chairs were already occupied. A camera crew busily tested its equipment near the front, off to the left. Of course they'd tape the ceremony. Everyone did these days, rich or poor. With so few chairs, and so many guests, she supposed the latecomers would witness the ceremony in one of the large lawn tents, via simulcast. She smiled and shook her head. These folks really knew how to party.

  At the entrance to the orchard, a man in his early twenties, dressed in a dark suit, starched white shirt, and red tie stepped forward to greet her. "Are you a guest of the bride or the groom?"

  "Both." She pointed to an empty chair in the back row. "I can sit there if it's not reserved for someone else."

  "I don't think Mick would like that," a man behind her said. She turned to find Seth, the bartender from the Calla Lily. He was not on duty tonight. Like the fellow escorting her, Seth was dressed in a dark suit and tie, clean-shaven, with his shoulder-length hair tied back in a sedate ponytail. The woman with him, older by a few years, was beautifully attired in satin and lace. "Mario, this is Caroline Spring," he said.

  "Mick's girl."

  "I'm not his girl," she protested, but it made no difference. Mario placed his hand on her elbow and urged her forward, past rows of Mahoney relatives and close friends, straight to the front.

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  "Are you sure this is where I'm supposed to sit?" she whispered, feeling every eye on her, speculating about who she was. How many of those eyes belonged to women who'd once thought of themselves as 'Mick's girl' too? Dear heaven, don't let me trip and fall flat on my face. To distract herself, Caroline tried to remember the order of these things. The first row consisted of only five chairs. Those would be for the groomsmen during the actual ceremony. Across the aisle, on the bride's side, she saw five matching chairs for Ramona's bridesmaids.

  The second rows were usually reserved for the parents and grandparents of the bride and groom. Ramona's grandparents were already seated, but not any of the Mahoney elders. Traditionally, the third and fourth rows were reserved for the immediate family and special friends. Those rows were full on both sides of the aisle. Caroline had slipped the Mahoney reunion postcard into her purse before she left home. If she could find a discreet way to do it, she knew she'd be able to fill in the blanks by looking around her. There was only one seat left in the third row, right on the aisle. Mario nudged her toward it.

  "Are you sure?" she asked again. "Shouldn't one of the family..."

  "Very sure." He smiled, and in that smile, Caroline saw his resemblance to Ramona—if not a brother then surely a cousin.

  At precisely five minutes before seven, an organist took over for the string quartet that had been playing since she arrived. At the same time, a fair-skinned, red-haired 225

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  teenager, definitely a Mahoney, escorted another woman down the aisle. From her very first glimpse, Caroline knew exactly who she was.

  Mick had told Caroline she was only eight years older than he. That made her forty-seven, but she looked far more youthful. Her short red hair was trimmed close and curled into tight little orange kinks and knots. She wore a dark blue suit with a white high-necked blouse and no make-up. Her violet eyes sparkled brightly enough to light up a room as she walked along waving to friends and pausing for hugs. For jewelry, she wore only a pair of tiny pearl earrings and a gold cross and chain around her neck.

  Caroline watched, transfixed. She knew she was staring, but she didn't care, and she couldn't have stopped herself if she'd wanted to. The indescribable force that had drawn Caroline to this woman's photograph now held her in its palm. They'd never met, but it was as though Caroline had known her for a lifetime.

  The woman walked past and slid into the row in front of her. Caroline's gaze followed, watching how she carried herself. She'd almost floated, and now she bowed her head and gracefully blessed herself before lowering her lids in quiet prayer.

  With Caroline still staring, the woman raised her head, turned and held out her hand. "I'm Annie Mahoney," she said.

  "Sister Anne. You must be Caroline Spring." Sheila DeSantis was escorted to her seat right after Sr. Anne, and Ramona's mother took hers. The party was about to begin. The music swelled, and the first of five bridesmaids 226

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  began the trek to the altar. The wedding clothes reflected Ramona's personality perfectly, a bit flouncy and overdone but charming nonetheless.

  While Caroline and Annie had been introducing themselves, two priests alighted the dais on which the altar stood, beaming while they waited for the attendants to file forward. From somewhere off to the right, the five groomsmen, the best man, and Brian had lined up waiting their turn. A small buzz of appreciation came from the guests when they saw the best man was not one of Brian's friends or brothers, but a thin and slightly bowed older man, who had to wipe tears from his eyes more than once while he waited for the maid of honor. Brian, in an ultimate compliment to the man who had raised him, had chosen Tony DeSantis to stand beside him.

  Mick was the first groomsman and devastatingly handsome in a dark tux with a bright Kelly green bow tie and cummerbund. In that moment, Caroline ached to really be Mick's girl.

  He moved forward a step at his bridesmaid's arrival. In the waning sun, with shadows filtering the light, Mick stood in profile. If Caroline's mouth had dropped open to her chest, she wouldn't have been surprised. Seeing him in that light, with his face looking so perfect—weathered, masculine, and yet aristocratic—she thought her knees might melt and she'd slide to the ground, a blob of Silly Putty. The wanton smile his bridesmaid flashed at him sobered Caroline. In her early twenties, she was a stunning girl with 227

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  dark hair and eyes from her Italian ancestry. She'd met Mick before, Caroline surmised, and had enjoyed the experience. She took his arm, but Mick glanced away, into the crowd. He smiled at his mother and aunt, and paused to look at Caroline, and to relish what he saw. His mother and aunt, as if reading his mind, inched further apart to give him a better view.

  Caroline felt a surge of heat and excitement she ought not feel—not with two priests and a nun standing only a few feet away.

  Mick didn't need to say a word. Reading his mind wasn't difficult from his appreciative smile before he moved on. After that, the wedding was a blur. Caroline knew she stood and sat at the right times and applauded with the rest of the guests when the good padres presented "Mr. & Mrs. Brian Timothy Mahoney" to the crowd and invited Brian to kiss his bride. But if asked to describe a single detail, she would not have been able to do so. Her mind, her attention, and her heart were focused solely on the man who, for most of the ceremony and wedding Mass, had sat two rows ahead of her.

  Caroline was falling in love with Mick, the kind of love that, if she allowed it to, would consume her every waking moment. He was already the first person she thought of upon awakening each morning, and the one whose mischievous eyes and sensual mouth carried her off to sleep at night. She only hoped that she had not returned his appreciative glance with that same p
athetic puppy-dog yearning she'd seen in the eyes of his bridesmaid. Caroline wasn't a kid anymore, and 228

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  what she felt for Mick wasn't puppy love. It was that once-ina-lifetime-and-forever love that had eluded her, even during her time with Luke. Earlier today, she'd promised Mick she'd stay with him tonight, and heaven help her, she wanted to more than she'd ever wanted anything. But not before she'd had a chance to show him the birth certificates and the postcard, and not before they'd proven beyond any doubt that the ties that bound them were of the heart and the mind, not shared DNA.

  * * * *

  CAROLINE HAD EXPECTED a receiving line, but the latecomers mobbed the bridal couple. Afterward, the wedding party was called back to pose for formal photographs. It would be at least another hour before they were seen again. The band was revving up, the hors d'oeuvre tables laden to capacity, the staff of servers and bartenders poised and ready.

  Caroline had just gotten a glass of ice water to wash down another of her migraine pills when she felt a tap on her shoulder. She turned and saw a priest, somewhere between her age and Mick's.

  "Ms. Spring, I know we haven't met. I'm Chris Mahoney, one of the ten thousand Mahoney cousins you'll meet tonight."

  "Fr. Mahoney, it's a pleasure," she said, trying to juggle the water, the pill and to shake hands, too.

  "Please, call me Chris, and I'll call you Caroline." He swept his arm toward one of the tables. "Won't you join us?" 229

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  Caroline glanced at the table he pointed to, a table set for six where two nuns and two priests already sat. She gulped.

  "If you're sure your friends won't mind." Apparently sensing her uneasiness, he said, "Don't worry." And just for a second, she saw the same twinkle in his eyes and teasing tone she'd seen in Mick so many times. Leaning closer, he whispered, "We don't bite and we're not recruiting tonight."

  Charm definitely runs fast and full through this family. "I'll be happy to join you," she said. An hour later, after laughing until her sides ached, she realized she'd forgotten to take her pill and didn't need the medication at all. Caroline had been baptized a Catholic as an infant, and that was as far as her religious training had gone. Other than Easter and Christmas, her parents never set foot inside a church. That had been her only brush with clerics until tonight. She'd never seen one toss back straight shots of rye before, like the Monsignor from Seattle, or heard one tell hilarious tales that sometimes fell just a hair short of bawdy, like the Jesuit who taught at Notre Dame. Nor had a group she'd approached with such wariness made her feel so welcome, ever.

  Eventually, the conversation drifted to Sr. Anne. The jokes ceased, and the tone quieted. "Oh, she was a wild one that Annie," the Monsignor, and the elder of the group, began.

  "Sheila had me prayin' for her night and day. We'd almost given up and had her declared incorrigible 'til we saw she had the callin' to God."

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  Sister Hilary, who sat to Caroline's left, turned to her. "A calling she didn't want and one she fought every step of the way." The others murmured their agreement. "Boys, alcohol, partying all the time. She even dragged young Michael into it."

  Fr. Chris gazed heavenward and rolled his eyes. "Mick?

  Right, Sister, I'm sure he was kicking and screaming all the way."

  "The two of them together," the other nun said and touched a hand to her temple. "A real piece of work. In trouble all the time. She half again as old as the poor child. I thought they'd both end up in juvenile detention." Caroline was almost afraid to ask. "Do you think Mick has

  ... the calling, too?" She thought she knew the answer but she didn't expect such a strong reaction. Her tablemates burst into laughter at the mere suggestion, guffawing until they nearly cried.

  "Mick a priest?" Fr. Chris burst into laughter again. "When pigs fly and the heavens rain diamonds."

  "Now, Christopher, you're being too hard on Mick," Sister Hilary scolded. "You know what he witnessed, and with Sheila not able to care for him properly—" her voice trailed off, and the jovial mood of only seconds before turned somber. "The youngster should have been sent for intensive counseling, but Sheila was beyond reason herself. A new baby, a husband blown to pieces, the curse. Half the family blamed her for not following the naming tradition, and the other half insisted she'd done the right thing."

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  "And a tortured little boy who once he'd stopped screamin'

  never spoke another word until Annie brought him out of it," the Monsignor added. "Took nearly a year—a year in Ireland. That's when Annie knew she had the callin' and realized she couldn't deny God any longer."

  All the pieces were falling into place. Caroline didn't say another word. She listened to the heart-wrenching tale of a young boy struggling to deal with the death of his father amidst a family divided by anger, guilt, and superstition. He and Annie had been sent to Ireland to give Sheila a chance to recover. Mick didn't want to come back, and even afterward, spoke Gaelic almost exclusively. Sheila insisted he return, threatened to go there herself and bring him home. Less than a year later, he was slammed again. Annie, his rock and fortress, left him to follow her vocation.

  At the age of ten, the most important things in Caroline's world were her school friends, ballet, and keeping Travis and his friends from destroying her Barbie collection. She couldn't begin to imagine where Mick, at that same age, had found the strength to survive what he'd witnessed.

  "Mick was a tough kid, but he wouldn't have made it without Annie. He knows it, too," Sister Hilary said. "There's such a close bond between them, there's nothing he wouldn't do for her—even if it meant endangerin' himself to do it."

  "Mick doesn't know danger except for two things," Fr. Chris said, ending the discussion. "Live explosives, and we can't blame him for that, and the crazy idea that having a child of his own will continue the family curse. Even our saintly Annie can't get him past those two things."

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  "Maybe someday someone will," Sr. Hilary said while everyone raised their glasses. "To our Mick, and the day he walks free."

  Caroline's stomach had growled with twinges of jealousy each time she glanced at the head table and saw Mick engrossed in conversation with the beautiful dark-haired bridesmaid he'd escorted up the aisle. Now she thought she understood his relentless pursuit. As long as he kept on the move, he'd never have to face the demons that still haunted him, the nightmares that fractured his sleep and made him cry out in the night. Somewhere along with all the good, the dark side of that brilliant mind still ruled at times. Until Mick faced down the darkness, he'd never know peace, nor would any woman who loved him.

  Caroline raised her glass to join in their toast only to realize the gazes of her tablemates were fastened on her.

  "To Mick," Fr. Chris said. "And to a woman wise enough to calm the troubled sea."

  "Here, here," the others joined in. Caroline hesitated. If she touched her lips to the rim of the glass, would she symbolically accept the challenge they'd laid so carefully at her place? "To Mick," she whispered, drawing the glass nearer.

  "And to Caroline," the priest responded.

  * * * *

  DINNER WAS OVER, and the bridal toasts concluded, but Caroline was still so troubled by what she'd heard, she almost forgot that Mick hadn't stopped by to say hello. Or that in the 233

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  heat of the still night air, she was perspiring right through the jacket she didn't dare remove and expose a most provocative neckline to her companions.

  The band started up again, the bridal couple wended their way among the guests, stopping at each table, when Caroline felt a presence behind her. Fr. Chris had stopp
ed in midsentence and grinned at whoever stood there, his gaze fixed a good foot above Caroline's head.

  "I figured you'd be wandering over soon as dinner was done, cuz," the priest said as a pair of warm, strong hands rested on Caroline's shoulders.

  "I've come to rescue my lady," Mick said. "Don't let the collar fool you, Caroline." He pointed to Fr. Chris. "This one's devilish as they come."

  "You wound me, Mick. I've been singing your praises."

  "Right, and cats bark and dogs meow," Mick shot back. No matter how gruff his tone, Caroline saw in Mick's grin his great respect and affection for his cousin. He took Caroline's hand. "Come with me now, Caroline. They're playin' our song."

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  Chapter Seventeen

  AS IF THE guests were anticipating the moment Mick would escort "his girl" to the dance floor, they parted and opened a path for the couple who walked hand-in-hand toward a forty-foot square of parquet.

  The only air circulating came from the swoosh of female heads turning to watch Caroline and Mick walk by. Even his mother and Sr. Anne, who stood near the champagne fountain with its melting ice sculpture, stared with unabashed curiosity, likely waiting to see what their adored Mick would do next.

  He'd taken off his jacket at some point in the evening, shucked the bow tie and opened the button on his collar. Most of the guests had done the same, mothers fanned their babies, and Caroline smiled each time she saw Ramona's great-grandmother retrieve a lace handkerchief tucked between her huge bosoms, wipe her brow, and stuff the delicate swatch back inside again.