The Eden Tree

by Doreen Owens Malek

  “I…had a bad dream.”

  “You were sleeping in the house?”

  “Yes. I arrived late today and Mr. Fitzgibbon drove me out here and let me in with his key. I was so tired from the trip that I went right to bed.” She looked down. “There was the nightmare and then I heard a noise in the house. A crash. I’m afraid I ran right out and just kept running.”

  He looked disturbed at the possibility of an intruder. “What kind of a crash?” he asked.

  “Like something falling, breaking. I thought somebody was there.”

  His brow cleared. “I doubt it. The cat, more likely. He jumps through the ground floor window in the parlor. Bridie leaves it open for him. It wouldn’t be the first time he tipped something onto the floor. It’s stone, you know. The vases don’t bounce.” He eyed her quizzically. “Did Bridie not tell you about the cat?”

  “I don’t know anybody named Bridie.”

  “She’s the housekeeper,” Clay explained. “Comes in daily; walks up from town. You must have arrived after she left for the day. You’ll meet her tomorrow.”

  Linn couldn’t believe they were chatting this way, in the middle of the night, after that explosive meeting. She shifted position to take advantage of the flooding moonlight and see him as well as she could. His coloring was high, vivid, and complemented his blunt, almost harsh features. He wasn’t conventionally handsome but arresting in a way no merely handsome man could be. She knew instinctively that in any gathering her eyes would bypass the pretty boys and be drawn to him. It was hard to say why, exactly; she just recognized that it was so.

  “I’m sorry that I startled you like that,” she said falteringly. “I behaved stupidly, I suppose, charging out into the dark. I didn’t think I would see anyone.” She glanced around uncertainly. “I don’t know where I am.”

  “Never trouble yourself,” he said shortly. “I’ll walk you back to the house.”

  “You’re sure you don’t mind?” she asked anxiously.

  He shrugged slightly. “I sleep badly myself,” he said, without explanation. “I’m often about the place at night.”

  Linn remembered his first remarks. “Correct me if I’m wrong, Mr. Clay, but I get the impression you resent my presence here. Why is that?”

  Clay stared at her. How could she ask that question? Didn’t she know what her father had done? Had she no idea why the man had left Ireland? She gazed back at him innocently, waiting for an answer.

  Apparently not.

  When he didn’t reply she said, “I will not inconvenience you, Mr. Clay. I want you to go on as usual. I didn’t realize that the cottage was your home. I misunderstood Mr. Fitzgibbon. When he said there was a caretaker I thought he meant someone who lived elsewhere and came in by day, as you say Bridie does.”

  He looked at her a long moment, as if to see if she were sincere, and then said, “Do as you please. I’m the man by the wall in this anyway.” He walked ahead of her, onto a dirt path.

  The man by the wall? What did that mean? Linn hesitated to reply, and he glanced back at her. “Shall you come along, then?” he said impatiently. “You’ll not find your way alone.”

  Linn followed him slowly, keeping to the depression in the earth worn bare of grass by the passage of many feet. It threaded through the trees. She could not remember if she had come along this way or not. Everything looked the same. Clay walked steadily in front of her, not glancing around, pushing overhanging branches out of the way, snapping off twigs and tossing them aside, making it easier for her as she came behind him. Linn studied the back of his head, thinking that his hair was attractive, the color of bittersweet chocolate, curling in soft profusion down to his collar. It had felt very silky, smelled very clean. Her glance moved downward over his strong torso, now concealed by the shirt. There was a fluidity to his movements, an economy of effort, that made her feel secure approaching the house from which she had fled. If anything or anybody was inside it Linn was certain he could handle the situation.

  Clay deviated from the path and took her arm. It was the first time he’d really touched her since he found out who she was, and she started at the contact. He looked down at her, and his eyes were twin blue coals smoldering in his still face. She realized she’d been deceived by his deliberately casual manner when he offered to take her back. He was as constantly aware of what had passed between them as she was.

  “Walk with me,” he said. “This is shorter than the way you came but the ground is covered with rocks and fallen branches. You might trip. Stay close and hang on.”

  Linn did as he said, clinging to his arm and stepping only where he did. After a few minutes of picking their way through the beeches and maples they came within sight of the house. As soon as they were out of the trees he released her.

  “Here you are, my lady,” he said. There was an undertone of irony in his voice which did not escape her.

  “Why do you call me that?” she asked sharply.

  “You’re the mistress of the manor,” he answered simply.

  And for some reason you’re convinced I don’t deserve to be, Linn thought. Aloud she said, “Hardly that.”

  “I’ll have a look ‘round,” he said. “Just in case.” He circled the exterior of the house and then followed her inside through the front door, which she had left ajar in her flight. The interior looked ghostly with most of the furniture draped in protective sheets. He went ahead of her into the parlor and returned carrying a large striped tabby. It purred loudly as he stroked its fur.

  “This is your intruder,” Clay announced. “Fearful looking demon, isn’t he? A scourge to every mouse in the parish. Meet Ned.”

  Linn felt ridiculous, as he had intended. “How was I supposed to know it was a cat?” she asked defensively.

  He let the cat drop to the floor, where it rubbed against his legs affectionately and then stalked back into the living room, its tail held haughtily in the air.

  “You weren’t,” he replied kindly. “The night is full of terrors in a strange place.”

  Linn melted at the gentleness in his voice. He was a contradiction: comforting one moment, ablaze with passion at another, aloof and resentful the next. The elements were certainly mixed in him, Linn reflected. She wanted to put the light on in the hall to see him but as she reached for it, he said, “I’ll leave you now.”

  “Let me return your shirt,” Linn said, taking it off. He came to stand behind her and when she turned to give it to him, he was closer than she’d thought. His hands sought her immediately and the shirt slipped to the floor.

  Clay embraced her with one arm, tangling the fingers of his other hand in her hair. He bent and brushed his lips lightly across her throat. Linn went limp and closed her eyes, arching to meet him.

  “You see how it is with us,” Clay said softly. “I can take you anytime I want. And I do want. So have a care.” He let her go and walked soundlessly to the door. “Good night,” he added quietly, and went out. She heard his footsteps in the cobbled yard, fading, then gone.

  Linn sagged against the wall of the entry hall, her heart pounding. So that was passion, she thought. She’d heard about it all her life but had never experienced it until this night. And with a volatile stranger who’d just left her with a whispered warning. Would it be more appropriate to laugh or cry? She had no idea.

  When she felt recovered enough she made her way slowly to the guest room. She didn’t realize that he’d left his shirt behind until she stepped on it. She picked it up and put her face against the cambric linen. It smelled like him. Then she shook herself and tossed the shirt on the entry hall table. She was not going to behave like a puppy with its master’s blanket. She marched straight into the bedroom and climbed under the covers.

  She was worn out and fell asleep almost immediately. Her last thought before drowsiness overcame her was, I wonder what his first name is?

  * * * *

  In the morning, with the brilliant sunshine streaming in all the windows of the old
house, she half imagined that she had dreamed the whole thing. But when she bathed in the old fashioned clawfoot bathtub, she saw the faint purpled stain of bruises where his fingers had gripped her forearms. And when she pinned up her hair in front of the gilt bordered mirror hanging on the plaster wall, she saw the red marks his mouth had left on the side of her throat. She gripped the wooden chest below the mirror, swaying slightly, feeling again his lips and his hands. It had been real. No phantom could have made such an impression.

  Linn was still reeling from the shock of the experience, which had opened up a new world for her. After the years of frustration with Rick she had almost believed that there was something wrong with her, that Rick had been unresponsive because she wasn’t woman enough to generate a response. But one moonlit interlude with the caretaker had convinced her otherwise.

  She heard the sound of a key in the lock and then the hallooing of a feminine voice. Linn smiled. This must be the fabled Bridie. She picked up her robe from the bed and went out to meet her.

  * * * *

  Unlike Linn, Connor Clay had spent a sleepless night. He’d gone back to the gatehouse and paced around, then went outside and paced around some more. She was the last woman on earth he would have chosen to desire this way, but there simply was no choice involved.

  So that was Kevin Pierce’s daughter. Faith, she was lovely. With that cascading yellow hair, silver in the moonlight, and that sweet, slender body she had captivated him. She would have yielded to him too, if he hadn’t realized who she was and stopped.

  He should have known from the look of her. He’d seen enough glossy American ladies during his year in the States to recognize the type. That style, that subtle sheen and glowing healthiness of skin and eyes and hair, was a uniquely American trait. It came of vitamins and expensive cosmetics and treatments. The little number she was wearing, silk if he wasn’t mistaken, had probably cost enough to feed six starving kids from the Falls Road for a month. Connor slouched against the gatehouse door and watched the sun come up, his expression thoughtful. God, how he’d wanted her. Still did, truth to tell. His hands itched to feel her satiny skin again, his mouth to devour hers, his whole body to merge with that slighter, softer one. He reared up in frustration and kicked a mound of packed dirt. It broke and flew into particles, scattering clumps in a circle. This would never do. He hoped her visit would be a short one. Damn it. No, he didn’t.

  He hoped that she would stay.

  Inside the cottage the phone started to ring. He cursed softly in Gaelic. He never should have gotten the thing installed; people were always calling him and interrupting his work. And who would be ringing at this hour? It was just past dawn. He sighed and went to answer it. Whoever it was would only call again.

  * * * *

  The housekeeper proved to be a middle aged woman in a print dress, a shawl tucked over her shoulders. Her graying hair was screwed tightly into a bun at the back of her head, and a pair of reading glasses dangled from a chain around her neck. She crushed Linn in a motherly embrace.

  “Well, if it isn’t Kevin’s daughter come home to us, all the way from America.” She stepped back, her hazel eyes dancing, and surveyed Linn smilingly. “Why, you’re a pretty little thing, aren’t you? You put me in mind of a cousin of mine from County Meath, so you do. That same fair hair. We don’t see much of that hereabouts; we’re all dark in the south, you know.” She took Linn by the hand and led her into the kitchen. “Sit yourself down, lass, you’ve come a long way.” She clapped her hand to her forehead. “Oh, I’ve lost my wits. I didn’t say who I was. You must be thinking I’m mad. I’m Bridie Cleary, love; I look after the house for the old man.” She quickly amended that. “For Mr. Pierce. At least I did. Terrible tragedy, both of them going so close together.” She removed her shawl and fingered the wisps of hair about her ears.

  “I guessed who you were,” Linn said when she could get a word in edgewise. “How do you do, Mrs. Cleary?”

  “Oh, Bridie, love, Bridie. Mrs. Cleary is my mother- in-law, still with us at eighty-five. Would you like some breakfast? I don’t know what we’ve got; I’ll have a look. Larry Fitzgibbon told me to keep on as I was so I’ve been coming down every day like always, cleaning and keeping out the vermin, you might say.” She went over to one of the cupboards and began removing some earthenware dishes.

  “Just coffee would be fine.”

  Bridie made a mournful face. “Only tea, dear. We don’t drink much coffee. Plus I’m told the brew we make tastes like dishwater anyway. What’s your Christian name, girl?”

  “Aislinn.”

  “Lovely.” The housekeeper beamed. “Lovely.” She crossed to the black iron stove and got the kettle. Linn looked around the kitchen. Attempts had been made to modernize it but by current standards it was still woefully dated.

  “You made reference before to my father,” Linn said. “Did you know him?”

  “Why sure I did, lass, sure I did. When he was young himself, before he went to the States.” The woman’s mouth drew into a thin line. “That was his father’s doing, and no mistake. He was a devil, that Dermot. Could cite Scripture for his purpose and get you to believe it.” She crossed herself hurriedly. “I’ll not speak ill of the dead,” she added ominously.

  Linn filed this exchange away for future reference. She might be able to get more out of Bridie at another time. Linn had always wondered about the source of the quarrel between her father and her grandfather, and this woman probably knew more than she was willing to reveal on first acquaintance.

  Bridie filled the kettle and put the water on for tea. “I know I have eggs,” she muttered. She turned to Linn. “Will you have an egg and some biscuits? There might be stirabout too. Porridge, that is. Just take a little longer.”

  “An egg would be fine.”

  “I hope you’ll stop with us for a while,” the housekeeper said. “I’ll have the cloths off the furniture this day and you’ll settle in nicely. Larry Fitzgibbon, that old blatherskite, said you might be selling the place. That’s never true, is it?”

  “I’m not going to sell it,” Linn said firmly. “Mr. Fitzgibbon thinks I should. He feels that it’s too big for me to look after, too much responsibility. I know he means well but I have no family left at all. My mother died when I was born and now my father is gone too. My heritage is here, my roots.” And Clay is here, Linn added silently. She admitted to herself that he was part of it now as well.

  Bridie Cleary thought so too. She shot Linn a sidelong glance. “Met the keeper, have you?” she asked slyly.

  Linn could feel herself turning red. “The keeper?” she said, feigning ignorance.

  “Him that lives in the cottage beyond, looks after the grounds. Good-looking young fella, strapping and wonderful tall, great mass of curly hair on his head.”

  “Oh, yes. I ran into him last night.” That was almost the literal truth.

  “I thought you might. He starts marching at sunset, like one of those vampires. Rattles ‘round all night like Tim Doolin’s ghost. It’s a shame, I say.”

  “What is?”

  Bridie shook her head sadly. “He can’t sleep, poor man. His memories keep him awake.”

  “Why?”

  Not surprisingly, Bridie was eager to talk about it. As a matter of fact, since she’d arrived she’d done far more talking than cleaning. She was at the moment making some ineffectual swipes at the countertop with a disreputable-looking rag, and breaking eggs with her other hand. Linn smiled to herself. Bridie was a bit more garrulous than fastidious.

  “Well,” Bridie said, turning to Linn conspiratorially, “he was in the fighting up north. He was wounded, shot up terrible bad, almost killed entirely. Came south to recover and has been back these several months. All day he’s inside writing books and at night he walks. It’s a sight more than a body can bear, I’ll tell you that much. Fine young lad like that, it breaks my heart.”

  “Writing what books?” Linn asked, curious.

  Bridie
shrugged to indicate that it was all beyond her. “Some are translations of the old language from what I’ve been told. I can’t read it, more’s the pity.”

  “He translates Gaelic?” This was unusual. It was a difficult tongue and had been banned in Ireland for so long that it had almost passed out of memory. There had been a succession of movements to revive it but only a small group in the country were fluent in it. Linn had read an article about it coming over on the plane.

  “Why did he come back here?” Linn asked.

  “Did you not know? He was raised here, in that cottage. His parents worked for Dermot. His mother was in service at the house; his father ran the Pierce mines. All sold now. Those days are gone forever. But Dermot gave the boy the gatehouse, rent free, for as long as he wished to stay. So when he was hurt he came back home. And now he writes there and takes care of the place when it needs it. Not much to be done nowadays; most of it’s gone back to woods.” The woman removed the pan from the stove and put Linn’s egg on a plate. “So you’re a teacher, then? What do you teach?”

  “I’m an associate professor of literature at a college in New Jersey,” Linn responded automatically, her mind on what Bridie had said about Clay. It was fascinating information.

  “A professor of literature,” Bridie repeated, awed. “Grand, grand. There’ll be some competition for himself about the place, I’m thinking. How long will you stop with us?”

  “The summer. I go back to work in the fall.” The phone rang in the hall, interrupting the conversation. Linn listened to the distinctive European ring—tinny, one-two, one-two. The sound echoed in the still house, making it seem louder than it actually was.

  Bridie bustled to answer it, officious in this appointed chore. After a moment she returned, a sour look on her face. “It’s Mr. Fitzgibbon, asking after you.”

  “I’ll take it.” As Linn walked past her Bridie leaned in and whispered, “I wouldn’t pay him much mind, dear. He’s taken the pledge at least ten times and it’s never stopped him from having a jar in my presence.”