The Emerald Isle

by Angela Elwell Hunt

  Remember that no man loses other life than that which he lives,

  Nor lives other than that which he loses.

  —MARCUS AURELIUS

  To know beauty, one must live with it.

  —IRISH PROVERB

  You can finish your work on Cahira.” Taylor dropped his fork and leaned over the table, dangerously close to me. “Think of it, Kathleen—you’ll be right there. Right where Cahira lived and died, on the same ground, beside the same hills, under the same skies. You can visit libraries and museums and look at ancient artifacts. You can soak up local color until you’re as green as a shamrock.” His blond brows arched mischievously. “Don’t tell me you’ve never wanted to go to Ireland. I know better.”

  I shook my head as mixed feelings surged through me. “Sure, I’ve wanted to go, but that’s just Cinderella talk, Taylor. You’re talking about leaving in a few weeks—and staying away for months! I can’t go. I have a job, I have a dog, I have school. I can’t just walk away from my entire life.”

  “When else are you going to go?” A blue flame of defiance lit his eyes. “I know you, Kathleen. If you don’t come with us, you’ll stay here, finish school, marry the first guy who asks you, and settle down to raise the statistical average of 2.2 children while you write sweet little feature stories for the local paper. You’ll drive a station wagon, shop for groceries three times a week, and volunteer for room mother at your kids’ school. And every night you’ll fall into bed too tired from doing the little things to even dream about the big things. Is that any kind of life for an heir of Cahira O’Connor?”

  I drew a deep breath and flexed my fingers until the urge to slap him had passed. “That sounds like a pretty good life to me. Why should I want more than any woman I know? I’d be thrilled to raise two happy kids and write stories for the local paper, as long as I fell into bed at night with a wonderful husband! I don’t want fame or danger or excitement. I don’t need those things. But you must need them, Taylor. Why else would you want to go all the way to Ireland to marry a girl you barely know?”

  Taylor’s blue eyes darkened as he held my gaze. “Because I know I can’t live without her. And I know her well enough to know she would want to be married with her family present, so that means Ireland. And I cherish you enough to want you with me.

  I managed a choking laugh. “You cherish me?”

  He nodded. “I do. And I know you, probably better than you know yourself. I know Ireland is your motherland, whether or not you want to claim it, and Cahira’s legacy is yours, whether or not you want to acknowledge it. You need to come with us, Kathleen. My happiness wouldn’t be complete without you at my wedding.”

  Then why don’t you marry me, you idiot?

  Book I: The Silver Sword

  Book II: The Golden Cross

  Book III: The Velvet Shadow

  Book IV: The Emerald Isle

  1 Kathleen

  2 Cahira

  3 Patrick

  4 Colton

  5 James O’Neil

  6 Rathcroghan

  7 Ballyshannon

  Epilogue

  Book 4

  Thursday, June 17, 1999

  New York City

  You must understand—I’m not the type who sees omens and portents in everything. Even though my Aunt Kizzie once snapped the face of Jesus in her Jell-O salad, I didn’t see anything in the photograph but bits of fruit cocktail and swirled cream cheese where the beard should be. I’m what you might call a practical Christian. I’m kind to strangers, I’m prepared for heaven, and I try to be a good testimony on earth. I don’t have visions, I don’t jump around in church, yet there are times I hear the still, small Voice—not audible, but insistent all the same.

  The last time I heard the Voice I was in Manhattan, standing on the corner of Sixth Avenue and Fifty-fourth Street. A heat wave lay over the city like a wool blanket, and I wanted nothing more than to reach the little air-conditioned restaurant where I could relax and enjoy a cool drink. The pedestrian light had just changed to walk, so the crowd around me surged forward. But the Voice inside me said wait.

  Perched on the curb, I lowered the book I’d been flipping through and felt my stomach sway. All around me, businessmen, shoppers, teenagers, and tourists hurried in complete oblivion to cross the street. A musclebound guy in black jogging shorts nearly knocked me from the curb, then rushed on without even an “excuse me.” My eyes followed him, certain that a crazed cabby or some drunk driver was about to careen through the crowd and scatter people like rag dolls. Why else would the Voice of God stop me now, when I was starving and tired after a long day’s work?

  The pedestrian light blinked “Don’t Walk,” and a white-haired grandma pushed past me like a lineman intent on sacking the opposing quarterback. I leaned back toward the curb, bracing for the screech of brakes and sudden screaming, but…nothing happened.

  The light changed again. The waiting cars in front of me peeled away, scattering a couple of pedestrians on the far side of the street, but no one was injured.

  Just a typical New York afternoon.

  I glanced around, making sure I hadn’t missed any other threatening situations, then lifted my book again and credited the Voice to my hyperactive imagination. I’d just found the spot where the hero rescues the heroine from a fate worse than death when someone tugged on my sleeve.

  “Meghann McGreedy? I love her.” A petite, strawberry blond girl next to me nodded toward my book. “I read that one last week. Have you heard about the sequel? I think she’s working on it now.”

  “You mean this isn’t the end of Horace and Irene?” The pedestrian signal changed again, and this time I didn’t even think about waiting. The girl stepped off the curb, and I went with her. “What else could possibly happen to those two?”

  “Anything can happen!” The girl was shorter than I am, so she lengthened her stride to keep up. “For one thing, I hear they find a way to return to 1995. I don’t want to give away the ending, but in the epilogue Horace suggests going back to Ireland, and Irene has to because—” She stopped, her blue eyes twinkling at me. “Well, I don’t want to give the ending away.”

  “You can tell me.” I closed the book and tucked it under my arm as we walked. “I don’t know you, so how can I hold anything against you?”

  The girl smiled. “I like your logic. All right then. Irene is pregnant, and she decides to have the baby in contemporary Ireland, though why she’d want to do that I’ll never know. So they have to manipulate their time machine, but the contraption falls into a desperate bad humor, and Horace has to leave Irene. That’s how this book ends.”

  She threw up her hands in a gesture of helpless exasperation, and I stared at her, mystified. From my work in the bookstore, I knew lots of people loved Meghann McGreedy’s books, but I’d never met anyone quite so enthusiastic about them. And this blue-eyed girl spoke with a lilting accent that had to be Irish, which meant she might be able to explain some of the strange situations Horace and Irene had stumbled across in sixth-century Ireland.

  We had reached the deli where I planned to eat dinner, so I stopped on the sidewalk and smiled at my new friend. “I never thought I’d find anyone as hooked on these books as I am.”

  “I never thought I would either.” She grinned back at me. “But when I saw you standing on the curb with the book in your hands, I knew we had to be kindred spirits.” A pretty blush mantled her cheeks. “I don’t usually go around talking to strangers, if you’re wondering about me being some kind of loony.”

  “That’s okay, I don’t usually answer strangers who talk to me.” I hesitated a moment, then pointed to the entrance of the delicatessen. “I was just about to meet a friend for a sandwich. Would you like to joi
n us? He’s a reader too. Though he’s not as wild about Meghann McGreedy as I am, he knows quite a bit about literature.”

  “I was just beginning to think about a bit of dinner.” The girl glanced at the sign over the delicatessen, then looked back at me. “Sure, and why not? I’d love to join you.”

  “Let’s go then.” I opened the door, paused for a moment to drink deeply of the welcoming stream of cool air, then led the way into the restaurant. As we stood and waited for a table, I suddenly remembered the Voice. I’d been so certain that I waited on that curb to avoid being smacked by a car in the crosswalk. But instead, I’d found a new friend.

  An unexpected blessing.

  As we studied the menu and made small talk, I learned that my Irish friend was Maddie O’Neil, a twenty-two-year-old student majoring in humanities at New York City College. Like most humanities majors, she had no idea what she wanted to do with her degree, but she loved art, she loved music, and she loved people. When Taylor entered the deli, saw my wave, and headed toward our table, the light in Maddie’s eye convinced me she could very well learn to love Taylor Morgan.

  Taylor tossed his attaché case into the empty space on the table, then sank into his chair and looked at Maddie as if he’d never seen a cute, blue-eyed strawberry blonde before.

  “Taylor, this is Maddie O’Neil,” I offered, feeling invisible. “Mad-die, this is my friend Taylor Morgan. He’s an assistant professor at the college…and my friend.”

  “The name is Madeline, but you can call me Maddie.” She thrust her small hand across the table and smiled so warmly that her earlier smiles seemed like mere grimaces in comparison. “Kathleen tells me you’ve a fondness for literature.”

  “I should hope so.” One corner of his mouth turned up as he winked at me. “I can’t get away from it. Besides my work in the English department, Kathleen’s kept me busy reading her manuscripts for the last year. But she’s probably already told you about her project.”

  “Not really.” Maddie dimpled. “We just met. I saw her looking through one of Meghann McGreedy’s books on the sidewalk, and I couldn’t resist speaking to her. One thing led to another, so we’re going to have a bit of dinner together.”

  “Interesting.” As the waitress appeared at Taylor’s side and flipped open her order pad, he held up his hand. “How about three hot teas? Madeline, I imagine that you enjoy afternoon tea.”

  “Absolutely. Lovely.” Maddie clapped her hands as if hot tea and June heat went together like bread and butter, but I shook my head.

  “Diet soda for me,” I told the waitress. “With lots of ice.”

  Then I ordered my usual tuna sandwich while Maddie ordered a crab salad. Taylor asked for the crab salad too, and as the waitress moved away, he turned to Maddie. “That is the most lovely Irish accent I’ve ever heard. Where is your home?”

  I crossed my arms as Maddie began to tell us—or tell Taylor—that she had come to New York four years ago. Last month she earned her bachelor’s degree, but she wanted to take additional literature classes before deciding whether she should look for a job or enter the master’s program.

  Resting my chin in my hand, I watched her and Taylor. I had known Taylor for over a year, and during the past several months we’d grown quite close—in fact, I’d have to say we were best friends. Though we never specifically talked about it, I had been thinking that some day we’d marry and settle down together. I could just see us—he with his books and me with mine, sitting in his-and-hers wing chairs before a roaring fire. Barkley, my mastiff, would stretch out on the floor between us and snore happily as Taylor asked my opinion about some student’s paper or the latest New York Times bestseller. Not a very passionate marriage, perhaps, but certainly a happy one.

  Taylor and I liked the same things and shared the same temperaments. For at least six months, we had been meeting in this deli every afternoon, eating matching tuna sandwiches and drinking diet soda, but Taylor had abruptly become a tea-and-salad man, while I faded to invisible. What happened?

  The waitress brought our drinks, and I watched silently as Maddie poured sugar and cream into her tea, and Taylor methodically imitated her. She stirred; he stirred. She sipped; he sipped. She giggled; he laughed. And neither of them noticed me.

  “You know,” Taylor said, abruptly glancing up at me as if he’d read my thoughts, “Kathleen and I are Irish too. Kathleen is a descendant of Cahira O’Connor, and she actually discovered my name in the O’Connor family tree.”

  Maddie’s delicate brow wrinkled. “Cahira O’Connor? Sorry, never heard of her. But O’Connor is a common Irish name.”

  “Cahira was a thirteenth-century princess,” Taylor went on, the charm of his smile echoing in his voice. “Apparently on her deathbed she prayed that her descendants would break out of their traditional roles and fight for right in the world. Amazingly enough, Kathleen has discovered that three other O’Connor women—four, if you count Kathleen herself—have fulfilled Cahira’s deathbed prayer. Every two hundred years an O’Connor woman appears with a streak of white hair over the left temple, just like Kathleen’s. Three of those women have done incredible things with their lives.”

  Maddie leaned forward and stared at the side of my head as if a third eye had just appeared there. “Ah, sure. ’Tis surely amazing.”

  “Kathleen has written three manuscripts—books, really—one on each of the three women,” Taylor continued, stirring his tea again. “They’re remarkable, and I keep telling her she’s destined for greatness. But Kathy doesn’t think she has it in her.”

  “I just don’t think there’s any unique calling for women knights, women explorers, or women soldiers today,” I answered, suddenly irritated by the entire conversation. “Seriously, what isn’t a woman today capable of? Any woman with ambition and intelligence can decide to cure diseases, run for office, even orbit in space. The time of women stepping into men’s roles to accomplish the unthinkable is over. Everything is thinkable. I’m sure Flanna O’Connor was the last of the adventurers.” There. No more to say. “Now can we change the subject? Maddie and I came here to talk about Meghann McGreedy’s books.”

  “But why would we want to bore the poor lad with that fluff and nonsense?” Maddie lifted her teacup to her perfectly pink lips and smiled at Taylor over the rim. “Your work must surely be fascinating. Tell me about your favorite author.”

  Taylor shifted in his chair, his face brightening as he turned to face Maddie. “Well, though some say no one will ever beat Shakespeare for sheer depth and originality, I have the highest regard for Rudyard Kipling. He has been vastly unappreciated, and too many of our freshman students have never been invited to read his work. A few have heard of The Jungle Book, of course, but most of them are more familiar with Disney’s version than Kipling’s.”

  I sipped my soda, then swirled my straw in the glass, only half listening to a conversation I’d already heard at least a dozen times. On and on Taylor continued, extolling Kipling’s genius, while Maddie’s face glowed in rapt attention.

  Would it have been too much, I asked the Voice, to use someone else to play matchmaker? You could have let them meet at the grocery or the college. They could have smacked into each other in a fender bender. You didn’t have to use me to introduce my best friend to the love of his life.

  What makes one person fall in love with another? In Meghann McGreedy’s books, the spunky, beautiful heroine usually insults, disdains, or slaps the strong, handsome hero upon their first encounter. The befuddled fellow always walks away vowing never to speak to that particular piece of feminine baggage again, but you just know they’re destined to end up together. Any two people who throw those kinds of sparks on their first meeting are bound to get together again—and permanently.

  That’s what struck me as strange about Taylor and Maddie. They were both as pleasant as could be that first afternoon in the delicatessen. Maddie didn’t toss a single insult or lift as much as a brow in dispute, but sparks were flying non
etheless. I wasn’t surprised to hear Taylor invite her to join us at the museum opening we had planned to attend Friday night, nor was I surprised when she accepted. What astonished me as we walked through the museum and studied the soso paintings of an up-and-coming artist was the realization that Taylor preferred Maddie’s company to mine. When a thought struck him, he pulled Maddie to his side to share it. When Maddie sighed in ecstasy over a painting, Taylor hurried forward to admire it. And when Maddie spilled her purse all over the marble floor, Taylor crawled on his hands and knees among a crowd of well-heeled museum patrons to retrieve every penny and lipstick. We’re very close, but I don’t think Taylor would have gone down on his hands and knees for me if I’d dropped my last dime.

  On the way out of the museum, Taylor suggested that we go to a movie the next night. Maddie accepted instantly, but I made up a lame excuse about having to wash my hair. Amazingly, Taylor bought it.

  So I spent that Saturday night alone in my apartment with Barkley, my 240-pound mastiff. Determined not to sit around feeling sorry for myself, I whipped up an oatmeal-and-egg facial masque and poured myself a tall iced tea, then carried my bowl and my glass into the bathroom. As I sat in front of the mirror slathering gritty goop on my face, I assured Barkley that most men were idiots. Taylor Morgan, my best friend, had fallen into a blue-eyed trap, and Maddie had been blowing smoke when she said she was staying in New York while she tried to decide what career to pursue. The girl had finished school without snagging an engagement ring, so hunting season had officially been extended. And my naive Taylor, bless his heart, was definitely the most attractive stag in this neck of the woods.

  Pushing his bulky chest up from the floor, Barkley lifted his nose in my direction, sniffing the oatmeal masque. “They have absolutely nothing in common,” I told him, drawing a line of goo across my forehead like war paint. “He’s quiet; she’s active. He’s self-contained, and she’s so out there it’s scary. Taylor’s a very private person, but Maddie would tell her secrets to a perfect stranger. Look how we met—she talked to me, a total stranger, then accepted an invitation to dinner. She’s nuts, that one.”