“I’d like to forget,” I snapped, my stare burning through the answering machine as if Taylor could see me on the other side. “I’d like to forget we ever met Maddie O’Neil.”
But I couldn’t forget. In obedience to that still small Voice, I had hesitated on that blasted curb and met Maddie. Instead of saving my life through a miracle, God chose to ruin it through a mishap.
Sinking into the chair by my small kitchen desk, I pulled out my address book and searched for Aunt Kizzie’s phone number. Kizzie claimed to be Irish, and though I doubted she had ever traveled out of Boston, she still spoke with a bit of her mother’s brogue. As a teenager, I thought her old and odd. Now I just thought of her as odd. But since my parents’ deaths, she was the closest relative I had left.
I punched in the number and waited as the phone buzzed in my ear. On the fourth ring, a breathless woman answered. “Yes?”
I didn’t recognize the voice. “Kizzie Ledbetter, please.”
“This is she, child.”
I’m not sure where they originated, but tears welled up within me, wetting my cheeks and shaking my voice. My fingers trembled around the phone. “Aunt Kizzie?”
“Kathleen, darlin’, is that you?”
“Uh-huh.”
She listened to my hiccuping sobs for a moment, then filled the phone with quiet shushings. “Whist now, don’t cry. Gather your thoughts and tell me what’s wrong.”
And so I began. I told the story as well as I could, sticking to the facts of the matter. My best friend had met a pretty Irish girl and wanted to marry her. In Ireland. In four months. And he wanted me to leave my life, my dog, my job, and my school, and go applaud him while he ruined his life.
I sniffled and drew a deep breath. Telling the story had calmed me; the bald facts seemed even balder in the retelling. The answer was so obvious; she couldn’t help but agree. “Isn’t that the most unfair thing you’ve ever heard?” I asked, moving the phone from one ear to the other. “I ought to just wish him good riddance and watch him go.”
“Ah, darlin’.” Her voice broke with huskiness. “’Tis a terrible heartbreak to lose a friend, I know, for friends are the face of God in everyday life. But you’re not losin’ him. He sounds like a good fellow, so he’ll always care for you.”
“But he wants me to leave everything. He keeps talking about Cahira O’Connor and my so-called legacy—”
“Don’t be belittling what you cannot understand, child. I’ve read those stories of yours, and I’m apt to think the man has a point. You ought to finish, for there’s Cahira herself to be heard from. And how do we know you won’t find your future over on the Emerald Isle?”
I bit my lip, wishing it were polite to tell one’s elderly aunt to shake her head and clear out the cobwebs. “I don’t have a future, Aunt Kizzie.”
“Then tell me this, child—what will happen if you don’t go to Ireland?”
I blinked at the unexpected question. “Well, I’ll just stay here and work, I guess. In the fall I’ll register for classes again, and I should finish college in eighteen months or so. Of course, Taylor and Maddie will be back in New York by then, but they’ll be married, so I don’t expect I’ll see much of them. But I’ll have new friends, I suppose—maybe I’ll meet someone else at school, or at work.”
“So you’d prefer this bunch of supposings and guesses to an adventure in Ireland? Ah, Kathleen, when did the blinders fall over your eyes? You’ve a chance to go to Ireland, the land of magic and wee people and great writers. I’d give my right arm to spend a week there, yet someone is handing you the opportunity to spend months!“
My mind reeled with confusion. “I have responsibilities, Aunt Kizzie. There’s my job and my dog.”
“I’ll take the wee dog; you can drive him over one weekend before you go. And you can always find another job when you come back. You’re a hard worker. Anyone would be happy to hire you.”
Sighing, I rested my head on my hand. This conversation was not going at all the way I had expected. I wanted support and reinforcement, but my ally had gone over to the enemy’s camp.
I faltered in the silence that engulfed us, then took a deep breath and decided I had nothing to lose by being completely honest. “I just don’t know if I can handle seeing Taylor with Maddie,” I confessed. “My heart will break every time I look at them together.”
Aunt Kizzie’s voice softened. “Are you in love with him then?”
“No, nothing like that. But we’re friends. Very close. And that will all end soon, I know it will.”
Aunt Kizzie’s deep, warm, and rich laughter floated into my ear. “Kathleen, lass, ’tis lonely you are. You need to find a love of your own.”
I snorted into the phone. “Love is for teenagers and romance novels, Aunt Kizzie. I’ll be happy if I can just find a nice man to marry. Someone who would be like me, someone with whom I could share a cute little house and a couple of kids—”
“’Tis love you need, Kathleen, and I’ll be prayin’ you find it. Now before you make up your mind, answer me this—you said you heard a wee voice right before you met this Maddie. Do you believe what you heard was the voice of God whispering in your ear?”
I considered the question. “Yes. I do.”
“Then meeting Maddie was neither accident nor mistake. ’Twas meant to be, and what follows was meant to be as well. Listen for God’s Voice, Maddie, and consider this—when you’re an old woman like me and yearning to see Ireland and the emerald hills, will you be sorry for not going when you had the chance? Don’t think for a moment that only Taylor or Maddie is inviting you, for Ireland herself is calling your name. If I were you, child, I’d go, even if I had only the wings of the morning under my feet.”
Tightening my grip on the phone, I swam through a haze of desires and feelings. Aunt Kizzie certainly had the gift of gab; she could probably talk the IRS out of an audit. But all the sweet words in the world couldn’t change the fact that I’d be setting myself up for a major heartbreak if I went with Taylor to Ireland.
I thanked her for her counsel, replied “You, too,” to her “I love you,” then hung up.
Pulling my calendar out of the desk drawer, I stared at the empty box for tomorrow’s activities. I had no plans but work for any day this week, no plans for this year besides work and school. My life was an endless succession of blank boxes, and though that was true in some sense for everyone, my boxes were blanker than most because I no longer had parents or family to help me fill in the empty spaces.
Perhaps Aunt Kizzie was right, and Ireland herself was calling my name.
I picked up a pen, then filled tomorrow’s box: 11:30. Meet Taylor at work—go to passport office.
As the unsmiling woman at the passport office took our applications, birth certificates, and personal checks, she told us it would take at least twenty-eight business days for our passports to be processed and issued. Taylor and I went next to his office and checked the Internet for flight schedules and fares. Allowing twenty-eight business days pushed our departure date well into August.
We decided—without asking Maddie, I might add—to leave New York on Monday, August 16. The travel agent reminded us that mid-August was the end of the tourist season. Three seats together would be difficult to arrange if we delayed the least bit, so Taylor went ahead and made reservations on British Airways. He charged three round-trip tickets and told the travel agent to leave the return dates open. I looked away, knowing that he and Maddie would return after their honeymoon, leaving me free to choose my own return date. Taylor did say I could return with them, but I assured him I wanted to come home as soon as possible after the wedding. “After all,” I informed him, holding my head high, “I have someone waiting for me: Barkley.”
That evening, as we met at our usual table at the delicatessen, I studied Maddie’s face as Taylor explained the arrangements he’d made. “Kathy will fly over with us,” he said, squeezing her hand so that her engagement diamond caught the light and
sent bright sparkles flying across the ceiling. “That way we’ll all be together when we meet your parents. I thought it appropriate, since she brought us together in the first place.”
Maddie gave him a wintry smile. “How thoughtful of you.”
“It’ll be convenient, too, since your folks will only have to drive once to the airport. You said Shannon was quite a distance from the farm.”
The cheek muscles in Maddie’s dainty face tightened, turning her smile from a social grace to a grimace of necessity. “You’re very considerate, Taylor.”
Uh-oh. I lowered my eyes and sipped my soda. Trouble in paradise. If she didn’t let Taylor have it here, Maddie would certainly vent her feelings once they left me. Maybe it was for the best. Maybe he would begin to see that this marriage just wasn’t going to work. Better to know it now than to fly all the way to Ireland and discover he was about to marry the wrong girl.
A plan began to form in my brain, a scheme born of desperation and an honest desire to keep a friend from disaster. We’d be thrown together in Ireland from August through October, three people in a relationship designed only for two. Friction was as inevitable as death and taxes, so I might as well use these opportunities to demonstrate that opposites should not always attract.
I met Maddie’s gaze head-on. “Taylor is thoughtful and considerate.” My lips curved in a smile, but my tone was dead serious. “He will always be thoughtful because he values his friends.”
There. Let her know what she’s getting into. Taylor, poor misguided male, would think I was merely defending him, but Maddie would hear my unspoken message: I am important to Taylor, and I plan on staying important. Deal with it.
Maddie’s answering smile looked like a wrinkle with teeth in it. “I know Taylor is thoughtful.” A definite gleam of resentment entered her eyes. “That’s just one of the things I love about him—and that’s why I’m marrying him.”
I resisted the urge to wince, then looked at Taylor.
Totally oblivious, he squeezed Maddie’s hand again and kept his eyes on the menu. “Shall we have the crab salad tonight, love? Or would you rather try the chicken?”
The month of July flew by in a sweaty haze. As Barkley and I sat on the floor eating ice cubes in my sweltering apartment, I thought about my life’s impending disaster and consoled myself with one thought—Ireland boasts of balmy summer weather. My heart might break and my soul might suffer torments, but at least the weather would be nice.
I gave my notice at work and was thrilled beyond words when Miss Richardson, the bookstore manager, promised to rehire me for the Christmas rush. I locked my precious books and academic records in a trunk, then placed an ad to sublet my apartment from mid-August through October. Aunt Kizzie said I could stay with her and Barkley from my return until November so that whoever took my lease could enjoy two and a half full months in my tiny East Village apartment. I didn’t care who rented the place, as long as they paid the rent and abstained from behaviors that might result in my eviction. And with the East Village the way it is, the only behaviors that might prove unacceptable were pyromania and street evangelism.
Maddie stopped meeting Taylor and me for dinner, then Taylor started coming up with excuses not to meet me at the delicatessen. I accepted his desertion calmly and with complete understanding. Taylor seemed unable to comprehend what most women know instinctively—we do not share well. Especially not our men.
I suspect Taylor initiated a major brouhaha with his beloved when he told Maddie he had promised to drive Barkley and me to Boston. Of course, I invited Maddie to come along, and she was probably half inclined to accept, if only to keep an eye on us. In the end, however, she declined. So one glorious August Saturday, Taylor and I piled into his Mustang convertible, put the top down, and sailed out of the city with Barkleys ears extended like the wings of a 747.
Aunt Kizzie was delighted to see us. She loved on “the wee dog” (who weighed at least twice as much as she did), kissed Taylor on the cheek, and hugged me with every ounce of energy in her birdlike frame. We stayed for dinner, a delicious meal of puffy yeast rolls, fried shrimp, and clam chowder, and we were in the midst of a friendly debate about Massachusetts politics when I made the mistake of bringing up Marcy Anne Wilkerson and her latest book.
“According to Marcy Anne Wilkerson,” I said, theatrically waving my fork to make a point, “people who have a passion for politics usually suffer from an unquenchable need for power or adoration. But if we find the power of God within us, we will satisfy those needs and leave our strivings for politics—and things political—behind.”
Taylor popped a shrimp into his mouth while Aunt Kizzie gave me a warning look that put a damper on my high spirits. “The power of God where?” She spoke as if she were strangling on a repressed scream of frustration.
“Within us.” I glanced at Taylor, hoping for reinforcement, but he just tossed another shrimp into his mouth and grinned at me.
“That’s stuff and nonsense, girl, and you’re a fool for reading it. I’ve heard about that Marcy Anne Wilkerson, that so-called minister, and I’m not buying a word she teaches.”
Oops. Sorry that I’d tapped one of Aunt Kizzie’s hot buttons, I tried to direct my attention back to my dinner, but she wasn’t letting go of the subject—or of me either.
“I can’t believe you’d waste good money on one of that woman’s books.”
“I didn’t waste money on it, Aunt Kizzie.” I stopped buttering my bread long enough to give her a reassuring smile. “The store had a promo copy, so I read it. I’m supposed to read books on the bestseller list so I’ll know what’s hot. I’d be useless if I didn’t know what was happening in the book world.”
“It’s not just the book world—it’s the world.” Kizzie nodded, the blue of her eyes like a cold wave that rushed at me. “Honey, the world is at odds with the Truth, and you’ve got to realize that. I don’t mind you reading those kinds of books as long as you know enough to discern truth from a lie. What worries me is that you seem to have swallowed this woman’s prattle hook, line, and sinker.”
I placed my knife and roll on my plate, then folded my hands and looked directly at her. “Auntie, I was raised in a Christian home. I was practically born in Sunday school, and I know the Bible—pretty well, in fact. You don’t have to worry about me following some modern guru. I just thought her insights were interesting.”
“You know the Bible?” A wry but indulgent glint appeared in her eyes. “All right, lass, answer me this—is the book of Hezekiah in the Old or New Testament?”
Taylor tapped his fork against his water glass. “I know this one! It’s the Old Testament!”
I glared at Taylor through half-closed lids, then reached out to pat Kizzie’s hand. “It’s neither, Auntie. Hezekiah isn’t a book.”
Taylor dropped his fork in mock disappointment, while Aunt Kizzie leaned back in her chair, crossed her arms, and gazed at me with speculation in her eyes. “Don’t get overconfident with me, missy, because it’s a sly world out there. Most lies come dressed in pretty packages, while the truth wears homespun. It bothers me to hear you babbling a bunch of lovely nonsense.”
To my annoyance, I felt myself beginning to blush. “You don’t need to worry about me. I know the Lord, and I know what I believe.”
“I’m not worried about you, love, but thinking of the people you’ll meet along life’s way. Will you let the truth shine from your life or hide it under a bushel?”
Recoiling as though she had struck me, I stiffened in my chair. Good grief, I wasn’t called to be a missionary or an evangelist. I was only a student, one who hoped to finish school and become a writer. Someday, when I had the chance, I’d write the truth in my stories. They’d touch people’s lives and make a difference.
I opened my mouth to speak, but Aunt Kizzie cut me off. “Listen to me, Kathleen O’Connor,” she said, a light burning in her eyes that any sapphire would have envied, “you’ll not find God’s truth in any book that
promises your life will be easy. God will ask hard things of you. He will demand real sacrifice. Faith is hard, lass, and requires constant giving.”
“I give,” I mumbled, grateful that I was doing something right. “When I go to church, I always put an offering in the plate.”
Kizzie drew her lips into a tight smile. “Giving money is easy, love. ’Tis giving your life that’s hard. If you’re walking close to the Savior, he’ll demand more and more until your entire life is given over.”
Well. Afraid even to glance at Taylor, I coughed softly and stared at my plate. If Taylor hadn’t regretted coming along before this, he certainly regretted it now. I had forgotten to mention that my Aunt Kizzie was a little assertive in her views. In New York, you could be assertive about art, gay rights, abortion, politics, garbage collection, or rent control, but you couldn’t be assertive about God without people looking at you strangely.
“The silliest ideas are being accepted and defended without any genuine courage or sacrifice demanded,” Kizzie said, picking up her knife and fork. “People are saying God is an alien, we are gods, we are aliens—I’ve heard a bit of everything.” She took a bite of shrimp and began chewing, but the food didn’t slow her down. “’Tis a load of rubbish, and no doubt.”
Somehow we made it through dinner, and night had fallen by the time Taylor and I began the long drive home. We tuned the radio to a golden-oldies station and slanted from one lane to the next, dodging the casual weekend drivers. Taylor didn’t mention Kizzie and her dinnertime sermon, so I didn’t either.
As I tilted my head toward his shoulder and let my heavy eyelids droop, I couldn’t help thinking how perfect it would be if Maddie’s dazzling diamond were wrapped around my finger. I know I was coveting (my neighbor’s ring, my neighbor’s fiancé) and breaking a major commandment, but I couldn’t help wishing. Taylor and I never argued, we never disagreed, and we liked the same things. What else could you want in a relationship?
Time would tell, I told myself as I nodded off to the hypnotic rhythm of a Temptations tune. In time, familiarity always bred contempt.
The Emerald Isle Page 3
