by Luanne Rice
“Do you think Eleanor Marie sabotaged it?” Bernie asked.
Sister Anastasia shook her head. “No, dear. I don’t. I think James did.”
“James? But he was just a child! How—”
“His love for Kathleen,” Sister Anastasia said. She looked old and frail, but her voice was strong, filled with warmth.
“He didn’t want to leave her,” Tom said, knowing immediately, and to the depths of his own heart, what that felt like. All these years, working at the Academy beside Bernie. Passing up the chance to marry, to have other children, to make a life with a family of his own. All that had ever mattered to him was being near Bernie, as close as possible, no matter that he’d never have a chance at anything more.
Bernie turned to look at him, and Sister Anastasia gazed at him, too, her eyes bright and shining, as if she could see straight into his soul.
“That’s right,” Sister Anastasia whispered. “That’s exactly right, Thomas.”
“He loved her so much,” Tom said.
“And still does, I suspect,” Sister Anastasia said.
“Where is he, Sister?” Bernie asked. “We have to find him.”
To Tom’s shock, Sister Anastasia reached into the folds of her habit, withdrew a folded paper. “That’s where you’ll find him,” she said. “He works as a chauffeur, every day of the week.”
“The Greencastle Hotel?” Bernie asked, her hands trembling as she read from the paper.
“Yes, dear.”
“How will we recognize him?” Tom asked.
Sister Anastasia walked over to her wall of pictures. She scanned it, looking for the photograph. Removing its pushpin, she took it down. Then, reaching up again, she took down the photo beside it.
She handed one picture to Bernie, who held it toward Tom so they could look together. There was their son, Thomas James Sullivan. The photograph must have been taken when he was about twelve. He had his mother’s red hair, and he had Tom’s dark blue eyes. His face was thin, with cheekbones chiseled like Bernie’s, freckles across his nose and cheeks, warmth in his eyes, and an easy, playful smile on his lips. Tom couldn’t look away, and Bernie couldn’t stop crying.
“Here’s another,” Sister Anastasia said, handing Tom a photo of a pretty young girl with long brown hair in a braid over her left shoulder, with clear blue eyes that made Tom think of a deer surprised by headlights.
“Kathleen?” he asked.
“Yes,” she said.
Tom stared at the picture of the girl his son had always loved, and he felt a great connection with him. To love someone forever, to not be able to have her, to give your whole life for her and not know whether she knew it or not—Tom had that in common with his son.
“I received a postcard from her,” Sister Anastasia said, opening a desk drawer, removing a card from it. “Her family moved to the States. She lives there now, in a grand house in Newport, Rhode Island. She asked for him.”
“When did it come?” Tom asked, taking the postcard Sister Anastasia held out to him.
“Just two weeks ago,” Sister Anastasia said. “The anniversary of the day James ran away from St. Augustine’s. I’ve been meaning to get to the Greencastle myself—to let him know. But something made me wait….”
“You knew we were coming,” Tom said, holding the card, gazing at the kind old nun. Bernie seemed not to hear; she sat perfectly still, staring at their son’s picture, as if she was memorizing every feature.
“There’s more than one way to have a vision,” Sister Anastasia whispered.
Tom nodded. Bernie didn’t reply. Tom tried to hand the postcard back to Sister Anastasia, but she just shook her head. After a moment, he understood, and put it in his pocket.
Bernie’s eyes remained on the picture of their son. Sister Anastasia’s lips began to move, and Tom knew that she was silently blessing them—Tom, Bernie, and the boy who had called St. Augustine’s home.
Eleven
Seamus pulled into the Greencastle, enlivened after his long day of driving. He had taken his passengers, a Nashville singer-songwriter and her manager, in Dublin for a sold-out concert at Temple Bar Music Center, on a coastal tour of Newgrange and Bru na Boinne—“the Palace of the Boyne,” the river valley considered to be the cradle of Irish civilization.
Not only was he a driver, Seamus was also—if he did say so himself—a first-rate tour guide. All the time he had spent on the road, after leaving St. Augustine’s the second and last time, had taken him many places in Ireland. Wherever he went, he imagined returning with Kathleen—showing her the most beautiful sites, places they’d never dreamed existed beyond the walls of St. Augustine’s. So over the years, he had committed to memory many historical facts and bits of Irish legend and lore.
These were things he’d learned on his own, he was proud to say. If he’d had parents, taking him out on weekend excursions, they would have been the ones to teach him about Newgrange—a passage grave from the New Stone Age, five hundred years before the pyramids in Egypt. They would have shown him the Roof Box—an incredible detail, an opening cut just above the door, precisely placed to catch the rays of the rising sun on December 21—the winter solstice—and hold the sun’s light for twenty minutes.
Seamus had decided long ago that his somewhat limited background wasn’t going to hold him back. He had learned all he could about the ring forts and sacred enclosures, things he could tell his passengers. Sometimes he dreamed of teaching his own children about these things, but for now his study had paid off by making him one of the most requested drivers at the Greencastle.
The singer was in her late twenties, a pretty blond American woman from Nashville, wearing jeans and cowboy boots, here in Ireland for her show, and to look into her Irish roots. Her manager was her aunt, in her forties. She’d booked Seamus on the recommendation of another Nashville star—Mark Riley, who’d visited last spring, come to Ireland to perform and research family origins. “Lot of hillbillies came from Ireland,” Mark Riley had said. “That’s why you hear so much fiddle music in bluegrass music. It’s our Celtic roots.”
“That’s song material!” the songwriter, Randi-Lu O’Byrne, had exclaimed as she’d walked around, hearing Seamus talk about the Neolithic passage graves. “I’m going to call it ‘Roof Box’ and dedicate it to you, Seamus.”
“Don’t think she won’t,” her aunt said. “She’s got her guitar up in the room; you can bet she’ll be playing the song at her show this weekend.”
“That’s amazing,” Seamus said.
“You know, I want you to come to the show,” Randi-Lu said. “There’ll be two tickets with your name on them, waiting at the box office.”
“Thank you, ma’am,” he said.
“‘Ma’am’? Jesus, how old do you think I am?” she said, laughing.
“Randi-Lu, I’m going back to the parking lot, make a few calls,” her aunt said, leaving them alone.
“Got a girlfriend, Seamus?” Randi-Lu asked as they strolled through the shade of the prehistoric tombs.
He thought of Kathleen, hesitating just long enough for Randi-Lu to grin and chuck him in the shoulder.
“You do, don’t you?”
“Well, there’s someone I used to know….”
“Yeah? Where is she now?”
“I don’t know. I lost track of her on a beach long ago.”
“Why, that’s another song right there. You’re inspiring me left and right! ‘Roof Box,’ and now ‘Lost on a Beach.’ Key of E. What’s her name?”
“Kathleen,” he said.
“Well, if you come to my show,” Randi-Lu said, “I’ll dedicate a song to Seamus and Kathleen. We’ll put it out to the universe, your names, the two of you together. That’s what my music’s all about…love and connection. Big Love, Seamus. Capital ‘B,’ capital ‘L.’ Not just romance—that passes, dies, and fades. I’m talkin’ love that’s meant to be. In fact, that’s what my latest single is about.”
“Big love,” he said, e
choing her words.
“Love you hold in your soul,” she said, gazing at him with sharp green eyes.
“Yeah,” he said, and a shiver ran down his spine as Kathleen’s face filled his mind.
“Not many men know what I’m talking about when I say that,” she said, taking a step closer. They stood in the shadow of a Stone Age megalith, toes nearly touching. She looked about twenty-eight, not much older than he was.
“You said you lost her,” Randi-Lu said.
“That’s right.”
“I lost someone, too,” Randi-Lu said. “He’s another singer, down in Nashville. We used to tour together; we planned on coming to Ireland together.”
“But it didn’t happen?”
Randi-Lu shook her head. “He left me for someone else. A girl he met on the road. They’re living together now, have a baby and everything. Is that what happened with you and Kathleen?”
“No,” Seamus said. “We never got that far, never had the chance. It’s a long story.”
“I’m a country singer,” Randi-Lu said, moving even closer. “I love long stories.”
Seamus felt a blast of attraction, felt her coming on to him. It had happened before with women he drove, here in Ireland for business or family, far from home. He’d never acted on it, and never would.
“This story’s too long,” he said gently, not wanting to hurt her feelings.
“Oh, big love,” she said, smiling, backing away. “You got it bad.”
“Yeah, I guess I do.”
“Well, wherever Kathleen’s lost, I hope she knows you’re waiting to find her.”
“Thanks,” Seamus said. And then Randi-Lu’s aunt came back from making her calls, saying it was time to get back to Dublin. Seamus held the doors for them as they climbed into the back seat of the Mercedes 600. Randi-Lu gave him a copy of her latest CD, and he put it on.
The very first cut was called “Big Love,” and he heard her singing about the man she’d just told him about.
It’s bigger than life, it’s bigger than the sky,
It’s bigger than always, it’s bigger than why….
They listened, no one talking, all the way back to the hotel. The music tugged Seamus’s heart, the place where Kathleen had always lived. When Seamus pulled into the driveway of the Greencastle, he saw Kevin standing in the shade, talking on his cell phone.
As he opened the back door, Randi-Lu stopped to look him in the eye.
“Thanks for the ride,” she said. “And the talk.”
“You’re welcome,” he said. “About your show…”
“Front and center,” she said. “That’s where your seats’ll be.”
“I can’t come without Kathleen,” he said.
“No?” she asked, not really seeming surprised.
He shook his head, gestured over at Kevin. “There’s another couple who’d really like to hear you, though.”
“No problem,” she said. “We’ll save a seat for Kathleen at another show, somewhere down the road. Okay?”
“Thank you,” he said. “We’ll be there. It’s a promise. That fellow…” he began.
Randi-Lu looked up at him, waiting.
“The one you were supposed to come to Ireland with? It’s his loss, not to be here with you,” Seamus said. “He was a lucky man, and he just didn’t know it. He missed the whole thing; it just passed him by.”
“Another song.” Randi-Lu grinned. “‘Don’t Know You’re Lucky Till It Bites You in the Ass.’ I may get a whole new CD’s worth of music out of this trip. Thanks again, Seamus. Say hi to Kathleen for me, when you find her.”
“I will,” Seamus said, shaking her hand.
He was walking over to tell Kevin about the tickets when he caught sight of a couple standing across the courtyard. They were watching him, and at first he thought maybe they were his next fares—perhaps the Greencastle had booked him for one more ride that afternoon. The woman had red hair, as bright as Seamus’s, and a warm, excited look in her blue eyes. And he recognized the man—he was wearing the same shabby tweed jacket he’d worn when he’d come here for breakfast with the Kellys a few days ago.
Seamus nearly started toward them—there was something in their gaze, the way they were watching him so eagerly, that made him think they really wanted to hire him. But then Kevin called out his name, and Seamus couldn’t wait to tell him about the tickets. And when he turned back to look at the couple again, they were gone.
They had gotten in the car, and Tom had pulled it away from the hotel, around the corner. They were both so overwhelmed—it had bowled them over, seeing their son. No matter how often Tom had imagined this moment, the reality was a thousand times more intense. He leaned across the front seat to hold Bernie. His eyes were scalding with tears. They’d seen their son, and he looked just like his mother.
Holding Bernie now, Tom couldn’t get over how grown-up their boy was. Counting the years was one thing; seeing the evidence of them was another. The last Tom and Bernie had seen him, he’d been a baby; now he was a grown man. Tom had watched him drive the car under the portico, open the back door for his passengers—and do it with such skill and grace. Tom was a good judge of people, and he could see with one glance what a fine person their son was.
Little things. The way he’d signaled, going slowly up the drive, giving a departing driver the right-of-way, along with a friendly, playful salute. Tom had watched him open the door, help the passengers out of the back seat with a bright smile—a genuine, authentic smile, not just something pasted on his face to get a big tip.
Tom had watched the smile light up his face. Something his passenger—an attractive young woman—was saying made him bend closer, nod his head. Then he’d pointed over at one of his colleagues, another driver, a kid about the same age, standing across the courtyard, talking on a cell phone.
The whole time, Tom stood close to Bernie. She was trembling against him, and he felt her wanting to run right over to their son, take him into her arms. He had never seen or felt her this way—there was a wildness to her that almost scared him. For the last twenty-three years, she had been Sister Bernadette Ignatius—the rock-steady Mother Superior of Star of the Sea. Over here, in Dublin, she was Bernie Sullivan again—the tender, vulnerable, sweet girl he’d fallen in love with, and who had given birth to their baby, and who’d let him go.
“Bernie,” he said now, his mouth against her hair, her head pressed into his chest.
“Did you see him?” she cried. “It was really him….”
“Yes,” Tom said. “There’s no doubt.”
“His friend called him Seamus.”
“Irish for James.”
“We have to go back to him now—why did you hold me back?”
“What are we going to say to him?” Tom asked.
“You know…” Bernie said.
“No, I don’t. I don’t have any idea.”
She looked up at him, almost as if she felt sorry for him. He saw the life in her face. There was always something going on behind her eyes—worlds of thought racing there. She looked so different without her black veil, without the stiff white framing her face. She hadn’t explained to him why she’d taken off her habit, and Tom didn’t care. He wanted to touch her cheek, her beautiful hair, and take her in his arms and kiss her.
“He’s our son,” Bernie said. “We’ll know what to say. We can’t plan it.”
“But we don’t want to upset him, scare him….”
Bernie blinked, her eyes red-rimmed. The color was returning to her face, her freckles standing out in not-so-stark contrast to the pallor. She wiped tears from her eyes and took Tom’s hand.
“Let’s go,” she said.
“Right now? Shouldn’t we—”
“Don’t be scared, Tom. This is what we’ve come thousands of miles to do. He’s waiting for us.”
“Are you sure you’re ready, Bernie?”
“I’m ready,” she whispered. And by the way she was looking behind him, be
yond him, at the courtyard of the Greencastle Hotel, just over his shoulder, Tom knew that she was.
Bernie tugged the white wool sweater down over her hips, stood by the car catching her breath. Wearing regular clothes—jeans, a sweater, her head uncovered—made her feel exposed. And she knew that that had been her intention all along. With what she had to say to her son, she didn’t want to hide behind a habit and veil.
Walking beside Tom, she felt him wanting to take her hand. As tempting as it was for her, she didn’t let him. She didn’t want to give any wrong signals—to either him or their son.
During the hours since Sister Anastasia had given them his information, Bernie had run many scenarios through her mind. She and Tom could have hired him to drive them, told him what they had to say somewhere away from this place, out on the road. But she had discarded that idea—it seemed too dishonest. She didn’t want to manipulate anything.
As they watched, he finished speaking to his friend, then started across the courtyard toward the road. He was finished with work for the day, probably heading home. Bernie felt Tom tense up beside her, lurch forward as if to catch him.
“James!” Bernie heard herself say.
The young man stopped dead in the middle of the sidewalk, looked straight at her.
“Are you speaking to me?” he asked.
“Yes,” she said.
“My name is Seamus.”
“Thomas James Sullivan,” she said.
“What are you talking about?” he asked, looking shocked.
“That’s your name,” Bernie said.
“I’m Seamus Sullivan,” he said, eyes darting between her and Tom.
“But you used to be called James, right?” Tom asked.
“How do you know that?”
“We just…we were speaking to Sister Anastasia,” Bernie said.
“At St. Augustine’s?” he asked, his eyes lighting up a little. “Are you friends of Sister’s, then?”
“We just met her today,” Tom said.
“What was she doing, telling you about me?” he asked, laughing. Then his eyes clouded over with worry. “Is she all right? Did something happen to her?”
