What Matters Most

by Luanne Rice

  Other, more sordid trades thrived. Dereliction was rife, and jobs disappeared. Buildings crumbled or burned. Then came regeneration. Sixtus was proud of his part in bringing the waterfront back to life. His office overlooked Dublin Bay, and what a body of water it was! A great wild expanse of water, embraced by Howth and Dun Laoghaire. Back in the seventeenth century, it had been treacherous for shipping, storms blowing in, causing frequent shipwrecks. Weathering storms in Clontarf to the north, ships could be held up for weeks, waiting for the wind to die and make it possible to reach the city. It wasn’t until 1716 that a bank was constructed on the south side of the channel, making the bay safer for ships.

  So much history in Dublin Bay. So much Kelly history. From the day he’d moved into this office, Sixtus had made sure his desk was positioned so he had a good view over the bay’s northernmost reaches. Yes, from his desk he was looking toward Clontarf…where those ships had gone for safe harbor, and where his brave ancestor had died.

  His intercom buzzed, letting him know the young man had arrived. Sixtus glanced down at his notes. Tom had explained the situation weeks ago, just before he and Sister Bernadette had left Dublin—the day they’d canceled dinner at the last minute, most inconsiderately, especially considering the trouble to which Emer had gone, cooking a roast and generally trying to be as hospitable as possible to the nun who had so often welcomed them for retreats in Connecticut.

  That day, Tom had been very clear. Sixtus gave him credit, considering the turmoil Tom must have found himself in. He had called the office, said he was coming by, and for Sixtus to cancel all appointments. Well, the fact Sixtus had a meeting with the Prime Minister’s sister’s solicitor was of no matter. Family came first: meeting canceled.

  Tom Kelly had sat directly across Sixtus’s desk, laying out the whole story. He and Bernie had a child. A son, twenty-three years old, named Seamus Sullivan. The young man had grown up at St. Augustine’s Children’s Home, was now employed as a driver by the Greencastle on Bannondale Road.

  Sixtus had been rendered speechless. His cousin had a son who had grown up at St. Augustine’s? Emer sat on the board of directors of St. Augustine’s! Her cousin Father Tim Donnelly had just been named the pastor! Sixtus had wanted to vault across the desk, throttle Tom, ask what in the name of God he and Bernie had been thinking.

  But it was quite clear that Tom had been throttling himself. He’d looked like death—face beaten, black and blue, nose as crooked as a prizefighter’s. And Tom’s physical condition had been the least of it: the spirit had gone out of him. In the short time since Sixtus and Billy had run into him and Bernie, Tom’s heart had been broken.

  Sixtus Kelly might have been a shrewd, tough hired gun, but he was also Irish. He knew that poetry ran through the veins of all Kellys. They lived for love, loyalty, and victory; above all, for love.

  “What the hell were you thinking?” Sixtus had asked. “Once you found out she was pregnant, how could the convent have even been an option for Bernie?”

  “Don’t question her,” Tom had said.

  “But my God! Bernie should have known better. Did she honestly think she could just forget she’d had a child? When she told you, did—”

  “I told you,” Tom had said, his voice a threatening growl, “I don’t want you questioning Bernie! She did what she had to do!”

  “Fine, Tom,” Sixtus had said, backing down.

  “What’s done is done.”

  “All right. What can I do, to help you move forward?”

  “Here’s what I want,” Tom had said. He’d written out all the information, told Sixtus to sit tight and wait for the young man to call. Sixtus was not to look for him, not to approach him, not to stand in the courtyard of the Greencastle trying to guess which driver was Tom’s son.

  “Fine,” Sixtus had agreed.

  Of course he had kept his word. The shame was, he couldn’t even talk to Emer about it. Nor Niall, nor Billy. Tom had told him in confidence, and Sixtus would never breach such a thing. But he’d been unable to help himself from trying to figure out which livery driver was Seamus.

  Therefore when the young man walked into Sixtus’s office, he wasn’t one bit surprised. It was the tall, blue-eyed redhead with the quick smile and warm wave. At the Greencastle, he always looked friendly, even solicitous. Here, however, he walked in with his shoulders hunched slightly, looking tentative and intimidated.

  “Hello, Seamus,” Sixtus said, crossing the big office to meet him.

  “Hello, Mr. Kelly.”

  They shook hands, and Sixtus led him to the chair Tom had sat in several weeks earlier.

  “Did you find the office all right?”

  “Oh yes, sir,” Seamus said. “I’ve dropped many people off here, and picked them up as well.” He looked out the enormous windows to his left, at Dublin Bay sparkling in the sun.

  “I’ve seen you at the Greencastle,” Sixtus said, peering at him.

  Seamus nodded, turning red. He kept staring out the window, as if too embarrassed to meet Sixtus’s eyes.

  “You like the view?” Sixtus asked.

  “Incredible. You’d never know from down on the street.”

  “Yes,” Sixtus agreed. “It’s nice. It’s also inspiring. Do you know why?”

  Seamus shook his head. “No,” he said.

  “Do you know about the Battle of Clontarf?”

  “I’m Irish,” Seamus said, smiling.

  Ah, the ice had been broken. Sixtus nodded. “Then you know our ancestors were warriors. Back in the Middle Ages, we were in an almost constant state of war. The tribes were fierce, Seamus. Dubliners used to prove themselves by going to the Connaught and killing a man. We’d go to battle, cut the heads off our enemies. Or we’d stick our spear point between our enemy’s teeth while accepting his surrender. So we were ready, when the time came.”

  “When the Danes invaded?”

  “That’s right. In the year 1014. Brian Boru might have been High King, but Tadhg Mor O’Kelly fought his heart out for our tribe and Ireland. We in the family are proud to say ‘he died fighting like a wolf dog.’ See that crest?” Sixtus asked, pointing at the framed heraldry hanging behind his desk.

  “It’s a sea monster,” Seamus said.

  “That’s right—rising from the waves, just as in the legend; during and after the battle, as O’Kelly fought and lay dying, the monster came from the sea to protect his body from the marauders.”

  Seamus listened intently, staring at the family crest as Sixtus gazed at him, taking in the similarities—his clear, intelligent eyes, ferocious concentration, straight nose, wide mouth, slightly—the only blight on the family beauty—protruding ears. The freckles and red hair came from Bernie.

  “The monster was supposed to protect him?” Seamus asked.

  “Did protect him,” Sixtus corrected.

  “But the Vikings killed him.”

  “Seamus,” Sixtus said patiently, “people die in battle. The sea monster did his best, and he kept the body safe from being stolen. That’s what the Vikings would have done. Who knows what desecrations would have been perpetrated?” At the sight of the young man frowning at the Kelly sea monster, Sixtus began to squirm in his seat. “What’s wrong?” he asked.

  “It’s nothing,” Seamus said.

  “That’s good,” Sixtus said. “Because that’s your family crest.”

  Seamus looked up, turning redder.

  “You’re a Kelly, son.”

  “My name is Sullivan.”

  “Look. My cousin Tom told me everything. I know that you were born Thomas James Sullivan, and that’s the name we’ll be using to get your passport—that’s why you’re here now, isn’t it?”

  Seamus nodded.

  “Fine. You had your pictures taken?”

  “Yes. They’re right here.” Seamus tapped his breast pocket.

  “Excellent. Sign this paper, and take it to the government office on Molesworth Street, Dublin 2. Ask for Clodagh. She’ll be exp
ecting you, and will issue the passport on the spot.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Seamus said, pushing back as if about to rise and leave. Sixtus motioned him back down.

  “You said you want to leave Ireland as soon as possible,” he said.

  “Yes, that’s true.”

  “Well, once you have the passport, you can leave tomorrow night—if that’s what you want.”

  “I do,” Seamus said, his eyes shining. “I have a reservation on Aer Lingus.”

  Sixtus breathed steadily. Just like a Kelly, he was: moving fast, eyes on the ball, getting it done. Staring across the desk, he was struck again by those Kelly blue eyes—it was almost like looking into the mirror, or Tom’s face.

  “Well, since time is of the essence, that’s why we’re doing it in the Sullivan name.”

  “Sir?” he asked, frowning.

  “Seamus. You’re a Kelly.” Sixtus got choked up just saying the words, welcoming this bright-eyed young man into the family fold.

  “I wasn’t born with that name.”

  “You’re Tom’s son. That’s good enough for me.”

  “I don’t even know him, though,” Seamus said.

  Sixtus shook his head impatiently. He wanted this young man to understand so badly. “Do you really think that matters? Seamus, why do you think I have my desk facing out the window? I’m a busy, important barrister, more cases than I can shake a stick at—I don’t have time for pretty views. That’s not why I look out.”

  “Then why?”

  “Clontarf,” Sixtus said, narrowing his eyes in the hopes of holding the tears inside. He peered hard across the desk, out the window, gazing toward the north end of the city, for which the battle was named. Seamus swiveled in his seat so he could look as well. “That’s where our brave ancestor died defending Ireland.”

  “Tadhg Mor O’Kelly,” Seamus said.

  “That’s right.” Sixtus’s heart constricted, thinking of what the young man had said about the sea monster a moment ago, hoping he wouldn’t say the same thing again. “I’m looking out for him now,” he said.

  “Who?”

  “The sea monster,” Sixtus said, his voice falling.

  “Because you need him to protect you?”

  “No, son,” Sixtus said. “To thank him. For looking after one of our own. You see, that’s what we Kellys do.” He raised his eyes to Seamus, who really looked like not much more than a boy. Thin, wide-eyed, stunned by the twist life had sprung on him. “We look after our own.”

  “That’s good,” Seamus said quietly.

  “And you’re one of us now,” Sixtus said. His voice broke—he had to face it, it had to happen. “You’re Seamus Kelly to me, son. I’ll have that passport for you tomorrow, and you’ll go wherever it is you have to go.”

  “America,” Seamus whispered.

  Sixtus nodded once, hard. “Fine. So be it. You have Tom’s number over there, and I know he expects you to use it.”

  “I don’t need his help,” Seamus said.

  “Perhaps not,” Sixtus said, seeing the flint and pride in his eyes. “That’s up to you. The point is, when you get back to Dublin, you call me again. Come here, and I’ll file the paperwork necessary for you to be called Seamus Kelly.”

  “But—”

  Sixtus raised his hand. He wasn’t used to being interrupted by colleagues, enemies, or even family members. “Tom told me you want to become a barrister.”

  “Someday.”

  “When you are ready, there will be an office for you here. That’s all I’m saying for now. You will have to prove your capabilities, but I have no doubt that you will. You’re a Kelly, after all.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Seamus said, suddenly looking ready to jump out the window. If there were a sea monster passing by in the bay, Sixtus had no doubt that Seamus would hop on board and hightail it as far from the Docklands as he could get.

  But perhaps Sixtus was wrong. For Seamus picked up the passport documents, lingered for a moment gazing at the family crest. He seemed to examine the beast’s writhing body, fiery eyes, sharp fangs, green scales. Blinking like a young boy, he glanced at Sixtus, as if afraid to ask a question.

  “What is it?” Sixtus asked. “Go ahead.”

  “Before,” Seamus said. “When you told me that Kellys look after their own…”

  Sixtus nodded. Was he thinking of how Tom and Bernie had abandoned him to an institutional existence? How Tom Kelly had left him there, on the shores of the battle of life, to fight without any family support?

  “I screwed up with that,” Seamus said.

  “You mean someone screwed up with you?”

  “No.” He shook his head. “I mean, there’s someone I consider family. I swore I’d always be there for her, that I’d always look after her. But I didn’t.”

  Sixtus held his tongue, not wanting to reveal what Tom had told him about Seamus and the girl from St. Augustine’s.

  “How do you know you didn’t?” Sixtus asked.

  “I walked away,” Seamus said.

  Sixtus took a deep breath. That didn’t sound very Kelly-like. He had to give this some thought. Gazing out the window at the gleaming bay, right where he’d expect to see the sea monster if it was ever to surface, it came to him. He cleared his throat.

  “Did you walk away because you wanted to, or because you felt you had no choice?”

  “She was going back to her real parents. I didn’t want to go back to the Home without her.”

  Sixtus smiled. He’d known there was a loophole. “Then you didn’t walk away. You were both children. You thought she was about to be cared for by the people who could love her most—her parents. And that’s probably what happened….”

  “Probably,” Seamus agreed, but he sounded uncertain.

  “You’re going to find her,” Sixtus said, and he wasn’t betraying any confidences from Tom; it was written all over Seamus’s freckled face.

  “I am,” Seamus said, the words sounding like an oath.

  “Then you’ll need this,” Sixtus said. Sliding his gold crest ring off his finger, he handed it to Seamus. The young man reddened and frowned as he looked at the well-worn oval, engraved with the same sea monster roaring and rising from the waves behind his desk.

  “I can’t take it,” Seamus said.

  “I insist,” Sixtus said. He smiled magnanimously even as he held back emotion. He walked the young man to the office door. “Don’t forget. Call Tom if you need him.”

  “But I won’t,” Seamus said, still trying to hand back the ring.

  Sixtus had to practically push him out the door. When he got to his desk, he made a note for himself. He’d call Columba Jewelers tomorrow, have another ring struck. They had the die on hand—Sixtus had had many rings made over the years, for his brothers and their wives, his two sons, both living in America, and all his nieces and nephews, everyone’s spouses, even close friends. He liked to think of Kellys proliferating, all of them wearing the crest ring of Tadhg Mor O’Kelly, all of them ready at a moment’s notice to go to battle for each other.

  He sat back, gazing at the bay, thinking of what Seamus had said when Sixtus had told him to call Tom for help. “I don’t need his help,” he’d said. No, perhaps not, Sixtus thought now. But Tom needed to give it.

  Taking a deep breath, he punched the international calling code into his phone, rang Tom’s number. It rang a few times, and then Tom answered.

  “Hello?”

  “Tom. It’s Sixtus. He just left.”

  “He’s getting his passport?”

  “Yes. Picking it up tomorrow.”

  “Did he say anything about flying out?”

  “He has an Aer Lingus flight tomorrow night. Into Boston, I would presume—Logan being closer to Newport than JFK. But I’ll find out the details from my source at the passport office.”

  “Sixtus—I don’t know how to thank you.”

  “Don’t you dare, Tom. Not after all you and Bernie have done for us over
the years. Have you found anything on your end?”

  “I know where she works,” Tom said. The connection was bad; he was on his cell phone, and perhaps he was driving. It sounded that way anyway, from all the noise rushing through the receiver.

  “Tom, are you there?” Sixtus asked. “Tom? Give my love to Bernie!”

  But the line had gone dead. Sixtus Kelly replaced the phone in its cradle, sat back in his chair. He had several clients backed up, including the solicitor for the Prime Minister’s sister. But first he needed to compose himself, gazing out at Dublin Bay—once so dangerous to ships and fighting Kellys—thinking of his cousin and his son, of love, loyalty, and victory.

  Right now, they needed all three.

  Twenty-One

  Regis Sullivan, a sophomore at Boston College, was having what she knew her aunt would call “adjustment problems.” Getting back to college after the summer she’d had was like walking off the deck of a burning ship onto safe, dry land—and trying to enter into normal life again. She was a philosophy major. Going to class each day, hearing Jesuits teach about truth, mysteries, and preambles of faith, actually helped her get her bearings.

  Her roommates were great. Monica, Juliana, and Mirande really shored her up, made sure she didn’t spend too much time dwelling on her part in Gregory White’s death in Ireland. When BC kids heard Regis had been to Ireland, they all chimed in with their own experiences: going to Dublin Castle, drinking in Temple Bar, trying to get tickets for U2, visiting the Guinness Brewery, kissing the Blarney Stone, wanting to buy their mom some Waterford crystal but realizing it was too expensive and getting her a scarf instead.

  Regis’s roommates knew that her trips to Ireland had been different. On the first one, six years ago, she had stood on the cliffs of Ballincastle with her world-famous father and his sculpture, fighting for their lives with a deranged man. For six whole years, Regis’s memory had gone blank. Completely erased, when it came to that fight. Last year, when they were freshmen, her roommates had put up with her nightmares, crying in the night, sometimes screaming, as little bits of that terrible day had come up from the depths.