by Luanne Rice
John’s eyes gleamed and he kissed her exuberantly at the thought that such a thing could be true. But suddenly they heard a commotion—a truck driving through the field, tearing up turf under the wheels, and John craned his neck to see over the vines.
“We might be wrong about that,” John said. “Here’s Thomas Kelly right now.”
And it was true. Hurrying around the end of a thickly overgrown row of grapevines, Honor and John were just in time to see Tom barreling across the meadow. He threw the truck into park, opened the door, and stood tall on the door panel to look across the vine-covered trellises. The vineyard was filled with people, but not the one he was looking for.
“John, Honor,” he yelled, “where’s Bernie?”
“We haven’t seen her,” John said, striding over.
Honor started after him, but just then she saw a black figure standing on the top of the hill, appearing almost disoriented, gazing down at the vineyard, at everyone harvesting the grapes. Honor’s throat caught at the sight, and she started up the hill toward her best friend.
Tom saw her at the same time. He jumped down from his truck, bounding past Honor and John, up the grassy hill. Honor followed close behind him. Something had happened; she knew the instant she saw her. Catching up with Tom, she saw Bernie’s eyes, stunned but bright. She looked almost as if she had just woken up from sleep, from a deep dream.
“Bernie,” Honor heard Tom say. “We have to hurry.”
“No,” Bernie said quietly. “We should slow down. Please, Tom…”
“You don’t understand. Everything is happening very fast. We could miss our chance if we don’t leave now.”
“Why, what are you saying?” she asked.
“Bernie,” Tom said, grabbing her hands, “come with me. It’s important, more than I can say right now. I’ll tell you everything on the way. Hurry, we don’t have much time.”
And Honor watched as her best friend and sister-in-law, holding hands with Tom Kelly, ran down the hill, her black gown and veil flying out behind her, and climbed into the old green truck. The sun gleamed on the tawny fields, green and golden grape leaves, and pale green fruit. Wheels spun as Tom shifted into reverse, turned around and roared through the meadow, dust kicking up behind. As the truck disappeared through the Academy gates, John looked down at Honor.
“What was that about?” he asked.
“I honestly don’t know,” Honor said, but she thought maybe she did. Her heart tumbling over, she had the feeling that although Tom had come with news about Seamus, Bernie had just had a revelation of her own.
Twenty-Three
Traffic was heavy the minute they hit I-95. Tom gripped the steering wheel, trying to concentrate on the road, but it wasn’t easy, with Bernie sitting beside him. He hadn’t seen her in over three weeks. In all their lives, he couldn’t remember a time when they’d been apart for that long.
Sometimes she went on retreat—once a year, she’d go to Gethsemani, the Trappist monastery in Kentucky, to spend seven days in silence and prayer. Thomas Merton had lived and written there, and she would go to the monks’ library and choose one of his books to read during her visit.
She’d come home and tell Tom about the bluegrass, and the monks, and the beautiful music played by Brother Luke at Sunday mass, on their Letourneau Opus 93 organ. The monastery had the same name as the Dublin hospital where she’d given birth, so she’d listen to the music and feel love for her son come welling up.
Or she’d go to Montreal or Washington, D.C., for conferences or her order’s planning sessions. Business trips.
Occasionally it was Tom who went away, never for more than a few days. Skiing with his cousins at Mad River, or on a trek with John, scouting locations in Newfoundland or Manitoba for one of his installations. One year Chris Kelly had tried to talk him into going on a two-week diving vacation in the Bahamas, but Chris had quit pitching about three minutes into it.
“You don’t like being away from Star of the Sea,” Chris had said with a chuckle. “You think the place will stop running, fall apart if you leave.”
“Yeah, that’s it,” Tom had agreed, laughing, letting his cousin believe that because it was easier than the truth: that Tom couldn’t stand being away from Bernie.
So these three weeks had felt unreal, a little like living in a wind tunnel: nothing to hold on to, and the most profound sense of emptiness Tom had ever had. He drove north toward Boston now, trying to concentrate on the road, steadily passing cars as he tried to make time, instead of staring across the seat at Bernie, to make sure she was really there.
“Are you going to tell me where we’re going?” she asked after a while.
“I’m surprised you didn’t ask the minute you got in the truck,” he said.
She didn’t reply. In fact, as he glanced over now, he could see that she didn’t look well. Her face was pale, her expression drained and worried. He felt a rush of panic—was she sick?
“Are you okay, Bernie?” he asked.
She started to nod, then shook her head, raising her hand to her forehead. “I’m not sure,” she said, and Tom could see that her fingers were trembling.
“Should I pull over?” he asked, his eyes darting between her and the road.
“No,” she said. “It’s not like that.” She paused, closed her eyes. Her lips looked dry. Tom reached into the door pocket, pulled out a bottle of water.
“Here,” he said.
Bernie nodded gratefully, opened it up, drank a few sips. As Tom watched, a little color returned to her cheeks. She drank a little more, screwed the top back on, and handed it back to him.
“Thank you,” she said.
“Was that it?” he asked. “You were thirsty?”
She gave her head a quick shake, letting him know she didn’t want to talk about it right now. Over the years, Tom had learned how to read her signals like no one else. They had worked so closely together. Leaving their personal history aside, they’d kept Star of the Sea running perfectly—and it wasn’t easy.
Bernie basically oversaw the human aspect: the convent, with all the nuns, and the school, with all the students. Tom kept the rest going: he hired plumbers and electricians, roofers and carpenters, to maintain the old buildings; he kept a full-time grounds crew to stay ahead of the mowing, trimming, weed-whacking, pruning, and stonework. And he had hired a winemaker, a scientist and artisan with an agricultural degree from the University of Connecticut and eleven years of experience at vineyards on Long Island and in the Napa Valley.
With all that responsibility, Tom had no illusions about being the boss. Sister Bernadette Ignatius signed his paycheck; she was his employer, and she ran the place. She was a busy woman. More than that, she was his mysterious and complicated Bernie. So Tom had gotten very adept at listening to what she didn’t say, as much as what she did. Right now, with her wide eyes staring out the windshield, he could see that she was in the grip of something big, and he knew she wouldn’t tell him until she was ready.
They rode along in silence for twenty miles, heading north. Traffic seemed worse on 395, for a change—probably people in search of fall foliage, cider mills, pumpkin patches. So Tom stayed on I-95, finally breaking free of the flow and starting to make time.
“You asked me where we were going,” Tom said after a while.
“I know. And you didn’t tell me.”
“Don’t you want to know?”
“I asked,” she said, giving him the first smile of the day. It did something to his heart, unexpected and forceful. Tom felt rattled by the softness in her eyes and her sudden warmth. “I trust you, Tom,” she said. “I know if you tell me to come with you, it’s important.”
“I wasn’t sure you still did,” he said.
“You’re the one who left,” she said, reminding him gently.
“I did it for you, Bernie,” he said.
“Shhh,” she said, holding a finger to her lips, as if she were too tired for more recriminations. “Just te
ll me: where are we going?”
“Boston,” he said. “Logan Airport.”
“Tom,” she said, instantly rattled, “the airport? But I can’t leave now…you don’t mean we should go to Ireland again? Not now…”
“No, Bernie,” he said, reaching over to touch her hand, just to reassure her. Her skin felt hot, and he left his fingers there, touching her, unable to pull away. “We’re not going anywhere.”
“Then what?” she asked.
“He’s coming here,” Tom said.
“Who? What are you talking about?”
“Seamus. He’s on Aer Lingus 124, arriving at two-thirty.”
Bernie gasped, and when he turned to look, he saw tears in her eyes. His hand was already touching hers, so now he clasped her hand in his, holding it tight, trying to give her all the reassurance he could.
“Did he call you?” she whispered. “Did he say he wants to see us?”
“No, Bernie,” Tom said. “Sixtus has been keeping me informed. He helped Seamus get his passport, and to rush it, the passport office required that he fill in his dates and times of travel. Sixtus found out that way, through his contacts in the government.”
“Oh, Tom,” she said, closing his eyes. “What do you think you’re doing?”
“Picking him up at the airport.”
“But don’t you see? He doesn’t want you to pick him up! If he did, he’d have called you. He’s trying to work everything out on his own, and I think he’ll resent us terribly if we interfere in his life right now, any more than we already have.”
“Bernie, you don’t understand,” Tom said quietly.
“I do,” she said. “Turn around. Take us back to Star of the Sea, right now.”
“No,” he said.
Her head snapped to look at him. She wasn’t used to being defied that way. Tom had spent so long trying to work with Bernie’s rules, but right now he knew he didn’t have time for that.
“Yes,” she said. “There’s something you don’t know, that I haven’t told you yet….”
“Same here, Bernie. I haven’t told you why we’re doing this. And we are doing it,” he said, not wanting to hear her reasons, her rationale, her philosophical construction for why they shouldn’t pick their son up at the airport.
“Why, then?” she asked. “What haven’t you told me?”
“I’ve found Kathleen.”
Once more Bernie gasped. Her eyes were wide, disbelieving.
“Where is she? Is she all right?”
“Bernie, she’s in Newport,” Tom said. “And I don’t know if she’s all right or not. I only saw her for a minute, looking out the window.” He pictured her now; as fleeting as his sight of her had been, he’d had the impression of despair, of someone at the very limit of herself. And Tom had experience, seeing a woman like that: that quick look at Kathleen had brought him back to Dublin, when Bernie was in the fight of her life, with her demons.
“Tom, you really found her?” Bernie asked, a tone of joy sounding in her voice.
“I did,” he said proudly. “I did it for Seamus. And I wanted you to be with me, so we can tell him together.”
“It can be our gift to him,” Bernie whispered.
Tom nodded. His chest felt full, as if his heart was expanding. He held back the words he wanted to say: that it was really his gift to Bernie. Something they could give their son, that would make him know how much they loved him. They had missed so much of his life, but they could be completely present right now, for this. Tom had looked in Seamus’s eyes and known that his love for Kathleen was the most important thing in his world. It ruled him, owned him, and gave him a reason to get up in the morning.
Tom knew how that felt. Right now, sitting beside Bernie, he knew that he had everything he had ever wanted in the world. Her presence, the sound of her breathing, the ever-changing expression on her face. They hadn’t been together from birth, but they’d known each other as children. Tom had fallen in love the first day he ever saw her; he could see her now, in her yellow dress at a Star of the Sea picnic, as they chased each other over the rocks and through the fields.
“Tom,” Bernie said, “I can’t wait to see him.”
“I know,” Tom said. “Neither can I.”
“Will we drive him straight to see Kathleen?”
“We have to,” Tom said, thinking of Regis, hoping that she was able to work things out on her end. “She’s leaving tonight.”
Oakhurst was stuffy and pretentious in just about every way—and that was just the house. The people were even more so. When Mirande brought Regis to the front door on Saturday afternoon, both of them dressed in Beth’s spare uniforms—lightweight black wool dresses with starched white aprons—you might have thought aliens had landed, judging from Mrs. Wells’s reaction.
“Madam,” said Beth, who had been filled in on most of the plan, “may I present my sister Mirande and her colleague Regis?”
Mrs. Wells, passing through the front hall on her way upstairs, stared in shock. Her blond hair, as always, was perfectly done. She wore a navy blue pantsuit with huge brass buttons, gold tapestry slippers on her feet, and her hands were laden down with diamonds on her fingers and wrists. “But what are they doing here?” she asked.
“We’ve come to help you pack,” Regis said. Considering how this was going, she was glad she had told Monica and Juliana to wait in the car—getaway drivers ready at a moment’s notice.
“But…” Mrs. Wells began. She would have frowned if her face hadn’t been surgically immobilized. “I don’t recall hiring extra help….”
Beth had told Mirande that the Wellses often employed freelance workers—extra maids, butlers, servers; even manicurists, hairdressers, and masseurs—for parties, balls, and other special occasions. They used an employment agency on Spring Street, and occasionally the agent sent too many or too few people for any given event.
Mrs. Wells would always explode at Beth or Kathleen, somehow blaming them for something that couldn’t possibly be their fault. Beth said Mrs. Wells tended to forget details, like how many waitresses she had asked for, or exactly which day she had told them to come.
“It’s a bonus,” Regis said, smiling. “For all the many times you have cheerfully used our services this summer!”
“You mean,” Mrs. Wells said suspiciously, “it’s free?”
“Yes,” Regis said. Beth had said that although they were filthy rich, they were also shockingly cheap. “For being such a valued customer…we certainly want to keep your business for next year.”
“So they’ve come to help me finish packing for you, ma’am,” Beth explained with a slight laugh. Although Regis didn’t know her, she could see that Beth felt nervous about lying. Her neck and cheeks were bright red, and she was about to start giggling. But she shouldn’t have worried; Mrs. Wells was too self-centered to question the idea of a gift of free service landing on her doorstep.
“Hmm,” Mrs. Wells said. “Very well, then. I need a pedicure.”
“We’re here to help with packing,” Regis said, glancing up the stairs. She couldn’t wait to tear up to the attic, find Kathleen.
“Yes, well, let the other two handle that. Come with me. My feet need tending to before that tedious drive to New York. We leave in two hours.” Leading Regis up the wide, curving front staircase, she had an air of resignation, as if this young woman was quite an annoyance, but at least she’d be able to get her toenails painted before enduring the rigors of travel.
As they walked along, Regis scoped out the lay of the land. The second-floor hallway was enormous—quite long, and wide enough to drive a Rolls-Royce right down the middle. Glancing into the open doors, Regis saw several spacious bedrooms with four-poster mahogany beds, walls covered with pale silk moiré, chair rails and ceiling moldings, marble fireplaces with intricately carved mantelpieces, and portraits of dour ancestors.
Passing one room, she saw a man sprawled on his back, tangled in the sheets, arm flung off to the
side, snoring. The winds of liquor blew from his bed into the hall, like a sirocco of hangover, depression, and regret. Regis could smell it from the hallway.
“Wake up, Andrew,” Mrs. Wells said sharply as they passed. “You missed a lovely brunch at Eloise Craven’s. You had better be ready to leave in two hours flat. Up, now!”
“Is that your son?” Regis asked, thinking of what Beth had said, about Kathleen being involved with one of the Wells boys, thinking that that poor, sodden lump couldn’t possibly provide much competition for any son of Tom and Aunt Bernie.
Mrs. Wells threw her a dark glance, as if she couldn’t believe what a disastrous faux pas she’d just made. Speaking without being spoken to? Quelle horreur! Regis ducked her head like a supplicant, reminding herself to behave so she could get this job done.
But she raised her eyes just as Mrs. Wells swept into her bedroom, in time to spot a narrow doorway at the shadowed, far end of the hallway. Regis had grown up at Star of the Sea, the main building of which had originally been a very grand house for the most successful Irish family in Connecticut. She knew how these places worked—that the aristocrats had wide doors and huge windows for their own bedrooms, and stuck narrow doors and tiny windows in the servants’ quarters.
That door at the end of the hall went up to the attic, where the help slept—Regis’s skin tingled, and she knew instinctively that that was where she would find Kathleen. But for now she followed Mrs. Wells into her bedroom. It was decorated in pale blue and gold, with crystal lamps and gilt-framed oval mirrors. Mrs. Wells reclined on a tufted chaise longue, pointing at her dressing table.
“My beauty tray is there,” she directed Regis. “I’d like you to use the Elegante Rose polish.”
“You got it,” Regis said, pawing through the seemingly hundreds of bottles of makeup and nail polish.
“Excuse me?”
“I said, ‘Certainly, madam.’”
Making her way over to the chaise, Regis wasn’t sure where to sit. Mrs. Wells directed her to pull the dressing table’s dainty antique bench closer. Regis sat down, heard it creak, hoped it wouldn’t shatter under her weight. She knew exactly how to do a pedicure—she and her sisters had given each other many. After she removed the old polish, she literally had to hold her hand steady to keep from dabbing butterflies, hearts, and smiley faces onto the woman’s toenails. Meanwhile, she stayed attentive for any sounds coming from the attic.
