What Matters Most

by Luanne Rice

  “I would like to give you a gift,” Mrs. Wells said suddenly.

  “Oh, you don’t have to,” Regis said, although as a college student she knew how happy she’d be to be slipped a ten-spot, especially since holding this woman’s bare feet had not been part of the plan.

  “Please. Here is my gift to you. Have pedicures.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “When you are older. It is a gift you give yourself, but I’m giving it to you first.”

  “Uh, thank you,” Regis said, confused.

  “And use good skin products. The face is one’s most precious possession.”

  Regis nearly choked. She started painting faster, knowing that she was in the presence of madness. Besides, as she dipped the brush in the bottle, she swiveled her wrist and saw twenty minutes had passed since she’d started. Her stomach knotted up as she thought of what she had to do.

  “You have good bone structure,” Mrs. Wells said appraisingly, through narrowed eyes.

  “Thank you, ma’am.”

  “Stay out of the sun. That’s my last gift to you. I tell all the girls…do they listen? So rarely. I hope you’ll do yourself a favor and take care of your face.”

  “Hmm,” Regis said, thinking she’d like to take care of Mrs. Wells’s face; unclip all the stitches and let her smile again. But instead, she just fanned her hand over the woman’s newly lacquered toenails and said, “Voilà! Beautiful tootsies!”

  “You certainly have a lot of personality,” Mrs. Wells said distastefully. “Why don’t you run along and help the other girl, the one you came with? Send Beth up here, and tell her I need Kathleen. That girl has been shirking all day, and I won’t have it! She is leaving in the first car, with Bobby and Mr. Wells, and she had better be finished packing for Mr. Pierce and Mr. Andrew!”

  “Very good, madam,” Regis said, starting to back out of the room.

  She backed straight into someone, who caught her around the waist with his hands. Jumping, turning to look, she came face-to-face with the tannest, slickest man she’d ever seen: the new generation of George Hamilton. He wore sleek chinos and a black lisle shirt, his eyes were dark, his nose aquiline, and he was devastatingly handsome in a vaguely reptilian way.

  “Well, well,” he said. “Who might you be?”

  “Get your hands off the help,” Mrs. Wells snapped. She didn’t use Regis’s name, because she didn’t know it.

  “Why have I never met you before?” he asked, staring hungrily into her eyes.

  “Because I’m new,” Regis said. “And here just for today.”

  “Are you coming to Palm Beach with us?”

  Regis shook her head.

  “Pierce,” Mrs. Wells said, “let her do her work. Now, you go and wake up your brother before I go stark, raving mad. We have an eight-thirty dinner reservation at the Union Club, and Sophia Stillwater will be there, and if Andrew makes us late, I’ll be very unhappy.”

  “You wanted me to get Beth for you?” Regis reminded Mrs. Wells as she inched away.

  “Yes. Please, right away,” Mrs. Wells said, her voice clipped.

  Pierce was watching Regis with hawk eyes; she wanted to slam the door on him, make a break for the attic. But just then his mother summoned him to help her walk to the bathroom without smearing her nail lacquer—and Regis knew that was the best gift of all: distracting her son.

  Out in the hall, she knew she didn’t have time to run downstairs, so she pulled her cell phone out of her uniform pocket and texted Mirande: hr mjsty nds beth!

  Then Regis looked both ways, up and down the hall, as if about to cross an extremely dangerous thoroughfare. The coast was clear; she hurried to the narrow door at the very end, turned the crystal knob as silently as possible, and began climbing the dark, steep stairs.

  When she got to the top, she felt the chill: there was no heat up here. Tearing along the cold corridor, she looked into each bedroom. They were all small and spare, with skinny twin beds and bare lightbulbs. After the opulence downstairs, it seemed like something out of Dickens, and it made Regis’s blood boil to think of people being treated so carelessly.

  All the rooms were empty; Kathleen wasn’t up here. Had Regis been wrong or misunderstood? Was Kathleen somewhere else, had she already left for New York? But no—Mrs. Wells had just said that Kathleen was to leave soon, with Mr. Wells and Bobby, whoever that was.

  Regis glanced into one room, instantly knowing that it had been Kathleen’s: there was a postcard of Ireland stuck in the mirror, the romantic sandy strand of North Beach in Courtown, County Wexford. Regis stared at the picture, feeling Kathleen’s homesickness as she did so. She turned and looked around the room; the bedclothes had been stripped off the bed, and a thin blue blanket neatly folded at the foot of the stained mattress.

  There was a white bureau and straight-backed chair, but no night table or bookshelf. The only lamp was the bare bulb overhead. Regis glanced around, feeling choked up. To think of Kathleen living in this room, probably heading for another just like it in Florida, made her heart hurt.

  But where was Kathleen now? Had she run away—made her escape from this job and these people? Regis felt a moment of panic, knowing that Bernie and Tom had to be on the way here with Seamus.

  Just then, Regis heard a scraping sound, coming from across the hall. Standing perfectly still, she held her breath and listened. The sound was so subtle, barely audible, almost as if it were coming from mice nesting in the walls.

  Regis’s gaze fixed on an old door. It had been painted green, but the paint had peeled. It had been boarded up to prevent access, with splintery old wood that gave a feeling of menace and a warning to keep out.

  Regis’s mouth was dry, her palms sweaty, as she stepped closer. Someone had pulled one of the boards off, making a space just big enough to slide underneath. The peeling green door was cracked open behind the boards.

  Regis ran her hand over the rough boards. She listened, her ear to the door, hearing nothing; whoever had been moving around in there must have frozen, waiting for her to leave. Her pulse racing, she gave the door a good push. It squeaked on its rusty hinges. And then she ducked her head, and stepped inside.

  Twenty-Four

  The flight had been nothing short of amazing, from start to finish. Seamus had had no idea what to expect. To be twenty-three and have never been on a plane—well, it seemed almost shameful. Especially when he’d spent so much time at the airport, picking up and dropping off hotel guests on their way to and from so many exotic places. So he’d been more than ready to climb aboard.

  Once on the plane, he’d looked around. It was like being in a long, plastic room, with tiny little TVs dropping down from the ceiling every few feet. The seats were comfortable, slightly crowded, but not too bad, if you didn’t mind having your knees folded up to your chest. It was close quarters, all right, but having lived at St. Augustine’s, Seamus was very good at sharing space with others.

  The woman in the seat beside him needed help in stowing her bag overhead. Seamus offered to help, and she seemed very grateful as he wedged her suitcase in between his and another. He liked the sense that he was a traveler amongst travelers. It didn’t matter whether they were chauffeurs or judges—they were all on the same plane. He settled back, glad he had chosen a window seat.

  Takeoff was spectacular. Seamus appreciated fine machinery, and he couldn’t get over the throttle the pilot must have had to give the plane to get it airborne. Hurtling down the runway, Seamus stared out the small window, not wanting to miss a thing. Then—wow! That thrust, right in the small of his back, as the plane rose up, veering right, then left, straightening out over Dublin Bay. Before one wide, banking turn west, Seamus peered out at Clontarf.

  His throat actually felt tight. It was strange, unexpected, something he hadn’t felt before. A surge of emotion every bit as powerful as the acceleration of the plane’s engines. It rocked him, honestly. Because when he gave it a little thought, watching Clontarf disappear into t
he vapor trail, he realized that the feeling had something to do with Sixtus Kelly. Tom Kelly’s cousin.

  It was good of the man to have helped him, to have put Seamus on the right track for his passport. That’s what this crazy feeling was about—Seamus’s gratitude to a person, a stranger, really, the fact he was Tom Kelly’s cousin notwithstanding, for helping Seamus get something he needed. And not making him feel like an idiot for not having a passport already. Sophisticated men of the world like the Kellys—they would have had passports and flown many places by the time they were Seamus’s age.

  But that thought made Seamus think of Tom’s tattered tweed jacket, his old boots, the trousers that could have stood a pressing. He didn’t have such a worldly air. Neither did Sixtus, really, when you considered how powerful a man he was; entertaining Seamus the way he had, taking all the time in the world to talk to him, show him Clontarf and tell him about the Kelly sea monster. He’d been very easygoing. No airs about him to speak of.

  Now, as the plane flew west, Seamus slipped his hand into his pants pocket. Yes, the ring was right there. He still couldn’t believe Sixtus had given it to him, and he didn’t really feel right about wearing it. But having it close by made him feel good somehow. His throat tightened again, and he closed his eyes. New waves of emotion came over him, thinking of the ring. And suddenly, out of nowhere, came the image of a woman with red hair. Not dark, raven hair like Kathleen’s, but golden-red hair: like Seamus’s mother’s.

  He had a mother. The very thought of it made him hold tighter to the ring. To have thought himself parentless for so long, and then to have met Bernadette and Tom, face-to-face in the hotel courtyard—it was all a great deal too much to handle all at once. That was the best that could be said.

  That letter he had written…not that he regretted it, exactly, the letter was full of things that needed to be expressed, but perhaps he could have softened the tone. Maybe he could have said that someday—not right then, while he was reeling from shock—but another time, in the future, and possibly not even the distant future, perhaps then they could meet. Meet and—what? Talk, maybe. Something like that.

  The truth was, and he had to face it, he probably wouldn’t be making this trip if Bernadette and Tom hadn’t come to Ireland. Not that Seamus wouldn’t have found out Kathleen was living in Newport—Sister Anastasia would have gotten the postcard to him somehow. But he might not have considered such a trip doable, or even possible, if Tom hadn’t told him to go see Sixtus.

  The flight attendant was coming around, offering drinks. Seamus ordered a beer; he drank it, looking out the window. Ireland was so green from the air. He had so often heard the tourists say it, fresh off their flights from the States, and he’d thought they had to be exaggerating. But they weren’t, he could see now: there were squares of emerald green everywhere he looked, some bisected by roads or stone walls.

  There, those rocky promontories: that had to be Kerry. Great long fingers of stone, scraping into the sea. And there—just north—that had to be Clare: the Cliffs of Moher! Amazing to be seeing them from the air; the light was hitting them straight on, and they looked majestic and fantastic.

  He watched, and then they were over the open ocean. Really under way now, crossing the Atlantic, on his way to Kathleen. How would he find her? He had downloaded maps and information from tourist websites on the hotel computer; it was all packed away in his suitcase, along with a Rhode Island travel guide and a New England road atlas.

  He had saved a lot of money, working over the years. Although he had planned to use it for his continuing education, he’d taken most of it out of the bank, converted it to traveler’s checks. Whatever it took, he was going to find Kathleen Murphy. He knew that Newport was a wealthy town, with mansions, yachts, and fine hotels. The prices would probably be sky-high, but if he found himself a good boardinghouse, for the minimum price, he could make his funds last long enough to find her—and then bring her home.

  That was, assuming she’d want to go with him. Some nights, lying awake, Seamus would stare at the postcard, through the fine brown film of Tom’s blood, looking at those enormous seaside palaces, imagining that Kathleen lived there. Maybe her parents were very affluent, and they had transformed her into a princess. The men she’d meet were probably all well-off, very successful; perhaps their houses were even bigger than Kathleen’s parents’.

  Seamus told himself that it was possible that she was married. He couldn’t bear to think it, but he knew how beautiful she was, how smart, and wonderful, and funny, and how the men of America would all have to be idiots to have not caught her by now.

  But deep down in his heart, the place where he knew the truth about everything that mattered, Seamus knew that she couldn’t be married. Kathleen couldn’t be in love, couldn’t be engaged, couldn’t be with anyone but him. As the plane flew west, and he got closer to her, it was almost as if he could feel her pull—she was the full moon, he was the high tide, and they were coming together….

  Other people slept or watched the movie on those little ceiling TVs, but not Seamus. He just held on to the ring, staring out the window, through high, thin clouds, at the slate-colored ocean far below. Tiny whitecaps, freighters, tankers, then an island…another island…a land mass.

  “America,” he said.

  He watched the great northern expanse of North America come into view. It seemed massive and solid, spreading out before him in shades of brown and green, throwing out its arms to welcome him. He wanted to get his bag down from the overhead bin, to be ready to jump off the plane the second it landed, but the flight attendant told him it would be another hour yet.

  My God, was the country that big? he thought. Staying in his seat was no small challenge. Especially once the captain announced that they were starting their descent. Seamus’s ears popped. He watched people heading to and from the bathrooms, freshening up. The woman beside him told him her husband would be picking her up. The couple in front of him were talking, and he overheard them say their son would be at the gate.

  Suddenly, Seamus felt a chill. Out the window, the land was looking closer. It wasn’t green here; the trees were a blaze of color—scarlet, orange, yellow. Everything seemed strange—what had he been thinking, taking this trip? Seamus Sullivan, who’d never been on a plane in his life? He had no idea about transportation in America; he’d ask about a bus or train to Newport, or maybe he’d hitchhike.

  What if he found Kathleen and she rejected him? Or didn’t remember him? God, it had been ten years. Why had he ever thought she’d even know who he was? No—he reminded himself of the postcard. She had asked for him by name…James…A new thought arose: what if he couldn’t find her? What if he went to every door in Newport and she wasn’t there?

  And at that moment, a jolt of electricity passed through him, and he knew—Kathleen needed him. He felt it in his skin and bones, in every one of his five senses. He shivered, knowing that she was calling him, as surely as if she’d cried his name. It was as if he’d entered a different force field; here on the shores of America, he could feel her like never before—or at least not since their years at St. Augustine’s.

  His thoughts were so vivid, he barely noticed that they had landed. The plane roared, bouncing down the runway. They taxied to the gate, and people all jumped up at once, turning on cell phones, calling their families.

  If Seamus had her number, he’d be calling her now. She didn’t know how close he was, that he was moving inexorably closer to her, that nothing would get in his way. Something tore at his heart, as if she was in distress, or even danger. A sense of her despair filled him like a cold black fog, making him feel afraid.

  With everyone thronging the aisles, struggling to get their bags down, Seamus sat still, gathering himself together. He was in a new country—where Kathleen lived. Slipping his hand into his pocket, he closed it around the ring. He remembered what Sixtus had said, that if he was going to find Kathleen, he would need it. Although he’d not worn it befo
re, he slipped it on now.

  Instantly, as if the ring had strong powers, he felt a little more sure of himself. He stood up and hauled down his suitcase and that of the woman beside him. She thanked him, told him to look after himself, and he said the same to her. The ring felt heavy on his finger; he wasn’t used to wearing one. The gold was solid, the crest deeply scored. Seamus felt a pang—here he was, identifying himself as a Kelly. After the way he’d treated Tom, he wasn’t sure he had any such right.

  Once he hit the concourse, he began to run ahead of the people from his flight. Some had more luggage to pick up, but Seamus was traveling light, with just the one suitcase. He hurried along, the feeling of panic growing. How would he find her? He felt her needing him, but he had no idea of how to get to her.

  The airport seemed to go along forever. He hit Immigration, and the line was long. It inched its way forward, and he wanted to shout. His blood was really racing, and he looked wildly around, wondering if there was someone he could tell—but what would he say? That he had a feeling that something was wrong with someone he hadn’t seen in ten years?

  But he held it all in, making it through Immigration with no problem—especially because the inspector was an Irishman named T. C. Devlin.

  “Reason for visiting?” he asked.

  “Love,” Seamus said.

  “You really just had to say ‘business’ or ‘vacation,’” the man said with a smile. But he stamped Seamus’s passport, gave him a nod, and that was that.

  Through U.S. Customs—nothing to declare—and then Seamus ran for the exit. Others from his flight were with him, pushing forward, some coming home, others on a visit. The double doors swung open, and families shouted their hellos to each other. Seamus scanned the crowd, almost by habit, but this time he was on the other side, instead of standing with the uniformed livery drivers, holding up signs with their passengers’ names written in big black letters.