by Luanne Rice
The nuns filed down from the convent and cloister, across the cobblestones. Kathleen was with them, walking beside Sister Gabrielle. She darted over to Seamus, hugged and kissed him, raised her eyes to Bernie.
“I’m so sorry,” Kathleen whispered.
“Thank you, Kathleen,” Bernie said.
“I’ll go in now,” Kathleen said, squeezing Seamus’s hand. “See you in there.”
Seamus nodded, watching her go.
“There,” he said, glancing after Kathleen, “that’s what I mean. The gift…”
Bernie stood silently, waiting for him to finish as the other pallbearers gathered behind the hearse: John and the Kelly cousins. Sixtus, Niall, and Billy gazed gravely over at Seamus; he met their eyes.
“Kathleen and I being together,” he said, “that is a gift from my father.”
“Oh, Seamus,” Bernie said, eyes flooding. It was the first time she’d heard him call Tom that.
“And from you. My mother…”
Bernie nodded, tears rolling down her cheeks. Seamus reached for her hand. John had been right—the ice had turned to rain. It fell steadily now, a cold drizzle misting their faces. Bernie thought of it sinking into the roots of the plants Tom had so lovingly tended. The rain smelled like salt, blowing off the sea.
“Are you ready?” Seamus asked now.
Be ready….
“I think so,” Bernie whispered.
Inside the church, the organ had started to play. The music drifted out the open doors, into the cold rain, drawing everyone together. The pallbearers lifted the coffin. It contained the body of Tom Kelly, and it was all Bernie could do to keep herself standing. Seamus squeezed her hand. Looking down, she saw the Kelly crest ring on his finger. Tears streamed from her eyes.
“He’s waiting for us,” Seamus said gently. “Let’s walk him inside.”
Seamus’s hand was shaped just like Tom’s. Here they were, in the courtyard of Star of the Sea, the place he had always loved so much. John, Chris, and the Dublin Kellys were watching, waiting.
Bernie looked into Seamus’s blue eyes. It was as if Tom himself were looking back, gazing at her with all the love he’d always had for her, for their son, for the family they had always been, even when they’d lost sight of each other. Sister Bernadette Ignatius took a deep breath. She linked arms with her son, and together they slowly followed his father’s coffin into the chapel.
Epilogue
The baby was four months old. He nestled in his mother’s arms as they walked along the narrow path above the ocean, waves crashing and salt spray flying. October had come around again, and today was as brilliant and sunny as the day of Tom Kelly’s funeral had been icy and dark.
“We finally made it here, after all this time,” Kathleen said, cradling the baby.
“It seemed appropriate,” Seamus said, “to come here today.”
“I never even got to meet Tom,” Kathleen said softly. “I saw him, when you rescued me from Oakhurst. But I never got to thank him….”
“One year ago today,” Seamus said. He walked on the outside of the path, protecting Kathleen and Thomas from getting too close to the edge. There had been a wild hurricane in September, and coastal damage had been severe. This narrow path had eroded in spots, with deep gullies slanting down the cliff edge.
“It’s hard to believe we haven’t gotten here before now,” Kathleen said, gazing out over the broad sweep of blue ocean.
“I know,” Seamus said. “This is our place, in so many ways.”
He pulled the postcard from his pocket. Stained with Tom’s blood, it showed the exact scene where they stood right now—grand mansions and craggy cliffs, Atlantic waves breaking on the rocks below. Seamus had vowed to come here for so long. He thought back to Dublin, all those days he’d stared at the card, feeling the intense, inexorable, tidal pull of Kathleen.
“Why do you think Tom came here that day?” Kathleen asked now.
Seamus didn’t reply right away. They walked slowly, feeling the sun on their faces, the salt spray rising on the steady breeze. He thought back to the anniversary, one year ago today; the air had been so chilly, a storm moving in behind the cold front, almost as if the weather had been a portent of what was about to happen.
“Because of us, maybe,” he said doubtfully, because something else was tugging at him inside. “Because of your postcard, and what he knew it meant to me.”
“Is that why he brought Bernie here that day?”
“I think so,” Seamus said. “I think it was his way of being connected with all of us.”
“Did she ever tell you what they talked about?” Kathleen asked. “They drove off, came straight here, right? He must have wanted to tell her something, to bring her out on the cliff, such a cold day as it was….”
Seamus stared at the water. He thought of what Bernie had told him, about the vision she’d had the morning of Tom’s death. Seamus had given her his word that he would tell no one, and he’d kept it—even with Kathleen. But there were other things Bernie had told him, and he looked at Kathleen now.
“She said that Tom was upset about her decision to stay in the convent…but she felt they came to a sort of peace about it,” he said. “For the first time ever.”
“I’m glad,” Kathleen said, her voice catching, looking into Seamus’s eyes. “It’s hard when people who love each other aren’t getting along.”
He nodded, trembling. She was talking about them, partly. The last year hadn’t been all easy—nothing like the ease and bliss of what he’d dreamed their reunion would be. As much as he’d wanted to accept the fact she was pregnant, it had been, God help him, a challenge. Over the months, they’d lived at Star of the Sea. Bernie had given Kathleen a room in the convent, and Seamus started out living in Tom’s cottage. Almost immediately, Kathleen began spending every night—she as much as moved in. Although they weren’t yet married, and even though it was a Catholic school, no one said anything to them. Bernie just pretended she didn’t know what was going on.
Seamus started working on the grounds crew. He found he had a knack for it, and even though he wouldn’t want to do it the rest of his life, it was a good way to save up some money for the marriage. He had never felt more right about anything in his life than the day he bought an aquamarine ring in Black Hall and proposed to Kathleen.
She said yes, right away. Even though emotions had been rocky between them, they fell into each other’s arms, knowing that this was where they belonged forever. Then, just before Christmas, Seamus and Kathleen got married. Father Quinn, the same priest who’d presided over Tom’s funeral, performed the ceremony. Bernie was there, along with John, Honor, their daughters Regis, Agnes, and Cece, as well as Regis’s roommates and Brendan McCarthy. Sixtus flew over from Ireland.
Living in Tom’s cottage, Seamus had the feeling that Tom was guiding him. John had moved some of his stuff back in; Tom’s books were there, and his battered old boots. A whole collection of postcards of Ireland—mainly of the Cliffs of Moher. Seamus had hung them up on the wall, remembering how he’d seen the cliffs from the plane as he’d flown over from Ireland, wondering what they had meant to his father.
And Bernie was always there, acting like a mother to both him and Kathleen. She’d send Cece over with freshly baked bread, hot from the refectory kitchen—or she’d have Agnes and Brendan invite Seamus and Kathleen out to the movies for a double date. When Regis was home from college, she’d stop in with books and CDs, things she thought Kathleen might like. The whole family had tried to make them feel at home.
And most of the time, Seamus did. But sometimes a darkness would open up inside him, deep and cavelike. He’d feel angry and confused, not knowing how to fit into this happy family—and resentful, for the years he’d already missed.
Kathleen helped him through it. They had lost so much time together, there were some nights they’d stay up until dawn, telling stories and filling in the blanks of their years apart. Or they’d remember s
omeone from St. Augustine’s, start reminiscing, and get to laughing so hard they couldn’t stop.
As the baby grew inside her, Kathleen got bigger. Sometimes Seamus tried to avert his eyes, or tell himself he didn’t care. His wife was carrying the baby of Pierce Wells, idiot playboy of Palm Beach and Newport. There were some nights Seamus lay wide-awake, dreaming of the ways he’d like to kill him. How could some shit just use Kathleen that way? Throw her away night after night?
Seamus would start to sweat, toss and turn in bed until he’d thrown the blankets right down on the floor. He’d climb out, careful not to wake Kathleen up; he’d gently cover her and then go out to the living room to sleep. His mind would race, thinking hateful things about the rich asshole he’d never even met. Kathleen would call for him to come back to bed, and that sometimes made it worse: he’d want to yell at her, ask how she could have let it happen. So he’d storm out of the house, try to walk off the fury he felt inside.
On one of those nights, he stepped outside, sat on a low stone wall outside Tom’s back door. Overhead, the stars blazed. He thought of Ireland, knew that he could see the same constellations in Dublin. He could return home. As much as he’d longed for Kathleen all these years, he wasn’t sure he could handle these feelings of rage. He couldn’t stand how insanely powerless he felt, couldn’t bear for Kathleen to see him this way. Homesick for Ireland, for everything that was familiar, he’d gazed up at the sky and prayed to know what to do.
Once last May, a few weeks before the baby was born, Seamus was staring at the sky, intent on his petitions, when he heard a voice.
“It’s not easy, is it, kid?”
“Who’s there?” he asked, jumping up, turning around, 360 degrees, shocked witless. No one had responded, but he’d sworn someone was there. He’d felt a breeze pick up, where there’d been none before. New leaves rustled on the tree overhead, and the air felt like water moving across his skin.
Had Seamus just dreamed of hearing Tom’s voice? God knows he needed an older person’s advice and perspective, especially coming from someone who knew a little about the tribulations of complicated love. Jaysus, they’d really done it, Seamus thought: Tom had fallen in love with a nun, and Seamus with a woman carrying someone else’s baby.
But after that night, although he’d never audibly heard Tom’s voice again, Seamus began to somehow hear it—Tom’s voice, thoughts, and advice—not in his ears, but in his heart. Although he’d only met Tom on three separate occasions, Seamus began to feel his presence.
It helped him so much, especially with his love for Kathleen. He stopped trying to fight how upset he was about Pierce Wells, and once he accepted the fact he hated the man and would probably want to kill him on sight, he was able to consign him to a relatively forgotten corner.
Then all Seamus had to do was let himself love Kathleen. And oh, that was easy. Having her lie beside him in bed, smelling her hair, feeling her soft skin, he sometimes felt he was in heaven. Passion would well up in both of them, and they’d reach for each other, so hot with longing and love, and their bodies would find new ways to tell each other secrets that language had long since forgotten how to do.
Seamus knew he had done nothing to deserve such happiness, such an overwhelming feeling of joy and belonging. Emotion flooded through him, his heart and mind, made him want to succeed in everything so he could be a good husband and father to their baby.
For that’s how he felt about Thomas.
Sixtus’s cousin Chrysogonus “Chris” Kelly had taken care of all the paperwork. Maybe it was his pull with the archdiocese, or just the Kelly way of getting things done come hell or high water, but Seamus’s name was on the birth and baptismal certificates. No mention of the nameless creep. Just Kathleen, mother; Seamus, father; and Thomas Sullivan Kelly, their beautiful baby.
Seamus had legally changed his name, in time for the wedding and Thomas’s birth. He and Kathleen decided to name the baby after Tom—there was no choice, really. It was just meant to be.
Now, walking along the Cliff Walk on the warm October anniversary of Tom’s death, Seamus felt his throat tighten.
“I think this is the spot,” he said, looking around. The place Tom had died; Bernie had described it the best she could, and Seamus had taken the details of her description in. He looked down the steep cliff, up at the blue sky, tried to feel his father’s spirit.
“Are you okay, love?” Kathleen asked, taking his hand.
Seamus tried to nod, but he wasn’t—not really. His father’s presence had felt so strong ever since that night in the garden last May. But right now, on this sacred spot, Seamus felt nothing of Tom Kelly; it was as if he had chosen this place of tragedy and grief to desert him. Just then, Thomas woke up. He let out a tiny cry, lifted his head and looked around.
“Hello, sweetheart,” Kathleen murmured. “Did you have a good sleep?”
Seamus reached for the baby, held him in his arms. Sunlight sparkled on the water of the wide blue bay, making Thomas blink. Seamus smiled, kissing the baby’s head, feeling Kathleen’s arm come around him. He felt so bittersweet—happy to be here with his family, but lost and aching without the sense of Tom’s presence.
“Maybe we should get going,” Kathleen said. “He’ll be hungry….”
“Yes, right,” Seamus said, looking around.
“I know we came to see the Cliff Walk before we go back to Ireland,” Kathleen said, sliding her arm around his neck. “But I have a feeling you were looking for something more.”
“Maybe,” Seamus admitted, meeting her gaze.
“You wanted to say goodbye to your father, didn’t you?”
Seamus nodded, kissing Thomas’s head, never taking his eyes off Kathleen. She had always understood him so well, and she still did. Even though he hadn’t spoken much about what meeting his parents had meant to him, Kathleen seemed to know exactly.
“You’ll never have to say goodbye,” Kathleen said fiercely.
“What do you mean?”
“He’s with you, Seamus…the way you and I were with each other, all the time we were apart.”
Seamus stared into her eyes; he saw such intensity there, and he felt it himself. He knew what she meant, yet still…He had known his father for so short a time, it almost seemed cruel, taunting, to have met him at all.
At that moment, he felt a shiver go down his spine—as if someone had just walked over his grave. He had an Irish respect for ghosts, and as a quick chill rushed through the sunlit air, he felt as if something had stirred the atmosphere.
Seamus turned his head, saw a man wearing an old tweed jacket and walking hat just coming around the bend. He was making his way briskly along the path, and since the way had been narrowed by the storm, it was a tight squeeze. Seamus tensed up, but Kathleen seemed oblivious to the danger. Seamus stepped back, and in that instant, the man came between him and Kathleen.
He stopped on the path. His face was completely shadowed by the hat, but Seamus felt his gaze. Glancing down at the old tweed jacket, he saw that the right sleeve was frayed. He drew in a sharp breath; from this angle he didn’t have a good line of sight, but he lunged, trying to see if the jacket’s left lapel was stained with blood.
“Tell your mother she’s beautiful,” the stranger said, his blue eyes shining beneath the brim of his hat. “Tell her to meet me at the cliff path in Doolin.”
“Tom,” Seamus gasped.
The man stopped, looked Seamus directly in the eye. He seemed to be taking his measure, while trying to absorb every detail about the younger man. Seamus shivered—the man’s face was shadowed, but his eyes were unmistakable.
“It’s important,” Tom Kelly said. “Will you tell her?”
“Doolin?”
“Yes, son,” he said. “Our place. Tell her to follow the music. And I’ll take her to Tir na Nog, too; she’ll know what it means.”
Seamus nodded, unable to speak. He had the strongest feeling that Tom meant not the Promised Land of the Sain
ts, but a specific place, here on this earth.
The ghost’s expression was urgent with love. Slowly his smile dissolved, and with terrible regret in his eyes, he backed away. Turning, he continued down the other cliff path, walking faster than ever. As he did, a shadow fell over the coastline, then passed along, and the sun was brighter than before. Kathleen didn’t turn to watch the man go, or react in any way, and he realized with a jolt that she hadn’t seen him at all.
“Why did you just say his name?” she asked with a gentle smile. “‘Tom’? And then ‘Doolin’?”
“You didn’t just see—” Seamus asked, just to be sure. His heart was racing. He wanted to run after the ghost, but he felt paralyzed.
“All I see,” Kathleen said, “are my husband and my son. It’s getting late, my love….”
“You didn’t just see that man with the hat?”
She shook her head, smiling. “You are tired. Come on, let’s go now. We can come back next year, when we visit Bernie.”
“Bernie…” Seamus said. He had to get to a phone, call her immediately. He kissed Kathleen and, holding the baby, started back along the path, the way they’d come. When they reached a curve in the walk, where it narrowed even more, he saw a few stray threads of wool tweed snagged on sticks protruding from a thicket of bayberry and wild roses: tweed from a jacket.
Slowing down, Seamus reached out his hand. He knew before he touched the yarn what he’d see: brown blood, left from a trip to Ireland, from a fight between father and son.
His own heart nearly stopped. He felt it somersault in his chest. Tom’s ghost was gone from sight; all that remained was a light breeze stirring the bushes, blowing across Seamus’s skin. It rippled Kathleen’s braid and the soft fuzz on the baby’s head.
“Are you okay?” Kathleen asked, looking worried.
“Kathleen,” he whispered, “I just saw a ghost.”
