He had taken no more than a tentative step toward me when my anger erupted, and I hurled the glass, still half full of whiskey at him. I have a good arm, but Eoin has better reflexes. He caught the glass and set it carefully on the sideboard as he continued his cautious advance in my direction.
“It’s me you want to break, Jane, not the glass. Don’t waste good crystal over me.”
I closed my eyes, hoping to master my emotions. I heard him stop in his tracks, waiting for me to continue. The clock in the front hall ticked the time away for half an eternity before I was able to speak.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” I opened my eyes, preternaturally calm, the anger spent for the time being.
Eoin was silent as he covered the last few feet that separated us, and he held my gaze for a moment before he answered. His green eyes were sad, his voice subdued. “At first, there was no reason; you’d have nothing to do with me. Then, I was afraid…you’d been through so much.” He stopped and took a breath. “That’s not true. I was afraid because I knew you’d have nothing to do with me, and I enjoyed your company.” Another pause. “For what it’s worth, I was trying to tell you when Fiona walked in.”
My temper flared again. “So you bribed me with an emerald necklace to soften the blow?” I grabbed at the necklace, but Eoin stopped me before I could yank it off and throw it at him, even as some small, residual, sane part of me wondered when I’d gotten to be such a little girl.
“Please let me explain. The necklace was just a gift. To work up my courage, not to buy you off. A stiff glass of Jameson would have been cheaper.”
It was a weak jab at humor, but it worked. “Might have worked better, too.” I mustered up a bit of a smile.
Eoin matched it, and I could see the tension ebb out of his shoulders. He took my hand and led me to the loveseat, dropped onto it, and patted the seat next to him. We sat for a moment in silence, regarding our shoes earnestly. Finally, Eoin eased his arm around me and pulled me close enough to kiss my hair before he spoke.
“I met Fiona in Belfast, when I was working at the docks. She was — is — a beautiful woman. I couldn’t believe she’d have time for the likes of me, but she did.” He shifted his weight to look down at me. “I was young, Jane, and lonely. Belfast was a hard place then. It was still during the Troubles…” His voice trailed off, and his expression told me he was back in Belfast even as he spoke.
He squeezed my shoulders as he took up the story again. “She did so because she thought she was pregnant, and not by me. But I didn’t know that. We got married and set up house in a little flat on Falls Road. I think we were happy for a while. I was; I know that.” He paused a moment as though collecting his thoughts. “Fiona was from as poor a family as I am, but she had no intention of remaining poor. She worked as a receptionist in a bank. I think they hired her for her looks. I would have.”
“She’s pretty, Eoin. I get that. I saw her.”
Another squeeze. “Pretty isn’t everything, Jane. It isn’t enough, but it was enough to get Fiona out of Belfast. She met an Italian journalist, a wealthy young man, and a dilettante playing at being a reporter in a pretty tough spot. I came home one day to find she’d run off with him, and I haven’t seen her since – until today. She divorced me as soon as she could.”
I sat up to look at him. “And you?”
“I left. I went to England, worked for a while, licked my wounds, and started to write. And when I returned to Ireland, I asked for a decree of nullity. It was denied. Fiona lied to the tribunal, and at the time, I was suspected of being a collaborator with the R.U.C. Afraid or honest, no matter. They ruled the marriage valid. End of story, at least for me. Not for Fiona. She’s had five more husbands along the way. For the record, it is Fiona McLaughlin Connor Fontini Haller Dulac Semphill Idoni.”
“You kept track.”
“I did. I’m not sure why. It doesn’t matter. Really, Jane, it doesn’t.”
I struggled to take in all he had said. Eoin was married in the eyes of the Church. It explained a lot. It explained why he remained single in spite of celebrity and more than an honest man’s share of attractiveness. It also explained his chaste behavior with me. Many — most — maybe almost all — men I know would have simply ignored the Church and married again. Not Eoin. I struggled to wrap my mind around the implications of his admission. Finally, I asked the only question I could think of. “Why is she here?”
“She says she wants to try again. I’m not sure I believe her — though I probably have enough money now for Fiona to be interested. I suspect it is something else, but I have no idea what.”
I let the statement lie between us for a long while, a numbness I thought Eoin had helped me banish settling into my soul again. I was weighing my desires and the equities of the situation and enjoying the warmth of Eoin’s embrace until I realized it was an illicit pleasure. I sighed and sat up.
“That’s it, then.”
“I asked about a rehearing when I was in New York. I’ve an old mate who’s a monsignor there. Different times, a different tribunal. He’s helping me with the paperwork. It ought to be a simple matter, though it will take time. Will you wait for me?”
For an instant, hope sparked in me, then just as quickly, it died. I knew something about the process from friends who had gone through it. Witnesses, investigations, questions, answers. Eoin’s marriage had been half a world away. People move or get lost or die. Or, apparently, lie. “Do you think she’ll tell the truth this time, if she wants you back?”
Eoin shifted, and his face grew weary. My heart ached, and I looked at every detail of his features, afraid I might not see him again. The scar on his cheek made him look surprisingly vulnerable. I’d never asked him how it happened. Now I’d probably not get the chance.
At last, he answered me with another question. “Are you not willing to fight for me, Jane? Am I not worth it?”
Tears finally spilled onto my cheeks. “Of course, you’re worth it, Eoin. But whom do I fight? The Church? She’s your wife.”
His voice sounded a hundred miles away when he replied. “So she is. So she is.” He left me on the couch. By the time the front door closed behind him, the cat had reappeared in my lap. I petted her absently as I stared at the empty glass I had thrown at Eoin Connor.
***
“Open the door, ye bastard son of Peter! Open up!”
Father Matt sat half-upright in bed, bleary-eyed, trying to place the source of the commotion that had yanked him from a sound sleep. He strained and rubbed his eyes. The sound, whatever it was, stopped momentarily. He started to recline again when it resumed with a ferocity the priest thought would bring down the very building. And the roar was enough to wake the dead: a great bellow, rough-voiced, slurred, and insistent over the racket.
“Open up, damn ye! Or are ye afraid to face me, ye miserable excuse for a man?”
Crow-hopping as he pulled on a pair of sweatpants, Matt Gregory headed for the door, calling vainly that he was on his way. He stuck his head through the tattered neck of a stained tee shirt as he took the stairs down, two at a time, to the back door that was his customary entrance. The pounding ceased for a moment as he reached the landing midway down. He could see the door bend inward with the force as it resumed yet again, and heard the crack of breaking board.
“If ye don’t open up, ye…”
Father Matt interrupted the tirade by complying with the request, to find Eoin Connor in mid-bellow and mid-strike. The unexpected absence of the broken door he had been assaulting threw him off balance. He fell headlong against the priest who stepped back to keep from falling himself. Regaining his balance, Eoin Connor cocked his head and regarded the tall man in front of him with great gravity for a moment before he swung his right fist at him.
Good God! Father Matt thought as he ducked and blocked the blow. The priest could smell the whiskey on Eoin Connor’s breath, and the wide plant of his stance bore testimony to his condition. Even so, the blow was a har
d one that sent a wave of pain up Father Matt’s forearm, and another in quick succession, blocked by a tucked shoulder protecting his bearded chin, followed it.
“Eoin, what’s gotten into you?” Four inches taller and thirty years younger, the priest had a physical advantage, but not much, he reflected, as he shouldered himself into the man in front of him, pinning him against the corner of the vestibule — only because the man was too drunk to think clearly, and a good head was the better part of a good fight.
“It’s your damn fault she won’t have me, ye and the wicked whore of a Church ye serve.” Connor shifted and gathered himself to deliver another blow.
Father Matt planted his own fist in Connor’s midsection, finding it surprisingly hard, harder than his own. He heard the air go out of Connor’s lungs and he crumpled, hands against his stomach as he fought for breath.
Father Matt pulled Connor through the vestibule into the empty hall, hitting the light switch with his elbow as he passed, and shoving Connor into a tattered chair that was surrounded by children’s books. It was the chair the head of the parish daycare center used for reading to the children. It would have to do for this great lout for the time being.
Connor’s ragged gasps began to subside, and he bent slowly forward, holding his head in his big hands. Father Matt watched him warily until he ran his fingers through his coarse gray hair in a gesture of despair so palpable, it filled the room. The knuckles were bruised, swollen and bloody. Matt’s forearm still ached where his blow landed.
At length, Eoin Connor sat upright in the chair and looked at the priest with bloodshot eyes, anger spent and a single tear following the course of the scar on his left cheek. When he finally spoke, his voice was tenuous and broken. “She’ll not have me.”
Father Matt pulled a folding chair up and sat in it, meeting the man before him eye to eye. Still, rubbing his left arm, he made sure that he was more than a swing away. “Eoin,” he said calmly, “what are you talking about?” It had to involve Jane Wallace, surely, but as far as Matt knew, she was fond of Connor, probably loved him, though Father Matt doubted she had ever considered it in so many words.
“Did I hurt ye, Father? Ye’ve got a mean fist yourself.” Connor rubbed his midsection. Father Matt recognized stalling tactics and brushed them aside.
“I’m fine. But you’re a man I’d rather fight beside than against.” The priest leaned back in the chair, satisfied the drunk in front of him posed no more threat. “Who won’t have you, Eoin?”
“Jane.” The single word cost Connor his bravado, and he dropped his head into his hands again with a sigh. The two men let the name lie between them. Connor lifted his head, sighed again, and shifted his weight to feel in his hip pocket, only to find what he sought gone. “Damn,” he said softly, more to himself than to the priest. “Not bad enough to lose the woman, now I’ve lost my f…my pipe.”
Father Gregory looked at him in disbelief — as much at the words as the fact that Eoin Connor was still able to censor himself. He laughed, a short bark of a sound, more relief than amusement. It was enough to break the tension. “Come on, Eoin,” he said, offering his still-good right hand, “I think I’ve got one you can borrow.” He pushed the back door closed as the two of them climbed the stairs to the apartment that served as rectory and retreat for the parish priest.
Without a word, Eoin Connor settled himself on the leather couch as Father Matt first started a pot of coffee in the small kitchen, then pulled a pair of pipes from a stand on a desk cluttered with books and papers. He passed one to Eoin Conner, who saluted him with a lift of it and waited patiently for Father Matt to pass the black leather pouch.
The priest took his own seat in the wooden rocker reserved for watching television and praying his rosary. The two men tamped and puffed and fiddled until pipe smoke competed with the smell of brewing coffee. Satisfied, Father Matt posed his question again. “What happened, Eoin?”
Strong shoulders lifted, and the bowl of the borrowed pipe glowed red. Eoin Connor took the stem from his mouth and looked squarely at the priest. “I had dinner with Jane.”
Father Matt noticed that Connor’s brogue was gone, an indication that the man was in control of himself once again. “That sounds like a good thing,” he offered tentatively.
Connor took the pipe back into his mouth, puffed and spoke around it. “So you would think. And so it was, until Fiona showed up.”
“Fiona?”
This time the lift of the shoulder came with a sigh. “My wife.”
“Your what?”
Another sigh. “I don’t suppose you’d have a wee dram to help me tell this tale, would you?”
Father Matt’s eyes narrowed and hardened. “You’ve had more than enough.”
“I suppose so.” Eoin Connor offered no more explanation. The noise of the coffeemaker filled the silence until the last gasp of steam indicated the brewing was done. Father retreated to the kitchen and returned with two cups.
“Your what?” he repeated as he offered one to Connor.
“My wife.”
Anger flared in Father Matt Gregory. “Your wife? Just what the h…just what were you thinking? Hasn’t Jane been hurt enough? She’s just over John, and she’s fallen in love with you, and you have a wife?” He clenched and unclenched his free hand as he took a long drink of the hot coffee, hoping it would calm him.
“I was thinking I’d never see Fiona again. She lied to me to get me to marry her, then abandoned me nearly thirty years ago. Ran off with another man.”
Father Gregory’s anger abated as quickly as it rose, and he took his seat again, relief flooding over him. “Well then, that ought to be a simple matter. It’s no marriage at all. Fraud in the inducement. If you can prove it."
“Not according to the marriage tribunal.” Connor took a deep breath and hurried to finish his story before the priest’s anger rose again. “I asked, almost as soon as Fiona left me. But Fiona lied, swear and be damned; she lied and I suppose other witnesses did, too. I don’t know why, I don’t know what, but the petition was denied. As far as Rome is concerned, I’m still married. Fiona, on the other hand, divorced me as soon as the ink was dry; it was her ticket out of Ireland, and she married the man she left me for. He apparently had no scruples about taking up with another man’s wife.”
Father Matt took in this news with some surprise. “But you’ve not remarried yourself?”
“Chaste as a monk. I hurt too much at first, and I was too selfish to deal with a wife later on. Not to mention the peril to my immortal soul.” Eoin looked sheepish, and Father Matt was aware that he meant what he said. It surprised him. “Fiona went through five more marriages and God only knows how many more men. She just divorced her fifth husband. A count.”
Pipe smoke swirled around Connor’s head as he gathered both thought and temper before he went on. “Now, for some reason, she shows up out of the blue and wants to make it up to me. Claims she’s seen the error of her ways and wants to make it all right by me, be the wife I’ve never had.” Eoin’s big hand clenched the coffee cup tightly, then set it carefully on the side table. “There’s been enough hurled dishes tonight. Jane shied one of her good glasses at me when I went by to explain.”
“Explain? Eoin, you’ve lost me.”
Another sigh. “I took her out to dinner. When I was back in New York, I asked about the possibility of a rehearing. Seems I ought to be entitled to one. I took Jane out to tell her about that and come clean about my past when Fiona showed up at the table and announced to all the world that she’s my wife.”
Father Matt gave a low whistle. It wasn’t hard to imagine the scene. Jane Wallace had a temper.
Eoin’s face creased in pain, and he continued. “I tried to explain to her, but she’ll have nothing to do with me. I’m married, and that’s it as far as she is concerned.” He reached in his breast pocket and retrieved a piece of lace, and unfolded it. Caught in the folds was a gold ring. He picked it up and examined it closely,
his eyes sorrowful and distant. “My ma’s ring and a bit of her lace. I was going to ask Jane to wait for me, until things could be straightened out. I never got the chance.” He passed the ring over.
Father Matt felt it in his hand, slight and delicate. It was a plain gold ring, thin and worn, the ring of a poor woman married a long time. He turned it over a few times himself, then looked up.
“Eoin, I think your friend is right. It may take time, but I think...”
“Doesn’t matter. She’ll not have me, and I’ll not have Fiona.” Eoin paused, sadness in his eyes and defeat in his shoulders. “I’m tired of spending my nights alone.” He shook off the restraining arm, took a final puff from the pipe and handed it back to Father Matt. “I thank you for your kindness. I’m sorry I hit you. I’ll fix the door.”
Father Matt cast about for a decent reply and found none. He was saved the trouble of answering when the pounding on the downstairs door resumed. This time it was the voice of the town marshal, angry and demanding entry.
Father Matt pushed Connor aside with a warning look and took the stairs two at a time once more. The door creaked a bit as it opened, a tiny bit off-kilter from Connor’s assault on it. The marshal regarded both the battered door and the weary priest with a sympathetic look.
CHAPTER FOUR
I was just rearranging the bookshelves in my office in alphabetical order — having tried size, color, and subject already — when my cell rang. I flipped open the leather case as I placed a volume by Eamon Duffy next to one by John Dietzen. I noticed as I slid my finger across the screen to accept the call that it was after three. I had tried sleeping after my disastrous dinner with Eoin but gave it up as a bad attempt.
I recognized the voice of Jasper Quick, my factotum at the center.
“Doc? Did I wake you up?”
I wished. I ran my hand over my forehead. “No, I’m up. I couldn’t sleep.”
“Hmm. Anything to do with that Connor fellow?” he asked suspiciously.
Dying for Compassion (The Lady Doc Murders Book 2) Page 4
