by BJ Hoff
For almost two magical hours she had stepped into a different world, drawn the breath of another person, lived in a time and place so far removed from her own life that it would have been previously unimaginable. She had become Grania, daughter of the High King, condemned to marry the aging hero, Finn Mac Cool…the princess who defied her destiny by eloping with the handsome young Dermot…a fugitive pursued by the Fianna warriors for sixteen years…a widow and mother who trained her sons to avenge the death of her husband—only to end up, years later, as the bride of the man she once fled, the elderly war chief, Finn Mac Cool.
Terese knew the ancient epic, of course—had known it since she was a child. She had always loved the story of Grania and Dermot best of all the old legends. But to see it come to life in front of her eyes—a wonder!
In their lively colored costumes, the stage paint bright on their faces, their voices resonating out across the crowd, the actors seemed to take on the very life and essence of the fierce, rebellious Grania and the poor, doomed Dermot, the aged and bitter Finn Mac Cool and his noble Fianna warriors.
Tonight she had walked with giants and kings, moved among chieftains and warrior queens. Tonight her heart had burned with love for a handsome hero, only to break in sorrow at his death. Tonight she had known the thunderous rage of revenge and the unexpected grace of forgiveness. Tonight she had escaped, for two precious hours, the bitter reality of her life for the excitement and drama of another.
And tonight, in the depths of her spirit, she had glimpsed, for the first time ever, the faint and distant star of her destiny.
They stood side by side, looking out over the water, watching the curraghs and other small craft bob up and down in the gentle night wind. It was a heavy night, with lowering clouds and thick shadows hovering over the quay.
Brady put an arm around her shoulder and coaxed her closer to him, brushing his face over the softness of the emerald cloak. “Warm enough?” he asked.
She looked at him and smiled. “In my fine new cloak? Of course I am.”
“You enjoyed the play,” he said. “I’m glad.”
“It was wondrous!” She paused, biting at her lower lip. “How does a person go about such a thing—becoming a stage actress?”
He shrugged. “I don’t know. I suppose you’re born with the ability, though I expect you’d have to take a few lessons all the same.”
“You mean at a school? Where would I be finding such a school? Are there such places in America?”
“Sure,” Brady said, assuming there were, though he really didn’t know.
“In your city?” she pressed. “In New York?”
He laughed a little. “If it’s not in New York, it doesn’t exist, T’reesie.”
She frowned at him.
“Sorry. Terese,” he amended. “What’s this all about? One play, and you’ve decided to go on the stage?”
“Don’t laugh at me, Brady!” she warned, tossing her hair. “Perhaps that’s exactly what I will do, once I get to America. It’s something I can do. I know I can.”
Brady didn’t laugh. He was struck by the realization that she was probably right. She had a certain…presence. An inner fire that sometimes seemed to set her ablaze. Tonight had been such a time, right now, at this moment. She was so…intense, so vibrant. Her eyes were enormous in the night, glistening with excitement and purpose. She had pulled the hood of the cloak about her face, but now the wind played at it until it slipped away, leaving her wild russet hair to blow free.
Brady smoothed a strand of hair away from her face, his hand lingering on the cool softness of her cheek. She looked at him, and he caught his breath. She was so incredibly beautiful! He actually tried to look away from her, to drag his gaze from hers. He told himself he couldn’t afford this kind of entanglement, not now…he was leaving. It would be madness to become any more involved with her than he already had. There would be time enough later, when he came back to Galway. But not now.
Her face was close, and she was watching him, her expression puzzled but rapt, as if the magic of the evening still enveloped her. He reminded himself of how young she was, though in truth he had never felt the difference in the years between them. Still, he had a responsibility…she was innocent; he was sure of it.
Something warred inside him…tried to force its way past the temptation, past the need—something not quite strong enough to overcome either. Heat scorched his face, and he lifted her hands, brushing a light kiss over the knuckles of each, making a weak attempt to cool the fire flaming up within him.
He looked at her, saw how her eyes had grown heavy, her lips full and willing. The blood thundered to his head. One last time he tried to count the cost of what he was about to do. She was no bored cosmopolitan looking for an idle, meaningless evening of pleasure. She was a seventeen-year-old girl who cared about him, even trusted him in her fashion…at least he thought she did. She had already known more than she ought of cruelty and loss and deprivation. She could be hurt even further if he treated her lightly. But he did care about her. She had become important to him, perhaps too important.
He released her hands, cupped her chin, and lifted her face to his. His eyes searched hers, probing, trying to see some sign of fear or hesitation or even rejection—something to make him stop, because he knew by now that he wouldn’t stop himself. What he saw was something he hadn’t seen before, something he couldn’t comprehend, and for a moment his desire slaked.
Then the moment passed, and he knew he had only imagined it. She was too young to calculate, too naive to speculate. Besides, she was wild for him, just as he was for her. The yielding warmth of her body was proof of it, despite whatever he thought he had seen lurking behind her gaze.
“Terese…”
She locked her arms about his neck, and for an instant he had an unbidden thought of the foolish Dermot, beguiled—used—by the ruthless, cunning Grania.
Then she was in his arms, and he was leading her back the way they had come, through the night, back to the town, to his flat.
Terese knew it was wrong, knew she could have stopped it, could still stop it if she would. Even at the door to his flat, when he put both arms around her and coaxed her inside, she could have stopped things from going any farther.
At first she told herself it wasn’t so wrong, after all, because it was Brady, and she loved him…of course she loved him. But in an instant of brutal clarity she knew that was a lie, because in truth she didn’t know what love was, didn’t know if she wanted any part of it, not if it meant being weak or dependent or foolish. Besides, at times she didn’t even like Brady, so how could she love him?
Even as he led her inside the flat, her mind was flinging out questions and warnings, telling her she was doing not only a wrong thing but a foolish thing. But she shook off the caution, shook off the shrieking questions for what she did know—that she must get to America, must get out of Ireland, or she would wither up like poor Jane Connolly and simply die of defeat and despair. She had to get out if she was to survive, had to follow that faint beckoning star she had glimpsed for the first time tonight, had to find what was out there waiting for her.
She must not let it matter whether she loved him or that it was wrong, a terrible sin. What mattered was to make him love her, at least make him need her to the point of desperation. So she went with him, went up the steps into his flat with him. She would let him believe what he obviously wanted to believe, that she was mad for him and must be with him now, tonight.
Eventually, she knew, he would leave—leave Ireland and go back to America. Before that day, she must make absolutely certain that he would not go back without her.
23
REVEREND RUTHLESS
Thank God for one dear friend,
With face still radiant with the light of truth.
JOHN BOYLE O’REILLY
NEW YORK CITY
Jack’s lunch was already sitting heavy on his stomach when he came back to his office and found t
he Reverend Rufus G. Carver waiting for him.
“I’m warning you, Rufus, I’ve just come from Wissen’s—beef and dumplings and a cherry torte. Don’t you be stirring up my digestion.”
With a thunderous laugh, Reverend Ruthless, as Jack had dubbed him years ago, hauled his considerable girth out of the chair and extended a mammoth hand in greeting.
“Jack, God bless you, brother!” he boomed. “How long has it been?”
“A week, as I recall,” Jack said dryly. His treacherous insides clamped in protest as Rufus yanked his hand up and down several times. It was a bit, Jack imagined, like being mauled by a bear. A large, extremely well-fed bear.
When Rufus finally released him, Jack sank down in the chair at his desk to recover. “Well, Rufus—how much this time, and what for?”
Still standing, the burly black preacher feigned a hurt look. “Jack…Jack,” he said, shaking his glistening bald head sadly, “I surely hope you don’t think I only come around when I’m looking for money for the Work.”
The Work covered a vast array of projects, mostly in the slums and tenement settlements of the city, spearheaded by Rufus and two or three other members of the clergy. Jack bared his teeth in a semblance of a smile. “Not at all, Rufus. I recollect a few times that you settled for the shirt off my back and a pint of blood.”
Rufus folded his hands over his ample midsection and rolled his eyes toward heaven. The black preacher had a number of standard postures; having seen them all, Jack tended to think of this one as The Divine Messenger Pleads for Patience.
“Before you make your pitch, Rufus, how’s Amelia? And the family?”
The other’s dark, good-natured face now broke into a smile. “Why, the children are as well as can be, and my Amelia, the good Lord love her, is just fine, Jack, just fine!”
Jack nodded. “I’m glad to hear it. The woman is a saint.”
“Now that’s the truth, if ever the truth was told, Jack! She is a beautiful, pure-hearted, God-fearing woman, if I do say so myself.”
“You forgot long-suffering,” Jack pointed out.
“That, too,” Rufus said cheerfully, ignoring the jibe. “She sends her best, by the way. And she said I shouldn’t come home without a definite date from you as to when we can expect you for supper again.”
Jack put a hand to his stomach, trying to ignore the fact that the dumplings had seemingly turned to lead. “I will be only too happy to plop myself down at Amelia’s table any night of the week, and she knows it. Best cook in New York.”
“Now that’s a fact. It just so happens that the reason I came by today was to invite you to a special supper. This one’s not at our house, though Amelia will be doing some of the cooking. She sent me special to ask you, and she said I shouldn’t take no for an answer.”
Lowering himself into the chair across from the desk, Rufus unbuttoned his black suit coat to reveal a multicolored vest, no doubt tailored by his wife. Rufus always wore a plain white shirt and a black suit—shiny enough that Jack sometimes wondered if it was the same black suit—but he had the finest collection of good-looking vests in New York, and today’s was no exception.
Knowing he was expected to comment on it, Jack did so. “Amelia’s latest creation, I suppose?” he said, inclining his head toward Rufus’s middle.
Rufus smiled and opened his coat a bit wider. “You like this? I never did care for those worn-out drapes in the front room, but I do believe they made a right nice vest, don’t you? Amelia said she had to patch several pieces together to get enough cloth to stretch around me, but isn’t that woman a wonder?”
Jack shook his head, unable to stop a smile. “What’s this supper you’re inviting me to? What are you up to now?”
“Ah, this Saturday. It’s going to be a fine evening, Jack. A fine evening. The church is hosting a meal as a way of thanking some of the good folks who helped build the new schoolhouse. You being the one who made the school possible in the first place, we’re counting on you to be there, maybe even say a few words to the people.”
Jack leaned back in his chair and locked his arms behind his head. “The building’s all done, is it?”
Rufus nodded. “It is indeed. And it’s a fine, sturdy building, thanks to you, brother.”
“Thank the men in your church. They did all the work.”
“Wouldn’t have been any money to buy the lumber without you, Jack. They’re setting in the stove first thing Monday, by the way—more thanks to you. ’Course they won’t be needing it much longer now, with warm weather coming, but in the fall those children will be glad for it.” He paused, then gave Jack a wide, beatific smile. “You’re a good man, brother. A mighty good man.”
Jack scowled at him and dropped his arms. “What do you want, Rufus?”
“Now, Jack, I already told you. I’m here to invite you to the supper. It’ll be held in the church basement, by the way. We realize you might have other things to do, you being such a busy, important man and all, but it would mean a lot to Amelia and me if you would honor us.”
“Oh, stop it, Rufus!” Jack growled impatiently. “All right, all right; I’ll come. But I won’t be making any speeches, and don’t you dare try to trick me into it once I’m there, do you hear?”
Rufus put a hand to his heart. “Whatever you say, brother. Far be it from me to interfere with a man’s humility before the Lord. I consider it highly commendable, Jack, your insisting on giving your alms in secret. That’s the Good Book’s way, after all.”
Rufus was forever trying to put a religious connotation on everything Jack did. He ignored the remark and sat silently studying the man across the desk with concealed fondness.
Rufus G. Carver was the blackest black man Jack had ever known—a big, jovial man of indeterminate age, with a polished dome of a head and a fastidiously trimmed beard. It didn’t take much stretching of the imagination to picture Rufus as an ancient African chieftain. It never failed to baffle Jack how the smiling dark monolith sitting across from him could wind him around his little finger with such a minimum of effort. After all these years, Rufus could still squeeze more money from Jack than any two con men combined and talk him into doing just about anything he or his incredible wife, Amelia, asked.
No two men could have been farther apart in terms of personality, philosophy, or perspective. Rufus, though hardworking and energetic, tended to let things roll off his solid back, never fretting about whether or not a job would get done, but simply “trusting the Good Lord” to take care of things. Jack, on the other hand, would drive himself until he was ready to drop. Something in him resisted any kind of dependence. Even today, after years in business, he still found it almost impossible to delegate responsibility. He thrived on the demanding pace he set for himself, in truth found his enjoyment far more in the work itself than in the financial gains or influence that went along with it.
In matters of the spirit, he and Rufus were drastically removed from each other. He was fairly sure that popular opinion had him at best a lapsed Catholic; at worst, a hopeless infidel. At the opposite end of the pole was Rufus, a washed-in-the-blood, filled-with-the-Holy-Ghost, pulpit-thumping PREACHER—Rufus invariably spoke the word preacher in capital letters—who delighted in telling Jack he was a good man at the same time he was nipping at his heels to save his soul.
They traded insults like sworn adversaries, lived in two different worlds, associated with none of the same people, and viewed life from radically diverse platforms. But when it came right down to it, Jack loved Rufus Carver like a brother, and he never doubted that the feeling was mutual.
He could hardly fail to appreciate the irony in the fact that the one man he could honestly count a friend was a zealous black evangelist who viewed money as nothing more than a tool to feed the hungry and build churches and schoolhouses—and who thought the only thing wrong with Jack Kane was that he’d never had a “face-to-face meeting with the Lord.”
Jack wasn’t even sure what Rufus meant by that,
but he had a suspicion there was a lot more wrong with him than his friend would like to think. Even so, he appreciated Rufus’s giving him the benefit of the doubt.
Their friendship had begun years ago, before Martha had taken ill. Against Jack’s better judgment, she had spent a considerable amount of time helping out at some of the orphanages—perhaps because even then she was longing for the child they would never have. In any event, one of the homes had been for black children, and during that time she had struck up an acquaintance with Rufus and Amelia. One thing had led to another until Jack—despite his fierce resistance to the very idea of befriending a preacher—found himself doing just that.
During Martha’s illness and the agonizing days leading up to her death, Rufus had continually stood by Jack, ignoring his embittered tirades against the God who had allowed Martha’s suffering.
Perhaps it was Rufus’s total lack of pretense, the fact that he made no attempt to give Jack pat answers that would have meant nothing, that had allowed their friendship to come through the ordeal intact and even stronger than ever. To this day, Jack couldn’t think of that terrible time at the end without also thinking of Rufus standing by, silently weeping, quietly praying for the friend he could not help. And to this day, there was no man Jack trusted quite as completely as Rufus Carver.
He sighed now and made a resigned gesture with one hand. “What time should I be there?”
Rufus beamed. “Amelia said you should come at six-thirty.” He paused, his dark gaze wandering to some unseen object across the room. “She also said that you should feel free to bring a lady friend, if you like.”
Jack laughed, and Rufus looked back at him, smiling. “Amelia still thinks all I need is a good woman, eh?” Jack said, shaking his head.
“Well, now, Jack, you’ve said it yourself—Amelia, she is one smart woman. Could be you ought to take her more seriously.”
