“About,” Faye replied. “Thank you. For the beautiful dress.” She made a motion toward Jean, thinking this version of a mother might show her tenderness.
Jean’s head bobbed. “I’m off to greet guests then.” And with that, she was gone.
Faye returned to her reflection, set the wreath of flowers onto the crown of her head. She closed her eyes to rid the room of the shadow that had followed her mother in. When she opened them again, she saw only herself, William’s bride.
She descended the stairs into the kitchen where her father waited, his back to her as he watched guests arrive from the window over the sink.
“Papa.”
Thomas turned, and his face was instantly aglow. “Oh, look at you. You are a vision, my Faye. A vision.”
Faye spun around, the drape of her skirt a step behind like a nipping puppy.
“Your mother knows how to make a dress, and you know how to wear one,” Thomas said.
The clock in the dining room tolled the hour. “Before we go out, there’s something I want to tell you,” Faye said. She took Thomas’s hand in hers. “I want you to know how much I love you and how grateful I am for my life here in America.”
Thomas adjusted his tie, lowered his voice. “You mustn’t talk that way.”
“No one is here, Papa.”
“Still.”
Faye slumped slightly, let out a breath. She swore to herself she wouldn’t bring it up, but coming down the stairs, she’d felt that ghost behind her. No one had ever cared what Thomas and Jean Beatty called their daughter. No one gave any of them a second thought. She cursed Jean for surfacing the past as if that was a common discussion when, in fact, they never spoke of it. Not ever. What had burned so bright in her memory for so long had diminished over the years. And if her thoughts turned to darkness, well, it was better to not think about the past at all.
“I don’t need to tell him, do I?” Faye asked.
“Faye, please! Someone will hear. Think of your mother.”
Faye allowed a speck of fear to seep out. “Would he hate me if he found out? I couldn’t bear it. Not after everything.”
Thomas twitched, held her by the shoulders. “You are meant to be Mrs. William Sullivan. You two are a perfect match. Everything is in front of you.”
“You’re right. Of course you’re right,” Faye said, trying to convince herself. She unwound a single strand of hair from her fingers, watchedit flutter to the floor. “But, Papa,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. “My life isn’t ... stolen, is it?”
“Faye! Enough with this now.” He kissed her forehead, adjusted a hairpin to straighten her crown. “Let’s go get you married.”
The red barn had been mucked out and swept clean, and friends of Jean’s from the parish in town made food for the reception, which would be held in the barn as well. Aldo baked the wedding cake, vanilla with buttercream, and decorated it with edible flowers.
As Faye and her father stepped onto the farmhouse porch, a final guest entered the barn. Thomas looked at his watch. “Seven past the hour. Fashionably late.” He signaled Maybellene Clay, the parish organist, who sat at a piano in the back of a forest green step-side pickup truck. She nodded and, with dramatic flourish, raised her hands and brought fingers down to the keys. The bridal march rose on a grassy breeze. “Shall we?” Thomas asked, offering his arm.
Behind her veil, Faye blushed under the happy gaze of some thirty guests who murmured with delight when she appeared in the doorway. William, in a new black suit with a tidy pocket square, stood flushed and teary at the makeshift altar next to the justice of the peace, who was as thin and sharp as a dart. At the front of the aisle, Jean stood with her arms by her side, her face stricken, eyes bugged with alarm. Faye chose to ignore her mother. Instead, she turned to her father, who kissed each of her cheeks, then presented her to William. Faye handed her bouquet to her one friend, a girl named Trudy Twigg whose parents owned the local grocery store. With eyes only for William, she failed to see Jean grip Thomas, whisper into his ear, failed to see her father’s smile fade, his face pale.
Upon pronouncement of husband and wife, William lifted the veil and dipped Faye in his arms, planting a Hollywood kiss on her lips. She let her head fall back so she could linger in that starry moment of her world made right. Guests erupted in laughter and whoops. William pulled her back up and into his arms. The fullness of him against her, the smell of his soap, the shine in his copper hair. In his embrace, she felt safe and complete, fully herself, bursting with joy.
They were engulfed by well-wishers, kissers and huggers and handshakers, many of them family friends of William’s parents who’d lived in the area for decades. Faye couldn’t stop smiling. Over her left shoulder, William’s voice. “Faye, there’s someone I’d like you to meet.” As she turned, Thomas and Jean appeared on the other side of her.
Thick hair, black as licorice, glacial blue eyes, bushy brows, full lips so deep they were almost purple. In this country place, he seemed gritty and slick. And familiar somehow. Faye felt Thomas tighten next to her. “This is my bride, Faye, and her parents, Thomas and Jean Beatty. Faye, this is Conor O’Kane.”
Faye’s stomach lurched. That name, the face older but ... yes. And he seemed equally stunned, staring at them, his face registering a myriad of emotion until a final one washed over him, some wave of recognition. He burst into laughter, forced and hectic.
“Fiadh? You say you’re Fiadh?” His Irish accent was thick and rolling, not the green of hills Faye remembered, but the black of troubled water.
William tapped his head with his palm. “Yes, I forget you were called Fiadh. I’ve only ever known you as Faye. You know each other?”
The day was bright with autumn sunshine, with pig-tailed girls spinning circles, the smell of fried chicken and peeled corn, tomatoes salted in stone bowls. So why did it feel to Faye like war was breaking out? Her mouth fell open. She could not form a single word.
Thomas stepped in front of her, his hand outstretched. “Conor O’Kane. Indeed, the glass of your father. Jean spotted you earlier andsaid it was like looking at a ghost. I told her it couldn’t be, but here you are. And yes, of course, this is Fiadh.” He spoke with the authority of a priest declaring the word of the Lord.
