“So, you do know each other!”
“We knew Conor when he was a boy, William. Practically in nappies.”
The man took Thomas’s hand, shook it, but his pained eyes glued on Faye. “I hardly recognize you lot. Certainly not ... well ... Though of course I knowyourface.” His brow crinkled, his mouth flinched wryly.
“Yes,” Faye said weakly. She remembered him, the cigarette out the corner of his boy mouth, those eyes, the way he strutted down the meadow path. Her legs wobbled with the unease of having been on rough seas, shock coursing through her veins so thoroughly it could have been thrill. She searched Jean’s face, which had turned wistful.
“Sorry to party crash, but when the fellas said Kevin Sullivan’s son was to marry Thomas Beatty’s girl, I couldn’t believe my ears. Had to see for myself if it was the same old Beattys and my Fiadh after all this time. And hereyouare. Imagine my surprise.”
“YourFiadh? A fine surprise then,” said William, his voice testy. He put his arm around Faye’s waist. “Though she ismywife now.”
“Oh, we’re surprised all right,” Jean said, her head shaking with disbelief. “I can’t get over how much you look like your father. Like going back in time, that face. How is this possible?”
Faye felt the urge to clamp Jean’s mouth shut.
“You know, Dad was part of a network up here, down as far as Rhode Island,” William said. “Helped immigrants get settled, including your brother, Thomas. Conor showed up, what? Five years back? Stayed with us for a day or two but ended up in Boston, is that right?”
“More comfortable in the city,” O’Kane said. He palmed William’s shoulder, then shook his head like a dog caught in a downpour. “Boy, I can’t get over this. The Beattys here left and not a word from them again.”
“That’s our business,” Thomas said, his voice clanging like a dropped lid.
Faye was certain she would be sick.
“Left behind a lot of broken hearts. Mine included. What a pistol, that Fiadh! Secretly thought I’d marry her someday. Don’t know that I thought I could turn her head one more time the way I used to ... Still. Like I said, I had to come.” Conor’s eyes swept over Faye, inspecting every eyelash, every curve. “And now my friend William has captured himself this fine Irish lass. And my poor heart in tatters again.” He pressed on each word like a chicken pecking feed. “To think. After that accident.”
“Accident?” William asked.
Guests inched closer, eager to extend their wishes to the happy couple and get the party started. “Darling,” Faye said, finding her tongue for an endearment she’d never used before. William grinned, clearly amused by it. “We can catch up with Conor later. Right now, we need to attend to our guests. Papa, you and Mama keep Conor company now, won’t you?”
“Mama and Papa,” Conor said, hinting both mockery and menace. “She’s grown into quite the woman, this Fiadh. Congratulations to you both. And to the happy couple. Yes, let’s find a table and a drink. Quite the story to tell.” O’Kane threw his arm over Thomas’s shoulder and swung him toward the table in the corner and a punch bowl spiked with whiskey.
Though Faye tried to keep her attention on William and their guests, she watched as Conor cast aside the ladle and dipped a cup into the bowl. As if some sorcery elevated him a foot above the ground, he was all she could see.
“To the beautiful couple!” he shouted, raising the cup. “Sláinte!” He tipped his eyes into her like a scalpel and drank.
William whispered into Faye’s ear. “Bit of a problem, that one. My father wasn’t fond of him. I can tell Thomas isn’t much of a fan either. Was he a hooligan?”
Shards of memory, sharp as the point of a bayonet, pierced her. Children playing, harmless moonlit shenanigans, the cold water of the bay, a colder body. Hooligan? More of a wiseass then, though the edge he sported now was jagged and hardened. She shuddered, gritted her teeth, pursed out a smile. “Not that I recall,” she said, a smile plastered to her face. It was all she could do to keep her knees from buckling.
Chapter Six
1946: West Cork, Ireland
Still wrapped in blankets from the O’Kanes’ boat, Gisela and Elisabeth waited with Hannie and Hugh in the Beattys’ cottage. They could hear whispering behind the curtain. At last, Jean and Thomas and the doctor emerged from the room at the back. “She’s breathing, thank the good Lord,” Jean said. “What on earth happened out there?”
Gisela felt scrutinized, understood the question but couldn’t put the whole story together in English. Elisabeth piped up. “The picnic basket. Waves hit the boat. We ...” She stood, gestured losing their balance. “Gisela fell, and Fiadh dove in. Fiadh saved Gisela.”
Jean smiled. “Of course she did. A good swimmer, that one. Always with the knack for it. She could go to the Olympic games. Maybe for America.”
“You won’t still go? She can’t travel,” Hannie said.
Jean shrugged.
“A delay,” Thomas said. “Until she’s out of danger.”
Gisela, her stomach full of the roiling Irish sea, moaned and let out a belching cough.
“Let’s have a listen to this one,” the doctor said. He bent to Gisela, stethoscope in his ears, bell to her chest. He put a finger on his lips to tell her to be quiet. “Big breath,” he said, “like this.” He demonstrated. “And out.” Gisela stared intently, following his instructions. “Again ...again.” He pulled the scope from his ears and wrapped it around his neck. “No pneumonia, unless I’ve missed it. If fever spikes, you send for me. Wee girls were lucky today. What, it was last year the Coughlin boy was pulling in traps and”—the doctor snapped his fingers—“just like that, and we never see hide nor hair of him again.”
