Only one other time had he ever been angry with Mary. The anger had come about a decade into his tenure at St. John’s. After that long with one parish, most priests would have been given new assignments. They might even be permitted to pursue advanced degrees to better serve their parishioners. He had entertained thoughts of someday teaching in a seminary.
But that was not to be. Father O’Brien knew that, as a favor to Conor McAllister, Bishop Ross had made his assignment to Mill River permanent. He knew that future bishops of the Diocese of Burlington would honor that edict. Even though he loved Mill River and his close-knit congregation, he felt trapped.
It seemed that all of the unknown opportunity had been removed from his future.
On his knees beside his desk, Father O’Brien recalled how that feeling had fueled a smoldering resentment within him. Before he knew it, the resentment had become anger. It had become so intense that he could hardly bear to read the newsletters from St. John’s Seminary in Massachusetts, his alma mater. The mailings always included a column on new accomplishments and reassignments of alumni. He had even burned one issue that announced a vacancy on the teaching staff. The school had wanted a lecturer on the Old Testament, with particular emphasis on Psalms.
Father O’Brien had a special fondness for Psalms.
It was true what one of his old professors had said, that psalms were songs of the people of God. They mirrored lives. In the psalms, it was easy to find inspiration or guidance for almost any situation. Father O’Brien knew most of them by heart.
But his life’s work had been decided. Because of Mary, he would never be in a position to teach psalms at St. John’s or anywhere else.
Then, as now, he had prayed for help in dealing with his emotions. Then, as now, he had felt guilty for his anger and had known deep down that he had no right to be angry with Mary. And finally, one day as he drove up to the marble mansion, his prayer had been answered.
It had occurred to him that perhaps God wanted him to remain in Mill River. Perhaps it was no coincidence that he had been assigned to a new church with the same name as his seminary. He might have been brought to Mill River just in time for Mary and Patrick’s wedding so that he would be there to protect her through everything that followed. Maybe, in some way he didn’t understand, his watching over this one woman was somehow more important than teaching or being transferred to a new parish. If that were true, then perhaps his future held some opportunity after all.
After that epiphany, the anger had faded away. In its place, a sense of relief, then gratitude, had developed, as his friendship with Mary became an important part of his life. Now, he wished only that Mary’s soul would somehow find its way to heaven and that he might never be upset with her again.
Father O’Brien rose from his knees and made his way from the parish house into the sanctuary. No one had arrived yet. The chamber was cool and dim, illuminated only by light filtering through the stained-glass windows. He stood at the altar, looking down the silent aisle traversed by rainbow-colored beams.
He had spoken from this altar thousands of times before, but the memory of one particular day seized him. He remembered a striking couple as they waited before him, a tall blond man and a stunning, blue-eyed brunette. He remembered the church filled to capacity, with all but the first row on the left side of the aisle taken up by the McAllister family. He remembered how Mary had looked into her bridegroom’s face with such trusting innocence, and how Patrick had looked down at her as if he were about to be awarded a trophy. He remembered how he had known at that moment that theirs would be a marriage filled with darkness.
Chapter 8
On a warm Saturday afternoon in late April 1941, Patrick McAllister paced between the front door of the yellow Victorian home and the parlor, where his parents and Mary sat waiting patiently. Every so often he pulled the curtains at the front window aside and looked out.
“Now, son, Father O’Brien is new to the area. Give the man a little leeway, won’t you? He might have had some trouble with the directions,” Stephen said as Patrick again passed through the room.
“It’s a simple drive from Mill River to Rutland,” Patrick snapped. “I still can’t believe Bishop Ross will be in Rome on my wedding day. He should have postponed the trip.”
“I’m sure he would have liked to, but to be invited to a conference at the Vatican, well, I doubt he could postpone that. And we can’t reset the date, not with the invitations having gone out. Besides,” Elise McAllister said, smiling at Mary, “it’s Mary’s wedding day, too, and Mill River
is
her hometown. I don’t think it’s such a bad thing to have the wedding there, and to have the priest from Mill River marry you.”
Patrick crossed his arms and frowned. “No, I suppose not.”
Through all this, Mary sat quietly on the couch and said nothing. She had previously met Bishop Ross, the head of the Diocese of Burlington and a longtime friend of the McAllister family. Now, though, she and the others were waiting to meet Father O’Brien, the new priest in Mill River. She felt a slight fluttering in her stomach.
Over the past several months, she had grown accustomed to Patrick’s immediate family. She was still reserved, but she no longer experienced paralyzing anxiety when she spent time with them. Meeting strangers was another matter. Patrick had seen to it that, during that time, Mary had been introduced to more people than she could count, certainly more than she ever met during the several years before Patrick arrived at the farm. With each new introduction, she struggled to maintain her composure. To her credit, she had become better at maintaining a serene appearance. Patrick expected as much of her, but even her desire to please him never completely diminished the anxiety she felt. She never knew for sure what might trigger her inner turmoil, or when it might surface and overwhelm her.
Patrick began to walk in slow circles around the room, stopping only when he heard the low rumble of a car pulling into the driveway. “Finally,” he muttered, when the doorbell rang. The butler showed a tall man with a white collar into the parlor.
“Father O’Brien,” Stephen said, rising and extending his hand. “It’s a pleasure. Please, come in. I’d like to introduce my wife, Elise, and my son Patrick and his fiancée, Mary Hayes.”
The young priest had a boyish face and a build so slight that the thin arms protruding from the sleeves of his black suit jacket looked almost unnatural. A prominent Adam’s apple hovered above his white collar. Still, his fine auburn hair had already begun to recede, and a calm maturity radiated from his eyes. He shook Stephen’s hand and smiled warmly at the group.
“I’m very happy to meet all of you.” Father O’Brien shifted his gaze to Patrick and Mary. “I’ve been in Mill River only a few months, as I’m sure Bishop Ross has told you, but it would be an honor to perform your wedding Mass.” He waited for some sort of acknowledgment, but Patrick only clinched his jaw and glared. Mary trembled silently from her place on the couch. Finally, Patrick’s mother swooped into the awkward silence.
“Why don’t we all sit down for a cup of tea? We can discuss the details of the ceremony,” she said, motioning to one of the house staff and casting a stern look at Patrick.
Patrick took his mother’s cue. “Yes, Father, do sit down.”
“You’re very gracious, thank you,” Father O’Brien said. Mary couldn’t help noticing that the chair in which he sat was so wide that his thinness seemed a mere stripe down the center of its cushions.
“So tell us, Father O’Brien, did the Bishop tell you that he married Elise and me when he was a priest here in Rutland?” Stephen asked.
“He did, Mr. McAllister,” Father O’Brien replied. “I understand Bishop Ross and your father have been friends for half a century.”
“Yes, that’s true,” Stephen said.
“I know Bishop Ross felt badly that he wouldn’t be here to marry you,” Father O’Brien said to Patrick and Mary, “but under the circumstances, well, he didn’t believe he had a choice.”
“Of course we understand,” Patrick said, with a conciliatory glance at his mother. “He’ll be with us in spirit, and I’m sure you’ll conduct a wonderful ceremony.”
“Speaking of which,” Elise said, “we should discuss some of the details. I’ve found a number of beautiful hymns that may be suitable.”
“And we’ll want to be sure to schedule a rehearsal,” Stephen said.
Everyone was soon engaged in discussing the particulars of the wedding--everyone except Mary.
She sat on the sofa, sipping her tea and trying to concentrate on something other than the new priest sitting in the chair across from her. Unlike the many young women who had every detail of their weddings planned before they met their husbands, Mary didn’t worry about her wedding at all. Just in being the object of Patrick’s affection, she had already seen her wildest fantasy come true. It was no matter that during each discussion of her upcoming marriage, she seemed to be relegated to the position of an observer. She was perfectly content to let Patrick’s mother fuss over the details of the ceremony, and especially relieved that she wouldn’t have to deal with people concerning the many arrangements to be made.
Mary turned her attention to the circular sensation of the engagement ring on her left hand. She couldn’t quite believe that she was to be married to Patrick, that she would be part of a real family. There was also the issue of money. Each time she visited Patrick, she experienced again a sense of amazement at the grandeur of their home. After the years of the Depression, she and her father would never have to do without again.
“Is that all right with you, Mary?” Stephen’s voice jarred her from her thoughts.
“It must be. She’s not stopped smiling since we sat down. I suppose having the ceremony in the bride’s hometown is the traditional thing to do, anyway,” Patrick said, with another glance at his mother. “You say the church can hold two hundred?”
“Oh yes. Not that I’ve ever had that many people in it at once. It might be a little cozy, but I’m sure all of your guests can be accommodated,” Father O’Brien said, bending down to retrieve his napkin from the floor. Mary stole a glance at him. “In fact, yours might be the biggest wedding the town has ever seen.”
He reached for his teacup, and another sparkle caught Mary’s eye. The end of a teaspoon protruded from the sleeve of Father O’Brien’s jacket. Mary blinked. Surely she was mistaken. When the priest set the teacup back on its saucer, the silver shimmer was gone.
Mary looked at Father O’Brien’s face, but the priest’s expression was as calm and relaxed as when he first entered the parlor. She was perplexed. A priest wouldn’t steal. Besides, why would anyone, especially a priest, steal a
spoon
? Her eyes must have played a trick on her. He was wearing a silver watch, or perhaps a bracelet of some sort. Surely, that must have been it.
“So, where will you live once you’re married?” Father O’Brien asked. Patrick and Mary looked at each other.
“Well,” Patrick said slowly, “Mary’s father will still be in Mill River, of course, but the Marbleworks and my family are here, in Rutland...”
Mary nodded, but the problem disturbed her. Naturally, Patrick wanted to live in Rutland, but she could not bear the thought of her father living alone in the old farmhouse in Mill River. She was all the family that her father had left, but Patrick’s parents had three other children and an enormous extended family nearby.
When she explained this to Patrick, he had refused to speak to her the rest of the day. It was a side of him she’d never seen, a stubborn, sulking immaturity.
They had yet to resolve the issue.
“I’ve already made arrangements for their new home.” Everyone turned to see Conor McAllister standing in the doorway of the parlor. He smiled at Mary in a most reassuring way, as if he sensed her worry. “I’m Conor McAllister,” he said as the young priest rose to greet him. They exchanged the typical formalities before Conor started toward the door.
“As I was saying, I’ve taken care of their first home. Call it a wedding gift. It’s a lovely afternoon for a drive, don’t you think, Stephen? I’ll pull one of your cars around, and we’ll all go have a look. A pleasure meeting you, Father O’Brien.” Conor left the room before anyone had an opportunity to question him.
“What’s he talking about?” Patrick demanded.
“I have no idea,” Stephen said. “I assumed we’d help Patrick and Mary find a nice place when they decided where they wanted to live, but this is the first I’ve heard of Pop getting involved.”
Mary didn’t know what Patrick’s grandfather had in mind, either, but she felt a knot begin to twist and tighten in her stomach.
“Stephen, we’d better go see what he’s up to,” Elise McAllister said. “He’s unpredictable, to say the least,” she continued, turning to the young priest, “and he loves surprises. Patrick will be the first of his grandchildren to be married, so there’s no telling what he’s planned.”
“Something wonderful, I’m sure,” Father O’Brien said as he stood up. “But I do have another appointment, so I’ll leave you to investigate.” He paused at the door. “I look forward to seeing you at the pre-Cana sessions,” he said to Patrick and Mary. “And thank you, Mrs. McAllister, for the tea.”
Mary watched the back of the skinny young priest as he walked away. She liked him. He was quiet and disarming, someone around whom she might eventually feel comfortable.
The visitor had no sooner driven away than Conor pulled up to the front door in the black Lincoln. He left the car running as he herded Mary, Patrick, and Patrick’s parents out of the house.
Stephen headed for the passenger side when Conor stopped him. “No, son, you drive. I’ll tell you how to get there.” Conor climbed into the right front seat as Stephen got behind the wheel. “Hurry up now, that’s it.”
Patrick took Mary’s elbow, guided her into the back seat beside his mother, and got in himself. “Grandpop, I wish you’d tell us what you’ve done,” he said. His respect for his grandfather barely kept his annoyance at bay.