When Light Breaks (14 page)

“Thanks.” I threw a pillow at her and sat up.

“No, really, you do. Not just like you’ve been sick, but like you’ve . . . been really sick.”

“Very long day.”

“Thought the doc told you to take it easy.”

I shrugged. “I tried. I went to see Mrs. Mahoney today, and I’ve got to get through these files tonight.”

“Oh, that’s just what you needed to be doing—visiting Mrs. Mahoney.”

“I just sort of . . . ended up there.”

“Well, you never ended up at Mom’s and she asked me to drop these drawings off for you.”

I groaned. “Oh . . . I remembered, and then I guess I forgot.”

“What in the world are you so preoccupied with?” Charlotte sat on the edge of the ottoman in front of my chair.

“If you don’t remember, I’ve been in bed, sick for days on end.”

“I just came by to check on you. Every time I’ve come the last few days you’ve been sound asleep.”

“Hey . . .” I hesitated, then continued, “do you remember when Jack left?”

Charlotte rolled her eyes, then lay all the way back on the ottoman, her legs dangling off the end. She stared at the plaster ceiling, where a cut-glass chandelier had hung since before I was born. “How could I not? Terrible day . . . and you didn’t snap out of it for what? A year, maybe two? Thought I’d lost you forever.”

“Hmmm.”

Charlotte leaned across the chair and grabbed my hand. “You’re getting married in a few weeks. Now is absolutely not the time to wonder what happened to Jack Sullivan. Things work out the way they should. He’s probably married with seven children and living in Seattle.”

“No,” I said, and swung my legs to the floor and stood.

“What do you mean?”

“Follow me.” I motioned for her to come to the computer, clicked open the Internet and pulled up the Unknown Souls Band.

Charlotte took a deep breath as I clicked on Jack’s face and biography. “You Googled him?” she asked. “You have just opened up an entire can of . . . problems if you don’t leave this alone. But now that we’re here . . . what’s he doing?”

“Best I can tell, he and his brother, Jimmy, formed a band, Unknown Souls. They did it at first to raise money for an orphanage, but they had such a great response, they kept on playing. Now they’re getting popular and actually have a recording contract. Peyton’s heard of them.”

“You asked Peyton about Jack?”

“No.” I punched the side of her arm. “He found me looking at the Internet.”

“And...”

“He thought I was looking for a band for the golf tournament. He told me they’ve gotten too big to play benefits, but that he heard them play a couple years ago and they were really good. They somehow combine Celtic, rock and bluegrass, or something like that.”

“Wow. Wouldn’t you just love to hear them?” Charlotte tapped the computer screen.

I nodded.

She leaned down. “Probably not a very good idea.”

“Just to make this all a little crazier . . . I’m thinking of asking them if they’d play the tournament fund-raiser.”

“I love crazier.” Charlotte leaned back on her heels.

“I’ve been hanging out with you for way too long if I’m even considering contacting them.”

“No way,” she said. “You’re not blaming me. I will take no responsibility for what comes after this. But”—she grinned—“I will participate in any way you wish—only at your urging, of course.”

“Okay—enough. I’ve got to get some sleep.” I pushed print on the tour dates. “I’m wiped. Thanks for checking on me. I’m going to sleep and maybe, just maybe tomorrow I’ll be back on top of my game. Please apologize to your mom and thank her for sending the drawings.”

“She’s worried about you.”

“She’s been worried about me since Mama died.”

“True, but she is more so now. Says you’ve got too much on your plate.”

I nodded. “Tell her I’m fine. I’ll stop by tomorrow, okay?”

Charlotte hugged me. “I actually have a date tonight. I’m off.”

“Who?”

“This guy I met at your shower . . . some friend of Peyton’s. Tom Schneider—you know him?”

I shook my head. “Golfer?”

“Yep. And I guess they leave for a tournament tomorrow . . . so we’re going out tonight.”

“Peyton already left for the tournament—some PR thing this evening.”

Charlotte hugged me and left. When I opened the door to my bedroom, I faced over three days’ worth of dirty laundry, papers, and strewn clothing. I wanted Mama. I wanted to curl up in her lap, let her pick up the clothes, let her stroke my forehead. This need didn’t come from a recollection of her ever having done such things for me—or maybe it did. My memories were mixed up and scattered now.

I walked over to my dresser, pulled out the top drawer. I’d lived in this room for my entire life, except for the four years at college. I knew where everything was stashed. I pulled out the white marble jewelry box Aunt Martha-Lynn had given me the Christmas after Mama died. A row of padded ring holders was on the left side, a compartment for earrings and necklaces on the right.

I opened the top and stared inside at a tarnished chain with a dolphin pendant; a leather bracelet with
Kara
engraved on the flat side, braided at the edges; a mood ring permanently stuck on black; and a Claddagh ring slanted sideways in the frayed lavender silk. I lifted the ring from the box and slipped it on my pinkie finger.

I closed my eyes. Tomorrow I would do everything I could to get Maeve to tell me the end of her story—even if it was a legend. I could not afford to be patient; I would not waste time, because I never knew, as with Jack at dawn, when I’d run out of it.

CHAPTER TEN

A
week came and went; the moon rose full, and the tides reached higher than normal, running over the seawalls at the end of Palmetto Pointe. Maeve wasn’t lucid enough during this time to even know I was present at her bedside, much less to resume a story she hadn’t finished. I continued to leave my wingless angel in her room in the hope that she’d remember what she’d begun.

I had researched the legend of the Claddagh ring and found that there were a couple of theories regarding its design and appearance on the shores of Galway Bay, and that yes, Richard Joyce’s was one of those legends. This meant that I did know the end of the story. I did know what happened to him and to their love. So why did I keep returning, hoping and waiting for Maeve to reveal the ending?

Was it because I didn’t have the ending to Jack’s story? I didn’t really know what had happened to him?

I sat in my car at a red light with my window open to breathe in the scent everyone else said you couldn’t smell, but I swore I could: high tide. I reached into my briefcase for the list of Unknown Souls tour dates. They were playing in Savannah the next night. I’d known this for a week and had watched and waited—not for an excuse to go, but for an excuse
not
to go: an event, party, or appointment. But tomorrow loomed with empty spaces on my Palm Pilot, and Savannah was only an hour and a half away.

A honk pulled me from my reverie, and I turned left onto my street and then into my driveway, where Peyton’s Jaguar was parked. He was leaning against the hood talking on his cell phone. I jumped from the car and gave him a silent hug as he continued his conversation. He hugged me back and patted my bottom, held up his finger, and mouthed, “Hold on.”

“Yes, Mom. No problem. See you in a few.” He dropped the phone into his back pocket and hugged me again. “Hey, darling.”

“What are you doing here? I thought your tournament went until tomorrow. . . .”

“Yeah, it does if you qualified.”

“What happened?” The last time Peyton hadn’t qualified for the final round, I’d had to half carry him out of a bar in Boston back to his hotel room, then listen to him throw up for hours. The start of a beautiful relationship, indeed.

“I had a lousy day. Couldn’t find the damn green no matter what I did. It absolutely sucked. Chad scumbag Scarborough qualified. He’s never beat me, ever, in ten years.”

“I’m sorry.” I scrunched my face into a scowl. “Really I am. And I’m even sorrier I wasn’t there.”

He scooped me into his arms. “Me too. I probably would’ve done a lot better if you had been. But it was a smaller tournament.”

I nodded. “How did Caroline do?” I had sent her to help with this tournament, a chance for her to gain experience for the Palmetto Pointe Open.

“Kara, I have no idea. I don’t keep up with the event planners.”

I held up my hand. “Whoa, sorry.”

“No, I’m sorry. Just in a foul mood. Everything seemed to be going smoothly . . . I’m sure she’s doing a great job. I was just a little focused on the course, not the parties.”

“Well, that would be a first.” I laughed.

“I just wanted to come give my beautiful fiancée a kiss . . . I promised Mom I’d go straight to her house.”

“What?”

He shrugged. “Something about needing my help in the garage apartment.”

“Oh . . . okay. See you tonight?”

“Well, I promised Ray I’d meet him to discuss this investment idea he has. . . .”

“Tomorrow?” I pouted.

He wrinkled his nose. “Kara, I’m sorry. I’ve got to fly to Miami to check out this new golf course the tour wants to use. I’m on that committee.”

“I know, I know. . . .” I leaned against his chest. “When will I see you?”

“Saturday. Promise. You didn’t think you’d see me until then anyway. We’ll hide away all weekend. Deal?”

“Perfect. It’s been . . . weeks since we’ve been alone.” I kissed him, touched the side of his face. He reached up and took my hand.

“Where did you get that?” He touched the ring on my small finger.

“I found it in an old jewelry box. It’s a Claddagh ring.”

“I know what it is.” He tapped his finger on top of my engagement ring. “Can’t touch this, though, can it?”

“No, it can’t.” I kissed him. “An old friend gave it to me—God, all the way back in middle school,” I said.

“Wishing you were back in middle school?”

“No.” I lifted my hand to the sun. “Just found it and thought it was . . . nice.”

“Isn’t it supposed to be like the Irish wedding ring?”

“Yes, but it can be given friend to friend, sister to sister, mother to daughter. . . .” I lifted it up. “It means love, loyalty and friendship.”

“It’s dented.” He touched the side of the ring.

“I know. That’s where Deirdre slammed my finger in the car door.” I hadn’t even realized I remembered that.

“You know what? It is weird the things you remember.” He kissed me before he drove off.

“Yes,” I whispered to the empty driveway. “It is weird the things I remember.”

Peyton’s car turned the corner. I couldn’t say other women on the tour hadn’t warned me—it was terrible being married to or in love with these players who traveled all the time. I pulled out my cell phone and dialed Charlotte’s number as I climbed the front stairs, then sat down on the porch swing.

“Hey . . .” She sounded winded.

“You in the mood for a road trip tomorrow?” I could barely believe I was asking.

“Why?”

“Thought I’d check out a band for the tournament.” I pushed my feet against the floorboards to set the swing in motion, as if trying to convince myself that this was a perfectly normal day, a perfectly normal request.

“Kara? Are you sure?”

“Ah, forget it. . . . Where are you?”

“The gym,” Charlotte said. “Let me call you back, okay?”

“Okay.” I hung up the phone, leaned back in the swing, then clicked the phone to off.

 

The rain awakened me—soft and light, but the air full of humidity, as if it were pregnant and overdue. My head was heavy and I wanted to roll over and go back to sleep. And, as I did every morning, I mentally scanned what I had to do that day. I had a PGA TOUR meeting at eight a.m., where I would, once again, have to admit I didn’t have a band. Then there was a full blank space—Savannah. Of course I hadn’t typed it in, barely admitting to myself that if the day opened up, I would go.

Peyton was in Miami, and Charlotte had a full day, since her freelance article for the local paper was late. And I did need a band, didn’t I? I got out of bed, stretched and stared at myself in the full-length mirror across the room. Had I changed much since I was fourteen years old? Since the last time I saw Jack? Completely. Where a scrawny girl once stood, with scabs on her arms and legs from believing she could keep up with the boys while running or riding her bike, now there was a woman with long wavy chestnut hair, rounded knees and elbows, a manicure and pedicure: all the rough edges smoothed.

I walked to the closet and stared at my outfits until I chose a pair of wide-leg, black Donna Karan pants with a fitted white linen button-down top. I’d wear my full-length black toile coat if the weather turned. I slipped the Claddagh ring off my pinkie finger and tucked it back into the jewelry box.