Saint and Scholar (20 page)

“Well, that went better than I thought,” Grant mumbled to the bathroom mirror. Without a shadow of a doubt, he knew Carla wasn’t one of those women who’d gone to college for the sole purpose of finding a mate. She’d been raised to be independent. She didn’t need anyone to take care of her. Those reasons were
exactly
why he wanted her as the mother of his children. He’d decided rather spur-of-the moment to be blunt about his intentions. Being sweet about it or waiting until she’d finally agreed to move over to tell her wouldn’t be any more convincing. Really, he just hoped she’d stew for a while and accept it. All those years he’d waited for her had given him a lot of time to think. He wasn’t going to change his mind.

He’d been waiting in the rental car for about half an hour when she finally exited the inn with her backpack. She was wearing a decent shirt, for once, along with jeans, and had his jacket draped over her arm. She spotted the car, rolled her eyes and walked over sulking.

“I can do this on my own,” she said, dropping into the passenger seat.

“Really, love? You going to read a map and drive in a strange country at the same time?”

“I’ll pull over.”

“Bullshit. I’ve seen your driving. You’re a menace to the roadways. Pull your seatbelt on, will you? I told you before we left the States–no matter what happened, I’d help you. I don’t even know what’s happening right now. All the same, I’ll honor my commitment.”

“So noble.”

“I try to be as much as I can, love.” He steered the car north toward County Cavan, and she rode without a word. If she wanted to play the silent-treatment game, he’d let her.

At the Catholic church Grant had arranged to visit, the secretary was kind enough to allow Grant to raid the archives at their leisure, since she didn’t have time to pull the relevant documents herself. It would have been Phillip’s church, had he lived in the area. Phillip’s residency was
precisely
what Grant was still trying to ascertain. The Callaghans listed in the church’s old records were of no relation to Phillip, at least not closely. They may have been cousins, but that didn’t help Carla’s research. Perhaps someday it would aid in the creation of a more comprehensive family tree. However, for pedigree purposes it was as good as a dead end.

While in the area, Grant made inquiries at the historical society about old land, tax and census records only to find nothing noteworthy for the dates in question.

Grant decided they should break for lunch. He wanted to treat Carla to an excellent local meal representative of what her ancestor might have eaten. It might have been a pleasurable meal if not for the daggers she shot at him from those blue eyes. She alternated between ignoring his questions and answering them with glowers. He didn’t care if she was angry–not
really
. Not yet. He would keep on behaving as if nothing was amiss, hoping she’d eventually come around. It was his choice to play with fire.

They got lucky in County Monaghan, and found a bit of information at a church near Carrickmacross. An old deacon opened up the vault and found the baptism record for Phillip Callaghan and his
twin
brother Patrick. In the entries days before was a record of the funeral of their mother Annette, and her burial nearby.

“I think you’ll find this bit interesting,” the deacon said. He placed a second smaller book on top of the open register. He removed his paper marker and indicated the line of importance.

She squinted at the archaic scrawl. “I don’t understand the language. Or
languages,
rather.”

“Latin and Irish, love. That’s unusual, the mix. Whoever recorded it probably didn’t have a good enough grasp of Latin to use it exclusively and cheated, knowing most folks couldn’t read anyway.”

“That’s right!” the deacon said, patting Grant on the back. “How many languages can you read, boy? Can you tell what it says?”

“Just four. Helped with my studies. Yes, I can read it.” He pulled on a white cotton glove and pointed to a section on the delicate page. “You see this, Carla?” He put his free arm around her shoulder and pulled her closer to the bookstand. “Their father was a monk.”

“That’s right, he
was
,” the deacon interjected. “At least for a bit. Just so you know, the marriage came first and conception
after
.”

She freed herself of his embrace and stepped away. “So, he was penniless, is what you’re saying?”

“That’s right! Are you both historians?” The deacon mussed her hair like she was a kid and she made a face at his back when he turned. “It would have been a hardscrabble existence for sure, having no land to farm and no wife to raise the children. He probably went into the monastery poor, so he
certainly
came out of it that way. That’s all we have on his origins, other than the names of his parents written on the marriage record. He likely came from one of the more distant villages, so I can’t tell you much else.”

She nodded.

“Do you know what might have happened to James after the boys were baptized?” Grant asked.

“
That
, I can tell you.” The deacon whisked the smaller book away, closed the larger one under it, and opened a third he had waiting nearby. He opened it to the marker and pointed to a line item for James Callaghan while adjusting his reading glasses with his other hand. “He died in 1769.”

Grant tapped her on her shoulder to get her attention. “That’s a year before Patrick and Phillip sailed.”

She crossed her arms over her chest. “Mm hmm. They would have been what, fifteen?”

“Sounds right.”

“Must have been miserable for them,” she said. Her voice was utterly flat. “To be so young and to consign themselves to a stranger for passage to some wild place that would break them, for all they knew.”

The old man squeezed her shoulder consolingly. “We Ulster sorts are a hearty lot for the most part. They obviously survived, yeah?”

She smiled when the genial deacon bumped her shoulder with his own. Indeed they had. She was the proof.

Once outside with a stack of photocopied records to examine for further clues later, Grant guided a still-sulking Carla to the car. He draped his arms over her shoulders and pulled her close.

She let him, but the tension in her body told him she wasn’t necessarily happy to be there.

He ignored it. “You want some dinner?”

She averted her gaze and looked down at her shoes. “No, um. Actually, I’d like some time alone. You can head back to Meath and I’ll make my way down to Dublin on Thursday to meet my brother. I want to stay here.”

He tipped her chin up to force her to make eye contact with him, but found her gaze told him absolutely nothing. She was cold, very unlike
his
Carla. She must be in a real state. Still, what else could he have done? Given up the entirety of his dream just because she wouldn’t come around on one part? The situation was requiring more patience than he expected, but he’d soldier on a bit longer. “Shut up and wait,” Dad had said. Well, it felt like shit and he was starting to wonder if maybe his father was an idiot. “Are you sure? I don’t like the idea of you being up here alone.”

“I see your lips moving, Grant, but it’s Tony’s voice I hear.”

He sighed and rubbed his hands up and down her arms. “Alright. I have some names of people who know a lot about the local history, if you want to try to meet up with them tomorrow.”

“Okay. Give them to me, but I’ll probably just walk around and try to absorb the culture. Maybe do some meditation in an old church.” She turned her head in the direction of the one they’d just exited and stared at it wistfully.

He understood. She wanted to exorcise her demons. She was a grown woman, and she’d asked for some space. He was man enough to give it to her, but still boyish enough to fear she’d take it and run.

* * * *

Carla spent much of the next thirty-six hours crying. At first she didn’t even know what she was crying about. She thought it was about Grant, because she really
did
care for him, but deep down she knew that wasn’t it. She cried on buses, oblivious to the gawks of her fellow passengers. She cried while watching the Carrickmacross nuns make lace, as if it was the most natural thing in the world to do so. She openly wept in the pews of dim churches and was mostly ignored, because if a person couldn’t cry there, where else could she?

It took her a while to understand it, but eventually she realized it was guilt. She’d lied. Oh, she did guilt better than anyone and it hit her like a sack of bricks. She felt awful that she could do what her dad couldn’t. Her father never had a chance to see the place his ancestors had to leave. He’d never known that like his father and grandfather, Phillip was a soldier. He never knew Phillip’s father loved his mother so much he abandoned his service to the church.

Her father would have wanted to know those things. He would have been proud to know them, because even though many generations removed from Phillip’s arrival in Philadelphia, Daddy had considered himself thoroughly Irish. So had his father. As had his grandfather. They never got to go home. And there she was, sitting in a church where her ancestor had once worshipped, feeling like a shitty daughter because she’d never been interested in anything but herself when her father was alive.

Thursday around noon, she checked out of her inn in Carrickmacross and navigated the private bus system down to Dublin, where she waited at the airport until Ashley and Sharon arrived. She’d been sitting with her luggage, waiting for some sign of them when she suddenly had the bright idea to check her messages. She hadn’t turned her phone on since Monday.

There were several, most of which she deleted without listening to in full, to spare herself roaming charges. The second-to-last one was from Ashley telling her he’d gotten the flight times screwed up due to crossing time zones and asking if she was around. He’d left it five hours before. The last message was from Grant informing her that he’d picked Ashley and Sharon up and took them with him to his father’s. “Where are you, love?” he’d asked.

“Going home,” she mumbled to herself before telescoping the handle of her suitcase up and toting everything to the ticket counter.

* * * *

“I’m sorry, Ashley, I really don’t know where she is,” Grant said. When Carla’s phone clicked to voicemail yet again, he ended the call and shoved his phone into his shirt pocket. “She said she would make her way down to Dublin to meet you today. I don’t know anything else. She’s obviously not answering my calls, and the folks at the inn said she checked out after lunch.

“It’s alright, son,” Dad said as he walked by the garden bench with his pruners in tow. He gave Grant a consoling pat on the shoulder. “Your old lady will show up.” He walked off toward the golf course to see to some hedges.

“I knew this was a bad idea,” Ashley said. He pounded his fist against the birdhouse pole and sent a startled finch skyward. “I should have stopped her from boarding the plane at RDU. Why did she feel like she had to do this?”

Sharon walked over to him and rubbed the small of his back. “Ashley, she’s a big girl, just like me. She’ll check in eventually if she wants to.” She walked over to the bench and sat next to Grant with her knees turned toward him. He noticed how well put together she was with all her layers. Carla hadn’t quite been able to master that. But, goddamn, what was up with her perfume? He felt his throat shutting down from being in the arena of the heavy floral scent. “Tell me exactly what happened? How you got separated.”

He blew out a long exhale and raked his hand through his newly shorn locks. The gesture didn’t feel quite as satisfying without all the curls. “Well, it’s somewhat personal.”

“My fist in your face is going to be personal in a minute, guy,” Ashley said.

Sharon rolled her eyes and twirled her diamond ring around her finger idly. “Go on, Grant.”

“Like I said. We had a disagreement about the trajectory of our relationship, and I wasn’t willing to make concessions.”

“How so?” Ashley asked. He walked over and stood in front of Grant, giving a good stare-down.

Grant was in his usual casual gear and was pretty sure what was left of his hair looked mashed in the back from sitting upright on the sofa all night. The heaviness under his eyes hinted that he probably had bags there, but he hadn’t been spending much time in front of a mirror to verify such. Sharon and Ashley probably thought he was a slob in addition to a cad. No sooner had Grant arrived at the rental car agency did Ashley fly off his rocker about his sister’s absence. He still hadn’t come down from his tantrum. His histrionics put Carla’s to shame.

Grant wasn’t intimidated by Ashley’s assessment. He looked at the young doctor from his perfectly combed blond head down to his expensive loafers and back up to his gray eyes. “It’s really none of your business. If she wants to tell you when she shows up, it’s up to her. I left the ball in her court.”