Authors: Angela Elwell Hunt
The Emerald Isle
Remember that no man loses other life than that which he lives,
Nor lives other than that which he loses.
—M
ARCUS
A
URELIUS
To know beauty, one must live with it.
—I
RISH
P
ROVERB
Y
ou can finish your work on Cahira.” Taylor dropped his fork and leaned over the table, dangerously close to me. “Think of it, Kathleen—you’ll be right
there.
Right where Cahira lived and died, on the same ground, beside the same hills, under the same skies. You can visit libraries and museums and look at ancient artifacts. You can soak up local color until you’re as green as a shamrock.” His blond brows arched mischievously. “Don’t tell me you’ve never wanted to go to Ireland. I know better.”
I shook my head as mixed feelings surged through me. “Sure, I’ve wanted to go, but that’s just Cinderella talk, Taylor. You’re talking about leaving in a few weeks—and staying away for months! I can’t go. I have a job, I have a dog, I have school. I can’t just walk away from my entire life.”
“When else are you going to go?” A blue flame of defiance lit his eyes. “I know you, Kathleen. If you don’t come with us, you’ll stay here, finish school, marry the first guy who asks you, and settle down to raise the statistical average of 2.2 children while you write sweet little feature stories for the local paper. You’ll drive a station wagon, shop for groceries three times a week, and volunteer for room mother at your kids’ school. And every night you’ll fall into bed too tired from doing the little things to even
dream
about the big things. Is that any kind of life for an heir of Cahira O’Connor?”
I drew a deep breath and flexed my fingers until the urge to slap him had passed. “That sounds like a pretty good life to me. Why should I want more than any woman I know? I’d be
thrilled
to raise two happy kids and write stories for the local paper, as long as I fell into bed at night with a wonderful husband! I don’t
want
fame or danger or excitement. I don’t need those things. But you must need them, Taylor. Why else would you want to go all the way to Ireland to marry a girl you barely know?”
Taylor’s blue eyes darkened as he held my gaze. “Because I know I can’t live without her. And I know her well enough to know she would want to be married with her family present, so that means Ireland. And I cherish
you
enough to want you with me.
I managed a choking laugh. “You cherish
me?”
He nodded. “I do. And I know you, probably better than you know yourself. I know Ireland is your motherland, whether or not you want to claim it, and Cahira’s legacy is yours, whether or not you want to acknowledge it. You need to come with us, Kathleen. My happiness wouldn’t be complete without you at my wedding.”
Then why don’t you marry
me,
you idiot?
Book I: The Silver Sword
Book II: The Golden Cross
Book III: The Velvet Shadow
Book IV: The Emerald Isle
Book 4
Thursday, June 17, 1999
New York City
Y
ou must understand—I’m not the type who sees omens and portents in everything. Even though my Aunt Kizzie once snapped the face of Jesus in her Jell-O salad, I didn’t see anything in the photograph but bits of fruit cocktail and swirled cream cheese where the beard should be. I’m what you might call a practical Christian. I’m kind to strangers, I’m prepared for heaven, and I try to be a good testimony on earth. I don’t have visions, I don’t jump around in church, yet there are times I hear the still, small Voice—not audible, but insistent all the same.
The last time I heard the Voice I was in Manhattan, standing on the corner of Sixth Avenue and Fifty-fourth Street. A heat wave lay over the city like a wool blanket, and I wanted nothing more than to reach the little air-conditioned restaurant where I could relax and enjoy a cool drink. The pedestrian light had just changed to walk, so the crowd around me surged forward. But the Voice inside me said
wait
.
Perched on the curb, I lowered the book I’d been flipping through and felt my stomach sway. All around me, businessmen, shoppers, teenagers, and tourists hurried in complete oblivion to cross the street. A musclebound guy in black jogging shorts nearly knocked me from the curb, then rushed on without even an “excuse me.” My eyes followed him, certain that a crazed cabby or some drunk driver was
about to careen through the crowd and scatter people like rag dolls. Why else would the Voice of God stop me
now
, when I was starving and tired after a long day’s work?
The pedestrian light blinked “Don’t Walk,” and a white-haired grandma pushed past me like a lineman intent on sacking the opposing quarterback. I leaned back toward the curb, bracing for the screech of brakes and sudden screaming, but…nothing happened.
The light changed again. The waiting cars in front of me peeled away, scattering a couple of pedestrians on the far side of the street, but no one was injured.
Just a typical New York afternoon.
I glanced around, making sure I hadn’t missed any other threatening situations, then lifted my book again and credited the Voice to my hyperactive imagination. I’d just found the spot where the hero rescues the heroine from a fate worse than death when someone tugged on my sleeve.
“Meghann McGreedy? I
love
her.” A petite, strawberry blond girl next to me nodded toward my book. “I read that one last week. Have you heard about the sequel? I think she’s working on it now.”
“You mean this isn’t the end of Horace and Irene?” The pedestrian signal changed again, and this time I didn’t even think about waiting. The girl stepped off the curb, and I went with her. “What else could possibly happen to those two?”
