Chapter Five
Faye had not been upstairs in the farmhouse since she and William first started going together and he’d given her an awkward tour, leading her up the main staircase, along the banister that looked over the narrow front entryway.
It was the house he and his sisters were raised in, those same Boston sisters who had eschewed the lilies.
He’d come late in life for his parents, his mother’s pleasant surprise.
He’d lived there alone since his mother’s cancer diagnosis and rapid decline to death, followed months later when his father, Thomas’s friend, pined away until his heart gave out in his sleep.
Now, Faye stood alone in front of the mirror in William’s bedroom, the bedroom they would share.
She drew her hands down the laced bodice, along her breasts.
She pressed her ribs to the bones of her hips that disappeared beneath a swell of satin swirling above her ankles.
The dress was exactly as Faye had hoped it would be, exactly how she had described it to Jean, who had insisted on sewing it herself.
Simple, feminine, tasteful. Faye’s brown hair was pinned back in a gentle roll.
A veiled crown of flowers sat on the dressing table next to her, a gift from Aldo.
This was her day, and she felt beautiful.
The past—hers and William’s—could be locked away now where it belonged.
She startled when a figure appeared in the reflection.
“You look grand,” Jean said wistfully, cocking her head then shaking it, as if she’d surprised herself. “Fiadh. I can almost imagine . . .”
Faye flinched, dared to look around. Her mother hadn’t used that name in ages. In the moment, it felt purposeful, pointed. Almost accusatory.
You could hear a pin drop, Faye thought.
Did Jean remember that afternoon long ago in her sewing room, unfolding yards of fabric, the way she held it up to Faye’s face and frowned her disappointment?
“Not your color,” she said, as if that were Faye’s fault.
“But it will have to do. Slip out of your jumper now, child,” she’d said, gripping her own collar and pantomiming pulling up.
“Put this on, and we’ll see where we are.
” She handed Faye an old muslin dress pattern off the chair.
Faye slipped it over her underthings while Jean fussed at the sewing table.
Faye remembered looking at her reflection, warped in the mirror, an imposter swimming in a shroud, scrawny arms dangling by her side, hands disappeared by the too-long sleeves.
When Jean turned, her lips were pursed around a rake of glinting straight pins.
Her mouth gaped open, and the pins fell to the floor, tinkling as if they were made of glass.
Not today, Faye thought. I will not give in to a ghost on my wedding day. She pressed her chin up, faced her mother. “It fits me perfectly.”
“You’re ready then? Your father’s waiting in the kitchen.”
“About,” Faye replied. “Thank you. For the beautiful dress.” She made a motion toward Jean, thinking this version of a mother might show her tenderness.
Jean’s head bobbed. “I’m off to greet guests then.” And with that, she was gone.
Faye returned to her reflection, set the wreath of flowers onto the crown of her head. She closed her eyes to rid the room of the shadow that had followed her mother in. When she opened them again, she saw only herself, William’s bride.
She descended the stairs into the kitchen where her father waited, his back to her as he watched guests arrive from the window over the sink.
“Papa.”
Thomas turned, and his face was instantly aglow. “Oh, look at you. You are a vision, my Faye. A vision.”
Faye spun around, the drape of her skirt a step behind like a nipping puppy.
“Your mother knows how to make a dress, and you know how to wear one,” Thomas said.
The clock in the dining room tolled the hour. “Before we go out, there’s something I want to tell you,” Faye said. She took Thomas’s hand in hers. “I want you to know how much I love you and how grateful I am for my life here in America.”
Thomas adjusted his tie, lowered his voice. “You mustn’t talk that way.”
“No one is here, Papa.”
“Still.”
Faye slumped slightly, let out a breath.
She swore to herself she wouldn’t bring it up, but coming down the stairs, she’d felt that ghost behind her.
No one had ever cared what Thomas and Jean Beatty called their daughter.
No one gave any of them a second thought.
She cursed Jean for surfacing the past as if that was a common discussion when, in fact, they never spoke of it.
Not ever. What had burned so bright in her memory for so long had diminished over the years.
And if her thoughts turned to darkness, well, it was better to not think about the past at all.
“I don’t need to tell him, do I?” Faye asked.
“Faye, please! Someone will hear. Think of your mother.”
Faye allowed a speck of fear to seep out. “Would he hate me if he found out? I couldn’t bear it. Not after everything.”
Thomas twitched, held her by the shoulders. “You are meant to be Mrs. William Sullivan. You two are a perfect match. Everything is in front of you.”
“You’re right. Of course you’re right,” Faye said, trying to convince herself. She unwound a single strand of hair from her fingers, watched it flutter to the floor. “But, Papa,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. “My life isn’t . . . stolen, is it?”
“Faye! Enough with this now.” He kissed her forehead, adjusted a hairpin to straighten her crown. “Let’s go get you married.”
The red barn had been mucked out and swept clean, and friends of Jean’s from the parish in town made food for the reception, which would be held in the barn as well. Aldo baked the wedding cake, vanilla with buttercream, and decorated it with edible flowers.
As Faye and her father stepped onto the farmhouse porch, a final guest entered the barn.
Thomas looked at his watch. “Seven past the hour. Fashionably late.” He signaled Maybellene Clay, the parish organist, who sat at a piano in the back of a forest green step-side pickup truck.
She nodded and, with dramatic flourish, raised her hands and brought fingers down to the keys.
The bridal march rose on a grassy breeze.
“Shall we?” Thomas asked, offering his arm.
Behind her veil, Faye blushed under the happy gaze of some thirty guests who murmured with delight when she appeared in the doorway.
William, in a new black suit with a tidy pocket square, stood flushed and teary at the makeshift altar next to the justice of the peace, who was as thin and sharp as a dart.
At the front of the aisle, Jean stood with her arms by her side, her face stricken, eyes bugged with alarm.
Faye chose to ignore her mother. Instead, she turned to her father, who kissed each of her cheeks, then presented her to William.
Faye handed her bouquet to her one friend, a girl named Trudy Twigg whose parents owned the local grocery store.
With eyes only for William, she failed to see Jean grip Thomas, whisper into his ear, failed to see her father’s smile fade, his face pale.
Upon pronouncement of husband and wife, William lifted the veil and dipped Faye in his arms, planting a Hollywood kiss on her lips.
She let her head fall back so she could linger in that starry moment of her world made right.
Guests erupted in laughter and whoops. William pulled her back up and into his arms. The fullness of him against her, the smell of his soap, the shine in his copper hair.
In his embrace, she felt safe and complete, fully herself, bursting with joy.
They were engulfed by well-wishers, kissers and huggers and handshakers, many of them family friends of William’s parents who’d lived in the area for decades.
Faye couldn’t stop smiling. Over her left shoulder, William’s voice.
“Faye, there’s someone I’d like you to meet.
” As she turned, Thomas and Jean appeared on the other side of her.
Thick hair, black as licorice, glacial blue eyes, bushy brows, full lips so deep they were almost purple.
In this country place, he seemed gritty and slick.
And familiar somehow. Faye felt Thomas tighten next to her.
“This is my bride, Faye, and her parents, Thomas and Jean Beatty. Faye, this is Conor O’Kane. ”
Faye’s stomach lurched. That name, the face older but . . . yes. And he seemed equally stunned, staring at them, his face registering a myriad of emotion until a final one washed over him, some wave of recognition. He burst into laughter, forced and hectic.
“Fiadh? You say you’re Fiadh?” His Irish accent was thick and rolling, not the green of hills Faye remembered, but the black of troubled water.
William tapped his head with his palm. “Yes, I forget you were called Fiadh. I’ve only ever known you as Faye. You know each other?”
The day was bright with autumn sunshine, with pig-tailed girls spinning circles, the smell of fried chicken and peeled corn, tomatoes salted in stone bowls. So why did it feel to Faye like war was breaking out? Her mouth fell open. She could not form a single word.
Thomas stepped in front of her, his hand outstretched.
“Conor O’Kane. Indeed, the glass of your father.
Jean spotted you earlier and said it was like looking at a ghost. I told her it couldn’t be, but here you are.
And yes, of course, this is Fiadh.” He spoke with the authority of a priest declaring the word of the Lord.
“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 know your face.” 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 here you are. Imagine my surprise.”
“Your Fiadh? A fine surprise then,” said William, his voice testy. He put his arm around Faye’s waist. “Though she is my wife 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.