Chapter Seven
William, his arm around Faye’s waist, whispered into her ear. “You’re trembling.”
Faye scanned the crowd. Near the back of the barn, one of the women from church looked to be talking Jean’s ear off. Faye caught her mother’s eye, but Jean looked away. No sign of Thomas or Conor O’Kane. “I’m a little overwhelmed. Maybe we can sit awhile?”
William took over, his chin rising as he waved to Clayton Clay to start the music.
“My bride and I are going to sit and smooch. Dance! Enjoy yourselves!” William raised Faye’s hand in victory.
The barn lights flickered on, and guests buzzed into new life as Clayton and Maybellene played “Will Ye Go, Lassie, Go?”
William led Faye to a table set for them.
There, she let him pull her to him, tuck her under his arm.
She rested her head on his shoulder, her hand on his chest. His heart seemed to beat in time with the music while hers raced with her thoughts.
What words had Conor used? Left behind. It was true.
He had been left, not by her but by an Irish girl he might have loved.
He could not possibly blame her for that.
Except she was the one who fell into the sea then crossed it with a dead girl’s name.
An old pit of guilt sprouted in her belly, the memory of staring into the rafters of an Irish cottage.
She sat up sharply, sputtered as if the last of the sea she’d swallowed was finally surfacing.
Conor might know what became of Elisabeth!
William tilted her face to him. “Faye. What is it?”
She shook her head, jostling loose images of herself as a child, of departing with Thomas and Jean, one dark glance over her shoulder.
She considered the children dancing in front of the Clays, creatures of impulse and daring.
What could they know of betrayal or regret?
What could they know of consequences? She’d had to grow up before she could truly consider the aftermath of her leave-taking, to ask herself what might have happened if she’d stayed behind with Elisabeth, to face whatever fate awaited them together.
And what if Thomas and Jean had taken Elisabeth instead?
She pictured the little girl she was, a child who saved herself, who made her own luck.
Surely, her sister would have done the same.
“I’m happy, William. Happy and lucky to be here with you,” she said, draping her arm over his shoulder.
Faye watched for O’Kane to sidle up to William, to whisper and point and accuse.
But when he reappeared, he spent his time at a table near the entrance to the barn, Jean on one side, leaning into him, Thomas on the other, his gaze always on Faye when she looked their way.
During the bride dance, Thomas took his turn with Faye and told her O’Kane had laughed him off when Thomas had asked point-blank about his intentions.
“He said we all got secrets to keep, don’t we, Mr. Beatty.
Mr. Beatty,” Thomas mocked. “The way he said it, like I wasn’t myself either. ”
“You mean an imposter. Like me. I’m certainly not my husband’s perfect Irish bride.”
“That’s not what I meant. Don’t talk like that. Anyway, he said it was not his business.”
“And you believed him?”
Thomas made a show of twirling Faye when he saw eyes on them. “What choice do we have? He told Jean he doesn’t come this way much. He hardly knows William. It was Kevin who helped him get a start. T’was but chance and rumor that brought him here today. Nothing more.”
“It wasn’t chance. It was Fiadh. He came for her.” Her father grimaced, and Faye regretted the jab, though it was the truth. She pulled away so she could see his eyes, check him for an honest answer. “Did he say anything about Elisabeth?”
Thomas looked puzzled. “Who?”
Faye’s breath quickened. She had not spoken that name to Thomas nor to Jean.
Not to anyone in all the years she had lived in America.
This was the lie that she lived as Faye Beatty, daughter of Thomas and Jean, sister to no one.
As far as she knew, there had been no word from Ireland.
Conor turning up begged the question, though Faye was not at all certain she wanted the answer. “Papa. Elisabeth.”
Recognition smoothed the lines around his eyes. “No, dear. No. He didn’t offer, and I . . . I didn’t think to ask. And Faye . . .” He shook his head. “Don’t . . .”
He didn’t need to say more. Faye knew. It was one thing, keeping the fact that she was German from William.
Surely, a man like him wouldn’t care. She had only been a child, after all.
But if they had been honest with William from the start, would he have allowed himself to fall for her?
Or would she be in the flower shop making bouquets for a different Mrs. William Sullivan?
And the rest of it! How they’d stolen away from Ireland like thieves in the night, how the three of them had embraced deception for their own selfish reasons.
Thomas passed Faye off as his Irish daughter.
Had they tricked William into marrying her?
That betrayal, Faye knew William could never forgive.
The ring was on her finger. It was too late for confession.
“Come now,” he said, pulling her close. “Look at your man there. Your new life begins today. Nothing will stop that.”
William had removed his jacket and tie and stood with several friends who took turns slapping his shoulder, their heads thrown back, beer bottles clinking with cheer.
He slipped his hands into his pockets, that easy way of his, and winked at her.
She didn’t deserve him, yet there he was.
She blew him a kiss, and he thumped his right hand over his heart and fell into his buddy’s waiting arms. She couldn’t imagine loving a man more.
This other thought she could let slip back into the recesses of memory.
As long as Conor O’Kane kept his mouth shut.
When the last of the guests left the farm, William scooped Faye up and carried her over the threshold into his kitchen, their kitchen now.
She’d seen such things in films—Rock Hudson carrying Liz Taylor, Desi carrying Lucy—and had fantasized about how romantic it would be.
Her thoughts fled from darkness and worry, and despite herself, she laughed and buried her face in his neck.
Faye didn’t know how to be a homemaker or a wife.
Her mother kept the house at the cove spotless, couldn’t stand mess, but it was not a sprawling farmhouse.
Faye didn’t know which rooms she was expected to keep clean, how William lived, and what he would want from her.
When she’d asked, Jean brushed her off. “It will be obvious. Fill those rooms with children. The rest will take care of itself.” She could cook a little, sew a little, skills she’d learned in home economics classes.
What she was good at was selecting flowers and making them look pretty in a vase.
She dabbled in watercolors, created forgettable images.
That was it. When her feet touched the kitchen floor, her life with William, her life as Faye Sullivan, began.
She would do anything to protect it. She could figure it all out—how to be the perfect mother, the perfect housekeeper, the perfect lover. She would make herself irreplaceable.
A light was lit over the sink. Everything was spotless.
“My mother’s been here,” Faye said. Vases full of flowers from the tables in the barn were on the counter now.
The room smelled of roses. That’s when she saw that the floor was strewn with rose petals too.
“Oh, no!” She put her hand to her mouth. “What’s happened here?”
William put his hands on her hips, pulled her to him, his head tilted sheepishly. “That might have been my doing, wife.”
Faye circled her arms around him. “Husband,” she said, like she was playing house.
“It was a perfect day, don’t you think?” he asked. “And what a surprise, O’Kane showing up. Your parents must have been pleased to see someone from home. Even him.”
Faye did not want to talk about Conor O’Kane or even think about him. She wanted to erase him from the day and her memory. “Mm,” she said. “Really, I hardly remember him.”
“Well, I wasn’t surprised he disappeared. I don’t want to speak too ill of a family friend, but like I said, bit of a troublemaker, that one. And what was that accident he mentioned?”
She glanced at the rose petals on the floor, let her eyes drift back to his.
“Let’s not talk about him right now. Don’t we have something better to do?
” She hardly knew what to expect next, aside from what her friend Trudy had told her when Faye had begged for details—what went where, what hurt, and what felt good.
“Mrs. Sullivan!” William teased. He led her up the stairs along the fluttering path.
The bed was made with two pillows, W and F embroidered on the pillowcases by a family friend. More petals were sprinkled on the bedspread, and Faye was certain her face flushed the same rose color.
“Your mom asked to put your things away how you’d like it,” William said. He showed her which drawers were hers, which were his.
“My mother was in here?”
“Don’t worry. I did the rest after she was gone. Jean doesn’t seem the romantic type.”
Faye did not want to think of her parents that way, in a bed together, doing the things one must do to make the babies they’d made. She shook the image away and sat on the bed to remove her shoes. “My feet are so tired!”
William bent before her and undid the straps on her low heels, held each foot in his hands, caressing firmly. How could his touching her feet cause whooshing everywhere, thrumming in private places that drove her mad? She wanted to put her fingers in his hair, pull and push. “William, I—”
“Don’t worry,” he said. “There’s no rush.”
“It’s not that. It’s, well, I don’t really know what to do next.”
“Come,” he said. “Let me help you with the buttons.”
She stood, turned her back to him. William’s fingertips and knuckles grazed the length of her spine as he moved down.
A shiver coursed through her, and she held her breath.
With the last button released, Faye slipped the shoulders down and stepped out of the dress, carefully laying it over the arm of the chair in the corner.
She stood exposed in her foundations and stockings.
William took a step back, and for a moment, Faye thought he might be disappointed. Instead, he let out a whistle on a sigh. “You are a beauty.”
She smoothed her hands down her body, the stiff boning and rough fabric, and realized she’d forgotten something important. She looked around the room and spotted the little valise in the corner. She couldn’t do this in front of him, not yet. “I need to change. Into something else.”
In the bathroom across the hall, Faye stared at her gold rings, the perfect little diamonds.
Her hands were small and soft, childlike, which to her made the ring set look like something from a gumball machine.
She had assumed she would live at home with Thomas and Jean, never marry, never allow anyone close enough to see her flaws.
All her fine thoughts about taking the money she skimmed from the flower shop and embarking on some grand journey of reconciliation—that was the wishful thinking of a child squirreling away for a toy from a catalog.
The truth was that she had taken dollars back out here and there, for lipstick, perfume, for matinees on her own.
Truth was there were not that many bad men who came into the flower shop who deserved to be swindled out of their hard-earned money.
Truth was she had not amassed a small fortune in her coffee can.
She had seventeen dollars left, an amount she’d put in her pocketbook when she packed up her room.
She thought of Conor O’Kane, the way he had looked at her, in her white dress, her hair pinned up and curled under the floral crown . . .
No, no, no. He would not take anything from her. She would not allow it.
She pulled her slip over her head, removed her hose, slid both over a towel rack.
She unhooked the stiff bra, pulled down the girdle, which held her young belly in place, and cast both aside.
She stood on her tiptoes on the cool pink-and-black tile to consider her breasts in the small mirror.
She unwrapped the package she’d placed at the bottom of the valise.
The palest blue, the softest nylon, simple and elegant.
She’d seen the chemise through a shop window and had bought it for herself.
It slid over her body and fell into place like scales on a mermaid.
When she returned to the bedroom, William was under the covers, propped on his elbow to watch her walk in.
His shirt was off, his bare shoulder as naked as any man she’d ever seen.
The lamp was lit next to his side of the bed.
The covers were turned down on what would be hers, from here on out, for all the days of their marriage.
“Oh,” he said, awe pouring out of him. She slid into the sheets, warm from the heat of him, laced with his smell. His hand wrapped around hers. She curled to him, put their clasped hands to her lips, sighed warm breath into them. Love slipped over her like a nightgown.