It was a beautiful little book, full of Irish whimsy and hopeful pining, with two Irish lads, one big and one small, traipsing across the Emerald Isle. I knew that Ireland wouldn’t know the peace found in the pages of our book for a long, long time. But peace would come. It would come in layers, in pieces, in chapters, just like in a story. And Ireland—the Ireland of the green hills and abundant stone, of the rocky history and the turbulent emotions—would endure.
We wrapped the story in paper and twine and placed it beneath the tree with Michael’s name on it, adding it to the parcels that were already there—gifts for each of the O’Tooles and new hats and socks for all the men. Father Christmas would be visiting after Eoin went to sleep. I’d purchased the replica of the Model T Eoin had obsessed over at Kelly’s pawnshop, and Thomas had built him a toy sailboat and painted it red, just like the one in our stories.
The photographer from the wedding at the Gresham Hotel had mailed us copies of the pictures he’d taken. I’d managed to intercept the package without anyone else seeing it. I’d put the picture of Thomas and me—the one Eoin would keep all his life—inside a heavy gold frame. It wasn’t an exciting gift for a small boy, but it was a precious one. I’d placed the other picture from the wedding, the one with Michael grinning in the center, in another frame to give to Thomas. That was the night when I’d first admitted my feelings, the night when I’d confessed everything, and the memory of those moments and the significance of the history took my breath away every time I looked at the photo.
Garvagh Glebe had been turned into a glittering, glowing wonderland of warm smells and gleaming surfaces, of spice and shine and fragrant trees tied with ribbon and decorated with berries and candles. I wasn’t surprised to learn that Thomas opened his doors every year to his neighbors, hiring musicians and supplying enough food to fill a thousand bellies. The festivities always began in the late afternoon and would continue until the party moved to St. Mary’s for midnight Mass or home to sleep off the day’s excesses.
Just after five o’clock, wagons and rattling farm trucks, cars, and carts began making their way down the lane toward the manor, which was aflame with light and sound. The ballroom that was empty year-round had been dusted and decorated, mopped and waxed, and long tables were laden with pies and cakes, turkey and spiced meat, and potatoes and bread prepared a dozen ways. It wouldn’t stay hot, but no one complained, feasting as they milled about, laughing and visiting, their cares set aside for a few hours. Some swarmed Michael Collins while others steered clear; the lines were already being drawn between those who thought he’d brought peace to Ireland with his Treaty and those who believed he’d brought civil war. The news that he was at Garvagh Glebe spread like wildfire, and some stayed away because of it. The Carrigans, the family who had lost their son and their home because of the Tans last July, had refused to take part in the festivities. Mary’s burned hands had healed, but her heart hadn’t. Patrick and Mary Carrigan didn’t want peace with England. They wanted justice for their son.
Thomas had gone to extend a personal invitation and to see how they were faring. He was thanked and turned away with their warning ringing in his ears. “We won’t bow down to England, and we won’t break bread with any man who will.”
Thomas had worried that Michael wouldn’t find respite or reprieve, even in Dromahair, and began circulating a warning of his own among the townsfolk. There would be no political debate or even discussion allowed at Garvagh Glebe that Christmas. Those who came to partake of his hospitality would do so with peace in their hearts, in the spirit of the season, or they were not welcome. So far, the people had cooperated, and those who could not had stayed away.
Thomas asked if I would entertain his guests with the story of the holy birth and light the candles in the ballroom windows. The candles were a tradition, a signal to Mary and Joseph that there was room for them inside. In Penal times, when priests were forbidden to perform Mass, the candle in the window was a symbol of the believer, a sign that the inhabitants of the house would also welcome the priests.
There were tight lips and glistening eyes as I spun the tale and lit the wicks. A few people shot withering looks toward poor Michael, condemnation in their gazes, as if he had forgotten all the pain and persecution that had come before. He stood with a glass in his hand, a lock of dark hair falling over his brow. Joe was on one side and the man he had introduced only as Fergus on his other. Fergus had carrot-colored hair, a wiry build, and a gun strapped to his back beneath his suit coat. He didn’t look like he’d be much in a fight, but his flat eyes never stopped moving. Thomas had explained to the O’Tooles that Fergus should be allowed unfettered access to the house and grounds and that he was there to keep Michael safe, even in tiny Dromahair.
Then the musicians began to play, the center of the room cleared, and the dancing commenced. The singer’s voice was theatrical and warbling, as if he was trying to mimic a style that he wasn’t suited for, but the band was eager and spirits were high, and couples paired off and whirled, only to pair off again. The children wound their way through the couples, dancing and chasing each other, and Eoin’s cheeks were flushed and his enthusiasm contagious as Maeve and Moira tried to corral him and his playmates and organize a game.
“You made me love you. I didn’t want to do it. I didn’t want to do it,” the singer mourned unconvincingly, and I stared down at the spiced punch in my hand and wished fleetingly for crushed ice.
“Dance with me again, Annie.” I knew the speaker before I turned my head.
“I’m afraid I’m not very good, Mr. Collins.”
“That’s not how I remember it. I never knew you well, but I saw you dancing with Declan once. You were wonderful. And stop calling me Mr. Collins, Annie. We’re long past that.”
I sighed as he pulled me toward the swirling couples. Of course the other Anne Gallagher could dance. Our differences just kept mounting. I thought of my awkward relationship with rhythm, of dancing in my tiny kitchen in big Manhattan, grateful no one could see, all disjointed limbs and stubbed toes, feeling the music with all my heart but incapable of converting it into grace. Eoin always said I felt too much to dance well. The music is overflowing in you, Annie. Anyone can see that.
I believed him, but that didn’t make me feel any better about my lack of ability.
“I think I’ve forgotten how,” I protested but Michael was undeterred. But the music suddenly changed, and the singer gave up his attempts at modernity, slipping into something far more traditional. The violin shimmied and whined, and clapping and stomping commenced. The pace was frenetic, the steps far too fast for me to fake, and I stubbornly refused to accompany Michael anymore. But Michael had forgotten me altogether. He was watching Thomas, who’d been pushed into the center of the dancers.
“Go, Tommy!” Michael yelled. “Show us how it’s done.”
Thomas was grinning, and his feet flew as the onlookers cheered him on. I could only stare, thoroughly caught. The fiddle cried, and his feet followed, stomping and kicking, an Irish folk hero come to life. Then he was pulling Michael, who could hardly contain himself, into the circle with him, sharing the stage. Thomas was laughing, his hair falling into his face, and I couldn’t look away. I was dizzy with love and faint with hopelessness.
I was thirty-one years old. Not a girl. Not an innocent. I’d never been a giggling fan or a female obsessed with actors or musicians, with men I couldn’t have and didn’t know. But I knew Thomas Smith. I knew him, and I loved him. Desperately. But loving him—knowing him—was as implausible as loving a face on a screen. We were impossible. In a moment, in a breath, it could all be over. He was a dream I could easily wake up from, and I knew all too well that once awake, I wouldn’t be able to call the dream back.
All at once, the futility and fear that had shadowed me from the moment Thomas pulled me from the lough crashed over me, dark and heavy, and I gulped the punch in my glass, trying to relieve the pressure. My heartbeat thrummed in my head, the pulse swelling into a gong. I left the ballroom at a brisk walk, but by the time I reached the front door, I was running from the reverberations. I hurtled from the house and out into the cover of the trees. Panic clawed at me, and I pressed my hands against the scaly bark of a towering oak, clawing back.
The night was clear and cold, and I pulled the crisp air into my lungs, battling the ringing in my skull, willing the clanging beneath my skin to quiet and slow. The rough reality of the tree anchored me, and I lifted my chin to the breeze, closed my eyes, and held tight to the trunk.
It wasn’t long before I heard his voice behind me.
“Anne?” Thomas was still breathless, his shirtsleeves rolled to his elbows, his hair tousled, his suit coat discarded. “Brigid said you shot out of the house like your skirts were on fire. What’s wrong, lass?”
I didn’t answer him, not because I was contrary, but because I was close to tears, my throat tight and my heart so swollen and sore I couldn’t speak around it. The lough beckoned, and I suddenly wanted to walk along it, to taunt it and reject it, just to reassure myself that I could. I released the tree and moved toward it, desperate. Defiant.
“Anne,” Thomas said, reaching for my arm, stopping me. “Where are you going?” I heard the fear in his voice, and I hated it. Hated myself for causing it. “You’re afraid. I can feel it. Tell me what’s wrong.”
I looked up at him and tried to smile, lifting my hands to his cheeks and my thumbs to the indentation on his chin. He grasped my wrists and turned his face, kissing the center of my palm.
“You’re acting as if you’re saying goodbye, Countess. I don’t like it.”
“No. Not goodbye. Never that,” I protested, vehement.
“Then what?” he whispered, his hands moving from my wrists to my waist, drawing me to him.
I took a deep breath and thought how to best explain the persistent whisper of the lough that was always lapping at the edge of my happiness. In the darkness, feelings were harder to ignore and easier to unleash.
“I don’t want you to disappear,” I whispered.
“What are you talking about?” Thomas murmured.
“If I go back, you will disappear. I will still exist, wherever I am, but you will be gone. You will be gone, Eoin will be gone, and I can’t bear it.” The gong swelled again, and I leaned into him, resting my forehead against his shoulder. I breathed deeply, holding him in my lungs before I let him go again.
“So don’t go back, Annie,” he said gently, his lips in my hair. “Stay with me.” I wanted to argue, to demand he acknowledge the fallibility of his suggestion. But I embraced him instead, comforted by his faith. Maybe it really was that simple. Maybe it was a choice.
I lifted my face, needing his eyes and his steadiness, needing him to know that if it was a choice, I’d already made it.