Reunited

The trick always worked—unless her mother checked to see if her toothbrush was wet. It was just a tiny rebellion, but Keely felt that her teeth were her own and if she wanted them to turn black and fall out of her mouth when she was twenty, it was certainly her choice.

She leaned over the edge of the bed and reached beneath her mattress to pull out her journal. Sister Therese, her fifth grade teacher, had urged her students to start keeping a journal, hoping to perfect their penmanship and their grammar skills. And since that very first little clothbound book two years ago, Keely had written in her journal every night.

At first it had been a diary of sorts, but now that Keely had something truly interesting to write, she couldn’t possibly write it, for fear that her mother might read it. So instead, she filled the book with drawings and stories, each one another tiny little rebellion. She drew wedding cakes, wild, crazy designs, decorated with colored pencils and markers. And designs for sleek, sexy dresses with high hemlines and daring necklines. And she wrote passionate, romantic stories and poems. And though she gave her heroines a different name, when Keely read them, they became stories of her own future.

And sometimes she wrote stories about her father. Her mother had always been tight-lipped about Seamus McClain, and Keely suspected that his death was still too much for her to bear. So Keely had been left to create a past for them both, a wonderful, romantic past. Fiona McClain became the most tragic of heroines, grieving so deeply that she couldn’t keep a photo of Seamus around the apartment.

“Seamus,” Keely murmured, scribbling his name on the corner of a page. It was an odd, but exotic name to her ears. In her imagination, he had dark hair, nearly black like her own. And pale eyes that were a mix of green and gold, the same eyes she saw in the mirror every morning. A vision of her father flitted through her mind. He was dressed in a fine uniform with shiny buttons and gold braid on the shoulders. And his fishing boat was really a huge sailing ship that crossed the ocean.

“One night, as Seamus’s ship was nearing New York Harbor,” Keely murmured as she wrote in a haphazard script, “a terrible storm blew in from the north. Being a fine sea captain, Seamus ordered his men to take down the sails to protect his ship from crashing on the cliffs near the harbor. He stood in the driving rain, his hands fixed to the wheel, his only thoughts of the important passengers sleeping below.”

Keely reread what she had written and smiled. “But as lightning flashed, Seamus noticed debris floating around the bow of his ship. Another ship had crashed against the cliffs! Through the dark and rain, he could hear a soft and plaintive cry.” Keely covered her mouth with her cupped hand to make the cry more realistic. “Help. Help. Save me.”

Vivid images focused in her mind. “Seamus turned the wheel over to his first mate and ran to the bow. There, in the water below, was a woman, struggling to hold on to a jagged piece of the broken ship. ‘Do not fear,’ he called. Seamus tore off his jacket and linen shirt, his broad shoulders and strong arms gleaming in the rain.” Keely pressed her hand to her chest to feel her heart beating a bit faster. “And then he dove into the icy water and swam toward the drowning girl.”

This would be the best part, Keely mused, when they spoke for the first time. “‘What is your name?’ Seamus asked as he brushed her long, flowing hair from her eyes. ‘I am Princess Fiona,’ the girl said. ‘And if you save me, I promise to marry you and love you for—”’

“Are you in bed, Keely McClain?”

Keely jumped, startled from her dreaming. “Yes, Ma,” she called, glad that she didn’t have to lie officially. That saved her at least one Hail Mary at confession.

“And then Seamus took Fiona’s hand and swam for the ship,” Keely continued in a whisper, scribbling as she went. “Waves crashed around them, but Seamus would not let Fiona drown. For the moment he looked into her eyes, he knew he loved her. His crew dropped a rope ladder over the side, but the ship pitched and rolled and—”

“Did you brush your teeth, Keely?” her mother called.

Keely sighed dramatically. “Mary, mother of—” She stopped herself. Taking the Lord’s name in vain was one of those things that might get her an entire rosary. “I’m going to do that right now,” Keely shouted.

She tossed the quilt back, scrambled out of bed and hurried down the hall to the bathroom. She brushed up and down twenty-five times on each side and thirty in the front.

After she’d spit and wiped the paste off her mouth, Keely smiled. “And as Seamus carried his new ladylove up the ladder to the safety of his ship, the rain suddenly stopped and the moon broke through the clouds. And beneath the starry sky, Seamus leaned forward and kissed Fiona, sealing their love forever and forever.”

“It’s nearly ten and you should be in bed.”

Keely looked in the mirror and saw the reflection of her mother standing at the bathroom doorway. She held a dish towel in her hands and slowly wiped her fingers. Even though her hair was pulled back in a tidy bun and she wore a plain housedress, she still looked like the princess in Keely’s mind, with her bright green eyes and her mahogany tresses.

“Sorry, Ma.”

Fiona McClain sighed, then stepped into the bathroom. She reached out and smoothed Keely’s long, dark hair, staring at their reflection in the mirror over Keely’s shoulder. “You’re getting to be such a grown-up young lady. I almost don’t recognize you.” She flicked her hands through Keely’s bangs. “We need to cut these. They’re gettin’ in your eyes and I won’t have you goin’ to school looking like some shaggy mutt.”

Fiona’s lilting accent was soothing to Keely’s ears, like one of those pretty Irish love songs that her mother played over and over on the old stereo in the front room. Keely had tried so many times to imitate her, but her tongue just couldn’t get the sound right. “Do I look like my da?” Keely asked. “Do I look like Seamus McClain?”

“What?”

She saw the flash of pain in her mother’s eyes. But then it disappeared as quickly as it appeared. Over the past few days, her mother had been in one of her “moods.” She’d grown silent and sad, her expression distant. She’d stare out the window for hours, her attention fixed on the front walk of their flat, as if she were watching for that someone, waiting for that person’s arrival. And Keely’s conversations about her day at school went unheeded and unquestioned. Today was one of those sad days, a day when Keely was certain that Fiona was remembering her long-lost husband.

“Have you said your prayers?” her mother asked.

“Yes,” Keely lied. “Three Hail Marys and an Our Father.” Forget the lie. She’d do penance later. “Tell me about him, Ma.”

Her mother’s eyebrow shot up. “Three Hail Marys? Did you do something bad at school today?”

“No. I was just getting a little ahead. In case.”

“To bed with you,” Fiona ordered, clapping her hands. Keely hurried into her bedroom and pulled the covers over her. Fiona sat down on the edge of the bed and kissed Keely on her forehead. For the first time in almost two whole days, she smiled. “It’s time for you to sleep,” her mother murmured. “I have an early day tomorrow. We have to make the cake for the Barczak wedding. Three tiers with a fountain in the middle. And if you’re very good, you can come with me on Saturday when we deliver the cake.”

It had been her favorite thing to do when she was younger. But now it was just a chore, time spent away from her friends and a free Saturday afternoon. But this time Keely didn’t complain. Her mother had seemed so sad that she was willing to do anything to keep her mood bright. “Will we get to see the bride?” Keely asked, the same silly question she used to ask.

Fiona laughed softly. “Yes, we’ll be stayin’. The bride wants us to cut the cake and help serve.” She reached out and drew the covers up to Keely’s chin. “Now, lay yourself down and go to sleep. And may you dream of angels.”

“But what about my father?” Keely blurted out. “You always said you’d tell me when I was older and now I’m older. I’m almost thirteen and thirteen is a teenager. And a teenager is old enough to know about her father.”

Fiona McClain stared down at her hands, twisted around the dish towel in her lap. “I’ve already told you. Your father died in a terrible accident at sea and he—”

“No,” Keely interrupted. “Tell me about him. What was he like? Was he handsome? Or funny?”

“He was very handsome,” Fiona said, a reluctant smile touching her lips. “He was the most handsome boy in all of County Cork. All the girls in Ballykirk were taken with him. But he was from a poor family and my family had a bit of money. My da didn’t want me to marry him. They called him a ‘culchie,’ a country boy, although we lived in the country, too. But they thought he was lower class.”

“But you married him anyway,” Keely said, “because you loved him.”

“He didn’t have two pennies to rub together, but he had such grand dreams. Finally, I convinced my da that I couldn’t live without him and he gave us his blessing.”

“What else?” Keely asked.

“What else?”

“What did he like to do? What was he good at?”

“He liked to tell stories,” Fiona said. “Your da could tell such stories. He had a silver tongue, he did. That’s how he courted me, with his stories.”

This was something new! Keely felt an instant connection to the man she’d never seen. She loved stories and all her friends told her she was good at telling them. “Do you remember any of the stories? Can you tell me one?”

Fiona shook her head. “Keely, I can’t—”

“Yes, you can! You can remember. Tell me.”

Her mother shook her head, her eyes filling with tears. “No, I can’t. Your da was the one who could tell the stories. I never had the talent. The only talent I had was for believin’ them.”

Keely sat up and threw her arms around her mother’s neck, giving her a fierce hug. “It’s all right,” she said. “Just knowing he told good stories makes me imagine him better.”

Her mother kissed her on the cheek, then reached over and turned off the lamp. In the shadows, Keely saw her brush a tear from her cheek. “Go to sleep now.”

She walked to the door and closed it behind her. A pale stream of light from the streetlamp filtered through the lace curtains, creating a pretty pattern on the ceiling. “He told stories,” Keely murmured to herself. “My da told really good stories.”

And though it was only a little bit of who Seamus McClain must have been, it was enough for now. For it gave her a small insight into the person she was. Maybe she wasn’t meant to be the good girl that her mother wanted her to be. Maybe she was really more like her father—bold, adventurous, imaginative and daring.

Keely sighed softly. Still, she knew in her heart that her father, whoever he was, would never approve of her pinching a lipstick from Eiler’s Drugstore. She made a silent vow to herself to return the lipstick first thing tomorrow.

CHAPTER ONE