Sweet Caroline (24 page)

"Please, call me Chris, and I'll call you Caroline." He swept his arm toward one of the tables. "Won't you join us?" 229

Sweet Caroline

by Micqui Miller

Caroline glanced at the table he pointed to, a table set for six where two nuns and two priests already sat. She gulped.

"If you're sure your friends won't mind." Apparently sensing her uneasiness, he said, "Don't worry." And just for a second, she saw the same twinkle in his eyes and teasing tone she'd seen in Mick so many times. Leaning closer, he whispered, "We don't bite and we're not recruiting tonight."

Charm definitely runs fast and full through this family.
"I'll be happy to join you," she said. An hour later, after laughing until her sides ached, she realized she'd forgotten to take her pill and didn't need the medication at all. Caroline had been baptized a Catholic as an infant, and that was as far as her religious training had gone. Other than Easter and Christmas, her parents never set foot inside a church. That had been her only brush with clerics until tonight. She'd never seen one toss back straight shots of rye before, like the Monsignor from Seattle, or heard one tell hilarious tales that sometimes fell just a hair short of bawdy, like the Jesuit who taught at Notre Dame. Nor had a group she'd approached with such wariness made her feel so welcome, ever.

Eventually, the conversation drifted to Sr. Anne. The jokes ceased, and the tone quieted. "Oh, she was a wild one that Annie," the Monsignor, and the elder of the group, began.

"Sheila had me prayin' for her night and day. We'd almost given up and had her declared incorrigible 'til we saw she had the callin' to God."

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Sister Hilary, who sat to Caroline's left, turned to her. "A calling she didn't want and one she fought every step of the way." The others murmured their agreement. "Boys, alcohol, partying all the time. She even dragged young Michael into it."

Fr. Chris gazed heavenward and rolled his eyes. "Mick?

Right, Sister, I'm sure he was kicking and screaming all the way."

"The two of them together," the other nun said and touched a hand to her temple. "A real piece of work. In trouble all the time. She half again as old as the poor child. I thought they'd both end up in juvenile detention." Caroline was almost afraid to ask. "Do you think Mick has

... the calling, too?" She thought she knew the answer but she didn't expect such a strong reaction. Her tablemates burst into laughter at the mere suggestion, guffawing until they nearly cried.

"Mick a priest?" Fr. Chris burst into laughter again. "When pigs fly and the heavens rain diamonds."

"Now, Christopher, you're being too hard on Mick," Sister Hilary scolded. "You know what he witnessed, and with Sheila not able to care for him properly—" her voice trailed off, and the jovial mood of only seconds before turned somber. "The youngster should have been sent for intensive counseling, but Sheila was beyond reason herself. A new baby, a husband blown to pieces, the curse. Half the family blamed her for not following the naming tradition, and the other half insisted she'd done the right thing."

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"And a tortured little boy who once he'd stopped screamin'

never spoke another word until Annie brought him out of it," the Monsignor added. "Took nearly a year—a year in Ireland. That's when Annie knew she had the callin' and realized she couldn't deny God any longer."

All the pieces were falling into place. Caroline didn't say another word. She listened to the heart-wrenching tale of a young boy struggling to deal with the death of his father amidst a family divided by anger, guilt, and superstition. He and Annie had been sent to Ireland to give Sheila a chance to recover. Mick didn't want to come back, and even afterward, spoke Gaelic almost exclusively. Sheila insisted he return, threatened to go there herself and bring him home. Less than a year later, he was slammed again. Annie, his rock and fortress, left him to follow her vocation.

At the age of ten, the most important things in Caroline's world were her school friends, ballet, and keeping Travis and his friends from destroying her Barbie collection. She couldn't begin to imagine where Mick, at that same age, had found the strength to survive what he'd witnessed.

"Mick was a tough kid, but he wouldn't have made it without Annie. He knows it, too," Sister Hilary said. "There's such a close bond between them, there's nothing he wouldn't do for her—even if it meant endangerin' himself to do it."

"Mick doesn't know danger except for two things," Fr. Chris said, ending the discussion. "Live explosives, and we can't blame him for that, and the crazy idea that having a child of his own will continue the family curse. Even our saintly Annie can't get him past those two things."

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"Maybe someday someone will," Sr. Hilary said while everyone raised their glasses. "To our Mick, and the day he walks free."

Caroline's stomach had growled with twinges of jealousy each time she glanced at the head table and saw Mick engrossed in conversation with the beautiful dark-haired bridesmaid he'd escorted up the aisle. Now she thought she understood his relentless pursuit. As long as he kept on the move, he'd never have to face the demons that still haunted him, the nightmares that fractured his sleep and made him cry out in the night. Somewhere along with all the good, the dark side of that brilliant mind still ruled at times. Until Mick faced down the darkness, he'd never know peace, nor would any woman who loved him.

Caroline raised her glass to join in their toast only to realize the gazes of her tablemates were fastened on her.

"To Mick," Fr. Chris said. "And to a woman wise enough to calm the troubled sea."

"Here, here," the others joined in. Caroline hesitated. If she touched her lips to the rim of the glass, would she symbolically accept the challenge they'd laid so carefully at her place? "To Mick," she whispered, drawing the glass nearer.

"And to Caroline," the priest responded.

* * * *

DINNER WAS OVER, and the bridal toasts concluded, but Caroline was still so troubled by what she'd heard, she almost forgot that Mick hadn't stopped by to say hello. Or that in the 233

Sweet Caroline

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heat of the still night air, she was perspiring right through the jacket she didn't dare remove and expose a most provocative neckline to her companions.

The band started up again, the bridal couple wended their way among the guests, stopping at each table, when Caroline felt a presence behind her. Fr. Chris had stopped in midsentence and grinned at whoever stood there, his gaze fixed a good foot above Caroline's head.

"I figured you'd be wandering over soon as dinner was done, cuz," the priest said as a pair of warm, strong hands rested on Caroline's shoulders.

"I've come to rescue my lady," Mick said. "Don't let the collar fool you, Caroline." He pointed to Fr. Chris. "This one's devilish as they come."

"You wound me, Mick. I've been singing your praises."

"Right, and cats bark and dogs meow," Mick shot back. No matter how gruff his tone, Caroline saw in Mick's grin his great respect and affection for his cousin. He took Caroline's hand. "Come with me now, Caroline. They're playin' our song."

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AS IF THE guests were anticipating the moment Mick would escort "his girl" to the dance floor, they parted and opened a path for the couple who walked hand-in-hand toward a forty-foot square of parquet.

The only air circulating came from the swoosh of female heads turning to watch Caroline and Mick walk by. Even his mother and Sr. Anne, who stood near the champagne fountain with its melting ice sculpture, stared with unabashed curiosity, likely waiting to see what their adored Mick would do next.

He'd taken off his jacket at some point in the evening, shucked the bow tie and opened the button on his collar. Most of the guests had done the same, mothers fanned their babies, and Caroline smiled each time she saw Ramona's great-grandmother retrieve a lace handkerchief tucked between her huge bosoms, wipe her brow, and stuff the delicate swatch back inside again.

The band, who had been murdering an 'N Sync medley, paused long enough for Mick and Caroline to step onto the floor before they burst into the opening bars of
Sweet
Caroline
. Even the other two couples on the floor moved farther toward the edges so that they could take center stage.

"You've passed the acid test," Mick whispered and drew her close, swaying slowly to the melody rather than in time with it.

"The what?"

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"D'you think it was by accident that you were invited to sit with the Vatican Council?"

She stopped swaying and pulled back. "What are you talking about?"

Mick slowly spun her away, twirled her under his arm and pulled her back, until they were both facing Sheila and Annie. The two women sheepishly looked away. "My mother and Annie are about as subtle as sledge hammers." Caroline smiled, reading in Mick's eyes that as sour as his words sounded, he was pleased that an important part of his family approved of her. "Maybe we ought to be dancing at arm's length," she said. "Before they go for a second ballot."

"No chance. I've been waiting for this all night. All week, in fact." With that he pulled her close against him, until every inch of their bodies touched.

Caroline's heart hammered and her mind went into overdrive. What message was Mick trying to send, and to whom? The green-eyed women who watched, mentally flexing their claws? His mother and aunt? Or to her? If so, she heard it loud and clear.

The monsignor had not been the only one tossing back a shot or two of straight rye, she realized. Mick was certainly not drunk, but he was relaxed and comfortable enough that if they kept swaying as they were now he'd soon be sending up a very private flag.

"Mick, it's really hot." She started to squirm out of his grip but he held fast.

"Take your jacket off, lass. Everyone else has."

"I can't."

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"Why not?" He slid a finger under the first button, which immediately opened under his urging. "Just loosen a button or two," he said, "Like this ... glory be!" The neckline on Caroline's dress dipped from tiny straps into a deep wide V, leaving little to the imagination, especially with the enhancements of a sewn-in bra that pushed everything together and way, way up high.

"Sweet mother." He groaned and pulled her closer still. If he had been a fourteen-year-old, his body could not have responded quicker. Murmuring something in Gaelic, he ran his hands along her arms and guided them until they circled his neck. Without thinking, she threaded her fingertips through the soft curls that brushed his collar.

Arms wrapped around her waist, in slow deliberate steps he led her away from the center of the floor, toward the far side and the path that led into the vineyards, now dark except for the dim glow of the kerosene lamps.

"Mick, what are you doing?" she whispered, trembling as her alarm grew.

"Shh."

His breath tickled the edge of her ear. "Mick, we can't do this. Your mom's—"

"Relax, lass. We're only dancin'." By then they'd danced to the edge of the floor, only a few inches from the path. The song ended almost on cue, and the strobes that had been flashing during the faster music, dimmed to near darkness for a slower song, enough that if anyone watched, they never saw them leave the floor.

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"Mick, where are we going?" Caroline tried to keep her voice low, although she heard an edge of panic. A trek down a dark path with Mick held so many possibilities she grew weak thinking about them. The dangers were equally great. Her purse, with the postcard and birth certificates lay atop the table, next to the monsignor's elbow.

* * * *

MICK WALKED BEHIND Caroline, his hands encircling her waist while he propelled her forward. The kerosene lamps stopped a few yards ahead, plunging the path into darkness except for the light of the moon. She still heard the music, but Mick's, "Shh, my sweet Caroline, just trust me," drowned out everything but her desire.

"Mick, wait ... we can't."

He stepped around her, took her hand and urged her toward a small abandoned gazebo. Three of the sides were boarded up, and only a slice of moonlight filtered in through a broken slat in the ceiling.

Two steps led up to the entrance. Mick took them in one stride. Caroline hung back until he tugged on her hand.

"Please, Caroline," he said, "please."

* * * *

IGNORING THE WARNING in her brain that said over and again,
Don't do it, Caroline!
the urgency in his voice propelled her forward. She tried to say, "No, we can't," but her words and her resolve were melting.
Heaven help me.
She gave him her other hand, too, and followed him into the darkness. 238

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They kissed as soon as they stepped inside the sagging structure, ravaging each other's mouths with the frustration and longing of the days and hours they'd waited for this moment. Without breaking apart, Mick steered them toward the shaft of moonlight, and in seconds, with Caroline's help, he unbuttoned her jacket and flung it behind him.

* * * *

BATHED IN THE pale light, Caroline looked like a goddess to Mick. Perfect, unblemished skin, as soft and creamy as the silk of her dress, and as yielding to his touch as a gossamer kiss.

"Lovely, lovely, lovely," he said in a hoarse whisper, every fiber crying out to touch her but afraid that if he did, she might disappear and vanish into the night.

"Kiss me, Mick," she whispered. "Everywhere." She slid her hand up the front of his shirt, reveling in hard muscle against her fingertips and the even greater hardness pressing against her thigh, urging her legs to part. She locked her arms around his neck, stood on tiptoes and drew the inside of her calf along the outside of his leg. Instinctively, he bent his knee until he caught her leg and deftly hooked it over his thigh.