The Emerald Isle (51 page)

I smiled. “I don’t know what to tell you, Taylor, but I know God has begun to work in Patrick’s life. I also know God wants Patrick and his father to be at peace.”

One of Taylor’s brows lifted. “I didn’t know God had a particular interest in this situation.”

“God is interested in
every
situation, and I’m sorry I don’t point that out more often.” I shrugged away my shame. “Last weekend Patrick and I went to hear that American evangelist, and I think Patrick made a decision for Christ. I’m not sure how his decision will change things, but I hope it means things will be different in this family. I think Patrick will want them to be different.”

Taylor gave me a skeptical look. “Didn’t Christ say something about coming not to bring peace, but a sword? If you meddle, you may only make the situation between Patrick and James worse.”

I straightened, thinking of the terrible argument I’d witnessed the night before. “Honestly, Taylor, I don’t think things could get much worse.”

“I don’t know about that.” Taylor stood and eased himself out of the narrow space between the picnic table and the bench. “At least
Patrick is still welcome here. If he starts preaching to his dad, James may forbid him to come home altogether.”

For that I had no answer.

Two weeks passed, and those of us living at Ballyshannon kept pretty much to our routines. I spent my time reading and writing about Cahira O’Connor, Taylor studied Kipling, and Maddie trooped into town for visits with her girlfriends, the parish priest, and the elderly woman who was sewing her wedding gown.

Patrick kept himself busy with the farm. Mornings and evenings he spent milking and examining the dairy herd, while afternoons he walked the pastures and inspected the fences. One evening he took his father’s place at a dairy co-op meeting, and a few nights he spent by the fire with me. I devoured yet another volume about the Norman invasion while he argued aloud with a book about the pros and cons of cloning cattle. Sometimes he brought his Bible to the fire and draped it over his left knee while he flipped through the pages of a reference book resting on his right. Mrs. Sullivan, our favorite librarian, had sent him home with an armful of commentaries, Hebrew lexicons, and a concordance.

Patrick had definitely relegated his computer work to a lower priority, though I couldn’t say whether he did this out of guilt or desire. When I asked him about the big project he had been working on when he first arrived at Ballyshannon, he simply replied that he had finished it. Apparently he had other projects, too, but none that required his undivided attention. A few afternoons when I worked in the little house he came in long enough to pick up his laptop, which he then carried to the picnic table on the lawn. Looking out the window, I usually saw him typing like a madman, but once or twice I saw him sitting with his chin parked in his palm, his eyes unfocused and staring out over the fields.

In such moments all my doubts and uncertainties vanished. I now knew with pulse-pounding certainty that Patrick O’Neil was a dairy farmer down to his socks. His computers, his life in Limerick, and
his friendships with his bachelor flatmates were more his hobby than his life. Whether or not he wanted to admit it, his existence was rooted in Ballyshannon. Here, among the fields and in the milking shed, he seemed to shine.

I only wished that James O’Neil were able—and willing—to see what I saw in his son. Mr. O’Neil had taken to his bed the morning the bull died and had not yet found the strength to rise. He had no specific complaints, Mrs. O’Neil whispered over lunch one day, but the spirit seemed to have gone out of him when Graham Red died. “’Tis almost as if he knows the farm will be moving into new hands,” she said, casting a wounded look at Maddie and Taylor. “Hands that won’t care about the glory of Graham Red and his progeny.”

At dinner a few days later, Patrick abruptly interrupted the conversation and announced that the dairy co-op would be holding a cattle show in Nenagh over the weekend. Speaking in a voice far too loud for casual conversation, he proclaimed that he’d like to drive over and take a look at the stock, particularly since he’d heard that several fine Angus bulls were being put up for auction. He’d also heard that at least one of Graham Red’s get would be on display.

I drowned my smile in my teacup, fully understanding why Patrick shouted. Lowering my cup, I caught Mrs. O’Neil’s eye and saw that she was smiling too. Her eldest son wanted to be sure his proud, bedridden father heard the news.

Realizing, too, the concession he’d just made, I felt my heart flow toward Patrick, and the look in his eyes struck a vibrant chord when his gaze met mine. “I don’t believe in the necessity of keeping a bull,” he said, lowering his voice to reach my ear and barely a breath beyond,“and few fellows will go through the trouble of dealing with the dangerous beasts. But if buying a bull will give James O’Neil a reason to get out of bed…”

“And you’re a lovely man, Paddy,” his mother added, nodding in approval. She reached out and patted Patrick’s hand, love and maternal pride shining in her eyes.

I smiled and strengthened my voice back to a normal level. “Shall
we make plans then?” Mr. O’Neil should know we were planning to go to the fair together. His miraculous healing would be less remarkable if we made the cattle show a major family affair.

“What fun!” Maddie clapped her hands in glee, then squeezed Taylor’s arm. “You’ll adore the fair, love. ’Tis terribly interesting, and there will be music and dancing and all sorts of things to see.”

Taylor gave me a wry half-smile. “I can’t wait.”

Maddie beamed at her brother. “Well, Paddy, what do you think—should we invite Erin Kelly? She hasn’t been out with us in ages, and she’s bound to be wondering—”

“No,” Patrick interrupted, his eyes flashing toward his sister. A hurt expression crossed Maddie’s round face as she fell silent, and I lowered my gaze in hopes no one would remark upon the color that flared upon my cheeks.

R
ight on schedule, Mr. O’Neil’s remarkable improvement occurred the morning of the fair. When I came downstairs, I found him sitting in his own place at the breakfast table, eating his way through an impressive plate of eggs, sausages, rashers, blood pudding, and the ever-present tomato. His jowls hung in flaps like the flews of a hound, but his eyes seemed more focused than when I had last seen him, as though a film of indifference or resignation had been peeled away. His wife hovered over him, refilling his teacup and buttering his bread with tender patience. Not even the steadily dripping rain outside seemed to dim his spirits.

After breakfast, we drove to Nenagh in two cars—Maddie, Taylor, Patrick, and I rode in Patrick’s car, while Mrs. O’Neil drove her husband in the other. Despite the rain, Maddie was in high spirits. She was probably hoping to meet old friends before whom she hadn’t yet had a chance to flaunt Taylor. Quietly acquiescent, Taylor scarcely said a dozen words on the drive. A cattle show was probably the last thing on earth he wanted to see, but at least the event would be a break from what had become a monotonous routine. He had actually visited the milking shed several times in the last few days, but he seemed about as enthusiastic about the prospect as a convict going to the electric chair.

Patrick and I rode together in the front seat. Though he had been careful to avoid his father at breakfast, I knew from the gleam in his
eye that he was pleased his plan had worked. The older man was out of bed, energized, and, for the moment, observing a cease-fire in the war with his son.

I peered out at the long, wavering runnels on the car windows. “Will they have the fair if it’s raining?”

Patrick laughed. “The weather changes here every five minutes, love. If the cows don’t mind it, why should we?”

Fortunately, the rain faded to a mere misty drizzle by the time we reached Nenagh. On the outskirts of the city, we pulled off the road, drove down a muddy dirt path, then rattled and bounced our way through a pasture. Finally Patrick stopped the car—following the inexplicable Irish pattern of parking, which is no pattern at all—and shut off the ignition. “We’re here,” he said, looking at me as though I might challenge his statement.

I got out of the car, craned my neck in all directions and saw. cattle. I don’t know what I expected to see—a Ferris wheel and hot dog vendors, I suppose. But when Patrick called it a cattle fair, he spoke the truth. Of course there were lots of people in the pasture and a few dogs, for a sheep-herding trial was being held in the next field. A group of men stirred around a flatbed trailer from which a sign proclaimed that the Johnny Kelly Trio would be performing at noon, one, and two. But mostly I saw cows. Most were in makeshift iron pens; several wore bridles and followed their handlers with morose, plodding steps. A few men in raincoats walked before the cattle and appraised them narrowly.

I looked around to check on our party and saw Mrs. O’Neil helping Mr. O’Neil over a slice of earth wounded by a heavy truck. He seemed well, though, and wore a smile as wide as Texas.

Maddie pulled Taylor toward the tweed-coated dog people. “Oh, and look, there’s Nattie O’Hara and her new husband! Won’t they be pleased to meet you! Come, love.” Taylor threw me a what-am-I-doing-here? look while his spirited bride-to-be led him away.

Patrick watched them go, then took my hand. “Wouldn’t want you to slip out here,” he said simply, leading me over the damp
grass. We walked toward a huddle of farmers gathered around a fierce-looking black bull.

A cold wind blew over the field, but I didn’t feel it, so wrapped was I in the invisible warmth emanating from Patrick. I moved closer to him, holding his elbow with my free hand, absorbing assurance from his confident posture. While we stood and stared at the huge black beast, one thought kept running through my mind: By persuading his father to come, Patrick had set a bit of a miracle in motion.

“Patrick O’Neil,” I tipped my head back and looked up into his eyes. “You’re a wonder, do you know? You’ve done a generous and compassionate thing here today.”

He gave me an answering smile, then looked away to the crowd around the bull. “You see those men clapping eyes on that Angus? They’re interested in him, but they’re interested in using him for AI. Not a one of them wants to actually own the beast; they’d rather pay for a vial of bull semen. My dad’s the only fellow who’d be loony enough to make an offer for the creature.”

I looked at the bull, my thoughts scampering vaguely around as I tried to follow Patrick’s thoughts. “I thought your dad didn’t like Angus cattle.”

“I am hoping he’ll bend a little.” Patrick glanced over his shoulder for some sign of his father, then sighed and looked back at the bull. “I’m willing to keep silent about the keeping of a bull if he’ll realize that Friesians aren’t the kind of bull he needs to keep. If he’ll get a fine Angus, we’ll be able to produce good beef cows
and
good dairy cows. That will ensure Ballyshannon’s productivity for years to come.”

He leaned forward, his eyes narrowing as he studied the lines of the big black beast. “Years ago, you see, farmers wanted Dutch Friesians, for those huge cows give tons of milk. But milk’s not so much in demand today, and we’ve had to form a co-op to keep prices from falling altogether. The government urges us to keep production at a reasonable level, so we’re going to have to concentrate on beef cattle if Ballyshannon is to survive in this economy.”

I nodded, not understanding completely, but realizing enough to see the sense in his words. I’d heard about the same thing in the United States. The government actually pays dairy farmers
not
to produce milk because a glutted market would drive prices down so far no one could make a profit.

“Paddy O’Neil? Can it be you?” A short gentleman pulled the pipe from his mouth and squinted at Patrick. “Saints above, ’tis! What brings you out here on such a wet day as this?”

Patrick stepped forward and shook the man’s hand. “Well, old Graham Red passed last week,” he said, sliding his hands into his pockets. “We thought Dad might like to get out and have a look at the new bulls. I’m hoping he’ll bid on an Angus.”