The Perfect Love Song (16 page)

“Hey,” Jack said, “I’m real. Back to me, okay?” His voice held that sweet laughter Kara had loved since memory began.

She looked at him. “Sometimes I’m not even sure that’s true or real.”

Mr. Larson coughed. “Well, if none of this is real, then I don’t have to pay for it, right?”

Kara smiled and then pointed to the glittering mosaic behind the statue. “That is the blessing of the bay. She watches over that also.”

The group walked away and toward the sacristy, but Charlotte stood to stare at the Mary statue, at Our Lady of Galway, an ornately carved wooden statue of Mary holding her son, cradling baby Jesus in the crook of her left arm. Set into the wooden base were three carved angels’ faces peaking
out from under Mary’s dress, which billowed as if a strong wind blew in off the bay. Her eyes stared out, yet seemed to slightly glance down toward the left, toward her son, but also toward the world, toward Charlotte. Baby Jesus’s face was placid and somehow simultaneously ancient and innocent; he held out his right hand as if waving or blessing or maybe even stopping someone from coming near. Charlotte would like to believe he was blessing anyone or anything that passed. A long mother-of-pearl rosary hung from Mary’s fingers, which were curled in a gesture so delicate, it was as if she held the most fragile thing in the world. From the bottom of the rosary chain, an ornate cross dropped like a tear in front of the angels’ faces.

Charlotte stepped back. “So, what do you think about what we’ve all done about your son’s birthday? I bet you have a thing or two to say about it, don’t you?”

Mary, of course, didn’t answer but gazed out, holding tight to her son as if to say, “I only care about him. I love him.”

Charlotte imagined and, yes, almost heard those words, so much so that she answered. “Yep, I know how that feels—to love. Not like that, maybe, but love, yes.” She glanced behind her to make sure no one else heard her, and then she whispered to Mary, “I know you’re busy being a mom and all,
and that this is a crazy time of year for you, but if you have any influence over things, could you bring Jimmy to his senses? Let him know that this birthday, this birthday of your son’s, is about so much more than fame and parties. Please let him know it’s about love. And just that. Just love.”

Charlotte reached into her purse and set the small gray-white shell, which Kara had given her that day at the beach when Jimmy had told them all about the Christmas tour, at the base of the statue, right next to the angels’ placid faces.

Mary appeared as if she didn’t care, but you never know who’s listening, do you?

—MAEVE MAHONEY TO KARA LARSON

 

 

 

 

T
he Irish pub was warm, the lights dim, and the group of travelers struggled to keep their eyes open. Their rooms weren’t ready yet, and they’d all agreed to stay awake until at least dark when they could sleep and start fresh in the morning, but they were fading quickly.

“Okay,” Kara said. “Let’s finish talking about plans. That way we’ll all stay awake.”

“Yeah, that always makes me stay wide awake,” Jack said. “Logistics.”

She pushed at him so he fell off the bench of the pub booth and landed on the floor, sprawled and laughing. “I think I just landed on my arse.”

The waitress came toward them and looked down at Jack on the floor. “Okay, should we cut him off this early in the evening?” Her Irish accent added a note to each syllable.

Jack jumped up and shook his head at the waitress. “Don’t pay any attention to them. They’ve been flying all night, and they thought pushing me to the floor on my arse was a funny joke.”

“Arse?” she asked.

Hank leaned across the scarred bar table. “You can settle a bet here once and for all. Do the Irish say ‘arse’?”

The waitress smiled at them, glancing from one to the next. “Okay, where are you from?”

“Palmetto Pointe, South Carolina,” Kara answered, scooting over to allow Jack back onto the bench, kissing his cheek and mouthing, “Sorry.”

He pinched the end of her nose and then glanced back at the waitress. “A wedding.”

“Ah, so I’ve heard,” she said. “You must be the group from the States getting married on Christmas Day in the church here.”

“That we are,” Kara said.

“How grand. From what I hear, old Maeve Mahoney had something to do with this?”

“That she did,” Jack said, attempting to imitate her Irish accent and sounding a bit more like he was trying to imitate a Jamaican accent.

“Oh!” Harry hollered across the table. “I wouldn’t be trying that accent again, my man.”

The waitress shook her head. “Okay, I’m Moira. Tell me what you need.”

“Sleep,” Charlotte called out.

“Well, you won’t be getting any of that in here, what with the Shenanigans going on soon.”

“The what?”

“That’s the name of the band coming in any minute. If you can sleep through them, you can sleep through anything.”

While they waited on their food and drinks, Kara rattled off the last-minute plans. “So, we’ll have a quick rehearsal before the Christmas Eve mass at the priory, and then we’ll have a dinner at the hotel restaurant. Then the bride will get her beauty sleep, and we’ll meet at the church by ten Christmas morning.” She glanced at Charlotte. “Do you think those magnolia leaves showed up?”

“What leaves?” Jack asked.

Kara smiled at him. “It’s a surprise. I’ll explain later.”

He shook his head. “You girls are crazy. Leaves. Whatever.”

After a round of drinks and fish and chips, the band did indeed come in, set up their fiddles and guitars, and begin to play Irish music that filled the room and the hearts of everyone at the table.

“Wow!” Kara hollered across to Charlotte. “Jimmy would love these guys!”

Charlotte gave a sad smile. “Yeah, I bet he would.”

Kara slapped her hand over her mouth. “I’m such an idiot. I am such a moron. That is what no sleep does to me. I’m sorry, Charlotte.”

Charlotte shook her head. “No, you’re right. He’d love them.”

Jack reached across the table, squeezed Charlotte’s hand, but didn’t say a word. The dancing had started up full force by now, and words were buried beneath the stomps, laughter, the fiddle and pan flute. A man from the crowd reached down and grabbed Charlotte, pulling her into the pressing and dancing throng.

Charlotte was dizzy with the Guinness, the sleepless plane ride, and the loud music; she protested but to no avail. The man with the dark beard, the blue eyes, and the cragged face of a fisherman took her onto the dance floor and twirled
her in circles, laughing. Kara and Jack joined Charlotte and the unknown man.

Isabelle watched this scene from the bench, and tears filled her eyes. Jimmy, damn him, should be here for his brother, for this magical and mystical moment where they danced at the edge of a bay in another land. She grabbed Jack’s cell phone, took a quick picture, and e-mailed it to Jimmy. Then she erased the photo and snuck Jack’s phone back into his coat pocket.

Hank leaned over. “What did you just do?”

“Showed that ole Jimmy Sullivan that he’s a fool. A big, grand fool.”

“Isabelle . . . ” His voice trailed off like a father reprimanding a child.

She held up her hand. “You be minding your own business now.”

He laughed. “You, my dear, can’t do an Irish accent any better than Jack. Now get up and dance with me.”

And they did, and then last but most important, so did Porter and Rosie. They all danced to the lyrics and melody of an ancient time, an old Claddagh song sung in Gaelic, words they understood only in their hearts.

T
he streets of New York City were packed, pushing Jimmy Sullivan as if he were invisible. And this is how he felt: invisible. The noon sun beat down, and yet it held no warmth, the air frigid and still, like he had somehow been stuck inside a refrigerator. Or freezer.

He glanced at his cell phone, and although he knew it futile, he hoped that Charlotte had called from Ireland. If she hadn’t returned his calls when she was in South Carolina, why would she call from another country on another sea? And yet and always hope has its own heartbeat, and hope still hopes even when we tell it not to care.

Jimmy then scrolled through his e-mails and saw there was one from Jack, but he didn’t open it. The crowd pushing him toward Rockefeller Center, he allowed himself to be carried along like flotsam on the incoming tide and then stood in front of the famous Christmas tree. He knew that the tree was huge, but photos, postcards, and TV didn’t do it justice, as its size was beyond his expectations. Thousands of lights flickered in the thick and widespread branches. Bulbs the size of his head were bobbing in the wind. A fence surrounded the tree, and Jimmy stood staring up and down, unable to see the entire tree at once. A commotion of voices and laughter bubbled up to the right, and Jimmy turned. A bearded man held his hands up in the air and hollered, “She said yes!”

Laughter and clapping joined the evening, and even Jimmy found himself smiling. This total stranger had just proposed to another total stranger, and yet the anonymous crowd joined in the joy as if they all needed a reason to celebrate, as if this couple’s elation could also fill their hearts. Jimmy’s chest ached with loneliness, and he stepped back from the fence, turned away from the celebration. He’d just go to bed, just sleep until his performance tomorrow, and then go straight to those he loved. He could make it another two days. Yes, he could. He gritted his teeth.

The hotel was warm and inviting, the bundled-up door-man opening the glass doors and welcoming Jimmy into the foyer where a fireplace and Christmas tree cuddled up next to a menorah.

He checked into his room, and then threw his backpack onto the floor. After ordering pizza and a shot of whiskey from room service, he stared out the window and watched the crowd below, thought how everyone had their own pain, their own demons, their own sleepless nights and haunted choices. He thought of how he’d probably lost Charlotte with his own choices, yet still his emotions swung from anger to loss to hope.

He sat on the bed and took the pad off the fauxmahogany desk and wrote the first lyrics that came to him:

He wrote until his eyes wouldn’t stay open, and then he checked his cell phone one more time—hoping, yes, still hoping—and then closed his eyes.

C
harlotte and Kara stood at the threshold of the door to their Claddagh hotel room, and their laughter started at the exact same moment.

“Are you kidding me?” Kara asked. “That’s a bed?”

“They look like those bunks we stayed in when we went to the awful camp in North Carolina in high school.” Charlotte entered the room, threw her purse onto a chair. “But look at that view.”