The Saint (21 page)

“Like my parents?”

Kieran nodded. Eddie was going to be doing a lot of talking tonight—and soon. Kieran had spotted Bill Johnson over at the west entrance, with Dr. and Mrs. Mackey in tow, but Bill was cleverly holding his ground until Kieran gave him the high sign.

He didn't think Eddie had seen them yet, which was a good thing. He needed to get this off his conscience, and sometimes it was easier to start by telling an impartial third party.

Eddie blew out a breath through his lips noisily, like an irritated horse.

“Okay, whatever,” he said. “I'll tell anyone you say I have to tell. But first…first I want to tell you.” He gave Kieran a one-sided smile. “That okay with you? I mean, I know it's really late. Mrs. McClintock won't be mad, will she?”

Kieran felt the funny little twist in his gut at the sound of that name. Mrs. McClintock. She wasn't Claire Strickland anymore. She was Mrs. McClintock.

At least for another few months.

“No,” Kieran said, and even he heard the wistful note in the word. He wondered where Claire was
right now. He wondered if she was able to sleep. He wondered if she'd approve of the way he'd handled this mess with Eddie.

“Mrs. McClintock won't mind a bit.”

 

C
LAIRE HAD BEEN IN
Richmond a week, and she'd been trying very hard to turn her apartment into something that resembled a home. She'd bought paint and curtains and a crib, all of which were supposed to transform the spare bedroom into a nursery.

But she hadn't yet had the heart to start work. When she looked at the little pile of purchases, they looked like such puny, ineffectual weapons with which to ward off sorrow and darkness.

So she bought more things. Baby clothes, and stuffed toys and cloth books and even a big plastic tub that was on sale at the baby boutique. None of that helped, either.

The only time she felt really happy was when, on her second day back, she went to the doctor and listened to the baby's heartbeat and watched the small wiggling lines on the ultrasound. Maybe happiness, she thought, required the cooperation of another person, even if that person was only a thump on the microphone and a squiggle on the monitor.

Maybe happiness simply couldn't be experienced unless it was shared.

But that was ridiculous. It was far more likely that happiness couldn't coexist with lingering resentment and bitterness. In her heart, she knew that her only real problem was her refusal to let go of the anger she felt toward Kieran.

She knew it wasn't entirely his fault. She had to accept some of the blame, too, for not being a better
surrogate mother, for not policing Steve's behavior more strictly. But Kieran's silence felt like treason. It felt like a personal betrayal of Claire's budding trust. If the anonymous letters hadn't spilled the secret, he probably never would have told her the truth.

Somehow, for her child's sake, she had to find a way to move on. But how? She felt the anger like a physical weight, like a stone, much, much heavier than the baby, who was still just a promise floating deep inside her body.

She couldn't think about it anymore.

She decided to tackle some of the unopened boxes that had come with her from Heyday two years ago. She had never found the energy—or the courage—to go through them, because she knew they were filled with mementos of Steve.

Maybe that would be one way of clearing out the ghosts. And maybe, after these two years of healing, she would find that it didn't hurt as much as she had feared.

After all, she had expected the sight of Kieran's football to fill her with agony, and instead it had brought only a lovely memory of a very happy night.

But it wasn't wise to think back on the day they'd found the football. The ball itself might not hold bitter memories, but the long morning of amazing lovemaking that had followed was going to be difficult to forget. If she let herself remember the scent of him, the taste of him, even for one piercing second, she wouldn't be able to go on.

So she forced it out of her mind, brought a paring knife out of the kitchen and opened the first box.

Most of the contents were easy enough to handle. A couple of Steve's old shirts. She set them aside for
the donation bin. A few of his school books, not much of Steve there—he'd hardly ever picked up the things. Some of her own old clothes, also for the donation bin. Some bills she'd long ago forgotten, the final electricity statement for the house on Yarrow Street, the cancellation notice for a CD club Steve had joined without telling her.

And then she pulled up a crumpled piece of paper that she almost threw away as trash. Some instinct made her unfold it, though, and she realized that it was Steve's eleventh-grade fall progress report. He'd tried to hide it from her by balling it up and stuffing it under his mattress.

It was terrible. Three Ds, two Cs and a lone B, in art.

She had discovered it one morning while making his bed. Steve had been singing in the shower, getting ready for football practice. She had gone storming into the bathroom, waving the progress report in her hand, forgetting that, at seventeen, Steve would be horrified at the thought of his sister glimpsing him undressed.

He had refused to open the shower curtain until she threw him a towel. But she had waited, fussing and fuming, refusing to let him off the hook until he came out, dripping and sheepish, and explained how on earth he could have let his grades slip so badly.

Oh, she had been so angry! The steam in the bathroom had moistened the progress report, so that the letters had begun to run. But she kept waving it around, so disappointed in him, so furious…

And suddenly, staring down at that smeared piece of paper, Claire realized that she felt the same way right this minute.

She was very, very angry.

Not at Kieran. Not at herself.

At Steve.

Steve, who had lied to her. Steve, who had been drinking and driving, the one thing they had, after their mother's death, sworn they would never, never do. Steve, who had been so sunny and talented and special, but who had thrown it all away.

She sat down, trembling. This was it, then. This was the anger she'd been carrying around for two years, unable to put it down because she didn't even know exactly what it was. She hadn't dared to let herself know. How could she possibly be angry with her lost and broken little baby brother?

But she was. She was so angry it practically tore her heart to bits. Instead, she put her hands together and ripped the progress report to shreds, saying his name, over and over, with a harsh, blistered cry.

Oh, Stevie, Stevie, how could you?

Steve, who had been her only family. Her only laughter, her only confidante, her only reason for living.

Steve, who hadn't given a damn about any of that and had done this stupid, stupid thing.

Steve, who had let himself die, and had left her all alone.

A
T
H
EYDAY
H
IGH
,
the first week of the school year was always one big party, culminating in a student-teacher exhibition football game on Friday night. Ordinarily, Kieran, who coached the student team, loved the festive, slightly nutty event as much as anybody. But this year it was just an obligation he had to get through.

This year he had bigger things on his mind.

The minute the final score was posted, and the fans began storming the field, he intended to jump in his car and head for Richmond, where he was going to do his damnedest to make Claire forgive him and come back home.

He'd tried to be patient. She'd asked for time to think, and he'd given her almost two weeks. At first he'd found his heart twisting every time a petite brunette woman walked by. Lurching every time the telephone rang. But finally he realized that this wasn't going to be that easy. She wasn't just going to decide to come waltzing back into his life as if nothing had happened.

He was going to have to go and get her. He was going to have to grovel, beg, make promises, make a scene. He was going to have to expose how he really felt, without any assurance that she gave a damn. If she didn't, he was going to have to try
something else. He was going to have to pull out all the stops, appeal to her love for their unborn child, her dreams of giving that child a happy life.

To heck with being a patient saint.

It was time to be a man.

Claire Strickland was not only the mother of his child. She was also the love of his life. With her, he could create the stability and permanence he'd always dreamed of. Without her, he'd fall apart. He wouldn't turn to a series of bimbo wives, as his father had, but only because he knew firsthand how wretched that was for the child. Instead, he'd just become the loneliest man on the planet.

“Coach, I think Principal Vogler must have nosed around in our playbook.” Eddie Mackey, suited up for the first time in the striped uniform of the Heyday High Fighting Zebras, was bouncing with nervous energy. “See? They're lining up for the Snubnose Slide!”

Kieran looked, pretending to care. Compared to the rest of his life, what did this football game matter? But the students had their hearts set on stomping the teachers, and they were counting on Kieran to show them how. He tried to focus.

“No, that's not the slide,” he told Eddie. “It's similar, but see how they've got both wide ends tucked in close?”

Eddie studied the field, his eyes intent over the black slashes of kohl the boys used to fight the glare from the klieg lights. Eddie had done nothing but study the playbook for almost two weeks now—partly because he wanted desperately to make a good showing, and partly because, considering he was
grounded and on an academic warning, he didn't have much else to do.

He almost hadn't been able to join the team at all. Principal Vogler had been adamant at first, and Eddie's dad had required a lot of convincing, too. It didn't help that Eddie had refused to fork over the names of the students who had submitted his term papers as their own. But Kieran had backed him up in that, proud that the kid had been unwilling to lighten his own punishment by sloughing some of it off onto the shoulders of the other boys. A pettier person might have welcomed the chance for payback.

Besides, Kieran had a pretty good idea who the culprits were, and, as they were all on his team, he had his own ideas about how to make them pay for their sins.

In the end, both Vogler and Dr. Mackey had agreed, though they insisted on assigning Eddie a hundred hours of community service. He'd be tutoring elementary school kids who were having trouble reading. Between the tutoring and the football practice, he was too busy to get in trouble.

The whole, sordid Linda Tremel story they'd kept to themselves, as much to keep from humiliating Linda as anything else. Poor Linda. Kieran had confronted her immediately. It had been a struggle, but he had eventually talked her into getting some help. She'd even agreed to start Alcoholics Anonymous. He believed she would follow through—though she was defiant on the surface, she had seemed oddly relieved that someone had intervened. Even so, he planned to stay in close touch, just in case.

“Oh, yeah, I see,” Eddie said finally. “The play they're running is kind of a cross between the Snub
nose Slide and the Cherry Picker.” He tilted his head, frowning. “How is
that
going to work?”

Kieran chuckled. “It isn't. Now go tell Overton I want to see him. These guys are going out on downs, and then I'm putting you in.”

Eddie looked blank. “You are?”

“I am. If you have a hope in hell of being ready to play by the season opener, you're going to have to spend some time on the field. An exhibition game against a bunch of middle-aged pencil pushers seems as good a place as any to dirty up that uniform, don't you think?”

“Yes.” Eddie shoved on his helmet. Even in the shadows, his eyes were round and gleaming. “I mean, yes, Coach.”

Eddie trotted off obediently, and Kieran turned back to the game, smiling. He liked the kid's attitude. The other boys obviously hadn't forgiven Eddie yet, but they would, once they saw him throw a couple of touchdowns. Nothing succeeded like success. He only hoped that Eddie would be too smart to take Binky Potter back when she came sashaying over, as she undoubtedly would, shaking her pompoms and apologizing prettily.

The game seemed to go on forever. And, maybe because Kieran wasn't focusing as sharply as usual, the score was uncharacteristically tight. The teachers might be middle-aged pencil pushers, but they seemed to have an irritating ability to advance the ball down the field.

The lead seesawed. Jeff Metzler let Principal Vogler slip through a tackle—Jeff would be a long time living that one down—and Eddie's first pass was an interception. The teachers went ahead by seven.

But finally Eddie found his rhythm. He went long to Mark, who then ran it thirty yards to tie the game. At that point Kieran pulled Eddie out. One touchdown was enough to establish his credentials. And in the end the kid was still too green to count on. Kieran went back to Cullen, but he noticed that Cullen gave Eddie a congratulatory pat on the shoulder pad as the two of them passed on the field.

That was a start. That was enough for now.

In the end, the students got it together. They went ahead by two touchdowns, and from then on the teachers seemed to be discouraged. When the final whistle blew, the kids had won by twenty-one points.

You'd think they'd just clinched the Super Bowl. They came screaming up to Kieran, dumped a whole cooler of ice water over his head and swept him onto their shoulders.

He laughed as expected and allowed the nonsense to go on, but in the back of his mind a wry voice was suggesting that he probably should have let them lose. Now that he was soaking wet, he'd have to stop by the house and change before he could hit the road.

He mentally calculated the time. It was after ten o'clock now. If he went home right now, changed, then drove the speed limit the entire way, he still wouldn't get to Richmond before three.

Was that too late? Hell, no. When your heart was on the line, uptight Miss Manners prohibitions against middle-of-the-night visits didn't mean squat.

From his throne on the shoulders of his players, who were now marching him in front of the bleachers so that he could accept the cheers of his fans, Kieran had a bird's-eye view of the crowd.

For a minute, as they passed midfield, his heart
stopped. He thought he saw Claire. But he'd been having these hallucinations for two weeks now. Every tiny, graceful woman he glimpsed seemed to have her hair, her walk….

He leaned forward, almost off-balancing the boys who held him up. Yes, he saw her everywhere. But this woman…

This woman really was Claire.

She stood by the fence, and she was looking right at him. God, she was beautiful. She was the most beautiful woman in the world.

And, best of all, she was smiling. He tried to maintain eye contact, but the jostling, chanting march was so bumpy he could hardly manage it. As they drew closer, he thought he saw her holding something up in her hand, as if she wanted him to see it.

He squinted around the drops of cold water that still dripped from his hair. She was definitely holding something. She was shaking it a little, teasingly. And finally he realized what it was. It was a small plush toy shaped like a football.

He cocked his head, silently posing a half question. But she merely continued to smile.

At that moment, the football players noticed her, too.

“Hey, look! It's Mrs. McClintock,” Eddie Mackey called out. “This way!”

The ridiculous parade swung sharply in Claire's direction, nearly knocking Kieran to the ground. They carried him closer, and finally, ceremoniously, they set him down in front of his wife.

He was suddenly out of breath and speechless. He felt as if he'd been running, not riding the shoulders of those laughing, chanting boys. But what was the
point of saying a single word, anyhow? He just wanted to take her in his arms and hold her so tightly she could never disappear again.

But he couldn't. Too many things remained unresolved between them.

“Hi,” he said.
Wonderful beginning.
He had a mental script the size of
War and Peace
prepared, like a lawyer who had been preparing for his great Supreme Court summation. He had a list of all the reasons why she should give him another chance. He had all the promises lined up, all the ways in which he was going to make it up to her for everything, for Steve, for the stupid lawyers, for the unwanted baby, for
everything.

But he hadn't expected to deliver it here, soaking wet and in front of about two thousand people, many of whom had heard gossip about their separation and couldn't wait to see whether she was going to kiss him or slap him.

He took her arm and led her off to the edge of the bleachers, the only spot with even a hint of privacy. And then, taking a deep breath, he settled for saying the first honest, simple thing that occurred to him.

“I've missed you,” he said. “I missed you so much I thought I'd go crazy.”

She smiled softly, as if maybe she sensed that the statement was merely the tip of the emotional iceberg.

“I've missed you, too,” she said. “It's been a very…difficult two weeks.”

That was good. Not that he wanted her to suffer, but it would have killed him to think she hadn't minded their separation at all.

“I'm sorry,” he said impulsively. “I'm just so
damn sorry, Claire. I've made so many mistakes, and I don't know how to fix any of them.”

“I know,” she said.

“I was coming to Richmond tonight, to tell you that. I can't bring Steve back, but if you'll just come home to me, I'll spend the rest of my life making it up to you the best I can. Let me try to make you happy, Claire. Whatever you want, I'll try to give it to you.”

“You don't have to make anything up to me,” she said. “That's why I came here today, to tell you that.”

“But I do,” he said.

“No, Kieran. Listen.” She lifted her chin, in that way she had. It always meant she was trying to access a little extra courage. “I have finally realized that you aren't responsible for what happened to Steve. I've been focusing my anger on you because I couldn't bear to be angry with the person who was really responsible. I couldn't bear to be angry with Steve.”

He just looked at her, stunned. Her voice was so steady, and her eyes, though still sad, were unclouded. Was it possible she actually meant this?

“I am responsible,” he said. “At least partly. I should have told you the minute I discovered what he was up to.”

“Yes, and I should have watched him more carefully. There's plenty of blame to go around. But Steve had the ultimate responsibility to make good decisions, and he simply didn't do it. I wanted you to know that I've finally come to terms with that.”

She looked around the football field. “This is the first time I've been back here since he died, did you
know that? I came to Heyday early today, and I've made a visit to each of the places that have frightened me for so long. I went to Poplar Hill.” She closed her eyes. “I even put flowers on his grave.”

“Oh, God, Claire—”

She touched his arm. “It's okay. I'm okay. I think I'm finally ready to put the past behind me and start thinking about the future.”

He held his breath. The future. How did she see that now? Had anything changed? Was he going to be allowed to play any part in it?

“Claire, wait. Don't talk about the future yet. Not until I say something important, something I should have said a long time ago. I've made a lot of mistakes in all this, but the biggest one was not ever telling you how much I love you.”

She began to speak, but he reached out and touched her cheek, her satin-warm, beautiful cheek, and stilled the words.

“I think I have loved you for years,” he said. “Only I was such a fool I didn't see it. How could I believe I could be so lucky? How could I find a wife, a family, a lover, a friend—and every dream I ever dreamed—all in one woman?”

Her eyes sparkled in the bright field lights, as if she might be on the edge of tears. All around them people were laughing and shoving and waving Fighting Zebra flags, but Kieran and Claire seemed to exist in a small cocoon of silence. Everything else slid out of focus as he waited for her response.

“You don't have to say all this.” She reached up and shakily wiped away a glistening drop from her cheek. “I have come back, and I'll stay if you want
me to. We can make it work. We can make a family. You don't have to—”

“Yes, I do. I have to say it because I'll burn up inside if I don't. I love you. I love you.” He reached out and took her in his arms. “I love you.”