Chapter 37
Over their meal at Mr. Peet's Saturday evening, Claire and Amos had quickly agreed to marry, seeing the sense of it. They'd also made their first joint decision: to wait a week to let things settle for both of them; to start adjusting, start planning the switch from private individuals to intimate couple. Claire was still a physical virgin. She'd never slept with anything other than dolls. Amos was already a widower, a decade older. Taking a week to sort things straight seemed reasonable and responsible.
And yet he couldn't wait a week. It was Thursday, five days later. And he sped toward the library where she volunteered with her mother on Thursday, to catch a glimpse of her, a brow, a cheek, her posture.
The library was open.
And doing a land-office business, he noticed. The heavy doors were never still.
He had a simple objective: he wanted to memorize every detail of her face. He hadn't focused enough on her nose last time. Or her ears, which had these damask folds and a tender look.
"I didn't expect to see you here."
They were the first unrehearsed words out of Claire's mouth. She scowled, too; turning his momentum inside out.
This was definitely not how he'd expected things to go. In Burke's version, she'd rushed toward him, kissed him with abandon. Who cared who saw! All the lost sunrays of Ireland flitting across her cheeks. Where roses blushed and died.
He lifted his eyes.
Above them was the grimy vestibule ceiling of the library's entrance, knurled plaster and smokers' gold.
"What's wrong?" he begged.
She stared a moment, a guileless stare saying, You're not that stupid. "Nothing's wrong," she said finally. Except you're rushing a delicate matter. And I'm not quite ready for this, not yet.
Burke's instincts had been right. An annoying advisor in his brain had insisted repeatedly: a visit too soon would be a mistake. It would break their first covenant. Don't go. Burke of course had gone. Now he longed for any kind of neutral ground.
"Are you busy?" he ventured.
"Of course I'm busy, Amos. Look at this library. It's a madhouse. It's not just men who work, you know." That was a point she wished to make early in their relationship. She saw him flinch. Which was fitting! in Claire's view; so she relented just a bit. "You surprised me," she allowed. "We said a week."
"I couldn't wait," Amos answered plainly.
"That's sweet." Though her tone suggested less.
"Can you go for tea now?" he pressed.
"I can't." Her answer was firm, automatic, policy driven.
"For a few minutes," he pleaded.
"I can't, Amos." Even firmer; the girl gone from her voice. He was talking to an adult, she wanted him to know.
"You mean you won't," he corrected her. It was movie dialogue, he realized. He said, she said. Stop.
They were still in the vestibule. Patrons swung the library's doors open every few seconds, admitting cold April air and Belfast grit. Claire wore a light gray cardigan and looked sturdy enough. Amos was in his winter overcoat. He looked almost fragile or felt so, anyway.
"I can't," she said again, sighing cordially to show her disappointment.
"Not for a few minutes? For tea? We have things to discuss. Don't we have things?"
"Absolutely true," Claire agreed. "But I can't."
"I put everything aside to come by," he insisted.
"The war's on hold, is it?" she rolled her brows. "Good. People could use a break."
"Please, Claire."
She stared; not fuming, just curious. "The garden then. For a few minutes only."
They slipped out into the library's garden. Two lady volunteers in heavy coats knelt on cushions, doing something in the dirt. Small trees, just halfway to full leaf, softened the sooty brick walls. The trees had multiple, twining trunks, kettle-black. Grim Belfast must have the world's finest collection of grays and blacks. Against that backdrop, Claire's beeswax-polished mahogany hair was glory; against dour brick, her hair burst into fire. To him, she was an Irish goddess. He had a death grip on her hand.
"You're squeezing too hard," his goddess murmured.
He instantly dropped her hand with a hushed apology.
They continued walking together, in fast, crunching steps on the pea stone path, toward the back of the library's garden, where an uninviting granite bench curled under a benefactor's bust. The face revealed nothing interesting. The name carved beneath wasn't familiar. The perfect witness: a silent stranger.
She waited. Finally: "You don't have anything to say?"
"I just wanted to see you," Amos whispered. "I missed you." That indeed was the sum of his argument. It had seemed sufficient when he'd bolted his office. And innocent enough. Yet it was turning into something of an abduction, given her reluctance.
She poked his shoulder. "This week," she said sharply, much louder than anything they'd said before; both gardeners looked up a moment, wondering. Claire hissed, "This week is not about you, Amos." She pushed him away hard, which surprised them both. "I do not belong to you yet. There'll be plenty of time for that after."
Amos decided to sit. Insulted, he supposed; it was hard to care or know. The bench was appropriately cold and hard, reflecting Claire's mood exactly. He looked up and she was already rising, returning toward the library.
He jumped up. "Claire," he begged, "you're not leaving yet?"
"I am that."
They both raised their voices. The gardeners leaned back on their heels and frankly stared. In the sky, nothing. On the damp ground, pea stones snapped beneath his leather soles as he sprinted to catch up. A bird let loose with a call. Some sort of distress. Or ringing up its mate.
"One week, man," she declared, exploding finally. "Then I am yours. Forever. Remember I said this, when you're tired of me." She turned to the volunteers. "Sorry, ladies."
"I'd like to know what's happening," Amos pleaded.
Claire plucked at her lips. "We're at war," she said. "Da and me. It's top secret. Just like yours. And plenty at stake, I can tell you. You and me, that sort of thing." More sarcasm; even her sarcasm melted his heart.
She kept walking. His fingers dug through her thin cardigan and snatched her arm. She stopped and pulled once against him. It was like a battleship tugging against a concrete mole: nothing moved.
"Let go, Amos. Let me go."
"I'm not hurting you," he said.
"You're not hurting me physically, Amos. It's undignified."
He stared at his hand above her elbow and released her.
She said, "You shouldn't have come here. Do your own business, whatever that is. And let me do mine. He's my father that's going to fake the broken heart. I don't need your help for that. I don't want him any more humiliated than he already is."
So that was it, Burke suddenly saw. She hadn't told her parents. The marriage would delight her ma. It would crush her da like a rockslide off heaven's face. Daughter Claire had no God-given right to be happy because this marriage would destroy her family.
Eventually she'd be happy, maybe.
Not yet.
Not now; that was for sure.
Every word hurt; everything she'd heard. Whatever Amos said. Simple wasn't reasonable nor plausible nor any future she trusted.