“Eoin wants an adventure in New York. But do you want an adventure in Dublin, Anne?” he asked softly.
“What did you have in mind, Dr. Smith?”
He set his coffee down and took a chunk of the hard bread and dipped it into the cold soup. He chewed slowly, his eyes still on me, considering. When he swallowed, he took another swig of his coffee and sighed as if he’d come to a decision.
“There’s someone I’d like you to meet.”
Beatrice Barnes, the pretty sales clerk at Lyons department store, had chosen a red figure-skimming dress with a boat neckline, cap sleeves, and a slight dropped waist. It swished around my lower legs, making me feel like I should break into the Charleston like a flapper girl—which I wouldn’t be doing—but I could not fault her taste or her eye. It fit me perfectly, and the color made my skin glow and my eyes sparkle. She’d included a red rouge and a matching pair of silk gloves that enveloped my arms past my elbows, leaving only my upper arms uncovered. I put them on and immediately pulled them off again. August, even in Ireland, was too hot for full-length silk gloves, whatever the fashion. I parted my hair deeply on the side, wrapped it into a loose knot low on my neck, and gently pulled a few curls free to brush my collarbones. Powder, lash tint, and the red rouge on my lips made me look like I’d made an effort, and I stepped back from the mirror, hoping I would please him. Thomas rapped on the door, and I called out for him to come in. He stepped inside, freshly shaved, his hair slicked back in sooty waves. He was wearing a black three-piece suit and tie over a crisp white shirt, a long black duster over his arm.
“It’s damp out. You’ll want a coat over that dress,” he suggested, walking to the wardrobe where I’d hung my things. The room was well appointed in rich tones and dark furniture—nothing ostentatious yet nothing inexpensive. The whole house was furnished in the same manner, timeless and unassuming, welcoming yet slightly aloof, like a gracious butler. Like Thomas himself.
“There’s no curfew. Dublin’s celebrating the truce,” he said, his eyes soft on my face, and I had to mentally amend my description. He was not always aloof. I smiled, welcoming the warmth of his gaze.
“Are we celebrating?” I asked.
“I suppose we are. Do you mind walking? It’s not too far.”
“Not at all.”
He escorted me to the door, helped me with my coat, and offered his arm. But instead of taking it, I threaded my fingers through his. His breath hitched, and his eyes flared ever so slightly, making my pulse quicken and my heart quiver. We stepped out into the night and made our way down the street, hand in hand, our footsteps echoing in clicking syncopation.
The mist hung low, making the streetlamps look like candles behind a cloth, smeared and tepid. Thomas didn’t stroll; he strode, his long black coat making him blend oddly into the fog, just another shape melding in and out. The stockings, secured to my legs by the corset straps I couldn’t get used to, were little protection against the damp, but the air felt good against my skin. I’d left my hat behind, not wanting to flatten my hair, but Thomas had pulled on his peaked hat, the style he seemed to favor, the kind Eoin had worn his entire life. It sat above Thomas’s deep-set blue eyes, a hat jaunty and boyish, so unlike the man. I noticed many men wore a bowler hat, the hat of a more genteel set. But Thomas rarely wore one. It was as though he liked the statement the peaked hat made: “I’m just a regular fellow. Nothing to see here.”
“We’re going to the Gresham Hotel. A friend of mine was married today. Since we’re in town, I thought we should attend the celebration. We missed the ceremony at St. Patrick’s, but the party is just beginning.”
“Is this friend the someone you’d like me to meet?”
“No,” he said, and his hand tightened around mine. “Dermot Murphy is a helluva guy. But he’ll only have eyes for Sinead tonight. You might remember Sinead.”
I was certain I would not remember Sinead, and I swallowed back my nerves. We turned off Parnell and onto O’Connell, and the Gresham loomed, overlooking the street. It was the matriarch of the city center, well lit and lively, her occupants spilling out into the misty evening only to turn back again for another go.
We were greeted like royalty, our coats checked with swift efficiency, and we were directed up a set of wide stairs to a private ballroom. Lights twinkled and music trickled, luring us into the wide expanse where a band played and people danced on a floor rimmed by small tables filled with men and women in their wedding finery. A huge bar ringed by stools and hanging lamps sat just beyond the dance floor, and Thomas paused to survey the room, his hand at the small of my back.
“Tommy!” someone yelled, and a few voices joined in, creating a chorus from the back left corner.
He looked down at me and grimaced a little, and I ducked my head, trying not to smile. He removed his hand and squared his shoulders.
“He always calls me Tommy. And then everyone else thinks they can too. Do I look like a Tommy to you?”
A flashbulb went off suddenly, blinding us, and Thomas and I winced, stepping back. We’d paused in just the right place, and the photographer, set up in front of the entrance to capture guests as they arrived, stuck his head out from behind a camera that looked more like a one-eyed accordion and gave us a smile.
“You’ll like how that one turns out, folks. It’s not often I get such a candid shot.”
Seconds later, we were swarmed by several men clapping Thomas on the back and greeting him with cries of welcome at his surprise appearance.
“I thought you’d gone back home, Doc!” was the gleeful refrain, until the men parted and someone else joined the fray.
“Introduce us to the lady, Tommy,” the man said, and I looked up into the speculative gaze of Michael Collins. His hands were shoved in his pockets; his weight was on his heels, his head tipped to the side. He was young. I knew his story, the history, the basic details of his life and his death. But his youth shook me all the same.
I stuck out my hand, doing my best not to tremble and squeal like a fan at a rock concert, but the significance of the moment, the weight of the past, and the measure of the man made my heart quake and my eyes shimmer.
“I’m Anne Gallagher. It’s an honor to meet you, Mr. Collins.”
“Feckin’ Anne Gallagher,” he said, each syllable deliberate. Then he whistled long and slow.
“Mick,” Thomas rebuked.
Michael Collins looked slightly chagrined and bobbed his head in apology at his language, but he continued to study me, holding my hand in his.
“What do you think of our Tommy, Anne Gallagher?”
I started to answer, but he squeezed my hand and shook his head slightly, warning me, “If you lie to me, I’ll know.”
“Mick,” Thomas cautioned again.
“Tommy. Quiet,” he murmured, his gaze locked on mine. “Do ya love him?”
I breathed deeply, unable to look away from the dark eyes of a man who wouldn’t live to make his own wedding vows, who wouldn’t see his thirty-second birthday, who wouldn’t ever know how truly remarkable he was.
“He’s easy to love,” I answered softly, each word like an anchor mooring me to a time and place that weren’t my own.
Collins whooped and swung me up in his arms, as if I’d just made him a very happy man. “Did you hear that, Tommy? She loves you. If she’d said no, I was going to wrestle you for her. Let’s get a picture!” he demanded, pointing at the smiling photographer. “We need to mark this occasion. Tommy has a lass.”
I couldn’t look at Thomas, couldn’t breathe, but Michael Collins was in charge, and he drew us around him and slung an arm over my shoulder, smirking at the camera as though he’d just bested the Brits. I was flooded with the feeling that I’d seen and done this all before. The bulb flashed and realization dawned. I remembered the picture I’d seen of Anne standing in a group beside Michael Collins and the picture of Thomas and Anne, the suggestion of intimacy in the line of their bodies and the angle of their gazes. Those weren’t photos of my great-grandmother at all.
They were pictures of me.
“Was Thomas in love with Anne?” I’d asked my grandfather.
“Yes and no,” Eoin had answered.
“Oh wow. There’s a story there,” I’d crowed.
“Yes. There is,” he’d whispered. “A wonderful story.”
And now I understood.
26 August 1921
I’ll never forget this day. Anne has gone to bed, and still I sit, watching the fire as though it holds a different, better set of answers. Anne told me everything. And yet . . . I know nothing.
I called Garvagh Glebe before we left for the Gresham Hotel, knowing the O’Tooles would be hovering, waiting for word on Robbie’s condition. There are two telephones in all of Dromahair, and Garvagh Glebe boasts one. I’d rationalized the expense of phone lines; a doctor needed to be easily accessible. But no one else had telephones in rural Ireland. They didn’t call me; they fetched me. The only calls I ever received were from Dublin.
Maggie was waiting breathlessly on the end of the line as the operator patched me through, and I could hear her tears when I told her “my patient” had come through surgery well and that the swelling had receded substantially. She was crying the Rosary as she handed the telephone to Daniel, who thanked me profusely, though he knew better than to specify what for, and then, oddly, he gave me an update on the foal that wasn’t due for another two weeks.