Though I have the gift of prophecy
And understand all mysteries
If I have not love
I am nothing.
Laurel stood between her grandparents at the front of the little chapel. The old-fashioned pews were of polished oak, with carved railings and red velvet cushions. The stained glass windows reflected colored light. The pale-gold pipes of the organ spired to the rafters.
Love is patient
Love is kind
It bears all things.
The memorial service was arranged by her grandparents for the anniversary of Honor's death. Laurel knew her twin would have approved. She could see her sister leaning against the pew, admiring the angelic figures in the high, arched windows.
"There are stories here," she would have whispered, more loudly than intended.
"Yeah," Laurel would have hissed back. "It's called religion."
Blessed are they who mourn
For they shall be comforted.
The words fell gently around her like soft Irish rain, but she was not comforted. Unlike her twin, Laurel did not believe in anything beyond physical reality; certainly not an afterlife. The only mystery she had ever accepted was the invisible bond between herself and her sister. They always knew where the other was and, even apart, they could sense each other's feelings. There was the time when Honor was being bullied in the playground and Laurel ran six streets over from her hockey practice to send the culprits packing. "I heard her calling in my head," was what she told her parents. And when she, in turn, fractured her arm on a skiing trip, Honor at home had cried out in pain, nursing the mirrored limb as if it too were broken.
Love never fails.
The minister's look was sympathetic.
Love is as strong as death.
Laurel linked arms with her grandmother and grandfather. She was glad she could be there with them. When she arrived at Dublin Airport, she had seen immediately how much they had aged in the past year, how much they had suffered from having a grandchild die in their care. He, once tall and dignified, stooped over his cane, while she clutched his arm like a frail bird.
Laurel had dropped her luggage to embrace them.
"Thank you," Nannaflor said through her tears. "We thought you would never come back."
"It wasn't your fault. You did nothing wrong. You've got to accept that."
"Have you?" asked Granda gently.
After the service, the congregation gathered in the church hall for tea and sandwiches. They were a small community in a small seaside town, and they all knew each other. The murmur of conversation mingled with the friendly rattle of china. Neat little quarters of ham and cheese were served along with raisin scones and slices of rhubarb pie. Most of the people were friends of Laurel's grandparents, and many had known her father when he was a boy. Some shook her hand in silent sympathy. Others wrapped their arms around her.
"Your daddy used to pinch the apples from our orchard. Make sure you tell him the Kilrudderys were asking for him."
"You're from Niagara Falls, aren't you? You wouldn't happen to know my cousin, Heather Brown? I believe she's living somewhere over there. Florida, I think it is."
"Come visit us. Don't be a stranger."
Laurel drifted through the soft-spoken company, doing her best to be polite. Though she wouldn't admit it to herself, her eyes kept searching the crowd.
When he came up behind her and caught her by the arm, she wasn't really surprised.
"Let's scarper. I'm being nibbled to death by a hundred little ducks."
Before she could object, he had pulled her out of the hall and into the street. The road was quiet and secluded, with old chestnut trees and a grassy verge. Parked in front of the church was a dark-blue motorcycle with shiny chrome fittings.
"Do you mind!" she said angrily, breaking away from him.
"At last," he said, "a show of spirit!"
Ian Gray was the minister's son and the bane of the congregation. As gossip went, he had always been in trouble; fighting at school, running away, even robbing the collection boxes. In recent times he had apparently calmed down, working as a courier to finance his passion for bikes, but he remained sullen and hostile to his father's parish.
The biker's gear he was wearing accented his height—Rayven jacket, leather pants, and tall narrow boots. A silver stud pierced his eyebrow. He looked older than his nineteen years, with sharp angular features and a shock of black hair that fell over his forehead. The intensity of his eyes, an icy blue, made her look away.
She stared instead at his motorcycle.
It was the latest Fireblade, a high-powered sportsbike with a reputation for speed and agility. The decals on the tank were fiery wings. Beneath them curled words that she guessed were Irish, though she didn't know what they said.
Póg mo thóin.
"You got the bike."
He looked pleased.
"You remember."
He reached out to draw her toward him, but she backed away.
"Stop it!"
Anger flashed across his face, followed by a hard grin that was almost a snarl.
"At least you're still in there. You look like a shadow of your former self."
"It's none of your business what I look like," she retorted.
"No?"
His lip curled as he looked her over, slowly and deliberately. Though she tried not to, Laurel couldn't help but reflect on what he saw, how much her appearance had altered from the last time they met. In place of her lean and athletic build, she appeared thin and fragile. Her face was pale without makeup, her hair lank and straggling over her shoulders. She had taken to wearing her sister's clothing: today, a long denim skirt and bulky pink sweater. Even in June she felt the chill of the damp Irish air, and she folded her arms to stop herself from shivering.
"Little girl lost," he said. "You look more like her now."
"Don't talk about her! I can't stand it!"
Laurel's voice broke.
His anger dissipated, and his tone took on a softer edge.
"Do you still blame me? It's not my fault… We couldn't have known—"
"I don't want to talk about it! Leave me alone!"
She spoke harshly, to push him away, yet she didn't go herself. It was as if she were caught there.
All his emotions simmered in his face: dismay, hurt, fury. Then he went cold. He leaned against his bike, took out a pack of cigarettes, and offered them to her.
"You know I don't smoke. And I thought you quit."
He shrugged, lit one for himself.
"People change," he said, inhaling.
"You haven't."
His look was veiled behind the cloud of smoke. She knew she was being unfair. The first time they met, he was only five years old, while she and Honor were four. Nannaflor had brought the twins to the minister's house so they could play with his son. When Ian pulled Honor's hair and made her scream, Laurel thumped him so hard he ran off crying. That was their only encounter as children. Last year, the three met again as teenagers. Though Honor had shown little interest in the tall young man who arrived at the door, Laurel was immediately attracted. He made a joke about "losing his honor over Honor," and challenged her to a duel. She couldn't help but laugh.
And then there was the motorcycle. She had always wanted to ride one and when she told him so, he was quick to offer her a ride. They roared off into the Wicklow Mountains, through the Sally Gap, and over the bogs. He drove aggressively, swerving past cars and trucks, and leaning into the curves. The road was a gray streak, the landscape a green blur. Pressing against his back, her arms around him, she had loved the rush of wind and speed.
Then he took her clubbing in Dublin. She was surprised when he said he loved to dance, and more surprised that he was good. He moved like his bike, sleek and powerful.
The first time they kissed, she got a mild shock, like static electricity. He had felt it too. They both recoiled at the same time.
"Shall we try that again?" he said.
And then the fatal day. She was supposed to visit Powerscourt Gardens with Honor and her grandparents, but had canceled it at Ian's request. He was test-driving the new Fireblade he hoped to buy, and wanted her to come with him. She couldn't resist.
They were at the showroom when it struck her, like a great soft blow. She doubled over, clutched her stomach.
He moved to help her.
"What's wrong? Are you all right?"
"We've got to get back to Bray!"
"What?"
"Now!"
And when they arrived at her grandparents' house and discovered the terrible news, he had tried to hold her and she had pushed him away. Lost in her own horror, oblivious to his anguished look, she had screamed hysterically.
"I should've been with her, not you!"
Now standing before him, faltering under the weight of those memories and the catastrophe that was her sister's death, she repeated the words.
"I should've been with her, not you."
She didn't see him flinch, didn't see the hurt that was swiftly smothered by rage. All she saw was the sharp intake of breath as he drew on his cigarette, and the deliberate aim of smoke in her direction.
A spark of her old self ignited.
"Do you enjoy being a jerk?"
He returned her gaze coolly.
"If I wasn't bad, how else would the rest of you know you were good?"
Once again he drew on his cigarette, but before he could exhale she made her move.
Perhaps it was a burst of pent-up emotion, so many strong feelings held down for too long. Or maybe it was the old image of him bullying Honor. She didn't intend to be violent, but her push was strong enough to knock him and the bike over. Turning to leave, she heard him coughing out smoke and swearing vociferously behind her.
In the hall, she found her grandparents with the minister.
"I'd like to go now," she told them quietly.
He was gone by the time they came out, but she could hear the motorcycle howling in the distance. She felt a perverse surge of gratitude toward him. He had awakened something in her. She had arrived in Ireland with a purpose, a plan, though unsure and anxious about carrying it out. Now the fire had been kindled. She was ready to do what she had come here to do.
