Interweaving two captivating stories of romance and intrigue, humor and faith, The Emerald Isle wraps up the multi-colored threads of Angela Elwell Hunt's The Heirs of Cahira O'Connor series in a page-turning conclusion that will satisfy both spirit and heart.
Resisting her confining, traditional role as a king's daughter, fiery-spirited Cahira O'Connor dreams of practicing her bow, not of capturing a husband. But when Norman invaders challenge the borders of the Kingdom of Connacht, Cahira finds both the one man who could win her heart and an irresistible calling to fight for the land and people she loves.
To Kathleen O'Connor, the story of Cahira's deathbed vow was nothing more than a legend‚until her research revealed that it was true. Now, in Ireland for the wedding of her best friend Taylor and his fiancee, Maddie O'Neil, Kathleen struggles to fit in at the O'Neils' farm, Ballyshannon, and focus on her research into the life of her ancestor Cahira. There among Ireland's emerald hills, Kathleen finds far more than she could ever have dreamed—including her own unexpected destiny as an heir of Cahira O'Connor.
Release date:
March 31, 2010
Publisher:
WaterBrook
Print pages:
400
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You must understand—I’m not the type who sees omens and portents in everything. Even though my Aunt Kizzie once snapped the face of Jesus in her Jell-O salad, I didn’t see anything in the photograph but bits of fruit cocktail and swirled cream cheese where the beard should be. I’m what you might call a practical Christian. I’m kind to strangers, I’m prepared for heaven, and I try to be a good testimony on earth. I don’t have visions, I don’t jump around in church, yet there are times I hear the still, small Voice—not audible, but insistent all the same.
The last time I heard the Voice I was in Manhattan, standing on the corner of Sixth Avenue and Fifty-fourth Street. A heat wave lay over the city like a wool blanket, and I wanted nothing more than to reach the little air-conditioned restaurant where I could relax and enjoy a cool drink. The pedestrian light had just changed to walk, so the crowd around me surged forward. But the Voice inside me said wait.
Perched on the curb, I lowered the book I’d been flipping through and felt my stomach sway. All around me, businessmen, shoppers, teenagers, and tourists hurried in complete oblivion to cross the street. A musclebound guy in black jogging shorts nearly knocked me from the curb, then rushed on without even an “excuse me.” My eyes followed him, certain that a crazed cabby or some drunk driver was about to careen through the crowd and scatter people like rag dolls. Why else would the Voice of God stop me now, when I was starving and tired after a long day’s work?
The pedestrian light blinked “Don’t Walk,” and a white-haired grandma pushed past me like a lineman intent on sacking the opposing quarterback. I leaned back toward the curb, bracing for the screech of brakes and sudden screaming, but . . . nothing happened.
The light changed again. The waiting cars in front of me peeled away, scattering a couple of pedestrians on the far side of the street, but no one was injured.
Just a typical New York afternoon.
I glanced around, making sure I hadn’t missed any other threatening situations, then lifted my book again and credited the Voice to my hyperactive imagination. I’d just found the spot where the hero rescues the heroine from a fate worse than death when someone tugged on my sleeve.
“Meghann McGreedy? I love her.” A petite, strawberry blond girl next to me nodded toward my book. “I read that one last week. Have you heard about the sequel? I think she’s working on it now.”
“You mean this isn’t the end of Horace and Irene?” The pedestrian signal changed again, and this time I didn’t even think about waiting. The girl stepped off the curb, and I went with her. “What else could possibly happen to those two?”
“Anything can happen!” The girl was shorter than I am, so she lengthened her stride to keep up. “For one thing, I hear they find a way to return to 1995. I don’t want to give away the ending, but in the epilogue Horace suggests going back to Ireland, and Irene has to because—” She stopped, her blue eyes twinkling at me. “Well, I don’t want to give the ending away.”
“You can tell me.” I closed the book and tucked it under my arm as we walked. “I don’t know you, so how can I hold anything against you?”
The girl smiled. “I like your logic. All right then. Irene is pregnant, and she decides to have the baby in contemporary Ireland, though why she’d want to do that I’ll never know. So they have to manipulate their time machine, but the contraption falls into a desperate bad humor, and Horace has to leave Irene. That’s how this book ends.”
She threw up her hands in a gesture of helpless exasperation, and I stared at her, mystified. From my work in the bookstore, I knew lots of people loved Meghann McGreedy’s books, but I’d never met anyone quite so enthusiastic about them. And this blue-eyed girl spoke with a lilting accent that had to be Irish, which meant she might be able to explain some of the strange situations Horace and Irene had stumbled across in sixth-century Ireland.
We had reached the deli where I planned to eat dinner, so I stopped on the sidewalk and smiled at my new friend. “I never thought I’d find anyone as hooked on these books as I am.”
“I never thought I would either.” She grinned back at me. “But when I saw you standing on the curb with the book in your hands, I knew we had to be kindred spirits.” A pretty blush mantled her cheeks. “I don’t usually go around talking to strangers, if you’re wondering about me being some kind of loony.”
“That’s okay, I don’t usually answer strangers who talk to me.” I hesitated a moment, then pointed to the entrance of the delicatessen. “I was just about to meet a friend for a sandwich. Would you like to join us? He’s a reader too. Though he’s not as wild about Meghann McGreedy as I am, he knows quite a bit about literature.”
“I was just beginning to think about a bit of dinner.” The girl glanced at the sign over the delicatessen, then looked back at me. “Sure, and why not? I’d love to join you.”
“Let’s go then.” I opened the door, paused for a moment to drink deeply of the welcoming stream of cool air, then led the way into the restaurant. As we stood and waited for a table, I suddenly remembered the Voice. I’d been so certain that I waited on that curb to avoid being smacked by a car in the crosswalk. But instead, I’d found a new friend.
An unexpected blessing.
As we studied the menu and made small talk, I learned that my Irish friend was Maddie O’Neil, a twenty-two-year-old student majoring in humanities at New York City College. Like most humanities majors, she had no idea what she wanted to do with her degree, but she loved art, she loved music, and she loved people. When Taylor entered the deli, saw my wave, and headed toward our table, the light in Maddie’s eye convinced me she could very well learn to love Taylor Morgan.
Taylor tossed his attaché case into the empty space on the table, then sank into his chair and looked at Maddie as if he’d never seen a cute, blue-eyed strawberry blonde before.
“Taylor, this is Maddie O’Neil,” I offered, feeling invisible. “Maddie, this is my friend Taylor Morgan. He’s an assistant professor at the college . . . and my friend.”
“The name is Madeline, but you can call me Maddie.” She thrust her small hand across the table and smiled so warmly that her earlier smiles seemed like mere grimaces in comparison. “Kathleen tells me you’ve a fondness for literature.”
“I should hope so.” One corner of his mouth turned up as he winked at me. “I can’t get away from it. Besides my work in the English department, Kathleen’s kept me busy reading her manuscripts for the last year. But she’s probably already told you about her project.”
“Not really.” Maddie dimpled. “We just met. I saw her looking through one of Meghann McGreedy’s books on the sidewalk, and I couldn’t resist speaking to her. One thing led to another, so we’re going to have a bit of dinner together.”
“Interesting.” As the waitress appeared at Taylor’s side and flipped open her order pad, he held up his hand. “How about three hot teas? Madeline, I imagine that you enjoy afternoon tea.”
“Absolutely. Lovely.” Maddie clapped her hands as if hot tea and June heat went together like bread and butter, but I shook my head.
“Diet soda for me,” I told the waitress. “With lots of ice.”
Then I ordered my usual tuna sandwich while Maddie ordered a crab salad. Taylor asked for the crab salad too, and as the waitress moved away, he turned to Maddie. “That is the most lovely Irish accent I’ve ever heard. Where is your home?”
I crossed my arms as Maddie began to tell us—or tell Taylor—that she had come to New York four years ago. Last month she earned her bachelor’s degree, but she wanted to take additional literature classes before deciding whether she should look for a job or enter the master’s program.
Resting my chin in my hand, I watched her and Taylor. I had known Taylor for over a year, and during the past several months we’d grown quite close—in fact, I’d have to say we were best friends. Though we never specifically talked about it, I had been thinking that some day we’d marry and settle down together. I could just see us—he with his books and me with mine, sitting in his-and-hers wing chairs before a roaring fire. Barkley, my mastiff, would stretch out on the floor between us and snore happily as Taylor asked my opinion about some student’s paper or the latest New York Times bestseller. Not a very passionate marriage, perhaps, but certainly a happy one.
Taylor and I liked the same things and shared the same temperaments. For at least six months, we had been meeting in this deli every afternoon, eating matching tuna sandwiches and drinking diet soda, but Taylor had abruptly become a tea-and-salad man, while I faded to invisible. What happened?
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